Alchemy of Glass

by Barbara Barnett

  It has long been said beneath the hills of Eildon exists a world between worlds, a portal through time and space. Since time out of mind when the great Scottish hero Michael Scot split one mountain into the three peaks of Eildon, some eight centuries past. And it is this small object—this glass bauble—that connects the worlds. This miraculous discovery of mine would astound even my dear friend Mr. H.G. Wells.

  Gaelan closed the folio with a sigh. Intellectually, Conan Doyle’s writings could be read only as the folly of an elderly man with dementia.

  The sun had slipped behind the middle peak, encircling it with a halo. Michael Scot. A true genius, unrecognized in his time and for a long time after. A man of philosophy, science, languages from Latin to Greek, Hebrew to Arabic. Mathematics.

  The Fibonacci numeric sequence.

  The Dernwode House brethren had trained Gaelan’s mind well to visualize the pattern that centuries later continued to fascinate him. Gaelan possessed an edition of Fibonacci’s most famous work on the subject, which the mathematician had dedicated to Scot.

  Gaelan stared up through a nearby stand of trees, looking for Fibonacci in the organization of the branches. Order from the wild chaos of nature. Complex biological structures to the simple elegance of the periodic table to intricacy of quantum physics. To the elegant harmony of Gaelan’s glass panels, which themselves adhered to the Fibonacci principle. Phi. The golden ratio: a + b is to a as a is to b.

  Were the designs in the ouroboros book arranged according to Fibonacci as well? Would it have simplified the task of understanding it, long ago? He’d never considered the idea. Fool.

  Yet, for all his brilliance, Scot had been dismissed, derided, even cast by Dante into the flames of hell in his Divine Comedy. Darkness won as it had too often. Was Gaelan now guilty of the same error by dismissing Conan Doyle?

  Gaelan stared at the crest of the middle hill. If he squinted, he could see the ancient hawthorn, its branches barren, incongruous in the green of springtime. “As long as the thorn tree stands, Erceldoune shall keep its lands.” Gaelan remembered the saying, passed down some three hundred years from the time of Lord Thomas from father to son and, finally, to Gaelan’s father.

  Conan Doyle had sought out the Rhymer; Gaelan never considered it a credible enough possibility to try. That was the difference between them; Conan Doyle had always wanted to believe—did believe—too easily, willing to destroy his reputation and relationships in the process. Fairies, ghosts, phantasms of a world beyond our own, beyond the laws of science and provability.

  Gaelan was a well-trained skeptic. To him, true wonder lay in the realm of this world—both what we knew of it and the discovery of what we did not yet. Magic, his father told him, as did his tutors at Dernwode House, was but science we’d yet to understand. Logos and mythos and the interstitial space between them that was exploration. Different perspectives of the same thing, seen with different eyes, differing experiences. In different times.

  Gaelan stood, taking in the whole of the field, allowing his mind’s eye and memory to locate his bearings in this barren place. He was standing in the middle of what had once been Dernwode courtyard. Possibly. To his left would be the grand marble fountain, guarded by chubby alabaster cherubim, their wings tipped in gold.

  A bright white pebble caught his eye and he stooped to pick it up. It bore some resemblance to the teardrop, but smaller, rougher. The alabaster fragment of an angel’s broken wing? He shook his head and hurled the stone as far as he could. Even alabaster cherubs die, and medieval monasteries, and everyone but you! Fuck you all!

  He concentrated, and before him spread out familiar paths and buildings that hadn’t existed for centuries. Towers and turrets, the filigree of stone and bronze of arched windows; the pungent stink of the piggery. The fragrant aroma of yeasty bread as he would pass by the bakery. The heavy oaken doors deeply engraved that led into the main church with its carved, painted naves and vivid stained glass that lined every exterior arch window.

  The stark, spare, nearly windowless dormitory buildings. When he’d been a lad, he’d count the footsteps from the fountain to the tower, first in English, then Gaelic, then Greek, and then Latin. Later, as Brother Gregor taught him, in Aramaic, Arabic, and Hebrew. Six hundred ten. Two hundred thirty-three to the bakery, and three hundred seventy-seven more to the fountain.

  Gaelan had last been to Dernwode in 1826. He’d been shocked even then at the deterioration of monastery, by that time an abandoned ruin with little left but for a stray boulder of significance—perhaps two. Gaelan suspected that many homes in nearby villages had been built with those very ancient stones.

  The afternoon sun had now dropped behind the hills, backlighting them with a rusty glow. Better make his way back to his rabbit hole before it vanished into the dark earth and he was stuck outside for the night with no shelter.

  The lantern was where Gaelan left it, on the top stair. Yet he was not quite ready for the catacombs. He would wait for the stars. Would they, too, seem off-kilter and surreal?

  Gaelan gazed up into the twilight sky. Vega—Alpha Lyrae—dropped into the heavens from nowhere, just above his head, the brightest star, so near and vivid, with no light pollution to dim its light. A mere twenty-five light years away. Someday . . . a short commuter flight.

  There was so much we did not yet understand of the universe. Would it be so far a stretch to believe Conan Doyle’s fairy world? Perhaps not.

  Removing the glass piece from his pocket, holding it up to the lantern light, he half-wondered whether he’d be magically transported to Conan Doyle’s “otherworld” as he descended the long, dark stairway.

  LONDON, 1826

  CHAPTER 13

  With Cate comfortable and asleep in the flat, Gaelan descended the stairs into his shop to wash up and prepare for the day.

  “You Erceldoune?”

  What in the. . . ? A stranger sat atop the counter, top hat, gloves, and walking stick beside him.

  “Who the devil might you be? And more to the point, how have you managed to get in here?” Gaelan was in no mood for another disruption.

  The intruder stood, dusting off his trousers, his left hand perched on the countertop, his right on his hip, smiling. “I, Mr. Apothecary, am Lyle Tremayne. You may know my name already. And it has come the time for us to have a conversation.”

  “I am Erceldoune,” he said finally, with no effort to mask his impatience. “But I have not yet opened for business this morn. Please return . . .” He glanced at his pocket watch. “In two hours’ time.” He paused, reconsidering. “Unless this be an urgent—medical—matter.”

  Gaelan had heard the name, whispered by the good people of Smith-field in hushed tremble, gazes terrified and downcast. By their accounts, Lyle Tremayne owned Smithfield, holding a sharp blade poised on the necks of the merchants, demanding tidy sums from all . . . or suffer the cost.

  The Man O’ War Public House, his fortress, an entourage of cutthroats, wielding daggers and clubs—and unafraid to use them—his court. Rumors carried even far as Hay Hill of certain business pursuits at the Man O’ War, which undoubtedly this day brought him to the apothecary.

  Gaelan had no time for this blackguard, not today. Send him on his way with a smile and a bottle of his best shaving tonic. And nothing more.

  Tremayne’s fancy velvet suit of clothes and studiously manicured fingernails did little to conceal the danger in his hooded gaze, the menace of his ruddy, weathered face, crisscrossed by jagged scars, forehead to chin. Gaelan never had taken well to tyranny, and Tremayne was little more than the pettiest of tyrants, preying on the vulnerable good people of Smithfield. Yet, it would not do well to provoke him needlessly, make an enemy of him for no good reason.

  Tremayne settled himself into Gaelan’s favorite chair. This was not to be a simple social call.

  “I could do with a whisky, if you’ve a good old one—”

  Gaelan followed Tremayne’s gaze to a half-empty shelf—and a full, c
ut-crystal decanter.

  “Of course.” Gaelan poured two tumblers and sat opposite him. On his guard.

  Tremayne swigged down the amber liquid in one swallow, slapping the empty glass hard against a small inlaid table. “You’ve right good taste, apothecary. Now. Mr. . . . Erceldoune. Down to the matter at hand, if we may. My visit is more purposeful than a cordial drink between men of business.”

  Tension slithered down Gaelan’s spine like spider. Not a spider. A snake. “I am listening.”

  “Mr. Erceldoune, I have been asked by a father—a gentleman of some means—who is at this very moment beside himself, quite desperate to learn the whereabouts of his daughter, a young lady he believes may have wandered, perhaps unawares, into this . . . my . . . our little part of London. She has not been heard from since early last evening. He is gravely concerned for her well-being. And perhaps, if she has fallen ill . . . or . . . she would have done well to seek out your goodly services and medications for aid and comfort.”

  Tremayne’s baritone whisper was a mere notch above malevolent, an implied threat underscoring each word. Did he already suspect the girl had come to the apothecary, or was he speculating? Had Bell observed more than he’d let on, and then gone straightaway to Tremayne and secured his assistance? Baiting the hook? Or was he fishing blindly?

  Tremayne’s gaze darted from the half-bare shelves to the unopened crates that lined the walls as he nervously tapped his finger on the tumbler’s edge. Was this but the first stop of many in search of the girl, or did he really know something?

  “To speak true, Mr. Tremayne, no young woman has visited the shop in past day, at least.”

  Tremayne’s eyes narrowed, judging. He raised an eyebrow. “You seem to me a fair bit weary, sir, for so early an hour. Not much sleep, eh? The noises of Smithfield more feral than those of Hay Hill?”

  “Hay Hill?”

  Tremayne leaned in close enough for Gaelan to smell the threat on his breath. “It is my business, Mr. Erceldoune to well know the residents of my . . . domain.”

  Gaelan pushed back his chair and retreated behind the counter, refusing to allow Tremayne to provoke him. “If you do not mind, I’ve a business to open shortly and much to do.” Gaelan gestured toward the array of partially unpacked crates lining the shop walls. “And I’ve yet to settle completely into the apothecary. As you can see.”

  “You’ve not slept, even I can see that. Sure you’ve not been tending to our lovely young lady, hmm? Or maybe it be the ghost of William Wallace steals the sleep from ya?” Again, Tremayne gestured, broadly this time, his hand sweeping in a wide arc like an actor onstage. He laughed, and the sound reverberated through the shop like thunder echoing through the Highlands.

  “William—?”

  “Executed right here at the very corner where your shop now stands. Him and his traitorous band. Drawn and quartered, he was. It’s said he haunts the market, most especially this place. Driven out more than one apothecary from these premises. Never you worry—it’s but a tale. A good old ghost story for a chilly Hallows Eve, eh?” Tremayne’s raucous laugh shifted into a phlegmy cough.

  “I have a tonic that might soothe the hacking, sir—” Gaelan placed a bottle of honey elixir on the table, an offering.

  Ignoring the gesture, Tremayne cleared his throat into a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “And haven’t I heard you’re needing an apprentice? No need to look further, Mr. Erceldoune. I’ve just the lad and shall send him ‘round by afternoon. You will find him an able assistant, I am certain.”

  “No, sir . . . I thank you for the kindly offer, but I mean to have well-qualified apprentice in my employ. My standards are quite difficult, and I have interviewed several already. I shall have one in my employ by week’s end.”

  Gaelan could quite imagine the apprentice Tremayne might send to him, more like to spy on his every move, his every prescription, every ailing soul to cross his threshold. Collecting gossip, exacting his price. That Gaelan could not countenance.

  “Very well. There is one other matter . . . perhaps two . . . I wish to discuss, and being as I am here already—”

  “Out with it then, Mr. Tremayne, for I’ve no time to dawdle. The sun is full up, and I am not yet ready for the trade.” There was fresh water to fetch, and he desperately needed a cup of good, strong black tea.

  “There are thieves and highwaymen who perpetrate their ill deeds in this wild place—”

  “Indeed.” Gaelan imagined that most, if not all, were in Tremayne’s employ—if the rumors and warnings he had heard since he’d come to this place rang true.

  “I only wish to be at your service, sir. As I am to most of the district. Offering my protection from such evildoers—”

  Ah, there it was . . . extortion for the simple benefit of not being robbed and burnt out. What exaction would be required? It little mattered, for Gaelan refused to become the next bit of prey for this rogue.

  “I’ve a proposition for you, Mr. Tremayne—”

  “A proposition?” A broad smile split Tremayne’s countenance, his dark mustache spreading the breadth of it above a set of well-repaired teeth, one molar gleaming gold.

  “Indeed, sir . . . The men . . . and ladies, perchance under your employment, no doubt, from time to time require attending to their . . . medical needs. And I, sir, would be most honored to provide . . .” Gaelan’s stomach clenched at the very notion of honoring Tremayne at all. “Honored to be at your service in that regard. At no charge to you, of course, but for the medicines alone.”

  Tremayne laughed and the rheumy cough returned. “Perhaps I will quaff down a bit of that tonic after all.”

  Gaelan handed him the bottle. “It is yours. Keep it. No charge.”

  “Include the medicines as well, and you’ve a bargain. I will guarantee the safety of not only you but all in your household and, whilst in your shop, all those to whom you minister. And I’ve no propensity to tell the authorities of any . . . services you might render beyond the purview of a simple . . . apothecary. You are, of course, no physician, and here in London—”

  “Much obliged,” Gaelan replied quickly. “Then it is settled?”

  Tremayne rose, placing the honey elixir in his coat pocket. “Indeed, it is, sir. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance and to do business with you. You will of course let me know forthwith should you come across the young lady of whom we spoke?”

  “There was a second matter of which you wished to speak, sir?”

  “Ah, yes. Of course.”

  Tremayne had not forgotten—he was merely gauging Gaelan. A test?

  Tremayne cleared his phlegmy throat. “As you are, I understand, a surgeon as well as an apothecary, I personally invite you to visit me of an evening soon at the Man O’ War. You will find it, I trust, quite the experience. Quite more entertaining than the White Owl, your usual—”

  He shuddered to imagine what entertainment might be found there. “The Owl, I think, more suits me. But I do appreciate the kind invitation.”

  “I’ve a hefty interest in the place, and many a surgeon finds there a lucrative trade . . . going both ways. It is, shall we say, a meat market like any other of Smithfield, but dealing in a more particular sort of animal flesh.”

  Yes, Gaelan added only to himself, and when demand outstrips availability, London body snatchings surge and resurrection men grow rich and fat.

  “I have, sir, no need. Rest assured. I am no anatomist.”

  “No, of course not. Not what I meant at all, Mr. Erceldoune.” He drummed his nails on the table. “But should you . . . come across a fresh . . . erm . . . Your predecessor and I had a very lucrative business going. Quite lucrative for us both . . . and for the progress, shall we say, of medicine, eh? For example, a young child, near death, perhaps dead already, family with no means to repay you for what all you have done by your goodly works . . . Let us say, you’ve only to call on me, and you shall be more than compensated for your travails. And you will be doing more than yo
ur . . . part . . . to supply our teaching hospitals . . . with the, shall we say, ‘parts’ for their continual needs.”

  Gaelan had long ago visited Man O’War Public House—long before Lyle Tremayne was born. Even then, it boasted a special “room” lined with corpses stripped bare of anything valuable, any means to identify them. Waiting, fresh for the picking. Some dead of illness, but many others who’d met less natural, and far untimelier, deaths. Gaelan understood the need; he’d studied his fair share of cadavers in his time. Yet, this hideous practice, condoned by the silence of most who might stop it—that he could not countenance. Men of medicine eager to pay much and ask few questions.

  “I think not, Mr. Tremayne. We have our bargain, and I pray it is enough.”

  Tremayne finally stood to leave, nodding his assent.

  Gaelan breathed, moving swiftly to the door, holding it to usher his guest into the damp morning air.

  “I shall say no more about it, Mr. Erceldoune. The invitation remains. I bid you, then, a good morrow, sir.”

  The door locked, and Tremayne disappeared into another shop. The unexpected encounter with Tremayne, the lack of sleep as well—all of it sapped Gaelan of all strength. Collapsing into his chair, he shut tight his burning eyes, waiting until the pulse now throbbing behind them slowed and the room stopped spinning when he dared open them.

  As for Tremayne’s ghost tale of William Wallace, indeed a strange coincidence the execution had occurred in the exact location of the apothecary. The stories were famous, of course, of the great knight and his exploits, told over and over until he could recite them from memory when he’d been but a lad and play them out in the palace courtyard. And his own ancestor Lord Thomas Learmont a confederate of the Scottish hero.

  Gaelan never much believed in ghosts and hauntings. If old William did happen to be about, not likely it would be to harass him, but to stand guard against Tremayne and his ilk—more terrifying than any specter of a heroic Scottish knight.

  As his thoughts faded, Gaelan gave in to his growing drowsiness. A few slim moments of sleep, and no more, he promised himself, knowing, despite his unusual physiology, like any man, he would soon collapse from the lack of it.