Gods of Aberdeen

by Micah Nathan

  Three pitchers later we were talked out. We had covered school, career plans, and Dr. Cade’s project. Howie told us he had just completed the final map—a portolano of 13th-century Byzantine trade routes—of the first three volumes. Art said he finished outlining the chapter on the Germanic invasion of Western Europe. Thanks to the beer I had a strong buzz going, tottering on that line where I still had some semblance of control, interspersed with moments of semiconsciousness. I’d suddenly become aware that I was just sitting there, staring at nothing, and like a driver falling asleep at the wheel I’d perk up with a jolt of adrenaline. The beer had also dulled my fears about the Ellen fault line. Everything seemed fine between Art and Howie. In fact, I’d never seen them so relaxed around each other.

  Howie leaned on the table and rolled a quarter along the backs of the fingers on his left hand. He watched indifferently, eyes half-shut, fingers twitching like a sleeping cat’s tail. Despite his drunkenness the quarter flipped from knuckle to knuckle without pause, slipping between pinky and ring finger onto the thumb, brought back to the index to start again. I stared, somewhat fascinated but mostly comatose. A plate of chicken bones sat in the middle of the table, colored red with leftover hot sauce.

  “You watching the quarter?” Howie said. When I nodded, he dropped the quarter onto his thumb and rubbed it with his forefinger.

  He held his hand out to me, fingers spread. He showed me both sides of his hand. The quarter was gone.

  “Look in your glass,” he said.

  The quarter sat at the bottom.

  “I didn’t think you were going to finish it anyway,” he said. I looked at the gash on his forehead and saw it had healed into a puckered, thin line.

  How much have I had to drink? I thought. Three glasses. A shot of something with Howie—scotch? Brandy? Whiskey?

  “Howie is a man of many talents.” Art pulled out his pipe. It was the gargoyle, its round head polished to a dull glow. He set a pouch of tobacco on the table and pinched a wad from it. “Howie, why don’t you play us a song,” he said.

  “You know I hate that piano. It’s out of tune.”

  “Oh, come on. Eric’s never seen you tear it up.”

  “And he’s not going to now.” Howie inspected his thumbnail. “I don’t play on antiques.”

  I looked around and located the piano, a dusty brown upright, its lacquer peeling and chipped. It hid in the corner with an ashtray sitting atop it.

  “Soundboard’s all warped.” Howie poured himself the rest of the pitcher, and continued as if Art had asked him a question. “It’s a piece for show, not performance.”

  Art shrugged and lit a match. “You’re probably right.” He puffed twice, and then sat back, cradling the pipe in his hand. “Only Pete can play it because he knows its quirks.” Art looked at me. “Sometimes Pete rattles off a couple of songs, nothing much. Old show tunes, stuff like that.”

  “And they sound like shit,” Howie said, cracking his knuckles. He drained his glass in one gulp, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He looked back at the piano, then at his hands. They trembled slightly.

  “It’s pretty dry in here, though,” he said. “The soundboard might not be as warped as it was last time. Maybe Pete shelled out some money for a tuning.” He looked at the piano again.

  He stood, unsteadily, holding onto the partition for support. Then he steeled himself and strode forward, like a gunslinger walking to a duel.

  “Howie went to Juilliard for a semester, you know,” Art said.

  “Juilliard? In New York?”

  He nodded and drew on his pipe. The gargoyle leered, smoke curling from the top of its head. “Full scholarship. He walked into the admissions office with his transcript and auditioned. Supposedly they admitted him right there, on the spot.”

  Howie had made it to the corner, where he sat on the piano stool, got up, wiped the seat, sat down again, and flipped open the fall-board. The bartender walked to the far side of the bar and said something to Howie. Howie nodded slowly and trilled the keys with his right hand.

  “He flunked out, though,” Art said. “His drinking became a problem.”

  The bartender returned with a highball and handed it to Howie, who set it atop the piano and played a quick scale.

  “I’m surprised he got into Aberdeen,” I said.

  “He didn’t.” Art leaned back against the wall, one hand holding his pipe, the other tapping on the table. “Not in the traditional sense. He’s taken a couple of classes part-time, as a nonmatriculated student. I think he was going to apply again but lost his ambition. Getting rejected once was enough, he said.”

  I had assumed we all went to Aberdeen. “So Howie just works for Dr. Cade?”

  “Yep. If it wasn’t for Dr. Cade, Howie would have to go back home and start working for his dad.”

  “I thought that’s what he wanted to do,” I said. “He told me he couldn’t wait to get out of college and into the ‘real world.’”

  Art frowned. “Are you kidding me? That’s the last thing Howie wants. His dad thinks he’s in school. He keeps sending tuition checks; Howie keeps spending them. He saves a lot of it, though. He’s got a big account at Fairwich Trust.” Art stifled a yawn. “My folks do okay for themselves, but Howie comes from a whole different world. Money like you wouldn’t believe. Filthy with the stuff.”

  I swallowed the last of my drink and set the glass down harder than I intended. I was drunk and unafraid. I said:

  “I wish you hadn’t said those things about Dan.”

  Art paused with his drink in midair. “Is that still bothering you?”

  I said nothing.

  “You know I was only joking around.”

  I shook my head, alcohol-emboldened. “I don’t think it was right. I like Dan.”

  “I like him too,” said Art.

  “He doesn’t have a crush on me,” I said. “And I don’t think he’s gay.”

  “Fair enough,” Art said. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Just because someone likes you doesn’t mean they have a crush on you,” I said.

  “Agreed,” said Art. “You like Ellen, right? But neither of us would say you have a crush on her.”

  Art smiled at me. Adrenaline shot up my stomach and I sat back and guzzled the rest of my beer, Howie’s magic quarter clacking against my front teeth.

  Howie was showing his stuff, both hands skimming along the keys, feet working the pedals, head bobbing with the music. It was a jazzy, New Orleans–type number, and a small crowd had formed around him. To my amazement, Howie started singing:

  Oh please

  Don’t talk about me

  When I’m gone

  Although our friendship

  Ceases from now on.

  If you can’t say anything real nice

  Then you best not talk at all

  That’s my advice.

  Someone opened the pub’s front door, letting in a whoosh of frigid air. Art and I sat in awkward silence for a few moments. I continued to drink, frantically probing my glass for any remaining drops.

  Art finally broke the silence. “How’s your research coming along?”

  I looked up from my glass.

  “I’m falling behind at school,” I said warily. “Dr. Cade’s project has taken over my life.”

  “But isn’t this the life you wanted?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. My vision blurred, briefly. “I don’t know what life I wanted.”

  Art ordered another beer. “You could always go back to the dorms,” he said. “No one’s keeping you at the house.”

  “But I like the house.”

  “Of course you do. I could rearrange the schedule, give more of your work to Dan.”

  “That’s not fair to Dan,” I said.

  “Fair?” Art laughed. “Fairness is the enemy of ambition. If I was concerned with fairness, we’d be even farther behind on Dr. Cade’s project. I spent all last semester putting together a proposal for a chapter
on medieval science, and Dr. Cade said no. He didn’t even read the whole thing because he said he didn’t have the time. Now, that’s certainly not fair, but it is necessary, and I’ve learned the difference between the two.”

  Howie finished his routine to a round of applause and immediately launched into another.

  “I saw a book in the study,” I said. “Collectanea Chemica. Was that for your science chapter?”

  Art was clapping lightly and he stopped and looked at me. “Did you read the book?”

  “Just the first page,” I said.

  “What did you think?”

  “I’ve read stories about the Philosopher’s Stone before,” I said. “It’s interesting. But it reminds me of the Summa Theologica, when Aquinas tries to mix the supernatural and the empirical—”

  “Mixing faith and empiricism is always a risky venture.”

  “It’s impossible,” I said.

  I was enjoying my stupor, caught floating in a fuzzy web. My toes tingled with warmth. Art and I sat in silence for a few minutes, while I pretended to watch Howie play.

  “Not impossible,” Art said, suddenly. “Look at what St. Anselm adopted as his life’s motto: fides quaerens intelligentiam. Faith seeking understanding. He showed how reason can be used to illuminate the content of belief. The two can work together, faith on one end of the scale, reason on the other. The point where both sides even out.” He held up his hands in imitation of a scale: palms down, both hands rising and falling in smaller and smaller increments until they stopped on the same plane. “That’s where I think truth lies.”

  “Truth,” I repeated.

  Art looked at me, warily. “You feeling okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I truly felt so. I was sorry I’d drank so much.

  “I’m really wasted,” I said.

  “Indeed you are,” Art said, and he grinned. “Our little Eric is becoming an alcoholic, right before our very eyes.”

  We left soon after, practically carrying Howie away from the piano, stopping in the parking lot while he threw up into a snowbank, and stuffing his limp body into the car’s backseat where he immediately passed out, slouched against the door, his cheek pressed against the glass. The snow was starting to stick, piling up along the shoulder, covering the countryside in a thin white blanket that looked spotty and wan under the dim moonlight. I nearly fell asleep as well, lulled by the rhythm of the windshield wipers and the muted whoosh of the Jag’s tires over slushy roads, and the alcohol that was hitting me like a shot of morphine.

  The engine cut off and I woke up. I opened my eyes and saw Dan—I’m sure it was him by the shape of his profile—walking up the brick path to the front door, dressed in full winter gear and cradling a large earthen pot under his arm. His back was briefly lit by the headlights, and then Art switched them off. The clock on the dash read 1:00 A.M.

  “Hey, Howie.” Art turned and jabbed Howie in the shoulder. “Get up. Get up.”

  Howie opened one eye and quickly shut it. “I’m sleeping here,” he said, his voice gravelly. He readjusted himself and folded his arms across his chest.

  “You’ll freeze.”

  “Then I’ll freeze. Fuck it.”

  “Okay, then. Fuck it.” Art got out of the car and slammed the door. I waited for a moment, unsure of what to do. I looked back at Howie. His face was relaxed, hair pressed down against his forehead, broad shoulders slack. The car smelled of booze.

  The engine ticked. Snow bounced off the windows. “If you’re not inside in fifteen minutes, I’m coming back,” I said, and left.

  The house was stifling hot. Dan’s boots sat on the grooved, rubber mat in the foyer, melting snow puddling around them. The lights were off except for the kitchen, a thin ribbon of yellow shining from under the door. I walked, unsteadily, toward the kitchen, past the dining room table that smelled of a fresh polishing.

  Dan was standing near the counter, his clay pot upright in the sink. It was a plain brown jug, covered in flecks of old grass and caked with dirt. The mouth was stopped with a large cork, which in turn was wrapped in clear plastic. An open book sat on the countertop, some colored illustration printed on the page. Dan turned to me and coughed, and then he quickly motioned to the jug.

  “Herbs,” he said. He had on his funny red hunting cap. Its flaps were pulled down, covering his ears.

  Art thumped down the kitchen stairs, talking to Dan without seeing me. “You were supposed to dig it up earlier,” he said, sounding irritated. “It’s this kind of oversight that really—”

  He stopped when he saw me. Something flashed across his face—guilt, apprehension, surprise, I couldn’t tell—and then he smiled and walked to the sink. “Pretty nice artifact, isn’t it?” He slowly brushed some of the dirt off with his hand.

  “What’s in it?” I said.

  Art looked at Dan. “Herbs,” Dan repeated.

  Art laughed, unexpectedly. “Is that what you told him?”

  Dan nodded. He looked at Art.

  Art laughed again. “I guess you could call it that.”

  The kitchen door swung open and Howie stumbled in. A small clump of dissolving snow rested atop his head, half-hidden in his jumble of hair. His cheeks were a high, bright shade of red, as if windburnt. “Fucking freezing out there,” he said, teeth clenched, and then he looked at all of us, one at a time, stopping finally at the jug, where his unsteady gaze rested.

  “There’s horseshit in that,” he said. “Get it away from me before I puke.”

  I looked at Art.

  “Well,” Art said, and he crossed his arms and shook his head. “In vino veritas.”

  Chapter 8

  For the next two hours I sat in Art’s room and listened to him calmly and rationally explain why he believed three seemingly ridiculous notions:

  Alchemy was not a psuedoscience, but rather a legitimate pursuit with some admittedly flawed theories.

  Alchemists knew the formula for immortality, calling it by many names (quinta essentia, aurum potabile, and the more popular Philosopher’s Stone) but the exact formula had been lost over the centuries.

  That exact formula can be rediscovered.

  We lay on Art’s bed, a collection of papers spread before us on the comforter, while Art told me about Dr. Jacqueline Felicia, a French physician who defended herself against charges of medical malpractice brought by the University of Paris in 1322, the result of her invention and dispensation of aqua clarissima, a clear liquid medication that achieved miraculous results for hundreds of patients. He showed me the writings of Jabir ibn-Hayyan, who, in the 10th century, translated from the Greek a formula for creating the ultimate panacea, which he used on himself and his wife for more than two hundred years, before finally succumbing to an assassination by the sheik’s guards in 1108. The volume of anecdotal evidence was astounding—tales of transmutation performed in royal courts, of massive clumps of lead turning into pillars of gleaming gold. Lepers and victims of the Black Death cured by mysterious elixirs. Rumors of the secret formula for the Philosopher’s Stone spanning from Europe to Asia, always jealously guarded and steeped in allegory so that even if such formulae were stolen, the uninitiated would find themselves lost within poetic verse instead of laboratory instructions. The green lion is the mineral substance used by alchemists to create a red lion, or eagle, by sublimation with mercury, which then must be united with the winged toad in order to achieve purification of the two-fold swan…

  Art had constructed timelines (1471—George Ripley’s Compound of Alchemy; 1476—Medulla alchemiae; 1541—In hoc volumine alchemia; 1561—Peter Perna’s compilation of fifty-three alchemical treatises; 1666—Baron Helvetius’s On Transmutation, claims to have witnessed transmutation in The Hague) and traced routes over photocopies of old maps, every map a confusing network of crisscrosses and arrows with place names and dates scribbled in black pen and sometimes crossed out and sometimes underlined, occasionally with exclamation points or question marks or simply a red circle dr
awn around the word. It gave the impression of a long, frantic search for an elusive quarry. A monastery in the Romanian village of Churisov had been destroyed by fire in the mid-1950s, and it was rumored a wealthy prince sent an emissary to purchase an incunable from among the stacks of waterlogged books and codices, paying in excess of one million U.S. dollars for a book whose content, under terms of the sale, was not revealed. Ten years earlier, reports had spread from the Muztag mountains of China about a village elder who finally died at the age of 315, and who it was said drank the same substance throughout his entire life, a golden liquid resembling the aurum potabile of European medieval fame. According to Art, there had been glimpses of the Philosopher’s Stone since the 8th century, passing beneath the table of history from black-gloved hand to black-gloved hand, shown only under the dim flicker of candlelight and in the darkened corners of Greek temples and Byzantine cathedrals and medieval taverns and mountaintop inns.

  At the conclusion of Art’s epic exegesis I stood up, looked around his room, and sat on the Oriental rug in the middle of the floor.

  Art took off his glasses. His eyes looked watery and tired.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. I was still too drunk to think clearly. “What was in that jug?”

  “Sulphur, mercury, horse dung. It’s a formula for Paracelsus’s nutritive medicament. We combined the ingredients and buried the jug for fifty days.”

  “And then?”

  “Well,” Art shrugged, “then we test it. I admit the nutritive medicament is a shot in the dark. Neither Dan nor I expect it to work. But some of the other things we’ve been working on…now that’s some mind-blowing stuff. We’ve been doing this for more than a year, officially. That’s when we started, Dan and I, and even Howie sometimes, little experiments here and there. We had some bad luck about six months ago.” He paused and looked down. “I had an accident. I miscalculated and took what I thought was a safe dosage of Amanita pantherina. Panther mushroom—don’t ask me what I was thinking. I’d been thrown off track by the Crecentius manuscript, all that talk about ‘noble poisons.’ But I’m much more cautious now.”