The Imperial Alchemist

by A. H. Wang

  “Now as far as we know, this form of plastromancy stopped being practised after 700 BCE. That’s 500 years before the Qin Dynasty. These rituals were only ever carried out for the Shang kings: a turtle shell or a piece of ox bone was anointed with blood, and questions were carved into the surface. Then the shell was heated in a pit until it cracked, and the diviner would read the cracks to interpret the answers.”

  “Which begs the question: who did this oracle bone belong to, and what were they asking?” Mark says, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

  Georgia dips her head, squinting and slowly reading one of the faint inscriptions aloud in Chinese.

  She points to a group of texts on the surface. “This is the date the divination was performed.” She translates the words for him, her voice laced with disbelief. “The eleventh year of Emperor Qin’s reign, the month of Yin.” She pauses briefly. “That’s the year 210 BCE, around February.”

  Reading the next line of text, she utters, “Li Zhen—I assume this is the name of the Diviner who performed the ceremony. And this bit,” she continues, tracing her finger down the centre of the shell, “this is the question they were asking the gods: Location of Hsu Fu… voyage progress?”

  Georgia inhales sharply, looking up at Mark. He sees in her face a mixture of incredulity and wonder. Then, without speaking, she turns her attention back to the oracle bone, reading the text along the cracks: “The man with the green eyes resides in… Wo. Quest successful.”

  The professor leans back in her chair in stunned silence. Mark sees a storm brewing within her, the struggle of scepticism against intrigue. When she finally speaks again, her voice is almost a whisper. “Have you had this authenticated?”

  “Of course. Carbon dating places it between 250 BCE and 180 BCE, which validates the date written on there.”

  “Wo was the oldest recorded name for Japan in China,” Georgia explains. “This oracle bone could very well explain why many people believe that Hsu Fu actually defected. The popular legend is that he was scared of being executed by the Emperor if he went back to China empty-handed. So he fled. Some say his fleet eventually ended up in Japan, that they colonised it, and began what is known as the Japanese civilisation. The country was still in its stone age when Hsu Fu supposedly arrived. There’s even a rumour that he became Japan’s first emperor.

  “But,” she continues, a deep frown appearing between her brows as she looks at the oracle bone again, “I don’t understand this bit about the man with the green eyes. There’s no mention in any historical records that Hsu Fu had such an uncommon characteristic. And quest successful? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I had the same incredulous look on my face, I believe.” Mark watches her, amused. “May I continue my story now?”

  Her muted consent gives him a sense of triumph, and he resumes the tale. “As I was saying, this story goes on to say that Qin had his court diviner perform a plastromancy ritual to find the whereabouts of Hsu Fu, the result of which lies before you. Hsu Fu was said to have landed in Japan, his mission a success.

  “The Emperor was furious, of course, and anxious to have the elixir for himself. His health was pretty dire by then. He sent his most trusted general to retrieve Hsu Fu, but the general was also never seen or heard from again. Emperor Qin followed him shortly afterwards, travelling east himself, and it was on this journey that he died. After this, the country was thrown into chaos with many rivalling for power, and the quest was not pursued again.”

  He pauses, and they sit in a silence swelling with a torrent of unanswered questions. He can tell that the professor’s mind is working at a breakneck pace.

  “You know,” he muses, “I’ve been pondering this subject more and more lately. From time immemorial, there’s been a desire to prolong life, to cheat death. Human beings are inherently scared of their mortality. That’s why we invent stories of vampires, immortals, deities and demigods. But we’ve also always known that eternal life is not possible, and so instead we comfort ourselves against the horrors of our impending death by trying to leave some sort of legacy behind. If our bodies cannot last through time, surely our legacies will. Some people find this through their work: artists, writers, and musicians live on in their creations after their deaths, and that immortalises them. Most people have children, and in a way, a part of themselves lives on in their offspring. Still more turn to religion, which assures you that you’ll at least have a life after death.”

  He pauses, cocking his head as he looks at her. “What about you, Georgia? What is your legacy? How have you decided to live forever in this world?”

  Looking a little confounded by the sudden and personal question, Georgia gives a self-conscious laugh. “Uh, well, I have no children,” she says, and he catches a brief glint of sadness flashing across her dark eyes. “And I’m definitely sceptical about God. So I guess I’d have to go with my work.”

  “And your work does you great justice in immortalising your name,” he replies, nodding in agreement. “Indeed it does.”

  “And you, Mark?” She turns the question on him. “I’m sure there’re countless achievements you must be proud of. Look at the empire you’ve amassed in your lifetime, not to mention all the charities you’ve supported, and institutions you’ve been a benefactor of.”

  He shakes his head, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “No. These things mean little to me now. And I have no interest in child rearing this late in my life, and certainly none in religion.”

  At her dubious look, he explains, “See, Georgia, I started in the pharmaceutical business. In all of my years in the industry, I’ve seen drugs save countless lives. But I’ve also seen them fail many more.” He sighs as images of his late sister come to mind: the dramatic weight loss, the frustrations as she slowly lost control of her body and her brilliant mind, and the many bouts of pneumonia she’d suffered as she neared the end of her life.

  Georgia clears her throat, looking uncertain. “I’m not really sure what all this has to do with the oracle bone. Surely you don’t believe there’s actually an elixir that could give everlasting life?”

  “Well, Professor.” He smiles. “This is where you come in.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Me?”

  “I’ve followed your career closely, Georgia. You were considered a child prodigy, entering university at the age of fifteen, and becoming one of the youngest professors in the world at only twenty-two. Your long list of accolades is truly impressive, especially for someone your age. The contribution you’ve made to the field of archaeology is something to be envied. What’s more, you’ve got an excellent instinct when it comes to hypotheses that contradict popular beliefs, and you’ve also got a habit of proving to everyone else that you’re right. It’s what makes you outperform others in the same field. This project needs someone who has those sharp instincts, a nose for the extraordinary that most people don’t have.”

  “What project?” she asks, now staring at him as if he has gone mad.

  “I’d like you to go to Japan and see what you can find out what happened to Hsu Fu. I have someone there who can show you some very interesting—not to mention revealing—information.”

  “Information on—?”

  “On the possibility that—two thousand years after his expedition left China—Hsu Fu may still be alive.”

  3

  “Well! Looks like someone had a big night last night.” Sarah pulls up a chair beside Georgia, grinning as if she is privy to some conspiracy.

  Georgia nurses her sore head with a steaming cup of coffee, trying her best to ignore the older woman. She did enjoy the superb wine at Lambert’s place, but she was definitely sober and alert by the time she left the estate last night. The alcohol is not to blame for her headache. Rather, it is the fact that she hasn’t had a wink of sleep since examining the oracle bone. And the horrendous drive back to Sydney this morning certainly did her no favours, either. She has stumbled out of her car and straight in
to the university cafeteria for her fourth coffee of the day, hoping to get some peace and quiet before the inevitable interrogation by her nosy assistant.

  No such luck. It appears Sarah has read her mind yet again, prancing into the café not long after and deftly spotting Georgia at the far corner table only minutes after she has sat down.

  “Soooooo, how was it? I want to hear all about it—Every. Single. Gory. Detail.” Sarah effuses, flicking an eyebrow up at every word.

  Georgia groans inwardly, knowing the impending interrogation is inevitable. Bit by bit, question by question, Sarah manages to draw out the entire story: asking Georgia to describe the house, the food, the wine, the conversation, and in great detail the man himself and what he was wearing. When Sarah is finally satisfied, she mouths a silent wow, and they sit in a vacuum of silence within the bustling background of the cafeteria.

  From the corner of her eye Georgia studies her assistant, hoping to read her mind. The afternoon sun filters through the wooden venetian blinds, highlighting the silver in Sarah’s short-cropped hair, her high cheekbones, and the faint pockmarks left behind from acne scars of a distant youth. It is in one of these very rare moments of quietness that Georgia sees Sarah for the handsome woman she really is. Despite being a Chinese woman in her late fifties, Sarah often behaves like a gossiping teenage girl, and it’s not common for her to remain silent or sit still for even a few seconds. But in their years of friendship, notwithstanding the frequently exasperating, confronting, and intrusive behaviour of the woman, Sarah has on numerous occasions demonstrated her depth of insight and wisdom on matters demanding sincerity of thought and action.

  Georgia doesn’t like to admit it, but more often than not, she looks to her assistant for advice. Simply put, she is the closest thing to a tiger mum Georgia has ever had.

  Sarah prides herself in the role, often explaining at length to those unaware why Asian mothers are far superior and adept at producing chess prodigies and mathematical geniuses. It is simply because, she proclaims, they enforce a strictly totalitarian regime when it comes to children. She’s boasted with pride that she has raised her own kids this way, getting her own hands dirty and personally conducting long arduous hours of tuition, inquisition and cross-examination, and—of course—the occasional bout of espionage.

  Georgia’s own parents, on the other hand, have the philosophy of minimal involvement when it comes to child-rearing. They have raised their only daughter with a large degree of freedom and independence, sometimes bordering on questionable neglect. To this day, Georgia is undecided on which parenting method is more effective.

  A long moment of silence passes before Sarah clears her throat, visibly weighing her next words. When she finally speaks, her voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “Does Lambert know about Jacqui?”

  She feels the usual, unwelcome squeeze of her heart at the subject. “No. Well, at least I don’t think so.”

  “But what he’s said has you interested, even if you don’t want to be,” Sarah points out.

  Georgia doesn’t reply, and they lapse into silence again.

  “And he’s offering you full funding for the next three years if you agree to do it?” Sarah confirms again.

  “Yeah.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Sarah claps her hands together as if in a Japanese Shinto ritual, declaring: “Well, you’ve just got to take on the job, there’s no other ways about it.”

  Georgia jerks her head at the sudden decision made for her. “What about the dig in China? What about my work here?”

  “Details to be sorted out.” Sarah waves her hand dismissively. “And anyway, the dig will only continue if you take on this project. Three years of full funding is more than enough for us to finish the dig in China, and for you to finish your research paper, and the book you’re writing now. Not to mention all the brownie points you’re gonna earn with the department for securing such a prominent benefactor. You simply can’t turn it down: you get to keep your job, I get to keep my job.”

  Georgia shakes her head, her pride waging war against Sarah’s logic. Despite her initial intrigue concerning the oracle bone and what it revealed, she is now sceptical of its authenticity. The concept of an elixir of life is so ludicrous she refuses to entertain even a modicum of belief its possibility. Georgia’s had plenty of job offers from collectors of Lambert’s type, wealthy hobbyists who’ve watched too many adventure films and are drunk on fantasies unrelated to facts. Frankly, she finds it a little demeaning to her occupation. She loathes to stoop that low just to get a bit of money—she is a scientist, not a tomb raider.

  “The man is mad,” Georgia argues. “He thinks the elixir actually exists—”

  “Of course he does.” Sarah shrugs, giving her a wry smile. “It’s exactly what a fifty-something megalomaniac does when he’s contemplating his own mortality. As did Hitler, as did Emperor Qin.”

  “—and I don’t get this oracle bone business, and this idea that Hsu Fu had green eyes. It just adds to how ludicrous the whole thing is—”

  “Not necessarily,” Sarah points out calmly. “What about the Manchus, and the village of Liqian? There’re plenty of examples throughout history where minority groups of China had Caucasian features, especially those that lived on the northern borders. Hell, just the other day I read an article on the theory that the Terracotta Warriors could have been influenced by Greek art. Invaders of all races galloped back and forth across those borders, you know that. Hsu Fu was from—what—the state of Qi? That was right up there too.”

  Georgia is quiet, knowing Sarah is correct. Liqian is a small village in northern China, on the edge of the Gobi desert. Its people are well-known for their fair skin, aquiline noses, light-coloured hair, and blue eyes. Only recently, tests have shown the DNA of some of these villagers is fifty-six percent Caucasian in origin. The current prevailing theory is that they may be the descendants of Roman legionaries.

  “Look, Georgia,” Sarah continues, “we’ve had our fair share of absurd job offers. And I’ll admit, this one does seem to top them all on the scale of crazy. But think of it this way: what have you got to lose? Just humour him—go to Japan, get the funding, everyone is happy.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, it’s a massive waste of your time.” Sarah rolls her eyes, mimicking Georgia’s tone as she accurately predicts what she’s about to say. “Yes, you hate prancing around like a dancing monkey for billionaires who think they can buy anything, and anyone’s time. I get it. But you know I’m right.”

  Georgia stares at her in exasperation, and is about to launch into another string of arguments when she sees the unexpected weary look on Sarah’s face. Georgia suddenly realises that the past many weeks of sleepless nights in the office have taken more of a toll on Sarah than she would likely admit.

  The bottom line is, she knows Sarah is right. And it irritates the hell out of her.

  “Think of it as a holiday,” Sarah cajoles now, “an all-expenses-paid holiday. Isn’t it cherry blossom season now? Ooh, maybe you can take your assistant with you?” She grins, wiggling her eyebrows and nodding enthusiastically at Georgia.

  Georgia lets out an unexpected laugh, feeling her heart suddenly lighten in spite of herself. “Absolutely not!”

  4

  One week later, Osaka

  Professor Georgia Lee.

  Georgia walks towards the uniformed man holding the hand-written sign and identifies herself. He bows to her deeply, introducing himself as Yamamoto San with a thick Japanese accent.

  “I am driver,” he explains, “our trip to Shingu, about... three and half hour.”

  She smiles with relief. Exhausted from a long flight and transit from Sydney to Tokyo and now Osaka, she’s looking forward to a little snooze in the car on the way to their destination. Yamamoto San promptly takes her bag and guides her out of the Osaka International Airport, navigating through the car park, and opens the door for her to a stately black Toyota Crown. She settles into the le
ather seat of the car and lets out a yawn of contentment. She must admit that despite her reluctance to come on this trip, she’s glad Lambert has made sure she travels comfortably. His assistant, Hank Law, has seen to it that Georgia travels first class on all of the flights, and the car she is now in is luxurious compared to her own little Ford at home. Christ, it even has a TV screen at the back of the passenger seat to make sure she’s entertained all the way to Shingu.

  As if on cue, her phone starts to ring beside her, the screen showing Hank as the caller. She answers it as Yamamoto San pulls the car out of the parking lot.

  “Georgia, I hope you had a nice flight?” he says in his pleasant London accent. His soft-spoken voice travels to her ears and she envisages him as a skinny, pale young gentleman with a clipboard in his hand, doing his boss’ bidding. As soon as she accepted the contract, Lambert palmed her off to Hank, asking her to give all reports and updates to him instead. Evidently, Lambert has an empire he needs to tend to.

  This arrangement is all fine with her. Even though she’s never met Hank in person, she finds him much more approachable than the billionaire.

  “Yeah, great. Thank you.” She smiles. “How is Muffin?”

  Muffin is Hank’s ten-year-old Rottweiler. Early on in their conversations it became apparent that Hank and Georgia share a love for dogs. Muffin, sadly, has been frequenting the vet’s clinic for diabetes of late.

  “She’s in good spirits. Vet isn’t so optimistic though—he tells me to prepare myself. I’ll be sad to see her go.” Hank’s voice drops.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Hank,” Georgia says. She knows what it’s like to lose a pet, especially one that’s been part of your life for over a decade.

  “Yeah. She’s been a good friend. We’ve had good times together.”

  Georgia hears Hank muffle the phone as he speaks to someone in the background. When he returns, his tone has taken on an edge she has not heard before. “I’m sorry Georgia, I’m being called away. I just wanted to let you know I’ve booked your hotel in Shingu and sent the address to Yamamoto San. He’ll take care of everything. Let me know if there’s anything you need—anything at all. Mr. Lambert wants your complete focus on the project.”