Death of an Alchemist

by Mary Lawrence

  “Tell me, Bianca Goddard,” said Stannum, watching her intently. “What is it you wish to learn from me?”

  Bianca explained her failed attempts. “The precipitate remains moist. It will not crystallize. Sometimes it may never collect at all.”

  “You must sublime through violent heat wherein your child will cling to the top of the alembic waiting to be made spiritual through heat both moist and temperate. It is not a process for an impatient young heart, for the spirit takes forty days to be reborn. And in those forty days, it is like a child in a womb. You must attend to it, without distraction, keeping the heat steady. If you falter, all is lost. But I have methods to accomplish this and in less time.”

  “Will you show me?”

  Ferris Stannum’s reticence softened. Bianca’s humble quest was not a threat and, in fact, endeared her to him. His altruism bloomed and he did not mind dispensing some of his knowledge to this earnest young woman. He would not live forever—but he could.

  Bianca and Ferris Stannum sat next to a congelating furnace waiting for the charcoal to glow orange. She had learned much from the experienced alchemist in a short time. She had observed his setups and technique, committing the details to memory. At one point, they had stopped to sip aqua vitae, as he called it (more like burning water, thought Bianca), distilled from tan-gleberries.

  Once the embers glowed and blue waves rolled in the cucurbit, Stannum showed Bianca how to maintain the needed warmth for sublimation. Perspiration trickled down her back as the ambient temperature climbed from the heat of the stove. She wished she had worn a thinner kirtle rather than the one she had on. She unlaced her bodice as much as was proper, but the heat sapped her enthusiasm.

  It came as a welcome interruption when a friend of Ferris Stannum’s rapped on the doorjamb.

  “I have been hoping I would see you,” said the alchemist, motioning his friend inside. “I have someone for you to meet.”

  The man entered, doffing his flat cap but leaving a black silk coif to cover his hair. Dressed entirely in black, from his head to his boots, he removed a satin gown that fell just below his knees and set it by. His neck was adorned with a neck chain ending in a pomander box that gave off a pleasing floral scent. He had a quiet, dignified manner that immediately impressed Bianca. She would have almost thought him beautiful if not for the unfortunate pox scars on his cheeks above a neatly trimmed beard. He nodded to her.

  “Barnabas Hughes, this is Bianca Goddard, a young chemiste.”

  He looked at her with curiosity. “I have never met a female alchemist.”

  “Nor have I,” said Bianca.

  Ferris Stannum rummaged through a shelf and found an empty cup. “Barnabas, she is not interested in alchemy. Bianca creates physickes and medicinals. My methods are of some interest to her.” He uncorked a bottle of wine and offered some to Barnabas.

  “Nay, Ferris. I am returning home from Newgate Market. A butcher sliced his finger and it would not have healed. I amputated the digit and wrapped the wound.” He looked at the furnace bellowing smoke and heat. “The weather is not ideal for testing a chimney draft.”

  Stannum smiled, his face creasing like parchment. “Hughes is a well-respected physician, Bianca. He does see men of station, but not exclusively. I would say he is the rarest of healers, with the education to practice his art in court. But he prefers to understand all aspects of his science. You might say he is the most learned barber surgeon in London. Perhaps the two of you might confer someday. You might benefit from each other’s findings.” Stannum poured himself a measure of drink and took a sip. “Barnabas, I would not bother starting the furnace in this heat if I didn’t have a reason for doing so. I am showing Bianca how to maintain a constant brooding heat.”

  “She need only observe an alchemist’s nature to learn that.”

  Stannum raised his cup, acknowledging his friend’s barb, and polished off the contents.

  “Ferris, I would not encourage you to drink wine on this warm day. The excessive heat may melt your good sense and leave you light in the head.”

  “I am already feeling light in the head,” quipped the old alchemist. “But I have reason to enjoy my drink.”

  At that moment, another voice called from the street and a second man appeared at the door, apparently known to the others.

  “Thomas, my good man,” said Stannum. “Come in, come in. Join our gathering.”

  The man entered, wearing a faded doublet of fulvous yellow taffeta. It was carefully mended near a front pleat to still look presentable. He swept off his cap and bowed overly far, appraising Bianca with a salacious eye.

  “Ferris, you old goat,” said he, from the side of his mouth. He kept his gaze on Bianca. “Where did you find this trinket?”

  “This is Thomas Plumbum, Bianca, a fellow alchemist.” Stannum looked over his shoulder at her. “Could you not tell?”

  Indeed, Bianca knew an alchemist when she saw one. The stained and well-worn clothes, the attempt to seem greater than one was, both in demeanor and in dress. Thomas Plumbum wore his occupation like a placard.

  “No other sort would call me a trinket without first knowing me,” she said.

  Thomas Plumbum took no offense. He thought himself clever and ignored the derision of those who found him annoying. He slung insults and abuse with no forethought. “And from where might you hail?” he asked.

  “Across the bridge.”

  The younger alchemist tucked his chin, considering. “Southwark?” He glanced at Stannum for confirmation.

  “She lives in Gull Hole,” said Stannum. “No one notices her strange chemistries in a borough just as strange.”

  Plumbum nodded in sage agreement. Like his accomplished mentor, Thomas Plumbum had taken an assumed name to set him apart from other, less devoted alchemists. And like Ferris Stannum, he thought his choice auspicious.

  “Ferris, I thought I would find you alone. Instead, I seem to have interrupted some festivity.”

  “This is no planned occasion,” said Stannum, brightening. “But I admit I feel celebratory.”

  Barnabas Hughes looked both surprised and a bit worried. “Ferris, I propose you cork that bottle of wine and stash it on a high shelf.” He moved to do just that, but Ferris hid the bottle behind his back.

  “Barnabas, do not deny an old man his merriment,” warned Stannum, pointing his finger in the physician’s face. “I wish to share my news. My friends are here, and while I have you, I must trumpet my achievement.”

  Plumbum snatched the bottle away from Stannum and took a whiff of its contents. “I am always willing to help celebrate good news.” He looked about for a cup, but when that proved fruitless, Plumbum satisfied himself with a swig from the bottle and handed it back. “Do tell all,” he said, pulling up a stool and sitting on it.

  Bianca moved to the other side of Barnabas Hughes, keeping the august physician between her and Plumbum. She had sensed that Ferris Stannum’s willingness to tutor her had come at the end of some momentous discovery. If he had been occupied with an experiment, he probably would not have been so gracious.

  Once his audience had settled, Ferris Stannum launched into a long explanation of alchemical theory. Thomas Plumbum sat rapt, listening to his old friend deftly discount accepted alchemical convention. When Bianca and the physician started yawning and their eyes began to glaze over, Stannum rushed through his lengthy discourse. Finally he spurted, “I’ve discovered the elixir of immortality!”

  Bianca’s and the physician’s eyes flew open. Thomas Plumbum stood and applauded. “Of all the alchemists I know, including myself, none deserves success more than you, my friend.” He slapped the old man on the back, which would later leave a purple bruise.

  Barnabas Hughes blinked in astonishment and looked at Bianca. Bewildered, he said, “I do not understand. Why do you make this claim?”

  Ferris Stannum pointed to the black tiger cat curled on his pallet. “Do you recall how ill this creature was at your last visi
t? Do you remember my heartbreak that I would soon bury him?” Stannum picked up the cat and faced it toward his friends. “He lives.” He looked round at their puzzled faces. “He lives because I discovered the elixir of life.”

  Thomas Plumbum could hardly contain his enthusiasm. “When last I visited, this cat was at death’s door. I was sorry for you to have grown so fond of the creature. If you lost him I worried your grief would consume you.”

  “But could it not have been a disease that your cat survived?” asked Bianca.

  “Barnabas, you saw how weak he was. You barely heard a heartbeat—remember?”

  “True, I do not deny the feline was in a bad way.”

  “Then do not doubt this elixir is as I say. With imperfect metals alchemy’s quest is to balance the four elements into perfect proportions. The perfection of metals is gold. Likewise, alchemy’s other great quest is to banish imperfections of the body, the imbalances that result in illness. The perfection being immortality—life without death.”

  Barnabas Hughes considered this without comment.

  Bianca listened respectfully. If what Stannum said was true, then the possibilities were astounding. An elixir such as this could change the course of humanity. It could change the course of history. Bianca tried to envision the ramifications of such a discovery. She could not begin to fathom the implications of such a sauce. Was this even a triumph worth celebrating?

  “Have you tested it on yourself?” she asked. Bianca had learned one must thoroughly vet a discovery before claiming success. In fact, she had employed the unorthodox practice of spreading her balms and extractions on rats to test them. It was another one of John’s pet peeves. He disliked trying to sleep with rats rasping and chewing at their cages.

  “I have not sampled my elixir,” replied Stannum. “I do not choose to live forever. Nor do I choose to die before I am prepared. But I am sending my results to Madu Salib in Cairo, a colleague whom I trust.”

  Thomas Plumbum threw back his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “I can review your results,” he offered.

  “Thomas, this is not your specialty. Madu is a descendant of al-Rz.” Stannum didn’t chide Thomas for his less than stellar reputation but astutely tried to avoid mentioning it. “Al-Rz wrote the Book of Secrets, a revered tome in alchemy.”

  Thomas grew insistent. “One learns the science through years of sacrifice and toil. You aren’t born an alchemist. Why is he better suited to validate your findings?”

  “Because Madu is a well-known scholar on the matter.”

  “It will take weeks for the journal to get there. Then it must be validated and returned. You are not a young man.”

  “I am not a young man, but it is the course I am taking. Madu will deal earnestly with me and will give my findings an honest judgment.”

  Thomas started in again, but Stannum spoke over him. “My decision is final. The arrangements for delivery have been made. It is no longer open for debate, my friend.”

  Thomas Plumbum gaped and looked at Barnabas Hughes, hoping he would take up the cause. But Hughes, being a man of measured thoughts, answered in a measured voice.

  “Thomas, it is not your discovery. If Ferris deems it necessary to have his findings validated, then we must accept his decision.” The physician looked pointedly at the old alchemist. “However, think of how many lives might be lost while you wait. Lives that could be saved.”

  Thomas heard only the second half of Hughes’s statement. “The door of opportunity is open,” said Thomas. “If you wait too long, it will slam in your face.”

  The old alchemist remained firm. “Thomas, I can open the door whenever I choose.”

  Thomas Plumbum stared at Hughes and Stannum in disbelief. “Gentlemen, you disappoint me. This is the single most important discovery in all of history, and you are prepared to let a Moor do with it as he pleases? Ferris, it may never reach your intended destination. Have you considered that? Have you considered what you might lose if the journal is intercepted—or lost?”

  “Thomas, why torment yourself with my decision? Protest all you want, my dear friend, but your words are wasted. I will not change my mind.”

  Plumbum had worked himself into a rage. His sallow skin bloomed to an almost bronze shade of health. He could no longer abide his friends’ stupidity and was dismayed they could be so dull of wit. “You are wrong in delaying,” he said, seizing the last word. “Neither of you recognize the possibility of what I am saying.” Plumbum stumped to the door, fury the fire under his feet. “There is no use in trying to reason with either of you.” He pulled on his faded silk hat so that it covered his ears and forehead in a dispirited fashion.

  Barnabas and Ferris watched Plumbum disappear out the door. They glanced at each other, then at Bianca. “You have remained tactfully silent,” said the old alchemist.

  Bianca had learned a healthy sense of skepticism watching her father and his dealings. She had not been surprised to see Plumbum try to dissuade Stannum from delaying his findings and insinuate himself into the discovery. However, she wondered if Plumbum could stay silent until Stannum’s claims were verified. But Ferris Stannum was neither troubled nor distrustful of the younger alchemist. Bianca decided Stannum must have thought Plumbum a trustworthy friend to have told him the news.

  “It is not for me to give you my opinion,” she said. “We have only just met and you have known Plumbum far longer.”

  “It does not matter how long I know a person. I have a sense of a person’s character within minutes of meeting them. Plumbum is arrogant, but really he is inconsequential. He is one of the finer charlatans in our field,” said Stannum.

  “Then why did you tell him about your discovery?” asked Bianca.

  “Do you worry what he might do with the knowledge?” Stannum scoffed at the suggestion of it. “He cannot replicate my findings. He has no clue to the meaning of my scribbles. Only Madu knows my particular Decknamens.”

  Bianca had never heard the term. “Decknamens? What are they?”

  Stannum opened his alchemy journal, which was sitting on a lectern, and pointed to a line of text. “I may substitute the term ‘king’s crown,’ meaning gold,” he said, “with ‘Apollo,’ here.” He glanced up at Barnabas and Bianca. “Apollo is king of the sun.”

  “And the sun represents gold,” said Bianca.

  “Aye.” Ferris Stannum showed an accompanying illustration of a king ascending to the sky. “If you know and understand some basic references, you should be able to interpret my methods. But only Madu has the same knowledge base to figure it out exactly.” With effort, Stannum closed the bulky journal.

  “Ferris, you must rest, my friend,” said Hughes, taking note. “You have overextended yourself.” He took Stannum by the elbow and led him to a chair. “I fear that the next time I see you it will not be for pleasure.”

  Bianca filled Stannum’s empty cup with ale and Barnabas handed the old man the drink. “There,” he said, encouraged that Stannum accepted the cup. “Now I must be on my way. And you must heed my advice and rest.”

  Bianca found a round of brown bread and shared it with the old alchemist. The two ate in silence, enjoying a slight breeze wafting through the door. Bianca gazed at her surroundings, admiring the variety of equipment lining the shelves. Stannum had an enviable supply of cucurbits and alembics in various sizes, some of copper, some of clay and even glass. There were three different furnaces, one for calcination, a fusory furnace for melting metals, and a solutory furnace with a water bath for dissolving ingredients that must not be scorched. His shelves appeared to be well stocked with cinnabar, lead, sal ammoniac—all the necessary ingredients to perform the noble art. Her eyes settled on a long cylindrical vessel with a glass dome.

  She went over to it. “What is this?” she asked.

  Ferris Stannum swallowed the last of his bread. “You’ve never seen a kerotakis before?”

  “May I look at it?”

  “Of course. It has finished its w
ork for the time being.” Stannum stood and put his hand on the table to steady himself. He waited for his head to clear.

  Bianca examined the kerotakis, turned it over, and looked through its glass top.

  “Remove that piece,” said Stannum, showing her how. Reaching a finger inside, he picked out a round plate punched with holes. “You start a fire at the bottom of the vessel.” He turned the cylinder upside down and shook out a mesh sieve and concave receptacle.

  Bianca looked into the cylinder.

  “The receptacle is where you place a liquid, say, mercury. Above that,” he said, holding up the plate with holes, “is where you place the body to be acted upon. The body reacts with the heated vapors and is changed by them. The vapors rise and condense in the dome, then trickle down the sides.” He pointed out the openings surrounding the vessel near the bottom. “It would not do to have the system closed off. This allows ether to feed the fire.”

  “Clever apparatus,” said Bianca, putting it back together.

  She had just handed the instrument back when a man called from the stoop of Ferris’s room of alchemy. “Stannum?” The caller clutched a leather portfolio with papers jutting from the edges. His attire was one of a man of money, or at least the outward show of some. He wore a fine damask doublet of ladie blushe pink with gold cording trimming the collar and armholes. A white rosebud was pinned over his heart. But what caught Bianca’s eye was his codpiece, elaborately beaded and ridiculously large. “You have company?”

  Ferris Stannum groaned under his breath. “I have more now,” he muttered.

  The man stepped into the alchemy room, the feathers on his perky cap snagging on the rough lintel and lifting it off his head. He irritably retrieved his hat and pressed it down on his crown. “I have come to collect my due.”

  His eyes were small, reminding Bianca of a weasel’s as they darted about, taking in his surroundings. A manicured beard suggested an attention to detail and appearance. His codpiece, decorated with pearls and stuffed with bombast, confirmed it.