Quintessence

by David Walton

  Another man chimed in. "But why can't you divide it? Aristotle said matter was continuous. You can keep cutting infinitely."

  "Infinitely?" Gibbs said. "If you cut something infinitely, you end up with nothing. Matter can't be composed of nothing."

  Parris felt his spirits rising. He liked these two, and it helped him to hear others attacking the problem, even in these abstract terms. He had read Galen's commentary in which he had ridiculed atomism, but that didn't mean it couldn't be true— Parris had already shown that Galen could be wrong. It was hard to see how atomism could explain the bond with Catherine, but if it shed light on any of the tamarin's mysterious abilities, that would be a start.

  "If there are atoms," Parris said, "there must be something between the atoms."

  "That's right," Gibbs said. "A void. Between the atoms, there's an empty void that the atoms pass through."

  Was that how the tamarin and the beetle did it? Did they somehow spread their constituent atoms apart so they could pass each other through the intervening void? "What do atoms look like?" Parris said.

  "Too small to see, of course," Gibbs said. "But solids and liquids must look different. Democritus suggested that the atoms of solids have little hooks and eyes, or something like antlers, to entangle them and hold them together, but the atoms of liquids are slippery and run over each other, like when you pour a glass full of poppy seeds."

  "Fanciful nonsense," Kecilpenny said. "As well say the atoms are tiny rabbits that jump around and bounce into each other."

  "But solids can change into liquids," Parris said. "Perhaps it's simply the arrangement of the atoms that makes the difference between a solid and a liquid." As he said it, he thought of Sinclair's snake, and a chill went down his spine. "Or between flesh and wood," he added. "Or lead and gold."

  "Everything that we experience," Gibbs said. "The texture of wool or glass, water, oil, smoke, vapor, the fact that every drop of vinegar behaves like every other drop of vinegar— can be explained by atoms moving through the void, bouncing off one another and sticking together and interacting."

  "What about the mind?" Parris said, thinking of Catherine. "What about the soul?"

  Kecilpenny clapped his hands. "Therein lies the problem. It's a godless philosophy. It eliminates the spiritual."

  "I don't know about that," Parris said. "Even if atoms exist, they must still have been created by God."

  "But if you explain everything by mechanism, nothing is left to God's intervention. You relegate God to the role of spectator, watching his machine tick along. But why do you feel the need to invent the machine? God has the power to run it all himself."

  As the conversation stretched on, Parris's excitement ebbed. It was all talk, no action, and these philosophical arguments had been running for centuries. They weren't going to conclude in time to save Catherine.

  He slipped out, leaving them to their talk, and returned to his cabin. Catherine was so thin he could see the outline of the bones in her face and neck. He could hear her breath only faintly. He held her hand and spoke softly to her, not knowing if she could hear him or not.

  Hours later, as the sky outside grew dark, Sinclair knocked on the cabin door. "You left too soon. We figured it out."

  "You're serious?"

  "I should have thought of it earlier," Sinclair said. "Come with me."

  Hardly daring to hope, Parris followed him out to the main deck and into the alchemical distillery. The walls and floor were brick, and the room resembled a kitchen more than anything else. Most of the space was filled with a brick furnace with tiered openings of various sizes. A wooden workbench was strewn with books and charts, glass retorts, alembics, cucurbits, jars with variously colored powders and liquids, and a large brazier. The other walls contained shelves with more jars, most of them unlabeled. Several books were scattered about with titles like Concerning the Making of Things by Fire or On the Hindering of the Accident of Old Age. One massive volume on the table nearest Parris, its binding grimed in soot and spotted with stains, was labeled The Secret of Secrets.

  "It's obvious, once you think of it," Sinclair said, rummaging in a drawer of the workbench. "It's one of the fundamental elements, and it's a metal— an element of earth— whereas quintessence is its antithesis, an element of the heavens. It stands to reason they should repel each other."

  He came up holding something which he offered to Parris with an open palm.

  "Have her take this," Sinclair said. "If you can get her to swallow it, I think there's a good chance she'll recover."

  Parris's heart leaped. Sinclair had found the answer. Against all odds, he'd discovered a cure. Then he looked into Sinclair's hand and saw a shiny, metallic capsule that he recognized immediately. A mercury pill.

  It was too much. All Parris's stress and fear came rushing out at once. "That's poison, you fool." He slapped the pill away and rushed back out into the night.

  He didn't go back to his cabin. Instead, he scrambled down the ladders to the storeroom where the tamarin was trapped. He was tired of waiting. He couldn't trust Catherine's life to a room full of intellectuals. He had to do something himself, and— crazy as it was— this was the only thing he could think of to do. If Catherine died, he didn't want to be alive to see it anyway.

  He peered inside and saw the tamarin, fully visible now, though it seemed to be asleep. He picked up the hammer the carpenter had left behind and began prying out nails. When he had cleared enough of the slats away, he squeezed between them and climbed inside.

  The tamarin's yellow eyes opened. Without any warning, it sprang, one instant reclining on the floor, the next instant on top of him. It was what Parris had intended to happen, but even so, the swiftness and violence of it overwhelmed him. He shrieked and clawed at it, but it was too fast and strong.

  It wrapped its tails around his body, pinioning his arms. The tips of the tails actually seemed to slip through his skin without resistance or pain, but once inside his flesh, they regained the usual nature of matter, so that they worked like barbs. He couldn't pull away. When Parris was so thoroughly bound he couldn't move at all, the tamarin's thicker tail, held coiled over its back, straightened and plunged downward into his spine.

  For a brief moment, it occurred to Parris that this had been a very bad idea. Then he was pulled into a different place and time and lost track of who he was.

  LEAVING the hairless one behind on the floor, he leaped through the hole in his cage and was free. He climbed to the highest part of the ship, as far away as possible from the cage in its belly. The hairless ones had tricked him. Instead of using food as an invitation to kinship, as was proper, they had used it as a trap. But this one had come inside as if he intended kinship after all. The young one was learning to talk, though if she remained bonded much longer, she would die. Perhaps this one could learn to talk, too.

  Parris's mind whirled as they climbed higher and higher in the rigging, the deck dwindling to a tiny, pitching platform far below. He had understood that Catherine's consciousness was somehow trapped by the tamarin's, but he hadn't imagined anything like this. He had no control over its movements. He could hardly even keep track of his own thoughts.

  Father?

  The voice appeared in his mind without sound, but he recognized it anyway. Catherine? And yet, who was Catherine? Something important, very important. He couldn't think. Why didn't he have any hands?

  Father, it's me, Catherine.

  He had flashes of vision: the ship from high above; a fountain of pure, elemental mercury; Catherine lying prone on her bed; himself lying on the floor of the storeroom.

  You can talk to me with your thoughts. Just think about what you want to say.

  He wanted to answer, but he couldn't think of who she was, or who he was, or how he got there. He had been captured, that was right, tricked by Chelsey's sailors. But no, that was someone else.

  A fountain of mercury . . . the memory of his first memory ceremony blew through his mind like a br
eath of wind. Mercury. That was what he needed. Sinclair had been right.

  He laughed, a long and bitter laugh, though he couldn't tell what body was doing the laughing. He was trapped now, just like Catherine. He should have let Sinclair give her the pill. He knew the truth now, but he couldn't do anything about it. He would watch Catherine starve to death, and then he'd starve to death himself.

  The pain caught him by surprise. It was agony, and he screamed. What were the hairless ones doing to him now? They were trying to pull him out of his body, trying to steal his soul.

  "Wake up!"

  Parris's perspective lurched sickeningly. Someone was slapping him. Dizzy, he opened his eyes to see Sinclair leaning over him, his hand raised. Another blow landed, snapping his head to one side.

  "I'm awake!" he said before Sinclair could slap him again.

  Sinclair hauled him to his feet. He was inside the storeroom. He was Stephen Parris, not a tamarin, and he was alive. He tasted something sharp and metallic.

  He swayed, but Sinclair grabbed his arm.

  "What were you thinking?" Sinclair said. "You let the tamarin go free!"

  "You gave me mercury," Parris said, dazed.

  "Yes," Sinclair said. "Brought you out of it, though, didn't it?"

  Parris snapped to full awareness. "You have more, don't you?" He dragged Sinclair toward the ladder. "Come on!"

  HE knew it would be bad, but he hadn't expected this. Catherine arched and writhed and thrashed about, her body stiff , her face contorted in expressions of pain. It had seemed so quick while he was in the tamarin's mind. But he'd only been connected for such a short time; maybe it took longer in proportion to the duration of the bond. He held her as well as he could, but her body shook more powerfully than he could control.

  What if it was too late? What if her mind was so thoroughly fused with the tamarin's that breaking her away would kill her? She arched so violently he thought her head would touch her feet, and screamed until her lungs were empty. Then, finally, her taut body relaxed and she collapsed against the bed.

  She opened her eyes and looked around, blinking slowly. "Father?"

  He lifted her and squeezed her tightly. "It's all right," he said, as much to himself as to her. His eyes were wet. "It's all right now. You're free."

  THEY were two weeks sailing west of the Azores before they realized the problem. Sinclair was in his cabin, preparing for bed, when a sharp knock interrupted him. Sighing, he donned his captain's hat, threw on a cloak, and opened the door to find the blind cook, Piggott. "A word, Captain?"

  Sinclair stepped aside to let him in. "What is it?"

  "The food from the Azores."

  "What's wrong with it? Is it going bad?"

  "Nay, it's fresh enough. Only it's not all there. They promised twenty barrels of salted fish; they only gave us ten. Some of the crates are only half full. The Madeira wine is missing altogether."

  Sinclair slammed his fist against the wall. "Where's Thorpe? Why were the stores not checked?"

  "They were checked, my lord. We counted every barrel and opened every crate. Everything was accounted for."

  "Then how—"

  "It was Chandler, my lord, the purser's mate. He directed the loading and storing. We think he was paid off to remove or swap the stores after they were loaded."

  "Well, where's Chandler, then? Get him in here! I'll have him whipped until his skin hangs in ribbons."

  "I'd have stripped his hide for you, my lord, if I could. He's gone."

  "Gone?"

  "Ain't no one seen him since we left. He stayed behind, in the Azores. Of course, he would have to stay, wouldn't he? Not much good getting all that money if he just came along with us."

  Piggott left him a complete accounting of what stores were actually aboard, and Sinclair worked the numbers at his writing desk, seething. He would not turn around. They were too far along, and the season was late already. To return was to risk sickness, strain on the ship, and the loss of crew. By his reckoning, they would still have enough food to reach Horizon, with disciplined rationing. They would just have to make it last.

  CATHERINE felt wonderful. Her memories of the beginning of the voyage were scrambled and confused. Now, however, she was just where she wanted to be: away from home and sailing to the edge of the world. She was growing stronger every day. Captain Sinclair had invited her to eat at his table with Father, so the better food could revive her more quickly.

  She ate a cracker topped with quince jam. "How did you know to use mercury?" she asked.

  Sinclair chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before replying. "There are three fundamental elements in alchemy: salt, sulfur, and mercury. Many alchemists have thought a combination of these three would ultimately yield quintessence, though all attempts have failed. I thought that instead of being an ingredient of quintessence, perhaps mercury would neutralize it." He shrugged. "It seemed worth a try."

  Catherine wiped her mouth with her napkin. "Are you saying the tamarin put quintessence inside me? Is that what made the wounds glow?"

  "I think that's how it disappears and walks through walls— its flesh is full of quintessence. The beetle, too, and the snake— maybe any creature from Horizon. It's even in their water. I tried to distill it, and I think I partially succeeded, but it doesn't work on me. It obviously entered my flesh when I drank it, but it gave me no special powers."

  "So, then . . . quintessence also allows two minds to form a bond," Catherine said. "To share memories and experiences."

  "I don't think we've found the limit to what quintessence makes possible," Sinclair said. "It's the prima materia. The original material from which God made the world. As far as we know, it could do anything."

  "Which is only any good if you know how to use it," Father said.

  "Of course." Sinclair pushed the plates aside and brushed away the crumbs. In the open space, he laid out a parchment. With a wink at Catherine, he said, "Take a look at this."

  It was a variation of the box with four quadrants that Catherine had drawn at home. He had combined her quadrants into two, labeled Visibility and Substance, and had added two of his own: Transmutation and Psyche. These were the four categories— that they knew of so far— that animals from Horizon could alter. In the first box, he had written tamarin; in the second, tamarin and beetle; in the third, snake and mantis; and in the fourth, tamarin.

  Catherine clapped her hands. But . . .

  "What mantis are you talking about?" Father asked.

  Sinclair's eyes twinkled. "One of the passengers— a six- year- old boy— found it in a crack in the hold. I don't know how he spotted it, but he did."

  He produced a small box and lifted the lid. Catherine eagerly peered inside, but saw nothing. The box was empty.

  "Is it invisible?" she asked.

  Sinclair shook his head. He reached in with an open palm, as if to let something crawl onto his hand. She saw a flash of movement, but when she blinked, it was gone. He lifted his hand.

  "Do you see it?"

  They both looked carefully, until Father made a noise of astonishment. "You have six fingers," he said.

  Catherine counted— it was true. Now that Father had pointed it out, she could tell which one didn't belong. A second pinkie finger protruded next to the real one. As she looked closely, she could make out tiny legs and wings held close to a long body, and a flat head in the place of the fingernail. Its coloring and texture were identical to Sinclair's other fingers. "Is that . . . ?"

  Sinclair grasped the extra finger and pulled it away from his hand. As he did so, it changed color to a brilliant green and brown and spread its wings for flight. She could see why he'd called it a mantis— it had long, jointed limbs and a triangular head. Sinclair kept it trapped in his cupped hand.

  "It's extraordinary," Father said, peering close.

  "It's just like the snake," Sinclair said. "It doesn't just look like other substances. It transforms into them."

  He dropped the manti
s onto his porcelain dinner plate. Instantly it all but disappeared, flattening itself along the rim and taking on the same off-white color. They could still see it— it made a bulge that clearly didn't belong— but it appeared to be a defect in the plate rather than an insect lying on top of it. Sinclair bent his middle finger back with his thumb and flicked the mantis, hard. The plate rang with the impact. Catherine reached out a tentative finger and touched, then flicked it herself. It was made of porcelain.

  Sinclair took a gold crown and slid the insect onto it, where it took on the exact appearance and texture of the gold. "If it looks like gold and feels like gold and acts like gold . . . it must be gold," he said, smiling.