The Apothecary's Curse

by Barbara Barnett

  Simon whispered the translation almost to himself, hoping the words would touch some chord of recognition deep inside the inmate. “Medicine is my invention, throughout the world, I am called the bringer of help, and the power of herbs is under my control; alas for me, love cannot be cured by herbs, and the skills which help everyone else do not benefit their master.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Erceldoune! How could it be?

  This was no indestructible, immortal figure shivering in the corner of a cell. Had he not been murdered at Newgate years ago?

  Any thoughts of the inmate’s super-human physiology, immortality, or indestructibility were shoved away as Simon considered how to help this wretch. Cleary, Braithwaite had been at the very least badly mistaken. Far from indestructible, this poor man was dying, growing weaker by the second.

  Erceldoune was barely recognizable: rail thin, hair in greasy tangles reaching beyond his shoulders. There was no sign he recognized Simon at all. Clothing, what remained of it, hung from his skeletal body, as worn and filthy as the man himself. But it was this impenetrable stillness that shredded Simon’s heart.

  Kneeling carefully at his side, Simon addressed him gently. He must stem the bleeding, which pooled beside Erceldoune’s knee. “Mr. Erceldoune,” he ventured, trying to break through his chanting. “Do you know me?”

  Erceldoune nodded almost imperceptibly, and the Ovid suddenly halted as his gaze darted from Simon to a point beyond the bars and back again. Simon raised a comforting hand, placing it firmly but unthreateningly on Erceldoune’s arm—but the apothecary scuttled away, curling into himself protectively as if expecting a blow.

  Dear God, what have they done to you?

  Erceldoune slowly lifted his arm into Simon’s view, saying nothing. The limb trembled with the effort, a branch in a harsh winter gust, before falling back to his knees. He hissed.

  Simon sucked in a breath. Erceldoune’s left hand was a bloody stump, a gaping, raw void where the last three fingers should have been. Little wonder he could barely move, barely speak. “Mr. Erceldoune, listen to me. You are suffering wound shock. I . . . Sit tight whilst I—”

  Simon threw off his frock coat, quickly ripping from it the inner lining and binding Erceldoune’s hand best he could. Placing his coat about the injured man’s shoulders, Simon could feel him quake beneath its light weight.

  He must contrive the means to get Erceldoune from this place—and quickly. This man was no immortal—that much was obvious—and Simon feared that should he be left in Handley’s care, Erceldoune would be dead by morning.

  The doctor entered, keepers close at hand. Simon needed to keep his wits about him; he could not accuse, or Handley would never let him leave with Erceldoune. Swallowing back bile as disgusting as the words now forming on his lips, Simon put forward his proposition. “I would very much like, Dr. Handley, to borrow your . . . patient. Clean him up a bit and study his anatomy. I . . . I have a keen interest in your latest experiment.” He waited, observing Handley’s reaction, stifling his rage, his balled fists thrust deep in his trouser pockets.

  Handley smiled. “Do go on.”

  “I see you have severed three digits from his hand.” Simon raised his voice to quell its quiver. “I assume . . .” He cleared his throat, forcing back the remains of his lunch before they spilled forth from his mouth. “I assume, sir, you wish to observe whether he has the properties of a salamander and will regenerate them.” Simon ignored the urge to look back at Erceldoune.

  Handley crowed, cold, raucous. “Very good, Dr. Bell. Your observational skills are quite remarkable. Your brother-in-law’s commendation was well deserved. But I cannot allow this man to depart Bedlam.”

  Simon knew not how much longer he could keep up the charade. “Dr. Handley, I have a proposition I believe you will find adequate.”

  “I am listening.” Handley folded his arms across his chest, waiting.

  “I shall give to you the sum of one thousand pounds . . . for your scientific endeavors.” Simon had no idea by what amount his brother-in-law had enriched Handley for his “experiments,” but it seemed an amount that would at least gain Handley’s attention. “And of course, whatever my discoveries, sir, you shall have the lion’s share of credit at the next Royal Society meeting.”

  “Lord Braithwaite pays me a sum twice that over the course of one year, for his participation in our grand enterprise.”

  Simon seethed, his face hot, arms tense as rope. He tamped down on the urge to send Handley flying across the cell. It would not do for him to join Erceldoune as an inmate in this perverted vision of hell. “But this . . . sir . . . is for a mere two weeks’ time,” he managed between clenched teeth.

  Long before the two weeks had passed, Simon promised himself, Handley would be put out of business for good, and never again have opportunity to harm any of the poor souls under his supposed care, most especially Gaelan Erceldoune. Simon needed to end this negotiation soon; Erceldoune had already lost so much blood, Simon feared death was too close at hand for him to survive.

  “You have no idea what he is—”

  “Do we have a bargain?” Simon spat, his control slipping with each syllable. He stared the little man down, not waiting for a response. “I shall send forth the funds on the morrow. You have my word as a gentleman and brother . . .” The word stuck in his throat. “As a brother physician.”

  “Very well, I shall release him to you—for one week.”

  Simon knew this game had to be played with delicacy if he had any hope of prevailing. “Very well . . . a week, then.”

  “We have a bargain, sir! However, do not forget—any findings shall be accredited to me.”

  “I’d not have it any other way, sir.” Simon watched as Handley nodded to the keepers, who undid the shackles. Handley disappeared through the doors.

  Simon sagged, his back and hand hitting the greasy wall of Erceldoune’s cell. Sickened, he lost the remains of his luncheon as he retched, adding to the foul fluids covering the straw. How could anyone force another to live like this?

  Recovered, Simon turned to Erceldoune, who had been watching, curious. “Can you walk?”

  Erceldoune nodded tentatively.

  “I’ve my carriage outside the gates.” Helping Erceldoune to his feet, Simon virtually carried him through the chaos of Bedlam, Handley meeting them in the main hall. How could it be, such horror in our time? In London?

  Finally through the gate, Simon was grateful to breathe in the relatively fresher air of London, his chest heaving with exertion and disgust as he trundled Gaelan Erceldoune into his carriage. “Get us quickly to my house,” Simon ordered his coachman. “There is no time to lose.”

  CHICAGO’S NORTH SHORE, PRESENT DAY

  CHAPTER 27

  Simon was incredulous as he listened to Gaelan. He paced the hospital room, swiping a long-stemmed rose from a bedside vase. “You can’t be bloody serious! You really mean to reveal all?”

  “I am, Simon, I’m tired. And what harm would it do? All they know is I heal quickly; the last thing on their minds is that they’re dealing with a four-hundred-something-year-old patient. To tell the truth, I’ve no other ideas.”

  And it was an awful idea, a dreadful idea—especially hand in hand with the discovery of Handley’s diaries in London. Simon snapped the stem in two before hurling the entire thing across the room. “How could you, of all people, be so bloody reckless? It would be bloody ironic if this little brush with fame brought your . . . condition . . . to the chaps investigating those Bedlam journals. We need to get you out of here. The media are still hanging about; I was accosted by two bloggers and a reporter from Fox News in the café. Saw me leaving your room earlier.”

  Evidently, Gaelan wasn’t listening to the urgency in Simon’s voice. “Haven’t you ever wondered?”

  Christ, he sounded wistful. Bad sign. Simon tapped his foot, arms crossed in front of him impatiently. “What?”

  “I mean, haven’t you ever
wondered what it is makes us . . . us? What did those two particular elixirs actually do? Say I decide to cooperate, let them do their DNA testing—”

  Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. “What are you saying? You’ve suddenly changed your mind? How often have you quoted me from E.T.? From the X-Men? From every movie in which they pick apart the poor alien? I’ve nothing to fear. No one suspects me of exhibiting superhero traits. But I am certain you’ll bloody regret it the moment you agree. So don’t! You need to get off, as they say, the grid. Go underground . . . fucking hide, for Chrissakes.”

  “I’ve always been curious, more so in the past couple of years . . . genetics . . . I’ve been studying—”

  “Ha! Great. Study all you like; earn a doctorate, for all I care, but do not do this. Do not open your life in a way that cannot be reversed. I know you too well, Gaelan, and it would be the most—”

  “I’m tired, Simon.”

  “You’ve said that, and I understand. I do. I’m not concerned for myself; no one thinks I’m other than who I say I am. No one recorded my torture nearly two centuries ago; no one has seen my tissue regenerate magically, like a stop-motion film. There would be no going back from it, you know, once you allow them in.”

  He had to talk Gaelan out of this folly before he made a decision that could not be undone. “I fetched some clean clothes for you. And what the bloody hell happened to your flat? It looks like a tornado took a direct hit on it. And by the way, whatever happened to your dogged insistence never to allow our little secret into humanity’s hands? Lest the ‘powerful acquire the key to immortality and subjugate the world’ . . . I believe was your last word on the subject.” Simon remembered it well; VE-Day, 1945, London. And it was a bloody good last word. Hitler might be long gone—and Mengele—Gaelan had underscored, but he’d been far from the last of the megalomaniacal bastards out there.

  Gaelan blinked, ignoring the remark. “Can I just walk out?”

  Good. He was coming to his senses. “Well, you’re not a prisoner . . . I think you may have to sign some sort of release, but they cannot hold you here. I think I saw something on a television program; it’s called ‘against medical advice’ or some such thing, but—”

  Simon considered his motivations, with Sophie lurking at his neck. “Is this what’s best for him?” she purred into his ear. “Or for you?”

  He shook it off as if dusting a mosquito from his shoulder. He refrained from replying, knowing that Gaelan would immediately know Sophie was about. He wanted nothing of that.

  “Here, put these on.” Simon tossed a wool cap and a pair of Ray Bans onto the bed along with jeans and a Northwestern hoodie.

  “Fucking Hollywood, this. You sure I won’t attract more attention in this getup? Besides, I really don’t think it’s necess—”

  “It is.”

  “You don’t want to be seen with him. Guilt by association?”

  She was goading him. Gaelan was naïve about so many things, his veil of perpetual skepticism notwithstanding. They would consume him alive: the media, scientists close to uncovering the last mysteries of human physiology . . . They would never let Gaelan go until they’d learned all his secrets—and there was nothing left of him.

  “Do you know there are entire blogs dedicated to you? You’ve become a cult figure.”

  “Bloody hell!” Gaelan grabbed the cap and Ray Bans.

  “Look, I know you’re in a bad way. Between the diaries and now this—and that’s on top of everything else you’re carrying. But this is right, to leave. If my contact comes through—about the book, I mean—well, we can both put this behind us.”

  “Again, the book. Simon! It doesn’t bloody exist anymore. I’ve spent the better part of two centuries seeking it. I have more contacts in the rare-book world than you can imagine. It’s what I do, what I have done, and I have had no success. I’ve built an entire library of antiquarian scientific texts. Nearly half my personal library has been restored, so I do bloody well know what I’m doing, and I’m telling you the ouroboros book does not exist. It’s vanished; for all I know it’s . . .” He lowered his voice to a whisper, requiring Simon to draw near. “It’s gone back to the ones who created the accursed thing in the first place—”

  “What are you talking about?” Simon leapt backward, confused. Hadn’t it been created by one of Gaelan’s ancestors? Or tutors?

  Gaelan shook his head. “Nothing. Sorry. My head’s still a muddle—”

  No. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. “What aren’t you telling me, even after all these years?”

  “Like I said, nothing.” Gaelan looked away, revealing nothing but a desire to change the subject. “Fine. Right. Whatever you say. Let’s get out of here.”

  Simon decided to let the remark drop for now. An hour later, Simon wheeled Gaelan through the crowded atrium; few took notice of them.

  Anne Shawe and Andrew Samuelson emerged from the elevator on the fourth floor. Anne looked at her mobile, judging the time. They’d managed to leave the airport and make the drive in half an hour. “I know you’re in a hurry, Dr. Shawe, so we’ll go right up to my patient’s room.” He led her through the nurses’ station and down a long, bright beige corridor. “Here we are.” He knocked on the door and went in.

  The room was empty, made up with fresh sheets, and the ribbed coverlet was tucked neatly beneath the mattress. Andrew bolted from the room with Anne right behind him, confused.

  He was at the unit desk, speaking frantically to one of the nurses by the time Anne caught up with him, hanging back, waiting. “What do you mean discharged AMA?”

  Andrew threw up his hands, returning to Anne. “He’s gone. I . . . I wasn’t his attending . . .”

  “Look, you’ve got my interest up, I’ll give you that, and as long as I’m here, would you mind showing me what you’ve got? Films, labs, history—”

  “No history. But the rest . . . I’m sorry; I didn’t expect . . .” He pulled a computer cart into a consult room, closing the door.

  “Any chance we’d catch him at home? I’d love to actually meet your miracle man—”

  “Thought you had a connecting flight to paradise—”

  Anne cocked her head. “San—”

  “Diego. I know. Paradise. Ah, here we are.”

  Anne scrutinized the files up on the screen as Andrew pointed out specific injury sites on a series of photographs. “And the hospital is saying, publicly anyway, that it’s all attributable to errors? All of it? How?”

  “They’re not making these files public, and with HIPAA, it’s not too likely they ever will. I’m not sure I blame them, but I’m sure I’m not the only doc who’s interested in the case of Mr. Gaelan R. Erceldoune.”

  “Erceldoune? Odd name—”

  “I think he’s from Scotland . . . or Ireland or something.”

  “Well, if these images are genuine, this is one very extraordinary man. Unbelievable. How many hours between these, did you say?”

  “I didn’t. Less than two.” He scrolled to another set. “These are after ten hours. You’d hardly think he’d had a shaving laceration! The internal scans aren’t quite as impressive, but still pretty unbelievable.” Andrew brought up a set of X-rays and CT scans.

  “Amazing. Truly amazing.” Anne glanced at her watch and sighed. “Mind if I make a quick call?” Andrew nodded, and she stepped out into the patient care unit.

  There was no way she was going to leave. Not when she was this close to a living, breathing human example of rapid wound regeneration. She’d long ago dismissed the idea as science fiction. Simply not part of our physiology. She absolutely needed to meet this man, whatever it took, and convince him to let them sequence his DNA.

  She made a quick call to her new boss at Salk. “Right. Perfect. I’ll see you next Monday, with something hopefully so extraordinary it might win us all a Nobel by the time we’re finished!”

  When she was done, she returned to Andrew. “Good news, Andrew. I can stay on for
a week.”

  “If we can find him—”

  “What?”

  “Settled his bill in cash; cops think there’s something a bit off about his records. But all they’ll tell me is that Erceldoune’s an assumed name. Possibly an illegal—overstayed his visa and scared to death of being deported. Immigration is on a rampage in this country. Someone thinks he may own a small bookstore near campus, so maybe not an illegal.”

  LONDON, 1842

  CHAPTER 28

  Gaelan had been at Bell’s house for five days, arriving barely alive. Torpid awareness percolated slowly through the haze of Gaelan’s memory as he canvassed his surroundings, tethering himself to the cool reality of silk bedsheets and down pillows. He blinked, trying to focus through the blur that rendered the room in gauze.

  Sleep was yet hard to come by; each time he endeavored it, Gaelan was transported again to Bedlam and Dr. Handley, grotesque and gnomish, gripping his vivisectionist’s scalprum. That moment dissolved into another, forcing him to relive the horror as he lost the first finger: the sting of the blade, the dull ache as it sliced through tendon and muscle, the blinding agony as the bone snapped, his impotence to act, to pull away, the morphine barely dulling the edges.

  He would awaken from it, sometimes after the first finger, sometimes the third, soaked and shivering, gulping for air that could not come fast enough into his lungs as realization finally dawned that he was safe. He felt well enough to dress—the clothing left for him was a decided improvement over his rags. Leaving the frock coat and cravat on the bed, he tried on the too-large trousers and billowy linen shirt. Probably Bell’s.

  The long staircase was a greater challenge as he hesitated on each step, unsure of his gait, his grip on the banister the only thing keeping him upright. The eyes of Bell’s ancestors—generations of haughty medical men, peers of the realm, military officers, all preserved on canvas for posterity—looked down upon him. In one way or another, they were all to blame.