by Nick Baker
The man looked crestfallen, unable to comprehend what had happened.
‘You’ve just witnessed power that is well beyond you, my friend. Had I so chosen, I could have struck you dead where you stand, but luckily for you, rather than use my abilities in such a nihilistic fashion, I created a shield.’
The man shook his head, awestruck. ‘How?’
‘I’m only going to tell you so that you know exactly what you’re up against. Do you understand?’
The man nodded mutely.
‘Very well. The instant I knew you were about to shoot, I sent a pulse of electromagnetic energy flying from my hand like an invisible barrier. It rushed towards you like a wave, deflecting both the bullet and your weapon harmlessly away. Now, I expect complete co-operation. Do I make myself clear?’
The man nodded again.
‘I assume you also appreciate that lying is pointless. Tell me the truth, and you may yet walk away from here unharmed. Now, firstly, what’s your name?’
The man met Price’s gaze then hesitated as if he was weighing something up before he began to speak as quickly as he could get his words out. ‘My name’s Joseph McCall. I was informed that you’d be travelling this way and that I was to wait for you down by the river. I—’
‘Who are you working for?’
‘I received a phone call yesterday from a man I’ve done jobs for in the past. I was put in touch with him some months ago … and before you ask, we’ve never met. He knows I’m suitably qualified to undertake jobs of a certain, er … sensitive nature. He pays me for doing simple tasks … nothing dangerous, usually,’ said McCall.
‘Tell me then. What precisely were your instructions for today?’
‘I was told to track you. I knew you’d be travelling alone. I followed you to the market, although I don’t understand how you spotted me. You never once looked back. Were you warned about me?’
‘I’m asking the questions,’ said Price with a wry smile. ‘But no, for your information, I was not. As you’ve already witnessed, I have skills well beyond your comprehension. Now, what else were you meant to do?’
‘I was to follow you and report back on your destination. I was also instructed to find out the purpose of your visit.’
‘How do you make contact with this mysterious employer of yours?’
‘I’m sent a number to call. It’s never the same. I leave a message, and the man rings me back.’
‘And you have no idea who you’re supplying this information to?’ demanded Price incredulously.
‘All I know is that he pays well,’ replied McCall.
Price thought for a moment. There was not much more he could glean from questioning this man, but he still might be of use. ‘Joseph, listen carefully. Do as I say, and you may yet avoid getting into trouble with either your contact or, more importantly, me. I want you to make the phone call as normal and say that I managed to give you the slip. I also want you to write down the number you’re meant to call,’ said Price, withdrawing a pencil and a small scrap of paper from his pocket.
McCall took the paper and quickly wrote down a number.
‘I can assure you that I’ll not call this number. I’ve friends in high places that can trace it without anyone knowing. I don’t suppose your employer will be overly pleased that you failed in your task, but you may yet be able to work for him again if he’s not too displeased.’
Price examined the number that McCall had scrawled on the paper before he returned it to a pocket. ‘I suggest you go back in the direction you came,’ he instructed, pointing towards the marketplace. ‘I presume you’re not foolish enough to follow me again?’
McCall shook his head and turned quickly on his heels without glancing back. Price watched until the man had disappeared before he set off briskly in the opposite direction.
*
Fifteen minutes later, Price arrived in a quiet part of the East End, satisfied that he had not been followed. The drizzle had become more persistent, but the narrow road was so tightly packed with tall, old buildings, it was surprisingly dry, despite the rain. As he looked up to survey the deepening gloom, he noted a placard on the adjacent wall; Curiosity Street, it read. It was some time since he had last visited here, but the street remained unchanged and as familiar as it had been then with shops of varying kinds interspersed with residential properties sporting regal doors. The street was quiet apart from the occasional browser moving lazily from window to window, enjoying the solitude and unhurried luxury of examining the wares on display.
Price bustled along the street until he reached an inauspicious shop, highlighted by a fading sign above the door that lay askew. It was written quite plainly and read, No. 34, Antiquarian Books – Bought and Sold. His eyes darted to the opulent sign overhanging the impressive shop next door, which was exhibiting exquisite jewellery of obvious expense in its window. He smiled to himself at the stark contrast with Spydre’s shop where the glass panes were caked with grime, making it impossible to read the words displayed in the old manuscripts open on stands. He shook his head; he suspected that no one ever gave the shop a second glance.
Price gave the door a hefty shove and entered a dimly lit vestibule that was even less hospitable than the shop’s exterior. He stumbled on a step as he passed below a low arch that took him into a small room crowded with books of all shapes and sizes, irregularly arranged from floor to ceiling that left no part of the walls uncovered. The room was damp and cool, and a musty smell permeated his nostrils causing him to cough and splutter. It was difficult to see beyond an arm’s length, but his eyes slowly adjusted to the light emanating from a lamp on a small reading desk surrounded by towering bookshelves. Price listened for signs of life as he approached the desk. A large book lay open amongst a haphazard array of writing implements and manuscripts, precariously balanced on the table’s edge. He picked up a magnifying glass next to the book and studied the beautifully illustrated anatomical plates of reptiles and lizards on show, marvelling at the skill that had gone into creating the detailed artwork.
Price sat down and waited patiently on a rickety wooden chair, closing his eyes as if in meditation. He sat in silence without moving, but eventually, he stirred when he heard a dull, muffled sound behind him and felt a faint movement of air across the back of his neck. He turned in time to see a bookcase swinging silently towards him, revealing a communicating corridor leading further back into the shop. The floor sloped upwards from an equally haphazard room to the rear, and Price glimpsed further shelves and stacks of books behind a stooped figure brandishing a book in his leading hand while dragging a chair awkwardly through the entrance with the other.
The man shuffled into the room but did not acknowledge Price, his concentration seemingly engaged on walking without stumbling. He pulled the chair erratically up to the desk, and set the book down on the table with a trembling hand. The fine tremor did not stop as he sat down and he took some time to compose himself before he looked into the face of the visitor sitting opposite. Their eyes met, and at last, Spydre seemed to focus on his surroundings, extending a gnarled hand in Price’s direction.
Price started at how much his friend had aged since their last meeting before reciprocating Spydre’s gesture, closing his grip gently around the man’s deformed digits in a manner full of warmth. ‘My dear Cornelius, it’s been too long. It’s so good to see you.’
Spydre gave a lop-sided grin, which made him look grotesque in the dim light. His face was heavily lined on one side, yet oddly free of creases on the other. His white, leonine hair, ruthlessly irregular and thinning on top, revealed an alabaster skin stretched like parchment across his scalp. ‘It, too, is good to see you, my friend,’ he replied in his habitual precise and formal manner.
When Spydre spoke, the effect of a recent palsy was plain for Price to see with the movement on one side of his face only serving to accentuate the paralysis of the muscles on the other.
‘And how is Lily?’ said Spydre eagerly. ‘Is s
he well?’
Price placed his hand softly on top of the flexed hand of his friend and smiled. ‘Yes, she is, Cornelius, but you know how it is with teenage girls. She’s growing up quickly, and though she’s only just beginning to realise it, she has talents that surpass even my expectations. Her mother was unique in her abilities, as you well know, but Lily has an aptitude for learning that outweighs any that I’ve encountered in one so young.’
He paused to examine Spydre’s features and noted the deep hollows above his cheekbones that had been absent at their last meeting. A drab pullover, darned at the elbows, hung loosely about the man’s skeletal frame.
‘She’d like to come and see you. She feels guilty that it’s been so long.’
‘And so she should,’ Spydre replied, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
‘But what news of you, Cornelius?’ enquired Price with some trepidation.
Spydre hesitated before he replied. ‘Well, as you can see, I barely manage with my gammy leg and this useless arm,’ he said, holding up a withered limb with his other hand, ‘but I still have my books for company. Who could ask for more? I do not want for much, and it is always nice to receive the occasional visitor.’
Price was not sure whether he detected a hint of reproach in his friend’s voice, and realised with some embarrassment that it had been several months since his own last visit.
The two men sat in silence before Spydre took up the conversation. ‘I received your message, was it yesterday, or the day before? I do find it difficult to remember these things, Henry. I believe a book was stolen from you, and I suspect from the way your note was written that it was rather important. Am I right?’
‘Yes, Cornelius, I’ve a rather pressing need of your help, but who better to come to than the most learned man that still lives!’
‘You flatter me, Henry, but you should have said, “the most learned man that barely lives”!’ replied Spydre, accompanying his words with a hollow laugh. ‘I find it intriguing that there was only one item stolen from your magnificent collection of books. What do you know of Piotrowski?’
‘Very little, in truth. I wrote the notes you received some years ago while I was in Italy researching early alchemical practices. Piotrowski was part of an obscure group of alchemists known as the Esoteric Brotherhood. They were based around Amsterdam during the sixteenth century, and it was rumoured that they were involved in areas of occult hermetical practice. Piotrowski’s manuscript is the only written record linked to the Esoteric Brotherhood known to have survived into the modern era, and so it was naturally of interest to me, although I’m afraid I found it all rather disappointing. Despite the speculation that Piotrowski had been carrying out research into obscure alchemical lore, his writing did little to substantiate this. The book contains many veiled references to recondite alchemy, but little to back it up in practice. Not long after Piotrowski completed his work, he disappeared amidst rumours that he was dispatched by religious zealots. Whether this is true or not, I don’t know.’
‘So if you do not hold Piotrowski’s work in any great esteem, why are you so concerned?’
Price smiled ruefully at his old friend. ‘That’s where I was rather hoping you could help me out, Cornelius. I had a similar discussion with the Cabinet Secretary some days ago. He was not impressed by my ambiguity.’
‘Why?’
‘This manuscript baffles me, I can’t deny it. I can’t stress how difficult it should be for someone to gain entry to my house, yet whoever accomplished it did so effortlessly. Not only that, but they also cast a petrification charm with equal apparent ease. Such ability is seldom encountered these days. Whoever wanted Piotrowski’s work is not someone to be trifled with.’
‘I see. Well, it just so happens that I may have something for you. Before I start, Henry, please forgive me. Would you like some refreshment?’
Price shook his head, eager to hear what his friend had to say.
‘Come now, Henry, I am sure you would like to enjoy a glass with me. There, just next to your right hand,’ said Spydre, pointing awkwardly with his deformed hand at the large book he had arrived with.
Price leaned over to lift the surprisingly heavy book. He set it down in front of Spydre, scattering several pencils and pieces of chalk in the process. Spydre opened the book to reveal, not the spine or pages as Price had been expecting, but a hollow interior containing a green bottle and two whisky tumblers.
Spydre took out the liquor bottle and proffered it to his guest. ‘Lagavulin. A 16-year-old single malt, ideal for many occasions, but particularly a discourse between old friends. Did you know that this fine whisky comes from one of the oldest distilleries in Scotland, made from the crystal-clear waters of the Solum lochs in Islay?’ he said, removing the glasses but struggling to find a space for them on the cluttered table.
Price poured a generous measure into each glass. ‘A fine choice, indeed. Your good health, Cornelius,’ he said, lifting a glass and gently tapping that of his friend’s. He inhaled the strong peaty aroma and took a sip that produced a familiar burning sensation on the back of his throat.
‘Slainte Mhath, as they say in the Glens,’ Spydre replied, quaffing the whisky in a single gulp before proffering his empty glass in Price’s direction with a subtle nod of his head at the bottle. He waited patiently for Price to refill the glass before he began. ‘You may be interested to hear that your version of Piotrowski’s manuscript was incomplete or, at least, there is another copy that contains additional information to your own. Firstly, though, I would like to begin with some background,’ said Spydre.
‘Another copy? But—’
Spydre held up a hand. ‘All in good time, my friend.’
Price shuffled uneasily in his chair, eager to get to the crux of the matter, but he knew from experience that a little forbearance now would reap its rewards later.
Spydre took another drink but this time somewhat circumspectly. He stared for some minutes in the dim light at the patterns left by the alcohol on the inside of the glass, gently swilling the flame coloured liquid around and around before returning the glass to his lips and draining the contents. This time, he did not ask for a refill. He remained silent for some moments before lifting his badly clawed hand and setting it softly down with the other. ‘Before we discuss Piotrowski, I would like to begin some years before his birth. I believe it is relevant to the tale I have to tell,’ he said, evidently enjoying himself.
Spydre settled back in the chair as if he expected to be there for some time. ‘You are familiar with the term Hermetic Philosophy,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘or, as I prefer to call it, Hermeticism.’
Price smiled indulgently, encouraging Spydre to continue.
‘Hermeticism began as a set of philosophical and religious beliefs that are believed to have originated as a fusion of ancient Greek and Egyptian teachings. It is said to contain secret wisdom based upon the writings of Hermes Trismegistus, a name coined by Greek neo-Platonists for the Egyptian god, Thoth, who was said to be a great teacher of religion, magic and alchemy.
‘The teachings of Hermes Trismegistus were popular until the fifth century when they fell out of favour and largely disappeared from Western culture until they were rediscovered in Byzantine texts in Italy during the Renaissance. In the late fifteenth century, at the beginning of the Medici political dynasty, a philosopher by the name of Marsilo Ficino translated a collection of Greek texts known as the Corpus Hermeticum from Latin, heralding the reintroduction of Hermeticism into European thinking. The text makes reference to the Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus and the three parts of wisdom of the whole universe. This triad of alchemy, astrology and theurgy forms the basis of the name Hermes Trismegistus, or Hermes the thrice greatest, and represents the areas in which his knowledge was said to be unrivalled.’
‘Cornelius, I hate to disappoint you, but you’re merely regurgitating what is taught to students at the Academy during their formative years. Where exactly is all
this leading?’ enquired Price, trying not to sound too exasperated.
‘Come now, Henry, why not pander to the foibles of an old man? I am merely setting the scene. I will ignore your impatience.’
Spydre reached over for the, by now, half-empty whisky bottle and refilled his glass. He did not, however, take a drink, but merely set the glass down in front of him before he continued.
‘The reintroduction of Hermeticism into European culture at this time gave rise to many groups, each with remarkably divergent philosophies. The basis of Hermeticism taught that there was only one God, but also subscribed to the existence of other beings such as angels and demons, masters and elementals. The three parts of the wisdom of the whole universe led to various schools of thought, and not surprisingly, some markedly distinct groups emerged, the majority of whom studied various aspects of alchemy and astrology.
‘However, it was the third area, theurgy, in which research and learning moved in decidedly different directions. Theurgy was subdivided, at its simplest level, into two types of magic that were poles apart.’
‘Yes,’ Price agreed. ‘Divine magic, a branch of alchemy that was reliant on alliances between virtuous spirits such as angels and gods, and Goëtia, or black magic, which referred to the evocation of evil spirits or demons.’
‘Indeed. Not surprisingly, Hermeticism was fervently opposed by the Church, and it was not long before it became part of the occult underworld as secretive brotherhoods and cults.’
Price nodded. ‘Yes, they were dangerous times, there’s no doubt about it. It was the association between alchemy in its purest sense and the darker arts that fell foul of the Church. The study of alchemy became shrouded in mystery and was often undertaken in secret. Individuals practising what we’d now consider valuable areas of alchemical research were considered blasphemous. For this reason, a ragtag mixture of cults and brotherhoods arose, giving rise to disparate groups, some of whom pursued valid areas of science, while others became embroiled in darker aspects of the occult.’
