The Alchemist

The long, gaunt fingers moved with a speed and repetition that belied the many years and seasons that rested upon the weathered knuckles. They scoured the pages of the battered tome below them, as though looking for a secret that was to be found only by touch, and feel. Yet evermore had the Secret eluded them, like a chasing after the wind. The fingers were that of an old, frail man, one who had many days and decades upon him. His scalp held only wisps of hair, and the furrowed brow beneath matched the pained look upon his face.

The old man’s shoulders were carried high, but it was sheer determination that made it so. Always, was he tired, but his resolve was defiant. No look of resignation would ever cross his wrinkled cheeks

He sat upon a wooden chair, before a desk which things of all natures lay. Jars and vials, filled with foreign powders and liquids, lay scattered about in no particular order. Things of wonder and excitement, from all the reaches of the known world rested, and yet it was the book that held his attention. The old, dusty tome was weathered and worn, holding little value to the common eye. Yet amongst the pages lay the secret of the Alchemist, a trade long forgotten by men and mer. And it was the Secret that drove him, that taunted him. From the hands of his father had the book descended, as it had through countless generations. Many hands and fingers had touched the pages, but none had found the Secret that lay between them.

Frustrated, the Alchemist returned to his work. Two cups of ground mint-berry and six thimbles of brackle-wine to make it pleasant, called the formula. With utmost care, he poured the mixture into a bowel and fired it in the mortar upon the desk. While it cooked, he played with the nub on his hand; the one where his index finger had sat so many years ago. He had forgotten how he had lost it, but it did not matter.

“Meaningless,” he muttered to himself. “Meaningless, all of it, it is.”

It took only a minute before the mixture was ready, and carefully the Alchemist removed the bowl and transferred the contents into a jar. He wrapped it in old parchment, and tied it with cord. Slowly, he turned himself upon the chair with his hands; Time had been unforgiving, and the Alchemist had become lame in his old age. He set the jar on the oak shelf beside him, and shifted back in his seat.

There was much to be said of the Alchemist, but only little to be heard by him. He rarely spoke above a whisper, and always in a tired, raspy voice, if he was to speak at all. Few friends did he have, for his work was demanding and his ruined legs denied him the luxury of leaving his home. His closest friend was a stray cat that had wandered into his home, and the alchemist had offered him a saucer of milk. The cat, pleased with the old man’s gift, took up residence with him, in the house where he lived. It was a long-haired cat, one of orange, black and brown. They became great friends, and many things did the Alchemist tell him. He spoke of great wars and miseries, of the fall of kings, and all the tales of men. In the morning light, upon awaking, he would sing songs to his friend, the cat. He told him of distant lands, and of the nine wonders of the earth. And, of course, he told him of alchemy.

“What a wonder,” said, once, his neighbour. “Wouldn’t it be grand if that cat could speak; what wondrous and magical things the alchemist must tell him?”

“Aye,” the gardener had replied “That cat has heard, I dare, all that a man should ever know.”



The Alchemist lived in a grand house of three stories, although it was rather unkempt. The finest stone had been used in its construction, and it stood tall in even in the wildest storms. The door was made of the strongest oak, and the shutters upon the windows were also. Impossibly it stood, scorning time and age. No innovation could best its craftsmanship, and was held as the envy of all the houses that stood around it. The house sat in the middle of Bennamin’s Hollow, a monument to great masons of old.

And it was in every part due to the fine house that Bennamin’s Hollow had been built; Before The Alchemist had constructed it, almost a century before, there had been little more than earth, and dirt where it now stood. The Alchemist had spent two years building it, sleeping away the nights under a tree in the woods. When it was finished, the men of Shales had come to gather around it, marvelling at its grandeur. A fine house it was, and soon an estate was built around it. The old man had cultivated the apple trees nearby into a beautiful orchard, also, and it became a favourite spot to play for the children that lived nearby. From unknown, did he draw his seemingly inexhaustible wealth, and grew into favour with those that neighboured him. For he was generous and kind with his money, and never would it be said that he was greedy. In his younger years, he would often go to town and return with trinkets, sweets, and toys, giving them freely to the children that ran from and to in his orchard.

“The Alchemist must have found the formulary for gold,” a father had said. “For he spends it like the Prince of Shales”



He was counselled in all things, the Alchemist, for he was wise beyond his years. Often would King Neer, from his palaces of gold and silver, summon him to bring cures when he took to sickness and the old man was held in the highest regard among all the nobles of Murambar. He held, also, the strange counsel of the mysterious folk of Pereth Mim, and would often disappear for many days, returning and departing by night in secret. It was whispered, among the busy-bodies and housewives of Bennamin’s Hollow, that perhaps he was a wizard, living out the end of his days in peace.



But in the days to come, the Alchemist grew old. His legs could no longer carry the weight of his body with ease, and venturing outside of his home became difficult. He began to dread the winter days, for his body ailed and ached with the cold. But the people of Bennamin’s Hollow loved the old Alchemist, and would help him in many things. They would bring him baskets of sweet-cakes in the summer, and help him maintain the orchard. The children would come to visit him, in his study, and sing him songs of summer and spring. But as the years dragged on, the people began to forget the old man, living in his stonework house. Eventually, the children stopped coming, and no more sweet-cakes arrived. And the stonework house, too, was forgotten.

Left to time, the yard became filled with weeds and the grass grew through the cobblestone walk-way. The shingles began to fall out, and the roof became plaid- like in appearance. The autumn winds soon discovered small crevices and holes in the masonry of the outside walls, and would pass through the house with a loud whine during the night, demanding to be let in properly.

“The years dredge on, but the company of each other at least we still have, House. A good companion, you have been, ever so faithful and humble.” said the old man.



The Alchemist reached for a pen, and dipped it in ink. He grasped for a piece of parchment, and put it in front of him. The old man set the quill to the paper and in long, artistic strokes, he began to write. Half an hour passed and when he finished he folded the paper lengthwise, and tucked it into an envelope. Grasping a candle, he poured and watched in silence as the wax dripped onto the seal. He stamped the paper with the bottom of a coin, for he wore no jewellery. Waiting a moment for it to cool, he tucked it into his coat-pocket and turned upon his chair.

The old man hummed to himself, as he sat upon his chair, for a time. It was a tune to which he had forgotten the words, but the melody stayed fresh in his mind. It reminded him of a distant land, where he had travelled in his youth. The Alchemist remembered it had been a tale of love, but eventually he became weary of it and stopped, for the song was sad and mournful.

Looking out the window, he sat quietly. It was a clear day that no cloud or rainfall claimed, and the sun shone upon the Alchemist’s whiskered cheeks. He could see the children in his orchard, and watched to make sure they did not stray into the woods nearby. They ran, from and to, singing and dancing and playing. The Alchemist smiled and tried to remember his youth, but it was so long ago that little memory remained. “Time takes again, the good things it brings,” he told the cat, who he called Mimsi. The cat yawned, and stretched upon the window-sill. The Alchemist returned the yawn and fell into the depths of slumber. The cat crawled upon his lap, and joined him in slumber.



The Alchemist dreamt of a forest, one that was lush and green. The light of the sun glimmered through the autumn leaves of the tree-tops and illuminated the forest floor in a bright, warm glow. The old man found himself sitting under a birch-tree, with leaves sprinkling the ground around him. Song-birds speckled the trees around him, flying from tree to tree. Confused, he struggled to get up, and found himself upon his two feet without the aid of his hands.

He knew then that he must be dreaming, and taking a portion of skin between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, he pinched himself. But nothing happened, and the birds swirled around him, the voices of many surging into one, flowing melody. It was the song he so often hummed to himself, of two lovers of great sorrow.



“ Ode to mind, Ode to mind,

For my heart and love shall ever belong to thine, take my heart.

Twixt dawn and dusk I think of both happiness and sorrow,

The light upon your face as we greet lips, and the longing as we part.

And thus you leave me with the memory of to-day, but no promise of to-morrow.

My heart yearns for you, take my heart,” sang the song-birds.



Then the Alchemist remembered, and the secret of the book was forgotten. He could recall a life without the book, and all its secrets. The old man remembered the sands, and the night under the stars. He thought of all his journeys, and adventures, that had taken him to every stretch of the earth. The old man began to walk, through the woods, as the magnificence of creation swirled about him. He cried as he walked, overjoyed at the sounds and sights in front of him.


In the distance, he could hear the sound of instruments played and ran towards it, forgetting the music of the songbirds. It was the sound of a flute, playing a tune of like none could best. Slow, then fast, the rhythm grew yet did not break its mesmerizing quality. He searched, for the flute and its musician, for many hours, but it seemed only to get farther and farther away. Determined, he continued to rush forward, at the greatest speed his renewed stride would offer him. The trees and birds began to dwindle, but still he strode forth with hardened resolved. Soon he found himself in an ugly place, where the trees were diseased and dying. The Songbirds had been replaced with crows, and they stared hungrily at him.

The Alchemist could not find the music’s source, no matter how he searched, and he sat down to rest. He began to grow afraid, but tossed the thought from mind. The old man’s eyes grew weary, and dry, and he rested them while he leaned against a stone. For only a moment did he shut his eyes, but when he opened them the landscape had changed once again.

He found himself in a clearing, near the place where he had first found himself in the woods. The Alchemist stood before a great stone, and a small figure sat upon it holding an even tinier flute in his hands. The figure was the size of a child, but had the face of an old man. It stood no more than three feet high, and leaned upon a gnarled, bumpy stick. He wore a brown hood from which under a river of white curls of hair came. He wore simple garments of cotton, and they were dirty and old. His face was as weathered as bark, and he looked to be as old as the trees he stood under. A twinkle was in his eyes, and a toothless smile rested upon his wrinkled cheeks. The Alchemist remembered the smile, and the little figure, but could not recall where they had met before. Nonetheless, he knew that they had been dear friends.

“All good things returns to which it came,” said the figure, with a soft, forgiving smile upon his face.

"Time takes again, the good things it brings,” said the Alchemist, in the quietest of whispers. “The Secret has eluded me, and life has left me all alone, hasn’t it?”

The little old man pointed to the autumn leaves, floating and falling overhead. “But from the old comes the new, and new it shall be.” The small figure replied. The Alchemist looked down, and up, to see himself in his youth again, with working legs, a full set of fingers and a head full of thick, black hair. And then it was not autumn, but spring and the Alchemist looked around and saw the flowers grow forth from the earth, and the songbirds hatch in their nests, crying out for their mothers, and their supper.

The little figure, leaning upon his stick, reached out his hand and grasped the index finger of the Alchemist. He gestured to the woods around and said, “Come, rest now, dear friend.”

“Aye,” said the Alchemist. “It has been much too long.”


Then the Alchemist walked forward through the trees, ever with determination on his cheeks as the old man clutched upon his digit. The Alchemist forgot all about the book, and of Alchemy. He could recall little of Bennamin’s Hollow, of the stonework house and all its neighbours. He struggled to remember the name of his cat, and of looking out into his orchard filled with children. Then memory was forgotten altogether, and he walked away with the little old man.

_________

Mimsi awoke, stretching himself out, and looked up into the face of the Alchemist. Upon the weathered cheeks a gentle smile laid, mouth agape in silent laughter. His eyes we shut, and they did not flutter in dreaming. Hungrily, Mimsi cried out, but the Alchemist ignored him. The cat began to nudge himself against the hands of the old man, but they were frigid and unresponding. The alchemist did not stir, and Mimsi began to weep, for the old man could not hear him.

sisera

Wow. Just wow. Once I started I could not stop until I was finished. The only thing I'd recommend you change is the very last sentence, since I don't think cats can weep. Of course, if I'm wrong, I'd keep everything as it is; it's a great story!

__________________
"They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth."
--George R. R. Martin

A-L

Very absorbing writing. But I do wonder what he was searching for, will the reader ever know?

The Alchemist

Ah, The Secret. Yes, the reader will learn what he was searching for, in time. The Secret is the most critical part of the story. I should have the next scene up and edited in a day or two.

I posted this as a stand-alone short story here because it does so rather effectively, but I will be starting a new thread dubbed "The Ever-Stone"

From here on in I will be posting in chapters and not tiny pieces, and each chapter will have it's own thread.

Stay tuned, folks.

The Alchemist

HippoHead

... awesome

it's awesomely folklore.

i would buy a book from you, i would :}

A-L

You seem to have a level head on your shoulders, please read and comment Metropolis (science fiction, fantasy) anything would be appreciated.

The Alchemist

Thanks for the kind words, guys. I hope that one day you will have the opportunity to buy a book from me, Hippo.

A-L:
I read metropolis, by the way, and gave you a wonderfully long post in return.
So long, in fact, that it logged me out before I could post it.

So, I'll try to get around to it again tomorrow, if I have the time.