Alchemist's Apprentice (6 page)

‘He says I'm to feed you. Sit up here.'

Jack sat up, looking with dismay at the knife and fork beside the plate. He had never used them before. But Mrs Brown didn't notice.

‘I don't usually feed them,' she was saying. ‘They just come with their bits of old rubbish and go away again. What is that thing that you came with, anyway?'

‘I don't know,' said Jack.

‘I don't suppose anybody else does, either. He's weak in the head, that one. He just sits up there brooding over all those bits and pieces. I'll never understand it.'

She ranted on, but Jack was falling upon the ham and heard no more. Here was meat, twice in one day, and he was determined to do it justice. When he had eaten all he could, he felt drowsy and curled up on the firewood box beside the hob. His clothes, he noticed, were nearly dry. In a minute or two he would get up and put them on.

When he woke, the dawn light was creeping in through the closed shutters. The fire was out, but the weather was still muggy and Jack hadn't suffered at all from sleeping without a blanket. He got up and went out into the yard and stood for a while, enchanted by the clamour of birdsong in the tall trees around the house. Then he went back into the kitchen, helped himself to a dipper of water from the cool crock in the scullery and dressed himself in his own clothes.

It was some time before Mrs Brown arrived, bleary-eyed and cross. She set to work immediately, clearing the ashes and setting a new fire. Jack seemed to be constantly in her way, and when he took refuge on a stool beside the table she hauled him off it and sent him out to the sheds for firewood. By the time he had filled the box, the fire was burning briskly and a pot of oatmeal was hissing on the hob.

Jack watched it, wishing it would boil. A boy came from the dairy with milk. Mrs Brown was just pouring some into a bowl for a pair of scrawny cats, when the loud clang of a call bell made her jump and slosh it on to the floor.

‘Sorry,' said Jack, just for being there. Mrs Brown accepted his apology and strode off towards the hall, wiping her hands on her fresh, white apron.

A few moments later she was back. ‘It's you he wants.'

Jack hesitated. The porridge was just beginning to bubble enticingly.

‘Go on,' said Mrs Brown. ‘Don't keep him waiting.'

He jumped down from the wood box and ran through the great, empty house. His bare feet made hardly any sound, as though he were so insubstantial that the heavy flagstones of the hall and the solid oak of the stairs could not even feel his presence. Up on the landing, Master Gregory's door was still ajar. Jack knocked lightly.

‘Come in.'

Despite its great size, the room was stuffy. There was a faint hint of decay, as though some small creature had perished beneath the floorboards and was slowly rotting there. To Jack's relief, his pot was still on the desk where he had last seen it. Mr Gregory was standing above it, swaying slightly.

‘Has Mrs Brown been taking care of you?' he asked.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Did you sleep well?'

‘Very well.'

‘That's good. I'm afraid that I didn't sleep at all.'

‘Are you ill?' Jack asked.

Gregory certainly looked ill. His moustache seemed to droop more than ever and a pale haze of stubble covered his jaw. His eyes were listless, and beneath them the darkness was deeper than ever. But he shook his head and smiled, wistfully.

‘Your little offering here has been causing me a great deal of dismay.'

His words gave the object an air of malevolence that Jack had not noticed before. ‘Shall I take it away?' he said.

‘Probably, yes,' said Gregory. ‘But first I want to tell you what I know about it and then we can decide what to do.' He gestured to a small upholstered stool beneath the desk. Jack took it out and sat on it. Outside, the rain clouds had vanished completely and the morning sun was blazing through the tall windows. Jack squinted and turned his back to it. Master Gregory cleared his throat.

‘I have not turned out as my father would have wished,' he said.

Jack squirmed. When his mother had been alive, she had sometimes cornered him on dark evenings beside the fire and subjected him to long, mournful diatribes about her wasted life. That kind of adult intimacy embarrassed him. He turned away pointedly, but Gregory did not notice.

‘I never married, never provided him with a grandson to continue the family line. Most of my estate is let to my neighbours,' he went on. ‘I do not manage any of it. I do not keep a pack of hounds as he did. I rarely even ride. I don't know why it is, but my only interest in life is my collection. My father died a disappointed man.'

Jack gazed out of the window. Gregory was quiet for a minute, and at last Jack felt compelled to look at him again.

‘Am I boring you?' he asked.

‘No.'

Gregory sighed. ‘I'm only telling you this because I want you to know that I have had plenty of opportunity in my life to search my soul. But I have never searched it more deeply than I did last night, sitting here with this …' his eyes fell on the pot and his voice trailed off.

Jack looked at the plain little thing and wondered how it could possibly be the cause of so much mystery. He thought of Mrs Brown's porridge, which would surely be cooked by now. But Master Gregory clearly wasn't ready for breakfast, yet.

‘Do you know what an alchemist is, Jack?' he said.

‘No, sir.'

‘Well, this thing here was made by one.'

‘What for?'

‘For the practice of his art. Alchemy.'

More strange words. They made Jack feel tired. He was fast running out of curiosity about the philosopher's egg and was beginning to wish that he had never set eyes upon it. But Gregory's next words changed his mind again.

‘The alchemists believe that they can make gold, Jack. In just such a vessel as this.'

A flush of excitement quickened Jack's heart. Gold. The answer to all life's problems. The reward at the end of the rainbow. The fairy-tale promise of happiness. ‘And can they?'

Gregory shrugged. ‘No one really knows. Alchemy is a dark art, they say. The king does not approve of it, and the alchemists keep themselves and their work well hidden. Their writings are obscure and secretive, a sort of code among themselves. But I believe I know where this one comes from. What perplexes me, though, is how it came to be in the river.'

Jack couldn't care less. His mind was running along more practical lines. ‘Can we make some gold with it?' he asked.

Gregory laughed, a melancholy sort of sound which gave Jack the shivers. ‘I wish it were so simple,' he said.

‘Why isn't it?'

‘To begin with, we don't know what to put in it. And aside from that …' he hesitated and peered at Jack with a searching expression as though wondering whether or not he could be trusted. Then he sighed as if he were relinquishing something. ‘Aside from that,' he went on, ‘it's possible, just possible, that it has already been done.'

For a moment or two Jack had no idea what Gregory was talking about. Then, slowly, it dawned on him. ‘You mean there might be gold in it already?'

‘It's unlikely, but it's possible, yes.'

‘Then let's open it!'

But Gregory shook his head sadly.

‘That is precisely the dilemma that has kept me from my bed throughout the night,' he said. ‘I could have done it, you see? I could have broken it the instant you went out of the door last night. If there was gold inside I could have kept it for myself and sent you off with a penny for your trouble. You would never have known.'

‘But that wouldn't have been right!'

‘Of course it wouldn't. And I'm glad to say that I didn't do it for just that reason.' Gregory sighed again. ‘And in any case, what use have I for gold? I have no wife or family and my father left more than enough behind him to keep me and my collection going until the end of my life. But even so, curiosity alone might have compelled me to break it. If my conscience disturbed me I could have given the gold to you.'

Jack nodded eagerly. ‘Shall we do it now, then?'

‘It's not so simple, don't you see?'

‘Why?'

‘Many reasons. For one thing, the god-fearing side of my nature keeps prompting me to have nothing to do with this devilish practice. It is far better left alone.'

‘I can do it, then,' said Jack. ‘I'm not scared.'

‘Ah, but there's another reason for not opening it, Jack. A much better one.'

‘Is there?'

Gregory nodded solemnly. ‘What if there is no gold inside it? What then?'

Jack shook his head in bewilderment. His spirits were being dragged this way and that, like a rat between two terriers.

‘What if nothing came out except a mess of noxious chemicals? It's quite possible, you know. Many of society's greatest thinkers have said that alchemy is preposterous, practised only by lunatics. They say that there are no powers known to man that can turn base metals into gold. What if they are right?'

Jack had no answer. Gregory supplied it for him. ‘Then we are left with a broken pot, without the slightest value to either of us.'

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Jack marshalled the thoughts that were circling his mind like buzzards. ‘But what if we don't break it? What value does it have to us then?'

‘None.'

He was definitely mad. There was no doubt in Jack's mind whatsoever. The sooner he got out of that house the better. He stood up and edged his way up to the desk, but as he reached out to take the alchemist's vessel, Gregory laid a hand on his arm.

‘It has no value to you or I, Jack,' he said, ‘but it may be of value to someone else.'

‘Who?'

‘The alchemist who made it. And I believe I know who he is.' He picked up the vessel and held it between them. ‘I don't know exactly what kind of material it's made from, but I can tell that it has been subjected to intense heat. In other words, whatever is inside it has been cooked. Do you see?'

Jack shook his head.

‘Well,' Gregory went on. ‘It has been cooked but it hasn't been opened. So no one, not even the alchemist himself can possibly know whether the experiment has been successful.'

‘You mean he doesn't know if there's gold in it or not?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Then why don't we open it and see?'

Gregory gasped in exasperation. ‘Listen carefully, Jack. If we open it and find nothing, then I have nothing, you have nothing and the alchemist has nothing, not even his vessel. But if you take it to the alchemist he is sure to give you something for your trouble, isn't he? He may even reward you well. He may be desperate to find it again.'

‘But what if there is gold in it?' said Jack, feeling fairly desperate himself.

‘Then we will all have what we are looking for. The alchemist will have his gold. You will have the few coppers that you hoped to get from me.'

Jack nodded. It seemed that there was some sense in what Gregory was saying, after all.

‘But what about you?' he said. ‘You will have nothing.'

‘Not so, dear Jack. I have the pleasure of a rare victory of conscience. For once in my life I will have done the right thing. And that is worth more to me than any amount of gold.'

T
HE NAME OF THE
alchemist was Jonathan Barnstable. His house was beside the river, further inland again, and Mr Gregory gave Jack careful directions, making him repeat them over and over again until they were perfectly fixed in his mind. On this occasion, there was no question of asking the way. Nor must Jack reveal the nature of that which he carried, no matter what pressure might be brought to bear. Gregory provided him with the cut-off corner of a flour sack in which to conceal the philosopher's egg and Mrs Brown, despite her continued sourness, added a good cut of ham between two slices of bread.

So Jack set off again along more new roads, into more uncertainty. The sun shone from a clear sky on to trees and hedgerows where birds dislodged the last hanging drops of rain to fall sparkling among the leaves. As the day warmed up, steam began to rise from the damp ground, releasing the sweet scents of worm-turned earth and sprouting seeds. Already the stubble in the raked over meadows seemed greener than it had the day before.

According to Master Gregory, it was eight miles from Dulwich to the small town where the alchemist lived. At a brisk walk, he had said, Jack could cover that distance in two or three hours. But it wasn't a day for walking briskly. It was a day for dawdling and soaking up the sun. It was a day for picking wild raspberries and smelling briar roses and tossing pebbles into streams. Even the farmers who had failed to save their hay were in no hurry as they worked their way across their meadows, shaking out the sodden rows to dry all over again. After two hours, Jack was less than halfway there. His stomach was empty and the bread and ham was beginning to exert a strong influence. He began to look out for a good spot to stop and take a rest.

Before long he found it. A cart track crossed the road and at the corner of it a huge horse-chestnut tree created a secretive sort of den with its lowest branches. Jack looked around to be sure there was no one watching, then crept inside, making his way carefully around behind the huge old trunk until he was sure that he could not be seen from the road. Between the roots were dusty hollows which the rain had not reached; armchairs for idling children or tired travellers. As Jack settled himself in a fat pigeon took flight, clattering through the branches and producing a gentle shower of leaves and feathers. After that, there was silence.

Jack took his time over the meal, prolonging the enjoyment. When he had finished he lay back against the trunk of the tree and gazed up into the branches, where light and shade intertwined like lovers. Gradually he slipped into a brief sleep, and when he woke he could not remember where he was and what he was doing there. He sat up and his eye fell on the pot lying in the open sack. It all came back to him then, except the conviction in what he was doing. The more he thought about it, the more uncertain he became. He wasn't at all sure that he wanted to meet any alchemist. What kind of a man would he be? Why should the whole business be so secretive?