Doctor Illuminatus (18 page)
“Now!” said Tim.
He jumped up and ran forward, yelling at the top of his voice, waving his arms. When he reached the path, he halted and switched on the flashlight. The beam cut through the faint smoke rising from the fire and illuminated de Loudéac’s face. It was scarlet, his eyes pale green, like a cat’s. Stepping to one side of the fire, he hurled the burning log at Tim. Tim watched as it arced through the air, spinning over and over on itself. It hit the ground to his left in a scatter of sparks.
“Malodor! Malodor!”
Tim looked over to the boulder where they had been hiding. Pip was standing before it, her hands clasped demurely in front of her.
De Loudéac started towards her, walking slowly, carefully. He might have been a hunter stalking his prey.
In an attempt to distract him, Tim shouted louder, wiggling the beam of light over de Loudéac’s back. The alchemist ignored him.
Pip stood firm. Tim could almost see her legs quaking.
Sebastian edged forward. He was nearly at the fire now.
The doors of the van swung open. The cloud of black smoke wafted out, the air filling with the sound of a million angry bees.
“Look out!” Tim hollered.
Sebastian ignored the approaching cloud. He knelt and held the T close to the flames. The firelight danced on the quartz crystal. Tim saw a pinprick of light settle on the side of the bus. It was, he thought in a detached way, like the point of light he got using a magnifying glass to focus sunlight on a piece of wood to scorch his name on it.
There was nothing else to do. Despite all Sebastian had told him, Tim ran for the fire. He had no idea how he was going to stop the cloud from reaching Sebastian, but that was no matter. He had to do something.
Holding the T steady, Sebastian concentrated hard on the bus, keeping the beam of firelight as still as he could.
Two meters from the fire, Tim happened to look in Pip’s direction. De Loudéac had stopped some paces in front of her. She was resolute, but Tim could see by the firelight that her eyes were shut tight. As he watched, de Loudéac threw back his head, his eyes staring and his mouth opening wide.
“Pip!” Tim screamed. “Step back behind the boulder!”
Ahead of him, Sebastian began to speak slowly, carefully enunciating every word.
“In nomine Dei, eo, eo, eo
...
”
Now, de Loudéac’s mouth was perfectly round. His shoulders rose slowly, his cloak spreading as he put his arms akimbo. Tim knew he was drawing in his breath.
“Pip! Run!”
De Loudéac thrust his head forward.
Tim was enveloped by the black cloud. Within it, the noise of the bees was deafening — yet it was not composed of bees. All around him swirled tiny devilish creatures. Their grotesque faces, covered with warts or layers of skin like the wattles of a turkey or the jaws of an old bulldog, dripping with spittle, seemed to mock him. Many were laughing at him, pointing at him, jeering and sneering.
There was a sudden, dazzling flash of light. In an instant the cloud evaporated. Tim found himself at the edge of the fire. He felt the heat of the flames.
The interior of the bus was alight. A large hole had melted in its bodywork and molten metal was dripping down from the sides like wax. Tim could make out the floor and the bulge of the axle differential beneath it.
De Loudéac turned, screaming. He ran at Sebastian. Tim sped between them, the flashlight gripped in both hands. As de Loudéac reached him, he swung the flash-light at him with all his might. It hit the alchemist a glancing blow on the shoulder, sliced upwards and split open the skin of his cheek. The shock of the impact coursed down Tim’s arms.
With one swipe of his arm, de Loudéac thrust Tim to the ground. He fell on his back, his head hitting the earth, mercifully just missing a large stone. The flash-light, his only weapon, flew from his hand. The alchemist drew back his foot to kick him. Tim hunched up, readying himself for the blow, but, instead, de Loudéac seemed to lift off the ground then stagger to one side. In his place stood Pip, a sharp rock in her hand. She reached down and helped Tim up.
“Nice going, sis!” Tim exclaimed, re-arming himself with the Maglite.
Pip made no reply. She was staring in the direction of the bus.
Sebastian was standing up now, the T raised above his head. He had stopped chanting.
Through the hole in the side of the bus, something was moving, thrashing its arms about, moaning deeply.
Behind him, Tim heard a rustling and spun round. De Loudéac had got to his feet, but, instead of attacking, he was rapidly shrinking in size, his black cape looking as if it were sticking to his arms. In a few seconds, he was transformed into a black bird no bigger than a sparrow.
Tim brought the flashlight up over his head to bring it smashing down on the bird, yet he was too slow. It took to the wing and, with a darting flight, disappeared into the blackness of the trees.
Pip grabbed Tim’s wrist, her nails hurting him even through the thickness of his sweatshirt.
Against a backdrop of oily flames and the dense smoke of burning plastic and rubber, a creature was making for the hole in the bus. It moved clumsily. Tim thought of how a chimpanzee walked, its arms hanging down by its sides and swinging back and forth.
Sebastian pointed the T at the bus, saying in a loud voice, “In the name of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, I cast you into the outer darkness, where everlasting ruin awaits you and your abettor . . .”
It came on, stumbling out of the vehicle.
“Ay caramba . . .” was all Tim could say.
The homunculus was not as big as he had expected, standing not more than a meter and a half high. It slumped forward as it walked, each step planted heavily on the ground.
As it advanced towards the light of the fire, its appearance became increasingly grotesque and bizarre. One foot was marginally larger than the other. The arms were short but ended in hands that were disproportionately large for them. It seemed to have no sexual organs at all, its groin smooth like that of a child’s doll.
Ten steps from Sebastian, it halted, rocking gently to and fro.
“It’s not used to walking,” Tim said under his breath.
Pip was not paying him any attention. She could not help staring at the beast.
“Look at its hair.”
The skin of the homunculus was dark brown and covered with a fine fur. The hair on its head was blond — Siamese cat blond.
Slowly, like a short-sighted person, it gazed from right to left.
“Oh, God!” Pip muttered. “It has my eyes.”
It was then that the homunculus caught sight of Sebastian and launched itself at him. It lurched towards him, its arms outspread, its huge hands fingering the air as if hoping to ensnare him.
Sebastian waited until the last moment, then, like a matador facing a charging bull, he stepped aside. The homunculus pitched forward into the fire, its arms thrashing into the glowing embers, its feet drumming on the earth. As the flames took hold of its flesh, it yapped like a small dog, the tissues shriveling and contorting, melting and dripping into the embers. The air filled with the pungent, poisonous smell of burning phosphorus. In less than a minute, the fire had consumed it.
“It is done,” Sebastian announced in a satisfied voice.
“What about de Loudéac?” Tim asked. “He got away. I saw him fly off. Hadn’t we better go after him . . .”
“Ultimately, de Loudéac shall be defeated,” Sebastian said quietly. “The time will come when he will be conquered. Yet evil itself cannot be eradicated. So long as there is goodness, there must be evil; for everything that exists in nature, there must be an opposite. For there to be light, there must be darkness.”
Feeling in his pocket, Sebastian produced a small glass rod and tapped it against a stone by the fire. The air filled with a high-pitched droning. Pip and Tim felt the soil beneath their feet vibrate momentarily.
Gradually, the sound petered away. Simultaneously, the fire died down, the embers changing into a pile of smoldering ash. The suspension of the bus creaked and the door opened again, a figure shuffling out. From beneath the chassis appeared something moving forward on its belly.
“Hey, dude! What’s goin’ down?”
It was Splice. Beside him, getting to his feet and shaking dried leaves off himself, was Woof. When he saw Tim, his tail began to wag feebly.
Over the rim of the quarry, a new moon hung in the sky like a silver eyelash.
Of Sebastian, there was no sign.
The sunlight cut through the holes in the slates of the coach-house roof, ending in bright spots on the flag-stones. Tim and Pip stood in the center of the floor and looked around. On the walls were the wooden hooks and trees where once had hung bridles, whips, nose-bags and reins. A row of metal rings showed where once the horses had been tethered as they were made ready to pull a coach or cart. Cobwebs hung like dusty curtains from the bars of a rusty iron hay basket. From the side of one of the old barrels stacked in the corner grew a bracket fungus.
A swallow veered in through a broken window, saw them standing there, executed a sharp, midair swerve and flew out again.
“Funny to think they spend the winter in Africa,” Pip remarked. She glanced up at the semicircular cup of mud glued to one of the joists of the floor above. “By Christmas,” she mused, “those chicks will have seen hippos and zebras and giraffes . . .”
Tim scuffed his foot against the flagstones.
“You think we’ll see him again?” he asked.
Pip shrugged.
“I suppose it did all really happen, didn’t it?” he continued.
“Yes,” his sister replied.
“Yes,” Tim repeated, “it did.”
He looked at his father’s Maglite where he had left it the night before, on a shelf in the coach house. The glass was shattered, the bulb broken and the shaft was so badly dented he could not get the last three batteries out.
“You’d better buy him another one.”
“Right,” Tim agreed.
“Before he finds that one missing.”
“He’ll think it got misplaced in the move,” Tim said hopefully.
Leaving the coach house, they walked across the field. Where they had gone the night before, the grass was bent. They reached the pool. Long strands of toad’s spawn were laced across some filaments of waterweed.
“You know something,” Tim said, “we never got to fly.”
“Fly?” Pip repeated.
“We never got any flying ointment.”
Pip laughed quietly and replied, “Maybe next time . . .”
“If there is a next time,” Tim answered. He looked across at the Garden of Eden and the river beyond it. “I’m going fishing,” he decided. “What’re you going to do for the rest of the summer, sis?”
Sebastian’s battle against the dark side of alchemy continues in
the second book about the alchemist’s son.
This time the danger comes from a new and unexpected source. Someone possesses Gerbert d’Aurrillac’s book of spells — and intends to use it to deadly effect. Tim, Pip, and Sebastian must stop this force of evil, for the fate of the human race may hang in the balance.
If someone steals your bicycle, you buy another.
But what if they steal your soul . . . ?
To be published Spring 2005
Martin Booth
was born in England and lived in Hong Kong and, for a short time, in Africa until he was twenty, when he became a student in London. Well-known in the United Kingdom as a novelist and a nonfiction writer, as well as a writer of films and television documentaries, he was nominated for the Booker Prize for his novel
The Industry of Souls.