Eighteen

france, 1855

With trembling legs, the young doctor clutched Non Degenera Alchemia and walked to a nearby café, where he drank copious amounts of wine.

He had once read about a sect of alchemists from the sixteenth century who met in the crypt below Notre Dame de Paris. He had dismissed the notion as rumor, for even when he asked fellow alchemists about it, they had dismissed this “backward alchemy” as myth. But what if it was true? It was only when he returned to Paris that the book gave off a strong scent. And it was only when he came upon the cathedral that the odor changed.

Stumbling now, he made his way to the cathedral, unsure whether it was the wine or alchemy that made the book feel as light as a feather in his hands. He climbed the steps to the new Gallery of Chimeras and looked out over the city. So many great men had shaped Paris. He knew he would never be one of them. Unless this book could turn him into a true alchemist.

From high atop Notre Dame de Paris, the drunk doctor read from the pages of the strange alchemy book, hoping against reason that here in this sacred historical site, the knowledge would seep into his veins and make him more than the simple man he knew himself to be.

Directing his attention to the stone chimera in his path, he recited the Latin words. The stone began to shift. He must have been more intoxicated than he thought. He had only hallucinated once before, when given an incorrect dose of laudanum. The horned gargoyle stepped off of its pedestal and stood in front of him. What sorcery was this? He wasn’t able to answer his own question, because he promptly fainted.

When he awoke, he was in a jail cell for drunkenness. He could no longer remember whether the events of the night before had been real or a dream. A sprained wrist was the only indication that something had taken place that night.

Had the book truly made it possible for him to bring a stone creature to life? It wasn’t possible! Alchemical transformations could not be transferred in such a way. Yet he had seen it with his own eyes. He held his hands before him, half expecting his fingers to turn to stone.

When he was released from his jail cell, the book was returned to him. Ignoring the pain in his hand and wrist, he ran to Notre Dame, earnestly hoping that the events that had transpired there had only been a nightmare. When he reached the gallery, he found an empty pedestal where the gargoyle had once stood. Was he mistaken? Had there been a figure there at all?

For days, the doctor searched for the creature he was half convinced he’d imagined, but never found it. He read the newspapers each morning and evening, wondering if its presence would be reported. Nothing.

If this was what alchemy had driven him to, he had no right to try to be more than the unassuming man he was. That day, when his wife was in the park with their son, he tossed the book into the hearth.

It didn’t burn.

He tossed more wood into the fire. Still, the book did not catch fire. He threw one of his most boring books into the flames. It popped and sizzled in the heat and was soon reduced to ash. Non Degenera Alchemia glowed in the fire, yet did not burn. Of this he was certain. Today he was completely sober. This was no hallucination.

The young doctor screamed with confusion as he pulled the book from the fire with a poker. He wrapped the book in a blanket, fearful to touch it once more. He wrote a note for his wife, then took his leave.

When he returned a week later, the young doctor no longer looked so young. But the book was safely hidden where he hoped nobody would find it ever again.