The Apothecary's Curse (39 page)

“I still don't understand why you were upset enough to be wearing out my sidewalk at such an early hour.”

“My colleagues believe they are onto something. Nobel Prize material, if not more. A human specimen with a specific genetic anomaly—an ability to regenerate injured tissue with a rapidity heretofore unheard of in our own species. And to do so infinitely, and with no permanent damage. They believe—”

Gaelan needed a cigarette. Desperately. “Excuse me a moment.” He needed time to regroup and get his wits about him again. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He slipped through his office door, wishing it were a wormhole, a black hole, a rip in the space-time continuum—anything to transport him from this moment, this place, the inevitability that his long-held secret would very soon become public spectacle.

Gaelan studied Anne as he emerged from his office a moment later with his tobacco pouch. What to make of this woman, sitting in his shop, head in her hands, sniffling back sobs. Obviously, she agreed with her colleagues' assessment, and made the leap right to him. Otherwise, why confess any of it, and to him in particular? But he would give her nothing. Gaelan fumbled with the tobacco and papers, then gave up on the endeavor, returning to his seat. His hands were far too shaky to manage rolling the thin tissue. He searched his waistcoat pocket, finding a fag. He lit it, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs before trying to speak. “What has
any
of this to do with me?”

“My colleagues at Transdiff wish to interview you. Perform a few basic blood tests. And have asked me to inquire. That is all. I realize that you've refused genetic testing, and I respect that, but at least . . .”

He regarded her, the battle raging in her eyes. Curiosity, defensiveness, defiance—and shame—all fought for dominance. He took another drag, watching the cinders fall from the tip. He needed her allegiance . . . or at least her silence. If only while he worked on the book. Would she turn him over or keep quiet? He wasn't entirely sure.

Time, which had expanded for centuries, now seemed suffocating and compressed. So many years and he'd eluded exposure. More than four hundred, with the exception of the four and half under Handley's “care.” And now? Gaelan knew all about the Transdiffs of the world—“big pharma.” He'd read more than enough about the way they pursued research, things that would make Francis Handley blanch.

Flight was out of the question. No matter where he might venture, and in this day of TSA, TIA, and immigration clampdowns, how far
could
he actually get on forged papers and his wits? He was trapped, cornered; he'd be picked apart and studied, a twenty-first century scientific sideshow. And that would only be the start. He could not suppress his anguish as he imagined what the future might hold. A horror-movie scene unfolded in his mind's eye in slow motion: a small child, held down, strapped to a table. Large-bore needle digging into his spine, a piercing scream as the boy is infused with Gaelan's own DNA while he watches, helpless, from another gurney. The boy writhes in agony, only to seize and die, and then be discarded into a waiting incinerator. “No!”

“Mr. Erceldoune?”

Gaelan jumped at the sound of Anne Shawe's voice, the image disintegrating to dust. He could not allow it to happen. He'd always been hard on Simon for his single-minded desire to die. Now death seemed the only recourse possible, and for that he needed Dr. Shawe.

“Mr. Erceldoune, are you all right?”

Calm yourself now. They can prove nothing, but if she leaves, she takes your book.
He sucked in his lower lip, biting down hard.
You must be indifferent or she'll know . . .

“Sorry. I . . . I am still unwell from the accident. . . . I . . . I thank you for your . . . for your honesty. Of course, the very idea . . . ” He forced a laugh. He knew how to do this—be the actor. He'd had years' experience at playing this part. “Completely absurd. Science fiction.”
Change the subject, fast.
“Shall we get back to work on the book, then?”

He worked through the day as Anne sat nearby, reading. She'd promised not to disturb him, and she kept by her word and her distance. By the time he'd interpreted several more pages, he'd pushed Transdiff, and even Anne, from his mind as merely theoretical threats. A few hours later and Gaelan finally detected a rhythm to the manuscript—not a code, really, but patterns in the illuminations and in the text.

The work went easier from there as barely remembered bits of knowledge were restored to memory, a new lock unfastened at every page, leading to the next and the next. Breathlessly, Gaelan navigated page to page toward some unknown horizon, feeling the breeze at his back. Each turn revealed a new discovery. Through a twenty-first century prism, the sophistication of the science in this ancient tome was breathtaking.

Viruses, bacterial infections, immunological disorders, cancers . . . impossibly described in detail within metaphorical images by now plainly readable to him, each accompanied by recommended treatments. Every bit of practical knowledge and understanding Gaelan had acquired over several lifetimes of study had become clues to the puzzle, from his earliest childhood tutoring sessions with his father and grandfather, to online coursework so extensive he could have by now earned at least two or three PhDs. Exhilarating. Intoxicating.

Then there were the references to chromosomes and genes: configurations of twenty-threes and forty-sixes in images hiding in plain sight among double helices that could only have been read as artistic motifs, alchemical markings—perhaps magic.

More peculiar still were the numerous references to Airmid and the Tuatha de Danann, images and heroic tales scattered throughout, antithetical to what was obviously a scientific text. But what if the legends and early histories were correct, and the Tuatha de Danann really were a far more advanced civilization than any other on earth at the time? Had they been exiled long ago, their knowledge deemed witchcraft in the tumult of the Dark Ages? Their enlightened understanding a gift refused . . . then rebuked?

Gaelan rubbed his weary eyes, stealing a glance at his watch. It was late, nearly five. He'd been at it for ten hours already. He looked up to see Anne sitting nearby, her iPad out, reading. He vaguely recalled sandwiches and coffee placed near his hand. And did not recall eating or drinking, though only crumbs remained in the dish and the cup was empty. He smiled at her thoughtfulness. Perhaps she wasn't the dire threat he'd imagined.

Remarkably, he'd made it nearly through the entire manuscript, and in one sitting. It was time to go back to Diana's tree and test his theory. He was ready.

And then he saw it as his eyes settled on an elaborate heather tree wound with infinite knots. Text braided itself in and out, twisting between the turns and loops. He placed a finger gently on what he believed to be the origin letter, and followed it, only to be directed five pages ahead. There he found another instruction, this one sending him ten pages backward, and then another. Back and forth through the pages as though he himself were weaving the words together. Finally, a fragment that led to a page toward the end of the book: “
Ag teastáil i ngach oideas de an mheascadh ar rud breise—eilimint enhancer.
”

Bloody hell. “A catalyst!”

“What?” Anne called from her perch.

“Nothing. I think . . . no, best not to say. Not yet. Give me some time.” Fuck. He didn't need her hanging about his shoulder. Not now, not when he was so close. He watched as she went back to her reading. But she was no longer in repose. She would be waiting now for him to speak again. He brushed off concern and returned to the work. Deciphering this new business about a catalyst.

Of course. There was nothing straightforward about the book, so why would the recipes themselves be explicit? Each required a unique catalyst in order to work exactly right. But where? And how were they concealed?

He continued his scrutiny, squinting through parched eyes. Yes
.
Yes!
There it was. Keyed not to this page, but to another—a multiple of five: two plus three. Another twenty-three reference. The enhancer—the catalyst—was, like all other necessary elements, embedded in the illuminations, but never on the same page as the recipe. But without the correct catalyst, the book warned, the resulting medication would be too potent, entirely ineffective, or unstable.

So that was what he had missed, what he'd never realized, and why in his case—and Simon's—the elixir had gone wrong. Was that what his grandfather had written into that scroll? Or what his father hadn't the opportunity to teach him before he'd been executed? Gaelan shook his head. “Bloody hell! It's brilliant.”

“Let me in on the discovery?” In an instant, she was at his side.

Fuck.
“Sorry. I . . .” What could he tell Anne that would not give him away? “It is a recipe book—”

Anne shook her head. “A what?”

“A pharmacopeia—a medical book, but much older than that Culpeper edition you had in your hands the other night. The inks, those within the illuminations . . .” He again explained his theory about the embedded inks.

“But would they still work? I mean this book is hundreds of years old—”

“I don't know. But I think, yes . . . I mean, why not? The book looks to be in fine enough condition—”

“And you got that all from the manuscript?”

Gaelan paused, breathless with the discovery. “Yes. It is all there. And not at all easy to get to. Each page is an enigma, and the key to the enigma is another enigma, but wrapped in a paradox, wrapped in another secret.” He was grateful she had no bloody idea at all that, yes, it might well be all there in the text and illuminations, but it was incomprehensible without the essential body of knowledge he possessed in his head: ancient medicine, chemistry, alchemy, language, mythology.

“It's genius,” Anne said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “And you, sir, are brilliant! I cannot believe this book is mine, even if I might never completely understand it. Incredible!”

“Yours.” He'd almost forgotten. Of course it was bloody hers. And there was nothing he could do to alter that. She would leave and take it with her, and again it would be lost to him, and now, when he finally understood. And what if she gave it to her colleagues at Transdiff? What would they do with its knowledge?
If
they could get to it. And that was one very big “if”—without him. And that was never going to happen.
Never.

What good this book and its medicines might have done in its day had the world not been mired in fear and intimidation, inquisition and burnings. Had the Dark Ages not destroyed all sense of wonder and the fairy folk—the Tuatha de Danann and their kindred in all parts of the isles—might the Black Death never have plagued Europe, might all the great pandemics have been avoided? Enlightenment had been in humanity's hands, and humanity refused it, tossed it onto the pyre and lit the flame.

“I believe,” he said finally, solemnly, “that the knowledge contained in this book—a millennium old if I am right—reflects a scientific wisdom long ago lost and only just now being reclaimed, bit by bit, by modern science.”

“Whose wisdom?”

Gaelan laughed. “You'd be hard-pressed to think me sane if you . . . heard my theory. But trust my experience as an expert in my field; the value of this manuscript is beyond price. It is . . .” He hesitated, certain he would trip on his own excitement and confess it all if he didn't stop now.

“Are you okay?”

“I am. Yes. Fine. But for now, it is all slightly wild speculation. I need to confirm that I can properly read at least one of these recipes well enough to gauge the amounts, mix the right reagents, and create the intended formulation.”

Gaelan opened to a page near the front of the manuscript. “This one appears less complicated than most. The required ingredients are fairly simple, and I believe I have all the needed solvents in my workroom, and the chemicals . . . in case I'm not correct about the inks or they are past their . . . shelf life.”

Anne looked at him dubiously. “You're a bookseller, not a chemist—”

“Antiquities dealer, you forget.” He smiled. “My dear Dr. Shawe, I have an entire chemist's arsenal. Never know when you might need a spot of nitric acid.” He sprang from his chair, swept aside a curtain, and opened the door to his backroom, where he brought her to his workbench. His gaze swept the room, scanning it for anything potentially incriminating. “I also blend custom teas here . . . that spice tea you so enjoyed the other day.” Could it have been only
yesterday
? He hoped she'd miss the crop of small marijuana plants sprouting beneath a growing lamp in the corner.

“I'm impressed, Mr. Erceldoune. This bench would fit nicely in any scientist's lab.”

“Ah, here we are,” he said, turning her attention to the work at hand: nitric acid, distilled water. “And if I am correct, the mercury and silver are embedded into the page. The classical method of creating a Diana's tree takes days, perhaps a week, but the text implies only a few minutes, so . . . you never know.” He pointed out a passage in the middle of the page.

She shrugged.

Of course she'd have no clue.
She cannot see it.
He would make certain to keep it that way.

He mixed the solutions and carefully scraped away small amounts of the inks, placing them into a beaker. “Now,” he said, taking a small scraping from a purplish ink on a different page, “the catalyst, or as they called it, the enhancing element.”

They waited, perhaps only a minute or two before a tree materialized from the bottom of the beaker. Gaelan held his breath, quite spellbound, as the crystals formed and created the fragile and exquisite arborescent structure. Gaelan relished the unabashed delight in Anne's eyes as she observed the experiment. She reminded him in that instant of Eleanor that night so long ago, gazing at the stars—if only a little. She caught him staring and blushed, but did not turn away; instead she smiled with such radiance, he nearly forgot himself—and who she was—as he stood there transfixed, robbed of all ability to think or speak.