Norton, Andre - Anthology (5 page)

 
          
 
Well, that was three yeas ago. By the time my
fur grew back in its true color, Margaret had convinced her father that the
"black cat without a single white hair" was another alchemical symbol
and did not refer to a real cat at all. But she could not convince him to give
up alchemy, even though the money was running out. Eventually he sold the shop
and set off for the Continent, dragging Margaret (and me) in his wake, sure
that somewhere he would come across the one true text and discover the secret
of the Philosopher's Stone. We had run across the Baron in a mountain inn,
where we had all been snowed in for a week; and Master Ambrosius' lecturing had
convinced that nobleman that there was something in it for him. He had invited
us for a visit (dragged us home with him willy-nilly is more like it) to his
remote estate in one of the lowest of the Low Germanies, set us up in a house
in the village, handed over some money, and demanded results. Master Ambrosius
had been willing enough, since the Baron's estate held the ruins of an ancient
monastery where the legendary alchemist Brother Theodoric had supposedly made
either the Elixir or the Stone (the legends were unclear) and left it behind
along with an account of how he had done it. Margaret was so numb with
homesickness that she scarcely knew where she was. And I go where Margaret
goes, though I didn't like the Baron. I didn't like the way he shouted; I
didn't like the way he smelled of stale genever; and most of all I didn't like
his looking at

 
          
 
Margaret the way that I would look at a plump
mouse I intended to gobble up.

 
          
 
So here we are, half a year later. No records
of Brother Theodoric have turned up, though we have found the overgrown ruins
of his monastery. The Baron's silver has mostly gone on unsuccessful
experiments, while Margaret has eked out a meager living for us with her
medicinal herbs. We are alone in a foreign land with no way to escape the
Baron's grasp. Great and Gracious Bast, I have had enough of adventures!

 
          
 
In the morning, of course, we were all more
optimistic. Master Ambrosius took to his books again, sure that somewhere in
Rhazes or Geber or Hermes Trismegistos he would find the key he sought.
Margaret decided to gather fresh herbs out by the ruined monastery. And I? The
sun was shining, there would be mice in the meadow, and Margaret was offered a
ride in the back of a cart. I had never seen the ruins, and I have the
curiosity of—well, a cat. I decided to set out with Margaret.

 
          
 
Although we started before dawn the next day,
when the dew was still on the grass, the roads were dry and the cart made good
time. Margaret took her basket down to the brook to harvest water plants, while
I prowled the meadow. A nest of baby voles made a tasty mid-morning snack, some
compensation for damp grass. Soon I found myself drawing closer to the mound of
earth that covered the ruins of Brother Theodoric's monastery—destroyed, some
say, by divine wrath at his impious studies. (From my own experience of
alchemists, I think it much more likely that he blew it up himself.) It may
have been my seventh sense that drew me; it may have been a lust for the wild
catnip I had heard Margaret say grew there. But when I saw a flash of white
beneath a berry bush, everything else flew out of my head. A rabbit, I thought,
or perhaps a tender young leveret—stew for Margaret, who had an unaccountable
aversion to eating mouse. I stalked; I crouched; I quivered; I pounced—

 
          
 
On a mole. A white mole.

 
          
 
My good Reader, allow me to digress. Have you
ever wondered why we cats go to so much effort to catch moles and then don't
eat them? Especially since moles, as you know if you've ever tried one, taste
horrible?

 
          
 
Mice are excellent for food, but moles have
information. A mouse can tell you where to find things to eat, and gatherings
of other mice; but it is basically a party animal, without another thought in
its head—as the Old Feline proverb has it, your mouse is more hors d'oeuvre
than oracle. Moles, however, know things. They move through the deep places of
the earth; and what they find, they remember. Cats therefore catch them for
their educational value. (If you see a cat chasing a mole, batting it to and
fro, catching it and letting it go and catching it again, it isn't cruelty,
it's research; the little wretches aren't very forthcoming.)

 
          
 
And white moles are special. I don't mean the
business about them granting three wishes to any cat who catches them; that is
only a milk-tale for kittens. But they are old—that is why they are white—and
they are the repositories of the collective wisdom of their entire mole-system.
And the other moles value and protect them. Suddenly I had a brilliant idea.

 
          
 
My catch had gone limp and was whispering to
herself in Mole, presumably commending her soul to the deity of moles. I
loosened my clutch and addressed her in Common Beast.

 
          
 
"Old one, summon your folk. I am minded
to ask a ransom for you."

 
          
 
She lifted her head and wheezed, "I will
not trade their lives for mine, cat. Do what you must."

 
          
 
"Now, now. I see no need for bloodshed. I
only want information. And perhaps a little assistance. Call your people and
let us talk terms."

 
          
 
I will not bore you with the tedious details
of the negotiation. The moles knew, and readily described to me, the location
of the chamber where once the alchemist-monk had labored; they had explored it
for the remnants of certain herbs. But their access tunnel was too narrow for
me, and I needed somehow to persuade them to fetch me the relics of his
endeavors. The old white mole said the journey was too risky because the tunnel
was crumbling away, and she was resigned to death. The plight of Margaret and
her father moved them not at all. And although he owned the meadow in which
they dwelt, they had never heard of the Baron. His cruelty, tyranny, and
general wickedness left their tiny little hearts untouched.

 
          
 
"But he wears moleskin trousers!" I
said rather desperately.

 
          
 
That got their attention. The depredations of
the molecatcher had been recent and severe, and they somehow got the idea that
his sole purpose had been the enhancement of the Baron's wardrobe. I did not
disabuse them of this curious notion. A bargain was struck.

 
          
 
For hours I crouched under that berry bush,
the white mole held loosely beneath one forepaw, while relays of moles trotted
to and fro with gleanings from the alchemist's chamber. Scraps of parchment,
fragments of glass, unidentifiable sticky lumps—nothing was of any use
whatsoever. I kept trying to explain that I needed something—anything— intact
The sun was beginning to decline into the West and Margaret would soon be
calling for me. Suddenly the white mole, whom I had believed to be asleep or
swooning, spoke up.

 
          
 
"Cat, if you will trust me, I think I can
find what you want. Let us go down into the chamber. There is a certain corner
which I explored in my early youth .. ."

 
          
 
The moles had kept their part of the bargain,
and she was entitled to her freedom in any case. I lifted my paw.

 
          
 
With remarkable speed she scuttled into the
nearby tunnel. I waited. Margaret, who had been working her way toward the
ruins in her gleaning, reached the foot of the mound with her almost-full
basket and began to call me. I knew we would have to leave soon to reach home
before nightfall.

 
          
 
There were noises at the mouth of the tunnel.
The white mole reappeared, followed by a couple of strong-shouldered youngsters
dragging something that clinked against a pebble. I bounded forward.

 
          
 
The white mole turned her blind snout toward
me. "Cat, here is the only intact vessel left in the chamber.

 
          
 
Take it; but we moles have a proverb: 'Be
careful what you wish for; you may get it.' "

 
          
 
'There is a similar saw in Old Feline. But my
person needs help. I'll take the risk—and remember the warning."

 
          
 
Having brushed off as much of its dirt
encrustation as I could manage with my paw, I inspected the moles' offering. It
was made of some substance that I had never before encountered, seemingly part
stone and part metal. It was a tiny flask, not much larger than a baby mouse but
much heavier, rounded at the base and tapering to a narrow neck, stoppered and
covered with wax. Graven into the wax were strange symbols, some of which I had
seen before in Master Ambrosius' books.

 
          
 
With a brusque word of thanks to the moles, I
sank my teeth into the wax and dragged the flask down the hillock to Margaret,
whose cries of "Quincunx!" had taken on a tinge of panic. It was
remarkably heavy. I dropped it at her feet and mewed urgently.

 
          
 
"Oh! Ugh! Is it dead? Quincunx, must you
fetch me dead things?" She spurned it with her foot. I growled, which
shocked both of us. I laid a paw on the flask and batted it toward a nearby
rock. Once again it clinked, and Margaret reacted as I had. She pounced on the
flask and examined it closely.

 
          
 
"These are alchemical signs. And you
found it in the abbey ruins. And—oh, Quincunx! I think this is Theodoric's own
seal. The stories are true! This—this may be the veritable Elixir! We're saved!
Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful Quincunx!" She swept me up and began
raining kisses on my nose. I stood it as long as I could. I was starting to
squirm free when a hail from the distant road gave notice that^eur ride home
had arrived and was getting impatient. Margaret tucked my find into her bodice
and we scampered for the cart.

 
          
 
Once we reached our lodging, Margaret bustled
about preparing supper at her father's querulous insistence. (I got chicken and
the last of the cream.) Once the meal was done and the table cleared, she
produced my find. Master Ambrosius did not waste time in thanks or praise but
fell at once to studying the seals, shuffling through his books and manuscripts
and muttering away as usual.

 
          
 
“Yes!" he exclaimed at last. "It is
the seal of Brother Theodoric. And the strange substance of which the vessel is
made must be the legendary thrice-tried adamant of which Geber speaks. But the
inscription on the seal has been rendered illegible by the toothmarks of that
blasted cat of yours [Such is the gratitude of alchemists. —Q.E), so there is
no way to know what it holds without opening it and testing the contents."

 
          
 
"But, Father, if it isn't the Elixir of
Life, what could it be?"

 
          
 
"Like me, Theodoric was an apothecary
before he became an alchemist. He was originally seeking the Panacea, the cure
for all ills."

 
          
 
"Doesn't the Elixir do that?"

 
          
 
"If you have an illness or a wound, the
Panacea will restore you to perfect health, but that is all. The Elixir won't
cure wounds or illnesses, but it will prolong life— some say it will confer
immortality. And properly used, it can transmute base metals to gold. That is
why the Baron wants it."

 
          
 
"I think I'd rather have the Panacea. But
wouldn't the Baron be satisfied with it? He could fight his horrid wars in
perfect safety. And he could make a fortune as a healer."

 
          
 
"My foolish child, no barbarous Almaine
nobleman is going to lower himself by earning money. He'd probably toss it out
with the rubbish."

 
          
 
"But we are healers. If it's the Panacea,
we could quickly earn enough to pay him back with interest. All we'd have to do
is set up a practice in some large city."