No time was wasted! The Alchemist would not be denied again!

Everyone lent a hand: some lent two, or even three; every surface was scrubbed, every baub was burnished, every bowel was purged; the furnace was fired, the bellows belaboured; the cowled organist cracked his knuckles... and began! A bone-jarring, freewheeling toccata spiralled about the laboratory, shrieking and growling like the wing-ed children of Typhon! To those with no tangible task fell the chorals, a low ‘om!’ – as sustained as it was sinister!

Ambient scarlet light turned the arrayed druid’s white cassocks the colour of rose, and the Alchemist’s cardinal the crimson depths of ichor. Stunted and misshapen things, sackclothed in coarse imitation of their taller brethren, shuffled around the floor in acts of unfathomable meniality, getting underfoot and catching robes upon their bony protrusions. Their inane chatter only added to the din: nip-nip, dit-dit, nip-nip, dit-dit...

The Archdruid stood to the Alchemist’s right, as befitting his station, the philosopher’s gnome in his hands cowled once more. The Alchemist raised his hands above the central bench, a priest above his eucharist; to his left, a slim tome upon a stand: neither Bible nor alchemical opus,143 but poetry, Donne’s Divine Meditations.

“Death!” intonated the Alchemist suddenly. “Be NOT proud!

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die NOT, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill ME!”

Images flashed before his eyes: the base nigredo of the Undertaker’s dark attire, the undefeatable shadow nemesis; the bright albedo of the murdered druid, the purification of the soul through the shedding of failure; the ambient citrinitas of the corridor where the solution of the Al Iksir had first dawned upon him; the triumphant rubedo of the present, of Nonsuch itself.

The organist seemed to have discovered an even more minor key than the last. Notes – already long sustained – were now being held hostage!

“Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men!”

And none more desperate than that vulture Anbury! Joined in blood, yet divided by destiny; yang to his yin; fortis to his vitae; turtle to his dove!

“One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more!”

Once, he and the Undertaker had been friends, brothers even, united in their fascination with the existential question.144

When the Alchemist’s wife had been taken by Donn (no relation), he had ordered her kept in state on Bull Rock island, also known as Tech Duinn, the House of the Dead, Gateway to the Underworld, there to make ready for her reincarnation into the body of a willing young supplicant.145

Yet, when the Alchemist had arrived, her body had been nowhere to be found. His dear ‘brother,’ Phil Anbury, had buried her somewhere upon the island, he would say not where. “Spare her the reek of necromancy, brother!” Anbury had insisted. “Let the dead rest! You owe her that much at least!”

It was as if Anbury had held the scythe himself.

The metaphysical duel that followed would scour the island of life for centuries to come. The Alchemist had nearly met his own end upon those bitter cliffs, saved only by a 100 metre plunge into the roiling seas below! By the time he was plucked from the water, a red herring in the net of a chance fishing vessel, he had sworn eternal vengeance upon Anbury and all his mortifeering ilk.

The bill for the funeral expenses had arrived several weeks later.

Ne’er again my brother be!

Now, the final question of man’s mortality would have an answer...

And the answer...

...was NO.

Taking the gnome from the Archdruid with reverent tenderness, the Alchemist raised it high!

The organist crescendoed, the gnome began its final descent from hand to tabletop, and froze–

–as a bedroom door opened.

The organ ceased. Alchemist, acolyte, gnome and nipidit all froze in embarrassed tableaux.

“Dad!” fumed Isabella. “Would you please keep the noise down! I’m trying to sulk!”

“Yes, sorry daughter!” placated the Alchemist. “Return to your room! Less fortissimo please, my infernal organist!”

The organist gave a thumbs up; Isabella slammed the door; the tableaux unfroze.

And then the door opened again. Isabella’s head reappeared. “And how much longer are we going to be submerged?” she asked pointedly. “The window’s sprung a leak and there’s water coming in! And there’s a fish with two heads outside my window, and it looks hungry!”

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

The Alchemist ground his teeth but controlled himself. “Forthwith, my prodigy, forthwith!”

Isabella smiled in mock sweetness. “Thanks, Dad.” And close.

“Curses!” breathed the Alchemist. “This has ruined the mood!”

He looked down. The gnome grinned up at him.

The Alchemist beheaded it with a spiteful knock to the table edge.

Bellows, crucible, slime, tongs, alembic, cucurbit, and receiver later, and the same glowing cerulean blessed the baluster before him. The Alchemist took the glass, high uplit face glacial blue, and turned to the assembled throng.

“Behold, my brethren! The Elixir of Life! Now, don’t be shy. Who shall be the first to taste eternity?”

If you can imagine a mad crush forwards, what happened amongst the assembled druids was the exact opposite, but, after a violent scuffle, the smallest amongst them was forcefully propelled out of line and into Alchemisterial orbit.

“Welcome, worthy volunteer!” smiled the Alchemist. Pouring a generous measure of elixir into a spoon, he advanced. “Come! It is time! Drink! Drink!”

Pinned against the unrelenting white wall at his back, the druid had nowhere to run. He grimaced, but took his medicine like a good bairn.

The Alchemist nodded. “Mmmh. Good. Now, my immortal friend... How do you feel?”

The druid nodded agreeably. Not so bad, really. Could use a little sweetness...

The Alchemist smiled approvingly. “Excellent!” Calmly, he drew his pistol, and fired.

The druid dropped to the floor.

The Alchemist spread his pinions. “And now?”

The druid sat up, and patted himself down! He was alive. He was actually alive!

“Behold!” cried the Alchemist, “It works! It actually works! Immortality is achieved! Return to Stonehenge, my druids! Tell the elders of my success!”

The Archdruid breathed a huge sigh of relief. The druids were ecstatic: dancing and clapping and whirling in circles – it looked like they were actually going to make it out of this in one piece! The Archdruid’s head jerked pointedly towards the exit. The resurrected druid was raised high and, as one, they gyrated from the room.146

Except two, rather awkward-looking specimens, who tarried, shuffling their feet (one presumes it was their feet – there seemed to be rather too many), beneath the hems of their cloaks.

The Alchemist raised his brow from the glowing confection before him. “Yes? Something troubles you, my perturbacious polytheists?”

The smaller of the two druids coughed, summoning up the courage: “Yeah, we was just wondering... how you plans to keep it safe? The Elixir, we mean?”

“Yeah!” the larger additionned. “’Case some ne’er-do-wells were to find out it was here and wanted to... pur-loin it... or some’ink...”

The smaller: “Ticket to im-mortality’s gotta fetch a pretty penny, right? I mean, if it gets into the wrong paws—I mean hands...”

The Alchemist let them finish. His expression had not changed; it was not even clear if he was still breathing. “How interesting!” he said at last. “You speak. I thought the vows were in perpetuam, even sub poena mortis, and quite possibly in gratuitum extremus!”

“Yeah,” the larger again, “well, we-er, got a dispensation...”

“A dispensation?” echoed the Alchemist.

“Yeah!” the smaller. “For good behaviour! In haviourus... benebone!”

The Alchemist nodded sagely. “I see. How enterprising! As for the Elixir – fear not, it shall be quite safe! Come! I’ll show you!”

The Alchemist led them up a spiral staircase to the highest (deepest) tower of Nonsuch, that of the onion dome. A formidable lead door lay upon a landing at the top. Producing an equally formidable key, the Alchemist wrenched the door ajar. He then realised he hadn’t used the key yet, closed the door gingerly, locked it, then unlocked it, and opened it again.

The room beyond looked like it had been rented out to the mother of all spiders, and she was not a tidy tenant: the attic was criss-crossed with a dizzying hatchwork of red dyed threads; motes drifted through beams of light from the many tiny windows, adding to the dissevering angles. Just visible at the heart of the web, was a hexagonal stone plinth.

The smaller of the two druids stretched out a paw...

“Careful!” hissed the Alchemist. “Do not touch the wires! One tremor, and the entire room is flooded in boiling mercury! Such is the fate of any who would filch the Elixir!”

“But–” ventured the larger, “’Owdya gets the ’lixir from here to theres?”

“Ah-ha!” said the Alchemist. “Like so!”

One would like to say that the Alchemist had memorised an imperceptibly subtle route through the byzantine maze. That he could perform it blindfolded, backwards, in a fog, with a frog. That he could bend like a Benedictine, contort like a consort, and twist like a Venetian.

Sadly, what actually followed was by turns awkward, embarrassing, and oddly disturbing. A slightly overweight, middle-aged man in a voluminous crimson cassock, cursing loudly as he zetaed, does not an acrobat or catherine-wheel make. The threads must have been shivered at least a dozen times before the Alchemist eventually made it to the central plinth.

“Fortunately, it is not armed at present!” called the Alchemist, by way of explanation, and placed the Elixir upon the plinth. The room took on a bluish hue. “The plinth is now armed and set to the Elixir’s precise weight! If it were to be removed, even upset by as much as a barleycorn, the mercury is triggered at once!”

The Alchemist returned to them, the earlier debacle in reverse. Somewhat miraculously, he survived. “There!” he panted. “Easy when you know how! You see! The Elixir is quite safe! Besides which, nobody, but nobody, even knows it’s here! Except you two, my most confidential co-conspirators!”

The Alchemist placed a hand on each of their shoulders.147 “Now, of you twain, I do beg favour in return. I seek the counsel of the elders! Beseech them of a divination! For I seek that most propitious moment when I shouldst administer most sacred unction to the gaping wound of man’s mortal frailty! Get thee to Stonehenge, and return forth forthwith with appointed hour and day!”

The two acolytes bowed, and made their way back down the stairs, as the Alchemist wrestled with the broken door.

They waited until they were well out of earshot before they spoke: “This ain’t good, Scratchfella! The boss ain’t gonna like this! Not one bit! If that Elixir is half as good as it looks...”

“Aw, the Alchemist ain’t gonna do not’ing until we gets back! He’s waiting on our word, remember? Forth and with and what-have-yus!”

“Yeah, we caught a break, I’ll give you that! But he’s not gonna wait forever! If we don’t appear and give him the oakey-day, he’ll just send someone else!”

“Ah, the boss’ll know what to do! Come on! He’s gonna wanna hear this – porshonally...”