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“This uncertainty will poison all my happiness,” the doctor muttered, his voice trembling. “I shall live in constant dread of an invisible enemy. But no matter! Perpetual life! Perpetual youth! What more could one desire?”
“What more, indeed?” Anthony replied, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Doctor Morehouse started, as if just remembering Anthony’s presence. He swiftly concealed the phial beneath his cloak.
“Your caution is futile, doctor,” Anthony continued. “I heard everything. You believe you’ve discovered the elixir of life.”
“Believe?” Doctor Morehouse barked a bitter laugh. “The matter is beyond doubt. I possess the wondrous secret, the miraculous preservative against decay that philosophers have sought for centuries.”
“The man who brought me here said you were my kinsman,” Anthony said, his voice now laced with suspicion. “Is that true?”
“It is,” replied the doctor, his tone softening. “And now, you shall learn the connection between us. Look at that ghastly relic,” he added, pointing to the head protruding from the bag. “That was my son Simon. His son’s head is within the sack—your father’s head—uniting four generations.”
“Gracious Heaven!” Anthony gasped, raising himself on his elbow. “You are my great-grandsire? My father thought you died in his infancy. There’s an old family tale that you were charged with sorcery and fled to avoid the stake.”
“It’s true that I fled and took a new name,” the old man confessed, his voice heavy with regret. “But the charge of sorcery was false. I devoted myself to the deepest sciences, communing with the stars and uncovering Nature’s hidden secrets. But I have committed two crimes, both of which I hope have been expiated by repentance.”
“Were they deeds of blood?” Anthony asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“One was,” the doctor replied, shuddering. “A cowardly and treacherous deed, tainted by base ingratitude. Listen, and you shall hear how it happened. A Roman rabbi named Ben Lucca, skilled in hermetic science, came to this city. His fame reached me, and I sought him out, offering myself as his disciple. For months, I stayed with him in his laboratory, working at the furnace, poring over mystic lore. One night, he showed me that volume,” he gestured to the book, “and pointed to a page within it. ‘Those characters,’ he said, ‘contain the secret of the elixir of life. I will explain them to you, and then we shall proceed with the operation.’ He unfolded the mystery but warned that the menstruum was defective in one aspect, leaving some hidden peril. With what greediness I drank in his words! What visions of perpetual youth and pleasure floated before me! At that moment, a demon whispered in my ear, ‘This secret must be yours alone. No one else must possess it.’”
“Ha!” exclaimed Anthony, recoiling.
“The evil thought was no sooner conceived than acted upon,” the doctor continued, his voice hollow. “I drew my dagger and plunged it into the rabbi’s heart. But as his blood spilled onto the book, it obliterated the characters, and I could not recall the composition of the elixir by any effort of memory.”
“When did you regain the secret?” Anthony asked, his curiosity overcoming his horror.
“Tonight,” replied the doctor, his eyes gleaming. “Within this very hour. For fifty years, I conducted fruitless experiments. A film of blood obscured my mental sight. I proceeded through calcination, solution, putrefaction—producing oils to fix crude mercury, to transform all substances into sol and luna—but I failed to ferment the stone into the true elixir. Tonight, I thought to wash the bloodstained page with a subtle liquid. Doubting the experiment’s efficacy, I left it to work while I sought fresh air by the window. Gazing upwards, I noted the malignant aspect of my star. How this reconciles with my newfound success, I do not know. It was at this moment your rash but pious attempt occurred. Discovering our relationship, I instructed the gatekeeper to bring you here. When I returned to my laboratory, I was astonished to see the page free of blood!”
Anthony uttered a small exclamation, gazing at the book with superstitious awe.
“The sight was so shocking that I dropped the sack I had brought with me,” Darcy continued, his voice trembling. “Terrified of losing the secret again, I steeled myself and added more fuel to the fire. I dismissed my attendant with hurried instructions about you. Then, I set to work. How I have succeeded, you can see. I hold in my hand the treasure I have sought for so long—so eagerly coveted. The wealth of the entire world could not purchase it from me.”
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Anthony gazed intently at his aged relative but remained silent.
“In a few moments, I shall be as full of vigor and activity as you,” Darcy continued, his eyes gleaming with mad anticipation. “We will no longer be great-grandsire and descendant, but friends—companions—equals, equals in age, strength, activity, beauty, fortune—for youth is fortune—ha! ha! I feel young already!”
“You spoke of two crimes that burden your conscience,” Anthony remarked, his voice low and cautious. “You have mentioned only one.”
“The other was not as foul as the one I described,” Darcy said, his tone changing, becoming almost melancholic. “It was unintentional and driven by no base motive. My wife, your ancestress, was a most lovely woman. I was so passionately enamored of her that I tried every art to heighten and preserve her beauty. I fed her on the flesh of capons nourished with vipers, steeped her limbs in baths distilled from roses and violets, and used the most potent cosmetics. At last, I prepared a draught from poisons—yes, poisons—that I believed would have wondrous effects. She drank it and died horribly disfigured. Imagine my despair at seeing the fair image of my idolatry destroyed—defaced by my own hand. In my frenzy, I would have ended my own life had I not been restrained. Love may again rule my heart—beauty may again dazzle my eyes, but I shall never feel the passion I had for my lost Amice—never see charms equal to hers.”
He pressed his hand to his face, as if trying to hide from the memory.
“The mistake you made then should serve as a warning,” Anthony said, his voice steady. “What if this is poison? Test a few drops on an animal.”
“No—no; it is the true elixir,” Darcy insisted. “Not a drop must be wasted. You will witness its effect soon. Like the snake, I shall shed my old skin and emerge younger than I was at twenty.”
“In the meantime, I beg you to help me,” Anthony groaned, pain evident in his voice. “While you prepare for immortality, I may die before your eyes.”
“Do not fear,” Darcy replied, almost dismissively. “You shall take no harm. I will care for you shortly, and I understand leechcraft well enough to guarantee your speedy recovery.”
“Drink, then!” Anthony urged.
“I know not what stays my hand,” Darcy said, raising the phial. “Now that immortality is within my grasp, I dare not seize it.”
“Give me the potion, then,” Anthony demanded.
“Not for the world,” Darcy replied, clutching the phial to his chest. “No; I will be young again—rich—happy. I will bask in the smiles of beauty, feast, revel, sing—life shall be a perpetual round of enjoyment. Now for the trial—ha!” As he raised the potion to his lips, a sudden pang shot through his heart. “What is this?” he cried, staggering. “Can death assail me when I am about to achieve perpetual life? Help me, good grandson! Place the phial to my lips. Pour its contents down my throat—quick! quick!”
“I am too weak to move,” Anthony groaned. “You have delayed too long.”
“Oh, heavens! We shall both perish,” Darcy shrieked, his arm failing him. “Perish with the blissful shore in view.”
He sank backward, catching at the terrestrial sphere for support.
“Help me—help me!” he screamed, his eyes wide with unutterable anguish.
“It is worth the struggle,” Anthony muttered, summoning all his strength to rise and stagger towards the old man.
“Saved—saved!” Darcy shrieked. “Pour it down my throat. An instant, and all will be well.”
“Do you think I have done this for you?” Anthony snarled, snatching the potion. “No—no.”
Supporting himself against the furnace, he placed the phial to his lips and eagerly drained its contents. Darcy seemed paralyzed by the action, watching in horror as Anthony drank the elixir to the last drop. The old man let out a piercing cry, threw up his arms, and collapsed heavily.
Dead—dead!
Flashes of light danced before Anthony’s eyes, and strange noises filled his ears. Bewildered as if drunk, he laughed and sang discordantly. Objects reeled and danced around him. Glass vessels clashed together, yet remained unbroken; the furnace exhaled flames and noxious vapors; the spiral worm of the alembic glowed red-hot, seemingly filled with molten lead; the pipe of the bolt-head ran blood; the sphere of the earth rolled across the floor, rebounding from the walls as if struck by a giant hand; skeletons grinned and gibbered; the death’s head on the table and the skulls in the chimney joined in the macabre chorus; the monstrous sea-fish belched fire and smoke; the decapitated head opened its eyes, fixing a stony glare on the young man; the dead alchemist shook his hand menacingly.
Unable to bear these accumulated horrors, Anthony fainted. When he regained consciousness, all was still. The lamp had gone out, but moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the rigid features of the unfortunate alchemist and the cabalistic characters of the open volume beside him.
Eager to test the elixir’s effect, Anthony touched his side. The wound was gone; he felt no pain. On the contrary, he seemed endowed with supernatural strength. His chest swelled with rapture, and he longed for motion.
Striding over the body of his aged relative, he threw open the window. Joyous peals rang from the surrounding churches, announcing the new year.
As he listened, Anthony gazed at the moonlit city stretched before him.
“A hundred years from now,” he thought, “scarcely a soul within those houses will live, save myself. A hundred years after that, their descendants will be gone to the grave. But I shall live on—through all changes—all customs—all time. What revelations I shall have to make, if I dare to disclose them!”
As he mused, a skeleton hanging nearby swayed in the wind, its bony fingers brushing his cheek. A dreadful idea struck him.
“There is one peril to avoid,” he thought; “ONE PERIL!—what is it? Pshaw! I will think no more of it. It may never arise. I must leave this place—it fevered me.”
With that, he left the laboratory. Descending the stairs, he found Flapdragon at the foot and passed out of the house into the night.