Nostrum

1 - The Mountaineer and the Witch

    It was early in the spring that Aleister Crowley put up his feet in the leather chair in my drawing room, still weighted heavily with the tools of his trade: a motley collection of ropes, hooks, ice picks, hand axes, regular axes, lanterns, pots, pans, and several of the beards one only obtains in the Wild Lands. I think he had been somewhere in the Indies, but I'd forgotten to ask. He was gaunt beneath his curly, sun-kissed hair and his skin appeared to be a single human-shaped callus.
    "How do you feel?" I said. The spring rain - still frozen - beat softly on my roof and leaked in through the casements.
    He puffed up and then exhaled. "At peace. You should go. Before you get too old."
    "Sure. But what about the apothecary?"
    He laughed. "Well, you'd have to close it, of course. Life calls, you know?"
    "Yes yes."
    "Surely you want something more than this." He waved at the room in an effeminate, dismissive way. I was uncertain whether to take offense at how easily he brushed off everything that defined my life.
    "I expect I do."
    "What is it you want, Gerald? ...If you didn't have the apothecary."
    "Honestly?"
    "It's me."
    "I'd kind of like to live forever."
    He cackled. "Most wouldn't say it's a calling, but I'll give it to you." He filled his pipe with a plant I'd never seen before and lit up. "Well, no time like the present to start working that out. You still have your health and most of your wits left. Not a bad vessel in which to set sail for eternity."
    "I suppose I do have a few wits left to expend." He passed me the pipe.
    It wasn't long before the bookshelves began to bend. Aleister launched into a lenghty recounting of his mountaineering escapades, of which I remember little. There were frozen limbs, natives amorous and vengeful by turns [Aleister has always inspired either love or hatred in everyone he meets. I was perhaps an exception to this rule.], betrayals, lost comrades, and anything else that might fit neatly in the pages of a romance. I listened with skepticism, yet knew that it was all true anyway.
    I admit to an acute sense of the smallness of my own life, trapped in my apartments with only the detritus of my studies and trade. Much as I preferred things this way, I told Al how I wished to expand into the universe, physically if possible. He was quite positive, of course. "What you want is transcendence, right? It comes in many forms, each with many avenues of pursuit."
    I knew well what he was trying to say, and I began to map them in my head. Circuits of passage were forming, transits around an across a great sea. I filed away certain items of my own collection to refer to later that very night. My gaze drifted down to the gloved fingers of my right hand. "Aleister..." I said. There was a silence while I searched for the words. "Do you remember the point in your life when you became who you were?"
    He scratched his cheek for a moment. "I...think I know what you mean." He attempted to fold his legs beneath him, realized they were too long for the chair, and simply leaned forward instead. "I do, in fact, remember the moment when I became myself."
    "When was it?"
    "When I realized that no one was going to help me get what I want." Beyond the windows, the rain intensified.
    I nodded. It was an answer I would have to process on my own.
    "That reminds me," he said. "I brought gifts!"
    "Gifts?"
    "Yes. Curios, souvenirs. Gifts." He removed a parcel from his pack and untied the twine. The cloth fell open. "This is a book."
    "I can see that."
    "I know how much you like books."
    "Everyone does."
    "This book....is said to be a thousand years old."
    He handed it to me. It was only just larger than my hand, bound in treated wood, with pages of animal hide. I opened it. Carefully, of course. "How did you come across such a thing?"
    "It was given to me by a Sumatran merchant."
    "Given to you? Just like that?"
    Aleister puffed on his pipe again and shrugged. "He said he wanted it out of his collection, and no one was interested in buying. I don't suppose he knew many collectors of old English works like yourself. I was able to bargain him down to the reasonable price of nothing."
    "Old Welsh. It looks fascinating. Thank you, Aleister."
    "Wait until you see the rest!" He held up a tooth longer than his own skeletal fingers.  "This comes from an aquatic animal of some sort."
    "Not a shark tooth?"
    "Definitely not a shark. This bastard reared up over the starboard railing right in the middle of a storm, and closed its jaws over the torso of the man next to me. I drove my cutlass straight into its writhing gums! All that did was drive it back into the sea, sailor in tow. It left a couple of teeth behind, though." I looked on with interest, still running my finger across a page of the open book.
    "This!" he said, picking up a glass case of herbs. "Is one of the finest plants ever to pass through my pipe. We're only smoking the second finest tonight. And I know you like plants."
    "Almost as much as books."
    "Quite right!" He set the case down and picked up a glass bead of a brilliant purple. "This one is....just a glass bead..."
    "I doubt it is just anything."
    "....given to me by Queen Supayalat."
    "As a keepsake, clearly. Perhaps you should keep it."
    He frowned and looked beyond his years for a moment. "You should take it." He handed it off to me immediately as if it were burning his fingers. I did not argue. It was unusual not to hear a story from Aleister when it was clear that one lurked within. This one was only for himself, apparently.
    With a blink, he covered his melancholy and was his outward self again. "Last one on the list! I've saved the best for last, though I sense that book may be your personal favorite."
    "You have my undivided attention," I said, the open book still in my lap.
    "This--" he paused longer than usual before holding up a chunk of crimson gemstone, "is a fragment of the Philosopher's Stone."
    I laughed. "How much did you pay for this nonsense?"
    He grinned right back. "Pay? Nothing. I stole it."
    I took it from him and held it up to the light. "Now this one, you will have to tell me."
    "But of course: At the center of the Karakum Desert, we happened upon a tribe of zealots who had taken up residence in an ancient temple...."
    I listened on into the night, my right hand still resting on the book.

    Aleister had left long after the midnight oil, when the weed and spirits were finally gone. I could not resist the urge to test out this supposed finest plant, and it seemed only right to include him. It did not disappoint. My friend's tales were told with contagious enthusiasm, not the least because I sensed in Aleister a deep affection for humankind; a passion which I myself lacked. He was a complement to my own personality in that I could latch on like a remora and appreciate the journey of those passions from a safe distance. What he got out of my friendship, I'll never know.
    Hours later, still awake and with no thoughts of sleep in my head, the rain reached my ears as a glittering static held at bay by the walls of my library. I sat amidst several stacks of alchemical treatises and volumes on Mediterranean history; yet two items were of the greatest concern. The book. As far as I had read at the time, it appeared to be the diary of a young woman; one whom I had already classified as a natural philosopher, based on the many drawings and diagrams contained within. [My heart jumped toward the volume on seeing an illustration of adenium obesum, beautifully rendered from taproot to petals.] The second item of concern, I had told no one about. I had taken to wearing gloves at all times to hide the streaks of black flesh that stretched out onto my right hand, swelling the skin around them. Whatever it was, the flesh glittered like scales in the lamplight, and sometimes I thought I could see it pulse out of the corner of my eye.
    Until well after sunrise, I tasked myself with translating the first section of the diary. I will include it here, in its heavily modified form. You will, I hope, forgive me any liberties I take with the prose. Though the point is moot, as none but me have access to the original text. Nevertheless, I will do my best to preserve her voice within my own, as much as any middle-aged, 19th century man can hope to imitate the style of a young woman of the 7th century.

The Diary of Gwen

    Gildas is an imbecile. A pious man; but a horrid, feckless bore. But things being as they are, he has managed to rile up the rest against me. Hardly a difficult task, when they listen to whoever speaks loudest. And that man is a fat, fleshy-legged war horn, braying about sin all night and day. I wish Maelgwn had the guts to shut him up for good.
    This is all because Bergam relapsed and, of course, blamed it on me. Same fever again, sames sores as before, but this time it was because I cursed him, not because he's a sickly bastard who can't remember to take his medicine. And somehow that creep got a look at the dark spots that have been spreading up my side these past weeks, that I keep covered at all times, and that have been seen on no one else and are clearly not contagious. So yesterday, there was a crowd gathered outside my door, Gildas at their head shouting as always. Calling me a witch, shouting that I was the lost child of black-faced Gwyn of the underworld, and whatever other streams of nonsense occurred to him. It's when he started talking about Mother that I almost cut his throat right in front of that crowd.
    Granted, I did put a hex on him, but it didn't seem to take, and no one's complaining about that. The man is constantly shedding what's left of his hair, so it was easy enough to pluck some from my own floor and boil it with a bit of rabbit intestine.
    I'm back, now that the crowd has disappeared, long enough to gather my things and be gone before they decide to hang me. There is little to take. I cannot just leave Mother here. I gathered a vial of dirt from her grave, right by the white brook of my namesake, possibly at the same exact spot where Father died.
    I must leave the flock. I can take one kid with me, but the rest will likely be eaten when the town finds me gone. I will disperse them into the woods as much as I can, and hope they can make it on their own. Perhaps my reputation will be enough to save them from slaughter. Cadfael will come with me. He is my favorite if I must choose. He can walk on his own, and is still small enough to sling over my back if necessary. His horns are just starting to come in. If I'm honest, he isn't much use to me. I have measured my own worth to my satisfaction, and concluded that I will die before eating him. But perhaps we can find a better place for him. I could do with a little company in the coming weeks.
    I am ready to leave this blighted home behind for good. And I already know where to go.
    I've spotted the spots on my arm, now. Not on my hand, so they are easy to hide, but up and down my forearm. I do not understand. I feel right as rain, and there is no pain or even irritation in their vicinity. Only in the past couple days have they begun to glitter like polished oyster shell turned to soft flesh. I almost feel that if I looked long enough I could see something within them, but then I must turn my eyes away in disgust. Best to forget about them for the time being. I am only reminded when I must bathe. Then, a vague fear grips me that they might burst open and bring something forth into the world, though they are clearly not blisters or anything of the sort.

---

    You can understand why this last bit grabbed me so. The description she gave of her affliction was all too familiar, and the coincidence struck me with the night's last peal of thunder. My mind sparked with anticipation even as my body finally drifted to sleep, still perched in an armchair. My dreams were seeded with the imagery Gwen had evoked, swirls of fog and howling faces escaping from the sores on my arm, seizing control of my fingers. A restless sleep, though none of the dreams woke me. They were also fascinating, regardless of their content. The personal fears of a stranger who had been dead for a thousand years had become my own dreams. Miraculous. As I woke, it was easy to believe what I had once been told by a wise (but quite rude) acquaintance; that language was the only true alchemy.
    The next morning, Crowley called early and found me as I was headed out the door. My mind was occupied with Gwen's diary and what I might glean from it. But there were other things that I had promised myself I would take care of. Best to get them out of the way early, and reserve more of my day for the important work (reading). In any case, it was easy to pass my errand off as a mundane house call, on which I was glad of Aleister's company. And having just returned home, he found himself idle. No doubt an alien feeling for one such as him, so used to being surrounded by whirlwinds of activity. We walked the streets slowly, and found ourselves discussing what we saw; myself as a long-term resident who lived in it, and he having just returned from foreign shores, and prone to fits of moral pontification and moral outrage. The streets of broken brick and puddles of mud. The worn or abandoned houses scattered among the rest. The degrading air quality. The number of sickly people in the streets, and the carriage drivers who cracked whips at their heads just as they would at a herd of cattle. All of which led inevitably to the society behind, above, or around them.
    "Real change will happen only when we reach a critical mass of dissatisfaction," he was saying. "Regardless of public opinion, there are too many of us who still sup at the teat of injustice. We will not risk losing that meal. It must be taken from us first."
    "I'm amazed at you, Aleister. How you can wine and dine with queens in one sentence, then sound as if you want their heads removed in the next?"
    "It is not the queens, or even the kings, my friend. They are people just like us. Not blind to injustice, like us. But also like us, they are beholden to the machine that feeds them. Only with a larger portion size."
    "From whence comes evil, then?"
    "From you, from me, from none of us. The evil is inherent, arriving from all sources yet embodied in none. No cognitive dissonance necessary."
    "That sounds…difficult to fight against."
    "It is that."
    "I notice you choose to include yourself in those who benefit from the state of things you wish to change."
    "Of course. If I'm to speak of it at all, I must include myself." His exhaustion disappeared for the second it took him to wink and doff his hat at a passing lady. "It's the only way I can get these fools to listen to me, instead of puffing up like roosters."
    I laughed aloud. "And just like that, the mask has slipped."
    "Only for you, my friend. Only for you."
    In this way, we arrived at the morning's call; a dwelling between a fishmonger and a pub that surely housed the used of society, not the users. It was a tall and gangly apartment building that looked to hold together because it could not be bothered to fall down. A trail of smoke, as wan as the building itself, twisted from the chimney, giving the impression of being an extension of the design; suggesting that the whole thing might be nothing but ash particulates, banding together and congealed into a familiar shape, by chance or malign purpose. Aside from ourselves, the one person I saw enter this trap was just as insubstantial. Part of the mirage, no doubt.
    I took a moment to explain my visit to Aleister, and that he might wish to stay out in the street. An elderly woman was quite ill and quite contagious. I myself donned a plague mask and already wore my gloves. He was amenable to the idea of not dying of a horrible disease. "That public house looks lively." He gestured to the building next to the house of smoke. "Find me there when you're finished."
    "It's a bit early. What is that, a morning cap?"
    "I've been in town nearly twelve hours without setting foot in one. Far too long, if you ask me."
    "I'll try to be quick, then."
    The interior hallways of the tenement were as dark and dreary as expected, though at least more substantial than the patient I was calling on. She looked as if the first draft to enter her room would disperse her like a cloud of dust. Fortunately, no air seemed to flow in or out of her apartment. I began to sweat beneath my mask almost immediately.
    I cannot now recall her name, only that she was old and widowed, and as sunny as one might expect. As I arrived, and as I departed, she sat in a chair by the only window as if waiting for something to occur. I examined the sores across her arms with as professional an air as I could muster; struck through as it was with a cringing sort of empathy that I struggled to keep from tipping into revulsion. Anyone in her situation could use a friendly presence, and I needed my bedside manner to make up for the countenance the mask presented. Bedside manners, or manners more generally, are not my strong suit.
    The truth was, neither of us expected anything good from this visit. It was a formality, but one I had kept up as the sickness had swept through the neighborhood over the preceding months. We both knew I could do nothing for her, yet we could believe that the practice would yield positive results in the future. Just not in her future...
    The other truth was that I had an ulterior, more personal reason to be there: the arm that I kept hidden. I needed to know what was happening to me. Though there were some similarities in the symptoms, and I could think of no point of comparison but the plague, there were too many differences. Other symptoms were lacking entirely. The sores were completely different, I felt none of the pain that the victims I interviewed complained about, and most died in a matter of weeks; whereas my own ailment had started months ago. Around the same time the pandemic had arrived in the city. And though I asked in roundabout ways, poked circuitously at the subject, none complained of nightmares that were out of the ordinary (for someone with a terminal illness).
    I could not say the same for myself. This was the note repeatedly scribbled in the margins of my other notes on every patient. I could not say the same for myself.