The Space Between

By: Daalo Posted on: November 08, 2011

I watched Renauld hasten across the masonry. The others had convened, and had chosen I to gain his confidences. Perhaps because I was young, and needed proving. Perhaps because the others were afraid of what Renauld had become. Years ago, they said, he had been eminent. Some even said it was he who had developed the first Philosopher's Stone. Such things are just rumors now; the truth is lost to the ether. Perhaps I had been chosen because I was the only Mhun of the Cauda Pavonis. Perhaps I could not escape my heritage. I watched Renauld stumble on a wayward stone, saw his books and papers - clutched so dearly in desperate hands - rush away from him like vellum doves. I hurried over as he frantically scrambled to collect his things, his piercing, furtive looks startling the tranquil morn. I took a knee and began collecting papers. "Here," I said, "let me help you."

"That is enough! That is enough! Do not look!" he shouted, his eyes wide and white. The corners of his mouth cradled froths of spittle, his lips open, his breath heavy. His skin shone pale, glaucous and sickly. The Grook do not ever look well to me, but Renauld was a specter. I stood, retreating steadily. His eyes never left mine. He finished collecting his things, cursing loudly as he carried away the mess of papers and tomes. I turned away, smiling, now holding within my hands a journal, freshly filched.

Back in the Cauda Pavonis, back in my dismal, neophyte chambers, the thin light of morning pricked my bedchamber's dark, whirls of dust dancing naked all around. Phials of pine and cedar strewn the floor; nearby, haphazard clumps of lead and salt. Cracked tomes and crumpled letters littered what little space there was. My feline, Nicodemus, lay curled, black and slumbrous, on the sill. It is said to be wise for us to keep pets, a marker in Creation that we not find ourselves lost mad to the ether. Worrisome powers we wield. It is perhaps no wonder that the others wish me to keep account of Renauld. The Empire is changing, they say. We are no longer needed. We are no longer welcome. An outburst from a man like Renauld could mean certain banishment. Could mean the end of alchemy in Seleucar. We will become but a rumor, another truth gone in the ether. I must discover his secrets. I must save us. I opened the worn, dog-eared journal before me, and recoiled from what I saw. Staring from a mess of inky scratches and sable scrawl, were two unformed eyes, unflinching in gaze, terrifying in imposition. They were indiscernible from the surrounding inked mess, but there was no doubt of their distinction. I shivered. Grasping my wits, I clutched the page, ripping it from the journal. But it was again! The eyes, melting in black, staring so vividly. My self disappeared, my sensations gone blank, those vile orbs foisting their ill upon me, swallowing actuality. Again, I ripped away the page, but there was no end to the maddened dark. Forever I ripped away, and forever that black scrutiny unwound my breath. I cried out and flung the journal from my desk, collapsing to the floor.

A knock came to my door, wresting me awake. My legs and arms ached, my neck stuck sore. How much time had been? A knock came again.
"Martier," said a muffled voice, "you must come quickly. Renauld is dead!"

In the main chambers, a collection of alchemists had gathered. The air carried voices hushed and numerous as butterflies' wings. For none could comprehend, nor perhaps imagine, the cause of the gruesome corpse which lay, stretched and bleeding, on the table before them.

"...plucked his own flesh..."

"...nefarious experiments..."

"...his homunculus..."

"...the savagery..."

"Martier!"

The man who had appointed me to follow Renauld strode forward from the throng. Dwarves, when angered, frighten me more than the Black Wave. As such, I was petrified. Klausius' stocky legs thrust him swiftly in my direction, and he grasped my thin arm by his corpulent fingers.
"What in Sarapis' name happened?" he hissed, dragging me from the room.

"You're hurting me!"

Klausius flung me into the hallway. "An alchemist is ad mortem, and you are crying over an arm? I will break your damn arm, and you will beg me to renew it!" He clutched my arm again, his curly umber beard scratching against my face. "Or perhaps a reconstructive is what you will need once I am through with you." His hand squeezed tighter. "Now tell me what happened, or by Shaitain, you shall fear me." He whipped me away from himself.

I stared at him, seething. Every Mhun knows there comes a day for our justice, but it was not here, not now. I rubbed my arm, and told Klausius what I knew. I told him of Renauld's wild eyes and sickly skin, and of that terrible journal. Klausius blinked, as if something were caught in his eye, and turned without a word, striding back into the hall. Suddenly, the voices of the hall struck up, fearful and deriding.

"Renauld was mad! It cannot be true."

"That does mean his madness is non veritas. We must heed his warnings!"

"But we have no choice! Already, the Empire does not require us. They look to the forestals now. We are of no use!"

"The world will always need alchemy! Our skills are too great; people cannot be so foolish."

"Artaius will surely let us remain in the city. He is a philosopher, and appreciates what we do!"

Klausius' voice rang through the uttering melee: "Gentlemen, gentlewomen, please! Quiet!" The crowd calmed as I crept to the door and peered into the chamber. "We," continued Klausius, "must come to a logical, understood conclusion, or we will become as scattered as the Occultists. Now, we are all well aware of how our presence is no longer as necessary as it once was. The forestals are able to make more comestible remedies, and with greater availability. Our tonics and balms do no more than their elixirs and salves, thus we can no longer compete. We must, therefore, decide on a course of action for the alchemists, and for the Cauda Pavonis." The clammer of voices quickly rose again. I retreated to my quarters.

The crumpled, torn sheets of paper still covered the floor, the journal open and slack-jawed against my orrery. Nicodemus looked up from his position on my bed, meowing softly. I stroked the feline's head, listening to his rumbling purr. I stared at the pages on the floor, now so innocent, so powerless. But the others had been speaking of something, something which terrified them. I had seen Renauld's corpse, the fresh stains of missing flesh, the blood-sticky fingers -- his eyes, even, had been plucked from his head. By Babel, the eyes! I leapt from my bed, scrambling to retrieve one of the pages from Renauld's notebook. I unwound the black sheet, and the foul orbs stared forth still, stark and straining. Again, I felt the pull, of my very self drawn, 'til I would be one with the blackness afore me, 'til there existed nothing besides the promises of dark. I would certainly not now be me if Nicodemus had not rubbed herself against my knee, pulling me from the trance. I clutched her close, kissing the back of her head, and darted from the room. For, unlike the others gathered below, I knew where Renauld had worked.

I ran as fast as my legs could move, my robes flapping behind me like the cracking of a sail. Though Renauld had kept home at the Cauda Pavonis, he did not work there, for obvious reason. Many of the others distrusted Renauld's work; they thought his experiments had become morbid, objectionable. My legs pumped onward, through Seleucar, towards the small house he rented in the subdivision. The man who had once been a genius, they said, had crossed the thin line and fallen into the inescapable madness. I charged up the stairs of Renauld's house, slamming my fist into the door. The hinges creaked open under the hammer of my hand. I placed the flat of my palm against the door, easing ajar the opening. I could see a chaotic strewing of tomes and papers and journals and quills throughout the foyer. Scraps of food, puddles of tonic, and smears of balm dirtied everywhere the room. I called to the inside, but there came no reply. I swept into the house and shut the door behind me. Knowing not any order to the bedlam before me, I started at the closest scrap of paper, trying to discover what I could. Most of the things I came across were nothing more than scribbles or abstract drawings. Many of the tomes were published texts, most from the library -- even a copy of the Mythos. I worked my way through everything, hoping to miss nothing, hoping to not miss that vital clue which would unravel Renauld's mystery. Everything, however, seemed mundane, or otherwise absurd. It was so until I came upon an anonymous journal. I pocketed it, and continued searching, but in the hours afterwards, came nothing else significant. The journal was written in the warbling Grook tongue, which I knew not. Borbit did though. I left everything in the house as it were (save the journal), and fled. Borbit lived in Ulangi, which was no small feat of travel. Rather, it would have been no small feat had I not friends of Silvestri.

"Pauk, my friend!"

"Martier! How are you?"

I clasped Pauk as best a Mhun can embrace a six-foot, scaled, fire-breathing lizard-man. I still wonder how such a beast came to be an initiate of Silvestri, but they say fun transcends it all.

"Pauk, I need your help," I said.

"Of course, Martier. What's the offer?"

"A bag of salt for a Universe to Ulangi."

Pauk stroked his scaly chin, his tongue slipping out every now and again. He always pretended to consider the deal, but never once had he turned me down. The Xoran smiled, holding out a strong, taloned claw. "Deal!" he said.

"Great! But let's not shake on it..."

A moment of whirling magic later, we two were in Ulangi.

"I'll wait here," said Pauk, "but don't take long, or you're takin' the ferry."

I nodded and ran off into the swamp.

As an apprentice alchemist, I was expected to befriend the tutors of Sapience, that were there any scholarship I required, I would have the means. That included tutors of each race, that of each I might learn history and particular knowledge. Having such varied scholars available also proved useful in times such as these.

Borbit was there, where he always was, teaching an Atavian the segments of the Grook language. "Borbit!" I shouted, waving the journal, "I need your help." The old Grook ceased speaking, frowning at me from around the Atavian, who had also turned in sour expression.

"I am busy, boy."

"I do not care, I will pay you what you want." I slapped the journal onto the table. "You must translate this immediately."

Borbit snorted, retrieving the journal and flipping through its pages. "Fine," he said, "but it will cost 5,000 gold, and will take a day."

"Done!" I said, leaving the Grook to his work. I did not have 5,000 gold, but he did not know. I might be able to convince Klausius to pay, but that could come later. I was only interested in a singular thing, and that could probably be had without having the money first. I returned to my room at the Cauda Pavonis, but there was no tranquility to be found there. Besides, there was ever the presence of those hateful eyes scattered about my floor. I fled my quarters and wandered through Seleucar. Yet still no peace was to come. I could not lose myself wandering among the markets, nor drown myself in mutton chops. Even from the observatory, staring into the stars, did I not find solitude. The night I spent, from one to the next, vehemently trying to remove myself from interest, to lose my curiosity amongst the trivial. To no avail. When dawn finally came - blushing arrows breaking from Lady Sol's golden bow - I took the beginning of the long journey to Ulangi. Even then, step after weary step to Shastaan, and then on the melodic, lullaby ferry, my mind would not rest. I returned to Borbit, feverish in want, sleepless in night.

"You have the gold, boy?"

I nodded.

"Show me."

I pulled a pouch filled with bits of lead from my belt, jangling it softly.

"Give it to me," said Borbit.

"I want to see it first. To make sure it's right."

Borbit picked up one of the journals, sneering. "Of course it's right."

I snatched the journal from his hand, rifling to the last page, and fervently read.

"4th of Phaestian, --- year of the Seleucarian Empire:
I have borne my wariness for too long. I have held fear too near my bosom. No longer can I but conjecture at the mad ramblings of my homunculi. What is it they see in the ether? What is there, haunting them, haunting me? Perhaps it is the displacement itself which unnerves them, which harms them so disturbingly. I feel utterly culpable in their ill treating, that I have abstained from healing myself for the flesh I take to make them. They are children, innocent, and willingly I send them to madness. How many have I murdered now, at their clutching behest? Dozens, surely. But what is it they see? What horror do they witness? Is it what I believe? Can their maundering be true? This day, I will know, for I shall ply my homunculus' eyes. This day, I will look into the ether, and wonder no more."