The Flesh Endures Read online

  As he walked past a dark and shuttered house, there was a stirring from a pile of filthy rags alongside the door. With his honed senses Karolan heard the rattling of diseased lungs and the sound of bare limbs scraping across the patch of dry path under the overhanging eaves.

  The Fetch gave a pleased chirrup and rushed forward, leaving a faint trembling in the air in its wake. In that same instant, Karolan caught the stench of sickness and decay. The pile of rags resolved itself into a man. A begging bowl was thrust under his nose and a whining voice intoned, ‘Will ye give alms, Master? For the love of God.’

  Aware of the Fetch’s antics as it flowed back and forth through the beggar, rapturously imbibing the miasma of human misery, Karolan averted his eyes from the ruined face. He was not unmoved by the ravaged pain-filled features and the suppurating hole where once there had been a nose, but the spirit’s enjoyment in such bleak fare prompted him to smile bitterly. If the beggar had known about the fiend who was bathing in the sickly energy emitting from his every pore, he would have been paralysed by horror.

  No, Karolan decided, looking more closely at the man and noting the wooden cross hanging on a piece of flax string about his scrawny neck, it was more likely that he would start babbling for forgiveness, imploring God and all his saints to come to his aid. It always amazed him that such suffering wretches held on to their faith, when he – with so many dubious advantages – had lost his. He saw with a faint stirring of pity that the threadbare rags were no protection against the sharp wind and did nothing to conceal the running sores which covered the skinny, cold-mottled limbs.

  Taking full advantage of the fact that Karolan had not walked straight past him, the beggar spoke again, his voice sounding rusty and unused.

  ‘Have pity, Master. The Lord will surely reward yer charity.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Karolan said dryly and dug into the leather purse which hung at his waist. ‘But you can say a prayer for my immortal soul if it so pleases you.’

  ‘I will, Master. To be sure. God bless you.’

  The beggar had missed the irony in his voice. At the thought of someone praying for him, Karolan threw back his head and laughed. What a fine joke that was. If God existed then he would have been struck down long ago. And as for Hell, there could be nothing worse than the life he was forced to endure. He moved forward and placed a hand on the beggar’s shoulder.

  ‘Surely you, my friend, can see that God is vengeful and capricious. At best He is totally indifferent to the suffering of men.’

  The beggar flinched away, alarmed both by the unexpected contact and Karolan’s words. Groping for the cross at his neck, he brought the wood to his lips.

  ‘Leave me in peace, Master. I ain’t done nothing.’ Backing away he lowered his bowl.

  Karolan had not meant to terrify the poor soul. He shrugged and tossed a coin into the air. It fell onto the path with a chinking noise. The beggar deliberated for a moment as if considering leaving the money untouched, then thought better of it. Stretching out a grimy paw, he scooped it up.

  ‘God is not mocked,’ he said stoutly as he loped off towards the open door of a tavern. ‘Those that stray from the path are welcomed back into the fold. I will pray for thee, Master.’

  Karolan grinned at this homespun philosophy. It was a fine irony indeed that the humblest beggar should feel himself capable of doing him a service. The man had even felt superior for a few moments. Chuckling to himself, Karolan moved on, aware of the Fetch following in his wake. It had been invigorated by its ingestion of pain and misery and there was a dull glow in the centre of its shadowy form. Having bathed it was eager for a more rewarding exchange of energies.

  Karolan felt its touch on his skin, probing, measuring the threads of desire within him, which had subsided but not disappeared. Its touch was a parody of a human caress, but welcome for all that. He felt the brush of lips against his mouth, warm and compelling, and a surge of renewed hunger blossomed in his belly.

  ‘I give you good solace, Master,’ it whispered. ‘Shall it be now?’

  Karolan closed his eyes briefly, tempted to slip into the alley between two houses and give himself up to the spirit’s ministrations. Clenching his teeth he said, ‘No. Later. Wait until we get back to the manor.’

  The Fetch chittered angrily and tugged at his hair before disappearing, its passing causing the air to shudder and fold in on itself. Karolan walked on alone, glad to be free of the demanding spirit for a time, but certain that it would reappear when he required its services.

  In a while he came to the inn where he had left his horse. The ostler led Darkus from his stall. Karolan paid the man and took hold of the reins, running his palm over the horse’s velvet nose and stroking the elegant head.

  ‘Fine animal,’ the ostler said, his glance sweeping over the palfrey’s glossy black coat and the high curve of his neck. Darkus’s mane hung down like a curtain of black threads. ‘Breed him yourself?’

  Karolan nodded as he swung himself into the saddle, thinking of the horse he had brought back with him from Arabia, another lifetime and more ago. That stallion had been the sire of a number of fine horses, culminating many equine generations later in the splendour of Darkus.

  ‘If ever you think of selling him . . .’

  ‘I’ll marvel at my own folly.’ Karolan lifted a hand in a wave as he exerted a slight pressure on the reins. Darkus wheeled and with smooth economy of movement navigated the small cobbled yard.

  As Karolan approached the outskirts of his land, the morning sun appeared behind the banked clouds as a band of russet light. Coppiced hazel bushes threw deep shadows across his path.

  He ran an eye over the fields with their ripe crops. It gave him a sense of satisfaction to see how much there would be to harvest. After five years of successive crop failure and animal murrains the price of bread and meat was well beyond the reach of most common men. There had been reports of starving people being reduced to eating cats and dogs.

  But his vassals had fared better than their neighbours. Karolan had instructed his steward to oversee the planting of oats, beans, and peas and to set aside only a moderate amount of land for wheat. A careful watch was set for the first signs of disease in sheep and cows and the afflicted animals were destroyed.

  So it was that when the wheat rotted in the field because of the high rainfall and high humidity, the oat crop thrived. And although there was a shortage of meat, enough cows remained to give milk.

  He urged Darkus to a canter and they passed along the edge of the strip fields and headed in the direction of the village. The squat shapes of the thatched crofts were in view, when a movement in the hedgerow caught Karolan’s eye and he drew the horse to a halt.

  A small boy, his fist screwed into one eye, peered up at Karolan.

  ‘Why abroad so early, Selwyn?’ Karolan said, smiling encouragingly.

  The lad looked scared out of his wits and was shivering in the early morning chill. His tunic and hosen of rough, home-spun wool were damp with dew. Bits of grass and twig were sticking out of his thatch of fair hair.

  ‘Steward says . . . as how I’m to hide here and watch the fields. And . . . and run for help if anyone comes thievin’. Harvest’s nigh on ready fer the gatherin’.’

  Karolan nodded. ‘Aye. Good lad,’ he said. ‘Have you been here all night?’ Selwyn nodded, his arms hugging his thin body against the cold.

  ‘Well then. Climb up behind me and I’ll take you to the manor house kitchen for a bowl of hot porridge and a sup of milk. I’ll tell Steward to send along another boy to watch the fields. You’ve done your duty, right enough.’

  The look of eagerness on Selwyn’s face was chased away by an expression of alarm as he looked up at the great horse. His eyes slid sideways to Karolan’s face and the colour rushed into his thin cheeks. Karolan understood the boy’s dilemma. While he longed for food to fill his empty belly and a fire to warm his bones, he was loath to sit on the horse. Besides, he would have to press hi
mself against his lord’s body and everyone knew that that was a more dangerous act by far. Karolan’s peasant vassals respected and trusted him, but they remained wary of him as if instinctively aware of his strangeness.

  ‘Do I look as if I’m going to eat you?’ Karolan said, grinning down at the boy. ‘Believe me, Selwyn, I’d pick a fatter morsel to dine on if I had a taste for such flesh!’

  Selwyn’s mouth twitched nervously then widened into a smile, showing uneven, yellowish teeth. Karolan leaned down and extended his arm. Selwyn gripped it with both hands.

  ‘Up with you, lad,’ he said and swung the boy up behind him.

  As Darkus started forward, Selwyn gave a gasp of terror and clung on tight to Karolan’s cloak. ‘Be not afraid. Darkus is gentle. You feel near frozen, lad. Pull a fold of my cloak around you if you wish.’

  Selwyn mumbled his thanks, but made no move to obey. Karolan did not insist, although the boy’s shivers vibrated through him. The sensation of the frail body pressed against his own was delightful, tempting him to indulge his passions. But this feeling was devoid of all baseness. Selwyn’s proximity, the sweetish smell of his unwashed body, the sound of his pulses, and the heat of his breath, awoke only tenderness in him. But for the fact that the boy would be terrified out of his wits, he would have pulled him into his embrace and warmed him against his chest.

  He felt a wave of sadness. The simplest things, like embracing his own child, would always be denied him. Thinking of the destruction he had wrought to past lovers, albeit unwittingly, he fell silent. Oh God, the eyes were what haunted him the most; eyes opened wide in agony, confusion, and horror.

  And the blood. So much blood, pouring from torn flesh deep inside, running thick and poppy-bright down white thighs, clumps of stinking, scorched tissue mixed with the flow. His lips tightened as he thrust away the images, forcing himself to become absorbed by the rolling movements of the horse.

  Selwyn, perhaps absorbing some of his lord’s melancholia, did not speak until they reached the manor house. As soon as the horse halted, he slid from Darkus’s back and with a hurried word of thanks scuttled off to the kitchen.

  Karolan took Darkus to the stable and ordered the lad there to rub him down with a handful of straw before putting him in his stall and giving him some oats. He decided against following Selwyn to the kitchen. The old memories had fostered a depression in him. He felt only an eagerness to go and check that things were progressing to his satisfaction in his laboratorium.

  His personal living quarters were situated in the stone tower which could be reached either by going through the main hall or by entering directly through an outside door. As soon as he reached his bedchamber, he locked the door, then swept aside the thick, woollen carpet which hid the trap-door in the floor. Feeling for the key which he kept hanging from his belt, he opened the wooden flap and descended a flight of stone steps. The stairwell was dark, but the air smelt clean and dry. He needed no light, being able to see in the dark as well as a cat.

  Karolan pushed open the heavy wooden door at the bottom of the steps and stepped into the laboratorium. The vaulted ceiling and walls were built of stone and were many feet thick. A complicated network of stone-lined ducts and metal pipes, all buried deep underground, led out from the tower to emerge beneath heavy metal grilles set into the floor of the forest. The tales of hauntings and unquiet spirits, fostered by the villagers and having some base in fact, were a useful deterrent to anyone who showed undue curiosity.

  A chemical smell greeted him as he walked across the laboratorium. It was dark inside, lit only by the faint glow from the furnace. Karolan lit a taper and then moved around the room lighting candles. Before he went over to look at the alembic vessel, set in its bath of boiling water, he went to his workbench to consult his notes. The waist-high table was neat and ordered; metal scales stood next to a wooden rack which held many vials of coloured liquids. Beside the open ledger there was a globe of the world and a detailed astrological chart.

  Karolan sat on a stool and ran his finger down the row of neat figures, checking the detailed grid of times, dates, ingredients. He knew the contents by heart, but it was his habit to check and double-check each entry. Contained in this and the other ledgers was a note of every experiment, every failure, every success – great or small. The huge, leather-bound volumes were piled high now. They littered the wooden shelves that covered the workroom walls, many of them encrusted with the dust of ages and flecked with powdery mould.

  He sat for a moment composing himself and performing the mental exercises which would put him into the state of higher consciousness he needed for the task in hand. Nothing of the outside world must be allowed to intrude. It was a simple matter to put himself into a light trance. The familiar feeling came over him almost at once. It felt as if a breeze was blowing through his skull. He felt insubstantial, his veins brittle – like glass.

  Totally absorbed now, he skimmed down the long columns of entries. He began reading aloud, his voice echoing around the silent room.

  ‘Primal matter for purposes of possible transmutation acquired on the feast day of St Eusabius.

  Item. One, healthy, day-old male child – purchased at the cost of two shillings from Jack Spicer.

  Said child dispatched forthwith on the day following the feast and known henceforth as prima materia.

  Prima materia put into alembic vessel and covered with aqua fortis – previously prepared by a process of distillation, using nitrate, alum, and ferrous sulphate.’

  There followed a detailed account of all the complicated and arcane processes to which the prima materia had been subjected. As he read them he ticked them off mentally. Calcination. Solution. Separation. Conjunction. Putrefaction. Congelation . . .

  Now the alembic vessel resided in the double-walled bath of metal. The lower part of the vessel, the curcubit, was surrounded by water, which was kept at a constant heat until all the stages of distillation were completed. It would be many months before Karolan knew whether he had succeeded this time. The end result of his experiment would hopefully be the Philosopher’s Stone or ‘seed’ – a red, waxy substance which held within it the pure, spiritual essence of renewal.

  Walking across the room he looked into the alembic vessel, peering intently at the thick, greenish glass. The process of putrefaction was advanced and there was a dark, slimy mass in the bottom of the vessel. The glass walls were coated with a sooty residue.

  ‘Ah, the blackening. The nigredo,’ Karolan murmured, well satisfied that things were progressing in the correct manner.

  Now was the time to add the next ingredient. He assembled everything he would need, smoothing the piece of vellum until it lay flat on his workbench and then laying out a knife and a metal dish. Calling on the names of Hermes and Mercurius, he began to read aloud from the tract in front of him. After a moment’s pause, he reached for the knife and brought the wickedly sharp blade up to his neck.

  Holding the skin taut between two fingertips, he sliced into his skin then inserted the tips of his fingers into the cut to widen the wound. It hurt like the devil, but he gritted his teeth and probed, keeping very still. Blood made his fingers slippery and it was difficult to push aside the strap-like muscle and reach around the throbbing artery. The sensation of reaching into his own body made his stomach churn, but he fought down the revulsion. It was a few moments before he found the tiny, thread-like vessel he sought. Using the very tip of the knife, he pierced the vessel. At once he was aware of a subtle altering of his body’s rhythms. A trickle of thin, straw-coloured fluid seeped out, mixing with the blood flowing freely from the wound.

  Swiftly, before his flesh began to heal around his fingers, he collected the two liquids in the bowl. The wound stung for a while longer, but the flow had stopped and the edges were already knitting together. In a few minutes there would be no sign of a cut. Carrying the bowl over to the furnace, he tipped the liquid into the alembic vessel.

  Placing his hands around the cu
rved glass sides, he closed his eyes and concentrated hard, mouthing the words of power. When he finally opened his eyes again, there were bubbles of sweat on his forehead. He peered into the slimy mess of the prima materia and felt a surge of exultation. The blackness seethed and churned. It began to glow, taking on a pearly tinge, the glass side of the vessel reflecting the iridescent colours.

  ‘The starry sky,’ Karolan breathed with awe.

  With regular additions of his own essential fluid over the next few weeks he would expect to see a further change in colour, signifying that the next stage – the albedo – had been reached. Then the resultant ‘seed’ must be allowed to come to term. Forty days was the required period, a time corresponding to the forty week gestation period. After extinguishing all the candles he went back up the steps to his bedchamber, locking the trap-door behind him. Now that he had finished he felt exhausted. The rituals and the effort of concentration always weakened him for a short time. He threw himself down onto his bed, pausing only to kick off his high, leather boots before relaxing against the silken pillows.

  On the borders of sleep he became aware of a presence close by. Opening one eye he saw that the air beside him was trembling as if with a silvery heat haze. A jagged tear appeared and the silver fabric peeled back to admit entry to a woman. The Fetch was back and this time it would not be gainsaid.

  ‘Now, Master,’ it purred, confidently. ‘Solace you, shall I?’

  Karolan did not try to resist. The Fetch chuckled with throaty eagerness. The form with which it had clothed itself was soft, rounded, lushly curved. Perfume rose from the valley between deep breasts. The ‘woman’ smiled invitingly, running her palms down over her pouting belly and rubbing them across her thighs. She reached for Karolan, her soft lips trailing down his neck. He felt the lacings of his tunic being pulled free, the flaps of black velvet peeling open to lay his chest bare. A hot mouth closed over one nipple, suckling, drawing out the sweet sensations from his body. As teeth grazed his skin, his flesh rose up strongly. He arched his back in readiness for what was to come.