A novel
The Alchemist of Goreau — Chapter 12
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The Alchemist of Goreau is a fantasy novel set in late 1800’s in a mountainous Central European country with magic, incredible and unbelievable situations, and a healthy dose of humor. The story follows Donwillo, a mid-twenties alchemist struggling to make a name for himself in the world. When the world starts to crumble, he’s the most likely suspect. Follow his journey as he seeks to clear his name.
Are you ready to join Donwillo on a fantastical journey?
Donwillo watched from the woods as the three figures lingered at the edge of his property, engaged in a heated conversation. Arms moved and gestured vigorously, as if points could be made more poignant by adding limbic animation. He recognized two of them from the other day. They were the menacing goons who had harassed him, ransacking his few worldly possessions before he’d driven them away by acting mad. But now there was a new figure with them, a middle-aged woman. She stood slanted, off-kilter. Her tall, slender body seemed to stretch up and bow like a tree clinging to a riverbank. She was dressed in shades of purple. A look of frustration covered her face as she struggled to fit a winter glove to her hand. She kept taking it off and putting it on again, each time either ending up with one finger outside the glove or an extra finger holster flopping about.
It was by pure accident that he had even caught a glimpse of the trio coming up the hillside towards his location.
That morning he’d slept in, awakened only by his bladder.
He’d trundled to the backside of his cabin, where there was a rocky cliffside. From the edge he could overlook the city of Goreau, which seemed idyllic in the way strangers often do before you get to know their quirks. While attending to nature’s call, he’d caught a glimpse of the interlopers making their way up the winding path that led to his property.
He’d been lucky once, running them off but he wasn’t about to push his luck a second time. The presence of a third individual indicated things had gotten serious.
The weather continued to behave unpredictably. Sometime in the middle of the night, the rain turned to wind, which then gave way to a quiet calm right as he awoke. The sun was trying to claw its way out a portion of the clouds.
Now, the weather shifted again as the strangers approached his cabin, this time bringing an abrupt, delicate snowfall. He felt a shiver down his spine as he fled to the edge of the property where the trees were thick. From his hiding spot, he had a limited view of his cabin, his campfire, and little else. Macob lay, unmoved, from where he’d been decapitated. Donwillo hadn’t the time nor energy to reanimate him.
Beverly was gone when Donwillo woke up, leaving Donwillo to speculate about her condition. A pit in his stomach formed whenever Beverly came to mind. Had she gone off to die alone, or made some sudden, inexplicable recovery? All he could do was speculate.
With no fighting skills and only the treacherous woods to run into, he decided hiding was his best option. Whatever these people wanted from him, he didn’t wish to stand in their way.
The lanky woman walked delicately, leaving only vague impressions in the dirt. She seemed poised, as if awaiting some non-existent ambush. Each of the goons flanked her.
She investigated the area, surveying it slowly. Her gaze passed over the benign fire, the tracks in the mud, Macob’s severed body, and the dilapidated structure Donwillo formerly called his home.
The other night Donwillo had found the briefcase left behind by the strangers. He opened it reluctantly. Inside were rows of neon green rectangular papers with a face on them that Donwillo didn’t recognize. The face had a clever, distinguished look to it, and yet there was something devious about the eyes.
He’d tucked a few of the stacks into his various coat pockets and hid the rest under some hastily nailed floorboards.
From his location in the trees, he was not quite close enough to hear what the three were discussing, yet the modulation of their voices and the sharp tones suggested varying degrees of agitation.
The three split up they began the process of searching the cabin, before dismantling Macob’s handiwork by yanking the place apart, limb from limb.
Donwillo watched as the two henchmen performed the demolition. They were practiced and methodical in their undertaking, as if this was something they usually did on a Wednesday afternoon.
It was only after he shifted his weight to get a better look through the brambles that he realized he couldn’t see the woman.
“Hello.”
He turned and looked over his shoulder, catching himself with his hand to keep from falling.
The purple haze of a woman stood there with a smirk. She seemed proud of herself. Standing before him, Drethel seemed more fragile than from afar. Her skin stretched thin over her knobby hands, and the angles of her bony structure gave Donwillo the impression that she should be leaned up against a wall like a rake.
“What do you want?” he asked, rising to his feet and dusting himself off.
“You have something of mine,” she said with a touch of effervescent zest, like her words were the alcohol in a spiked punch.
He shook his head.
She summoned from the palm of her hand an icicle, using the gently falling snow to form a sharp piece of ice, which she gripped with a tight fist. Drethel’s powers came from the intersection between the natural world and her ability to harness and reform it at her discretion. She sent the icicle flying passed his ear, frosting his earlobe. She formed a second icicle.
Donwillo tried to back up but bumped into the branches he’d been watching through earlier.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said standoffishly.
“Liar,” she replied.
He was caught in a moment of internal debate. Come clean, or obfuscate?
He was spared from making the decision when Beverly bounded through the woods, crashed through the undergrowth, climbed the woman and bit her hard on the finger.
She swore and dropped the icicle. She grabbed her bleeding finger, using her palm to stifle the bleeding before cursing Donwillo. She grabbed Beverly, tearing her from her sleeve before throwing her as hard as she could. Beverly hurtled several yards and landed several yards away, landing in some underbrush.
A hellish roar resounded through the forest and nearby meadow, vibrating the trees with the force of its noise. The two henchmen stopped working, twisting their heads towards the trees in fear.
“What was that?” Donwillo asked shakily.
“A myth,” replied the woman, staring in the direction of the noise.
“What do we do?” he asked, looking to her for guidance.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On who that Carrier Bear is coming for.”
Before he could arrange his thoughts around this sentence, a few things happened in rapid succession.
The first was an uprooted tree came flying towards them, nearly wiping them both out. They ducked, and it went crashing into the meadow, where it came to a halt at the henchmen’s feet.
The second thing was that the bright and shining Carrier Bear grew closer. Donwillo closed his eyes against the searing light, but even through his closed eyelids, his retinas burned red by the shear brilliance. The bear was the size of a small windmill, its breath cold as a frozen lake, and its teeth were like walrus tusks.
An enormous furry limb scooped him up and tossed him like a rag onto its curved, muscular back. Instinctively, he dug his fingers into the creature’s fur, and he held on for dear life as the bear took off bounding through the woods.
Had Drethel the time or inclination she would have told Donwillo about Carrier Bears and how to deal with them. She would have mentioned that Carrier Bears don’t appreciate it when their cargo makes noise — that they were highly temperamental and sound-sensitive.
When the bear tossed him on its back, its claws dug deep into Donwillo’s back. The shock had numbed his pain receptors until the blood trickling down his back brought the pain to the forefront of his mind. The pain was unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
He started to lose consciousness. In the distance, he thought he could hear screaming, screaming that just wouldn’t stop. It was only as the rawness started to tear at his throat that he realized the person screaming was himself.