A Novel
The Alchemist of Goreau — Chapter 7
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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?
Chapter 7 — The Printing Agency Cometh
The small rented attic room shared by Greck and Balif was a pocket of hurt and lamentation.
The two henchfellows were dried out, dehydrated, and their heads were under assault from the booze still coursing through their veins.
They handled their condition without nobility nor dignity, rather letting it drag them down into the slums of suffering.
This is what henchmen did while awaiting assignment. It is known.
The light was muddied by the dirty window above the door, casting its sheen loosely, lazily, and imperfectly over the two beds in the back corners of the room where Greck and Balif lay in discomfort.
They were grateful to have separate beds, but other than that, there wasn’t much to compliment the dingy room on.
If you asked them to describe their hovel, they might have said, “There’s a wash basin, maybe. And a coatrack, I think. We can’t be sure.”
It was a place to sleep and they didn’t need much more.
The room, it seemed, was utterly ambivalent to housing anybody or anything except a couple of rats that seemed to come and go.
Greck and Balif didn’t really want to be inside the room either, but they were too hungover to drag themselves outside, where the unrelenting sun was sure to agitate their delicate dispositions.
They each had their own unique method for curing their hangovers.
Balif had been given a small voodoo doll of himself from a witch named Drethel who sometimes worked with them under the orders of Mr. Holloway.
He was gently rubbing its head, rocking it, and shielding it’s eyes from the light in the hopes that by soothing the doll he might bring relief.
It wasn’t helping as much as it should have, he thought, considering what he’d paid for it.
Drethel had told him that the voodoo doll didn’t work, having tested it herself many times, but he still didn’t believe her. Witches were tricky like that.
In the past it had come through for him, but still, there’s only so much that a doll can do. Besides, Balif was wildly out of touch with his senses. He’d once climbed into a bath that was almost frozen.
This had inspired many people to try the same thing only to discover their senses were much more heightened than Balif’s. A few days later Balif had the epiphany, that water was cold.
Greck had his own unique method of curing hangovers.
He called it the pain chamber. To enter the pain chamber, he laid down on the bed and hung his head over the side.
As blood rushed and pooled in his skull, the pain multiplied rapidly, causing his brain to pound like a prisoner on the walls of its cell.
The goal was to double, then triple down on the agony until his pain receptors were so thoroughly saturated that he’d get the whole hangover done at once. He had read this in one of those books placed on top of toilets for reading.
Greck and Balif communicated in grunts and dry heaves for the entire morning until finally Greck exerted an enormous amount of energy and forced himself out of the room into the bright piercing winter light.
His journey to retrieve the mail should have gone down as one of the most epic heroic efforts to date if he hadn’t been struck down by a brick tossed by the postman.
“Sorry,” yelled the postman as he rode off down the street.
The brick contained information, and that information was passed directly into Greck’s brain when it struck him. He was instantly enlightened.
Greck picked it up. Written on it were the unsteady words, “From: Mr. Holloway.”
He brought the brick back inside, touching his hand to his head to feel the growing goose egg.
“Get up,” he mumbled at Balif.
Balif replied in a series of inarticulate grunts.
“We got a job to do,” said Greck a little relieved to finally have something to do besides drink.
Greck got dressed, gathered his weapons, and snatched Balif’s voodoo doll from his hands and threw it across the room.
Balif flew across the room.
After Balif regained consciousness they stared at each other, astonished.
Greck told Balif about the message in a brick.
“You received it how?” asked Balif.
“This way,” he said pointing to the bulbous injury upon his head.
“What does that mean?”
“How should I know? I got hit in the head with a brick and then I had our orders.”
“Impossible.”
“How can it be impossible when it just happened?”
Balif thought about this.
Balif struggled to his feet and as he walked out the door, a briefcase came flying through the air and struck him in the face.
“Sorry, forgot something,” said the postman as his voice trailed off into the distance.
“Ouch,” said Balif rubbing his forehead. He examined the briefcase. In gold lettering were the words, “The Printing Agency.”
“Oh yeah, we need that,” Greck said.
They trudged down the street guided by Greck’s directive.
“What’s in this?” Balif asked, tossing the briefcase in the air to feel its weight.
“Money.”
“What sort of money?”
“Grunbuckers.”
“What’s a Grunbucker?” Greck asked snorting at the sound of the word.
“New money. Our job is to go door-to-door and give people Grunbuckers in exchange for their gold, silver, and other valuables.”
“Door-to-door? Sounds boring.”
“Stop draggin’ your feet,” said Greck.
Balif dragged his feet harder against the cobblestone walkway. His steel-toed boots left white scratches against the stone.
“Mr. Holloway desires it, so we do it. Besides, were in debt to a lot of ale houses at the moment.”
Balif tripped, dropping the briefcase onto the ground with a loud smack, the clasps snapped open as it skittered across the cobbles, spilling out it’s contents.
Greck cursed him, ”You bobble-headed, shin-kicking, backwash, ham brain.”
Balif stared at the shiny paper fluttering in the breeze.
It was hideously green.
Mr. Holloway’s smiling face was etched into middle of each note, grinning maniacally.
Balif held up a piece. “It smells like sheep. Who’s gonna want this?”
“Who said anything about want?” replied Greck pumping his eyebrows twice.
“Ooooooh,” replied Balif knowingly, as he tapped the side of his nose.
Greck turned his mouth corners up while narrowing his eyebrows in a mean smile.
Balif peppered Greck with inane questions all the way to house number 1 — the first house built in Goreau.
It looked like it too. It appeared as if the house exterior had lived through a half dozen world wars and was absolutely sick of being a house.
Greck knocked and dust flew off the handle.
Balif instinctually readied his massive arms for punching. This was how he knocked on all doors.
They waited. An elderly woman came and opened the door.
“Greetings,” said Greck.
He explained the detailed pitch, word for word, that had been implanted in his brain by the magical brick.
“The Absolutum has decreed that gold and silver shall no longer have any value in Schlussen, and that as of today citizens should forfeit any and all gold and silver pieces, as well as other shiny valuables.”
He put air quotes up when he said, “valuables.”
“In return, citizens will receive the much better and more useful currency, ‘Grunbuckers,’ which are obviously superior.”
After he finished, he expected the woman to let him come inside and go about collecting her jewelry and other valuables.
Instead she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, could you repeat what you just said?”
“Of course, ma’am. Which part?” he asked.
“Did you say, ‘meetings?’ What do you mean meetings?”
Greck groaned.
“So you didn’t get anything I said after, ‘greetings’ then?” he asked.
The old lady slowly closed the door in their faces, as politely as she could.
“Okay, house number two then,” Greck sighed while walking away.
Balif was not so easily swayed, slapping his arms to get the blood flowing and hyping himself up.
“That’s it then? You of all people are gonna give up without resorting to violence?”
“She’s just an old lady. I’m not gonna beat her up.”
“There are other options, you know,” said Balif raising his leg and sending it viciously into the door, rocking it off its hinges and sending wood splinters flying.
“What are you doing?” asked Greck incredulously.
“The job, ya wide-waisted meat-stick.”
The old lady stumbled backwards.
They ran through the house, sacking as they went.
What they couldn’t sack they destroyed. They broke mirrors, furniture, chandeliers, cupboards, and artwork.
They collected valuables.
They ran past the old lady on the way out, knocking her over. She fell in slow motion.
They compensated her for her trouble by dumping a stack of Grunbuckers on the step.
“All in the name of the Absolutum,” Greck shouted, pumping his fist in the air as they ran down the path.
“If you have a problem, take it up with him!”
After a brief moment to gather himself, Balif said, “One down, how many to go?”
“All of them, minus one” said Greck. “By the way, stabbing is back on the menu. Mr. Holloway said so.”
“You mean the brick said so?” asked Balif. Balif laughed, the guffawing sound echoing through the street as they moved to their next target.
