A Novel

The Alchemist of Goreau — Chapter 8

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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 8 — The Library

Donwillo packed Beverly in his coat with some moss for a cushion and made his way down the winding path towards the city. When he arrived, he first went in search of an animal doctor, then a regular doctor, and then, as a last resort, a library. Every single doctor had refused to see him on account of the growing suspicion that Donwillo had something to do with the strange occurrences happening around the city.

Like all really good libraries, Bookin Stacks Library was organized with the least useful books right in your face as you entered and the most valuable, life-changing information situated in various coves, basements, attics, and roped-off areas you’d need a treasure map to locate. Libraries represent a journey of knowledge that requires a person to prove their worth. A library cannot just present deep human truths at the door. What if a ditch digger walked in, picked up the first thing he could find, and discovered that his occupation doesn’t matter nearly as much as he thinks and that if he quit digging ditches, his boss could find someone else to do the job, and he’d be quickly forgotten? No, the first information that must be presented to a knowledge-seeking ditch-digger is that he is an essential worker and that he is dearly needed to perform that job to the best of his ability. If that information brings a smile to his face as he closes the book, then the library did its job. If that information causes the ditch digger to feel sick to his stomach and forces him to seek out the aforementioned harder-to-find areas of the library where he discovers philosophy, then the library has also done its job. The task of the library is to deliver knowledge to you based on what you are willing to risk.

Donwillo made his way past all the introductory material, seeking out the librarian to get the keys to the hidden passageways.

The librarian was a middle-aged woman with more pins in her hair than strands, and although she was seated below him behind a counter, she still seemed to be looking down at him.

“I’m looking for books regarding the medical treatment of small woodland creatures,” said Donwillo urgently.

“We don’t have those,” replied the librarian.

“You do,” corrected Donwillo. “Or rather, you must. I’ve been here before. There was no topic I was unable to locate eventually. I would browse myself, but I’m in a hurry. See — “ he began but was cut off.

— “We cannot offer books on medical knowledge unless you are a practicing physician,” replied the librarian. “It’s too dangerous.”

“This is no time for gatekeeping,” replied Donwillo reproachfully.

“Are you unfamiliar with my job?” asked the librarian. “We have a section on libraries and how they function. I’d be happy to show you,” she said, trying to suppress a smile in a way that made him think she enjoyed being rude.

“I have a sick pet that needs help.”

“All the more reason to see a professional,” she replied.

“They won’t see me.”

“I’m sure they can’t all be blind?” she replied. “I mean, I can see you, and I’m wearing very, very thick glasses that hardly do a thing.” She took them off and squinted. “Where’d you go?” she joked.

The shift of tone gave him whiplash.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“There is a section on clocks and how they work. We close in ten minutes,” she said as Donwillo left to find what he needed on his own.

The stacks loomed high over his head as he wandered through them, trying to make sense of the library system.

The Bookin Stacks Library did not adhere to the traditional organizational structure of most libraries.

The books in the Bookin Stacks Library were arranged by smell. As books entered the library, they were sorted and then sprayed with a scent indicative of their subject matter. A book about the game Pressure Hat would smell like sweaty armpits and polished broom handles. A book about Absolutumens and the money supply would smell like copper on your tongue.

Sections of the library were categorized by unhelpful names like “The Smell of Your Grandma’s House,” “The Scent of a Newborn,” and “The Aroma of Frog Piss.” What was the point, Donwillo wondered?

The founders of the Bookin Stacks Library had worried that books were too one-dimensional — that books only engaged the eyes in a way that wasn’t as stimulating as other mediums. They realized that to increase readership, they needed to engage other senses as well. For some inexplicable reason, they choose smell to be that feature.

Donwillo rushed through the library and through the aroma of wet dog, mint, and burning rubber.

On an ordinary day, Donwillo would have enjoyed the fun of getting lost in the maze of books, but not today. Beverly was getting worse with every single minute, there was no time to lose. He peeked into his pocket and could see that she was barely awake.

As he worked his way deeper and deeper into the rarely seen or smelled sections, he thought he caught a faint whiff of lemon balm. He immediately followed his nose, but since he was not a bloodhound, this was not terribly successful. After going in circles for a bit trying to pick up the trail, the lemon balm led him down a winding staircase where he caught another whiff, this time the sterilized chemical stench that one encounters where human bodies are dealt with after they die. It’s a scent that said, “Life is not welcome here, of any shape or size.”

He found an inconspicuous box with a fake lock. It was not the most forbidden book location, but it was placed and designed to be overlooked by those simply browsing. He grabbed as much material as he could carry and returned to the librarian.

“May I check these out?” he asked quickly, hoping his impatient energy would spur her on.

She was unfazed by his urgent needs.

“Are you sure?” she asked lazily.

“Yes,” he replied, “and if you don’t mind, please hurry it up.”

She was about to document the first book when she read the title and changed her mind.

“I hope you’re not planning on practicing medicine after reading a few pages of this,” she said.

“ — Please just let me borrow it,” he said, his voice wavering with frustration.

He made a calculation based on the librarian’s expression that she was not going to let him borrow the books, and he reached for them and grabbed them off the counter.

The librarian also grabbed for the books and when he yanked them out of her hand she yelped in pain.

“You hurt my wrist,” she wailed.

“The medical section is right past the section on salty tears,” he replied and sprinted for the exit.

Once he got home, there was enough shelter for him to sit down and start pouring through the material. Macob was fast asleep, slumped up against a nearby tree. It started to snow again, unevenly. Donwillo took off his coat and rigged a spot in the corner where he could sit under and keep the pages dry.

He checked on Beverly. Her breathing was shallow and irregular. She was getting worse.

For hours, he scoured the books, looking for an answer to what was affecting Beverly. There was one book that seemed to have been placed there by mistake. It was a book on theoretical diseases. In a desperate attempt, he paged through it, realizing it was about diseases brought about by fictional inventions.

A page on portals caught his eye.

It read: “A portal is a door to someplace, or some time else. Portals are perfectly plausible. They just require an insurmountable quantity of energy to create. Some side effects of a malfunctioning portal can lead to…”

And there it was.

A laundry list of symptoms:

• Material instability
• Ringing in the ears
• Loss of appetite
• Hallucinations
• Sinkholes
• Biological deterioration

He stopped reading.

This was it.

“Gunther,” he muttered to himself.

Gunther had been an Alchemist guild-mate of Donwillo who had not completed his training, but instead chosen to free himself of the constraints of his professors and seek out answers beyond the limits of what the guild offered.

But before he left, he’d told Donwillo about a secret project he’d been working on. For several weeks he remembered Gunther complaining about ringing in his ears, hallucinations, and horrific nightmares.

Donwillo had suggested he see a doctor but Gunther replied he just needed to find the right location to run his experiments.

The Alchemist Guild was the last time he’d seen Gunther, though he’d heard he was residing somewhere in Goreau.

Evidently, Goreau was the prime place for eccentric, hermetic, and scientifically inclined individuals. Still, Donwillo had no idea how or where to find him. But if Gunther was the reason Beverly was sick, he would… No, he stopped himself again.

Who am I kidding? Even if Gunther’s experiments were causing all this turmoil, and making Beverly sick, it can’t be up to me to stop him.

He glanced back at the book.

• The only hypothesized remedy for these symptoms is to cease the creation of a portal and possibly take some iodine.

That was interesting, he thought. The Science Institute might have iodine.

But they were unlikely to help him, he thought.

And what could he even offer in exchange? Perhaps they’d trade him for his new element?

No, if they were suspicious of electricity there was no way they’d take something so new and untested.

Gradually he found himself running into mental roadblock after mental roadblock, causing inertia to flood his body, making him feel directionless and passive. His feet felt heavy. His body too.

His survival instincts were kicking in. They were constantly driving his impulses towards isolation and stasis. The thing about survival strategies is that once they work one time, the brain wants to return to them over and over. And since he’d survived so many situations by doing nothing, his brain had ground that pathway down into deep ruts, and now it felt nearly insurmountable to move his wagon wheel off the previously beaten track.

Beverly would be all right, he consoled himself. Besides, if he went out and about galavanting like some bold hero he might make things a lot worse for himself and Beverly. Heroes almost always made things worse before they got better. It made sense to Donwillo to sit tight and allow his and Beverly’s situation to improve without implementing some wild, half-baked plan of action.