A Novel

The Alchemist of Goreau — Chapter 9

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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 9 — Crazytown

Donwillo didn’t have to wait long before another set of circumstances crept up upon him and threatened him with an axe.

It was mid-morning and he’d managed to scavenge some nuts and dried berries from his cellar, coaxing Beverly to try and eat.

For Macob, he found a lengthy thick branch and showed him how to swing it. He then mimed various ways Macob could use it to hunt wildlife in the nearby trees. Donwillo hoped this was sufficient demonstration to set Macob up for his first hunting trip. Until recently, Donwillo had fed him from his own food stores.

Off Macob went, swinging the branch in practice. He returned not long after with a grin and a distended belly that indicated he’d found some food.

While Macob was away, Donwillo mustered the strength to jerry rig his leftover gutters into a rain collection device which he then put in an alchemy beaker for Macob and Beverly. He had a small sip himself but that was all.

After that he salvaged leftover brick from his cabin’s fireplace and constructed a makeshift outdoor fire-pit.

A butane blowtorch was used to set fire to the kindling Macob had gathered earlier according to Donwillo’s instructions.

The fire was enough to lift their combined spirits.

The weather had been unpredictable lately. One minute it would be sunny, the next a drenching downpour followed by wind and snow. Donwillo chalked it up to just another anomaly caused by some unseen force.

Time passed in a smooth and unjagged way, the fire providing continuity. Sitting around a fire was like steaming a wrinkled set of linens, ironing out the ripples of time. The forgotten moment, the slips in memory — when one sat around a fire, one remembered every second.

The seamless passing of the time was interrupted by interlopers. Macob was the first to spot them. He stood up and released a howl of warning that sounded like a train whistle with a lisp.

Then he began a series of elaborate movements designed to menace the intruders. Menacing came naturally to Macob. It was right up there with lumbering, slobbering, and groaning in his sleep in terms of natural abilities.

The two looming figures stopped briefly at the gate and looked at each other.

Donwillo could see their lips moving.

“I bet they’re saying, ‘Let’s be an absolute annoyance to this poor sap sitting by a fire minding his own business.’”

Macob made clicking sounds with his jaw and flexed his boney fingers that looked like half eaten ribs.

Beverly lifted her head to see.

As the men approached, the numerous weapons dangling from their bodies clinked and clanged like twenty pound wind chimes. Their beards held mysteries and their eyes told tales. They seemed oddly attached to one another, as if held by some invisible bond. Donwillo got the sense that if one was dangling from a cliff face then so was the other. The two of them were interchangeable. He imagined learning their names and immediately forgetting which was which.

One carried a briefcase and was tossing it in the air like a child playing with a ball. Most people carried briefcases with adult and professional energy. This person clearly did not feel its significance.

Donwillo stared at them with a look of utter disgust and annoyance.

The fire flickered low as Donwillo had recently added the last bit of kindling and hadn’t gone looking for more.

“Mornin’” said the one without the briefcase, as he came and stood before the embers.

Donwillo stared through him, attempting to send a direct message into his brain that he was in no mood for chit chat.

“That your place there?” the stranger said nodding towards the roughshod rebuilt cabin.

Donwillo didn’t move a muscle.

The stranger sighed.

“Mind if we have a look around?” he asked.

“What for?” asked Donwillo, wondering why on earth anyone would need to look around his property.

“We just need to,” the other stranger replied.

“No,” said Donwillo.

The strangers glanced at each other again, it seemed as if they were sharing thoughts with each other.

They pulled out their axes, the steel looked ripe for dicing.

Macob gritted his decaying teeth, sending ground enamel flying like sawdust. He was rearing to go — pacing, glaring, and jawing aggressively.

Donwillo nodded at Macob and he charged towards them. With one seamless motion the stranger took his axe and swung it swiftly through Macob’s torso, cleaving him instantly in twain. This didn’t stop him at first, as his upper body continued its journey as he used his arms to crawl. Then his head was lopped off. This had happened before and Donwillo had fixed him up, so he wasn’t much worried about Macob in this moment. It was his own personal safety he feared for. He’d made a list of 100 ways he was comfortable dying a few years ago, and being axed to death was not on it.

Macob’s eyes rolled back into his head indicating he was entering a hibernation state. He would be useless until Donwillo could rebuild him. Beverly shuffled behind Donwillo.

Sensing Beverly’s fear released some chemical reaction within Donwillo that resulted in anger.

“You can’t do that,” said Donwillo sternly. “You cannot attack things. Not here. Not on my property, and not without permission.”

The strangers laughed.

This reaction infuriated Donwillo causing him to see red.

“How dare you!”

The strangers laughed even harder.

“We’re just gonna have a look around,” They said going over to the half rebuilt cabin and sifting through things. The area was small enough it didn’t take long until they found something of Donwillo’s that made him panic.

One stranger held the reactor core over his head and shouted at Donwillo, “What’s this?”

Donwillo didn’t reply. He was not about to let them take his only possession worth anything, instead he walked over and started helping them raid his home.

“Here, take this, this is a scale! It can weigh even the lightest materials you can imagine.” He reached up and plucked a hair from one of the stranger’s beards who yelped in pain. He placed it on the scale and read out the total weight.

“See!? Incredible.”

He shoved the scale into the stranger’s arms. Then he went about the place offering up numerous other items.

“Look at this wrench!” Donwillo exclaimed. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful wrench? And it turns things. Can you imagine that?”

“Oh, what about this?!” he said pivoting to a rubbish bin. It was half-melted. “Isn’t this incredible? You can put things in it! See?” he said wildly while grabbing the scale from the stranger’s arms and thrusting it into the bin. “Now you’re carrying TWO things and before you could only hold one!”

Donwillo felt the full force of a ginormous open hand across his face, sending his head into a tailspin. One of the strangers had tried to slap sense into him. It had the opposite affect.

“Is that all you’re gonna take?” Donwillo asked, beginning to remove his clothing.

“Whoa, whoa we don’t want your stinking clothing,” said one of the men backing away.

“No, please,” he said, climbing out from his trousers, his pale torso and legs on display. “I don’t need it. I don’t need anything! See possessions are just things. And things,” he paused trying to chase after the train of thought, “Um, are just things. Things are things.”

He freed his body and mind from the constraints of rationality and propriety and wiggled about in a sort of cleansing, erratic dance, physically shaking off his earlier malaise and becoming a newer, freer, more unhinged version of himself — a temporary insanity.

“Things are merely things,” he said.

The strangers exchanged glances that didn’t require much interpretation to follow. It was time for them to go, they silently agreed.

“We’ll come back later,” said one nodding with his head in the direction he wanted his partner and him to go.

“We don’t get paid enough for this,” Donwillo heard the other mutter as he followed his friend.

Donwillo did his best impression of Macob’s warning sound. Birds in the vicinity flew from their perches and flapped away.

His voice echoed into the valley.

He yelled gibberish.

He pranced about with glee. The strangers only looked back once to reaffirm they’d made the right decision to leave. In the hubbub they’d forgotten their briefcase.

While Donwillo had originally planned to just act crazy, he now found himself unable to release himself from the self-imposed trance. He was embracing madness, opening his arms wide in a loving embrace. He rejected the way the world seemed to reject him. He rejected all former ideas taught to him. He let his mind soar beyond the earth’s atmosphere where he kissed the void between the stars. He tossed things in the air and tried to avoid them crushing him on the way down. He kicked his legs as high as he could.

Beverly watched from a nearby foxhole.

Eventually reality tore its way through his trance and asserted its presence. He was dragged back down to earth not through gravity but through time and place. He needed more velocity to truly escape his circumstances.

Donwillo continued this charade for some time, and then he went and restarted the fire.

Losing his mind had saved his valuables from being taken, and he would try to remember this lesson.

“Still better try and reserve that for emergencies,” he thought to himself.