There was more, but Allen broke off from his reading when he felt the car stop. He extinguished the disposable lighter, held his breath, and listened.
Footsteps on gravel. More muffled voices. The footsteps retreated, and Allen found himself alone in the silent darkness.
He pushed up against the trunk, tried to give it a kick but couldn’t maneuver for leverage. He was going nowhere. He waited, drifted off.
Allen’s dreams swam with cold blue eyes. He ran through mist, the smell of moist earth all around him. He ran through the deserted streets of Prague, the night pressing in on him, and wherever he went he felt colder and colder. He ran faster, a freezing wind at his neck.
His eyes popped open. Allen shivered. He was stiff and cold and his head ached, probably a combination of getting hit and too much Czech beer. Shots. Good God, he’d done shots of some unknown booze with the priest.
How long had he been out? He couldn’t tell if it had been two minutes or ten hours. Maybe Father Paul would call the police. Maybe after he noticed Allen was missing, he’d tell somebody, get some help. But how would help find him? For all Allen knew, he was five hundred miles from the Globe.
No. Surely he hadn’t been out that long, and they hadn’t driven that far. Someone had mentioned Zizkov, a neighborhood that wasn’t so very far. And anyway, The Three had warned him against trusting the priest.
Who warned you, dumbass? The nice people who smacked you on the head and shoved you in a car trunk? What the hell am I in the middle of?
If only he could get out of the damn trunk.
The trunk opened.
A flashlight seared his eyes, and Allen winced. The outlines of two figures beyond the flashlight.
“He’ll be fine,” said a female voice. “I put a spell of well-being on him when we put him in.”
“Well, he looks like hammered shit,” said a male voice. “Let’s get him out of there.”
Allen felt hands under his arms lifting him out of the trunk. He felt weak, and his legs were wobbly as he felt his feet touch the ground. “Who are you?”
“Friends, Mr. Cabbot,” said the man. “Although that might be hard to believe at the moment.”
Allen felt a cool hand on his forehead. It was the braided blonde. “You’ll be okay,” she assured him.
“So you can talk.”
“I couldn’t speak during the luring spell, or I would have muddled the magic.”
Allen pulled away from her hand. “Luring spell?”
“To lure you to the back of the car. So we could put you in.”
“I’m full of beer, and a pretty girl wants to meet me outside. More like hormones than a spell.” Allen looked down, saw a small automatic pistol in the man’s hand. “You don’t seem like friends to me.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” he said. “It’s important that you don’t give us a lot of trouble until we’ve had an opportunity to explain ourselves. Amy, show Mr. Cabbot into the house, and we can all get comfortable. I’ll be right behind you.”
Allen followed the girl, the man with the pistol bringing up the rear. Allen expected to feel the gun stuck into his back like in the movies, but that didn’t happen. He was acutely aware of the pistol anyway.
They were in the cramped, gravel parking area behind a small house. There were tall hedges on one side and a stone wall on the other, so Allen wasn’t able to get a good look at the surrounding neighborhood-not that he’d be able to recognize anything in any case. He’d been in Prague less than a full day, and so far he’d had bizarre nightmares, gotten drunk with a priest, slipped in puke, been hexed by a sorority girl, and stuffed in a trunk.
And there was still the jet lag.
And the man with the gun right behind him.
He followed Amy into the small house. It was unimpressive, utilitarian, and drab, probably built during the iron curtain days. They ushered him into a small sitting room, and the man pointed him toward a threadbare easy chair with the pistol. Allen backed toward the chair and sank into it. The man sat across from him in a stiff-looking wingback.
“Amy, I could really murder a pot of tea right about now,” the man said. “Can you come up with something while I have a word with Mr. Cabbot?”
“I’ll see what’s in the kitchen.” She left the room.
Allen got a better look at his abductor. Middle-aged, wire thin, a gaunt red face, lined along the jaw, closely shaven. He had a head of thick hair that was pure white; his watery eyes were faded and blue. He wore nice clothes but nothing ostentatious-a light blue jacket, gray trousers, pressed white shirt. He could have been one of Allen’s literature professors back at Gothic State.
“My name is Basil Worshamn,” said the man with the pistol. “And I’d like to tell you a story.” His accent was vaguely upper class and British.
“This doesn’t end with you trying to sell me Amway, does it?” Allen said.
A tolerant smile. “I don’t know what that means, but I take it as some kind of quip. I’m no traveling salesman, Mr. Cabbot. I’m in Prague on very important business.”
“I can’t imagine it involves me.”
“Indulge me,” Basil said, “and I’ll stretch the limits of your imagination.”
“As it happens, I’m in the mood for a good story,” Allen said. “And also, you’re the one with the gun.”
“You’re here to assist Professor Evergreen in some sort of research, correct?”
“He’s writing a book chapter on Kafka,” Allen said.
“Have you had the opportunity to meet his wife?” Basil asked.
Allen cleared his throat, swallowed.
“I see by the expression on your face that you have met her.”
“At a party hosted by Dr. Evergreen,” Allen admitted. “Briefly.”
“Yes, well, we’ll return to that in a moment. Are you familiar with the legend of the philosopher’s stone?”
Allen paused. He looked toward the kitchen at the sound of clanking dishes. At that moment, the small house seemed absurdly normal, not the kind of place he would have predicted he’d be when interrogated about the philosopher’s stone at gunpoint.
Basil cleared his throat. “The philosopher’s stone, Mr. Cabbot?”
Allen jerked back from the kitchen noise, met Basil’s gaze. “It’s some kind of magic stone that alchemists thought might turn lead into gold. Isn’t that right?”
“That is the popular understanding,” Basil said. “Scholars more learned in the subject understand that the philosopher’s stone is not actually a particular mystical rock but rather a symbol of enlightenment, standing for knowledge beyond the ordinary. The ancient alchemists were unafraid to seek knowledge in places where others feared to tread. These alchemists were often condemned. Sometimes as charlatans, other times as practitioners of the dark arts.”
At the words “dark arts,” Allen flinched. He wasn’t exactly sure why.
“In 1583, Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II moved the seat of the empire to Prague,” continued Basil. “Rudolph was a bit eccentric, and his interest in astrology and the occult became legendary. His court swarmed with thinkers and men of science.”
While Basil’s story unfolded, Allen’s eyes darted around the room. Perhaps he could make a dash for a door or window.
“In 1599, Rudolph invited alchemist Dr. John Dee to join his court,” Basil said. “Dee led a team of dedicated alchemists to solve the challenge of the philosopher’s stone.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Allen said.
“I’m afraid it very soon might,” Basil said. “For you see, your very own Professor Evergreen has come to Prague, not to write a chapter on Kafka as he’d have you believe, but rather to plunder the secret dungeons of Prague Castle in search of the philosopher’s stone.”
Allen went slightly pale, the surprise plain on his face.
“I can understand that this might be a lot for you to digest,” Basil said.
“It’s not that.” Allen swallowed hard. “It’s just that there’s a priest at the window with a machine gun.”
Before we witness the inevitable gunfire and breaking of things that’s about to happen, let me just return briefly to something Basil told Allen. Basil mentioned Dr. John Dee and a team of alchemists.
Horseshit.
Team, my sweaty ass. There was no team. And John Dee. Let me tell you something about John Dee. Asshole. What an insufferable asshole. If I never lay eyes on that son of a bitch again, it will be too soon.
So yeah, I’m a little bit more interested in this part of the story.
Because this is the part about me.
THE BAD ALCHEMIST
(PRAGUE 1599)
ELEVEN
I am the ghost of Edward Kelley.
I am-was-an alchemist at the court of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II.
Impressed yet? Wait until you hear the rest of the story.
Okay, let me slow down lest I get ahead of myself. One thing at a time.
First let us address this idea of a “team” of alchemists mentioned by Basil Worshamn. There was no team. There was only me. I suppose if you count the maid who emptied our chamber pots every day and the young girl who brought us refreshment in the afternoons, you might consider we were all part of a team. But mixing just the exact right amount of milk and sugar into a cup of tea hardly counts as alchemy.