science of alchemy is irrevocably tied to the movement of the heavenly bodies. Some philosophers have suggested that the world is like a clock, and the planets and stars turn like movements inside of it. If that is so, then men and beasts are its smallest pieces, and Michael was most aware of that now.
“Days bled by. One evening, not long until a full moon, Michael found himself huddling like a dog in a work shed. Bunches of lavender, thyme and bitter herbs hung drying from the rafters. Jars of herbs, bottles of liquid and bundles of candles filled the shelves that lined the walls. A thick tome sat closed on top of the wooden table, a quill and a well of ink nearby. Given the late hour, Michael was sure that the master of the workspace would not return again until morning.
“But he was wrong. Long after the sun had set, the handle creaked and a woman entered, face glowing with candlelight. He tried to scurry behind the single barrel in the far corner, but she gasped when she saw him and the candlelight shuddered as her hand shook.
“He could only imagine what she saw. A man in tattered, dirty clothes, his hair wild and face unshaven. She breathed a word he did not recognize and placed the candle on the edge of the table so that she could make a sign at him, as if to curse him or to protect herself. ‘You are a monster,’ she said.
“The words came like a relief to him. He had been running from himself and the reality of what he had become for so long, it was a relief to hear it from another person. ‘Yes,’ he said.
“It was as if the word ‘monster’ called the beast in his blood, and the first wave of pain shuddered through him.
“The woman made a sharp gesture and spoke a word that Michael did not know. His body went limp, though he trembled with the pending transformation. He stared at the woman, whose eyes looked suddenly hawkish. ‘Don’t move, or I will end you now,’ she said in English.
“Into a thin bronze bowl, she mixed herbs from half a dozen jars with drops of liquid from three different vials. She chanted as she worked, and when she was done, she set the mix on fire with the candle. The herbs went up in a blaze, releasing a sudden plume of black pungent smoke.
“The woman’s chanting reached a feverish pitch. At the climax, her hand struck out to rip several strands of hair from his head. She threw it into the fire, and with an incoherent scream, tipped the bowl, tossing the contents over him.
“Michael expected burning ashes, but the magic fell over him like a warm wind. He coughed and rested limply on the ground, free to move again. The threatening pain of the change had left him.
“‘I have done all that I can,’ she said. ‘In the morning, you must move on.’
“When he awoke, he found himself in a storage shed, surrounded by rusted automaton parts, pails, shovels and other gardening equipment. He found no signs of herbs or jars or candles, but he was covered in a fine white powder, like the powder of ashes.
“Michael had heard of witches, of course, but had never believed in their existence. Yet they seemed a natural part of the world he lived in now, a world in which he feared at any moment a monstrous change would overcome him.
“But the change did not come for the next week, nor did he feel the trembling anxiety that promised its return. For the first time in months, he began to hope. Though he would never be able to repair his broken life or bring back his beloved wife and precious children, maybe he could at least end his running. Maybe at least he could find an end to the weight in his chest, the weight of knowing that he could kill again.
“The full moon passed without remark. Taking heart, he found a small job at an inn, where he was fed and lodged and given a modest wage, enough to buy clean clothes and pay a visit to the barber. He enjoyed the impersonal company of other men, and felt almost like a man himself, again.
“There was a woman at the inn who
“Days bled by. One evening, not long until a full moon, Michael found himself huddling like a dog in a work shed. Bunches of lavender, thyme and bitter herbs hung drying from the rafters. Jars of herbs, bottles of liquid and bundles of candles filled the shelves that lined the walls. A thick tome sat closed on top of the wooden table, a quill and a well of ink nearby. Given the late hour, Michael was sure that the master of the workspace would not return again until morning.
“But he was wrong. Long after the sun had set, the handle creaked and a woman entered, face glowing with candlelight. He tried to scurry behind the single barrel in the far corner, but she gasped when she saw him and the candlelight shuddered as her hand shook.
“He could only imagine what she saw. A man in tattered, dirty clothes, his hair wild and face unshaven. She breathed a word he did not recognize and placed the candle on the edge of the table so that she could make a sign at him, as if to curse him or to protect herself. ‘You are a monster,’ she said.
“The words came like a relief to him. He had been running from himself and the reality of what he had become for so long, it was a relief to hear it from another person. ‘Yes,’ he said.
“It was as if the word ‘monster’ called the beast in his blood, and the first wave of pain shuddered through him.
“The woman made a sharp gesture and spoke a word that Michael did not know. His body went limp, though he trembled with the pending transformation. He stared at the woman, whose eyes looked suddenly hawkish. ‘Don’t move, or I will end you now,’ she said in English.
“Into a thin bronze bowl, she mixed herbs from half a dozen jars with drops of liquid from three different vials. She chanted as she worked, and when she was done, she set the mix on fire with the candle. The herbs went up in a blaze, releasing a sudden plume of black pungent smoke.
“The woman’s chanting reached a feverish pitch. At the climax, her hand struck out to rip several strands of hair from his head. She threw it into the fire, and with an incoherent scream, tipped the bowl, tossing the contents over him.
“Michael expected burning ashes, but the magic fell over him like a warm wind. He coughed and rested limply on the ground, free to move again. The threatening pain of the change had left him.
“‘I have done all that I can,’ she said. ‘In the morning, you must move on.’
“When he awoke, he found himself in a storage shed, surrounded by rusted automaton parts, pails, shovels and other gardening equipment. He found no signs of herbs or jars or candles, but he was covered in a fine white powder, like the powder of ashes.
“Michael had heard of witches, of course, but had never believed in their existence. Yet they seemed a natural part of the world he lived in now, a world in which he feared at any moment a monstrous change would overcome him.
“But the change did not come for the next week, nor did he feel the trembling anxiety that promised its return. For the first time in months, he began to hope. Though he would never be able to repair his broken life or bring back his beloved wife and precious children, maybe he could at least end his running. Maybe at least he could find an end to the weight in his chest, the weight of knowing that he could kill again.
“The full moon passed without remark. Taking heart, he found a small job at an inn, where he was fed and lodged and given a modest wage, enough to buy clean clothes and pay a visit to the barber. He enjoyed the impersonal company of other men, and felt almost like a man himself, again.
“There was a woman at the inn who
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