the saddle. The doubt and dread of yesterday’s climb from the harbor had returned, and became stronger all the time as the layers of rock below him thinned and he felt himself drawn nearer and nearer to the central furnace.
It was well past noon when the woods abruptly gave way to a seemingly endless slope of dark gray tumbled boulders, shale and ash. Uncle Giorgio dismounted and Alfredo slid thankfully down. In the last of the shade they tethered the mules and settled down to the luncheon basket that the dumb woman had prepared for them.
They ate in silence. Alfredo was at first almost overwhelmed by his closeness to the churning fires below, in the heart of the mountain, but by the time he was packing the remains of the meal into the saddlebags he was even more conscious of Uncle Giorgio’s steady, absorbed gaze on him.
There had been priests in the cathedral who might stare at you with the same intentness, but Uncle Giorgio’s look was somehow different. That wasn’t what he wanted, whatever the sailors on the
Bonaventura
might have thought. He and Alfredo had slept in the same cabins all through the voyage, traveled together through lonely woods and across empty hillsides, but he’d never once done or said anything to suggest any physical interest in his nephew. It was as if there was something else he wanted, deeply and passionately wanted, and only Alfredo could give it to him. But Alfredo had no idea what it was.
He closed the last buckle and stood waiting, but Uncle Giorgio made no move.
“Sit down,” he said. “It is too hot to climb.”
Again Alfredo sat. The mules fidgeted. Insects hazed through the mottled shade.
“There are two Great Works,” said Uncle Giorgiosuddenly. “They are named the Philosophers’ Stone and the Elixir of Life. Great men have sought them through the ages. With the Stone they hoped to achieve the transmutation of metals, and thus turn lead into gold. With the Elixir they hoped to live forever. They worked by the distillation of acids and the decoction and sublimation of minerals, and by the conjuration of demons, and achieved many things, but not their goals. These cannot be reached by such means.
“Where is gold found, Alfredo? It is found in the veins of rocks, rocks that once were molten in the heart of mountains such as this. It is found in streams, which have worn those rocks away. All substances, however chill, have fire locked within them. It is not the fire at which we warm our hands on a winter night, or use to cook our food. It is fire from the heart of the sun, which is more, even, than the fire that fills our turning world, and fills this mountain. In it live the salamanders. They take the gross materials of which all things are made and feed upon that inner fire. Heat is generated in the process, enough to turn the molten rock from the mountain, with which I originally filled my furnace, into true sun-stuff. The salamanders pass the rest through their bodies, so that it emerges changed. Some of it is transmuted into gold. Being heavy, the gold that my salamander makes sinks to the bottom of the furnace. But in the mountains it gathers together in pools and rivulets, so that when those places are churned to the surface and cool and become rocks, there are veins of gold running through them.
“Only the salamanders can turn lead to gold. That knowledge is the First Great Work, and I have accomplished it.”
He fell silent, still watching Alfredo with the same heavy gaze, but now as if he expected some response. Alfredo nerved himself to return the look. Uncle Giorgio’s eyebrows rose.
“Are you going to live forever?” Alfredo asked.
“Perhaps,” said Uncle Giorgio, then paused and added, smiling his strange, unpracticed smile, “So, perhaps, will you.”
Before the heat of the day was anything like over, they started on up the slope. Now they truly needed their hats, as they climbed between two fires, that of the mountain below and that of the
It was well past noon when the woods abruptly gave way to a seemingly endless slope of dark gray tumbled boulders, shale and ash. Uncle Giorgio dismounted and Alfredo slid thankfully down. In the last of the shade they tethered the mules and settled down to the luncheon basket that the dumb woman had prepared for them.
They ate in silence. Alfredo was at first almost overwhelmed by his closeness to the churning fires below, in the heart of the mountain, but by the time he was packing the remains of the meal into the saddlebags he was even more conscious of Uncle Giorgio’s steady, absorbed gaze on him.
There had been priests in the cathedral who might stare at you with the same intentness, but Uncle Giorgio’s look was somehow different. That wasn’t what he wanted, whatever the sailors on the
Bonaventura
might have thought. He and Alfredo had slept in the same cabins all through the voyage, traveled together through lonely woods and across empty hillsides, but he’d never once done or said anything to suggest any physical interest in his nephew. It was as if there was something else he wanted, deeply and passionately wanted, and only Alfredo could give it to him. But Alfredo had no idea what it was.
He closed the last buckle and stood waiting, but Uncle Giorgio made no move.
“Sit down,” he said. “It is too hot to climb.”
Again Alfredo sat. The mules fidgeted. Insects hazed through the mottled shade.
“There are two Great Works,” said Uncle Giorgiosuddenly. “They are named the Philosophers’ Stone and the Elixir of Life. Great men have sought them through the ages. With the Stone they hoped to achieve the transmutation of metals, and thus turn lead into gold. With the Elixir they hoped to live forever. They worked by the distillation of acids and the decoction and sublimation of minerals, and by the conjuration of demons, and achieved many things, but not their goals. These cannot be reached by such means.
“Where is gold found, Alfredo? It is found in the veins of rocks, rocks that once were molten in the heart of mountains such as this. It is found in streams, which have worn those rocks away. All substances, however chill, have fire locked within them. It is not the fire at which we warm our hands on a winter night, or use to cook our food. It is fire from the heart of the sun, which is more, even, than the fire that fills our turning world, and fills this mountain. In it live the salamanders. They take the gross materials of which all things are made and feed upon that inner fire. Heat is generated in the process, enough to turn the molten rock from the mountain, with which I originally filled my furnace, into true sun-stuff. The salamanders pass the rest through their bodies, so that it emerges changed. Some of it is transmuted into gold. Being heavy, the gold that my salamander makes sinks to the bottom of the furnace. But in the mountains it gathers together in pools and rivulets, so that when those places are churned to the surface and cool and become rocks, there are veins of gold running through them.
“Only the salamanders can turn lead to gold. That knowledge is the First Great Work, and I have accomplished it.”
He fell silent, still watching Alfredo with the same heavy gaze, but now as if he expected some response. Alfredo nerved himself to return the look. Uncle Giorgio’s eyebrows rose.
“Are you going to live forever?” Alfredo asked.
“Perhaps,” said Uncle Giorgio, then paused and added, smiling his strange, unpracticed smile, “So, perhaps, will you.”
Before the heat of the day was anything like over, they started on up the slope. Now they truly needed their hats, as they climbed between two fires, that of the mountain below and that of the
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