Read by Tony Bell (3rd story in podcast, at 32m 40s)
The confession of the great alchemist Hieronymus Trithemius includes the admission of many heinous and horrifying acts: dissection of corpses, conversing with demons, and folding down the page-corners of borrowed books. But the transgression that most interested my master and myself was the creation of artificial life, or homunculi, in the alchemical laboratory, a sin most grievous against the design of the Almighty.
Trithemius’s confession, alas, provides only tantalising hints as to his process for the creation of homunculi, but during the lengthy passages he dedicates to the sin of self-abuse, he reveals the key ingredient man must supply. Though not, sadly, the volume.
It is said Trithemius created a small army of miniature humans through his handiwork. His diminutive servants assisted him in his quest to produce the alkahest and achieve chrysopoeia—the transmutation of base metal into gold. They say he was on the verge of success in his pursuit of the latter when his laboratory exploded, annihilating all within. That was a hundred years ago, and aside from a few scraps of scorched paper, the secret of Trithemius’ conception of artificial life died with him.
It was my master’s belief that homunculi were key to chrysopoeia, and that was why Trithemius had invested so much effort in their creation. In particular, my master believed the powdered bones of a homunculus might be the catalyst required for transmutation, and that the blood of such a creature might be the elixir of life so long sought by those pursuing the great work—a task that so far had brought us only the suspicion of the commonfolk and a sentence of excommunication from the Church.
It was for this reason, and by his vigorous efforts to produce homunculi of his own, that my master so exhausted his energies that he was required to travel south to take the waters, there to recuperate and restock his life-creating reserves. He instructed me not to attempt any experiments in his absence, but I was an eager young apprentice, and my hands could not remain idle for long.
It had always been my task to gather the ingredients for the work. My master experimented with substances both common and rare, but the core was always the same: blood, sputum, egg-white, mandrake root, and semen, all settled in a bed of what he called venter equinus—a substance less learned folk refer to as horse manure. My master provided the seed himself, presenting it to me in a clay bowl thrice daily from behind a screen in the laboratory.
I had watched my master work; so I knew what was required. But I had my own theory, and I believed I knew the missing ingredient: moon blood, woman's monthly curse from God. My reasoning being the Almighty made woman of man’s rib for the purpose of procreation, and that even in the genesis of artificial life, woman must do her part.
Obtaining this ingredient was not a simple task, however, for woman is naturally ashamed of her unholy emanations. I will not linger on the details of this pursuit, but after some unfortunate incidents I struck a mutually beneficial bargain with a friendly nun, and was able to obtain supply enough for one attempt at my experiment.
It was All Hallow’s Eve when I gathered the ingredients. Whether the date was propitious or otherwise, I did not know, but outside my master’s tower a storm was rumbling. I prayed to powers sacred and profane to grant me their aid.
After much pleading, my master had taught me some Latin words of arcane significance, and I repeated these as I combined my materials within the vessel that would hold them.
‘Lorem ipsum. Lorem ipsum,’ I chanted.
Truly, I felt the power of the ages flowing through me.
Nevertheless, as I placed the stopper on the vessel I could not help but think that what I had created that night was nothing more than a kind of putrid soup on a bed of ordure. For a moment, I questioned my life's choices.
The feeling passed, and I retired to my bunk. Outside, the storm raged. The wind rattled the shutters and the rain lashed the stones. I had just closed my eyes when I was woken by a knocking on the tower door. I ignored it at first, for my master had taught me never to open the door to beggars, peddlers, starving children or elderly people being pursued by bears. But whoever was there was not to be rebuffed, and lest they splinter the wood in its frame, I put on my mantle and descended.
There were three figures outside, each a head or so shorter than me and wearing black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats. They saw the light from behind the grille and one of them stepped closer.
‘Three wayward sisters seek shelter from the rain.’ She was a white-haired old crone, a prominent boil on her nose and a hungry leer on her face. Her voice was doleful and full of unspoken menace. She reminded me of my mother.
Perhaps that was why I ignored my master's rules and opened the door to them, or perhaps it was something else. Whatever the case, I quickly realised my mistake.
‘Thank ye, kind sir,’ the first crone said as she entered. Then she threw her head back and cackled dementedly. The others followed, and soon the tower rang to their cries.
I told them they might sleep in the outhouse, where there was plenty of straw and only one small and friendly goat to share the space with, and I bade them goodnight. Then I retreated to my bunk and hid under my blanket. Beyond, I heard songs being sung and things being smashed, and at one point a loud bleating that came to a sudden stop. They climbed the steps to the laboratory, and I feared for the safety of my experiment, but I heard only more laughter and more singing. After many hours, the noises ceased.
*
All was quiet the next morning; so I crept out to look around. The tower door was open, and the crones were gone. They had left a note written in blood. It said: We have granted you a boon.
I looked around, but could see no gifts. Shrugging my shoulders at the strange message, I inspected the rest of the tower. Aside from a few empty wine bottles and one friendly but missing goat, nothing was amiss.
Most importantly, the vessel containing my experiment was still there and seemingly unmolested. The only strange thing was a circle of salt drawn around it. I picked up the broom and was sweeping when I heard a sound that froze my blood—a muted cry, not quite animal and not quite human. It was coming from my experiment.
The crones forgotten, I knelt next to the vessel and pulled out the stopper. The stench hit me like a wave, but beyond the toxic miasma was the realisation of all my dreams.
The creature was the size of a large potato. Its translucent skin revealed tiny veins through which its blood pumped in a way that shook it with each beat. Its arms and legs were thin, frail things, like the roots of a daisy. It was covered in specks of manure and it stank of sewage.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I picked it up and laid it on my master’s haemorrhoids cushion. As I looked into its pinprick eyes, the magnitude of my accomplishment began to settle on my mind. My hunch had proven correct. I had achieved what my master and all his learning had failed to do. I had created life. Little did I know, as I wrapped the shivering homunculus in the folds of my cloak, that the true test would not be in making the thing live, but in keeping it that way.
The homunculus was exceptionally needy, and it seemed committed to its own destruction. I could not avert my gaze for a moment without it flopping over to the edge of the table or reaching for the sharp end of a scalpel. If I tried to leave its presence it let out an inhuman cry that tore the senses. Rarely could I find a discernible reason for its anguish. The homunculus seemed merely to delight in inflicting pain on my auditory function.
‘Mightest thou tell me what ails?’ I asked, but it seemed incapable of speech; it ceased its screaming momentarily, fixed me a baleful stare, and then resumed. I sang to it, fed it from a bowl of turnip mash, even held the small waxy body against my breast, but nothing seemed to console it.
I was no longer granted even the five hours my old master had allotted me to sleep. My new master was more demanding, and woke me every hour or so with a nerve-flaying roar. Sometimes the source of its consternation was apparent, and I would find a pile of sulphurous dumplings adhered to the red velvet of my master’s cushion. It seemed incapable of even the simplest act of self-care.
I sent a pigeon to my master to tell him the news. Limitless wealth and eternal life were within our grasp. I merely had to keep the creature alive long enough for him to return and dismember it.
Meanwhile, my life settled into a new and awful routine, and I wondered if I had succeeded not in creating artificial life but in summoning forth a demon from hell. I had become a mere hostage to the creature. My hair was full of porridge, my clothes stained with fouler things. I reminded myself we needed only its blood and bones, but I found the chopping and grinding of its little body an increasingly difficult prospect to countenance. Each time I looked at the homunculus a strange, hitherto unknown feeling stirred in my breast. I knew not what to call it. Instead of eagerly anticipating my master’s return, I grew to dread it; yet what choice had I but to surrender the homunculus to him?
*
Next morning, I had just returned from the fetid pond beside the tower walls when my master arrived at the gate. I hurried down from the laboratory with my arms still slick with slime.
He looked at me with disgust. ‘Such disregard for the purity of the body is why you will always be an apprentice,’ he said.
I told him the creature was in the laboratory, and he narrowed his eyes. ‘If you play me for a fool, it shall be your bones I grind into a powder,’ he said. Then he took the stairs with such gusto that I could not keep up.
By the time I arrived in the laboratory, he was wearing an apron and holding a knife in one hand and a saw in the other.
‘Where is it?’ he said, and I pointed at a table near the window, on which was a glass vessel covered by a cloth. ‘It was only a matter of time before my methods bore fruit,’ he said. ‘Tis only a pity my genius flowered in my absence. But, no matter. The work is almost complete. Endless wealth and eternal life await. We need only kill this little man.'
I nodded and pulled away the cover. My master took a deep breath and gazed upon the creature before him.
‘This … appears to be a frog,’ he said.
I shook my head, feigning confusion.
‘Granted, it has been whitened with flour and made to wear some kind of rough loincloth, but it is, nevertheless, rana temporaria, the common frog.’
He picked the amphibian up by the hind legs and flung it out of the window, through which could be heard a loud splash as it landed back in the pond.
Then he turned to me, his face like a slab of ham, knife level with my throat. ‘Pack your things and get out,’ he said. ‘You soil me with your presence. Go!’
I left immediately. In truth, I had already packed what little I owned. I strode beyond the gate of the alchemical tower and into the world beyond. The true homunculus was tucked into a makeshift sling beneath my cloak, safe from those who wished it harm, its little body a clammy patch against my beating, besotted heart.
(c) Rhys Timson, 2024
Rhys Timson has had short fiction published by 3:AM, Litro, Popshot, Structo & Lighthouse, & has had stories featured in several previous Liars' League events.
Tony Bell has been an actor for 40 years, notably in Propeller Shakespeare company, touring the globe. He recently wrote a one man play on his MA in Scriptwriting at UEA, & he will be performing "Man in the Rain" in November at the Brockley Jack Studio. He is NOT begging you to come but …
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