I listened to David Bowie’s last album a couple of weeks ago. I’d heard it before, I’d bought it when he died, and had given it a few listens then, but I’d never sat down and really listened. I’d watched The Prestige the day before and was reminded how, at his best, there was something sublime about Bowie, something magical; he had that unparalleled ability to create a dissonant harmonic between cold and warm, uncanny and familiar.
As he walks across the Faraday cage to enter the film as Nikola Tesla it’s hard to think of a better introduction to a character in any movie. When I first saw the film in the cinema I didn’t know he was in it so when he burns the screen, and puts his special edge in the atmosphere, I, along with everyone else in the theatre, sensed the upping of the stakes, the shift from good film to great. That Bowie then sits down with Hugh Jackman and has a lengthy discourse on the atrophying nature of obsession is perfection. It reminded me of other Bowie films, and that little hit of Other he gives them. There’s no way Labyrinth would have entered the cultural lexicon had Bowie not been in it, bringing his weird alchemy. And that’s not to mention the impact of his musical legacy and performance art, which I won’t go into here because it’s been written about better than I ever could elsewhere. Anyway, the next evening, I sat in the armchair in my office, plugged in my over-ear headphones, and listened to Blackstar, the album he dropped (pre-dating Beyonce) just days before his death. It opens with Bowie singing a haunting lyric, sung in a hymn-like, plangent tone:
In the villa of Ormen, stands a solitary candle. In the centre of it all. Your eyes.
Late at night, cold winter at the window, it’s hard not to be moved by the sonic farewell given to us by one of the world’s great culture icons. It’s inaccessible for long passages but there is always the shock of brilliance here and there. By the end of the album, Bowie sings in a minor key, ‘I can’t give it all, I can’t give it all…’ This was of course a dying man singing. The album, and first track, are called Blackstar – the name ascribed to cancerous lesions. It is a melancholic way to end the album, as if he is failing now, unable to be the force he once was: I can’t give it all… Until he completes the lyric, the music shifting into a major chord, symphonically rendered as he finishes… Away. I can’t give it all away, is the last line Bowie recorded. The last word: Away.
When it was finished I sat there for a moment. And started the album over again. In the villa of Ormen, he sang. Lies a solitary candle. I picked up my phone and googled Ormen. Or maybe it was Ørmen, a village in Norway. A superb article I found on the Guardian’s website that attempted to untangle the mysteries of Bowie’s last album noted that his girlfriend went to the village in 1969 to make a film. Had Bowie visited? In 2013 he wore a T-Shirt with the words Song of Norway on it, the name of the film. Another theory cited Ormen being the Norwegian word for serpent. In the villa of the Serpent. Bowie had been through occult phases and was a disciple of Aleister Crowley.
I picked up the album booklet and flicked through it. The lyrics are written in black letters on a black backdrop. They are discernible only when you hold the booklet at the right angle to the light, because the words are gloss against matt. And there are some photos too. One is a striking portrait of Bowie in profile, the collar of his coat turned up as if it is winter, the sky behind him on fire.
I couldn’t help but be struck by how similar it is to the cover of his album, Low, but here he is facing the other way, and he is older, almost like Dorian Gray staring at the portrait, two photographs inextricably linked across the decades. And, don’t forget because maybe this is important for later, Low was the first of the Berlin albums, the era in which he spent lots of time in Germany, mixing with a huge number of artists behind, and in front of, the iron curtain.
The picture is strange, almost blurred but somehow maintaining focus at the same time, as if viewing it is to see through the eyes of somebody going slowly blind. I grabbed my magnifying glass. There was something there but it was too small to see so I brought the picture to my microscope and took a closer look. Though invisible to the naked eye the picture is laid on top of a repeating pattern of tiny circles. Circles, going on and on and on. Circles in mysticism represent the never-ending nature of things, the recycling of elements as they disappear into black holes, the same elements that are formed in the birth of stars. Energy is neither created nor destroyed; it simply moves from one form to another. A snake eating its own tail. The immortal nature of all things.
Moving back to my armchair I flicked through the booklet again. I kept coming back to the lyric, In the villa of Ormen. There was something familiar about it. A Google search brings up little about the Norwegian village, other than it was referenced in the song. The Wikipedia entry is just a few lines. It stands on the Østfold railway line. A station was opened there in 1914 but has since fallen into disuse. On Google Earth it appears as just a few farmsteads dotted either side of the 110 highway, south of Lake Skinnerflo, a popular birdwatching spot. Why would this be familiar to me?
And then I remembered something. This summer past I worked in the library stores of Cardiff University, principally moving old PhD and MPhil theses from an old site marked for demolition to a new temperature and moisture-controlled one. Before shelving each thesis in its new home I dusted them down with a microfibre cloth, a process that involved wiping the covers and spines before opening the folio to clean the end sheets, particularly where they are glued to the covers as this is the point where mould can take hold. It was a time-consuming procedure and, because of this, I was paying attention to the titles. The Status of Teaching of Fine Arts in Secondary Schools in Baghdad, Iraq by Abdul Jabbar Mustafa Al-Bakri (1989), The Propagation of MM Waves in the Atmosphere by S J Pickard (1984), Covalent Hydration in Complexes of N-Heterocyclic Molecules by C T Hughes (1983).
There are so many niche entries into the most obscure corners of academia I found it hard to understand how we carry this great weight of data forward in one piece – what knowledge, along the way, has fallen between the cracks as we advance our species down just the one line of scientific Truth? On my phone I’d started making notes of some of the more exotic titles and, if they piqued my curiosity enough, I would sneak a glance inside. Now, in my office late at night, I scrolled through the notes on my phone. And that’s when I found it:
Alchemy, Christian Theosophy, Anthroposophy, Mesmerism and Occultism in Norway by Andreas von Weston (1973).
I’ve recently started a new job in Public Engagement at the School of Pharmacy but during my lunch break the day after I listened to Blackstar I popped along to the stores. It was raining hard and the storm battered the iron roof of the building that housed the theses. The light in the aisle where I had shelved the von Weston PhD had blown (which is weird in and of itself) so I had to find the spot with the light on my phone. The book wasn’t there.
Being back in that book bay had jump-started my memory, and why this thesis in particular had been different (apart from the title). It had been tied shut with a length of twine that, over the years, had grown brittle and thin. I’d had to snap the twine to get into the book. But that did little to explain why it was now missing.
I went into the office of the Operation’s Manager, and asked if there had been any rearranging. The wind battered the building and made it rattle. She told me that there hadn’t but that I’d missed some drama. A few days before a tree had fallen and smashed one of the small windows. A white cat had got in and seemed to have been living there for a couple of days until they found it – several mouse and bird carcasses had been discovered scattered around the stores.
I went home and decided to Google Andreas von Weston, to see if the PhD had been digitalised. It is the goal of many universities to digitise all of their old theses. I was in luck. But at the same time I couldn’t help but notice the news article of von Weston that came up on the feed. The article gave a potted history of the man. Following his PhD he had gone on to become an esteemed Professor of Ancient History at Universitetet i Tromsø – Norges Arktiske Universitet or The Arctic University of Norway, the world’s northernmost university. But the news article wasn’t about his academic career. In early 2016 he mysteriously disappeared. This was strange to his friends (he was unmarried) as he lived a cloistered life of academia and had, according to those who knew him, never taken a holiday. The article went on to explain that some months later his body was discovered – and this is where things get strange – on the shore of Lake Skinnerflo, the body of water that lies just north of Ørmen. I devoured all the stories I could find but because they were written in Norwegian it was tough going. Google Translate only gave me snippets.
I downloaded the PDF of his PhD and started reading. It was a dry, lengthy treatise on esoteric theories of alchemy and various other magicks, as well as, I saw, the philosopher’s stone and immortality. For centuries, the philosopher’s stone was the holy grail of alchemy. An alchemical substance that had the ability to turn base metals into gold, it could also be consumed orally to cure sick patients and also, so the story goes, to grant everlasting life. As I read on I couldn’t help but notice von Weston consistently referring to an esoteric text called the The Dragon Tree of Midas, an ancient work from the fourteenth century by a famed esotericist called Wolfgang Freidrich Mőller. Mőller belonged to an obscure sect of scientist monks who called themselves the Monks of Alkahest – Alkahest being an alchemical solvent supposedly able to break all substances into their component ingredients, I discovered.
I couldn’t stop now. I went to Cardiff University’s Voyager, its library search tool. Unbelievably, they it. Even more unbelievably, it was the last existing copy. It was housed in the Special Collections and Archives, a department buried in the basement of the Arts and Social Sciences library; a treasure trove of rare books and relics. I went along. It’s in a sealed off part of the library but as a staff member I have access. I asked the librarian there, an elderly gentleman in a smart burgundy cardigan and grey Farah slacks, if I could take a look at The Dragon Tree of Midas and he looked at me inquisitively.
‘You’re the second person who’s asked for that book in the last week,’ he said.
I asked him who else had requested it and he said a strange young man. This of course struck me as an odd way to describe somebody so I asked him what he meant.
‘Well I remember him because he was… strange. He was handsome but… there was something about him. He was wearing a suit with a long, black overcoat. And he was holding a black, wide-brimmed fedora. I remember that.’
‘That doesn’t sound that strange.’
‘It wasn’t that. You know when you get a feeling about somebody? His face was odd, like he was wearing a mask. A life-like mask. Very strange.’
‘Did he see the book?’
‘He was a public member so I couldn’t let him in. It’s funny. When I looked it up, the book had been embargoed for mould when it first arrived, and the embargo had been held in place for decades afterwards.’
‘Strict orders of the old Vice-Chancellor. Of course, when he retired the embargo was lifted and we were able to house it properly. And now two people comes asking for it at the same time.’
Just then, a woman came up behind me, another member of staff returning from lunch.
‘They got that cat,’ she said.
The man glanced up at me. ‘Had a problem with a cat getting in here,’ he said.
‘A cat?’ I said.
‘Found him in here one morning. Beautiful thing. Perfectly white all over.’
‘How could you find him in here? The place is locked off from the rest of the library and temperature controlled – everything’s sealed. There’s no way in.’
‘That’s not exactly true,’ said the librarian. He went on to explain there is a small lift, too small for a human but big enough for a box of books, much like a dumbwaiter in a restaurant. I found it unlikely that a cat would get into the library and then jump into a lift. I’d even go so far as to say it’s impossible. But I wasn’t here to worry about cats. As the elderly gent showed me to the book I said it was strange how a rare book like this would find its way to Cardiff University. He told me that, in fact, Cardiff is a prestigious university in the field of theology, but that when he got back to his desk he’d check its provenance for me.
The Dragon Tree of Midas is a thick, heavy volume with tough vellum covers and parchment leaves. Its edges are sprayed gold and deckled. A bronze lock keeps it shut but the key has long been lost and the lock mechanism has failed so you can open it with your fingers. There is a chain at the spine, which shows how old the book is – spines as they appear today only existed from 1535 onwards. Before that books weren’t stored on shelves (scrolls were, but not books, at least not spine up as they are now) but in the carrels of monks – each book had its own desk; it was the monks that moved around. The chains were used so that the books couldn’t be moved. Inside is a title page with different-coloured letters. A dragon frames the title, flowing around it in a circle. After a table of contents we get to the book proper. It is handwritten in a tiny, delicate script that leans from left to right across the page. There are the scars of mould that has long since died back. There are many drawings of geometrical shapes depicting the chemical make-up of base elements, up to more complex molecular structures. It is written in Latin, which I don’t understand, but one thing I did notice was the repetition of a couple of words: medicamenta chymica.
Obviously you can’t check books like The Dragon Tree of Midas out of the library, but I needed to run it through a Latin translation page and so I did the only sane thing – I put it in the little lift and pressed the up button before going to leave the Special Collections section. The elderly librarian was sitting in his place at the reception desk and stopped me as I passed. I thought I’d been caught but instead he said to me, ‘I looked up your book. It came from Trondheim, purchased in 1974 by one,’ he squinted at the computer screen in front of him, ‘…Andreas von Weston.’
I collected the book from the lift, made sure no-one was looking as I left, and tossed it over the top of the magnetic scanners to catch it on the other side. It’s a simple enough way of getting books out of a library, not that I’d ever recommend that of course.
Next, I scanned the pages into a handwriting program that turned them into computer text, which I then ran through Eprevodilac, a Latin translation programme, painstakingly copying and pasting the text into a new, English version of The Dragon Tree of Midas MS Word file, to my knowledge the only English language version that exists. The whole process would probably take me a couple of months but by yesterday I’d scanned about a quarter of the book. Of course the Latin translation isn’t perfect but it’s workable – it kind of made sense – and I’d started emailing the day’s pages to my Kindle and reading it at night.
It begins with a lengthy history of the author, written by himself, of how he grew up in the Black Forest where, during a long hike he took when he was a boy, so he says, he… (sic) “happened across a wizened old woman who had in her home a set of instrumentations of the most scientific. In a misen (bowl) of (pewter) she concocted what she told the boy that was me was (chemical medicines).”
But the words “chemical medicines” read on the original page in Latin, which I cross-checked the next day, as medicamenta chymica. It was this “substance” that would consume Wolfgang Freidrich Mőller’s life. He became an apothecary in Germany, an iatrochemical pharmacist in fact, where he worked under the guidance of Jochum van Helmont, apparently a revolutionary chymist who inspired Martin Ruland the Edler’s Progymnasmata alchymie, a hugely influential tome of alchemical esoterica. Mőller was obsessed with re-creating whatever it was he’d seen that day in the witch’s cave and slowly, so he tells the reader, he started to do just this.
The book is written strangely, not in the way a linear narrative as would be told today. It keeps alluding to stages that occur later in the book. So we learn, right away, that Mőller believed he had discovered a substance that could cure any ailment, including ageing. Every few paragraphs he keeps coming back to this substance, his medicamenta chymica. Reading the book reminded me of a tide moving up a beach, each wave breaking just an inch further up the sand before drawing back into itself. Total coverage. The final substance, that would be revealed in the last chapter, could not work alone. Before granting everlasting life to whomsoever might consume it, a series of stages must be completed. Were the patient to imbibe the medicamenta chymica on its own it would poison them. The patient must be prepared via a staged progression, much in the way the body can be trained to build resistance to certain bacteria if they are present in the environment when growing up. He called the path of these stages the Pilgrimage.
It was fascinating and I found myself reading late into the night several times a week. The title, The Dragon Tree of Midas, referred to an experiment Mőller claimed to have created whereby he “planted” a “seed” of gold into a “soil” of chemicals, tended to the seed for several months, before the gold started to use the soil to expand out, creating more gold, building new atoms around itself from the ambient chemistry in the way an organic seed becomes a plant using the nutrients of its soil. The success of this experiment, Mőller said, was proof of concept for the philosopher’s stone. If one could transmute base metal into gold, as he had done, why could one not – with the correct “alkahest” substances – transmute the human form from mortal to immortal?
This seemed very weird to me. Surely if this experiment had been conducted, it proved that alchemy was not the pseudoscience we think of it as today, but something more. I googled, and came across a scientist named Lawrence Principe who, in the 1980s at Johns Hopkins University, gathered some experimental blueprints from old alchemical texts, and mixed specially prepared mercury with gold, placing the soft mixture at the bottom of a flask before burying it in a heated sand bath. As the experiment progressed, he went into his lab to discover that the mixture had grown up out of the flask, into a tree-like structure. Made of gold.
I kept thinking about how the dead-ends that science had taken before returning to the path of progress that has given us the modern world. What if the dead-ends weren’t dead-ends at all? The more I read, the more this idea seemed to have traction. Newton had based his work on optics on earlier alchemical theories, Robert Boyle – one of the founders of modern chemistry – built his hypotheses and truths on the back of the alchemist, Daniel Sennert.
One chapter in The Dragon Tree of Midas was particularly strange. Mőller describes how, on the fourteenth stage of the “Pilgrimage,” the patient, “might transfigure the basic essence of self from the human to the animal.” Now. I don’t think he was talking about animal shapeshifting. Alchemists often used esoteric language like this as metaphors for chemical processes (earth, wind and fire are translated as oxygen, hydrogen and carbon, for example), but I was unable to decipher this particular passage. It got me thinking. If the constituent parts of an animal could be rendered into its component amino acids (linked to the theory of Vitalism; see later) then, according to alchemical lore, the amino acids could be reformed into any animal. We know this is theoretically true – that’s what stem cells do. I’m not saying for a second that shapeshifting via alchemy is possible (obviously), but it’s a cool idea.
It was weird to think how all of this had started with me listening to Bowie’s final album. I recalled the album cover of Low. It wasn’t the only link with Blackstar. The harmonica instrumental from the 7th track on Low (A New Career in a New Town) is recycled into a track on Blackstar – that final, beautiful refrain, I can’t Give Everything Away. Why was Bowie thinking of Low so much during the making of Blackstar? Was it too far a leap to think that the Occultism that was floating around the highest echelons of power in 1930s Germany was still alive in the Berlin of the late 1970s? Or was he just reflecting on a fond period of his life where he kicked drugs and found nirvana in the melting pot that was the Berlin art scene of that time?
There are thirty-three stages in the Pilgrimage and I had read as far stage seventeen when something happened that stopped my studies. Amy had gone to London for a publishing party so I had the house to myself for the night. I’d intended to crack on with The Dragon Tree of Midas. After work I ran some errands in the spitting, wind-tossed rain, picked up some dinner, and it was dark and cold by the time I got back to my house. There’s a sensor outside out front door that triggers with motion to turn on the porchway light but tonight it didn’t work. Fishing my keys out I managed to get the door open. A gust of wind blew it open before me and a few autumn leaves raced past up the hallway. They drew my eyes into the house and I dropped my bags when, against the window at the back of the house, a figure, silhouetted in the window frame, moved into the darkness. I swore and fumbled for the light switch, fear putting a drumbeat in my heart. But when the light came on there was nobody in the room, save for a snowy white cat. The relief was immediate. It was Alaska (as me and Amy know him because he’s so white), a local neighbourhood cat. But why was he in my house? We’d never even been able to get close to him for a fuss. He came up to me, his tail upright, and I noticed it wasn’t Alaska but a cat I’d never seen before. Alaska has green eyes but this cat’s eyes were not green. They were different colours – one green, and one blue. Seemingly as unhinged by the sudden interruption to its day as I was, it went to get past me to the open door. That’s when I realised its eyes weren’t a different colour. One of its pupils was dilated, as wide a saucer, whilst the other was the more familiar feline slit. The cat rushed past me and into the night.
I stood there for a second before calling my own cats. But they didn’t come. I couldn’t find them anywhere downstairs and it was very odd because ordinarily they’d be standing over their food bowls by now looking at me expectantly. It was only when I got into the bedroom that I found them. All three of them were curled together in the open wardrobe. If you knew my cats you’d know how out of character this is for them. Especially Aniseed, who usually won’t let Henry or Sheldon anywhere near her. Now they were all cowering together in a cupboard. I gave them their food and, as cats do, they soon went back to normal, coming and going through the cat flap, scratching the back door to get back in. But it had unnerved me, not least of all because both the Arts library, and the stores, had reported white a cat getting into their buildings around the same time activity was taking place around alchemical textbooks, one of which was now sitting on my bedside table.
I took a shower, ate my dinner, texted Amy a couple of times, and went for a long walk before the call of The Dragon Tree of Midas became too strong for me to ignore. I couldn’t resist doing what I did next. Here’s the thing. If you remember, von Weston’s original PhD thesis had made many allusions to Mőller’s text. In fact, having now familiarised myself with the original Dragon Tree of Midas, I knew the von Weston PhD had outlined all the stages of the Pilgrimage. Apart from the final one. Von Weston said it would be foolish to keep all the stages in one place because the power one could control with this knowledge was too great. Yes, he had ordered the only copy of the original tome (with all of the stages) to Cardiff University but, I had discovered, he had never taken receipt of it. By the time booked arrived from its previous home in Bali, von Weston had been dismissed from the university’s academic staff in a scandal over an affair with a student, a scandal he vehemently denied in the few news clippings of the incident I found on the university’s Micro Fische. He had been replaced by a Professor Theraj, who had been waiting in the wings and who, wouldn’t you know it, had been missing since January 2016, the same time that von Weston was being fished out of Lake Skinnerflo. Had von Weston ordered the last remaining copy of The Dragon Tree of Midas to destroy it? And why had the VC embargoed it for all those years? To keep it away from the person who superseded von Weston – this Professor Theraj?
Because I’m so impatient I’d already scanned and translated the last chapter of the Dragon Tree of Midas. I had intended to read it at the end, in the correct order, but I had a sense that time was running out. Usually we sleep with the bedroom door open so the cats can come and go but tonight, it was closed. I picked up my Kindle and started reading. Google translated the opening line:
“In the old ancestral grand house of Ørmen there shone a single streak of light.”
Any hint of sleep dissipated. I knew this final chapter would describe how to prepare the final mixture that would grant eternal life – Mőller’s medicamenta chymica – but I hadn’t even glanced at it. I had no idea it would open like this. Suddenly things were clicking into place. Before letting my mind get ahead of itself I read on. Up until this point many of the alchemical preparations Mőller described for the stages of the Pilgrimage involved earthbound metals and elements – zinc, manganese, iron, potassium, etc. But now, at the end, one needed to mix gold with, what Mőller called, “the dust of broken Nibiru.” I needed to check but thought I recognised this word. My recognition was confirmed with a quick look on my phone. Nibiru is a hidden planet that orbits the black hole at the centre of our galaxy, rather than the sun. Many doomsday cults worship this secret planet, postulating that it will collide with earth and destroy mankind at some point in the near future. Oh, and goes by different names. Some call it Nemesis. And some call it Blackstar. Though the stuff of tinfoil hat conspiracists, here it was being referenced in an ancient text and, moreover, that it had been broken apart at some point in the distant past. However, as I said earlier, these old alchemists were fond of mystifying things, hiding behind a lexicon of ancient mythology. I’d found an online dictionary for alchemical phrases and the dust of broken Nibiru was in there. It was how they described iridium. Iridium is a very rare element on earth, but is common in asteroids. If iridium is found on earth, it more than likely has an extra terrestrial origin i.e. it is the remnant of meteors fallen to earth. When the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs struck earth, it exploded on impact and left a thin layer of iridium around the whole planet as the dust from the cataclysm settled back from the atmosphere to terra firma. No dinosaur skeleton has ever been found above that line – strong evidence for the asteroid impact theory of extinction 66 million years ago. I Googled “Asteroid Ørmen” and the only result returned was under, “Scholarly Articles Relating to Asteroid Ørmen.” Because I’m a member of Cardiff University staff I have access to academic journals that standard Google users don’t. There was only one article, published in the Norwegian Journal of Geology in 1972:
Evidence of asteroid impact in Southern Norway Ref: 59.299, 10.900.
I checked the grid reference. Sure enough, it was Ørmen. More precisely, as I switched to satellite view, the grid reference was in the direct centre of a strange, perfectly oval woodland just to the east of the 110 road. The shape of an eye. The article provided evidence of an iron and nickel-dense bolide striking the earth on the 6th June in the year 666. Historical documents reported a fireball in the night sky being viewed and recorded from areas as far away as Oslo on that date. On that night, the seat of power – the old manor house in, yes, Ørmen – was destroyed. Levelled by some heavenly force. Deposits of iridium were found all around the site in concentric circles, and remote sensing showed topography in keeping with craters that have been heavily eroded oover time. When I say concentric circles, the map of iridium deposits in the article shows oval shapes expanding outwards from the impact site. This phrase caught my eye: “The richest concentrations of iridium found on earth to date.”
This was unbelievable. My heart was beating. I read on. It was necessary to mix the gold shavings with x9 measure of the iridium that came from, specifically, the iridium-rich asteroid that struck Ørmen. Leave this compound for one lunar cycle before adding a x3 measure of calcium carbonate solution and drink 1/128 Aum over the course of three hours (an Aum being 32 gallons). Drinking metal shavings should kill you but, according to Mőller, this won’t happen because of the resistance the body has built up over the course of the Pilgrimage. Instead, vitalistic properties (vitalism is the study of the soul – the idea that “life” is some strange force that exists beyond chemistry and physics) are brought down to their base building blocks and remoulded into something that can never die. And that was that. A thirty-three stage progression to everlasting life? Or the ramblings of a mad man? Clearly I wasn’t the only person who gave the theory some credence – who was the other person trying to get their hands on this only-surviving manuscript of The Dragon Tree of Midas? And what was the white cat with the strange eyes? Obviously I had, by this point, some idea of who this mysterious person was but, even now, I can’t bring myself to write it because it’s too preposterous.
Instead, I’ll just tell you what happened next. I fetched all my cats into the bedroom, closed the door again, put the book under my pillow and fell asleep. My house was all locked up – there was no way anybody could get in – and if that cat did come back it wouldn’t be able to get into the room because not even sentient cats have the strength to open doors.
When I woke up, in the middle of the night, I could just make out the shape of a man, willowy thin, coming towards the bed in the darkness. He leaned over me.
‘Don’t do this,’ I said. ‘You don’t want to live forever.’
‘Give me your hands,’ the figure said, his voice wavy and ethereal.
I did as I was told.
And then the man said, ‘You’re wonderful.’
I turned my face towards the figure. I could see two squares of white moonlight in his eyes. I should have been terrified but I was not. This thing standing over my bed, beyond the otherness, was kindly. I sensed this kindness keenly.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said. ‘I have simply moved to my 193rd iteration.’
I thought about these words, until I understood that this man, whoever he was, was already immortal. ‘So why do you need the book?’ I said.
‘It is not for me. It is to protect it from another. Somebody would use the Gift in ways I do not. You must be a very diligent member of staff. Taking that twine off a fifty year old PhD.’ I recalled its brittle, dusty nature. ‘Of course, that lifted the curse for anybody already on the Pilgrimage.’
I understood immediately. The curse had been preventing certain people – who, I didn’t know – from reading the thesis. ‘But the PhD was online. They could read it online.’
‘Ah, yes, the digital age. Not so fiercely modern that it can circumnavigate the old magicks. Even in the ones and zeros of the Internet the curse held.’
‘Inadvertently. Yes. He was able to read it. All apart from the last chapter of course. Hence why I am here now. For the book.’
‘The old professor.’
A new world was opening up before me, a tiny crack of a door opening, and beyond an infinity of something happening behind the scenes that we in our busy modern lives turned away from centuries ago.
‘Theraj?’ I said.
‘All will be well. Soon the danger will pass. The opportunity to press against the Grain will close when I take hold fully of the new iteration. I’m just glad I got to you first.’
I thought of the mysterious Professor Theraj, the man who had replaced von Weston, and who had been missing since January 2016. So he wasn’t dead after all. Who was he? What kind of powerplays are happening beyond our understanding? I wanted to say something more to the being that stood over my bed, but I found myself overwhelmed.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to say anything, I already know.’
And with that, I drifted off to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, the sky was a crisp winter blue. I rolled over and Sheldon hopped up on to the bed and nuzzled up to me, hoping for breakfast. I reached under my pillow but I don’t know why. I knew the Dragon Tree of Midas wouldn’t be there. And it wasn’t.