The Alchemists Of Vra

Opening Chapter-2

Thread was brought and he snatched it in annoyance. He’d only worn the thing a minute and already it needed stitches.

While sewing his sleeve, he referred to those above, saying, “Clandestine indeed! It is we beneath who are the true Clandestine Alchemists!”

Again, those loyal were confused. “What? But I thought you had termed us Dark Alchemists.”

“Yes, that is true. We are Dark while those above are Clandestine.”

“So why did you say we are Clandestine?”

He sighed and put down his sewing. “I was just highlighting that the word clandestine befits us more than them, despite us being called Dark.”

There was no change in the animals’ expression.

“It’s to prevent confusion.”

“Oh,” one said, as though that cleared everything up. It didn’t, however, so his expression remained unchanged.

Sinson-Rascalian sighed. He couldn’t admonish their stupidity. Their ignorance was a result of the Clandestine Alchemists’ teachings, rather than any cognitive deficiency.

He beckoned for them to come closer. “As Dark Alchemists, we are brothers,” he said. “All of us who gather in this hidden place. Do not concern yourself with what we are called, you need only to accept it. After all, I have given you brilliant reasons to, have I not? I mean look at my sleeves, for a start.”

They nodded, keen to do what they were told, rather than worry about why they were told, as it hurt far less in the brain.

With the sleeve mended, Sinson-Rascalian threaded paws into the thing and twirled. Satisfied, he turned to his throne and sat carefully, bunching the robes beneath his bottom.

With head high, he posed regally. “Well? Does this look impressive? I mean, do I look the part?”

Again, those loyal exchanged glances.

“Yes,” one said. “You look even more like a cat of some persuasion.”

Another agreed. “Rather a lot of persuasion, actually. In fact—” He glanced at his colleague. “One might even go so far as to suggest a title for you, Sinson.”

Sinson-Rascalian stared at the animal. Clandestine Alchemists forbade ideas, so for a Dark Alchemist to come up with one was remarkable. Perhaps his brilliance was contagious. He shifted upon bunched robe, deciding that because he looked the part, he might as well have it labelled.

“Well?” he said. “And my title is, therefore—”

The Dark Alchemist put down some rolled maps and stepped closer. “How about Sinson-Rascalian—the Persuader.”

After some blinks related to the previous paragraph, Sinson-Rascalian smiled. “That is a most satisfactory title. In fact, I am never to be called Sinson again. You must always refer to me as either ‘the Persuader ’, or ‘Sinson the Persuader ’. Is that understood?”

They nodded.

“And you have to tell all the others.”

Further nods.

He shifted on his throne, which was built from the same sharp, spiky rock that littered the ground. He could reside upon it for only short time before his bottom got sore.

“Yes,” he said, a claw to his chin, which had his sleeves drape regally. “I am Sinson the Persuader, creator of Boundless Extensible Subterfuge. There’s quite a ring to that, is there not?”

“I have no idea,” another said. “What’s a ring?”

Again Sinson-Rascalian sighed, wondering what it would be like to meet a mind that might know his own.

He stood, rubbed his bottom and turned to glare at the throne. “I really ought to get some cushions.”

Dark Alchemists looked at each other: yet another idea. It seemed there no end to their leader’s brilliance.

Turning to them, he changed the subject so abruptly, that they were left dizzy and one fell over.

“Have those who have been sent across the green sea returned yet?”

They stared in astonishment. “How did you do that?” one asked.

“Do what?”

“Go from contemplating cushions to considering the wanderings of our brethren so quickly?”

“I’ve told you before. It’s called thinking. I’ve told you. I’ve discovered that it permits wonderful things.”

“But we are taught that thinking is terribly dangerous!”

“Certainly that is the case. Meddling with imagination, for those not understanding its power, can maim dreadfully. But for an animal such as myself, both brave and clever, playing with this fire has permitted me to discover wonderful things. Lands beyond the green sea, for example, and taper silk robes.”

“Oh, how your mind must work, Sinson!” they marvelled.

He glared until they realised their mistake.

“Sinson the Persuader,” they said.

“Indeed. Now, I expect our brethrens’ return shortly, and I would like this cave cleaned up. It looks terrible. It’s a mess. I mean, there are bits of stone everywhere.”

Dark Alchemists nodded and began collecting pieces which they piled in a corner.

Claw upon whiskers, Sinson-Rascalian looked around his den and imagined how it ought to appear. “Yes. Cushions certainly. And some sort of rug to give colour to this otherwise featureless ground, the texture of which I don’t like at all. It’s too stony, for one thing, and makes the ceiling seem lower.”

While Dark Alchemists muttered in awe, he pointed at a wall and asked, “What about draping some Taper Silk across that end? Would it not lift the perception of ceiling height? Would it, perhaps, make the room look deeper?”

Again Dark Alchemists glanced at each other, hoping the question was rhetorical.

“Yes,” he decided, because it was. “I think that’s a good idea. I must look into it next time I’m abroad.”

Exchanged glances again: such bravery!

At the cave’s entrance, an approaching argument arose. Sinson-Rascalian hurried back to his throne. He sat too quickly and winced, having forgotten to bunch the robes beneath his bottom first. Three animals arrived and hurried across the cave. When nearing the throne, they bowed and knelt, but said nothing. He glared at them: that a fourth was missing answered his first question.

He asked it anyway. “Well?”

The returned Dark Alchemists looked at each other. The question was succinct, which would only highlight their answer’s length.

“Sinson,” one began, “there have been unexpected—”

He was interrupted by a raised paw. “I am now to be known only as the Persuader. Or if time permits, Sinson the Persuader. Is that understood?”

The three exchanged glances again, before the animal continued. “Sinson the Persuader, there have been unexpected delays in retrieving the Pumbel named Manky-Stew.”

“Delays?” he said, in a manner demanding explanation should follow.

“Yes.”

Which didn’t suffice.

“What sort of delays?”

“We can’t find him for a start.”

“That’s not a delay! It’s an excuse!”

“Well, they’re sort of related, really.”

Sinson-Rascalian stood from his throne, which was a relief in itself. “You mean to say, a silly little Pumbel has outwitted you?”

The three shared glances again, but were allowed no time to confer.

“A Pumbel has outwitted a horde of Dark Alchemists?”

“Not the entire horde, Sinson, for we three have returned only to inform—”

“THE PERSUADER!”

A pause. “The Persuader, for we three have returned only to inform you of the delay in his retrieval. Certainly we shall find him. But considering it’s three nights since his absconding, he’s managed quite some distance.”

Sinson-Rascalian stepped from his throne, a bruised bottom not helping his temper at all. “How can it be that a little dog upon paw can outwit a horde of animals such as yourselves? Animals who wield amberstone?”

There was a silence of ignorance.

“How can a Pumbel, an animal oblivious to the workings of the world beyond this monastery, manage to stay a paw ahead of animals who currently influence said world?”

The silence continued.

He shook his head. The very notion defied belief.

The Pumbel had to be caught before everything was lost.

“Do you know how dangerous this is for us?” he asked.

They had few words other than apology, which had no place in any constructive answer.

“You know well that Boundless Extensible Subterfuge pivots on our knowing of the outside world while they know nothing of us!”

The little dog who held maps had re-gathered them. “But surely, Sinson,” he said, “even if—”

“The Persuader.”

“—the Persuader, even if Manky-Stew managed to reach the northern lands, who would believe his story? It would sound absurd. What’s more, he has no idea how to manipulate the stolen amberstone. And even if he was believed, surely by being Dark Alchemists we are safe? By definition, we cannot be seen.”

Sinson-Rascalian stepped closer and his voice became dark. “You underestimate the animals of the northern lands, dog. They have not been cocooned in a monastery for a millennium as we have. They do not burrow beneath sand as we do. They do not find solace in season as we must. While Clandestine Alchemists aspire to denial, those beyond this place revile it!”

The other Dark Alchemists suspended their stone piling, and listened also.

“Those of the northern lands have embraced imagination,” he continued, “and as a consequence have made their world soar. They have built and explored and dreamed. They have looked beyond their world, as opposed to us, who only look within. As alchemists, we have honed introspection at the expense of everything else. And that leaves us so inferior, that even the word itself cringes at being used.”

Those kneeling, wilted.

“So do not underestimate what animals beyond the green sea are capable of seeing—especially when you are certain they cannot. For although invisibility is our strength, it is also our weakness.”

The three swallowed at the same time, and played a sort of squelchy chord.

After a sigh, he said, “For three nights you have been unable to retrieve the creature. For three nights you have failed.”

“Sinson, we still have—”

“The Persuader.”

“—the Persuader, we still have our remaining party in close pursuit. Certainly he shall be returned here, we promise you.”

With a sneer, he turned from them. “Your promises are forged from no more than hope. Were they forged from something more substantial there’d be no need for them, as the Pumbel would already be here.”

With claw against whiskers, he considered the options until a brilliant one dawned: one that would allow him to choose some Taper Silk robes and some cushions. Perhaps even a full-length dress mirror. Moreover, he could show off his Taper Silk robes to animals appreciative of such things.

He’d retrieve the Pumbel himself.

In a swirl of Taper Silk, orders were given, and his minions scrabbled to obey, despite not understanding a word. The little dog with maps was told to fetch more of them for an extended stay beyond the green sea.

When it became clear they didn’t know how to arrange anything of the sort, Sinson-Rascalian sighed wearily and set about organising everything himself. Several more Dark Alchemists arrived to announce dinner was served upstairs, and that it was chicken. There were murmurs of excitement from everyone, as it made a nice change from green soup. On Sinson-Rascalian’s orders they stopped scrabbling and hurried away to eat first.

3____________________

OSCAR Teabag-Dooven stood outside the Catacombs of Asquith and fluffed his pantaloons. Behind him, traffic rumbled. Above, the sky shone blue and in nearby trees, birds sang a glorious recitative of spring. There was an important reason he stood outside the Catacombs, and after a scan of his collapsible tummy, he entered the place to find out what it was.

A domed ceiling hung over a large foyer. On its far side, lifts opened and closed in a cyclical digestion of animals. Those alighting marched across the foyer toward important destinations to relay important information about important things, while those that got in, didn’t. At least, not at ground level. Such activity was normal. What wasn’t normal were the number of animals smiling at him while doing so. Oscar hurried across the foyer, not used to smiles and nods of appreciation. He was used to teasing and being ignored. Often at the same time. Which, being impossible, says much about the extent he was loathed.