A Scribe's Suffering

A Scribe's Pain

"Somewhere, at some recent time, something happened, something that shattered my expectations of mine and all life," proclaimed the alchemist as he whirled around to face me.  He was shaking with trepidation as he slowly moved closer to my position, and as he advanced, a fear ignited within my being.  His large, normally searching, lighted eyes were darkened, and as his lips parted to deliver some great diatribe, his voice cracked and he began to shed tears.

"My scribe, these past twenty years I have invested the whole of mine energies into transmuting metals into precious gold, and to pouring life into no longer living mortals," he paused and heavily lowered himself into a large chair,

"Yet, I now realize that my efforts have been for naught, for nothing shall ever change form or live again."  The alchemist leaned forward grasping his large grey-whiskered chin with his short, thin hands, and his dull eyes shifted from open to close in rhythm as his feet tapped the stone floor.

"There is no fulfillment in incessant failure, and I have had nothing but failures throughout the course of my work," slowly stated the alchemist as he continued to stroke his chin, "I have invested too much effort and intelligence in the pursuit of my goals." His body slouched within the chair and he beckoned for me to fetch my pen and parchment in order to immortalize his statements in written history.

"The date is of no importance, yet my story is of some significance to those who entertain the notion of a happy life," he emphatically stated.  He raised his long sapphire sleeves revealing multiple scars, cuts, burns, and bruises, some self inflicted, which almost entirely disguised his ashen skin.

"I have truly given my life to the progression of alchemy and what some will come to refer to as the dark arts of old men and an age long drained of reason."

"However, I always believed that the pursuit of knowledge was worth the digression of the physical self due to an experience I had as a young student." 

         The alchemist receded further into the chair, as his head with it sparse, strangled hair found a comfortable resting spot to begin the oration.

"During this time, there was once a middle aged man who came stumbling into the small village in which I resided.  He was fatigued as if he had been on a long pilgrimage, so he decided to remain in our village for the day until he had been refreshed; however, one day progressed into a week before the stranger decided to leave.  During his stay, he walked amongst the village and he used different words which confounded my fellow villagers, yet intrigued my young, fertile imagination.  He talked mainly of instruments and machines which were beyond the villager's usual understanding of crops, harvests, and brewing ale.  However, he also discussed his life to any who would pause long enough to be caught by his tales of exploration into a different world--the world of alchemy.  Yet he mainly lamented over his separation from the woman who he professed to love more than his studies of what he called the demon art."

Here my pen began to empty as did my attention to the details that the alchemist was slowly expounding upon.  I did not truly understand the reason as to the alchemist's story and why he had decided to deliver it into my keeping, yet with another injection of ink to the nib, I continued.

"The stranger happened to find my attention greatest to that of the rest of the village and he began to impart deeper stories and more intricate details of his life to my imagination.  His life of studying and romance enthralled my mind with the possibilities that lay beyond my mundane existence, and I desired to leave the village to journey with the stranger.  Even though I attempted to travel with him, he refused my offer of apprenticeship and left on the morning at the end of the week.  I never again saw this stranger, yet as I often encountered dead bodies in my field of study, I continually wondered if his was still drawing breaths with his woman or if it was in the earth's embrace," sighed the alchemist as he scratched his temples with his prominent, blotchy knuckles. 

"It was his stories of alchemy which brought me to where I am now and will forever remain.  However, morose I may become I shall not entirely despair, for life has not been wholly devoid of adventure or love.  Why the other day in the street I saw my past wife in her long gowns trying to cart her purchases to another destination, and then a fear and sadness gripped my heart for I then saw the curtains of my bed chamber drawn around me.  I have finally begun to dream, after fifty years, I have begun to once more indulge in this other state of existence."

"This is my reason for delivering the motivations of my life unto you, my scribe," he softly stated.

He painfully stood, rising with the assistance of the chair arms, and limped across the room to a table full of containers and instruments where he seemed to simply hover for several moments.  He then raised his left arm and spoke quickly.

"I have given my life to a mad haunt in which I have suffered and lost more than I could ever imagine to obtain in any other work.  This is the last of my instructions to you scribe, for even though many shall walk my path, many shall walk blindly into the next world with no more knowledge than the rat which lives off his house's provisions.  I have been blinded and now I have been healed.  Although I realize my ultimate failure in practicing mine art, I have the regret only that it never produced any true benefit for my time.  When you leave, bolt the door and I shall install the fastening so that none of the servants can enter.  I would wish that you publish the ranting of a confused, wretched alchemist who once enjoyed his task which has always despised him."

A loud explosion, shattering glass, and wails echoed throughout the corridors as I hurriedly left that night.  I never returned to the alchemist's house,  for when I was only a little distance removed from the entryway to the house, a groan erupted from the building and the roof descended as flames birthed forth from the alchemist's chamber level, which was once the highest of five stories quickly surrendered to being the first.  The alchemist's dwelling had burned and he had been incinerated with it.  Besides a small number of servants, of which I was the only one that had had much interaction with him, no one knew that his life had just expired.  And I was the only one to know of his conflicted state of mind and being, to which I could only process that others should not retread his fateful flawed path. Yet would it matter if others knew his tale?  He had been warned and yet he still followed the trail into destruction.  What I should do with his legacy was the problem as I stared at the bundled parchment etched with somewhat noble intentions plagued by foolish decisions.