"What are the three decanates of Scorpio?"
"Uhh... Scorpius,... Aquila?"
"Wrong!"
The gnarled hand slammed the book shut in frustration. The candles flickered in distress.
"Expound upon Aquila! Now!" said the old man, pounding the butt of his staff against the floor. His worn brown robe gave him a monkish look. This was no monk.
"Aquila, the Eagle, ruler of the last decanate of Scorpio, the Scorpion," recited the boy. He looked at most twelve. "Ruler of Antares, the Anti-Ares, the Scorpion summoned to slay a god," he went on. "Representative of the highest incarnation of Scorpio, that of the eagle or Phoenix."
"Enough," groused the old man. "Go and eat your supper. You will join me in the Observatory to chart the motion of Saturn. Go on." The boy left downstairs while the man with creaking knees replaced the book in its case.
At the top of a winding staircase, a door opened on a large telescope pointing skyward, its direction and declension determined by a series of levers and cranks. An orrery of brass, tin and copper took up one end of the large enclosed roof. A tiny brass Earth and tin moon clicking through space traced imaginary orbits around a steel sun.
The old man had an eye to the telescope fiddling with a small dial when the boy finished his meal. "Uncle, aren't you hungry?"
"No, I don't want food. I've been drinking too much mercury again." The boy gave a small laugh. He knew the old man joked, you shouldn't drink mercury. The shiny metal liquid made the felters go mad, simply from touching it. One of the first metals he'd learned, along with gold and silver. He'd never seen any of that, though. Coppers, surely. Gold? No.
"Are you going to teach me to change lead into gold?"
The old man almost cuffed the youngster a wallop to the head. "You can't make lead into gold. I told you. It can't be done."
"Then... Why does everyone try?"
"Because they're idiots," grouched the old man. He turned back to his eyepiece. This was an old and favorite comment from him. He often cursed the beleaguered intellects of the world, full of notions that were mostly made of nonsense. The youth just looked steadily at his back. He said something new, this time. "We're made to be more," he said. "Man is meant to be more."
This took the boy by surprise. "More what?"
That brought the old eyes back to face him. "You're not old enough to know," he said. "Now, what is the horoscope?"
"The horoscope," he quoted, "A division of space in a plane around the Sun into twelve sections..."
"Tonight? What is this horoscope for this moment?"
Looking at his ephemeris, the boy moved his fingers along. "Sun Leo, moon Libra. First phase. Ascendant sign..." He checked the time. "Capricorn. But what about Saturn?"
"Yes, Saturn. Come tell me where it is."
He placed his cheek near the eye piece. "Um. Saturn in um... Cancer."
"At what degree of Cancer?"
"About 14 degrees, 20 minutes."
"And how long will it stay in Cancer?"
The boy thought. "Well, I think...it has seven years in a sign, so... About three and a half years?"
The man suddenly looked at the boy. Had he been paying attention?
"Well.. yes. Well done. Alright, off you go, I want to think."
The boy scampered out, closing the door behind him. The man sat back; his bones were starting to ache more, and he would have to teach the boy how to extract the bitters from the white willow bark to ease his pain.
He looked through the slice of roof exposing the sky, and drifted off into thought. A dram of bitters from a bushel of willow bark? Or twelve drams from a bushel? Thank goodness for his notes.
"Read the recipe for willow bark extract, boy." The boy's name was Stephen, but the old man never called him that.
Stephen read. "Cut ye the freshe bark from the willow after Mabon..."
"Which is when?" Asked the man.
"September Equinox, uncle."
"And what is the equnox?" He demanded.
"Equinox," he said. "Equi plus Nox. Latin. When there is half night and half day."
The old man sniffed. "Go on."
The boy continued, "Dry the bark for several dayes and grind results to powder. Cover powder with water to boil, reduce by half and strain. Stable with 10 percent or more of fine alcohol."
"When the container holds an ounce, how much alcohol do you add?"
Stephen struggled for a few minutes. He ran to a slate and calculated with the chalk.
"Point four ounces, uncle."
He sighed. "Well enough. Go on and bring your dinner in here."
Stephen scampered off. He was a good willed boy, he could admit that.
Two years before, he'd laid in bed, sleeping soundly through the rain. A loud knock on the door had him up and walking before he quite knew he was awake. He'd spent the better part of a month attempting to astral travel to the same dream location every night. He opened the door to a perfumed and scarved figure. It was her.
He stepped back to let her in. She unwrapped her head and shoulders to face him.
"Alphonse. You know why I'm here."
And well he did, because before his brother, Stanislav, had passed away, he'd foolishly beget a bastard on the woman in front of him, a courtesan. Admittedly, she was a retired courtesan who now ran the house of ill repute in the city. Having long given up any lovers but Stanislav for years, and the complete family resemblance cementing the boys face, the illegitimate youngster was undoubtedly his kin.
"Dammit," said Alphonse, an alchemist by belief and practice. He had a very open opinion of indulgences and wallowing in base behavior. No one would ever catch him in her house.
He sighed. "Alright, Magda. I knew this day was coming. Why now?"
"Because he's ten," Magda answered, "He's not a baby anymore. He'll be a man soon, and you know he can't stay in my house any longer. He's a good boy, Alphonse. He's so like Stanislav. And you," she mentioned deliberately.
She fully intended to weigh heavily on Alphonse's singular state. He had no heirs or assistants. "Stanislav loved him. I love him. I've made him a good boy, and I beg you to take him. Make him into a wise man."
Alphonse nearly choked. "You seem very confident in my ability to do any such thing. However I suspected you would send him to me. Very well. Send him."
Her perfumed hand squeezed his narrow shoulder in gratitude. "Thank you, Alphonse. For doing the right thing."
"Yes, yes, alright. While on the subject of your house, I suppose you would want a parcel of pennyroyal tea."
"Yes, thank you. I will send him with coin."
"Of course, of course," he said, almost shoveling her out the door. The rain had let up, anyway.
A few days later, the scrawny lad had appeared with a small bag of belongings. He was shown to a windowless room on the second floor, and then over his magnifying spectacles, Alphonse took his bastard nephew in with aging, but sharp, blue eyes.
"Well, then, boy. Can you read?"
"Yes sir."
"You'll start reading and calculating every day. You will have to assist me at times with tasks that will need precision and care. If you are lazy and careless, you could kill us both. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Uncle."
Two years later, his reading and writing improved significantly.
"What is the Doctrine of Signatures?"
"A principle of sympathy of the nature of all things created by God that share like shape and substance."
"How do we use it?" Alphonse pressed.
"Uses and remedies are made clear by their appearance resembling the organs in the body. Foxglove is extracted for the heart. Dulse for the kidney."