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Sunday, January 13, 2013

The Philosopher's Stone



The Philosopher’s Stone
by Russell Hasan

            “Here I was, sleeping in a comfortable mattress I made using my Philosopher’s Stone, sleeping off a hangover from a delicious beef stew and two exquisite bottles of Pinot Noir I conjured up, and then you come and rudely toss me from bed and point a sword of fire at my throat. Good gods, man, have you no decency?”
            “Be silent, heretic! People died to make your accursed Philosopher’s Stone. Now tell me where you’ve hidden the Stone, infidel!”
            “That’s just a myth, you know. We don’t make the Stones from human blood. We distill them from dragon scales and fairy nectar. No one is harmed by the fun that we have. Not that I would expect a Councilman like you to know what fun is, Count D’Imir.”
            “I am wise to your wiles, Patrickus. You Alchemist scum tell lies about how the Stones are made; deceit is merely another entry in your long list of sins. You Alchemists used the powers of your Stones to live lives of luxury and you refused to share them with the rest of the Nation. Didn’t your mother ever teach you to that it’s nice to share?”
            “My mother taught me not to be ashamed of the fact that I’m alive or to feel guilt when I enjoy pleasures. And she taught me not to be afraid of filth like you.”
            “Watch your tongue, sinner! You would let a town of villagers starve while you washed your tongue with Stone-made rum. Fortunately we of the Ruling Council have taken the Stones away from you, liberating them and putting them to use for the good of society. Now tell me where your Philosopher’s Stone is.”
            “So I surrender my Stone and you let me go? Is that it? Or is it merely a quick death that you’re promising?”
            “I made no promises, Patrickus. Give me the Stone and then we will see how merciful my mood is.”
            “Never. Kill me if you want to, D’Imir. I won’t tell you where the Stone is.”
            “Fool! I too have a Philosopher’s Stone, the one that I took from your old Alchemy teacher Albertus before I killed him. I have become adept at using the Stone’s magic to torture, and you will scream in agony and beg for death if you do not yield your secrets to me. The glory of our Nation demands that the Council have all the Stones, and you will not be allowed to thwart our will!”
            “I have grown tired, Count D’Imir. Ever since your Ruling Council came to power we Alchemists have been outlawed and hunted like foxes by you and your hounds. I want only the sweet release of oblivion, rather than to continue fighting for a hopeless cause. All I care about is enjoying a really satisfying sin, and you’ve made the world, how shall I phrase it, sinfully boring. I would be willing to tell you where my Stone is, provided that you grant me certain conditions.”
            “The Stone for a clean, painless death? I can agree to that.”
            “No, I want that and something else also. I want to know the truth. The Philosopher’s Stones brought wealth to everyone in the Nation; we made giant ears of corn and gigantic potatoes and stalks of broccoli as big as trees, and we sold what we made to the villagers at very reasonable prices. Then you and your Council cronies come and declare war on us in the name of the people, and persuade our own soldiers to join you. Why? I understand the envy that motivated the Nation’s peasants, but what of the Council? You don’t care about using the Stones for the good of all, isn’t that true? You just want the Stones so that you can do magic, so that you can grow more powerful. You called yourselves selfless but you are really insanely greedy for power. Am I right? I just want to hear the truth from your own lips, and then I will yield.”
            “You are cynical and oh so inaccurate. While we only pay lip service to the Nation and care not for the villagers, we do nothing for our own glory, we care nothing for our own power. Our goal is not to use the Stones to become gods, but rather to give the Stones to a god. Once we have gathered all of the Philosopher’s Stones we will have enough magical energy to open the Portal of Olympus and to call forth the god whom we serve. Once he arrives we will we deliver the stones to him, and he will reward our loyalty.”
            “But all the gods are long dead, aren’t they? They all died in the Pantheon Wars.”
“Not so. The greatest one, the one whom Death himself could not kill, has returned. The Council serves him, the greatest of the Pantheon of Elders. The Cult that has long slept and lived only in nightmares has been reawakened. And we will know everlasting life while the people of the Nation taste fatality.”
“It’s the Cult of Death you speak of! So, the Ruling Council is a front for Saturn, the God-King of the Undead! I expected something horrible, but not this. The legends say that the Cult of Death’s plan is to massacre humankind and resurrect us as zombies to be your slaves. Is that true? How could we have been so blind?”
“I don’t know. We left clues for you to see. We sent out preachers who preached that enjoyment of physical pleasures was a sin and that self-abnegation was the path to eternal life—a doctrine which anyone who bothered to read the ancient texts would have recognized as the gospel of the Cult of Death. Saturn showed us how to twist the peasants’ compassion for their fellow men into a feeling that their own desires are dirty and sinful. We help the Nation’s people to be very selfless, in the name of helping their brothers they surrender everything to us, and we will give them exactly what they do not want, exactly what will give them no guilty pleasure at all. Their bodies sin, so we will kill them and give them the blessing of release from the flesh. They believe that the body is a prison for the soul, so we will do the merciful thing and set their souls free to journey bravely into the afterlife, and we will take the bodies they leave behind and animate them as zombies. Our teachings made the peasants miserable, so that they became insanely jealous of anyone who was happy—and, of course, you Alchemists with your Philosopher’s Stones are generally quite cheerful. Is it any wonder, then, that we turned the Nation against you?”
“A ghastly plan, D’Imir. You want to kill us all—and yet the people believe that you are their champion. I never paid any attention to what the preachers were saying; I just assumed that everyone would appreciate the prosperity that the Stones would bring to our Nation.”
“You should have understood, Patrickus. After all, you Alchemists were the main power in the Nation before we came along, and power inevitably corrupts. Don’t think that I believe your pretense of being so naïve and innocent. You are upset because you no longer rule the Nation and we do, but you might as well accept the inevitable. Soon this Nation will consist entirely of our zombie slaves and Saturn will rise to rule humanity once again. But enough chatter. I gave you what you wanted, I was frank and honest. Now, before you die, you know the truth, that you and the Alchemists never had a chance against my omnipotent Master. So tell me, where have you hidden the Stone? You swore an oath, and I will force you to answer!”
“The Stone is all around you, D’Imir. I gave it to my friend Muzickus, who used it to create an illusion of the Floating Fish Inn of Hamtown, which you entered, never bothering to cast a sight of truth spell while you hunted, and then stormed into my lodging room and captured me and used your spells to bind me and point this flaming sword at my throat. The Stone is in these walls; this room is a cage.”
“A trap? Impossible! You are not smart enough!”
“We, Muzickus and I, aimed a Mirror of Memories at you, and we recorded your whole little confession. It’s a shame that idiots like you are so proud of how vicious you are, Count D’Imir, otherwise you wouldn’t be brash enough to brag about your Cult. Now, if we can make it past the Council’s army and reach the Tower of Sages, we can use the Crystal Orb and broadcast your confession to the world, and the people of this Nation will rise up and dethrone the frauds who claimed that it was a sin to live well and that the interests of the people demanded war against the Alchemists.”
“I will never let you! Prepare to die!”
“Muzickus, my friend?”
“No, stop it, stop! Help! Saturn, save me! You Alchemist sons of….”
“Phase one of your plan has succeeded, Patrickus. The Cult of Death has developed a weakness. Life still has a slim but glittering hope.”
“Indeed, Muzickus. Now, onto phase two. To the Tower!”