Free Alchemist's Apprentice by Kate Thompson Page B

safe.
    The river slapped and sloshed against its banks. The wind gusted at the chimney, causing the fire to wuffle and roar, then collapse into quiescence again. Gradually the pot began to hum, then to hiss, and finally to bubble.
    Barnstable sighed, and Jack heard his bones crackle like the kindling as he stretched himself out and then recoiled again. He stood up, walked over to the fireside and, with exaggerated care, added two more logs.
    â€˜The fire cannot be treated with too much respect,’ he said. ‘That is your second lesson on the alchemical process.’
    Jack nodded gravely, hoping to conceal the fact that he had no recollection whatsoever of any first lesson.
    â€˜The world is full of puffers,’ Barnstable went on. ‘Men and women who make the mistake of trying to speed up a process which must take place in its own good time. They fan the flames, like this.’ He picked up a pair of bellows which leant against the wall and aimed them at the fire. ‘Puff, puff, puff, you see? That’s why we call them puffers.’
    Jack watched as the fire began to glow angrily at the centre, then send flames leaping around the black pot. He wondered whether he should confess, explain about the bellows in the forge and how he was a puffer already. Perhaps there was a cure for it?
    The alchemist laid the bellows down. ‘And what happens if the fire is too hot?’ he asked.
    â€˜The fuel gets wasted?’ The only time that the fire in the forge was ever too hot was when there was no work to be done. The usual problem was that it wasn’t hot enough.
    Barnstable nodded, thoughtfully. ‘That’s true, I suppose. But I was thinking more of what happens to the pottage.’
    â€˜It gets burned?’
    â€˜Exactly. Our meal is ruined. But when we are dealing with the volatile elements in our other sort of cookery, the alchemical sort, the results can be far worse. I have heard of puffers, Jack, who exploded themselves and their workshops in their desperate hurry to get rich. Fools. Even if they hadn’t, they would not have succeeded. Their experiments would never have worked.’ He walked over to a box in the corner of the fireplace. ‘Come and look at this.’
    Jack joined him. He had assumed that the box was for firewood, but now he noticed that the top was drilled with round holes. The alchemist lifted the lid. Inside was a hen, her feathers fluffed up for brooding and spread wide over her clutch of eggs. She gave Jack a hard stare and crooned a warning at him. Barnstable chuckled fondly and carefully closed the lid again.
    â€˜The great work is just like that,’ he said. ‘Like a hen hatching an egg. Too much or too little heat will kill the life within. The temperature must remain constant, and for that, the fire must be closely attended. This requires great patience. The philosopher who has no patience will not acquire the stone. Alchemy is simple, Jack, but it is not easy. Do you understand what I mean by that?’
    â€˜Not really,’ said Jack.
    â€˜Good. You will, given time. Let’s take a look at the laboratory, shall we?’
    Beneath the pot, the flames had returned to their former size. The fire burned sweetly on.
    Jack followed the alchemist through the scullery and into the workshop which lay beyond. As the door closed behind him, the mystery that he had sensed in the house seemed to fold in around him like a dense mist. The room was rectangular, the long walls twice the length of the short ones, and everywhere he looked there were pictures. There were snakes and dragons and blue eagles, there were lions and warriors, suns, moons and stars. The Red King and the White Queen were represented several times, in different forms, and it seemed to Jack that everywhere he looked they were gazing down at him from the walls. He stayed near the door and scrutinized them all surreptitiously.
    One of the pictures in particular caught