Quisnunc
I've been kicking about this short story for a little while. I thought, if I "publish" it in its current note-form, I will be goaded to complete it by the prospect of public shame at not doing so....so....here it is...Quisnunc.
Outline
1. Intro. The protagonists, Alberius and Cagliostro. The contest
2. Background characters. Cagliostros discarded mistress. Pregnancy. The unacknowledged birth of Cagliostro’s son.
3. Piranesi.
4. The Duke’s wager.
5. Genesis
6. More stuff????
7. The wager is forfeit
8. (A presentation to the Duke)
Sample intro.
In the shadowed, sinuous streets behind the Vatican a curious battle raged between two of Italy’s greatest Alchemists, Count Alessandro di Cagliostro and Alberius. A battle that most good and true Christians would call an abomination. It was a battle for ultimate supremacy using the vilest of magics, the most sinister of broths; unspeakable ingredients teased from the sick and sleeping; the very fabric of our humanity transacted through necromancy. Many a reveler, wandering the drunken streets before cockcrow, would scramble for the sanctuary of the Duomo, gibbering of baleful green lights, of piteous screams and demonic chanting, and a strange indefinable feeling of loss.
The battle was a contest to make an humunculus, and not just any humunculus, one that was indistinguishable from a human boy. In this contest it was not outward form that mattered, for everyone had seen Count Orsini’s son. The boy was reputedly an ape from beyond the southern deserts. Once shaved and coiffuered and put in becoming finery, a little white lead and rouge on its rough cheeks, the ape had passed for years as the Counts very own child. The ape’s want of conversation was more than compensated for by his horsemanship and ability to drink. No, it was to be cultivation that mattered, the creation of a fine mind with noble sentiments….
The two great Professors had been rivals from the start. Their contempt for each other was total, though for entirely different reasons. Count Cagliostro had the ear of the crowned heads of Europe, spoke with ease and authority on the arcane mysteries of Egypt, of which he had learned first hand. But he had grown wealthy through deceit and Alberius knew it. In fact he knew an uncomfortable amount about Cagliostro, for once, the young count had been his pupil.
Alberius, on the other hand, some fifty years Cagliostro’s senior, appeared awkward and slow. If truth be told, Alberius had grown wise through failure. His great efforts, seeking the Philosophers Stone and transmuting Plumbago, generally resulted in shattered alembics and seemingly little else. And yet, his successes, such as they were, led him to a position of high respect. (Only in his later years did he come to understand that the real product of his experiments was himself and not the sticky deposits at the bottom of a retort. In a curious way, he realized, failure resulted in more certainty than success…) He once made some armor from three special metals that returned the blow of a sword like a rock. He made a glass give out beams of light for days without risk of fire. Not the dazzling stuff expected from alchemists but somehow more useful.
Alberius had been unaccustomed to take on apprentices but Cagliostro’s father had begged him to make an exception in his son’s case.
“The boy is quick, but he seems bored by his studies. He needs something to absorb and fascinate him. Something to fix his attention.”
The old count was right, Cagliostro was bright but flighty, and the offer of a new workshop and equipment brought Alberius round to the idea of an apprentice.
He had noticed, too, that, of late, he was talking to himself more and more. And things had come to a head when, one day, muttering through the back streets he had walked into the market-square and announced to nobody but himself,
“Well, how do I know what I mean until I hear what I say?”
“Difficult ideas,” he proclaimed, “need, at the right time, to be forced into the tight fit of words if they were to go on and grow strong. But only talking out loud will ensure I don’t cheat on the process when the right words elude me.”
Standing in the middle of the market-square with all those alarmed faces turned towards him, he determined there and then that he needed someone else to talk to.
Taking Cagliostro under his wing was an invigorating experience. It was pleasing working with all his new equipment, but having a bright inquiring mind quizzing him was exhilarating. In fact, he was shocked at how much he learned from having to teach. He learned that even more than having to force his ideas into words, having them intelligently dragged from him, shaped them up as never before. It was only later that Alberius started to have doubts about his pupil. For Cagliostro, it was never enough to know something. What was equally important was the means by which gain could be got from it, and it was here that Alberius the teacher failed.
“Now hold your horses, Alessandro,” Alberius would say, "The real value of what you do can never be had in gold or fame....."
"Well, what else is there but riches, Old Man? Except perhaps power. Or perhaps, as you near your end, gold mocks you with its deathless splendour. I have a whole life to lead..." "Perhaps even two or three," the young Count added mysteriously.
Alberius was starting to feel distinctly queasy. In hindsight he realised he should have acted there and then to put a stop the boy's education. Send him packing, back to his noble life. Why hadn't he? "Well," he had said to himself feebly, Cagliostro was still young. And, hadn't he himself been just as arrogant once, half a century earlier? "The lad will soften in time...."
But, this had been a mere poltice on the festering boil of his real fear. His real fear, he couldn't voice. His real fear was that it was already too late to act. Cagliostro knew too much to stop now. He knew enough to be dangerous and more besides. Deep down Alberius knew his only hope lay in edging his apprentice a little more towards the light.
And so it was that a sort of competition between the two developed. The master racing his apprentice to a conclusion, hoping always to show the virtue of virtue, the apprentice hoping to put the old fool in his place. Soon the Old Fool was becoming desperate. Cagliostro had some unfathomable facility to produce spectacular results. Flashy, Alberius would mutter to himself. Flashy and pointless and dangerous.
The public, though, took a different view. For Cagliostro knew what they wanted, even before they themselves did. Alberius had shown the young count how plants may be changed over a few generations by careful cultivation of the better specimens. They had both set to work in their private gadens.
"Look at this marrow," Alberius later announced to his charge. "It could feed a family for a week." He proffered the huge vegetable proudly. "The flesh is so tender it will need hardly any cooking!"
"But who on earth would buy it?" sneered Cagliostro.
"Why the poor, the hungry, of course. It could make a barrel full of soup."
"And do they have the money?" countered Cagliostro. "For sure, those with money and taste won't want it."
"Well.." said Alberius stumped at first. Then triumphantly, "They could grow it for themselves."
"Ah, I see. You have spent how many years producing this... marrow? And now you intend to give it away?"
In truth Alberius hadn't really given it any great thought. Surely, he had done a good thing. Only now he didn't seem quite so sure.
Shortly after, the young count had shown him his efforts.
"Its a rose," Cagliostro had said, setting it upon the table and whisking away the cloth that concealed it.
"Its Black!" Alberius almost shouted in surprise.
"It draws in the light from every corner of the room. I think the plant must store it in the leaves somehow. Look, they are almost yellow."
And so they were. It was undeniably magnificent. Alberius knew, even before his pupil told him of his plans for his Rosa Negra, that this would make him rich,... richer, and even less likely to to use his gifts in the service of others.
NOTES:
An alchemist, Alberius, is trying to make an humunculus that is not a dull yes-humunculus. His rival, Cagliostro, has an humunculus that can speak Egyptian, yet it is clearly an idiot, dully doing as it is told. Alberius wants much more. He teaches his creature as much as he can, so that it has knowledge of the world around it. He gives it the power to reason. He tries to instill passion so that it may be moved to action. But, frankly, it does not give a damn. It lies lethargically at the bottom of its huge alembic. It is a cultured animal (animus), driven by its primitive appetites and yet able to quote from Dante and debate lucidly on the number of angels that may fit on a pinhead.
“But you can create worlds in your head. Journey in an instant to the tumultuous cascades at the edge of the world…. Pull yourself together! Do something. What do you want to do? What do you want to be?”
Alberius, angry at his creation’s indolence was in despair. It seemed that there was no Spirit, no spark behind its little green eyes. His creature seemed to speak everything within his mind and all it seemed to say was “Muncky hungry. Muncky want sleep. Muncky sick.”
A flash of genius and Alberius sees the problem. There’s no concept of “I” in his scaly head. He may fashion worlds and dream of the future but he cannot place himself there and see how it would be, how it could be for him. Why should his little Muncky do anything if he can’t make a plan for himself?
Alberius sets to work. He makes Muncky a wonderful image of himself. A self-image so perfect it will surely urge him on to great things. His new self-image is of a brave and brilliant fellow, an artist and singer in the making, someone sure to be summoned to court to entertain the king, an adventurer full of resourcefulness and cunning.
Muncky sets off the next day to seek his fortune and Alberius is pleased at this show of spirit. Two days later a farmer brings back his humunculus in a barrow, badly bruised and missing an ear,
“I’m sorry Professor I ‘ad to ‘it ‘im. ‘E says ‘e wuz tryin’ to sing for ‘iz supper and that ‘e wuz a great singer. But it weren’t like any singin’ I come across. Then my wife wuz all afrighted. She thought ‘e wuz a-castin’ a spell or some such. So I takes me shovel to ‘im. “
Alberius scoops up his precious bundle.
“Can’t sing,” whimpers Muncky. “Still hungry.”
Alberius looks at a loose ear the farmer had thrust into his hand before leaving. Shouldn’t have used cloth he muses.
Now he was really stumped. This wonderful self-image he had given his humunculus was a dangerous thing. Rather than spur him on to great heights of achievement it made him reckless and ridiculous. What was he thinking? Muncky couldn’t sing anyway. He was doomed to failure. Yes he could give him the faculty easily enough, but Alberius wanted him to WANT to sing so he might learn for himself. But equally self-image must also include an aspect of what he could do now, otherwise ignominy and failure awaited.
So, a real knowledge of what he could do now PLUS an image of what he might achieve in future. But it’d have to include lots of aspirations in case he achieved the early ones. And he’d have to change his view of what he could currently do as he progressed. Phew! This was getting complicated and suspiciously fatalistic for little Muncky, with Alberius playing at god, mapping his future out. And where was the fun in that. He wanted Muncky to want for himself,… perhaps even to like him a little….
Keep it simple was Cagliostro’s chant. Complicated magic impresses no one and generally goes wrong somewhere.
For four days, Alberius stayed up, trying to fathom the problem of how to make an intelligent animal more truly human. The endless infusions, the endless pacing only seemed to make him less able to encompass the complexity of his task. In the end he kept forgetting what problem he was trying to solve. He kept forgetting the details of the problem…He started to feel…. Something…. a bit more alive than his usual fluffy-headed self…He was thinking about what he was thinking…. He didn’t have to keep all the details of his problem in his head at the same time. He sort of knew that it was all there, just below the surface.
Then he saw it. A blinding flash and he saw it. Cagliostro was right. Muncky’s self-image needed to be simple BUT something extra, something new, Muncky also needed to forget it all the time. To feel alive he needed to keep asking the same question. ”Who am I now?” then answering it, then almost immediately forgetting the answer so he could ask himself again. "Who am I now?"
Why must it be a simple answer? Because he would USE it, perhaps every moment of the day, to decide what to do next. When he was guessing at the future, by imagining it, speed may be of the essence.
When farmer Joseph is bearing down on you with a shovel and you are imagining the outcome, apart from deciding if he's angry and an accurate shot and whether you have something to worry about, you also need to know if, just at that moment, you yourself are feeling brave, or fit or a bit fragile, or perhaps that you just don’t give a damn. You need a snapshot view of yourself, to decide, just at that particular moment, what you might actually do when pushed.
Why do you need to know? After all, whatever it is you’ll just do it anyway. Because to be human you can use your knowledge of the probable future to your advantage. You can rehearse your actions. You can imagine your legs running down that gorge or jumping that stream. Or you can start to defuse the situation. Smile at him as he approaches, perhaps. We truly don’t know what we’ll do when push comes to shove, but a little practice beforehand puts us a little more in control….strengthens our will.
Alberius at once set to work making this tiny, but frenetic bit of magic. Quisnunc quisnunc he chanted and it was done.
“Muncky,” he said giving the sleeping form a gentle shake. “Wake up, little man.”
Stirring quickly the humunculus jumped up and said with a curious smile, “How do you do?”. Alberius there and then learned our greatest secret, how we confer the magic of self-hood on our brethren. “How do you do?” he responded.
“Fine,” said Muncky, ”I’m fine,” and the twinkle of his searching eyes seemed somehow to show there was someone there.
Need to add in storytelling as the first prerequisite. Also, when he is brainstorming he must begin the debate of what he is trying to do and who he is….quisnunc.
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