Golden Lane: The Alchemist Of Prague

In this bedtime story, you are a traveling alchemist who comes to the court of the Emperor in Prague. He’s summoned alchemists to reside in his Castle to study the secrets of ultimate riches and immortality. Surrounded by ancient wisdom and occult practice, you attempt to discover the recipe for the philosopher’s stone. | Ingredients: Alchemy legends, Soothing music, Affirmative meditation
Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw; Clairvoyance by Syntropy, EpidemicSound

Transcript

Search for alchemical secrets in a land of magic in tonight's relaxing sleep story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

An albier guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

I'm here to help you find meaningful rest.

At any time when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of my voice and venture into sleep.

If you are still awake at the end of the story,

I'll guide you through a relaxing,

Affirmative meditation and sleep countdown.

In tonight's story,

You are a traveling scholar who comes to the court of the emperor in Prague.

He's issued a call to all magicians,

Sorcerers,

Philosophers,

And alchemists to reside in his castle to study the secrets of ultimate riches and immortality.

Surrounded by ancient wisdom and occult practice,

You attempt to discover the recipe for the philosopher's stone.

Darkness will appear on the face of the abyss.

Night,

Saturn,

And the antimony of the sages will appear.

Darkness and the raven's head of the alchemists and all the colors of the world will appear at the hour of conjunction.

The rainbow also and the peacock's tail.

Finally,

After the matter has passed from ashen-colored to white and yellow,

You will see the philosopher's stone.

Heinrich Konrath The sun is barely breaking in the east over a swell of hills and glittering spires.

You traveled through the night feeling with every inch you drew closer to the city its magnetic allure.

Now it's in your sights,

The castle a sprawling golden citadel atop a towering crest.

The exhaustion you feel from the lengthy journey seems to be swept into a crescendo of joy and adrenaline.

Your heart feels drawn,

Enchanted toward the castle.

As you wait for the sun's auric rays to reach you and warm your face,

You soldier on,

Pulling your traveling cloak about your shoulders.

A subtle dampness accompanies the dim of the morning,

Giving you a little shiver.

The chestnut gelding who pulls your cart grows weirier with every step.

Just a little further,

You assure him,

Oats and apples and a warm stable await.

You carry inside your cloak a scroll of parchment loosely rolled.

Your fixation on its presence creates a physical awareness,

Almost a kind of warmth at your chest.

This scroll is your key into the city.

The Emperor,

Rudolph,

Has issued an imperial summons.

Examples like yours were distributed,

Passed,

And received by people all across the world.

Word spread like fire across your country,

And for a long time,

It was the only topic of gossip in your scholarly community.

For the Emperor made in this summons a most unusual and unprecedented request.

He called far and wide for the most gifted natural philosophers,

Astronomers,

Magicians,

Sorcerers,

And alchemists to join him at his royal court in Prague and serve at his pleasure.

The Emperor,

Known to be an eccentric,

A collector,

And a connoisseur of the mysterious and arcane,

Was looking for something,

Some undiscovered knowledge.

And he wanted the brightest,

Most discerning minds of the age to uncover that knowledge for him.

When the scroll first fell into your hands,

You were certain it was a forgery,

Likely a ploy by local officials to root out practitioners of unsavory magic and wizardry.

For many years,

You've toiled and studied in the shadows under the guise of studying philosophy toward your true ends.

Alchemists,

Like yourself,

Are generally unwelcome,

Frowned upon across the continent.

But on a pilgrimage to a nearby city,

You encountered many who knew of the Emperor's call and could vouch for its authenticity.

An emissary of the Emperor had,

It seems,

Come through the city to declare his intentions.

Not long after,

You packed your few earthly possessions,

Including your astronomical instruments,

A few hand-scribed copies of important alchemical texts,

And your small store of oils and spirits,

Into a rickety cart and prepared your trusty horse for the long journey.

The trip on horseback has taken several days.

You passed one evening at a candlelit inn on the King's Road called the Green Door.

Savoring a hot meal and hearty ale,

You overheard rumors of strange happenings in the back streets of Prague,

Claims of a necromancer who called up spirits and angels in his magic mirror,

Of a stargazer who made outrageous prophecies based on the movement of the moon.

You mold these rumors over in your mind by the crackling fire as night closed over the road.

The next night,

Overcome with exhaustion and unable to find a suitable place to stay,

You set up a small camp underneath the stars and overhanging pinewood forest.

Just before you closed your eyes,

Soothed by the constant hum of crickets and songs of night birds,

A shooting star raced overhead.

In your dreams swirled an image of Prague,

Gilded and pulsing,

An image surely constructed of engravings and written descriptions with your imagination filling in the blanks.

For you've never seen the great city in person.

Until now.

On the final night of your journey,

Drawn endlessly onward by quivering anticipation and adrenaline,

You foreswore rest.

Only a bit further.

Only a few miles more.

The oriferous crown of sun that swells over the hillside now nourishes your body and soul more than any food or drink could.

Your heart soars.

As in your dreams,

The city in the valley seems to pulse like the beat of a drum or a heartbeat,

Something about it.

This vision of a city gauzy and golden is alive indeed.

What awaits you in the heart of the city,

You wonder?

What will you find in the emperor's court?

Your final approach takes you up the sloping crest of the castle hill.

Your belongings rattle and the cartwheels creak with the strain.

But you're almost there.

The forests are thinning and the scattered homes and inns give way to more densely inhabited settlements.

Full cottages sit quiet in the early morning,

Their residents likely still sleeping.

A tavern must be preparing the day's offerings as the smell of herbs travels on spirals of smoke from its chimney.

And at last,

Simultaneously weary and wired,

You reach the stone gate that marks the entrance to Prague's magnificent castle flanked by statues of Hercules.

Fortified by imposing limestone walls,

The castle complex is vast and sprawling,

Extending far beyond your eyeline.

You can see the colossal tower of the Cathedral of St.

Vitus,

A dazzling architectural marvel,

Unfinished as it may be.

A row of kings' guard stand sentinel at the gate.

Though you know you have secure entry,

You still feel eager to impress.

You sit up straight behind the reins,

Feeling for the scroll of parchment.

You present the summons to the lead guard who inspects it closely.

For a moment,

Your old fear of it being a forgery resurges.

But after a few moments,

The guard rolls the parchment up once more,

Hands it back to you,

And stands aside.

His fellows move to open the gates.

The iron creaks and your heart pounds as your horse-drawn cart rolls through the gates.

You can hear them closing noisily behind you.

The gelding's hooves sound sharp on the gray cobblestone,

A stark contrast to the soft grass and gravelly roads you've traveled thus far.

The sky is a rosy pink in the blossoming dawn,

And a gossamer edge falls on the structures of the complex,

Cool blue shadows counter,

Shifting on the undersides and stones.

You had rather expected a burst of human energy beyond the castle's gates.

You're surprised to find it just as vacant and sleepy as the road.

But there's much to savor about the sweetness of solitude,

Even after many days of travel and only the company of your horse or the brief acquaintance of the denizens of the green door.

In the shimmering blush of the morning,

This beautiful place is yours alone to explore and relish.

The atmosphere hums and quivers like drops of dew upon flower petals.

Past the Gothic marvel of St.

Vitus Cathedral,

You discover the entrance to the imperial stables.

Many handsome stallions,

Surely the steeds of the emperor,

Tower over you.

An assortment of workhorses,

Young and old,

Occupy further stalls.

These must belong to those who live and work here in the castle.

Here you encounter the first people since the royal guard,

Friendly stable hands who accept your horse warmly.

You stay to ensure that the horse is watered and fed before giving him a grateful stroke on the neck.

These stable hands agree to look after your belongings while you search for lodging.

For a handful of coins,

They even agree to deliver your cart when you do.

Upon leaving the stable,

You notice that the walls of the complex are now echoing with sound.

The castle must be waking up.

And indeed,

As you pass through courtyards and corridors,

The whole place is springing to life.

A line of rigid guards pass by you,

Unflinching.

They must be headed to relieve the night guards at the gate.

A woman sings to herself as she washes the cobblestones at the entrance to an elaborate rotunda.

A steady stream of people enter from the direction of the gate,

Wearing hopeful expressions.

These must be subjects seeking an audience with the emperor.

At the end of a winding,

Cobbled path through the various buildings,

A gnarled tree on a raised platform catches your eye.

As you draw closer,

You realize that it marks the entrance to the royal gardens.

The garden is sunken a level down upon the hill so that you must descend a small,

Limestone stair to enter it.

From here,

You can see much of the city nestled in the valley below.

The Vultava River sparkles,

Silver and slate blue in the morning light beneath the distant Charles Bridge.

The palace garden is fragrant with bright florals.

Elegant and formal like the illustrations of classical French gardens you've seen in books,

It's framed by clean-cut topiary.

A vibrant sunburst of yellow lilies are the first to catch your eye.

Then you see delicate,

White lady bells and voluptuous beach rose,

English hawthorn and sandy iris,

Each impeccably placed,

Precise and perfect.

Kneeling in the soft grass beyond a sway of gladiolas,

A young woman is silently praying.

Her eyes are just open,

But she seems to take no notice of your presence.

There's something very sweet and peaceful about her.

Her ivory dress falls over her knees like the drooping petals of the snowdrop.

It's as though she's a feature of the garden itself.

You must resist losing hours here in the garden.

Your pet love of horticulture cannot distract you from answering the king's summons,

Finding your place here at his court.

But then,

As if it materialized there from the force of your thoughts,

You find a small brass instrument angled sharply on a thin stand.

It's a telescope.

Drawn as though by an unseen force,

Magnetic and irresistible,

You glide toward it.

It's a beautiful instrument,

Delicate and clearly crafted with loving care.

The way its perfectly balanced straight lines taper from its lens to the fragile,

Narrow eyepiece.

When you touch the object,

If only to feel the substantial weight of it against your fingers,

Then,

Unable to resist,

You bend to peer into the eyepiece.

The morning star will have set by now,

But there's a half moon still visible in the lightning sky.

You swivel the telescope to find it in the pale blue morning.

Though it's the same moon that washed the glade where you rested a few nights ago,

The same moon that bathed the road through your all-night travel,

It feels changed somehow.

As you contemplate the grooves and craters in the moon's unsteady surface,

You feel a gentle breeze at your back,

The flush of air displaced by a body.

Someone is standing just behind you.

With this intuition,

You are unstartled to feel a hand fall tenderly upon your shoulder.

You slowly rise to stand and face the stranger whose eyes are sparkling and inscrutable.

He's middle-aged,

You think,

And carries himself with poise,

But his dress suggests he's not of any elevated status.

Not royal,

But distinguished,

It seems.

He speaks first.

Alchemist,

He says,

It's a question teased with a smirk.

You fumble in your cloak for the scroll.

Yes,

You respond,

An alchemist,

Reporting for the emperor's summons.

The stranger unravels your scroll and regards it casually.

The guards,

He reveals,

Alerted him to your arrival.

He was eager to find you,

But never imagined he'd come upon you toying with his instruments.

You scramble to apologize,

For you are only admiring the craftsmanship.

But the stranger chuckles and claps you on the back,

Leading you toward the garden gate.

Out of the corner of your eye,

You glimpse the praying young woman who appears to be observing your interaction with some interest.

As you walk,

The stranger introduces himself as Johannes.

He offers friendly nods to the people you pass,

And he points out the various architectural wonders around you.

The royal palace is sophisticated and fine.

A mass of people now wait outside the entrance to be granted their audience.

A rounded Romanesque church,

Johannes identifies it as the Basilica of St.

George,

Stands solid and austere against more intricate,

Embellished structures.

You recall the legend of St.

George,

Who traveled to Cylene to face a fearsome dragon who was terrorizing the townsfolk.

The people offered their livestock to appease the dragon,

But it seemed the beast's hunger was insatiable.

When St.

George arrived,

He rescued the king's daughter from being sacrificed to the monster,

And he slew the dragon with his lance.

The valiant,

Generous St.

George refused all the gold offered to him by the king,

Instead giving the riches to the poor and needy.

The castle complex is almost overwhelming in its size and liveliness.

It's like a city of its own,

On a sacred hill behind fortified walls.

Johannes explains that where the mammoth cathedral of St.

Vitus now stands,

There was once a simple chapel.

And before that,

And now he lowers his voice so only you can hear him,

That spot on the hill was a place of divine energy,

Venerated by the ancient people who came to this land.

A place of worship for the pagan god Svante Ovid,

The four-headed patron of abundance and the harvest.

You quietly marvel at this,

Not only at the idea that a servant of the emperor would speak of such clandestine things,

But also at the tragic beauty of the march of history.

In your mind,

The image of ancient people,

Robed in regalia befitting of worship or festivity,

Gathered atop an unblemished hill.

How their rituals might not look so different from those practiced in the cathedral today,

And yet their religion was snuffed out.

How reverence for Svante Ovid might have morphed over time into Svati Vid,

St.

Vitus.

There is loss and sorrow in the ever-present procession of time.

Things are lost,

Dropped by one generation,

But they may be picked up in whatever form by the next.

And as you pass by the worshippers entering St.

George's Basilica,

You recognize that today,

In Johannes' surreptitious story,

And in the practice you hope to bring to court,

Many lost,

Secret things have returned to the hill.

What is the practice of alchemy,

After all?

The rolling back of layers of time and mystery to find that elusive spark of creation,

To re-create the moment of creation,

To unlock the mysteries of the universe or of what some might call God.

Beside the basilica lies another cobbled corridor,

Narrow against the castle's fortifications.

Johannes guides you through,

Then ushers you into a tiny alleyway on the left.

This,

He explains,

Will be your home if you choose to work under the emperor.

Before you can even take in the sight,

Your nostrils fill with a melange of unidentifiable odors.

It's familiar,

Though,

And somewhere in the mix is the smell of your own alchemical laboratory.

Experiments are at work here.

Then,

A smile of pure amusement creeps across your face,

For built directly into the castle walls is a row of miniature houses,

All pressed against one another like little people standing shoulder to shoulder.

The houses are painted in bright colors,

A brilliant blue,

A striking cherry red,

Green,

And gold.

Simply across the cobbled street is another nearly identical row of charming squat residences.

Toy-like in their size and childish color,

Each has a perfectly square window framing a tiny door.

Red shingled rooftops on every one.

This,

Johannes explains,

Is the Golden Lane,

Home to the emperor's alchemists,

Magicians,

And philosophers.

As it happens,

There's a residence available,

And it's yours if you can demonstrate your potential to the emperor.

Johannes leads you down the alley.

Windows of some of the tiny houses fly open as the residents of the Golden Lane pop their heads out,

Craning their necks to see the newcomer go by.

In some cases,

With the opening of the window comes a billow of smoke or fumes.

Spirals of white and gray and dusky crimson meet and mingle in the air.

The faces that peer at you are some of the most eccentric fellows you've seen.

There's a man with a pure white beard,

So long that it falls over the window sill nearly to the cobbled ground.

His face is so deeply lined that he looks like he's carved from an ancient tree.

A woman with olive skin and black curls wears a collar of precious jewels and pearls around her neck,

Her silhouette framed and clouded by smoke.

You wonder how long these practitioners have resided here,

Whether they were asked to prove their metal before the emperor.

Indeed,

There are still many mysteries about the emperor's interest in assembling such a kaleidoscope of heretics.

You still struggle to reconcile the idea that your discipline,

Practiced underground elsewhere across the continent,

Is sanctioned and celebrated by the Holy Roman Emperor here in Prague.

This golden lane,

Certainly so named for the alchemical ambition to transmute base metals into gold,

Is a wonder of the world in your eyes.

A safe place to perform the secretive,

Occult experiments that have bound you in fascination for nearly your entire life.

It's a mystery,

Yes,

But somehow the image of golden haze of the morning upon Prague's spires,

The quiet stroll in the royal garden,

And the sensory experience of discovering the golden lane,

All these impressions seem to swirl together into a liquid music in the air and vibrating in the bones of the earth,

Radiating from this sacred hill like an ancient calling.

You are pulled from your thoughts as Johannes stops in front of the door of one miniature house,

Slant roofed and chartreuse.

Its windows are darkened,

Indicating vacancy.

Johannes pushes the door open and gestures for you to step inside.

You have to stoop just a little to pass under the lintel,

But once inside,

The ceilings are comfortably high.

As lights a lantern by the door to illuminate the dim interior.

It's modest and sparsely furnished,

Only a table and some chairs,

Plus a desk with many tiny drawers and a humble bed in the corner.

To you,

However,

It's splendid,

A private place to carry out your study with the protections and fortifications of the castle,

An oasis you've sought for so many years,

With the splendor of Prague's jewel of a castle at your doorstep.

You can already imagine twilight walks in the garden or stargazing from the top of the St.

Vitus bell tower.

All as you continue your great work,

The experiments and discoveries that bring you closer each day to revelation.

You are lost in the fantasy for a few moments before you remember that your stay is conditional.

Johannes informs you that you'll have until sundown to prepare a demonstration for the emperor,

One that will prove you a worthy addition to his court of alchemists.

You'll need your belongings,

Your books,

And instruments.

Johannes will send for them to be brought over at once.

You ask what the emperor's intentions are,

Why he's inviting otherwise ostracized practitioners to court.

What is he looking for,

Or what might impress him?

The sideways smile which never left Johannes' face twists puckishly.

It's almost as though you know what he will say moments before he says it.

Whatever in your mind you've known ever since you received the summons,

The emperor wants the philosopher's stone.

With this,

Johannes leaves you.

He expects your belongings will be delivered within the space of half an hour.

Until then,

Body and mind buzzing with questions and excitement,

You occupy the time by exploring the residence.

You find that the desk drawers are already filled with useful materials,

From quills and parchment to select ingredients that will serve your experiments.

But try as you might to distract yourself from the task at hand it keeps surfacing in your mind.

The philosopher's stone,

Of course.

Perhaps the road you've traveled these many years in the trade has only been the road to Prague,

To the emperor's court.

The philosopher's stone is the magnum opus,

The great work of the alchemist,

A legendary substance believed to carry magical properties.

Of course,

Many seek it for its purported ability to transform any metal into gold,

Thus granting access to untold riches.

Or for the fact that it's a critical component of the elixir of life,

Which rejuvenates the drinker and prolongs life.

Many have sought an end to suffering and even freedom from death through the pursuit of the philosopher's stone.

But it's more than a tool to unlock immortality or to spoil the holder with treasure.

It is,

As you believe,

The universal principle,

The alkahest,

The indivisible element from which all things derive,

The one,

Undivided,

And a key to unlocking many,

Many hidden things.

When your belongings arrive,

You hand over a purse of coins to the stable hands you met earlier this morning.

You begin to dig through your bags for essential items.

First,

A text,

The text,

The emerald tablet.

This will be the basis of your demonstration to the emperor.

You riffle through the yellowed pages of your copy set in Latin by a printer from Nuremberg.

A single line,

Which you hold by heart,

Leaps from the page.

Quod est inferius est secut,

Quod est superius.

That which is below is like that which is above.

As above,

So below.

The emerald tablet was first transcribed,

As it goes in the legends,

From carvings in a mysterious green stone that fell to earth.

The scribes recognized that it held secrets to the creation of the universe and so translated it into coded language to be deciphered by alchemists,

Lest the forbidden knowledge fall into the wrong hands.

You do not take for granted that the text,

Printed and copied,

Made it to your hands at all.

The work of your life has been the deciphering of the emerald tablet's complex,

Coded messages.

You believe the recipe for the philosopher's stone lies within this text,

Obscured beneath layers of obfuscation and puzzlery.

You are not quite there,

Though,

And now you curse the short hours of the day,

For perhaps if time slowed down just a little,

You might receive that critical knowledge to sweetly unlock the final pieces.

What wonders could you produce in a demonstration for the emperor if you only had more time?

But there is something else you've discovered between the coded lines of the emerald tablet,

Something flashy,

Impressive,

And tangible.

It may not be the sophisticated arcana to which you aspire,

But it may do the trick of convincing the emperor to sponsor your continued experiments.

You flip through the pages to find what you're looking for,

And when you do,

You set about preparing to meet the emperor.

The hours twirl by in a cloud of candlelit vapor and mist.

With each passing minute,

It's as if you can feel the earth's rotation beneath your feet and the magnetism of the planetary dance in the heavens above.

A clock ticks,

Resounding endlessly in your mind,

By the time dusk falls upon the golden lane,

Casting a cool azure and purple glow through your frosted window,

Your muscles ache and your eyes water.

Oh,

How you long to rest,

Having not so much as sat since your long overnight journey.

But at the same time,

You feel compelled and energized by the task before you.

So Hanes returns to deliver you to the royal palace,

The time has come to earn your place at the emperor's court among his magicians and alchemists and philosophers.

The golden lane is lit by softly glowing lanterns,

And you admire the way the evening light tempers the vibrant pigments of the house's facades.

Church bells are ringing from the cathedral and the basilica in deep,

Resonant tones that hum in your bones and clatter,

Reverberating off the walls of the castle.

Over beyond the walls,

Below the hill,

Comes the peeling of infinite church bells of all possible pitches and frequencies,

Singing faintly from the city in the valley.

In your hours of toil the castle must have reached its energetic crescendo before the visitors,

Admirers,

And workers began to disperse.

Now only a few remain on your walk to the palace as the castle resets to the quiet solitude you observed in the early dawn.

And Hanes leads you up the marble steps to the palace and into a grand entrance hall.

Here is truly the abode of a king,

You think,

Observing the brilliant ornamentation of the hall.

A portrait hangs unlike any you've ever seen of a bearded man whose anatomy is entirely constructed of harvest fruits and vegetables.

A crown of grapes and wheat and berries and pears adorns the subject's brow.

Johannes notices your captivation with the painting,

Which,

He explains,

Is a depiction of the emperor as Vertumnus,

The Roman god of nature and the changing seasons.

Indeed,

The hall exhibits a staggering collection of artworks and curiosities.

If this is what sits on display in a mere entrance hall,

What marvels must reside in the emperor's private collection,

You think?

You admire an opalescent vessel,

A massive dish of agate with ornamental carved handles.

It's of a size worthy of a lavish,

Divine banquet.

And the word Christo is engraved in its surface.

Johannes tells you this vessel is thought to be the holy grail itself.

Or drawn,

Lastly,

To a rough,

Uncut stone of deep forest green,

Its edges jagged and unnatural.

It's the size of a clenched fist and rests solitary upon a Romanesque platform.

You ask Johannes if the gem is an emerald,

But he says no.

It's Vultavin,

Moldavite,

A precious stone found only in this part of the world in special minds,

For it comes not from the earth,

But from the heavens.

Long,

Long ago,

A stone fell from the skies,

Causing a great impact on the surface of the earth.

And from that stone,

Smaller projectiles were formed and were embedded in the ground.

Your heart pounds.

If this is true,

You think,

Then perhaps the stories of the emerald tablet are more than just legends.

A stone that fell from the sky.

As above,

So below.

You wonder if this green gem holds the key to the magnum opus.

You feel an insatiable longing for the stone.

But Johannes is already striding toward a pair of heavy,

Oaken doors,

Hardly noticing that you've fallen behind,

Enthralled with a seemingly minor curiosity.

You hurry to catch up.

At last,

You make your way to the emperor's throne room,

Where he's waiting for you,

Surrounded by onlookers in their finery.

The emperor himself is smaller,

Less regal-looking than you might have imagined him.

Surely decked in jewels and furs,

He's impressive,

But there's something about him that looks so very ordinary,

Like a child dressing up in adult's clothing.

Atop his head is the crown of the Holy Roman Empire and his family's powerful dynasty.

It's dazzling gold and encrusted with spectacular jewels and pearls.

But the most eye-catching thing in the throne room is not the regal finery,

The architectural grandeur or the shining gemstones of the king's regalia.

Rather,

Your eyes fall upon a colorful bird that sits perched on the emperor's shoulder,

The crown of golden feathers on its head and a striking red breast.

It's like no creature you've ever seen,

Save in medieval bestiaries.

It looks to have stepped out of myth.

And as you scan the throne room,

Observing the faces of the emperor's companions,

You recognize a young woman in an ivory dress,

The one who was praying in the gardens at sunrise.

Johannes announces you and makes clear your intention to join the court of alchemists at the emperor's summons.

The emperor,

Clearly excited to witness another alchemical demonstration,

Urges you to begin.

You've brought a small inventory with you.

And there's an ornate,

Long table before the throne at which you're invited to work.

Hands shaking,

You remove your items one by one from a leather bag,

Vial after vial,

A small cast iron cauldron,

The emerald tablet.

And one by one,

You remove the stoppers from the vials.

A flourish of your hands here and there helps with the impression,

With the magical associations.

What the emperor does not know,

At least as far as you can tell,

Is that alchemy is not magic.

Alchemy is natural philosophy.

For all its occult associations,

All its codes,

Its myths,

And its arcana,

It is simply the revelation of how things work.

It is nature,

Decoded,

Laid bare.

One by one,

You empty the vials in precise measurements into the cauldron.

If you do everything right,

The results will be tangible and the process will be spectacular.

A reaction in the air with a wave of the hand and the right combination of gesture and chemical,

You extinguish all the candles in the room simultaneously.

Now you work in darkness by just enough light from the shining moon in the tall windows to see that the emperor's eyes are wide and sparkling.

Darkness shrouds your hands.

Some of your moves are tricks,

Deceptions,

But they are the doorways to the great work that goes unseen.

Just as glittering gold and elixirs of immortality are mere consolation prizes in the never-ending quest for knowledge,

Your concoction catches the moon,

Which ripples in liquid smoke on the surface of the cauldron.

The white of the moon reflected splits into a spectrum of wondrous color,

Which plays upon your face and hands to the emperor's delight.

And now,

With darkness as a cloak upon your shoulders,

Comes the part you didn't plan for,

Couldn't prepare for,

The part you didn't know you'd try until you set foot in the entrance hall.

You retrieve the moldavite,

The rough,

Natural stone from your coat,

Where you secreted it off its platform while Johannes was distracted.

You place it in the solution,

Where it dissolves with a satisfying,

Sussurous.

.

.

A puff of gray smoke erupts from the cauldron and slowly shifts from ashen to pure white,

And from pure white to a pale yellow,

And from pale yellow to a deep gold.

Then the smoke clears.

The emperor is leaning forward in his throne.

The onlookers are hanging on your every motion.

The woman from the garden looks enthralled.

The liquid is gone from the cauldron.

It has convalesced,

It seems,

Into a solid form.

Cautiously,

You reach inside.

This is what you were hoping for after all.

A sufficiently impressive presentation that might convince the emperor to let you continue.

A demonstration that would leave him with something tangible,

Something he could hold in his hands,

Even if that thing was,

In fact,

Fool's gold.

What you remove from the basin would have been fool's gold.

Yellowish mineral with jagged,

Mesmerizing,

Reflective faces.

It would have been fool's gold if not for the unexpected ingredient.

What you hold in your hand is solid,

Stone,

And gold in color,

Except for little flecks of green.

And instead of rugged,

Irregular edges,

The thing is smooth and impeccably contoured,

Like the hedges of the French garden.

Instead of a jagged,

Natural shape,

The stone is formed into a perfect,

Four-faced pyramid.

The lanterns are re-lit.

You must hold your face back from betraying your own amazement at the results of your experiment.

The emperor and his companions are wonder-struck at your achievement,

And a round of raucous applause and cheers fall on your ringing ears.

Johannes' casual smirk has broken into a wide grin.

Dazed,

You present the pyramid as a gift to the emperor,

Kneeling before him.

When he takes the pyramid from your hands,

You can see it reflected in his dark,

Shining eyes,

Catching glints of gold and green and white and even crimson.

You can tell that,

Like you,

He has never seen anything the like of it before.

So much for fool's gold,

You think,

Quietly wishing you could bring the treasure with you to explore it and discover its secrets.

This is only the beginning,

You promise the emperor,

Seeing the hungry look in his eyes.

He sends you back to your new home,

The chartreuse,

Dull house on the golden lane,

With jugs of mead and enough delicious foods to last a month,

A waning moon bathes the vacant castle's walls,

Churches,

And courtyards in its tender glow.

Your thoughts race on the walk back to the golden lane.

You are alight with discovery,

Feeling as though you've found something you've long sought after,

And yet you are filled to bursting with more questions than ever.

The answers to the universe's mysteries feel in reach,

Graspable,

Tangible,

And yet,

As you move closer to them,

They appear to open into gaping chasms of undiscovered country.

It is so very,

Very much to hold,

And you are so very,

Very tired.

The alley,

Lined with its toy-like little houses,

Looks so inviting when awash in moonlight.

As you glide toward your new residence,

You savor the idea that tomorrow you will awake in Prague for the first time in this castle,

Replete with possibility.

You take in a delicious supper,

The first time you've eaten all day,

And allow the haze of exhaustion to fall over your body in waves.

Then you extinguish the candle at the table and climb into the little bed in the corner.

The opal moon glow throws a little square of light through the window onto the floor.

You close your eyes,

You sink into the mattress,

Feeling how your muscles seem to melt into the points of contact,

Slowly being pulled down toward the earth in the release of all tension.

You feel the earth's rotation ever so slow beneath you.

You feel,

As steady as your heartbeat,

The motions of the stars and planets above you.

Somewhere in this land you've yet to explore,

Embedded in the ground,

Is more of that green mineral,

That fallen star.

You imagine yourself,

Perhaps even tomorrow,

Plumbing the depths of caves in the hillside to find the veins of emerald.

You wonder if you'll feel the presence of the divine,

Of the gods,

The ancient people of this country once venerated on this sacred hill.

Eyes closed,

Body soft and mind slowing,

Slowing,

Slowing down.

You at last release yourself from the need to prove you are safe,

You are enough,

You are protected,

And at last,

In a land that sings with peeling bells and ancient magic,

You are free to be yourself,

And you are limitless.

A glowing green stone,

Deep dark green.

The edges are rough,

Uncut and unpolished,

Natural and organic,

Unearthed from the ground and fallen from the stars.

You hold in your hand a star.

See the stone,

Crystalline and intuitive,

And feel its healing energies,

Restorative and strength in it,

Resilience and rejuvenation.

A star that fell to earth and persisted and persists as you do.

Breathe naturally,

Be still.

There is nowhere else you need to be,

And nothing you need to do.

All worries,

All tasks,

All concerns are the domain of tomorrow.

Tonight,

You can rest and be still.

The great work is ongoing.

It is always ongoing.

And resting is a critical part of the work.

You deserve to rest.

There is time enough to rest.

You're safe,

And you're loved,

And you are limitless.

Let your natural breath deepen,

Nourishing your body and quieting your mind.

Embrace stillness.

A star fell to earth and persisted and persists.

You are resilient,

And you are ongoing.

You are capable,

You are worthwhile,

And you are enough.

And for now,

There is time to sleep.

Be still,

Relax.

And as I count down from 10,

With each number,

Feel your body and your mind sinking down level by level into the palace of sleep,

A safe place for rest.

Ten.

Nine.

Four,

Three,

Two,

One.

Two.

Five,

Six,

Seven,

Two.

Reviews

Always my favorite bedtime storytelling.

I fell asleep before the end. Thank you. I wish there’s shorter versions of 30 minutes stories. Love all your stories. Much gratitude! 🙏🏻❤️

Absolutely incredible story, one of my favourites 💕

Wonderful story and beautiful reading. Thank you 🙏 blessings

My goodness, I missed one when I thought I’d heard them all! Awesome 🤩 can’t wait til you’re back!❤️

Love these sleep stories, so beautifully told. And i fall asleep before the end which is a very good sign. I'm so pleased I found you🙏🏼

Wonderful.
Thank you so much.🙏💐🙏
Blessed Be;
Morgaine🍁

Beautiful calming voice.

Great- just a small friendly correction- it’s‘coalesce’ not ‘convalesce’ when the liquid is changing🌺🌺🌺 love your stories🌺🌺!!

Your stories are always amazing!