The Alchemist's Door [Hardcover]

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TELL ME AGAIN," JANE DEE SAID, FOLDING A shirt briskly and setting it in the trunk. "Why are we leaving England in such a hurry?"
"We're not hurrying," John Dee said. "Prince Laski wants us to go with him to Poland, nothing more."
"Then why can't we leave tomorrow, or a week from now? I have to close up the house and send off the servants, and you should arrange for money to be sent after us--"
Dee stopped in the act of folding a pair of hose and looked at his wife, studying her fine reddish blond hair, the small lines at her mouth and eyes that had appeared when their first son, Arthur, was born. Her gray eyes regarded him levelly.
How much could he say to her? He could not tell her the truth, how everything had gone horribly wrong; he could not ask her to share the fear that had weighed on him since that terrible evening.
"I heard something from your study a week ago," she said. "A deep awful voice. And Katherine was in there--she's only two. What did she see?"
She had read his mind, the way partners in a long marriage do. "No harm came to Katherine, I swear," he said, quietly praying that that was true. "Kelley and I take all the precautions necessary--"
"Kelley!" Jane said. She spoke softly; his assistant Edward Kelley had been living in a spare room on the ground floor for over a year. "Why do you listen to that man?"
"We have been over and over this. Because he can hear the angels speak, and I cannot."
"He can hear your money speak, more like. Why should he be the one to hear them, and not you? You are a good, God-fearing man, and he is--he is a man who has had his ears cut off as punishment for some crime. How can you trust him? You know why the magistrates order a man's ears clipped. For forgery, or coining. Or for necromancy."
"He is no necromancer."
"I hope, for the children's sake, that he is not."
They continued packing, folding and sorting the family's clothes, moving through the house to collect cookpots and books and pewter plates. "Is Kelley coming with us?" Jane asked, adding bits of cedar and sprigs of lavender to a trunk.
"Yes."
To her credit she did not complain about the other man again. "How will we afford all this?" she asked.
"We have money," Dee said shortly. But Jane knew as well as he did that their money would last a few months, if that. They would have to find a patron. Prince Laski might reward him, God willing.…
"You should have the moneys from your lands sent after us," she said once more.
He did not reply. Jane was right, but he could not afford to take the time to arrange it. He placed the bag holding the transparent ball of crystal in the last trunk, nestling it carefully within piles of clothing, and then closed the lid. Bells rang outside, tolling three hours after noon. He had hoped to be away much earlier.
Still, he could not resist a last hurried look around. He walked through the house, taking in everything--the beams blackened from countless hearth-fires, the scuffed wooden floors, the battered furniture--as if for the last time. He had grown up in this house just outside of London; it fit him like a familiar piece of clothing. Finally he climbed the stair to his study, a small room perched precariously above the rest of the house, and looked at his beloved library: the orrery, the astrolabe, the books he had amassed with so much trouble.
He went downstairs and found his wife in the children's room, holding Rowland, the baby. He took Arthur and Katherine by the hands and called for their servants to carry the trunks and bundles. Kelley joined them silently on the ground floor, a small sack slung over his shoulder.
A servant led the way down to the Thames. At the dock they met Prince Adalbert Laski and his retinue. Dee's heart sank at the sight of Laski's escort, which was far too large to travel as quickly as he wanted.
They boarded a boat for Greenwich, which they reached in the dead of night. "We take rooms and wait for morning, yes?" Laski said in his peculiarly-accented English.
"Let's go now," Dee said.
"Why?"
"Because--because the time is auspicious for traveling."
"It is middle of night now."
"Let's wait," Jane said. "The children have to sleep."
Katherine and Rowland were already asleep, but Arthur was bright-eyed and awake. "Where are we going?" Arthur asked, pleased with the sudden notice being taken of him. "What is happening?"
Dee gave in, knowing that Jane was right, and they found rooms at an inn frequented by travelers and sailors. When everyone was asleep he opened his diary and wrote carefully, "21 Sept., 1583. Saturday." And how long, he wondered, before we get to our destination? But he wrote about the day's events with a light tone, in case anyone read what he had written.
The next day they boarded a grander ship that would take them to the continent. A gale blew up almost immediately, returning them to shore. The bad weather continued into the night, forcing them back to the inn. Dee cursed the delay and paced in the confined space; they had taken a small room to save money and he was hemmed in by Jane and the children and Kelley and all their luggage. Rain beat irregularly on the roof, adding to his frustration.
Jane bade him to be patient; they would leave when the weather permitted. He could not tell her what he feared: that the thing he tried to escape from would not let them go.
Four days later the storm finally cleared and they were able to cross the channel. On the continent they boarded yet another ship and navigated through the oppressively flat country of the Lowlands on a roundabout route to Poland. They followed the filigree and tracery of rivers and canals and tributaries so small they didn't even have names; they saw windmills in the distance, and foul-smelling marshes; strange birds shrieked to them as they passed. A chilling wind came off the water, and sometimes an unhealthy mist rose about them, obscuring the river. They passed no one but farmers and an occasional low barge carrying trade goods.
Their ship moved slowly, so slowly. And while they sailed he was forced to be idle, and his mind--used to teasing out puzzles and studying philosophical questions--began to plague him with unwelcome thoughts. He remembered a story he had once heard a Yorkshireman tell, about a kind of mischievous fairy called a Boggart. For years the Boggart had tormented a Yorkshire farmer and his family, had curdled their butter and snarled their knitting and blighted their crops and thrown their things about, until finally the family packed their possessions and made ready to move away. "So you're leaving the old house at last?" a neighbor said, and the head of the family replied, "Heigh, Johnny, I'm forced to it, for that damned Boggart torments us so." He had scarce uttered the words when a voice came from the butter churn, packed with the rest of the household goods in the cart--"Aye, aye, here I am." "Oh, damn thee," the farmer said. "It's no use." And he pulled on the reins of his cart-horse and said to his wife, "We may as well turn back to the old house as be tormented in another that's not so convenient."
Odd how the story came back to him. He even remembered the Yorkshireman's broad dialect--"t'ould hoose," he had said. Not so odd, really. But he had left the--the thing, whatever it was--behind him.
He and Kelley dealt with kindly angels only. That was what he believed, and what he held to despite everything. Kelley saw them in the crystal, and Dee asked them questions. The unkindly angels, the evil angels, that is to say the demons…
No. He had left it behind. It could not come to torment him in another house. If it did, he had uprooted his family and sent them on a mad chase through Europe, all for nothing.
"Why we go this way?" Prince Laski asked once. "Travel over land is better, yes?"
"This way is just as good," Dee said. He did not mention to Laski his forlorn hope, the tale the old wives told, that demons could not pass running water.
Unlike Jane and Laski, Kelley did not question him at all. Kelley argued, as he always did, his speech a continuous litany of complaints: they should never have left England, he should not be forced to use the scrying glass so often, they should continue their search for the Philosopher's Stone instead.
Dee knew, of course, of Kelley's obsession with the Philosopher's Stone. The Stone, the goal of every alchemist, was made by the forging of opposites to create something whole, something perfect and incorruptible. Whatever the Stone touched would become perfect as well: mortal men would become immortal, impure metals would change to gold. It was for gold that Kelley pursued his experiments with potions and elixirs. He had no time for theories of perfection and imperfection; he wanted, simply and wholeheartedly, to be rich.
From the beginning Kelley had made no secret of his desires. He had first come to Dee over a year ago, in March of 1582, in the company of a friend of Dee's, a Master Clerkson. It was the day after the aurora borealis, and ever since then Dee would wonder, fancifully, if the man had blown in on the unearthly blood red lights.
Kelley called himself Talbot then; Dee never discovered why. He had a down-turned mustache, and although he was young compared to Dee, only thirty, his yellow beard was already turning gray; the streaks made it look as if his beard were rusting. He seemed to have two expressions, one jaded and worldly-wise, with drooping eyelids, and another more forceful and alert.
Yet Kelley could see angels in the ball of crystal, and Dee could not. Dee did not know why this should be so: it seemed grossly unfair, almost--though he shied away from the thought--a mistake on the part of God. Kelley was sometimes recalcitrant or bad-tempered or blasphemous, or all three. But Dee's place, so far, had been only to ask the angels questions and record their answers in the book he called the Liber Mysteriorum, or the Book of Mysteries.
At Dee's urging Kelley joined their household. As the months passed, though, Dee noticed oddities about the othe...