The Invitation - Book One – Brethren of the Arcanum

Prologue

Lucerne, Switzerland - December 1901

The voice was firm but carried a note of condolence.

“It is time Nicolas; you know that, we cannot wait any longer. We place the world, ourselves and all that we have worked for in great danger if we delay”.

“I know Christian, but... after so long... it is… hard,” the late middle-aged man sighed and looked up at the other, the friend of many years, sat across from him.

He studied the honey-coloured face, with its hooked nose and dark brown eyes under thick black eyebrows now flecked with grey and the equally speckled black hair, cut short these days in line with the times.

Despite the years he knew the other had enjoyed, the face was still relatively youthful, and lines were few and not overly deep. Those around the eyes suggested laughter and smiles as much if not more than frowns. He knew his own countenance bore similar lines and creases as did the others sitting around the table.

“Nicolas, we have had many discussions on this matter, the others will agree with me, now is the time to act!”

Nicolas looked at those sat with him around the end of the large table nearest to the fireplace of the dining room of the Enclave. As his gaze searched each face, they met his eyes with their own and they silently gave their answer. On his immediate right, his wife Perenelle, smiled warmly at him as she nodded her head. Isaac to her right, nodded curtly in his usual slightly arrogant manner. Nicolas turned to Abella on his left and she dropped her eyes and studied her hands where they lay on the table, before she lifted her head and nodded. Michel to her left was already nodding emphatically. The other members of the Council of Six were it seemed, in full agreement with Christian.

“Very well my friends… we have come a long way together have we not? Let us hope that we may continue to do so… I will send the invitation in the morning,” he said with a sigh.

He raised his goblet from the table and held it aloft in front of him. The others followed suit.

“May God protect us!” His toast was echoed by the others.

#

Chapter One

London - England - January / February 1902

An Invitation arrives

The invitation to journey to the Enclave - to meet with governing council of the Brethren of the Arcanum - came at the end of January 1902. I had not long returned from a mission in British North America and was looking forward to a period of rest, rather than spending time travelling. A journey to Switzerland deep within the French Empire of Europe was not one I considered to be high on my preferred list of activities at that or any time.

The missive was signed by one Nicolas Flamel, a man whose name was shrouded in mystery and legend, albeit a legend associated in many minds with the myth of the Philosophers Stone and similar objects together with other fabled aims of the Alchemists. Still, I gave the invitation serious consideration if only due to the courier who brought it to me.

Despite natural misgivings as to the true nature of the invitation, it intrigued on many levels. Not least to see if the legends surrounding the man held a grain of truth or if this was indeed just a name that had been passed down from generation to generation. The invitation had come to me by way of a much-trusted source, my uncle, who assured me of its legitimacy. It was this that inclined me towards probable acceptance. My uncle also confirmed that the Brethren of the Arcanum - the organisation or so it was claimed, that was led by Flamel, were keen to talk to me - although I was given no clear idea about what, either by my uncle or by the invitation itself.

Furthermore - he informed me - that both British and French organisations affiliated to the Brethren would also open their doors if and when requested. That there were British interests involved with them was a little, but by no means totally, surprising. There were after all alchemical and chemist societies at the heart of British industry and science. So, in the end I had come to the decision that making the trip was necessary despite the potential risks.

I have since discovered, that those aspects of the Brethren which involve themselves with the world at large, interact with our lives on every level. On a day-to-day basis however, the people of the world in general are in the main unaware of the Brethren’s involvement in their lives and that those activities are, unlike some other factions in the world at large, aimed at the betterment of mankind, not its conquest and rule.

I had long held the belief that such objects as the Philosophers Stone, the Holy Grail, the Ark of the Covenant and other items of that ilk - were myths or little more than ephemera - and that time spent chasing after them was not usually well spent. However, I had over the years, in various times and places, found that not all in the world was black or white nor known to science. I knew well from personal experience, that there exist grey areas in our understanding of the world which still defied reason or simple explanation.

It was also apparent, from what I was later told that - the majority if not all - of the leading scientific bodies of the day have sprung from the Brethren or organisations that they have spawned. Such august bodies as the Learned Society of Chymists, the Society of Galens, the Paracelsian Council and the Council of Physicians, permeate all levels of our society. Not forgetting the Metallurgist’s Gild, the Ashmolean Guild, the Galileian Order, the Newtonian Congress and the Maxwellians. All of these bodies I have learnt can trace their roots back to the Brethren.

That these organisations do in fact perform transmutation of a number of substances on a daily basis is a commonplace. Although the much sought-after transmutation of lead into gold is it seems, not among those efforts. Chemicals and other substances are refined, mixed and decanted to produce products which enhance our daily lives. This - when one considers it logically - is transmutation in fact.

There are also operations and surgical procedures which together with medicines and vaccines are curing illnesses which have been plaguing mankind for many years. They are all in some manner helping to prolong and enhance life. Yet tales of those, who like Flamel are believed to have sought the fabled Philosophers Stone tell of it also imbuing youth and immortality, a goal sought after as much - or perhaps even more - than transmutation.

The history of the Brethren as it came to be relayed to me by Flamel and others of the Brethren’s ruling council lent credence to the existence of the ‘Philosophers Stone’ in some form or another. It may not be the fabled target of the many years, centuries in fact, spent in search but... something... something that fulfils that legend, appears to exist. Additionally, I have learnt much about an organisation that has existed for five centuries in relative obscurity and secrecy. An organisation, of which there have been few rumours, let alone any great public knowledge, other than historically, of the name of Nicolas Flamel. I confess it still seems utterly fantastic to me in many respects that this organisation exists and that is even after having not just met, but talked to, and sat at the same table to eat and drink with its principals.

Yet such is the secrecy that has for centuries, and even now, surrounds the Brethren and its members. Its numbers, in terms of its innermost circles, have always been relatively few. Its general membership is greater in number but is selective, taken from the elite minds and practitioners of many disciplines. Its own - by now considerable wealth - together with many powerful friends, has helped keep its secrets hidden for generations.

Before visiting my immediate superior - General Michael Spencer, head of Britain’s Department of Military Intelligence - to seek permission to travel to the continent, I sought advice elsewhere. Despite having come to a decision to accept the invitation - if the General allowed and possibly even if he didn’t - I determined to discuss the invitation with my closest friends of thirty years, Professor Alistair Bellows and Dr James Goodrich PhD. I also invited Regimental Sergeant-Major Matthew Petersen who had served with me at the DMI before his recent and well-earned retirement.

Alistair was Professor of Medieval History at Magdelene College, Cambridge and James was Bodley’s Librarian. Both men had participated in adventures and assignments with me in the years since we had first met and were trusted companions and confidants.

At my invitation they travelled up to London during the first week of February and we met at my Club, the Ptolemaic in Pall Mall. There in the comfort of the club’s deep leather chairs, surrounded by the dark wood panelling of the rooms and unobtrusive servants, I discussed the invitation that I had received. My friends were well known at the club having dined with me many times over the years as well as having garnered no small reputations in their own rights.

Alistair was a tall, ex rugby playing, reddish blonde - now with more than a hint of grey - haired Scot. Wide shouldered, deep chested and blunt mannered with a pleasant broad face that had as many frown as laughter lines and a nose bent to the left from a scrimmage in his youth. A skilled rower and sailor who had never suffered fools gladly, much to his student’s chagrin.

James was his opposite. Of medium height, slim built, with a long thin face framed by dark brown almost black hair - now also speckled with grey - and dark brown eyes above an aquiline nose which despite his years of boxing remained - unlike Alistair’s - unblemished. He was possessed of a quiet charm that women had always found extremely attractive, much to both his and Alistair’s puzzlement.

Like Alistair he was a fine athlete, his sporting achievements included rowing, boxing and cricket at which he was a more than competent batsman and he had received his blue for the first two sports. That the two men were friends who would sacrifice themselves to save the other, was a wonder to those who met them yet did not come to know them well.

Not only were they fine sportsmen, they both possessed a soaring intellect. An intelligence I held to be far greater than my own, yet they lacked the arrogance that might have gone with that attribute. That intelligence had led them to their current stations in life and their scholarship was renowned.

I had first met them following the 1872 boat race - which had been much delayed until the 1st of June due to extended inclement weather that year - in which they had both taken part. James had coxed the Oxford boat while Alistair had rowed third in the Cambridge boat, which that year had taken the victory.

Later that evening, following the post-race dinner, which was held in the Mansion House, Alistair was making his way to the new Liverpool Street Station in order to catch the last train back to Cambridge. For some reason there were no cabs - horse drawn or steam propelled - to be had, so he walked to ensure he caught his train. The walk from Mansion High Street to Liverpool Street and the Broad Street terminus was less than a mile, passing between the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange buildings on Threadneedle Street and along Broad Street.

The night was clear if a trifle cool, but not cool enough to occasion a fire for most householders, so the usual London fog was only a mist around the rooftops and not a dense yellow cloud at street level as was often the case.

He was close by the Sun Fire Insurance Office when he was set upon by a group of young thugs out of the nearby Petticoat Lane slum, who immediately took a dislike to his mop of red blonde hair.

#

Chapter Two

London, England - June 1872

A friendship is born

“Give us yer money Red!” The largest of the thugs growled as they spread out to block the pavement.

Alistair Bellows eyed the six men as they stood shoulder to shoulder across his path. They were thin with sallow skin and their clothes were mismatched and dirty. They had chosen their ambush point with thought as it was located between two street lights where the shadows lay deepest.

“An’ if I dunna wanna laddie?” Alistair said amiably. He straightened to his full six foot three inches and smiled.

The thugs looked at each other and then back to Alistair who stood there calm and relaxed.

“Well Red, that’s simple innit!” the leader laughed and stepped forward a pace. “We’ll takes it anyways, just won’t be so polite about it see.”

“I see laddie,” Alistair scratched his chin and stepped to his right a pace, nearer the wall, then turned and took a pace toward the kerb. He turned to the leader and said thoughtfully,

“So, this is you asking politely, eh? Canna ha’ sum time t’ think?” he turned and stepped back towards the wall of the Bank of England before turning back to the road again.

“Yer aint that bright is yer Red?” asked the leader with a grin that revealed brown teeth amid gaps.

Alistair stepped towards the road, before turning back and walking to the wall of Portland stone, where he turned and set his back to it. He grinned in turn, his teeth white and even in his smile.

“Mebbe not laddie… mebbe not, but I ken I’m smarter than ye!” he lifted his fists and took a wide stance. “Now which of ye fine laddies is gonna be first?” he inquired still smiling.

The leader stared at him for a moment then realised what Alistair had done.

“Oh, clever aint yer Red!” he snarled. “There’s still six of us an’ only one of you!” He signalled his fellows and they moved to surround Alistair.

The toughs were working up their courage to mob Alistair when the one on Alistair’s far right howled in agony then sunk to his knees holding his crotch tightly in both hands, tears springing to his eyes. His mouth was now open in a silent scream as he fought for breath. The fellow next to him looked at him in surprise then floundered backwards before dropping to the ground as a fist met the side of his chin with a crunch that everyone heard. A slim figure dressed in evening dress like Alistair stepped past the man on his knees and gave him a clip under the ear in passing which stopped his wheezing as he fell to the side.

“Hello old chap, good to see you again,” he said politely to Alistair. “Spot of bother, eh?” he inquired.

“Nothing I canna handle,” said Alistair huffily. Instinctively he and the other man had set themselves back-to-back and moved away from the wall to give themselves room.