Agen, France.
It was the summer of 1552. A bearded alchemist was at pains to find recipes to fill his upcoming book, Traité des fardements et confitures.[1] He wandered down the pathway from the home of his generous host with an empty cane basket. The sky was clear, apart from a chevron of wild geese heading south to their next port of call, the swamps of Antibes. On his stroll, he stopped at the base of a lone quince tree. Its barren branches reached towards the blue, like skeletal fingers laden with fruits. Some had fallen, tickling his nostrils with the heady acidity of fermentation as they lay in wasteful piles on the ground. He collected three dozen quinces and hauled it all back to the kitchen to see what could be done to save the mushy fruits from their inevitable decay.
A young servant named Lodie set to work amidst the swirling scents of cooking below the white stone hearth. It sucked a realm of flavours into a melange of sweet, savoury, scorch, and tang. Her adolescent fingers were busy with practised precision, carefully preparing each ripe quince for its transformation. But as her hands moved to peel away the fruit’s outer layer, the alchemist, renowned for his warrior-like dedication to ending all sickness in the world, could not help but shake his head in disbelief.
“Peeling fruit?” he scoffed, his voice carrying a hint of amusement tinged with incredulity. “Surely, only fools would discard such a vital part of such a divine morsel.”
With that admonishing by her master, Lodie altered the process her grandmother had always used. The alchemist deftly assisted. He rubbed each in a cold concoction of distilled devil’s mead, diluted in a pail of pure mountain water to remove the fine fur from the skin. He then sliced the once 'forbidden' fruits into quarters as Lodie dutifully tossed them into a cauldron of fresh water, their skins intact and their essence preserved. As they simmered and softened over the embers, the sweet aroma twisted tongues and engulfed the air. The man of science watched discerningly, knowing that the true magic lay in the alchemy of patience and precision. Once the quinces had reached the perfect point of tenderness,Lodie carefully strained them through a cotton mesh, capturing every drop of their essence in a vessel of gleaming copper. And then, with a measured hand, the alchemist added the perfect amount of lemon seed and an equal weight of rare sugar, which he had by pure luck, located from a fellow scientist on the docks of Marseilles. Taking care not to disturb the delicate balance of flavours, the mixture bubbled like hot mud, transforming into a shimmering jelly; all in the kitchen marvelled at the sheer becoming of the concoction. For in that moment, they knew that their master had created something truly extraordinary, even a masterpiece fit for a king or queen.
Monsieur Michel Nostradamus could not remove the smile from his face, knowing that his culinary prowess had triumphed over the folly of those who dared to underestimate the essential application of alchemy to human sustenance. If only the church agreed that the miracles of the physical Earth are equally divine as the miracles of the unseen.
Sealed in glass canisters with a lid of beeswax and hemp cloth after almost half a year, he beheld each jar of his miracle quince jelly in the soft glow of the roaring hearth. Their scarlet hue a tantalising promise of the culinary wonders that lay hidden within. In contrast to the disease-ridden buildings of France and the decomposing bodies of his loved ones, the preserved specimens in his possession glistened, frozen in time. The fruits of his labour were carefully preserved and imbued with the essence of summer’s bounty, albeit in the throes of a bitter French snowstorm. Michel Nostradamus was struck by a sudden thought. These would make exquisite and unique gifts for his contemporaries and compatriots during Yuletide. He might even deliver one to the Queen of France.
#
The crisp bite of winter that vented through the body and soul of those who had survived the second plague ravaging Europe had not deterred the wretched, the meek, and the gentry alike who were determined to show God and the suspicious henchmen of the church that their allegiances were steadfast. As the eve of Yule drew, Nostradamus gathered his friends and fellow scholars together, presenting each one with a jar of his special preserved quince confiture. A sense of wonder filled the air, mingled with a profound gratitude for the man who had bestowed such a precious treasure upon them. For in the fruits of his labour, they saw not only the bounty of the earth but the gift of prophecy itself, a reminder of the eternal dance of creation and the mysteries that lay hidden within its folds. And as they shared in the warmth of Nostradamus’s company, gathered around the hearth fire on that magical Christmas night, they knew they were witnessing the unfolding of a prophecy unlike any other: the prophecy of love, friendship, and the enduring spirit of the season.
“See. I knew you would like your gifts.” He winked at his trusty servant as they toasted to a feast well executed.
“Of course you did, Nostradamus. You know everything, much to our annoyance.” A visiting ultra-taster from Lyon wryly commented. “I shall deliver one to her majesty as you requested. And I can wholly predict that she will enjoy this strange but delectable concoction upon a piece of toasted brioche.” The pout-lipped gentleman orated to roars of banter and frivolity.
Suddenly, an aggressive assault on the door startled the convivial evening. Brethren of the Guild of Ultra Tasters, secret order scrambled for the secret door behind the library shelf. “Hurry,” said their host as he scanned the room for any other likely enemies of the inquisitors.
“Coming.” He called as the last keeper of GOUT slid into the stone crevasse.
He pushed the heavy wooden shelf back into place and headed towards the incessant banging. “Yes, can I help you?”
“Monsieur Nostradamus. You are to be questioned by the inquisitor general on suspicion of practising the evil of magic and sorcery,” said the puffy henchman of the Pope’s army.
“Well, it is currently a time when my family reflects on the birth of our Lord Jesus. I am happy to drop by tomorrow if the Monsignor is available.”
The tall and well-armed henchman had no time for the man’s antics and ordered his subordinates to frogmarch the man down a cobbled path and onto the back of a witch collector cage precariously fastened to a cart and horse. “I beg your pardon. I will not see the Monsignor in that.” The alchemist protested. “At least allow me to get my shawl and mitts.”
“Hurry.” The man had revealed his annoyance at running an errand for the church on this freezing Christmas Eve.
#
“What is the meaning of this?” the alchemist demanded to know what was so urgent that it required dragging him away from his friends and family in such a humiliating fashion.
“Monsieur Nostradamus.” The head of inquisitions spluttered. “The panel has recently noticed your treatise on matters in which only our God and the Pope himself may delve.”
“Is that so? And which recipe do you find so concerning that it requires an interrogation on the eve of the birth of our lord saviour?”
“My dear members of the clergy. I might be a man of inquiry and rationality, but I am a servant of God, I assure you.”
“You are one or the other. One cannot be both.”
“Copernicus was both.”
“How dare you mention that name in this place of purity, for God’s sake, that man thinks we all travel around the glorious god-made sun? What pagan nonsense will come next?”
“Heretic!” A sickly and elderly priest struggled to make his accusation without spraying the putrid saliva from his mouth.
“Monsieur Cariolli” The alchemist struggled to release himself from the burly hands of his captors. “I can see you are very unwell. Let me examine you.”
“It is god’s will that I die, so stay away from me, heathen.”
“I can help you and if you do as I tell you, your suffering will be lesser.”
“Why should I take your advice?” The priest groaned in agony.
“Because if you don’t, you will die in agony. Is this what God wants to inflict on his most devoted?” the alchemist replied adamantly.
“Only God decides when I die,” the holy man defiantly spluttered.
“You bring the work of the devil to this sick man of God?” his minder yelled, pushing the alchemist aside. “Be gone with your black magic and potions before I have you burned at the stake.”
“I cannot help unless he takes these remedies under his tongue, monsieur,” the Nostradamus explained. “I assure you that my concoctions are purely herbal. Besides, was nature, in all its beauty, not created by God himself?”
Grey with fever and his upper torso bubbling with pus-filled abscesses, the inquisitor took a desperate moment to grasp at the scientist’s sleeve. “Give it to me.” Such was his pain that he decided God might permit the physician’s logic just this once. He squirmed as the rose petals and thistle syrup absorbed under his bloating tongue. “I don’t believe God would invent something with such an appalling taste,” he meekly protested.
“Now, burn his robes,” the alchemist ordered the priest’s youthful assistant. Despite having no reason to help his inquisitor, Nostradamus watched over the god-fearing man until he slumbered and struggled with each breath of the smoke-filled room.
#
Silversmith Hotel Chicago Downtown, 2019.
“I warned you, didn’t I? I told you this would happen!”
“Oh, aren’t you just the clever one?” Harlan’s thumb slid over the red button on his phone and threw it on the hotel bed. Outside the hotel window, Chicago was tinged by a faint ball of sun struggling over Lake Michigan. As the trains below squealed in and out of Wabash station, he felt his mouth become a drought of anxiety by the thought that he had to return to Genoa, Nevada and face the ones that had believed in his talent all along.
The text messages continued from various datelines around the country. It was never going to be that easy, said one text. You fucked it up this time, said another. The hotel phone rang with an almost welcoming analogue tone. “Meet me downstairs for breakfast around eight,” said the plaque-choked voice. Harlan couldn’t think about food after yesterday, but he owed it to Euginia Sinclair to at least thank her for her companionship in this insanely lonely city.
“Well, you got to see the inside of Chicago,” she said with an air of maternal sapiency. Harlan never actually saw anything beyond the hotel and the studio. And the deal was, eliminated contestants were debriefed and must have their bags packed and shuttled back to O’Hare airport to return to whichever unsophisticated shit hole from which they came.
#
Chateau de Chenonceaux Touraine France. 1559.
It was late September. A storm raged for four days without relenting, turning the minds of nobility and common folk alike into a furious torrent of conspiracy and superstition. Dislodged trees, village structures, and bloated livestock smashed against the stone arches that majestically sprawled across the river Cher. Catherine peered out the window as masses of water churned and violently funnelled its way underneath. As far as the widowed monarch was concerned, the river was a symbolic act of cleansing of the loins of her dead husband and of the stench of his whore mistress Dianne’s possessions had been removed from the property.
“Well, I didn’t see that coming” Catherine’s distinguished adviser on all things from alchemy to astrology stood behind the consort holding a vessel of rich vin rouge.
“Why not?” asked a cynical minder of the Court, who had been watching the so-called seer and prophet like a hawk.
“Ignore my rude cousin Monsieur Nostradamus.” She waved with subtle dismissal. “He does not understand the celestial body and the foresight it affords us.”
“Your Majesty. One must not rely on an alchemist, who professed to be a Seer on matters of importance.”
“Well, he predicted my husband’s death, did he not? And remember when he warned Monsieur Arnaud of Vendee that his carriage would soon fail him and he would be tossed to the ground like a net of sardine?”
“We all warned him, Madam. We watched him leave Tuileries with the wheel of his carriage holding by a thread.”
Down in the bowels of the kitchen, the chateau rumbled as a cacophony of debris scraped against the stone dock as it passed. The storm had prevented the barges of fresh produce from delivery for the third day, and with the deluge showing no signs of abating, provisions had to come by road. A food taster staggered by the corridor. As she stopped at the passage leading to the dock, a half-empty bottle of the Queen’s favourite wine in her grip, Lodia was pale and clammy, the stench of toxin stubbornly clung to the follicles in her throat. Although her inferior and expendable status raised no concern to the workers, she avoided the kitchen. Had the cook discovered her in such a state, he would have pushed her into the river with the rest of the flotsam, rather than admit to his fare being anything less than perfect. She squeezed two of her long fingers into the back of her mouth until it brought her to reach. Her vomit smelled of shit, but the water washed it away each time it lapped over the stone dock. Her stomach cramped and squealed with pain as she gasped at the dangerous current that swirled below. Lodie desperately bundled her long dress above her waist and expelled a runny projection over the edge of the dock, but movement only spread the burning pain to her organs. A hearth worker came out to assess the rising water. She noticed Lodie cramped over and in excruciating pain. “Don’t let the cook see you like this,” she coldly warned. “You cannot die here. Go home, you can leave by the scullery.” Lodie tossed the corked bottle into the raging torrent and hobbled back up the upstairs and through the servants’ door. She heard her name being called from behind, but dared not turn her head. There was never any empathy or concern towards her well-being in that house, even if she saved the life of its noble inhabitant. She was a food taster. Her fate was always to suffer and then die.
The rain whipped at her forehead, lowering the fever in her soaked body. It seemed to be the only thing that cared that she had dutifully performed her task of shielding the regent from the treachery of hatred.
That very night, the taster to Queen Catherine felt the toxin of suspicion seep into the pit of her own nasal junction and down into the delicate flesh of their oesophagus. No amount of salivation could prevent what would come next.
[1]. Treatise on Cosmetics and Jams
