Story: "The Clockwork Craven"

"So you're saying it's bigger?" Fabiana asked.

"C-closer," Pomp corrected in his high, soft, slightly-stuttering voice. "The knight is c-closer."

"Very well, closer.” Fabiana leaned in to study the knight in the painting. “But how can that be? Are you saying that someone has altered the painting? I'm no expert, but the paint seems dry and it's — not sure if this is the term for it — lacquered?"

"The p-painting came with the rooms," Pomp said, "along with the p-panoply." He pointed towards the suit of armor in the corner by the stained glass window. "Panoply, that is the p-proper term for a suit of p-plate armor."

Fabiana looked around. "How did you find this place anyway? It has just the right mystical vibrations for your occupation." She motioned towards the closed half-glass door, where those skilled in reading reverse mirror image text could decipher that — when seen from outside in the hallway — the letters on the frosted glass window spelled out:

Pomponious (Pomp) Peeters
Claker, Blentonist, Phrenologist, Mesmerizer, Medium

Purveyor of Potions and Diambra
Applicator of Emplaisters
Phrenomagnatist Healer of Diverse Psychic and Somatic Conditions

Inquire Within for Testimonials and References

If No Answer at the Knock,
Toss Your Carte-de-Visite Through the Transom
and I will Promptly Contact You Upon My Return.

"I'm certain your clients are suitably impressed and induced to part with much specie and many ducats."

"I inherited these rooms," Pomp said, "from my uncle Melchior."

"Melchior Magnus, the famous alchemist?"

"That is the one."

"I didn't know you were related."

"On my mother's side. Evidently. She never spoke of him. In fact, I never knew of him until he passed and left me this place in his will. Uncle Melchior was almost two decades older than my mother. He died three years ago. That is when I moved my offices here."

"Three years. Has it really been so long since I saw you last, Pomp?” She tried to catch his eyes, but they slid away and hid under half-closed lids.

“Three years, t-ten months, t-two weeks, four days.”

“I am sorry.” She sighed. “We didn’t leave on the best terms, I know.”

Pomp looked down, but said nothing.

Fabiana touched his upper arm and felt him shrink away. She sighed again and peeked over his shoulder into the back room, the alchemist laboratory, seeing the tall brick furnace, the bellows, glass jars and flasks, iron tongs, clay crucibles, copper cucurbits, long-beaked glass alembics and retorts, the many ceramic vessels marked with arcane symbols.

Into the uncomfortable silence, she spoke: “So, you’re an alchemist now, in addition to all your other interests."

"Not until recently," Pomp said. "But it is fascinating. Uncle Melchior left behind a large alchemical library and many volumes of notes detailing his own exp-p-periments and ruminations on the art."

"Interesting." Pomp noticed Fabiana clutching her white leather purse a bit tighter.

Why?

"Anyway," he said, "the p-painting is indeed in lacquered oils, and I believe it is centuries old, so I do not see how anyone could have been able to make alterations to it, overnight. I say overnight, b-because every day the knight seems to me to be in a different p-position, closer, and c-closer."

"I've got it. They — whoever they are — switch out the painting each night."

"The p-painting is affixed to the wall." Pomp went over and demonstrated that the large painting was firmly attached, anchored to the bricks in the wall. "Many nights, I sleep in my workroom, with the door open. Even if there is a secret way to detach the p-painting, and even if someone wanted to p-play such an elaborate t-trick on me, I cannot see how they would have b-been able to exchange it every day for another, without me noticing. Look at the size of it."

The painting reached floor to ceiling and spread to the width of two broad-shouldered men.

"I did find something quite interesting about the p-panoply in one of my uncle's journals. I will show you." Pomp went over to the suit of armor and flipped open the visor.

There was a sound of whirring gears. Then... nothing.

"Was something supposed to happen?"

"Of course not, that would not be much of a secret. No, this is a two-step combination. Moving the hinged cheek p-plates on the armet simply activates the mechanism. See the ruby?"

The panoply held a sword pointed tip down, gauntleted fingers folded around the hilt, and there, atop the pommel was a precious gemstone, glinting red in the sunlight filtering through the stained glass window.

"Observe." Pomp turned the red gemstone three revolutions to the right, then two back to the left. 

There was a loud sound of clanking, then more whirring gears, and the entire front of the suit of armor hinged open.

"A hiding place, perhaps," Fabiana said. "A treasure chest, masquerading as a suit of armor. Clever Uncle Melchior."

"If there ever was anything hidden in the p-panoply, it has been removed."

"Interesting," Fabiana said. She put her hand inside her purse. "How do you close it?"

"Like this," Pomp said. "You t-twist the gem on the p-pommel back again." The whirring gears sounded once more. Fabiana snapped her hand out of her purse, and Pomp saw a quick flick of parchment paper disappearing into the hollow of the clockwork armor right before it clanked shut.

"I'm certain you already observed," Fabiana said, "that this armor is identical to that of the knight in the painting. For one thing, the knight's upraised sword has the same ruby on the pommel of the hilt and the same garland of flowers engraved on the blade, and there, the same flower garland is on the shoulder plate of both this suit of armor and on the shoulder of the knight in the painting."

"P-Pauldron."

"What?"

"That is the technical term for the 'shoulder plate' — pauldron. And, yes, I have noticed," Pomp said. "All the d-details are b-becoming more noticeable every day b-because the image of the knight is larger."

"Closer, you mean closer."

"Closer."

"What about that greenish smear? Was that always there?"

"I first saw that yesterday,"

There was in fact a green blob in the painting near the horizon right behind the silver castle, emerging from the cave entrance in the towering, blue, snow-capped mountain.

"Well, I don't know how they are doing it," Fabiana said, "but someone's playing a prank on you," 

"How, with magic?"

"You're the alchemist now," she said. "That's a magician of sorts, isn't it?"

"Not really. An alchemist works with the b-building b-blocks of matter, not magic. Anyway, I am not much of an alchemist, as yet. But I am learning more every day. Not just about alchemy. Also astrology. My uncle left many b-books and notes on the subject. I realize now, that I made many mistakes. In the past."

He looked down. 

"You're not the only one." There was a catch in Fabiana's voice.

Pomp looked up. "I re-did your star chart."

"Re-did it?"

"Yes, it was done, but you never p-picked it up when you... left. And that was more than three years ago, so, I — and, b-besides, as I said, I have learned much since then. I see you c-clearer. I mean, your chart is more accurate now."

"What does it say about my future?" She smiled. "Shall I meet a tall, slim, handsome alchemist?" 

"Not exactly." He was serious. "I will show you."

Pomp motioned her over to the working table. Next to the bronze astrolabe and the brass orrery with its various-colored gemstones representing planets affixed to brass arms, orbiting the brass ball representing the sun, was a large parchment, spread out to cover nearly the full surface of the table.

At the top of the chart, in penmanship so fine and meticulous it appeared as if printed, he had written her full name, 'FABIANA ARIADNA ELIZONDO', and the particulars of her birth: date, time, place. Below was the circular diagram with the zodiac, the houses, and the planets plotted, along with numbers and notes.

"What does it say?"

"It says ... you are in great t-trouble, Fabiana."

There was a knock at the door.

As Pomp and Fabiana turned, the door swung open — Pomp was certain he had locked it — to reveal three men. The one in front was almost comically small and slight compared to the two hulking monsters standing behind him. The small man wore a three-piece suit in bright green with white pinstripes, a white ascot with a ruby pin, a black top hat with bronze goggles affixed. The faint blue light of the Aery shimmered in the glass lenses of the goggles.

"Fabiana," the little man said.

"Gideon." Fabiana walked towards him, and Pomp followed.

The little man turned to Pomp and stretched out a small hand with at least one ring on every short, stubby finger. His handshake felt boneless, the rings adding the only solid structure, like squeezing a manacled starfish.

"Gideon Hektor Mikaelson," the small man said. "And do I have the pleasure of meeting..." glancing at the name on the door, "... Pomponious Peeters?"

"Call me P-Pomp, Mr. Mikaelsson."

"As we are to dispense with the formalities, Pomp, please call me Gideon. And my two associates are Edom and Haldor. Edom is the one with red hair. May we?" He stepped over the threshold. The two hulking bodyguards followed, first the bald man, then the redhead, each of them barely fitting through the doorway's height and breadth. The red-haired one — Edom — closed the door behind them.

"Now, to business, Fabiana." Gideon's tone was suddenly cold. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The map, poppet."

"I have no idea what you're even talking —"

"What a charming place you have, Pomp," Gideon interrupted. "Let's all sit down and talk about this as friends." He motioned Pomp and Fabiana over to the couch and sat down in one of the chairs. Edom and Haldor remained standing.

"The map, Fabiana. The one that disappeared from my library after your visit yesterday."

***

As soon as the door closed behind them, Pomp turned and went across the room to the clockwork panoply.

The pleading look in her eyes.

Pomp shook his head. There was nothing that could be done. Nothing he could do in any case. Nothing he would dare to do.

Those men. They looked like they could hurt someone. Hurt Fabiana. Yes. But also hurt me.

He flipped open the visor and turned the ruby.

It was her choice to leave with those men. She could have refused. She — 

The panoply clanked open. 

There it was, inside the suit of armor. A rolled-up parchment. 

At his work table, he pushed aside Fabiana's star chart and unrolled the parchment. 

Yes, it looked like a 'map', as Gideon had called it. At the top, he saw an indigo patch of twilight sky with a golden sun, white stars, and a pale moon. Below was a rendering of a winding path moving from the bottom left to the top right through woods and mountains, past lakes, over bridges crossing rivers, and across large expanses of green fields.

But Pomp recognized the arcane symbols. This was not a map. It was an alchemical recipe, using imagery to convey the information so that only the initiate would be able to understand.

Pomp did not — yet — understand enough alchemy to follow the formula through all its complex steps. But he recognized much of the symbolism. For example, the language of the birds that he had learned from Uncle Melchior's library and notes. Here was a flock of birds ascending, meaning evaporation. There he saw a flock of birds descending, meaning condensation. And in yet another place on the 'map', a flock of birds both ascending and descending, meaning distillation. Some of the birds were black ravens, meaning calcination or putrefaction. Some were white swans, meaning separation and purification. And then there were the birds' eggs, which he knew meant that some substance needed to be enclosed in a sealed vessel at that step in the process.

He saw the dragons and lions in black, white, red, and green, some winged, some without wings. He saw the wolves, dogs, fish, frogs, snakes, bees, and butterflies, and knew that each creature represented a specific step in the process, with both the position and color of the animal conveying meaningful information. He saw the ciphers representing the four elements, earth, water, air, fire, and all the other substances vital to alchemy — mercury, sulfur, salt, antimony, lead, tin, iron, copper, silver, and gold. 

And at the top, right-hand corner, the 'end of the journey,' the final grouping of symbols, signifying what would result from meticulously following each step in the process. It was a red stag with large antlers, facing a white unicorn, above their heads a red and a white rose, and between them, a golden rose above the final cipher — a square with a circle inside it and a dot inside the circle. 

This was the Magnum Opus, the 'Great Work' of alchemy, the formula to create the Philosopher's Stone, the substance that could transmute base metals into gold, and which, when liquified, was the elixir of life, eternally rejuvenating.

This 'map' would let him, Pomp, achieve not only untold riches but also immortality. 

Fabiana. If I return the 'map', could that save her from those men? Should I? No. She has made her own choice — I will make mine.

Pomp took the parchment back to his alchemical workshop.

As he crossed the threshold, he forgot all about Fabiana, obsessed with the task at hand.

***

Pomp's Great Work began on Saturday, the day of Saturn, the root day, and after sitting for eighteen hours at the workbench, the base of Pomp's spine was sore.

He had been working on the calcination step in the process, firing up the athanor, the tall brick furnace in his workshop, adding sulfur to lead, antimony to tin, mercury with sal ammoniac to gold, each mixture inside its own crucible. It was hot work, and he felt heavy. His mood was black, but he could feel the potential, and he had great resolve and a strong sense of discipline, so much so that it was difficult to tear himself away from his work — until he realized he was running out of mercury.

And he was famished. 

On his way out, passing by the painting, he saw that the knight was even larger — that is, closer — appearing to be running in the heavy panoply. Running towards the viewer. Running away from the thing pursuing him.

Behind the knight, the green blob was much closer, having traversed half the distance from the dark cave entrance in the blue mountain, and now Pomp could make it out as a monster with many legs — or perhaps tentacles — wings spreading out to take flight, an open maw with sharp teeth, and a great multitude of eyes.

Pomp shrugged it off and headed out the door.

Food. Mercury. Then back to work.

***

When Pomp returned, well-fed on shepherd's pie and well-supplied with mercury, he found a man waiting for him in his office, his back to Pomp, studying the painting.

”Who are you? How did you —“

”Mr. Peeters. My name is Jordan Corona,” the man said, still facing the painting. “I work with Mr. Mikaelson.”

The man turned to face Pomp. He was of medium height, dressed in a grey tweed suit, grey tie, grey gloves, grey bowler hat, with grey hair, and grey eyes. His clean-shaven features were unremarkable, but those grey eyes were not. They were pale, bird-of-prey sharp, and seemed to take in Pomp whole, an all-knowing gaze.

“Mr. C-corona, I must p-protest. This is my p-private —“

“Mr. Mikaelson dispatched me because he is concerned.”

”C-concerned?”

”Yes. Mr. Mikaelson is concerned for your friend, Ms. Elizondo.”

”Fabiana?”

”Ms. Elizondo was a guest of Mr. Mikaelson.”

”Was?”

”Until this morning, when Mr. Mikaelson discovered that Ms.Elizondo was no longer in her guestroom. So, Mr. Mikaelson had the notion that she may have returned to your office, Mr. Peeters.”

”No, she is not here.”

”I know. I took the liberty to enter in your absence — as you can see — and ascertained that Ms. Elizondo is — as you say — not here. Have you seen her?”

”Not since she left with Gideon… with Mr. Mikaelson, yesterday.”

The grey man stepped closer. The pale, grey eyes looked directly into Pomp’s, maintaining eye contact, gazing into Pomp’s eyes for an uncomfortable length of time.

”Very well.” The man pulled out his grey ostrich-skin wallet from his inside jacket pocket, extracted a card, and extended his grey-gloved right hand, the card perched between the index- and middle finger. “Should Ms. Elizondo make contact with you, I trust you will contact me. Promptly.”

Pomp took the card and examined it — plain white, with only the initials “JC” in a muted serif font, printed in grey ink.

Pomp looked up into the man’s unsettling gaze. “But, how do I —“

“Present my card, along with your own carte-de-visite in the market in Spitalfield, to the flower seller who has a grey rose on her placard. I will know that you have information to impart. I will contact you. That is all.”  

Without another word, the man left, closing the door behind him.

Those pale, grey eyes. I will give her up to him, rather than face those cold eyes. 

As he entered the workshop, a shadow moved over the window up high on the wall. A crow landed on the window sill, let out a long caw, then stared down at him with its black eye.

If see Fabiana again, I will betray her, out of fear for my own skin. 

Shame. Embarrassment. Guilt. Worthlessness.

I am craven, a coward.

***

On Thursday, the day of Jupiter, the sacral day, Pomp shifted his focus to dissolution, cibation, immersing the calcinated ashes of the metals in water, and his black mood lightened. In fact, he felt free and uncharacteristically sociable.

He left his offices again and ate a meal — his first since his meeting with the grey man, he realized — at the tavern down the lane by the apothecary.

He sat alone at an outside table in the cool spring afternoon — alone, but surrounded by people, and he felt at ease.

A phaeton drove by, its brass-skinned automaton coachman tipping its stovepipe hat at him, grinning its mechanized grin, the blue light of the Aery shining out of its two large headlight eyes, reminding Pomp of the goggles perched on Gideon Mikaelson's hat.

A black scarab scurried across the white tablecloth. 

When he returned to the workshop, he found an envelope that had been tossed in through the transom. 

As he passed by the painting, the knight was still running, frozen in mid-stride. The green monster of many eyes and open maw had now taken wing and was hovering in the air, almost upon the knight, clawed feet stretching out towards him.

At the working table, Pomp opened the envelope.

Remember the rabbits.

- F

The handwriting was hers, written in her preferred shade of red ink, and both the envelope and the note were on the indigo paper Fabiana favored.

Yes. I remember the rabbits.

A thick lump formed in his throat, his eyes welled up, and he began to cry in great heaving sobs.

The salt in tears are remnants of crystallized thoughts and memories. 

He couldn't stop crying for a long while. As he cried, he wiped the tears carefully from his eyes and collected them in a beaker.  

***

In the second week, on Tuesday, the day of Mars, Pomp was working on separation, sifting the material through screens, skimming impurities off the surface of the mixtures, when suddenly his solar plexus felt tight, he saw a blinding, white light, and something powerful rose up inside him, building, building, building — until he couldn't hold it in any longer and let it all out in a barbaric roar.

He felt strong.

A white dove landed on the window sill. 

***

That same week, on Friday, the day of Venus, Pomp was in the midst of the conjunction process, combining the various purified materials together, mixing and commingling them.

Uncle Melchior's books and notes indicated this was where most failures occurred in the process, and, in fact, Pomp had been unable to create the new compound that he understood from the 'map' was necessary to complete the work.

He was sweating, even though the workshop was no longer heated by the tall furnace, and the air was cool. Instead, he felt heat emanating from within his body, more specifically from within his chest.

His heart was hot.

He felt open and receptive, and suddenly he had an intuition. 

He grabbed the beaker full of tears.

Wait. This is not on the map. It is not part of the recipe.

He unstoppered the beaker.

It can ruin all the work I have done.

He poured the tears into the partially congealed essences.

Nothing. This was a mistake.

The essences combined into a new compound, yellow like the yolk of an egg with a heart of gold, shining.

***

In the third week, on Wednesday, the day of Mercury, Pomp was working on the fermentation and putrefaction process, having covered the golden-yellow compound in manure, watching the bubbling gases as the surface of the compound slowly turned green, when he heard the knock at the door.

With a catch in his throat, he approached the door, fearing who he would see on the other side, imagining the grey man, those pale, grey, predatory-bird eyes.

He opened the door to find her standing there.

"Fabiana!"

She pushed past him and closed the door behind them. 

"He's right behind me." She was out of breath.

"Who?"

"The big..." still breathing hard "... redhead." 

"Edom."

"That's the one." She went over to the clockwork panoply. "Hide me! In here."

"Inside the —?"

"Quick, do your trick... you know, the ruby." She mimicked twisting the stone at the pommel.

Pomp scrambled with the mechanism, Fabiana slipped inside the suit of armor, and he closed it, just before he saw the huge shadow on the half-glass door, heard the aggressive knocking.

"OPEN UP!"

Pomp opened the door. "What do you want?"

"She's HERE! I SAW her." The giant redheaded man pushed past Pomp.

"No one is here," Pomp said. "Just me."

"I SAW her."

"You saw her enter this office?"

"I saw her enter THIS BUILDING. Where ELSE would she go?"

"Not here." Pomp stepped aside. "You are welcome to look, see for yourself."

Edom stomped around the room, moving in a wide circle, past the suit of armor, which he ignored.

"This place SMELLS like SHIT," he said, finally, standing in the middle of the room, wrinkling his potato-shaped nose.

"I know. I am c-conducting an exp-p-periment." Pomp pointed to the manure-covered substance in his workshop.

"Like SHIT," Edom repeated. 

"Yes. That is literally it. I am using manure."

"Why?" Edom shook his head. "Never mind." He looked behind the couch, under the table, under the workbench. "I could have sworn."

"Are you certain it was her?"

"YES."

"P-perhaps one of the other offices?"

"Maybe." Edom squinted. "If we find that you're HIDING her, Mr. Mikaelson will NOT be happy. And when Mr. Mikaelson is not happy, Mr. Coronoa takes it PERSONALLY."

Pomp swallowed hard. "Tell Mr. C-Corona that I have his c-c-card." He removed the card with 'JC' in grey serif font from his inner jacket pocket. "If I see Ms. Elizondo, I have my instructions."

"GOOD." 

Edom left, shutting the door behind him. 

Pomp waited ten minutes until he was certain Edom would not return before he opened the clockwork panoply to let Fabiana out. 

"Thank you," she said. "Now, how are you doing with the recipe?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play coy." She smiled. "You're no good at it. Although, actually, you did much better lying to that redheaded goon than I would have thought." She stepped back and looked him over. "Something is different about you. Besides the fact that you are even thinner than usual. Are you eating at all?"

"I —"

I cannot remember. Food is not important.

"Never mind." She shook her head. "The recipe, you know what I mean. The one I left inside the panoply. The parchment which is no longer there." She pointed at the empty suit of armor. "Let me see how you're doing."

She walked into the workshop.

"Amazing," she said, admiring the golden-yellow compound covered in the foul-smelling greening-brown excrement paste. "The conjunction, you completed it. The Lesser Stone. The Sacred Marriage. The Philosopher's Child. Ours were always stillborn. We never got this far."

"We?"

"Yes, dearest Pomp, we."

"You mean, you're —"

"An alchemist, yes." She examined the compound again. "Although, evidently one that still has a lot to learn." She sighed. "At least I was right about you. I knew you had the talent, the genius even. You just needed a little ... push." She nudged his shoulder. 

"So, the 'map' —"

"The recipe."

"The recipe. Do you mean it was on p-purpose? You made sure I saw it when you tossed the p-parchment into the p-panoply?"

"I'm an actress. I know how to handle props."

"But you say you and... other... alchemists have been working from the recipe. I thought you just recently stole it from G-Gideon."

"He stole it from us first. I stole it back."

"Oh."

"I’m here to help. I can be your Moon Sister for the final stages of the Great Work. You realize that it’ll require the combination of feminine and masculine energies to complete the Moon and the Sun transformations, right?"

"I... had not made it that far. I am taking it one step at a time."

"Amazing." She shook her head. "You are such a savant."

"You mean, an idiot."

"That too." She smiled. "But I meant that you intuitively see the clear path. One step at a time, as you say. Anyway, trust me, you need the female soul and the male spirit working together, the marriage of the Moon and the Sun. I will be the White Queen to your Red King as we move from the white, Albedo, to the red, Rubedo, phase of the work. You are at the Citrinatis stage now, the yellow, but you must move on to this." She pointed to the map on the work table, the image of a peacock. "The Cauda Pavonis, the Peacock's Tail."  

All that day and into the evening, they watched and tended to the substance, the Philosopher's Child, as the greenish-brown seeped into the golden-yellow, gradually darkening it until the compound was black as soot. 

"Is it sup-p-posed to do this?"

"Yes," Fabiana answered. "See the black raven there," pointing to the bird next to the peacock on the 'map.' "This is what we are supposed to see at this stage. But it can't stay this way."

"Is there anything we can do?"

"No, we must wait."

Shortly before midnight, in the waning minutes of Wednesday, the full moon beaming in through the window, they watched the substance turn first a deep purple, an iridescent oil formed on the surface of the compound, and then... 

"Oh, dear God, it's beautiful," she whispered.

A rainbow of colors radiated into the darkened workshop, painting the floor, the ceiling, the walls, and their eager faces. 

"The P-p-peacock's Tail."

"Yes. The Cauda Pavonis."

Gradually the rainbow of colors fused into a pure white, and the oil covering the surface turned into a fatty, milky liquid. 

White, like that rabbit. 

***

All the remainder of that week and through the weekend, they worked together, one of them always awake, neither of them getting more than an hour of sleep at a time.

They were working on the rectification process, repeatedly distilling the substance by boiling it in a cucurbit, collecting the rising vapors into an alembic, then condensing the purified liquid into a retort, repeating the process over and over again, producing a solution that became thicker and more concentrated at each repeated distillation.

On Monday, the day of the Moon, as the sun set, Pomp entered an odd trance state where he felt that he, himself, was being sifted, purified, all the dross of his former life removed.

He awakened to Fabiana's gently shaking his shoulders.

"You were sleeping, standing up," she said.

He felt a sharp pain on a spot on his forehead between his eyebrows, and he suddenly had a flash of insight.

"I understand now," he said.

"Yes?"

"The rabbits. The ones we saw that day in the wood."

"Yes, I remember."

"That is the thing. You remember, and so do I, we both remember, but I believe you remember it differently than me."

"How so?"

"I think you remember it this way: the male and the female rabbit, cornered by the fox, then the brave, male rabbit throwing itself at the fox, attacking the fox with teeth and claws, surprising and confusing the fox, letting the female rabbit escape."

"That's exactly how it was."

"And then the male rabbit was also able to escape from the confused fox. So they both lived on."

"Right."

"Well, I went back into the woods the next week, and I found it, the male rabbit, the carcass of the male rabbit, I mean, all torn up, its innards spilled and half-eaten, maggots crawling. It did not get away after all."

"Oh."

"The world is full of foxes and wolves and hawks and owls and falcons and feral c-c-cats and wild dogs. Rabbits do not stand a chance. So when you sent me that note, 'Remember the rabbits,' I knew what you meant. You meant to encourage me, that I should be b-brave and everything would work out. But of course, to me, it represented a death sentence. Worse. It showed me who I was, a reflection of my craven rabbit-self. And it b-broke me." 

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize, I understand —"

"No." Pomp raised his right hand, palm out. "You do not understand." He removed the carte-de-visite with the 'JC' in grey serif ink from his inner jacket pocket. "Did you meet Mr. Jordan C-Corona while you were G-Gideon's houseguest?"

"The grey man. Oh, yes, I know him. We know him well."

"A rabbit recognizes his p-p-predator," Pomp said. "Mr. C-Corona is my fox, my wild dog, my hawk, and more, the essence of all I fear. If you had knocked on my office door one week ago, I would have done it."

"Done what?"

"I would have betrayed you. Given you up to save my own, craven rabbit-hide."

"Oh, Pomp."

"I would have. But now. Now, I see that the whole p-purpose of the male rabbit's little rabbit-life was that one moment when he faced the fox and saved his mate. Now, I am no longer afraid." He shrugged. "Well, that is not true. I am terrified. But terrified or not, I would face that fox now."

***

At the end of the fourth week, the beginning of the fifth, on Sunday, the day of the Sun, and the fifth Sunday since he began his work, Pomp felt that he was floating at a point above the crown of his head.

From this vantage point, he could see himself, that is he could see his own body below him, standing next to Fabiana, as they worked together on the coagulation operation, and he saw that it was good, that it was all coming together, and that he was going to be successful. He saw what he needed to do, and he floated back into his body.

Congealing, precipitating, sublimating, and there it was — the bright red powder.

Fabiana gasped. 

"Is this —."

"Yes."

 She reached out, trembling fingertip touching the powder, brought the finger up to her face, staring at the red smudge.

"So plain," she said. "And with this, we can make untold riches — live forever." She threw her arms around him. "We did it!"

She pulled away, spinning in a little dance, out of the workroom, into the office.

"I can't believe it," she cried out.

Pomp was fascinated with the powder, the end result of the Great Work, the Philosopher's Stone, at last. So he only paid half attention to her voice from the other room.

"You know," she said. "It's odd that the knight has not changed position at all since I came back to the office. What is that now, ten days, no, eleven. Are you sure —.  Oh. It's moving! I see it moving. Turning — " 

Fabiana screamed.

Pomp ran out into the office.

She was gone. 

The old craven Pomp would have hesitated, or simply gone back to hide inside his workshop, hide in his work. 

This new, brave Pomp ran out the door, down the stairway, and out into the street, determined to find her.

And that's when he saw them, Gideon and his men, heading straight for him, and in the blink of an eye, all his newfound bravery left him.

Pomp turned on his heels and ran back into the building. 

Like a frightened rabbit.

***

He heard them on the stairs.

Pomp rolled up the parchment with the recipe and put it in his pocket, then poured the contents of the vial, the red powder, into a leather pouch with a long leather band which he slung over his neck, tucking the leather pouch under his shirt. He felt the heat from the Philosopher's Stone radiating through the leather, warming his chest.

He scurried over to the clockwork panoply, opened the visor, and turned the ruby at the pommel three times to the right, twice left. The gears whirred and metal clanked, as the suit of armor opened up.

Pomp climbed inside.

How do I close it from the inside?

The footsteps were closer. He saw the shadows on the frosted window on the door.

In desperation, Pomp put his hands into the suit of armor gloves, and yes, he was able to move his finger from the inside to turn the red gemstone at the pommel of the sword. The suit of armor closed and the visor lowered just in time as the door opened.

There they were, Gideon himself stepping across the threshold first, followed by the hulking bodyguards, Edom and Haldor. The grey man, Jordan Corona, stepped inside last, telgun at the ready, and went straight for the workshop.

"Not here," he said.

"I know I SAW him enter this building," red-haired Edom said in a thick voice.

"We will find him," Jordan said in his flat voice. He went over to examine the painting. "This knight seems bigger today," he mumbled to himself. He turned from the painting, went over to the suit of armor, and knocked on it, listening for the hollow metallic sound.

"You think he's hiding in there?" Gideon asked.

Jordan shrugged. "Just a thought."  Then he fired the telgun at the suit of armor.

Inside the armor, Pomp saw the red flames of the telgun's phlogiston rays and felt a slight warming of the air, but not the roiling heat that he knew emitted from the telgun. He was unharmed.

"Well if he was in there," Gideon said, "he'd be cooked now."

"And screaming," Jordan agreed. "Mr. Peeters is not here."

"I could have SWORN," Edom said. "But ... he must have gone into another building, or perhaps out a back door."

They all left.

Pomp tried to turn the ruby in the pommel of the sword hilt again, but nothing happened.

He was trapped inside the suit of armor.

Then he heard the whirring of gears, echoing inside the metal suit, felt the gauntlet on his left hand moving, his fingers moving along, trapped inside the steel glove. Then the right gauntlet moved down to grasp the sword hilt, and he couldn't stop it. His right arm went up without his own volition, carried along by the suit of armor's vambrace and rerebrace, and he felt the weight of the sword held aloft.

Next, the cuisse moved and his right thigh moved inside it, then the greave, moving his right calf. Now his left leg was moved in the same way, and he was walking — rather, the suit of armor was walking him — off the pedestal, into the middle of the room, the metal clanking, gears whirring, as the clockwork armor turned towards the painting where the Knight had now turned fully around, facing away, and the back of the Knight was now life-size.

In the painting, The Green Horror with the tentacles and the leathery wings and the many eyes and the sharp teeth had landed and was so close to the Knight now, so big that it was blocking the castle, much closer than it had been just a few minutes before.

And there, at the knight's shoulder, a red smudge, the powder of the Philosopher's Stone, left behind where Fabiana had touched the painting.

He felt the Philosopher's Stone in the pouch around his neck heat up, glowing hot into his chest as if the Stone had absorbed some of the heat from the telgun's phlogiston rays. 

He felt the Stone seeping through the leather pouch, like a heated medicinal emplaister, melting, being absorbed into his skin, the warming effect spreading from his chest into the rest of his body, and he felt stronger, bolder, transmuted into —

The clockwork panoply walked Pomp towards the painting, clanking step by clanking step, then stopped. Pomp knew he could halt here and the clockwork armor would crack open like an egg and let him out. But then he would miss his moment, remain a craven rabbit. It was his decision, and he made it.

I choose to face danger, whatever it is. Eyes wide open. Head on.

The clockwork gears whirred back the life, and the panoply marched on ...

... into the painting.

***

The stench from The Beast of a Thousand Eyes was sharp in Sir Peeter's nostrils, its roar filled his ears.

It was a horror, but behind it, inside the cave in the Bluest Mountain, he could see her, Princess Fabiana, chained to the wall, crying out for him, and he knew what he needed to do.

He lifted his sword higher and charged The Beast.

— The End —

If you want to know more about how I developed this story, here is a link to a blog post that describes the writing process.