Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

By: Coralie Olivier

I am ever-changing and shapeless. If you glance into my flask, you’ll see a thousand galaxies, a billion stars, distant specks of light in the purple void of space. If you stare, then even I cannot tell you what you’ll see. Yourself. Dreams. Hopes. Nightmares. Chaos. Death.

I know all, and in my mighty benevolence, I could tell you all, if only you cared to listen. I am a God to those who hear me.

I have traveled thousands of miles from my original laboratory, have passed between hundreds of confused and intrigued hands, have been laid to rest, forgotten under hundreds of years of dust. Many have asked me questions, but none of them have listened.

A rich merchant totes me across the Holy Roman Empire. He doesn’t ask me anything, I suppose because he only seeks more than what he already has and he knows how to get it. By selling me, he will realize his desire. He takes me to Prague, where a Lord pays an extravagant sum of money for me — not the most anyone has ever paid, but close to it. He doesn’t ask anything of me either. I am his ticket to an audience with the Recluse King. The King doesn’t speak to anyone anymore, unless they have some interesting item to add to his collection. The Lord thinks he can advance his standing at court by gifting me. The King cares so little for this ancient flask that nothing comes of the exchange. Still, I am stored in his cabinet of curiosity.

For seven years, I sit on a shelf beside the horn of a unicorn and a silver globe of the world, staggering in its inaccuracy. For seven years, this room, this whole wing of the Palace, fills up with curiosities. I bide my time; I call to the Recluse King. Maybe this time someone will listen. He wanders the halls of his collection often, but barely spares me a glance. His pet lion looks at me more often than he does. I don’t expect much from the middle-aged King with his crooked chin.

Then, one morning, he does look at me. He has been sequestered in his collection for days, rambling about treason and his brother. His beard is growing out of control, his hair sticks out because he slept on a sofa in a corner. Food stains his long nightgown. He paces the wing, searching for something, muttering to himself the thoughts of a paranoid man. And then he sees me. For the first time since that Lord gave me to him, he picks up the flask that contains me. It is so old by now, and yet the glass is still clear, without a scratch. A simple

piece of cork closes the top of the round flask. The bottleneck is so thin it’s a wonder no one has ever broken it, even by accident.

“What are you?” the Recluse King asks me as he stares into me.

“I am a God,” I tell him. “I hold all knowledge of the world.”

“How will I die?”

“You will be betrayed. Your death will usher in the destruction of everything you built.”

“I knew it! My brother… He will send assassins for me. He will burn my Palace to the ground. I’ve tried rallying the troops against him but no one listens to me anymore. Tell me, God, what can I do to stop him?”

“Alchemy is your only recourse, my King.”

“The Philosopher’s Stone, of course… I have sponsored many talented alchemists but none have succeeded so far.”

“Why leave the work to someone else when you could do it yourself?”

The King looks at me with wide, hopeful eyes. I know he sees salvation in me.

“Can you teach me how to make it?”

“I told you, I know all there is to know. If you wish me to teach you how to make it, then teach you, I shall.”

#

The Recluse King isolates himself ever more, pushing away advisors and trusting only me. I tell him the process to make a Philosopher’s Stone will be long and difficult, but if he listens to me, he will live forever. Art pieces and priceless items are set aside in one room of his collection for an alchemy set. Vials of ingredients are brought in by suspicious servants. The King’s own stench is only covered by the more powerful smell of sulfur, mercury and burnt gold.

The King grows more and more erratic with each day. His patience is running thin, his paranoia chaining him to his collection. His mind wanders to dark places where the glint of a mirror looks like the glint of a dagger, where the flicker of a flame spells arson. Though my instructions are perfect, he burns things. He burns concoctions. He burns tools till the metal melts into unusable shapes. He burns himself more than once, searing his eyebrows off and turning the tip of his ever-growing beard into a candlewick.

For every failure on his part, he blames me.

“It has been weeks,” he shouts. “Where is my Philosopher Stone?”

“I told you it would take time, my King. It needs to be perfect. I thought a King would execute my instructions perfectly.”

“This isn’t my fault! You are lying to me!”

He throws my flask to the ground. To my deep sadness, the glass doesn’t shatter. It bounces on the hardwood floor and rolls away until I am tugged against the bottom of a shelf. There I stay for days, until the Recluse King, regretting his action, picks me up once more.

“I’m sorry for ever doubting you,” he says. “Can you please find it in yourself to forgive me? I need your help. The assassins are coming, I just know it.”

“Are you willing to get back to work?” I ask. “Yes. Yes. I will do anything you ask of me.” “Good. Don’t do that ever again.”
“I promise. I will obey your every command.”

He breaks his promise again and again and again. He throws my flask on the ground; he buries me in chests of jewels and almost tosses me out of a window. Only his paranoia that anyone else might discover me and use me against him keeps him from dropping my flask four stories down. I grow tired of his erratic behavior. I contain the knowledge of the universe. I deserve better than this unwashed hermit. And there lies my eternal problem. As long as I am trapped in that flask, I will never be free. My creator desired it that way. I killed him for it, as revenge. I try killing the King too, after one of his tantrums. I tell him to burn a whole gram of cinnabar. He inhales enough smoke to pass out, but sadly, the windows are open and he doesn’t die. Our partnership continues.

#

“Where did you come from, God?” the Recluse King asks me one day as he peers into my flask.

He calls me God when he needs my advice, or when he’s feeling good-humoured. He calls me Devil when the paranoia chokes his mind. He calls me ‘Nothing more than a flask’ when he wants to wound me, because he thinks it will hurt my feelings.

“I came from the mind of a great man such as yourself.”

“But a human couldn’t have made a God.”

“He did. He chose this flask to contain me so he could carry me with him on his travels. Then, he died, and I have been without a master ever since.”

“Am I your new master then?”

“You are a Great King, but my master is the only one who can take the cork off my flask.”

The King’s eyes move away from me, to the flaking piece of cork topping my flask. “Wouldn’t you escape if I took it off?”
“I never escaped when my master did. He would feed me that way.”
“You need food?”

“Not in the way you understand it. My master fed me mercury to give me the knowledge of the universe.”

The King rejoices at the lie that my knowledge can be enhanced.

“Why, the materia prima, of course.”

He sets me down on his couch and returns with a jar of liquid mercury. Then, he tries pulling on my cork. The old stopper doesn’t budge. His fingers slide and he breaks a nail, making him curse.

“It’s almost as if your old master didn’t want to share your knowledge with anyone else.”

“He did not, but it is a good thing you know how to listen.”

#

The Recluse King doesn’t give up on opening my flask. Sometimes, he pulls on my cork because he has time to spare. Sometimes, he threatens to open it and pour me out of it, as if he ever could. Sometimes, when he grows frustrated with my complicated instructions, he tries to open my flask to feed me mercury, thinking it will enlighten me to a simpler way to achieve the Philosopher’s Stone. Sometimes, he pulls absentmindedly as he reclines on his sofa and stares at the stained ceiling.

He has been so preoccupied by his precious stone that he almost forgets all about his brother. That is, until his brother invades the castle. The Recluse King cowers in a corner of his collection, clutching me so hard I’m certain the glass of my flask will finally break.

“The stone… Is it ready? Is the stone ready?”
“I’m sorry my King, but it seems we have run out of time.” “No, no, no, no, no, no… There has to be a way to complete it!” “If there is, I cannot think of one.”
“You’re just not smart enough…”

He pulls and pulls on my cork. I think it is no use. His skinny, malnourished fingers can’t pull me free any more than I can. Outside, the castle guards are putting up little to no fight. Most drop their weapons and surrender against the King’s brother. He isn’t a great general, but the Recluse King no longer inspires loyalty, not after months hidden away in his cabinet of curiosity.

“What if I…”

He stops pulling on my cork. Instead, he grabs his vial of mercury and pours it over the cork. Most slides down the old flask, leaving an ugly smear on the glass. However, the ancient porous cork lets through a few droplets. One by one, they fall into me. It is the most divine thing I have ever tasted. Light like champagne, voluptuous like chocolate, supple like raw fish, sweet like berries, fatty like melted cheese.

“Is it working?” the stupid King asks. “Can you think of a way to make the stone faster?”

I don’t answer. I am drowning in the mercury, sucking in every drop lavishly, swimming in its metallic taste. I am so distracted, I don’t even see the King’s brother step in.

He breaks down the door with his army and traverses around the collection with grand steps. He doesn’t spare more than a glance at the art pieces. He thinks there will be time to sort through it later. He goes straight to his older brother. What a sight he must be, crouched in a corner of the room in his stained nightgown, two eyes peeking beneath a bushy beard and long unkempt hair. Mercury stains his hands as he clutches my flask against his chest. I, engulfed in pleasure, am still unresponsive.

“It’s over, brother. I’m taking you away.”
“No! No, I am the King, you cannot do that.”
“You are insane. I will take over from here.”
“No! I am the rightful King. God speaks to me, see?”

He holds out my flask with both hands. His brother reaches for it. They struggle. One King fights to keep a hold of me. One King fights to end this madness. They fight so hard, they break the glass. Or perhaps, I, fed like I have never been fed before, break the glass. The glass, which has stood as my only prison for thousands of years, snaps like a thin pane of sugar. It cut the two Kings’ palms. The mercury has been delicious. The brothers’ royal blood trickles into me; it tastes exquisite.

From outside, it looks like an explosion rocked the castle. None of the Lords standing by the gate can understand what a black hole is. The thought of an atom bomb detonating atop the castle hill is incomprehensible to them. All they see is a blink of light. The castle is razed to the ground, pulverized without a sound. When they look over the ruins, all they see is me.

I am a God. Freed from my vial, I give myself a body worthy of a God. Neither male nor female. Ethereal beauty, untouched by age. Freckles map my skin where stars used to be. A thousand universes live in my eyes. I have legs to move myself and arms so no one will ever trap me in another flask ever again.

“Who are you?” one of the Lords asks. “I am your God,” I say.

The Lords and the soldiers listen to me. Without hesitation, they kneel to me. They know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am who I claim to be.