Isaac haunched over the parchments he had laid out on the table. The shadows cast by the candlelight made the scribbles dance like tiny faeries. He had made a new batch of iron gall ink, and he enjoyed watching the letters transmute from blue to black . A few smudges here and there, the curse of sinistrality, but the words looked bold and beautiful, shining under the flickering light.
The contents of the letter were for the most part still a mystery, as he had yet to read it. Decryption was only the first step. The truth was, he didn't understand the reason behind all the secrecy. Alas, he was very well acquainted with his Castilian colleague's flair for the dramatic.
As the ink dried, the alchemist brewed himself a concoction of butter, black tea, and Indian hemp. He wanted to enliven his mind before reading the cryptic correspondence, knowing he wasn't going to be disappointed.
And he wasn't disappointed. Not in the least.
My Most Esteemed Saxon Brother,
As I had promised when we last met, I will relate to you a most magnificent story that I came across during a visit to the Archives in the Holy Monastery of San Cristobal. I must warn you that this story contains many gruesome and explicit events. Place this document in the fire if you do not wish to read any further.
Please forgive me if my account of events does not flow as smoothly as my more technical work. I am no story teller. The difficulties are further compounded by the fact that the Brothers at the monastery kept a wary eye upon us visitors, so I have to rely on fragmentary notes. Further, some of the concepts and ideas herein did not lend themselves to proper encoding or translation to your fair tongue. The English language is efficient but devilishly mechanical. I also sensed that there was a reluctance by the scribes to set some details to paper. Thus consider this account incomplete.
The documents detail the confessions of a lieutenant by name of G. Pizarro y A, who was captured by Indians during an expedition in the New World. Where exactly, I was not able to discern.
After several days imprisoned without food or water, Pizarro was bound and led through the jungle. The sun had already set, and the evening star had risen above the mountains. He was led deep into the bowels of a cavern, where a radiant lagoon glowed under the light of many fires.
"Please let me go. We can do a trade with my people," said the prisoner.
The savages would not listen to him. They made him kneel in front of an altar decorated with stone statues and other artifacts of pagan worship such as flowers, feathers, jade figurines, and vessels. The atmosphere was thick and heavy with the sweet aroma of incense. And all around him, Pizarro could hear the shrill cacophony of drums, whistles, chants, and hysteric howls.
A strange scene to be sure, but is it any different than our own modes of worship? Flickering candles, stained glass, organ music, prayers, incense...
Of course, pagan worship is imbued with extreme and unnatural behavior. For one, Pizarro noticed that there were both men and women in the macabre spectacle, dressed with a minimal amount clothing. Others were dressed in extravagant regalia such as beaded jewelry, feathers, and animal hides. As colourful as the participants were, it was clear to the prisoner that all focus was placed upon the singular figure of a woman who stood upon the altar, wearing a golden mask in the likeness of a jaguar. Indeed, her voluptuous body was covered with patches of jaguar hide, while a luminous cape embroidered with the feathers of countless hummingbirds fell about her shoulders and back. Her look was as majestic as it was demonic.
The Indian priestess closed the gap between her and Pizarro, holding forth an ornate cup made of clay, which was carved with the face of a snarling jaguar and painted with strange symbols. A rich aroma emanated from the vessel and Pizarro recognized it as a frothy drink made from the cacao bean, common in those parts of the world as you well know. He had seen the Indians drink it in prior expeditions, but had not himself partaken of what he considered a witchy brew.
The priestess loomed over him with glittering eyes that were as black as midnight. She spoke in her native tongue while her helpers placed pieces of parchment on the damp cave floor. Pizarro noticed that her teeth were red and had been filed into sharp points.
Tired, hungry, and scared, the prisoner took the cup that she offered and imbibed its bitter contents. Thick and awful tasting, the drink was nevertheless nourishing, and he immediately felt its effects upon his aroused wits.
One of the attendants refilled the cup, and the priestess drank from it herself. Then turning back to a burning pyre, she spat some of it into the flames and chanted an incantation of sorts.
Pizzaro began to feel light-headed. The frenetic music, which up to then had filled the cavernous space, now sounded like a distant echo emanating from the darkness beyond. His knees grew weak and buckled under him. A state of intoxication overcame his senses. Breathing fast, he felt as if he was falling into a netherworld.
The bodies of the barbarous savages glistened with sweat, as they danced themselves into a frenzy.
The priestess held up a long object with serrated edges on either side. A stingray's tail! Kneeling over him, she reached between her legs with the wicked instrument, and proceeded to slide it through a tear in her exposed flesh. Her blood soon flowed and she threw some of it on the parchments that her attendants had placed on the floor.
Such a scene would've caused any reasonable man to lose his mind in terror, yet Pizarro remained unfazed. In his inebriated state, he no longer feared the sight of blood. On the contrary, the crimson liquid was but a life-force to be offered and sacrificed to the pagan spirits and demons.
Attendants held him firmly and removed his garments. The priestess then gripped his member and pierced his foreskin with the stingray tail. His warm blood gushed onto her hands. She threw some of it on the parchments and the rest she smeared on her face and body. He watched in fascination as her face and mask fused into a single countenance- a creature that was part woman and part jaguar.
Growling, she approached him and chanted her arcane spells. With bloodied hands, she gripped his injured member and mounted him like a wild beast. Pain and pleasure. Fused into a single whole. Raising a sharp obsidian blade, she pierced her earlobes and then his.
Pizarro could hear the music growing louder, and at the height of the carnal communion, he heard voices speaking from afar. The voices spoke in an ancient tongue. Although, he had never learned it himself, he understood the meaning behind them. Or rather, he saw what they meant.
A city of golden pyramids, shining under the fierce glare of a sun that rose in a mushroom cloud. I'm afraid, my poor sketch does no justice to its original, but I enclose it here for your scrutiny.
The priestess' eyes widened, and she seemed to recoil from the vision. Then frantically grabbing a rope with needles, she slid it through her tongue then spat the admixture of blood and saliva on the parchments. She screamed and cried and growled while her attendants threw the bloody paper on the fire. Then to Pizarro's amazement, she looked at him and spoke in Christian tongue. Her words?
"Two thousand and sixty."
Do you see now, my alchymical brother, why I have taken such precautions with this missive? The tale is too fantastic to believe. If true- and I have no reason to doubt otherwise- the implications for our own research are clear. The key to unlock the secrets of the stone resides in the constituents of that potion. Combined with the proper set of systematic procedures and setting in which to apply them, the workings of the mind of God are within our grasp.
What of our friend Pizarro, you ask? How did he escape? Where is he now? I'm afraid this shall remain a mystery for now. The monks were casting suspicious glances my way, and I could not complete my study of the confessions. I may have another chance to visit the monastery in a few months time and peruse their archives.
Should you find any of this information useful, please make a record for your notes, but destroy the original.
As always,
Your most humble friend & servant,
El Cuervo de Plata
Isaac read the letter several times that evening. For him, it was simply too unbelievable. Surely his colleague had taken leave of his senses for penning such a fanciful yarn. He could not sleep that night, however, and at the wee hours of the morning, he got out of bed and began scribbling notes. Satisfied that he had copied the essential information, he took the letter and threw it in the flames.