The Waterstone of the Wise [Prologue]

[scriveyner]

The Water-Stone of the Wise

“This Matter is found in one thing, out of which alone our

Stone is prepared … It is found potentially everywhere,

and in everything, but in all its perfection and fullness

only in one thing."

The Sophic Hydrolith; 1619

“The secret of alchemy is this: there is a way of manipulating

what modern science calls a force-field. This force-field acts

upon the observer and puts him in a privileged position in

relation to the universe. From this privileged position, he has

access to the realities which are normally concealed from

us by time and space, matter and energy. This is what we

call the Great Work.”

Fulcanelli; 1937

.: Prologue :.

Munich: 1933



The air in the warehouse smelled of must and old metal, tarnished with the neglect of years. Suits of armor were lined in silent rows, restored to their feet and weapons positioned at the ready. Each suit had been thoroughly examined and documented; with tags hanging from the weapons and helmets to aid in identification. Against the far wall were several piles of incomplete suits of armor, their limbs and helms jumbled together and their cataloging since abandoned. This storage room was brightly lit, and yet a dark aura seemed to lurk about the armor, as inexplicable as the black substance that coated each suit.

Men had died in those suits of armor. No one knew exactly how - according to the official records, not a one of them had survived to relay the tale. Most of the soldiers had bled to death, although their bodies had no visible wounds. Some were missing limbs, or had various organs gouged from their torsos. Others still looked as though they had merely asphyxiated. Not a single death was easily explained. It was a grisly, macabre task to sort out all this information - a task that had been carried on in secret for years.

“Eckhart’s Mistake” was what the fiasco had been called, on paper. Outside of the documentation of the armor and a pile of strange plans and notes coded in a language that was not easily decipherable there was no other evidence of the plan that had resulted in the dissolution of the Thule Society. The Mistake was never mentioned within the party, and those best and brightest of the Thule Society that had been swept up in Dietlinde Eckhart’s plot had vanished as if they had never existed at all.

The party was quick to sweep up after their mistakes. The Thule Society seemed to disappear from the occultism scene almost overnight; and with the rapid turmoil that the country was in it was no surprise that they were quickly forgotten.

“What was done with the bodies?” A man, tall with regal bearing and a severe expression on his face moved between the suits of armor, studying them dispassionately. He had not been involved in this plot, although he had known of it - and of Dietlinde Eckhart, as well. He had called her a fool, to her face and to the other members of the Thule Society, but they had all been too swept up in the notion of Shamballa to pay heed to his warnings. It was a pity that none of them thought to listen even for a moment, as then they might have averted this tragedy and this wanton loss of life.

Wilhem von Eiselstein was not publicly involved with the Nazi party, though many of his interests and goals intersected with their own. Eiselstein rarely brought himself out of his secluded castle in Austria to conduct business, especially with this political party that he watched so warily from a distance.
Most only knew of him through an intermediary; few had actually been privileged enough to see his face. Eiselstein’s dark eyes flickered over the grim and blank visages of the empty helmets before they finally settled on the similar expression of the uniformed soldier who had escorted him to the warehouse. “Surely they were not all buried. Were they examined thoroughly?”

“Madame Eckhart was autopsied and buried,” the soldier said, his blue eyes alert despite the bored expression on his face. “The rest of the bodies were too numerous to be dealt with. Once they were identified they were … disposed of.”

“Cremated,” Eiselstein murmured, staring up at a particular armor and arcing his eyebrow. Something about this one seemed familiar … perhaps it was one of the many suits of armor his family had sold from their ancestral home before he inherited it. “What a waste … and you say that there is no evidence of how they all died?”

“Blood loss, and acute trauma is what the official reports say,” the soldier said dutifully. Eiselstein turned away from the suit he had been studying to scoff at the uniformed man.

“And what do the unofficial reports say? What theories are there on what really happened here? I was summoned here for some unexplained reason, and not to hear with my ears what I so easily could read with my eyes.” Eiselstein turned sharply, and the light glinted ominously off of the rows of armor, dull with age. “I have business to attend to, and this is a waste of my time.”

“Leaving so soon, Baron von Eiselstein?”

Eiselstein halted in mid-stride, waiting a moment before he turned to face the voice. “You were, after all, brought here to meet with me.” The man stepped out from the darkness between two of the suits of armor, his hand still touching the cool metal of one of the suits. “Amazing, aren’t they?” He ran his hand over the hardened substance on one of the arms. “Imagine what we could have done if she’d succeeded. Where we would be, right now.”

“Who are you?” Eiselstein demanded. The stranger was not wearing any uniform; just a dark; plainly cut suit. He wore his dark hair slightly longer than was fashionable in Berlin, and his eyes held an Oriental slant - not as sharp as some of Eiselstein’s servants, but enough to show his mixed descent. “What purpose do you have, summoning me here?”

“You don’t know me, Baron,” the man said, folding his hands crisply behind his back. “I am not seen by very many at all - the same as you, it seems. It is a great privilege for us to meet like this.” He bowed from the waist, but did not take his eyes off of Eiselstein. “The burden and reparation of Eckhart’s Mistake has been placed upon my shoulders, and I have spent many years already deciphering her notes and codes.”

“That is a terrible burden, and an admirable goal,” Eiselstein said. “Yet, I reiterate: What does that have to do with me? I am nothing but a simple merchant-”

“And in that you excel,” the man said. “But you do more than exchange commodities, good Baron. You are also a noble philosopher and a student of the arcane arts - as are most members of the Thule Society.”

Eiselstein’s eyes narrowed. He had been quite careful at keeping his participation in any secret society off the record; and of the Thule Society few records remained of its members. He had destroyed several himself. This man was watching him carefully, like a hawk lazily circling overhead.

“I brought you here to request your aid in my task, as your knowledge and years of experience far outweigh my own.” There was no mistaking the undercurrent of threat laced in those words, this was no more a request than when the soldiers came knocking less than a week prior.

“Eckhart’s Mistake is a closed book,” Eiselstein said carefully. “What gain is there in her failure?”

The man turned to the soldier who had escorted Eiselstein into the warehouse and nodded. The younger man saluted him crisply and then strode off, leaving the pair alone. “I do apologize … this is a most sensitive matter and does require the utmost of discretion.” He began to cross the room and inclined his head to Eiselstein, indicating that the man should follow him. “It is not the Mistake that we are researching. It is the secret that is locked deep within Eckhart’s folly that was barely brushed upon but could mean the success … or ruination … of our entire party.”

Eiselstein raised his eyebrow, waiting for the man to continue. “What we seek is the secret to immortality … the Elixir of Life; the Great Work, the Herculean task … surely you know of that which I speak, noble philosopher?”

“The Stone of the Sages,” Eiselstein breathed. It was a story told by schoolchildren and fools, and even those who studied the Art hardly believed in its reality. Throughout history those who sought its creation more often led to their own destruction; and there was not on record a single occurrence of success. “Eckhart knew it?”



“Alas, I do not know if she made an attempt,” the dark-haired man stopped walking, placing a hand solemnly on one of the more-mangled suits. “Her notes are mostly gibberish to me; I have not yet cracked her code. There is also a great portion of them missing - pages torn and, I suspect, an entire book gone from her personal library. This leads me to believe that more know of the truth behind Eckhart’s folly than were originally reported. Hence, our intense and intricate study of the Mistake; so that we may determine who has the notes that may hold the key to our inquiries.”

He was beginning to see how it all came together. “The party is not funding you.”

“This is an endeavor I have undertaken at my own discretion,” the man said simply. “If Eckhart’s Mistake holds the key to immortality, the value of the findings to our cause would be immeasurable.”
Eiselstein stood in silence, staring out at the rows of empty armor suits. He thought of the madness that must have overwhelmed Dietlinde Eckhart in those last days, to gird her soldiers in such archaic technology; and what power had destroyed all that it had touched, leaving only cold metal as testament to the loss. This man needed Eiselstein; both as a benefactor and as a resource.

“You would, of course, have complete control over the operation and all experimentation,” he assured Eiselstein. “We would be at your very beck and call, Baron…”

Perhaps a better man than Eiselstein would turn his back on such a partnership. But what student of the arcane, even just a reticent dabbler, would be able to turn down such a proposition? The rewards, should he succeed, were almost too much to consider.

“Send all of her logs and notations to my residence,” Eiselstein said suddenly. “All of them, no matter how inconsequential they seem.” He spun on his heel, staring deep into the dark sockets of the armor that stood beside him. “I want her body exhumed. I assume that despite her betrayal she was not cremated?”

“Her death was by gunshot, not an unknown malady,” the man said, the frown on his face evidence enough that this request had not been considered.

“No matter, I still want to autopsy her. There is no telling what could have been missed.”

“I can provide you with the full account of her autopsy,” the man said carefully. “However, as for the exhumation of her body, that will prove … difficult.”

“If you want my full cooperation, you will hold nothing back.” Eiselstein turned an imperious look upon the man, who did not back down like his servants. He tilted his chin up and met Eiselstein’s eye coldly. “Additionally, I will need a complete record of all the men present for her demise and their current whereabouts.”

Eiselstein turned and faced the open doors of the warehouse, where sunlight spilled in and crept across the feet of the first few suits of armor. He looked over when the man stopped beside him. “So this is a partnership then, Baron?”

“Call it that if you must,” Eiselstein replied. “One final question,” he said after much thought. “You seem quite knowledgeable about the Thule Society. Tell me, whatever became of Hohenheim of the Light?”

“That I could not tell you,” the dark-haired man said after a long, quiet moment. “However, he has a son…”