Newton Cipher—Excerpt #1
For the next week or so, at the request of the publisher, I'll be posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. Enjoy! And if they whet your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
EXCERPT #1
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Prologue
The College of the Holy and Undivided Trinity
Cambridge University
England
A Night in April, 1666
It was well past midnight when Isaac heard the knock on the door. He was awake in his rooms at this hour, of course. Night was the time he could do his reading, his thinking, his experiments unmolested: in the dark and the quiet the only interruptions were the sputtering of candles, the chiming of the chapel bell tolling the hours, and the occasional drunken shouts of fellow students staggering back to their colleges after a night of drinking and whoring.
But Cambridge was nearly empty now, evacuated because of the plague that had decimated London during the previous year; decimated the city before spreading outward, like a conflagration, until no town was safe and everyone — at least those with means or family — fled to the countryside. Isaac had been forced to leave Cambridge as well, fleeing to his widower mother’s farm she’d received from that pox-stubbled fool she’d taken for a husband; Isaac’s his stepfather, now long dead.
But Isaac had returned to Cambridge early, to his rooms and his books and his alchemical apparatus, even though Trinity College was so empty the Great Hall was not serving food and the buttery was nearly bare. He scrounged what vittles could. As a sizar — a poor student serving the wealthy ones in exchange for tuition — he knew where to look. After all, other’s scraps were his standard fare. And what was food anyway, but a means of sustenance? Day-old mushroom broth or fine Christmas goose — it was all the same to him.
Silent, empty Trinity was his alone, and Isaac was at peace.
Nevertheless he jumped when the knock came. He had been expecting it, but so deep was he into a volume on the laws optics by that Frenchman Descartes that Isaac had lost track of time.
“A moment,” he said, dropping the book on the rough-hewn planks that served as both his dining table and laboratory bench. The thud shook a half-dozen soil-filled pots, dislodging a shower of dried petals. It also rattled a tiny brass-tipped tube on a tripod, as well as the plate of cold chicken that he had brought up earlier but had neglected, lost as he was in his intellectual trance.
On the way to the door he pulled a fist-sized nugget of coal from the scuttle and threw it into the small stove, which was itself nearly as cold as the chicken.
Isaac barely recognized the man waiting in the shadows of the narrow stone hallway. Short in height and slight in stature, he wore no wig this time, and his mustache was more unkempt than Isaac remembered. Perhaps the situation in London was even worse than the newspapers indicated.
And yet the man’s clothes were still fine, hints of rich velvet and gold chain caught the feeble light from the candles on the table. But most of his finery was hidden beneath the coarse wool traveling cloak that fell from his shoulders to his boots.
It was the eyes, however, that convinced Isaac that it was the same man who had greeted him over the wall of his family’s orchard the previous Autumn, while Isaac had been dozing beneath the fruit trees. Grey and piercing; eyes that sparkled with intelligence and — it seemed — barely concealed malice.
“Hello again, Master Isaac.” His voice was sibilant; it made Isaac think of the serpent in Eden.
“Master Plumbago,” Isaac bowed. Plumbum, the Latin root for the element lead. Isaac knew Plumbago was not the man’s real name.
Plumbago nodded and stepped into Isaac’s small room. Isaac closed the door after him, then jumped back in alarm when it was forcibly pushed open again, and another man stepped in.
“Sir?” Isaac looked questioningly at Plumbago. This second man was huge, with shoulders nearly as broad as the frame of the door.
“Fear not, young scholar,” Plumbago said. “This is my associate, Mister Clysto.”
Even in the dim light Isaac recognized Clysto for the royalist that he was. Long hair coiffed in perfect ringlets cascaded over his lace collar. An elaborately embroidered red waistcoat fitted precisely over yellow breeches, which themselves were tucked into knee-high leather boots that gleamed with brass buckles — far more metal than seemed necessary for keeping those shoes on his feet. He carried his wide, plumed hat in one hand, the other rested on the pommel of the rapier that hung from his waist. It was a fine blade, inlaid silver and one large ruby glinted on the pommel. The man’s entire ensemble was also covered by a traveling cloak that fell back from his shoulders, but of a fine woolen weave of much higher quality than Plumbago’s.
Yet despite the frippery, Clysto was clearly a soldier, or at least had been. His neck bulged with knotted muscle, his nose had obviously been broken and reset more than once, and scars of Euclidian precision marked the places where honed Puritan pikes had attempted their most enthusiastic proselytization on his heathen face. Never had Isaac seen a more definitive specimen of Cavalier: those veterans of England’s civil war, friends to King Charles and enemies of Oliver Cromwell.
“M’lord,” Isaac said, bowing low and peeking furtively around the open door to make sure there were no others waiting in the hall. Detecting none, he closed the door.
“I’m afraid I have little to offer by way of refreshment,” he said, wishing he’d covered the cold chicken with a cloth. Suddenly he was keenly aware of the poverty of his surroundings.
Clysto said nothing, merely surveying the room with an appraising stare. Looking for danger, perhaps. The wariness of the soldier.
Plumbago, however, waved his hand dismissively.
“As you know, this is not a social call, master Isaac. Not at this hour, and not in such times. We are merely here to take delivery of my order, and will be on our way. You have finished?”
Isaac glanced at the dozen clay jars lined up at the far corner of his workbench. “I have, m’lord.”
Plumbago followed his gaze, stepping lightly across the small room. His hand hovered over them.
“These?”
“Aye.”
Plumbago regarded them for a moment, and Isaac did the same. A stack of small clay jars, each marked with the appropriate alchemical symbols, capped with cork, and sealed in thick wax.
“Fewer than I expected,” Plumbago said flatly.
“But highly effective, I assure m’lords,” Isaac countered sharply, then caught himself, continuing in a more pleasant tone. “You indicated potency was my task, not volume. The strange striae in the petals were the sub rosa, if you will forgive the pun.”
“These striae, you could see them?”
“Strange marks on the petals you gave me, yes.”
“How, pray tell? I saw nothing unusual.”
“Ah,” Isaac said, pointing to the brass-tipped tube on his table. “With that. A microscope, it is called.”
“Micro …?”
“A similar principle to the Galilean telescope,” Isaac said. “But instead of causing distant things to appear close, it makes small things large to the eye. A fellow of the Royal Society, a Mr. Hooke, published his explorations with the microscope just last year. Micrographia, he named it. I’ve read it thoroughly. It is passable, for a treatise, but only just. I’ve already improved upon his researches, and upon the device itself. For example, it — “
Plumbago cleared his throat. Get to the point.
“It … allowed me to closely study the petals you provided.”
“And?”
“I have devised a way to reverse their effect. Here is the result.”
Isaac swept his arms toward the jars with barely concealed pride.
“What, may I inquire, is the precise method of their application?”
“Place them around London. Unseal them where they are open to the vapors, but can’t be molested. Hidden from common sight would be best. Up high, perhaps. It will take time, but they will disperse their contents and stop the … ah, particular contagion.”
Plumbago seemed skeptical. He raised one of the sealed jars to his nose, sniffed it cautiously, then set it back down.
“So … small.”
“Effective, despite their size. I assure you.”
“The formula?”
Isaac took a bound notebook and bodkin from the table, and cut a page neatly out of the back with a small knife.
“Encoded, as you suggest,” Isaac handed it to him. “You are familiar with the language of alchemy?”
...
EXCERPT #1
--------------
Prologue
The College of the Holy and Undivided Trinity
Cambridge University
England
A Night in April, 1666
It was well past midnight when Isaac heard the knock on the door. He was awake in his rooms at this hour, of course. Night was the time he could do his reading, his thinking, his experiments unmolested: in the dark and the quiet the only interruptions were the sputtering of candles, the chiming of the chapel bell tolling the hours, and the occasional drunken shouts of fellow students staggering back to their colleges after a night of drinking and whoring.
But Cambridge was nearly empty now, evacuated because of the plague that had decimated London during the previous year; decimated the city before spreading outward, like a conflagration, until no town was safe and everyone — at least those with means or family — fled to the countryside. Isaac had been forced to leave Cambridge as well, fleeing to his widower mother’s farm she’d received from that pox-stubbled fool she’d taken for a husband; Isaac’s his stepfather, now long dead.
But Isaac had returned to Cambridge early, to his rooms and his books and his alchemical apparatus, even though Trinity College was so empty the Great Hall was not serving food and the buttery was nearly bare. He scrounged what vittles could. As a sizar — a poor student serving the wealthy ones in exchange for tuition — he knew where to look. After all, other’s scraps were his standard fare. And what was food anyway, but a means of sustenance? Day-old mushroom broth or fine Christmas goose — it was all the same to him.
Silent, empty Trinity was his alone, and Isaac was at peace.
Nevertheless he jumped when the knock came. He had been expecting it, but so deep was he into a volume on the laws optics by that Frenchman Descartes that Isaac had lost track of time.
“A moment,” he said, dropping the book on the rough-hewn planks that served as both his dining table and laboratory bench. The thud shook a half-dozen soil-filled pots, dislodging a shower of dried petals. It also rattled a tiny brass-tipped tube on a tripod, as well as the plate of cold chicken that he had brought up earlier but had neglected, lost as he was in his intellectual trance.
On the way to the door he pulled a fist-sized nugget of coal from the scuttle and threw it into the small stove, which was itself nearly as cold as the chicken.
Isaac barely recognized the man waiting in the shadows of the narrow stone hallway. Short in height and slight in stature, he wore no wig this time, and his mustache was more unkempt than Isaac remembered. Perhaps the situation in London was even worse than the newspapers indicated.
And yet the man’s clothes were still fine, hints of rich velvet and gold chain caught the feeble light from the candles on the table. But most of his finery was hidden beneath the coarse wool traveling cloak that fell from his shoulders to his boots.
It was the eyes, however, that convinced Isaac that it was the same man who had greeted him over the wall of his family’s orchard the previous Autumn, while Isaac had been dozing beneath the fruit trees. Grey and piercing; eyes that sparkled with intelligence and — it seemed — barely concealed malice.
“Hello again, Master Isaac.” His voice was sibilant; it made Isaac think of the serpent in Eden.
“Master Plumbago,” Isaac bowed. Plumbum, the Latin root for the element lead. Isaac knew Plumbago was not the man’s real name.
Plumbago nodded and stepped into Isaac’s small room. Isaac closed the door after him, then jumped back in alarm when it was forcibly pushed open again, and another man stepped in.
“Sir?” Isaac looked questioningly at Plumbago. This second man was huge, with shoulders nearly as broad as the frame of the door.
“Fear not, young scholar,” Plumbago said. “This is my associate, Mister Clysto.”
Even in the dim light Isaac recognized Clysto for the royalist that he was. Long hair coiffed in perfect ringlets cascaded over his lace collar. An elaborately embroidered red waistcoat fitted precisely over yellow breeches, which themselves were tucked into knee-high leather boots that gleamed with brass buckles — far more metal than seemed necessary for keeping those shoes on his feet. He carried his wide, plumed hat in one hand, the other rested on the pommel of the rapier that hung from his waist. It was a fine blade, inlaid silver and one large ruby glinted on the pommel. The man’s entire ensemble was also covered by a traveling cloak that fell back from his shoulders, but of a fine woolen weave of much higher quality than Plumbago’s.
Yet despite the frippery, Clysto was clearly a soldier, or at least had been. His neck bulged with knotted muscle, his nose had obviously been broken and reset more than once, and scars of Euclidian precision marked the places where honed Puritan pikes had attempted their most enthusiastic proselytization on his heathen face. Never had Isaac seen a more definitive specimen of Cavalier: those veterans of England’s civil war, friends to King Charles and enemies of Oliver Cromwell.
“M’lord,” Isaac said, bowing low and peeking furtively around the open door to make sure there were no others waiting in the hall. Detecting none, he closed the door.
“I’m afraid I have little to offer by way of refreshment,” he said, wishing he’d covered the cold chicken with a cloth. Suddenly he was keenly aware of the poverty of his surroundings.
Clysto said nothing, merely surveying the room with an appraising stare. Looking for danger, perhaps. The wariness of the soldier.
Plumbago, however, waved his hand dismissively.
“As you know, this is not a social call, master Isaac. Not at this hour, and not in such times. We are merely here to take delivery of my order, and will be on our way. You have finished?”
Isaac glanced at the dozen clay jars lined up at the far corner of his workbench. “I have, m’lord.”
Plumbago followed his gaze, stepping lightly across the small room. His hand hovered over them.
“These?”
“Aye.”
Plumbago regarded them for a moment, and Isaac did the same. A stack of small clay jars, each marked with the appropriate alchemical symbols, capped with cork, and sealed in thick wax.
“Fewer than I expected,” Plumbago said flatly.
“But highly effective, I assure m’lords,” Isaac countered sharply, then caught himself, continuing in a more pleasant tone. “You indicated potency was my task, not volume. The strange striae in the petals were the sub rosa, if you will forgive the pun.”
“These striae, you could see them?”
“Strange marks on the petals you gave me, yes.”
“How, pray tell? I saw nothing unusual.”
“Ah,” Isaac said, pointing to the brass-tipped tube on his table. “With that. A microscope, it is called.”
“Micro …?”
“A similar principle to the Galilean telescope,” Isaac said. “But instead of causing distant things to appear close, it makes small things large to the eye. A fellow of the Royal Society, a Mr. Hooke, published his explorations with the microscope just last year. Micrographia, he named it. I’ve read it thoroughly. It is passable, for a treatise, but only just. I’ve already improved upon his researches, and upon the device itself. For example, it — “
Plumbago cleared his throat. Get to the point.
“It … allowed me to closely study the petals you provided.”
“And?”
“I have devised a way to reverse their effect. Here is the result.”
Isaac swept his arms toward the jars with barely concealed pride.
“What, may I inquire, is the precise method of their application?”
“Place them around London. Unseal them where they are open to the vapors, but can’t be molested. Hidden from common sight would be best. Up high, perhaps. It will take time, but they will disperse their contents and stop the … ah, particular contagion.”
Plumbago seemed skeptical. He raised one of the sealed jars to his nose, sniffed it cautiously, then set it back down.
“So … small.”
“Effective, despite their size. I assure you.”
“The formula?”
Isaac took a bound notebook and bodkin from the table, and cut a page neatly out of the back with a small knife.
“Encoded, as you suggest,” Isaac handed it to him. “You are familiar with the language of alchemy?”
...
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