Book of Souls

But he insisted that nothing was as important as his medicines, and Edgar, scrubbed and clean, felt pleasant-tasting lozenges being pushed into his mouth followed by small mouthfuls of fresh, diluted wine. He heard the man telling him he’d return later with soup and bread, and Edgar was finally able to form some words and speak just above a whisper, “What is your name, sir?”

“I am Michel de Nostredame, Apothecary and Physician, and I am at your service, Monsieur.”

TRUE TO HIS WORD, the physician later returned to Edgar’s bedside and for that, the sick man was grateful. More lozenges were administered and small chunks of bread soaked in a potage of vegetables. Edgar remained feverish and in pain, his body wracked by paroxysms of coughing, but the sight of his red angel soothed him and gave him a respite from despair. The bread stayed down in his stomach, and before long he felt his eyes growing heavy, and he let the blackness come.

When he awoke, it was night, and the room was dark except for a single candle burning on his table. His red angel was sitting in a chair staring down with a glazed look in his eyes. There was a copper bowl on the table, filled to the brim with water. It was this bowl that commanded the man’s full attention and every so often, he made the water move by wiggling a wooden stick into it. The candlelight played on the water’s surface and cast a fractured yellow glow up onto the man’s dark face. There was a soft humming emanating from his mouth, a low chant? He seemed fully absorbed, unaware he was being watched. Edgar thought he should ask what he was doing but before he could, fatigue overcame him again, and he drifted back to sleep.

In the morning, the light poured through his open window, and a refreshingly cool breeze wafted in. By the bed, there was a plate of salted cod carefully broken into little pieces, a chunk of bread, and a vessel of light ale. He had just the strength to take a few bites, then lift the chamber pot into service. He listened for any sounds in the house and, hearing none, found himself able to call out. There was no reply.

He lay awake waiting for the hopeful sound of footsteps on the stairs. Before the morning had fully passed, he was elated finally to hear them.

The red angel was back, with more lozenges and cloves of garlic. He seemed pleased with Edgar’s progress, and cheerfully told him that it was a good sign he was not yet dead. He quickly inspected the hen’s eggs in his armpits and groin but agreed to Edgar’s panicky pleas not to put pressure on them as they were fiery hot and agonizing. He made it apparent he intended it to be a flying visit because he kept his cloak on and moved about the room quickly, cleaning and freshening.

“Please do not leave so soon, Doctor,” Edgar said weakly.

“I have other patients, monsieur.”

“Please. Just a little company, I pray.”

The doctor sat and folded his hands on his lap.

“Was I dreaming?”

“When?”

“The night I saw you staring into a bowl of water.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. It is not for me to say.”

“Are you using witchcraft to heal me?”

The doctor laughed heartily. “No. I only use science. The critical elements are cleanliness and my plague lozenges. Would you like to know what they contain?”

Edgar nodded.

“They are my own formulation, one I have been refining since my doctoral years in Montpelier. I pluck three hundred roses at dawn and pulverize them with sawdust from the greenest cypress wood and mix in a precise blend of iris of Florence, cloves, and calamus root. I trust your mind will be too feverish to remember this list as it is a secret! I am counting on my lozenges to make me very rich and very famous!”

“You are ambitious,” Edgar said, managing a smile for the first time.

“I have always been so. My maternal grandfather, Gassonet, was an ambitious fellow, and he had a profound influence on my thoughts.”

Edgar tried to prop himself up. “Did you say, Gassonet?”

“Yes.”

Edgar was jolted. “That is not a common name.”

“Maybe so. He was a Jew. Lay yourself back down! You look flushed.”

“Please continue!”

“He was a great scholar from Saint Remy. From a young age he taught me Latin, Hebrew, mathematics, and the celestial sciences.”

“You are an astrologer?”

“I most certainly am. I still have the brass astrolabe that Grandsire bequeathed me. The stars have a present influence on all things on earth, including the diagnosis of the body’s ailments. Give me your birth date, and I will draw your chart tonight.”

“Tell me, can your stars tell me the date I will die?” Edgar asked.

Nostredame looked at his patient suspiciously. “They cannot, sir, but that is a very curious question, if I may say. Now, I advise you to chew three more lozenges, then go ye to sleep. I will return in the afternoon. There is a woman sicker than you on the rue des Ecoles who told me in her pitiful state this morning that if I did not come back to her soon, she would have to sew up her own shroud.”