"The Universal Essence" by Dean Lincoln Minton, $25.95 plus shipping, is available from Pottersville Press, your local book store, online book sellers or directly from the author. Click here to order from the author. Shipping is $4 for the first book and $1 for each extra book on the same order.

Excerpts from the book:

Jacob rubbed his writhing stomach and sat on a bench. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. “Detach from the world,” he whispered. “Cleave to the universal essence.” After a few more deep breaths, fear released him but remained within, coiled and ready to strike again. “What’s happening to me?”
            “Nothing,” a familiar voice whispered back.
            Jacob jumped up. “Counselor. Where have you been?” he asked the invisible advisor. “Why didn’t you tell me what happened this morning? Why didn’t the ritual make gold? Why didn’t you answer me?”
            “The answer is always given, but not always heard.”
            Jacob nodded. That was true. The counselor spoke to all people all the time. Was Jacob, like so many others, blocking the counselor’s voice?
            “Yes.”
            What barrier had he erected? He knew of none.
            “Unless you are nothing, something will always be in your way. An apprentice will help you see the barrier.”
            An apprentice? Jacob shook his head. An apprenticeship in alchemy demanded too much from most people. The sacred art flipped the world upside down. Its transmutations churned the weak into madmen or sorcerers. A suitable apprentice would have to be solid as lead and noble as gold. Not one of the town’s residents was strong enough and wise enough to learn its powers.
            “A simple stranger, a fool, will knock on your door and call you master.”
            A simple stranger? A fool? Jacob didn’t want an apprentice, especially a foolish apprentice. He was happy living alone as the town’s only blacksmith. Why would he need an apprentice?
            “You are in danger.”
            Jacob scratched his bushy white head. How could he be in danger? He was, after all, a master alchemist, connected with all creative powers, detached from all earthly concerns. Not even death could touch him. The only thing that could possibly hurt him was himself.
            The prophecy came swiftly and silently. “The fool will save you from yourself.”

The alchemist opened the furnace door with a large pair of tongs. He removed a crucible and shook it until a round loaf of bread fell onto the worktable. He cut it in half and scooped out the steaming heart. The sweet smell of baked grains filled the shop. “What we believe is true today, we may not believe tomorrow. You’re wrong to think my way is right, but you’ll receive my best instruction and my frank admiration.” He laughed, shoveled hot charcoal from under the furnace onto the forge, and placed two pots on the glowing embers in the forge. Into one pot he dropped a handful of mixed herbs and into the second, rolled oats. “You will learn, oh, let’s say, six powers.”
            “Good,” Peter said, his mouth watering. “I learn them after I eat.”
            Jacob sat on a stool between Peter and the forge. “You’ll learn them next year.”
            “Next year?”
            “First you need a well built furnace,” the alchemist pointed at the conical furnace, “within which the soft dough of your latent powers may be baked until they are raised and firm. A furnace requires four qualities: clean walls to reflect heat inward, a door to allow openness, a crucible to shape an ideal, and a fire to burn with zeal. How will you build your furnace?” He pointed westward, in the direction of the count’s castle. “Come down from your barren hilltop. Come down to your fertile valley.” His hand swung to point at Peter. “Come to the quarry of the prima materia and build your furnace from the philosopher’s stone.”
            In the glow of charcoal behind Jacob, his hair and beard blazed like a fiery mane, a vaguely familiar image to Peter. But Jacob’s words confused him. He listened for a time to the hissing charcoal and his own rumbling stomach before commenting, “I came down from the castle and ... I saw the quarry in the valley.”
            Jacob’s shadowy face nodded and said, “Universal essence.”
            Peter repeated what he thought Jacob said. “You - invert - all – sense.”

Peter limped closer. “Could that be ... Ish that ... gold?”
            Jacob handed the disc to Peter. With his baton tucked under his arm, Peter held the gleaming saucer with both hands. It was warm, heavy and maybe ten times the size of his hand. Its clean, yellow sheen reflected the flickering candlelight.
            “It ish … so much,” Peter whispered.
            The alchemist wiped tears from his eyes. “More than the bishop or the count or Lothair have hidden away,”
            “Lothair gots gold?” Peter gave the gold disc back to the alchemist. “We gots to hide it.”
            “We must return it,” the alchemist said. With a flip of his wrist, he threw the platter over his shoulder. It flashed as it tumbled through the air, upward, to the peak of a high arc, and then downward until it splashed into the well.
            “Master,” Peter cried and lurched to the well’s low wall. Half an arm’s length below, his wavering silhouette appeared on a surface of disturbed water like a broken dream. He probed the well with his stick but couldn’t feel the bottom. “Can we gets it out?”

Peter jabbed his stick in the air. “We gots to do something.”
            “Yes. You can refuse to join Bernard’s scheme, refuse to spread his rumors. And when you hear one, tell everyone that it is only a rumor and not based on truth. Remember to cleave yourself from the world.”
            “Why didn’ you tell the bishop what you knew? Didn’ you feel terrible when Maynard was accused and killed?”
            Jacob’s forward stare hardened. “An alchemist should not get entangled in emotional undergrowth.”
            “But we gots to care. We gots to challenge the evil that-”
            “Evil?” Jacob turned a frowning face toward Peter. “Nonsense. We must stay detached and rise above the nonsense.” He looked away, and the furrows deepened on his brow.

He stood and squinted at the stone tower. Did he close the door without touching it? Of course he did. He used the powers of alchemy. He could make things do what he wanted. He puffed out his chest and imagined another humiliation for Lothair. “My will ish that Lothair be a captive inside.” He held up a hand and spread his fingers as he had seen Jacob do.
            The cloud passed and the sun warmed his back. The door moaned and popped, as though expanding in the heat of the sun, spreading to fill the doorjamb. Someone inside the tower beat on the door but it wouldn’t open. Lothair’s angry baying filtered through the armored door. “Sorcery. Sorcery.”