'A Rose from the Sea' by David Mampel

       Electric Light Orchestra's Strange Magic echoes through the Carnelian Room on the fifty-second floor of Bank of America's headquarters in San Francisco. A spotlight illuminates the stage. The audience of venture capitalists murmur at the sudden appearance of a tall, slender man. Jack Preston --- dressed in a purple-tinted Armani suit ---  plucks a piece of paper from the air, flashes a mischievous grin and holds it next to a cigarette lighter. Soft conversation falls to a hush; waiters stop serving dessert and look up: the spotlight contracts to a nimbus around the performer's hands. He flicks his lighter and ignites the paper --- a red rose appears out of the fire. 
    Applause. Music. Jack imagines the adulation is a breeze rustling through tall grass on distant cliffs above a dark ocean, the hands clapping---waves breaking into sea spray. 
     He usually doesn't perspire during a show, but tonight, his body is a glass retort, the baser elements of thought and emotion heating, purging, distilling the perfected essence of his hidden self, the fifth element, the Prime Mover of the universe.
     The spotlight pulls back on Jack taking his bow. The light follows him as he walks to the edge of the stage. He forces a smile, wondering what it would feel like to run out of the room.
     A drunken voice from the back row cries out in the darkness, "It's a trick! You pulled a fake flower from your jacket!" 
     Nervous laughter ripples through the crowd. 
     Jack grins, lifts his chin, sniffs the rose with closed eyes, exhaling with exaggerated delight.
He winks and says: "Smells like a rose to me."
The audience laughs, quieting the heckler. Jack bows and hands the rose to the wife of the bank CEO dressed in a black evening gown. She stands up, turns to display the rose to the audience, her toothy smile matching the ivory pearls of her necklace. Jack stares at her and wonders, How many divers did it take to harvest her pearls? Was the ocean rough or calm that day? He shakes his head with narrowed eyes of self-chastisement. Focus. I need to stay focused.
     A few more tricks. A volunteer is made to float in the air on his chair. Jack disappears and reappears in the back of the room, then runs up the aisle and grabs the wrist of the CEO, secretly removing his wrist watch. He leads him up to the stage and asks the CEO to choose a card from a shuffled deck. Jack turns away, whistling.  The banker shows an ace of spades to the audience. A video camera zooms in and broadcasts the card on an overhead screen. Jack claps his hand, pivots and points to an oversized ace of spades rising out of a jumbo deck sitting on a small table next to the CEO.
"Is this the card you picked?"
The CEO nods, his mouth hangs open. Applause. Jack asks him for the time. The executive gives a confused look and rubs his empty wrist. He looks at Jack dangling the watch in front of his face: 
     "I think it's time for me to go."
Jack gives him a sheepish grin and hands the watch back. The CEO lets out a laugh, gestures to the audience for applause. The clapping hands sound like dead leaves fluttering in the wind.
     House lights come up. Jack bows, jogs off stage and exits to the elevators in the penthouse lobby, his right eyelid twitching. He loosens his tie and squirms as he waits for the elevator doors to open. His face, usually lit up with joy from a successful show, frowns with cloudy frustration. He wonders why he was so stiff during his performance. What happened to his finesse? Did that heckler throw him off? He tries to remember the last time he even had a heckler during a show. He shakes out a cramp in his left hand.
"I'm losing my touch," he mumbles as he walks into the elevator. 
     Going down, he sees an advertisement for his show in a glass kiosk and grimaces. He leans back against the elevator wall. Is this what solitary confinement feels like? He thinks about what he said in a San Francisco Chronicle interview:  
     The art of magical performance is to entertain with a kind of playful mockery of fallible, human expectations. The best magic humbles us, creates a sense of wonder at the grandeur of life. 
     His shoulders drop as he exhales. I sounded like a college professor, like my dad before he died. A faint smile returns. He had been shocked by the philosophical explanation he gave to the reporter. He'd thought of adding the words to a future book he wanted to write, but now they seemed academic and meaningless. Here it was 2006. The halcyon days of Vegas were over, but was he not Jack Preston, the most sought after magician in the world? He had performed for forty years, owned a mansion in Atherton, collected rare cars, travelled the world. What did any of that matter now? His passion for performing, for life, seemed to be vanishing like a piece of silk in midair. There was no desire to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. 
     The elevator doors open on the ground floor. He walks out of the lobby and waves to the curbside valet. He slides into his favorite collectible: a powder blue 1954 Thunderbird convertible. He drives letting out a sigh of ennui as he turns up the ramp to the 280 South freeway toward San Jose. The audience seemed to like the show, well most of it, anyway. Why am I so unhappy? No, not unhappy. Dead. Like the ashes of Calcination, the first stage of alchemy.
     Every lane on the freeway was a long line of brake lights blocking the way ahead. He decided to take the next exit trying to wind back to Atherton. 
     His agent, Trixie, called as he turned off the freeway.
     "Hi Trix. What's up?"
     He put the phone on speaker. 
     "Jack. Are you alright? You left before I could hand you your check and you forgot your close-up magic case in the green room."
     "I did?" Jack squints, looking side to side.  "Crap. I took the wrong exit."
     He knew he shouldn't have answered the phone while driving, but it was Trixie. She hardly ever called, especially after a show. I'm lost. I need to find a place to pull over and check my navigator.
     "I'll just bring it to you tonight on my way home. Hey, why did you leave so early, anyway? The CEO wanted to thank you."
     "I'm on Colma Boulevard surrounded by graveyards, Trix. Great, all I need now is to drive through a necropolis---I'm sorry, what did you say?"
     He turned down another street and drove past the Jewish cemetery.
     "I'll stop by on my way home with your check and magic case." 
     "Are you sure? I've got to pull over." He slammed his hand on the dashboard. "Damn! How do I get out of here?"
     He turned down yet another street, driving through the Italian cemetery. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw rolling lawns behind him. Another cemetery? He drove past a few more cemeteries on his way to more cemeteries?  He was now officially lost in a city where the dead outnumbered the living. 
    "Do you know Colma was founded as a necropolis in 1924?" Trixie asked. "San Francisco outlawed cemeteries in the early 1900s and transported 150,000 bodies to Colma after 1912. Lots of famous people are buried there like William Randolf Hearst and Joe Dimaggio."
     Jack grinned. Both he and Trixie shared a love for history. Too bad she was twenty years younger than he was. Besides, she was engaged to Walter. Cisco bigshot. 
     She continued her lecture: "Colma is also known as, 'The City of the Silent.' And get this Jack, the motto on their website says, 'It's great to be alive in Colma.'"
     Jack heard Trixie laughing, but missed the punchline while looking ahead for a place to pull over. He turned into a long driveway. A rectangular building came into view. The sign read, Colma Community Center. He pulled into an empty parking space and turned off his engine, the misty night air doubling the sudden silence. 
     "Well," he let out a sigh, "I just pulled into a community center."
     "A community center in a necropolis? I guess zombies need a place to party." Trixie said. 
     Jack let out a weak laugh, the heaviness after his show still lingering. He shook his head and before he could stop himself, he mumbled: "Trix, something's wrong." 
     "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have rambled on about Colma."
     "No, it's not that." Jack shook his head.
     "So, what is it?"
      He hunched over the steering wheel. "I don't know, really. It hit home after my show tonight. But to tell you the truth, it's been going on for a while. I've lost my passion. I need to get away and think."
     Trixie was silent. 
     "Trixie, are you listening?" he asked. Nothing. Suddenly, he realized the call had dropped and wondered how much she'd heard. His screen lit up with a text: Looks like the call dropped. I should be at your place by eleven. Hope you find your way out alive! LOL.
     Jack got out of his car and looked at miles of manicured lawns, misty darkness, graves and headstones in every direction. A lampstand shone a yellow light on one of the mausoleums with a sculpted angel on its apex. He walked through a gate and strolled down a gravel path. Funny how you had to pay for death. He shook his head, bemused by the irony---his dead passion surrounded by the dead. When he stood in front of the mausoleum, the grave marker read, Meryl Smith, Master of Spagyrics, 1860 to 1960. 
     "Spagyrics!" he exclaimed, looking around to see if anyone heard his outburst. "I haven't seen that word since I was a kid. Spagyrics...what was it? Yes. Plant alchemy. Distilling the perfected, medicinal essence of herbs." A shiver of wonder rippled down his neck. He shook himself. His heart raced. He rubbed his chin and sauntered back to his car. "Alchemy. Now, that's the real magic." Interesting. I used to practice plant alchemy when I was a kid.
      He got back into his car and typed his address into the navigator. An electric pain shot through his left index finger. He shook his hand, laid his phone on his lap typing with his right hand to complete the message. 
       Trixie texted Jack a little past eleven to tell him she had arrived. She lifted Jack's stainless steel magic case from the passenger seat, stepped out of her black Mercedes and walked across a grey flagstone driveway. One of the three garage doors was open. She walked inside the opened one, dragging her finger across his Thunderbird and knocked on the interior door. She smoothed out the backside of her sapphire blue swing dress as Jack opened the interior door. 
     "Thanks for coming by, Trix. I really appreciate it."
     Jack's eyes narrowed, his brow creased, his cheeks flushed as he stepped back to let her pass revealing the ice wrap on his left wrist.
     "What happened?"
     She gave him a concerned look as her perfume wafted into his flared nostrils.
     "I don't know. It just hurts like hell---Here, let me take that."
     He took the magic case and headed down the hallway. 
  "Jack. This isn't good." Trixie spoke in a low voice as her heels clicked on the Italian marble floor behind him. When he reached the black leather couch, he slumped down, popped two Ibuprofen in his mouth and took a sip from his glass of wine.
      "Here's your check," she said. "They tipped you ten grand." She handed Jack the check and sat next to him. 
      "Keep it." Jack pressed the ice pack against his wrist, imagining Trixie pressing her breasts against him. He brushed off the thought.
      "What?! Are you kidding me?" Trixie sat up and turned to search his eyes. 
      "No, I'm serious. You deserve it." He paused and gave her a piercing look. "Trix, I'm taking a break from performing."
     Trixie's mouth hung open.
     "Thank you. That's very generous, Jack. But, a break? What about Dubai?" 
    "Drop it before you send the contract to sign. David Blaine finished his tour. He'll take the gig."
     Trixie shook her head. "Ah. Okay. But I got you a couple hundred grand for that show." Jack smiled and waved her off. "I'm not worried. You and I both know after forty years, I've made enough dough." Arousal had been pushing its way into Jack's heart ever since he told her to keep the tip.  
     He stood and walked over to the stone fireplace, flipping a switch. Blue flames crackled around brown, ceramic logs. Jack stared into the fire as he spoke:
     "I think something happened to me in the necropolis." His eyes sharpened as he walked away from the fire, pacing on the Persian carpet in front of her. "I saw a mausoleum of an alchemist named Meryl Smith." 
     "Alchemist?" Trixie tilted her head to one side. "You mean the guys who turned lead into gold?"
     "Well, yes, but Alchemy is more than that. They were the first scientists, well, more like philosopher-scientists who discovered the secrets of life, the real magic. I used to practice it a long time ago."
     "You did? When was that?" Trixie raised her brow.
     "Before I got into show business." Jack stopped pacing and took the ice pack off his wrist. "The point is, I need to look into it again. I think I need to go to Cornwall."
     "Cornwall, England?"
     "Yes. I thought about it on the way home. My dad was a professor and introduced me to the history of Cornwall. Long story short, medieval English history led me to alchemy and alchemy led me to the art of magic." Jack thought about his father. It had only been a year since his father died of cancer. He had given the eulogy at the memorial and realized how much his dad had influenced him, but Jack had never appreciated his dad when he was growing up. He had a desire to be different from his dad and being a magician answered that call. But his dad's love for history had rubbed off on him as a youth. Many of Jack's illusions were drawn from historical characters like Da Vinci, Einstein, and Edison. And now a new passion was leading him to Cornwall.
     "Hey, maybe you can create a show about alchemy?" Trixie sat up, her face beaming with promise.
     "That's actually a great idea, but...well, maybe." Jack shrugged. "I mean, creating and performing magic has always brought me joy, but, I just need to be free of it for a while."
     Trixie's phone lit up with a text. She glanced at the screen. "I have to go. Walt needs me." She rolled her eyes and came to Jack to give him a hug. His heart swelled when he sniffed her chocolate-musk fragrance. He tamped down his desire. She pulled back. "This is very exciting, Jack." She tightened her lips. "But to be honest, I'm nervous about losing you. And it's not just the commissions." Jack gave her a confused look. 
     "Call me when you get to Cornwall, will you?" Trixie furrowed her brows with concern.
     "Of course." Jack nodded and walked her to the door, the pain in his hand barely present.     

*

     Merlin's Lodge overlooked a field of daffodils on the coastal cliffs of North Cornwall. An early spring sunset filled the sky over the Atlantic Ocean with mauve, pinks and purples. Jack opened his balcony door and imagined King Arthur's ghost walking up the path toward Tintagel Castle. He took a sip of Earl Grey and thought about his morning hike to Merlin's Cave. The 330-foot long tunnel under the coastal cliffs of the castle could be entered from one end and exited at the other. Quite impressive. Perfect hideout for a wizard. Merlin was a legend, of course, but Jack believed legends embodied spiritual truths, in much the same way parables did. He also wanted to remember how the medieval stories of Merlin inspired his early career as a magician. Perhaps studying history could help him recover his lost inspiration. As a youth, his father had given him Geoffrey of Monmouth's The History of the Kings of Britain. From age twelve to fifteen, Jack read everything he could about Merlin, alchemy, sorcery, and the Druids. 
    He drank the last of his tepid tea, smiling as he remembered being a teenager yearning to alter reality like Merlin, not merely entertaining audiences with stage illusions. Sure, he had been satisfied to hear crowds gasp in wonder as he waved a red silk in one hand while reaching for a dove hidden in his blazer with the other, draping the silk over the unseen bird and with exaggerated flourish, removing the kerchief to reveal the dove in his palm. It was good to delight audiences, open their imaginations, make them laugh and forget about their problems for a while. Forty years of waving his hand over a glass bowl of water to change it into a bouquet of flowers; lifting his hand over a beautiful assistant causing her to levitate in mid-air; or a motorcycle suddenly appearing beneath him, kickstarting it on stage. And the more he believed in the magic, the more the audience believed it too. Magic was really about the art of acting and Jack had become a master thespian. 
     But now he needed more. He needed intellectual and spiritual magic. He needed the real magic of Merlin, or whatever Merlin symbolized for him. 
     He sat up and watched waves swell and move toward the cliffs of Cornwall. Maybe his father's love for history had planted intellectual curiosity in Jack when he was a kid. He needed to go back in time, to ponder and study what he once loved---alchemy. Maybe go to Paris and do some research on the medieval alchemists. His heart moved with the waves crashing into shore. His youthful pursuit of alchemy started with stories of Merlin's supernatural powers, his prophetic vision, his ability to time-travel and shape-shift. And now, here he was at Merlin's Lodge in Cornwall, his passion for stage magic dead and gone, but a new passion for alchemy springing up like daffodils swaying in the fields below. 
     Jack stood and looked out at the last vestiges of the pink and orange sunset. The changing colors of dusk triggered another memory---he saw himself practicing alchemical experiments as a youth. He saw his younger self looking into a simmering glass retort as the steam rose up distilling rosemary into a medicinal tincture. He smiled when he remembered the herbal elixir relieved his headaches. Spagyrics. Plant alchemy. The first phase of an alchemist's training. 
     Jack looked down into his now empty tea cup, closed his eyes and searched deeper into his past. Why did he stop practicing spagyrics?  He remembered feeling exalted when he learned about the authentic alchemists in history: those who sought to observe nature and learn its secrets, those who studied and observed plants, animals, phases of the moon, all of life. These sincere alchemists practiced their art to transform themselves by purifying their thoughts and intentions in their meditation tents. Not like the charlatans who created fake gold to obtain riches! No. The true alchemists worked diligently to transmute baser elements of nature into their perfected essence and in the process, distill their souls into the gold of harmonious integrity. The art of alchemy ennobled them as they realized that the construction of the human soul was reflected in nature, in the cosmos. As above, so below, they confirmed. 
     The art of alchemy inspired Jack to become a stage magician. As a young man, he had begun to understand how performing magical illusions was a kind of alchemy. Magic could help others experience their joyful birthright as humans by opening them up to wonder. 
     But had he forgotten the magic of alchemical transformation in his own soul? Perhaps he had wandered too far astray from alchemy by getting lost in performing stage shows and not enough time spent on personal growth. He felt like a charlatan making the fake gold of transitory riches. He was stuck and wanted to realize the real gold of his being, not just his temporal identity as a performer.
     A full moon rose in the night sky. A light sea breeze wafted up from the Atlantic and the chilly spring air on the balcony failed to keep his eyelids from growing heavy. He walked back into his room at Merlin's Lodge. The blue and white striped silk canopy draped over his bed reminded him of the meditation tents alchemists entered to purify their thoughts before observing a simmering crucible in their laboratories---they would clear their minds and hearts to help allow the bubbling lead to transform into gold. 
     Sleep came more easily than usual. An hour into a dreamless void, he woke to a soft clatter. Thinking it was the wall-heater, he murmured a complaint and went back to sleep. The hum grew louder. With a knitted brow, he opened his eyes and turned his gaze toward the chest of drawers nestled under a window. He squinted to get a better look. A silver chalice rattled back and forth on the dresser. He tossed aside the blankets and padded over to examine the commotion, his mouth opened wide. Jack shook off his bewilderment. When he reached out to touch the chalice, the glow and rattling stopped. He rubbed his eyes. Was he dreaming? Maybe it was the result of an earthquake combined with the shimmering moonlight shining through the window.
     Several minutes passed before Jack crawled under the covers and fell asleep again. 
     At three in the morning, a fierce ocean wind knocked open the balcony doors. Bolting upright, Jack walked over to latch them shut, but not before a white owl swooped down and perched on the balcony railing, her yellow eyes staring back at him. He stared back with a whispered, "Wow." Owls were symbolic of death, guidance, wisdom and protection. The night raptor hooted and flew off. Jack wondered if the feathered visitor was an omen. And it was white---a sign of enlightenment! The alchemists would certainly see a connection between the owl and a quality in Jack's soul. Perhaps the owl validated Jack's desire to seek spiritual wisdom. 
     This time it took him longer to get back to sleep. 

     The next morning Jack ambled into the dining room and was greeted by a chorus of soft voices, slurped coffee, and the smell of bacon. He frowned when his phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. It was a text from Trixie. He grinned. Maybe she needed to talk, say it was over with Walt, confess she wanted to be with him. What am I thinking? He twisted his mouth. She's a married woman. 
     Jack, how's your trip? Can do a show for the Queen's birthday. Fee is a quarter mil! Royal Albert Hall. Btw, your talk of alchemy inspired me. I'm hooked. Flying to Paris to check out the house of Nicolas Flamel. You know about him? Meet up if you're heading that way? 
     A show for the Queen? Meet in Paris? Jack buzzed with excitement, pride and a twinge of arousal. She didn't mention Walt. Is she traveling alone? His thoughts bounced around in his mind. He took a deep breath and stared out the large windows. How could he pass up a show for the Queen? Trixie's flying to Paris to check out the house of a medieval alchemist? 
     He set down his phone and took a sip of coffee. The caffeine aggravated his excitement. She wants to meet up in Paris? He let out a disgusted laugh. His fantasies always disappointed him. Isn't that why he avoided relationships? He dished up his breakfast, sat down, pushed away his plate, then pulled it back and ate a few bites. I'm sure Walt is coming.
      He drifted into another reverie: The chalice, the owl, his youthful alchemical experiments. His left eyelid started to twitch. He leaned back in his chair. Am I supposed to learn something here? The alchemists believed in a greater mind. Maybe I'm tuning into it? He rubbed his eye, trying to stop the twitch. The fog in his head cleared. He closed his eyes and saw the mists of Avalon lifting as Merlin sailed on his way to visit the Lady of the Lake. Jack opened his eyes and shivered.
     "How did I see that?" he whispered.
      Jack tried to connect the dots: The Grail, the owl, alchemy, Merlin and the Lady of the Lake. His body vibrated with electricity. Was I Merlin in a past life? Is Trixie the Lady of the Lake? He wanted to know more. Trixie was fascinated with alchemy? Maybe they could study the icons carved on the front porch of Notre Dame? He had always wanted to see the bass relief, "Alchemy" at the great cathedral: a ruler on a throne with two books--- one opened, one closed symbolizing known wisdom and wisdom yet to be discovered. He wanted to discover the wisdom in the closed book. But what was it? Whatever it was, he yearned for it. But not a high-pitched yearning for romance, sex, fame and wealth. No. It was a low thrum of soulful curiosity. 
     How strange. He wanted to study alchemy again. He even entertained a longer leave from show business. Maybe he'd even turn down the show with Her Majesty. He laughed at such an outrageous thought. Was it because he felt free of worldly success now? Jack chuckled. I must be crazy. Lines from a Beatles song came to him: "Oh that magic feeling. Nowhere to go."
     Jack's pleasant epiphany was interrupted when he spotted an old man walking with a gnarled cane on the path outside the dining hall. He watched the slow-moving elder with long white hair and full beard: a Gandalf dressed in black trousers, a grey tweed blazer and matching newsboy cap. Suddenly, the old man fell. Jack gasped and ran out to help. 
      When he reached the fallen man, Jack knelt down and reached out his hand.
     "Are you alright?"
     The greybeard turned toward him with a whimsical smile and accepted Jack's hand.
     "Quite. Thank you, young man."
     Jack stood and slowly pulled him up.
     "Are you hurt?"
     Jack searched his eyes—they glowed like the golden eyes of the white owl of the previous night. He gasped and took a step back. The old man shook his head, reached into his pocket and handed Jack a pinkish-white seashell.
     "This is for you. I found it at Merlin's Cave. It's a rose murex, a rose from the sea. It will protect you on your journey."
     The old man winked.
     "You can hear the ocean inside."
     Jack gave him a quizzical smile and thanked him, rubbing his thumb over the pink mouth of the white shell as if it were a magic lamp. 
    Jack stood for a moment. A genie of memories: Beach walks with his mother and father. Shelves in his bedroom. Collections of old bottles, seashells, sand dollars, frosted sea glass, green Japanese glass floats. A rose murex? He'd always wanted to find one. Now it was in his hand as a gift. He held up the shell to his ear: a soft hum like wind whispering, calling him to listen within. Jack nodded vigorously. He would travel to France, to the city of lights, to Paris. He turned around to look for the old man, but he was gone.
     Jack stopped on the path to text Trixie: On my way to Paris. I'll text when I'm there. So much to discuss. I'll pass on the show. Explain later.  

*

     Trixie's navigator indicated she was standing in front of the oldest house in Paris, the home of Nicolas Flamel. She looked up at the gunmetal gray sign fastened to the thick beige spandrel wall between two upper story windows. Though she couldn't read the 1407 date and French inscription on the frieze, her guidebook revealed the house had been commissioned by the wealthy alchemist to house the homeless after the death of his wife, Pernelle in 1397. It was his only surviving house, but Nicolas had never lived there. She sniffed the air and looked at the dark, late afternoon sky. A few drops of rain fell on her face.
    "Trix!"
     Jack waved from across the street. He walked over to her with a rising warmth filling his chest. She walked up to him and stopped.
     "Jack!”
     She gave him a vigorous hug and whispered in his ear, "I'm so glad you came."
     He returned her hug, then stood back and shook his head.
     "I can't believe you're here. And in front of Nicolas Flamel's house, no less."
     The rain fell harder. Jack looked up.
     "Let's find a cafe somewhere," he said.
     Trixie pointed down the street.
     "There's a place. Quick! It's coming down."
     She laughed and waved for him to follow.
     When they reached the door of the cafe, a waiter met them in the foyer and handed them small white towels.
     "Merci," Jack said.
     They wiped the rain off their arms, walked to a table in the back and ordered coffees.
    "How are you Jack?"
     Trixie dried off her hair and gave him a worried look.
     "Where do I begin?" Jack sputtered with a bewildered laugh.
     He wondered if he should tell her about his strange happenings in Cornwall or ask about her trip, her sudden interest in alchemy. He wanted to ask her if Walter had come along, but he didn't want to find out. Everything was happening so fast. How was she suddenly sitting in front of him? This felt like a different kind of magic. He'd always loved talking about history with her before or after his shows---it calmed his nerves. Maybe begin there.
     "For starters, I haven't felt this alive in years."  
     "Really?" Trixie turned her head to listen closely. "What brought it on?"
      "Just being in Cornwall. That place is mysterious. Some strange things happened there, but mostly these vivid memories of practicing alchemy came to me. I've decided I'm going to build an alchemical lab in my basement."
     "A lab?" She raised her brows, shook her head and smiled. "You know, that's what I like about you, Jack. Once you're inspired by something, you throw your whole self into it."
     She laughed. She fingered her hair over the top of her ears.
     "Remember when you went to Japan and saw that Kabuki performance? You created a whole show based on that experience."
     Jack laughed.
     "You know me too well. That was my favorite show."
     Jack gazed into her eyes and she looked away, then turned back to him with a look that reminded Jack of a camper about to hear a spooky story around the campfire.
     "Jack, you've got to tell me about these strange things that happened to you." 
      "Don't worry, I will." He waved her off.  "But first tell me about your sudden interest in alchemy."
     He gave her a curious look.
     "Although, I'm not surprised you did some research after we talked about it back in the Bay Area."
     Placing his forearms on the table, he leaned forward with rapt attention. 
     "You're right about that."
     She laughed and suddenly grew silent.
     After a moment, she spoke: "Jack, there's something I should tell you." She looked away, then looked back at him, her eyes brimming with tears.
     Jack's heart fluttered with anticipation as he saw her cheeks flush pink. This was big news. He braced himself as if the earth were about to crack open. He reached over and tenderly placed his right hand on her left. "What's wrong, Trix?" he whispered.
     "I left Walt." 
     Jack squeezed her hand. A jolt of warmth seemed to flow through her touch. His eyes widened---she wasn't wearing her wedding ring.
     "Oh my God! What happened?" A sanguine steam ascended the crucible of his chest. He swallowed a lump of emotion growing in his throat.
     "We're just not a good match, Jack. I don't feel the way..." She wiped away her tears and looked into her coffee cup. She looked up at Jack with a light on her face that reminded him of a new moon.
     "You don't feel the way---?"
     "The way Pernelle and Nicolas felt about each other." 
     "The Flamels?"
     "Yes. That's why I wanted to meet you here. I read about them and was very moved. They practiced alchemy together. They were soul mates. They supported each other as they pursued the Divine Art and ended up helping the poor. Jack, I...I want to live a deeper life."
     Jack beamed as he looked into her eyes. "Me too. That's why I feel so alive! Alchemy brings out the best in us."
     Trixie turned over her hands on the table.
     Jack leaned forward and squeezed them feather-soft.
     "You know, Trixie, I could use a lab partner."
     She smiled and squeezed his hands.
     "You could?"
     "Yes, but I need someone who's interested in exploring the secret of life, alone and together. Someone as
true as Merlin's Vivienne, his Lady of the Lake."
     Jack pursed his lips as if to keep butterflies from escaping his belly.
     Trixie blinked a few times.
     "I don't believe you just said that. My middle name is Vivian. I was named after Merlin's lover, his best student."
     A shiver ran down Jack's spine. He stared at her as if a mist was evaporating over the isle of Avalon. He felt time fall away, saw Merlin gathering herbs with Vivienne in a summer meadow on the mythical island. He wanted to tell Trixie about these visions, that maybe he was a modern Merlin and she was his Lady of the Lake, but that would have to wait.
     "We have a lot to learn, but we could learn as equals. " He smiled.
     Jack stood up and gestured toward the door. 
     As they walked out of the cafe, they stopped in the foyer to shield their eyes from the rays of a rain-refreshed sunset coming through the glass door. The sky glowed crimson red. Trixie leaned into Jack and looked up at him with a mischievous smile.
     "And what will be our first experiment?" 
     He opened the door and waved for her to follow him. 
     Jack reached into his pocket and handed her the shell given to him by the old man in Cornwall. 
     "It's so pretty." She held it up to her ear.
     "It's a gift from the sea," he whispered in her other ear.
     "I can hear the ocean inside." She smiled.
     Jack reached for her hand. They ambled down the sidewalk in the direction of his hotel, the rays of twilight painting the city of Paris in rose-colored hues.

David Mampel is a caregiver, former minister, semi-retired clown and artist. He writes fiction and poetry to bring a little sun to the rainy darkness of the Pacific Northwest. His work has appeared in Copperfield Review Quarterly, The Aurora Journal, The Remington Review and others.
Follow his work online at: http://www.davidmampelwriter.com, https://www.instagram.com/davidmampelwriter/  https://www.facebook.com/DavidMampelWriter

Photography by Mikhail Nilov