Chapter 75: Six Hundred Years Ago
“About six hundred and fifty years ago, when I was 17 and just graduated from Beauxbatons, I found a leisurely and interesting job in Paris, copying books, letters, and wills for various noble clients. During those years, I preferred digging into the anecdotes and scandals of the nobility rather than the dry and tasteless alchemy.
“I once wrote a letter for a runaway princess to ask her aunt for travel expenses. Actually, I didn’t send the letter. I gave her a few gold coins out of my own pocket and a map to guide her, leading her to fall in love with her fiancé.
“I enjoyed copying wills for the governor. His relatives would try to pry into the contents of the will, first by bribing them with gold and silver, then by threatening them with swords. I always struggled and made choices, sometimes leaking false information to them, sometimes faking my death to escape and watch them fight over territory and titles from hiding.”
A smile appeared on Nicolas Flamel’s face, a smile mixed with nostalgia and amusement. Melvin had seen it many times, it always appeared on Dumbledore’s face when he enjoyed sweets.
“Such happy days lasted for two years, and disaster began to show its traces. Experienced sailors can smell the approaching storm, a scribe can glimpse secrets from noble letters, not to mention I am also a wizard.”
Nicolas Flamel’s muscles were aging and weak, and his voice was faint as he spoke, as if murmuring: “At first, the Mongolian army on its western campaign besieged a port city on the Black Sea, Kaffa, which was a trade transit point with military defenses. Those soldiers used catapults to throw the corpses of those who died of plague into the city, and the plague broke out from there.
“The deadly plague infected Kaffa residents and Tatar soldiers indiscriminately. The war ultimately had no victors. All the surviving Muggles had only one thought in their minds: to escape this city of death.
“They were hysterical and ran without direction, no one bothered to deal with the moaning sick lying in the city, on the fortress, and in the trenches. Some who had not fallen to the plague got up and climbed onto the merchant ships of the caravans. They lied about their condition, concealing their illness, and escaped Kaffa, thinking they had escaped the devil’s pursuit, but they did not know that the disease had attached itself to their bones, following them like a ghost.”
The old man rambled on, his words particularly lengthy, but Melvin showed no impatience. He wasn’t sure why Nicolas Flamel suddenly brought up the Black Death, but he wisely didn’t interrupt and listened quietly.
“The caravan ships passed through the Strait of Messina at the southern tip of Italy and docked at the port of Messina in Sicily. They not only brought silk and spices, but also the seeds of disease. These seeds quickly took root and sprouted, bearing new seeds, feeding on Muggle flesh and blood, and swept across all of Messina and Sicily.
“Genoa, Venice, Florence, and Paris, the four most prosperous cities in Europe at the time, with convenient transportation and large populations, provided fertile ground for the virus. Genoa fell first; within three months, the prosperous city was almost deserted. Then came Florence, where the plague left nearly seventy thousand corpses.
“At that time, Muggles did not have systematic medicine. The residents thought they were haunted by demons. They jointly prayed for the relics of the martyred female saint Agatha to be brought to suppress the demons… I still remember the letter that the archbishop wrote to the Holy See, briefly describing the symptoms of the plague: first a sudden high fever, then several days of severe pain, and finally death.”
Nicolas Flamel paused: “The priest who delivered the letter died exactly as described in the letter.”
“The plague followed the priest’s footsteps to Avignon, the capital of the Pope in Rome quickly fell. The church graveyards were soon piled high. The living were unwilling and afraid to touch the dead, so the corpses could only be thrown into pits indiscriminately. Many poorly buried corpses were dug up by wild dogs, torn apart and devoured, their intestines and livers scattered everywhere.
“To get rid of these corpses, the Pope soon declared the Rhine River a sacred river, a river to heaven, and, in conjunction with the governor, ordered the corpses to be thrown into the river to cleanse their souls and sins. Then the plague spread with the waves across all of Europe, including Paris, where I was.
“At that time, I did not leave. Relying on the fact that I was a wizard, I observed plague patients everywhere. To get close to them, I disguised myself as a Muggle doctor, a doctor who treated the plague. I still remember the attire of Muggle doctors at that time: they needed to wear robes that covered their entire bodies, thick gloves, and a bird-like mask filled with sponge. After each use, it needed to be soaked in vinegar mixed with cloves and cinnamon powder.”
Nicolas Flamel sniffed, as if smelling that scent again through time, and showed a disgusted expression: “It smelled awful.”
“…”
Melvin had read about that period of history, but the written records and the firsthand account of an eyewitness were entirely different experiences. It was as if a veil over history had been lifted for him, revealing a vivid and real corner.
That was already six hundred years ago.
“Muggles said the plague was a demon, and the disease indeed created hell. Regardless of gender, age, or children, after infection, swellings would appear in the groin and armpits. When the swellings grew to the size of an apple or an egg, these flesh lumps would mature and spread seeds throughout the body in a very short time, and purplish-black patches would appear on the skin. Sometimes they appeared in patches, sometimes in dots.”
Nicolas Flamel gestured with his hand: “These patches are signs of death.”
Melvin held his wine glass, silent, wanting to advise the old wizard that such detailed descriptions were not necessary.
“I wanted to show you what I remembered using a projection mirror, but I am too old, and too much time has passed. Those memories have mixed with other memories, and I can’t sort them out.”
Nicolas Flamel looked apologetically at Melvin and, after a brief pause, continued: “Once someone shows these signs, anyone who has seen their sickly appearance, heard their cough, or touched their skin or clothing while burying them will follow them to death within a few days, without any effective preventive measures.”
“Next to my shop lived a butcher from Siena, whom the neighbors called Fatty. He personally buried his 5 children, and then he himself contracted the plague. He refused to go home and came to me to leave his will, intending to leave his property to his wife. Two days later, his wife, wrapped up tightly, came to me to leave her will, intending to leave her property to her nephew. Her nephew died the next afternoon…
Nicolas Flamel vaguely remembered the crooked signatures at the end of those letters. The fat butcher’s name was Agnolo de Tu: “This kind of thing happened every week. The infected person would come to me to leave a letter, their family members would successively come to me to leave letters, and eventually, these letters were never received.”
“Dead bodies piled up in every corner. No one dared to approach these decaying corpses. The families of the sick could only drag the bodies out of their rooms and leave them at the doorstep. When things reached their worst, anyone who contracted the disease was expelled by their families. Relatives abandoned each other, husbands and wives fled separately, and the town’s streets were filled with corpses and dying people.
“Paris at that time was already dirty and messy. The things expelled from their bodies also emitted an unbearable stench. Whether it was sweat or feces, saliva or exhaled air, all were tainted with the smell of death and disease. The splattered bodily fluids were turbid and foul, mixed with dark blood streaks.
“I mingled with the porters and doctors and moved these abandoned people out of the city, to the side of the woodpile. The corpses were directly thrown into the incineration pits. For those who were still alive, I persuaded them to lie down themselves, then poured kerosene and lit the fire.
“Muggles could not perform magic, nor did they have anesthesia at the time, so they could clearly perceive the process of their flesh and blood being burned inch by inch by the flames. I believe this process was extremely painful, but I could clearly see the smiles of relief on their faces.”
He thought of those suffering people, a silver compassion flowing in his pupils, and took a deep breath: “As winter approached, the land froze, and the hyenas digging for corpses in the wild decreased. However, the plague showed no signs of stopping. The members of the incineration team and the porters fell one by one. To avoid trouble, I also changed my identity three times. Pernelle wanted me to leave, but I refused.”
“At that time, I entered a wonderful state,” Nicolas Flamel paused briefly. “Every time I burned patients, I could feel a strange magic surrounding me, faint but clear. Many rare magical creatures were not yet extinct then, and I had seen much magical power, but none were as peculiar as that magic. That magic came from Muggles.
“I tried to analyze this magic using alchemy, but I could not touch it or capture it. This peculiar magic temporarily freed me from the shadow of the plague.
“…”
Melvin looked up at the old wizard, his eyes filled with astonishment.
“In 1350, Paris had almost become an empty city. On a quiet midnight, I received a clue to unravel a riddle,” Nicolas Flamel said softly. “A person wearing a black cloak entered my dream and told me I would soon receive a magical book. He warned me to study it diligently and understand it thoroughly, perhaps gaining extraordinary power to end this disaster.”
“Is this… a prophecy?” Melvin asked tentatively.
Prophecy, as one of the most peculiar fields of magic, has always carried an inscrutable mysterious aura. Divination magic is merely the experience summarized by past wizards; true prophets make predictions solely through talent. This talent might be a heavenly eye like Cassandra Trelawney’s, delirious utterances like Sybil Trelawney’s, or dreams.
“I do have some talent for divination, and I can glimpse a corner of the future through a crystal ball, but I can only rely on the crystal ball,” Nicolas Flamel shook his head. “I am very sure that it was not a prophecy.”
“Did someone cast magic on you?”
“In the past few hundred years, I have tried to find an answer, but without any results,” Nicolas Flamel said. “In any case, this dream came true. The next evening, a merchant who had fled from Florence came to me. I am sure there were no traces of magic on him; he was a complete Muggle.
“He pleaded to exchange a book for some food and money, which was nothing to me. So I exchanged it for two florins and three loaves of black bread for that large and thick ancient book, perhaps you have heard its name… 《The Book of Abraham》.”
Melvin had indeed heard of the book. It was recorded in historical texts alongside Nicolas Flamel’s name: “An ancient alchemy scroll, containing the method for refining the Philosopher’s Stone.”
Nicolas Flamel spread his hands, a silver glow shimmering in his palms, and a translucent, ethereal book floated in the light.
“Its cover is not made of any material I know of, not animal leather, not bark. The inner pages are Egyptian papyrus, and the metal clasps on the book are ordinary brass, which I suspect were added by wizards later. They are engraved with text or strange symbols…”
Listening to Nicolas Flamel’s introduction, Melvin quietly observed the light and shadow of the book.
“Please forgive me, I can only display it this way. The title page bears a warning from the author, accompanied by a severe curse. Anyone other than the High Priest and the scribe who peeks at it will invite death,” Nicolas Flamel paused briefly and said softly, “This is not a bluff. I once asked a Hebrew scholar to translate one of the chapters…”
Melvin listened to the old wizard’s introduction and narration, feeling a sense of curiosity within him.
And it was only curiosity.
After obtaining the ancient book, Nicolas Flamel diligently studied its contents. However, the content was too obscure, not only in Hebrew but also heavily featuring Egyptian hieroglyphs, Sumerian cuneiform, Mayan script, and even oracle bone script and Nazca lines. Ancient Runes were the easiest script within it.
Even for a wizard, it would be impossible to learn so many languages in a short time. Eager to achieve results, Nicolas Flamel found a Hebrew scholar, copied and scrambled the contents of the book, and, out of caution, added a lot of irrelevant content to create a messy compilation, which he handed over to the Hebrew scholar for translation.
The first two paragraphs of the text were Hebrew poetry, and the scholar translated them smoothly. However, less than two weeks later, the scholar fell ill and died.
To atone for his mistake, Nicolas Flamel quickly buried the scholar, moved his family out of the plague-ridden area, compensated them with a large sum of money, and took meticulous care of them for two months, ensuring no one was infected before daring to leave.
After that, he never dared to let anyone else come into contact with 《The Book of Abraham》, not even his wife.
Transfiguration follows Gamp’s Law, Alchemy follows basic principles, and there are no shortcuts for language learning and content interpretation. The multiple languages in the book are not to prevent others from interpreting it, but because the relevant content can only be expressed in the most primitive languages, and any translation will lead to ambiguity.
Studying multiple ancient languages alone, even if Nicolas Flamel drank brain-reviving potions like water, the progress of book interpretation remained slow. By the spring of 1351, only the second chapter of the ancient book had been deciphered.
The plague had gradually subsided.
“Having seen too many Muggles burn to cinders before my eyes, that faint magic from Muggles and 《The Book of Abraham》 gave me an illusion. I thought I was special, that the suffering of Muggles needed me to save them, that I was their Savior.”
Nicolas Flamel dispersed the light in his palm. “But the reality is, Muggles don’t need anyone to save them, and I am just an Ordinary Wizard with a little talent.”
