That night, Loren sat by the stove, flipping through the two books he had picked up at the market, while Grandpa Bates quietly packed his bags.
The General Solution of Pictographic Symbols was not some obscure introduction to hieroglyphics. The "hieroglyphics" in the book seemed to refer to runes, which were discussed in detail in a long chapter in the middle.
The first half of the book dealt with mystical alchemy—mostly fantastical, in Loren's view. It spoke of dragon's blood, magical animal parts, and rare plants with names Loren had never encountered in either of his lifetimes. Alchemical processes were also tied to the lunar cycle—different outcomes depending on whether the moon was full or waning, and distinctions even between thunderstorms with or without thunder.
Was this just British feudal superstition? Probably. But Loren still found it entertaining—like reading a strange old story.
The second half of the book, however, was much more interesting. It was the autobiography of a man who called himself Nicolas Flamel.
Flamel claimed to have been born in 14th-century Paris. In his youth, he worked as a scribe, copying books, letters, and wills for nobles. Occasionally, alchemical content would pass through his hands, and Flamel came to regard alchemy as a personal hobby.
His ordinary life changed forever one night when a man in a black cloak appeared in his dreams, telling him he would soon receive a magical book. If he studied it thoroughly, he would gain extraordinary and unimaginable power.
And then the dream came true.
"I obtained an ancient and massive book in exchange for two florins. It was unlike any book I had ever seen—not made of paper or sheepskin, but of smooth, delicate young bark. The cover was bound in brass, engraved with strange symbols. It had three sets of seven pages, including the first page of each set. The seventh page in each set was wordless. On the seventh page of the first set, there was an image of a magic wand swallowed by a giant snake."
Intrigued, Loren opened the second book.
It had to be the Book of Abraham.
Its pages indeed looked like they had been pressed with metal seals and then inked—no handwriting at all. The script was completely unfamiliar and unreadable. There were 21 pages in total. Every seventh page contained a strange image.
The first set of seven showed a cane, ancient and black, wrapped by two snakes of unknown species. One snake was devouring the other. The pages were yellowed and the drawings crude, mere outlines—but when Loren looked at them, vivid and colorful images formed clearly in his mind.
He could see the matte texture of the snakes' scales. One had white spots, and the cane itself seemed impossibly ancient.
He chalked it up to boredom. Or maybe it was his vivid imagination, shaped by a previous life full of film and television.
The second set of seven pages—the fourteenth page—featured a cross. But nailed to the cross wasn't Jesus... it was a snake.
This snake had two small horns on its head, making Loren think it was not the same species as the one in the earlier image.
The final set of seven pages—the twenty-first page—showed clear springs bubbling out of a desert. Countless snakes emerged from the water.
What lingered in Loren's mind was not the snakes, but the water—he could almost taste the sweetness and coolness of it just by looking.
On the fourth and fifth pages, there were four miniature illustrations, too small to decipher. Loren tried, but nothing came to mind.
According to Flamel in The General Solution of Pictographic Symbols, these small images were likely unimportant—more akin to popular myth than any alchemical instruction.
The autobiography drifted into incoherence after that—poor grammar, inconsistent spelling, and wild rambling.
Eventually, it shifted into travel notes. Flamel claimed to have journeyed across nearly every continent, recording customs and beliefs from around the world. Loren doubted most of it, but still found it enjoyable to read.
Grandpa Bates finished packing and looked out the small window.
Though snow was falling, the clouds were thin. A waning moon hung low in the sky, its light barely visible through the haze.
He closed the window and sealed it with a wooden stick.
"Loren," he said, "listen carefully. I'm heading into the mountains tomorrow. You'll stay here on your own, like usual, all right?"
This happened every month. Loren knew better than to argue.
"Okay, got it!" he replied.
But Grandpa Bates might not realize how much older—and frailer—he'd become. Winters over the past two years had grown harsher. After every trip into the mountains, he came back pale and feeble, as if he'd just survived a serious illness.
Loren sometimes wondered if the villagers were right—maybe Bates had made a deal with something in the mountains.
But in the years they'd lived together, Bates had never shown any real signs of strangeness. Maybe he was a little lonely, and a little stubborn—but he was also warm, hard-working, and kind, like any old farmer.
Still, Loren had made up his mind.
He would follow Grandpa Bates tomorrow.
The next morning, after breakfast, Grandpa Bates picked up his walking stick and the packed bag and set off into the mountains.
Loren didn't rush. Even without fresh snow, traveling through the wintry terrain was slow and difficult.
He carefully fed the sheep, placing enough hay and water in the fold to last several days. To make sure they wouldn't eat it all at once, he built a simple timer using wooden string and a water-filled glass bottle. As the bottle slowly emptied—unfrozen due to the shelter's mild warmth—the mechanism would drop hay from the beams above, releasing it gradually.
Once that was done, Loren packed his own supplies: dry food, coarse bread, cheese, smoked lamb, a small knife, a windproof lighter, and a tarp. On a whim, he also included the fur blanket from the strange old bookseller.
It was already past lunchtime when he locked the cottage and followed Grandpa Bates' trail. The snow made tracking easy—crushed plants and footfalls clearly marked the path.
Snow-draped trees lined the path like silent guardians. Icy wind knifed through the gaps in Loren's scarf and coat, biting his exposed skin.
He pulled his hat down, tightened his gloves, and bundled up as best he could. Still, the cold seeped in.
Eventually, he stopped, unwrapped the fur blanket, and draped it over his shoulders beneath the tarp. With the outer tarp forming a cloak and the fur pressed to his skin, warmth returned. It was almost like sitting beside a stove.
"This has to be polar bear fur," Loren murmured.
After an hour of trudging, he reached a forest path that led to a massive boulder nestled against a small hill. Grandpa Bates' footprints circled the stone, then vanished.
Loren wasn't naïve enough to think Bates had turned into a rock spirit.
Nearby, he found stakes and wooden poles—tools to move the boulder with a lever system. Clearly, Bates hadn't used brute force. There had to be a cave behind it—and likely more mechanisms inside.
Rather than approach directly, Loren circled around and cleared a leeward spot a short distance away. He set up a shelter using branches and the tarp and settled inside to wait, hoping to hear something from the cave.
Wrapped in the thick fur, he didn't feel cold at all. He didn't bother lighting a fire.
This was warmer than any polar bear hide he'd ever heard of.
He nibbled on some food.
And waited for night to fall…