Carbo-v is known as the corpse-reviver—and any practicing homoeopath will tell you why. When a patient appears to draw his last breath, this is the remedy that must be given in the highest possible potency. iM or 10M is usually sufficient to bring about a revival, or, indeed, to aid the patient in his passing.
After an introduction, this chapter then lists the various famous literary personages who, in the author's opinion, would require this remedy. Mina Murray and Jonathan Harker get a few pages to themselves, and the author spends a long time considering the dying character in Edgar Allan Poe's short story "The Mesmeric Revelation." Then, of course, there's a section on Elizabeth Lavenza from Frankenstein. The section ends with this:
Is it any wonder that it is carbon that holds this mystique? Carbon is nothing less than the compression of life itself, which becomes the fuel for our furnaces and machines that themselves provide the fuel for life. Carbon, to which all living things eventually return (ashes to ashes, dust to dust), must be the most mysterious of all substances and in that respect the alignment with death is unavoidable. But carbon is also life. It is the beginning of life and its end. In potency it retains not physical substance but energy, which is meaning. And the meaning of carbon is both simple and complex. Life. Death. The limit of all things.
As I get out of the bath, damp and clean but not perceptibly warmer, I feel my mind tick-ticking like the screen on Heather's computer. The corpse-reviver. Now that at least does sound interesting. And all that stuff about carbon being the essence both of life and death. I remember there was something interesting about carbon in Jim Lahiri's popular science book, so, with my dressing gown on, I go into the kitchen and put on some coffee while I search my shelves for the book. Eventually I find it and it tells me what I remember reading. In the furnace of the big bang, hydrogen was the first element to form from the hot plasmic soup of electrons and protons. It's a bit of a no-brainer: All you need for hydrogen is one electron and one proton. The mass of this hydrogen isotope is one—because it has one proton (electrons don't really have any mass). In the incredible heat, hydrogen isotopes with masses two (deuterium—one proton and one neutron) and three (tritium and trialphium) also formed. Then helium, with mass four. But there is no stable atom with mass five. Because there is no atom with mass five, no one understood how carbon could ever have been made. Each new element is made from fusing the elements that came before it, but you can whiz hydrogen and helium around in a cosmic blender for as long as you want and you won't make carbon.
That is a problem, because if you can't make carbon in this way, then the rest of the periodic table looks impossible as well. But because the most usual mass of carbon is twelve, you'd have to get three helium atoms to collide at exactly the same time, at a vast temperature, in order to create it. It looked like it was impossible that this ever happened. Then the cosmologist Fred Hoyle reasoned that carbon had to exist since he was made of it, and worked out exactly how the "mass-five crevasse" could be jumped. In response to all this, George Gamow wrote a spoof of Genesis, in which he had God creating all the possible chemical masses but forgetting to create mass five in his excitement.
God was very much disappointed, and wanted first to contract the Universe again, and to start all over from the beginning. But it would be much too simple. Thus, being almighty, God decided to correct His mistake in a most impossible way. And God said: "Let there be Hoyle." And there was Hoyle. And God looked at Hoyle ... and told him to make heavy elements in any way he pleased.
Now, of course, carbon is the basis for life and, as the homoeopathy book pointed out, the inevitable outcome of death. So if you were going to create a mysterious concoction of any sort, carbon wouldn't be a strange inclusion at all—especially if you diluted it so that it didn't even exist anymore; so it was simply a memory.
I get to the health food shop at around half past four but although Patrick was right and they do have a homoeopathy section, there's no Carbo Vegetabilis. After trying Boots and Holland & Barrett I am feeling less confident about this mission. Boots didn't have Carbo Vegetabilis at all, and Holland & Barrett only had it in a 6C potency, about 994 times less dilute than I need it. It's gone five by the time I drift into the little shop by the Odeon cinema. I've never been into this place before, and I don't even know what it sells. When you walk past, it looks as if it is simply a door with no shop behind it, but if you look more closely there's a glass display built into the wall next to it. Inside the glass display are a couple of jars of what look like herbs, a copy of the Tao Te Ching, and a pack of tarot cards. The name of the shop— Selene, Greek for "moon"—is on the door, along with a faded sign in an ornate script inviting you to "come in and browse." I am hopeful that the shop may have homoeopathic medicines, though, since the woman in Holland & Barrett told me to come here.
As I open the door, something inside tinkles feebly. Beyond the door is a thin wooden staircase, and I walk up in the semidarkness. At the top of the stairs I find another door, this one with frosted glass panels, and I open this and walk into the tiny shop where I find a thin bald man sitting behind a desk reading a book. The shop smells strongly of sandalwood incense and is arranged in a small rectangle with the desk on the near left-hand side. The desk looks like something a nineteenth-century architect might have used: It's large and broad with what seem to be many drawers in it; each is only a couple of inches high, but about three feet wide. There's no cash register. Behind the desk is a frayed and curling poster in a script I can't understand, and next to that there's a wooden purple door covered with an orange bead curtain.
The man doesn't acknowledge me but I start drifting around the displays, anyway. The far left-hand side of the shop has a wobbly set of wooden shelves containing little brown bottles of homoeopathic remedies. I find Carbo Veg, but this time it's in the potency 30C. I sigh and walk around to the right, past plastic tubs containing crystals, and rows and rows of big penny-sweet jars of herbs. Underneath the herbs there's a small, dusty display of glass jars and vials, some stoppered with cork; others with simple screw-tops. I pick up a glass vial to use for the holy water. I can't see any other homoeopathic medicines anywhere. I walk over to the counter and wait for the man to look up.
"I'm looking for a homoeopathic medicine," I say.
"Over in the corner," he says, and goes back to his book.
"I know," I say. "I need it in a higher potency, though."
"Oh," he says. He looks at his watch. "We're actually about to close, so..."
"So you don't have any higher potencies?"
"We do," he says. "But we can't sell them over the counter."
I frown. "What, do I need a prescription or something?"
He shakes his head. "You pay for a consultation." He sighs. "Which remedy did you want?"
"Carbo Vegetabilis," I say, blushing as the unfamiliar word comes out.
"Sorry?" he says.
"Carbo Vegetabilis. The corpse-reviver. At least, that's what people seem to call it. I found it in one place but not in a strong enough potency."