The Potion
The Potion
by Eli Taff, Jr.
Copyright 2016 Eli Taff, Jr.
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The potion smelled like vomit. Rotting garbage. Carrion left too long to spoil in the summer sun.
Bartholomeo couldn’t quite decide.
Whatever it was, it was certainly disgusting. One of the worst smells he could remember. Bartholomeo immediately pulled the vial away from his assaulted nostrils, and shoved the cork back in.
The syrupy liquid was the color of post-drinking-binge urine. Tiny green particles sat in the yellow molasses, like insects trapped in prehistoric amber.
Bartholomeo scowled. After a final moment of consideration, he vigorously shook his head.
“No. I don’t like it.” Bartholomeo said at last.
“What do you mean, little one?” The crone’s voice was sweet, condescending.
“Please don’t ‘little one’ me, madame.” Bartholomeo snapped in annoyance. “And, please, take it. I’m sorry, but this was a mistake. The smell-and, and, and, because-I mean, it just looks-no, you can’t expect-I’m sorry, this was a mistake.”
His eyes scanned the wares on display in the large covered wagon: dusty leather-bound tomes, a dried monkey’s paw, something that looked like a jar of eyeballs in pickling fluid. There were trinkets made of crystal, totems carved from wood and bone. Everything was haphazardly placed, seemingly at random, on the shelves and tables in the tiny wagon.
Bartholomeo swallowed the dry lump sitting nervously in his throat.. If the old gypsy didn't practice magic, she certainly knew how to give off that impression.
“You hesitate.” The crone purred. Her accent was thick and coarse, like the snarling of a wild animal. “You are not magically inclined, and this potion seems too good to be true, so of course you are wary. But young man, even without a sensitivity to the arcane, you must feel it.”
“Feel it? Feel what?”
“The magic within that vial.”
“I don’t…I mean, really. Magic? There’s no such thing as magic. What assurances do-”
A liver-spotted claw of a hand shot out and gripped his arm. It took everything in Bartholomeo to keep from crying out as the crone leaned in and hissed.
“Little man, what do I care for assurances? You come into my wagon and ask for the magic to make you bigger. Stronger. To give you confidence. You are a worm, so of course you want these things, and this…what you hold in your frail little girl’s hand, is the answer!”
“Stop!” Bartholomeo squeaked. “Please! Just take it back already!”
“Can you even grasp the concept of magic, tiny sir? Not the sleight-of-hand practiced by sidewalk charlatans in the city, but actual magic? The building blocks of reality? The energy flowing through all things?”
Bartholomeo shook his head. Even though the crone’s eyes were milky and clouded, he felt extremely uneasy, as if she were boring holes into his brain.
“Magic was not meant for humans to ever understand. It is too ancient. It has built our world, but it is not of this world. Magic is raw power. It is unlimited potential. It is the infinite unknowable truth of all things, and I have captured it! Yes, I have sucked it out of the air, and the roots, and the earth, and the water. I have bottled it, distilled it, and shaped it into what you hold in front of you like so much rubbish. Fool! You don’t like the smell? I can’t be bothered making the infinite unknowable truth of the universe smell like strawberries and baby’s farts!”
“Now, see here-”
“Forgive my sister, good sir!”
Bartholomeo turned to see another old woman standing in the doorway of the wagon. She was just as ugly and wretched as the one he was talking to. She dropped the basket of herbs she was clutching and swooped in like a bird of prey. Before he knew it, Bartholomeo found this old woman’s hands clutching his shoulders. Trapped on both sides, he felt like a piece of meat about to be devoured by two hungry predators.
“Please, sir, my dear sister is not of sound mind, as of late. This summer heat agitates her and puts her in foul mood.”
“Don’t speak for me, Florinda!” the first crone snarled, her rotten teeth grinding. “I refuse to let this city-dwelling praklovasha demean what we do! Shav’roska! Nielisch aun dashlinkov!”
Bartholomeo threw up his arms.
“Please! Please don’t!”
"Sir, fear not! She raves in the language of our ancestors, she isn’t casting a spell on you.”
“You’d know it if I was! Dumpfkleishtora.”
“Lucinda! Sir, please, come out from under the table, now. Let’s resume discussion with calm and civil voices. Lucinda, sister, brew us some tea, if you would. The lavender one, with some honey.”
Lucinda muttered as she hobbled away.
“Now, sir, from what I was able to catch, you seek to…”
“To change. Myself, that is.” Bartholomeo croaked, his throat dry. Was it his imagination, or had the wagon become unbearably stuffy?
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Do you know the town of Blackwood? Down river from here?”
“No, I’m afraid my sister and I never stay in one place for long. We come and go with the moon, and I believe that it is our first time in the area.”
“I see. Well, Blackwood used to be called Autumn’s Hearth, but it was gutted decades ago by a great fire. My grandfather was alderman at the time, you see. He was among the only survivors.”
“How tragic.”
“The town has been rebuilt, but, well, grandfather has renamed it Blackwood, and I believe it has been…cursed, ever since. My family, specifically.”
“What makes you say that?”
"I am the heir. My eighteenth birthday is tomorrow and I am to go on a hunt, as rite of passage. But, I am afraid. I had three older brothers. When father died, Elias was to inherit. But on his birthday hunt, his stallion threw him and his neck snapped. Then there was Peytar. On his birthday hunt, he was gored by the stag he was tracking. Next was Winthrop. He tried to break the curse by refusing the birthday hunt.”
“Wise.”
“Yes. I was just fourteen, and already terrified of what the villagers called The Von Richtmann Curse. But Winthrop, he was sure that he would break the curse. He would have been a wonderful alderman. Winthrop the Wise.”
“Except…”
“He choked to death on a turkey bone. During his birthday feast.”
“I see…”
“I am no believer of magic, madame.” At this point, the second crone, Lucinda, had returned with a mug of warm tea. Bartholomeo accepted it with shaking hands. “Thank you. I have heard the stories, as a boy. How magic used to exist. Fairies, dragons, witches, and the like. But that was centuries ago. Nobody’s seen a goblin or a werewolf for many years. And you see, I am a rational and educated young man. But please understand, I have grown to manhood with this…shadow…hanging over my head. Like a shroud. My death shroud, waiting to fall.”
The two crones said nothing.
“The birthday hunt has always been a Von Richtmann tradition. But I am afraid. Grandfather is afraid. So, I need this potion, whether it truly is magic, or something more mundane. As long as it does the job. I must be strong to stay on my horse. I must be fast to sidestep a charging stag. I must be wise and alert, to avoid choking to death, or tripping on the stair, or being crushed by a chandelier. Do you understand? I may not believe in magic. But I believe that…something…wants to e
nd my family. And I intend to even the odds.”
Florinda sighed. It was the tired and resigned exhalation of a soul who had lived too long, and seen too much. Lucinda said nothing.
“Your grandfather. What is he like?” Florinda asked quietly.
“Maximillian Von Richtmann…was a force of nature in his day. Stern, but fair. Strong and brave. He was the greatest warrior in the land, and wise as a sage. King Sigmund granted him stewardship of the land as reward for cleansing the land of the evil witch that had plagued it. But, that was years ago. He has not been himself since the fire. I fear he will never be himself again.”
Another silence.
Lucinda finally spoke.
“You are brave, young master, and your story has moved us. Return home. Take the potion, do not think about paying us, we won't accept a copper for it."
"Thank you," Bartholomeo regarded the potion again. This time with new reverence and awe. "My family owes you a great debt."
Florinda responded. "It is essential that you drink the potion tonight at midnight. Exactly at midnight, not a second sooner or later. You must do it at the center of Blackwood village, for the magic will be fortified and strengthened by the presence of the other villagers.
Lucinda nodded. "Honest sweat, warm bodies, innocent children asleep in their beds."
Florinda continued, "When you drink the potion, face directly west. Remember! The center of Blackwood village. You absolutely must not be at your estate, for that is where your curse is rooted. Leave your grandfather at the estate. The curse will not be able to track you. Do exactly as instructed, and you will change. We guarantee you.”
"We will all change." Lucinda muttered under her breath.
"I thank you, good ladies." Bartholomeo bowed and tucked the vial safely into his tunic. "My family thanks you for this great kindness."
The crones did not respond. They merely smiled as Bartholomeo left.
For a long time, the crones sat without speaking.
Outside, the wind rustled through the branches. The sun had set, casting everything in the dull slate grey light of dusk.
Nearby, a wolf howled.
At long last, Florinda croaked.
“Max is alive.”
“Indeed.”
“You were certain that he died in the fire.”
“Isn’t it better this way, though? To think of how he lived, all this time, in misery?”
“I suppose. Do you think he’ll be surprised to see us?”
Lucinda smiled. “I don’t see why. We haven’t aged a day!”
The two old crones cackled.
Midnight.
A shaggy wolf skulked up to the covered wagon sitting at the side of the road. It was extremely gaunt, for it hadn’t eaten in days. It growled warily, the hackles on its back raised.
The flaps of the wagon opened and out stepped two ravishingly beautiful women. Their skin was as smooth as cream, their features flawless. They seemed the ideal vision of perfection by any standard.
The wolf fell silent.
One of the women saw the shaggy, malnourished wolf hiding in the undergrowth and she smiled, flashing perfect, pearly white teeth. The wolf froze, cowed into submission as it recognized a predator more lethal than he.
"Boo!" She shouted, and the wolf instinctively crouched down in fear.
The women laughed, flashing smiles that would make any grown man’s heart melt.
“Beautiful night for a stroll.” One of them giggled.
“If only Camilla were here.” The second beauty cooed.
“Let us finish this for our sister, then. For Camilla.” The first woman tucked a wicked dagger into a sheath hidden beneath her cloak.
“Yes. For Camilla.” They set off together, arm in arm, down the path.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell was ringing, and the screams of terrified village folk filled the air.
The wolf was nowhere to be seen.
Thank you for reading my short story! If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving me a review and checking out some of my other work!
Cheers!
Eli Taff, Jr.
About the author:
Eli Taff is an aspiring writer of Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Horror short stories and novellas. He is pursuing a degree in Creative Writing – Fiction at Southern New Hampshire University.
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