My Peculiar Family

by Les Rosenthal

  “Typhoid fever is very common,” the elderly man said. “I’ve treated many patients successfully.” Then he produced two bottles from his bag. One was labeled, Meadowsweet, the other, Willow Bark. Victor hovered close for a look, and the old man indulged him.

  "These are antipyretics, to reduce fever," he explained. "And we have to give them plenty of fluids so they can rinse away the toxins inside."

  Victor looked at the bottles. "How come the other men didn't know how to do this?"

  The Herbalist smiled kindly. "Physicians mean well, but they are used to cutting sickness out of people. That won't work here. We have to build up your parents’ strength so their bodies can fight off the infection."

  "And that will fix them?" Victor said, pointing at the bottles.

  "It will help, but it's just one part." The man turned back to his bag. "The best medicines are all around us. Did you know that plants get sick, too? Some of them fight sickness better than we can. We take essences from those plants and use them to help ourselves. Mother Nature gives us everything we need to be well again." He smirked and looked at Victor through bushy white eyebrows. "The trick is finding them. Some medicines come from great big trees. Others from shrubs, or tiny little things smaller than you can see. The good stuff could be in the leaves, in the flowers, the roots, stems, or berries. You never know where you'll find it."

  "So how do you know what works?" Victor asked.

  The man sighed. "Trial and error. A lot of luck. But mostly, through travel. Many places I visit, the locals have found cures for diseases we've suffered for ages. For example, there is a tree called Cinchona that grows in South America. The bark of it is quite good at clearing the body of Malarial parasites. Here." The man dug out another bottle labeled, Quinine, showed it to Victor, then replaced it in his bag.

  "Now, then, we need to prepare a tea for your parents,” the Herbalist announced, placing hands on hips. “Would you like to help?"

  Victor nearly nodded his head off of his shoulders.

  For the next two weeks, Victor followed every instruction given by the Herbalist, doted on his parents, administered the correct dosages in the proper intervals. He felt the healing artistry channeled from the old man's wisdom through his willing hands as his parents daily improved. And when they rose from bed rest, recovered, there was never any question in Victor's mind what he would do with his life.

  Out of gratitude, initially, Victor ran errands for the Herbalist after school. The boy was always asking about this vial and that, taking a keen interest in each and the maladies they treated. The old man never grew weary of Victor’s interest because, at last, he had found the dedicated apprentice he always wanted.

  The Herbalist guided Victor's education, giving him a foundation in reason with the confidence to question and instilling a deep respect for the natural world. He gave supplemental readings, taught the growing lad his native language of Portuguese. He trained his apprentice on the preparation of samples, how to draw essences, how to test for potency. After what seemed like too short a time Victor had absorbed all the man could bestow. The Herbalist knew it was time to send his (now fully grown) apprentice into the world.

  "The jungles of the Amazon have only just been penetrated," the elderly man said. "There's no winter there to kill off insects and slow spread of disease, so life must have other ways of coping with pests and pathogens. That means there could be cures for some of our most perplexing illnesses, Victor. The expanses are vast. You'll need guides, and your study of language will serve you well. But I suspect there are native peoples we've never seen there. There must be. They will be the ones who know what is good. They've lived off the land, they've made the discoveries. Look for them and, however strange they seem, be good to them. Share your knowledge. Give at least as much as you take so they will come to trust you and welcome your return."

  Victor knew his parents would never permit him to leave for a place as wild and unexplored as the Amazon. He told them his career required continued studies among the apothecaries of Europe, kissed them goodbye, then booked passage to Brazil.

  The journey was punishing. Book study and office work had given Victor a slight constitution. Heaving of the ship and heaving of his gut were bearable discomforts on the path to discovery, however. His mind blazed with the idea of dispensing good health and vitality, bringing nourishment to the many by discovering what Nature had already provided.

  All I have to do is find them and recognize them for what they are! I can surpass any doctor with the power to cure. I can prolong life... Could I also extend life?

  Victor hired a boat to take him as far up river as the drivers dared. They passed creatures beyond bizarre, deadly beyond measure. In the first week, he nearly stepped on the tail of a Bushmaster, almost rested a hand on the back of a Poison Dart Frog, filled his canteen in striking distance of a Fer-de-Lance, cooled his feet in Piranha-infested streams. If not for the watchful eyes of his guides, he would not have survived long.

  Just as the old man had said, this land has no winter. Plants aren't the only things that have developed potent defenses. Should I be looking at the animals, as well?

  In a month, Victor found strong legs beneath him and sharpened wits about him. The land had introduced itself, had warned him to be respectful. Such beautiful ferocity made him love it all the more.

  Along the journey, his guides pointed out herbs they knew about, various plants and fungi that could cleanse the liver, purge the bowel of worms, even a repellent for the omnipresent mosquitoes. The jungle was rich with species Victor had never seen, and every new discovery was met with wonder. Each time, he prepared a jar of preserving ethanol, sealed it securely, and labeled the specimen with location discovered, date, and suspected genotype.

  There came a point, past which his guides would go no farther. When pressed, they spoke of natives who used four-meter bows that shot arrows as tall as a man. They had seen friends hit from out of nowhere, the shooter completely hidden in the distance. It did not matter how much money was offered, they would not continue up river. Victor looked into the forest with its thick vines and tarp like leaves.

  Then I'll have to go myself.

  He told his guides to camp near the river where he could find them, and then he trekked alone into the bush, ignoring their cynical mutterings.

  For days, he marveled at the diversity of life surrounding him, how it enveloped him so tightly the canopy overhead created perpetual twilight on the forest floor. To see the sun Victor knew he would have to climb, so climb he did. A short way up the buttress roots of an Ananin tree, his grip fell on an enormous reddish-black ant. He dropped down in shock, staring at the soft flesh of his palm, disbelieving the quantity of pain shooting through it. For a full day, Victor staggered through the brush, half-mad with agony, unable to think about anything but the brilliant, cauterizing pain.

  By the time the sting began to fade, Victor realized he had no idea where he was. Panic tugged at the back of his mind. Should I backtrack? he wondered. Then he noticed the smell: a fragrance with nectar-like sweetness, muted by mildew and decay.

  There was no bloom in sight, but from the odor, he knew it had to be near. He followed his nose, which continued in the direction he was already traveling. For all he knew, he might have been following the scent for miles.

  As he neared, there was a more pungent undertone that reminded him of his frequent deliveries to ladies of the brothels, of that first step inside where heavy perfumes masked the sweat and desperation. He could never explain to himself why he liked it.

  This was similar: alluring, compelling, with subliminal cues of something forbidden. And Victor was no longer the bashful boy who shied from the ladies' winks. Flexing his still throbbing hand, he stepped closer toward a break in the foliage ahead. There, he found a clearing, ringed by abandoned grass huts. The forest had already begun to reclaim the clearing with young green sprouts, but at the center stood a tall white stalk with a large black flower hanging
from it. Thick, veined petals curled away from the trumpet-like bloom with an arched hood above and downward facing wings. Wiry red threads twisted down from each side.

  Victor stepped toward the bloom with such attention that he forgot about his throbbing hand. The magnificent flower stood as tall as he, its aroma entirely captivating. He stared as he circled it until his feet struck something soft. The swarm of agitated flies told him he had found something dead.

  At his feet lay a short native woman, nude but for a vine and leaf wrapped around her waist. Every rib stood out against sagging skin, skin that was uniformly black with a velvety appearance. What teeth remained in her mouth were spotted, and, between the spotted teeth, the flower's pale stalk grew from the back of her throat.

  Victor blinked in horror, then in fascination.

  "A saprophytic plant," he dictated to himself, "possibly an orchid related to Corallorhiza maculata of Northern California...but the size of it!" Victor's enthusiasm faded. "And its source of nutrient..."

  He knelt to inspect the woman, surprised that he was not gagging on the stench of corpse-rot.

  "For the plant to have grown this tall and flowered, you'd have to have been dead for days. Weeks maybe. In this heat, how are you not...?"

  Victor leaned closer to the stalk and found it lined with berries of the same pale color. He licked his parched lips.

  Been a long time since you ate, Victor.

  Victor sat up and scanned the clearing, unsure where the voice came from.

  "Did I say that?" he wondered aloud. "Probably. I mean, I'm talking to myself right now."

  He looked around at vacant huts made of mud, sticks, and leaves. Grass and vines crept their way up the sides, lending a subtle camouflage. Stepping to the low entry of the closest hut, he expected it to be empty but found woven sleep mats, spherical baskets, and clay pottery inside. A ten-foot long bow hung from the hut's central post beside a quiver of man-sized arrows.

  Victor's brow furrowed.

  "Did they just leave?"

  He moved to the other huts one by one, and he found them all abandoned with useful, easily portable items inside. In the last, a jaguar pelt was draped over a rack. Beside it was a blowgun and earthen cup of darts.

  "They wouldn't just leave all this. Unless something drove them off..." Victor thought about all of the fierce and dangerous creatures he nearly blundered into on the way, and it occurred to him that there could be ones far larger and far deadlier.

  "But if they left all this behind..."

  He rolled the jaguar pelt and slipped it into his pack, took the blowgun with darts. Then he returned to the pungent bloom. It swayed hypnotically with a sudden breeze, and he found he had great difficulty looking away from it.

  You needn't hurry.

  Victor whirled about again, unsure if he heard someone speak this time or if it was in his head.

  Everything you seek is right here. Long life for you and for the ones you care about.

  The young man shook his head, feeling a little drunk and starving. His hand reached for the berries on the stalk, then he recoiled as if burned.

  "NO! What am I doing? White berries are almost certainly poisonous!" Victor turned his back on the beautiful orchid until he felt guilt from it, as if he was abandoning someone in need. He turned around, faced it, and shrugged his pack from his shoulders. The flower continued its gentle, cobra-like swaying as he rummaged for his specimen jars.

  He ran the mouth of a jar up each side of the stalk, catching the berries as he cut. Not one fell to the ground. He sealed the jar, labeled it, and stored it back in his pack. Next, he chose a larger jar, one that could accommodate the large flower without cramping it. He half-filled it with ethanol and set it at the ground by his feet. With his cutting tool poised a few inches below the bloom, he paused, staring into the veined petals so deeply violet, he had mistaken them as black.

  I'm all you'll ever need.

  A careful snip of the stalk and Victor held the flower close. It trembled in his nervous hand. He inhaled deeply, drawing its delightfully fetid scent into his lungs, and he knew the voice was right.

  With utmost care, he placed the bloom into his jar of ethanol, topped off the alcohol to the rim, sealed the jar, and labeled it before stowing it in his pack. To his dismay, Victor realized he could no longer catch the flower's scent. It was gone, leaving only the odor of mildew and slowed decay. Dismay turned into regret, remorse, then depression for harvesting the flower and ending its intoxicating fragrance. To make matters worse, his hand began to throb again. The urge to take the flower from his backpack and open the jar became a consuming need. Had he not been trained properly, it might have gotten the better of him.

  "Strong analgesic properties...with an almost instantaneous withdrawal..." he said, looking at the flesh of his palm with its raised welt. "I'll have to be very careful with this one."

  Victor looked down at the woman, and it was like he was seeing her for the first time. He had never seen a dead body before. Dogs and horses, sure, they collapsed in the city streets from heat exhaustion all the time, but never a person. And this one was native to the jungle wilds.

  What killed you? he wondered.

  From what he could tell, there were no punctures or cuts. The roundness of the hips and bare breasts suggested she did not die of old age.

  The clues around him stacked upon one another, building a likely story in his mind.

  "She ingested something that spotted her teeth from the inside. She fell here. There are no drag marks, no sign of scavengers. Even the flies clinging to the body refuse to eat. The body seems preserved, somehow, as if the plant secretes a chemical that inhibits fungal and bacterial activity... This could mean wonders for new medicines!

  "But the entire village fled, leaving valuables behind. They were terrified of this..."

  Victor paused and scanned his surroundings.

  "Or they were terrified of something else and left her body in their haste. Whatever the case, I should be leaving."

  The young man shouldered his sweat-soaked pack and adjusted the straps. He stopped by the first hut he searched, collecting the long bow and quiver of arrows. Not that he had any idea how to properly handle them, but if something big came out of the bush, he would not be totally defenseless.

  The trudge back to camp was long. There was no trail, and he frequently had to climb trees to get a feel for the topography. His goal was to find flowing water, and walk it back to any kind of settlement. Then he could speak to the locals about reuniting with his guides, assuming they had not left already with his cargo.

  With his knowledge of plants, he was able to forage when his rations ran out, even found some new specimens to harvest. The blowgun was devilishly easy to use. Birds, reptiles, small mammals kept him from starving to death. Rain, channeled by giant leaves, supplied endless streams of water for his canteen, and after a time Victor began to think he had found a rapport with the deadly wilderness. He had lost track of time, however, and he missed his family, missed the shop with its bottled varieties, missed the quiet comforts of home. So when he found flowing water, at last, it came as a relief that his journey was ending.

  To their credit, the guides were waiting many miles downstream. They had chosen a wide spot in the river and anchored their boat in the middle, as a precaution against predators or pilfering visitors. Victor tied a strip of colored cloth to the tip of the bow then held it high at the river's edge, waving it back and forth until he saw the boat haul anchor and steam toward him. At first they were angry, demanding immediate payment for their delay. But when Victor produced the Jaguar pelt, they lost the aggressive tone. Moreover, they regarded the young man warily, seeing the long bow and arrows, wondering how he had gotten them. Whether by guile or by force, the American had journeyed where they feared to tread and came back with treasures. Here was a man they would not intimidate.

  On the journey back, Victor shared most of his discoveries with the guides in hope they could sa
ve him a lot of guesswork. One, they told him was a pretty flower but held little other value. The others were beneficial when combined with other herbs.

  While waiting for Victor, the men had done some foraging of their own and were proud to show what they found. They agreed to trade, such that all came out with a larger assortment, and that made them quite happy with one another.

  Despite their amicable business relationship, Victor could not speak of the abandoned village. To do so would tip his hand that he had not encountered the native tribes, possibly encourage his new partners to try their luck at robbing him. Neither could he bear to share his saprophyte flower. That was his. All his.

  The voyage home was much like the one before. The ship pitched and dived in rough seas. His constitution was harder, his legs less wobbly. The salt air felt good to his skin, the bright sun maintained his tropical tan. He had explored the wilds of Nature and come through a man. Moreover, he knew his discoveries were important. Mankind would benefit from his work, and he would become immensely wealthy as a result.

  If one would live forever, it is good to be wealthy.

  He had not heard the voice in weeks. Strange that it should come to him now that he was at the New York harbor docks. It was no concern, as it was always correct. He shook it off as an overly aggressive subconscious, arranged to have his cargo delivered, and made the shop his first stop.

  Victor was excited to see his mentor, to tell him what he had seen. But the old man had passed away in his absence, leaving a scrawled letter and the deed to the store. Because the Herbalist had no natural children of his own, and because the boy was the closest thing to a son he ever had, all of his worldly assets were bequeathed to Victor, the letter said. Transfer of ownership was arranged at the Law Offices of Aronowitz & Sullivan.

  Joy and sadness, in equal measure.

  Further weighing the melancholy was the condition of the store. Business had clearly fallen on hard times. The letter explained how shysters were claiming anything as a "Miracle Cure" and there was no law that stopped them from pitching their worthless tonics. People were being duped en masse and the Herbalism trade was in severe disrepute. If he were to make the business succeed, he would have to work very hard to prove himself with his clients, to constantly hone his expertise, and to continue exploring the world for its natural medicines.