Tears of the Ancient and Other Stories
Page 6
In a secluded tower on the outskirts of a sprawling city resided a master of potions. Though he was not domestically-minded, the living quarters within the tower were orderly with light and airy upper rooms as well as a quite clean and sparsely furnished roof terrace, perfect for potentially explosive magic. Just as meticulous was the windowless and windless cellar, a nicely controlled environment for the crafting of potions that could not be safely left to the whims of weather.
On this night in that underground chamber all that could be heard were the soft steps of the potion master’s feet padding over the newly swept floor. To and fro he stalked about the room, knowing where to find everything he wanted for his latest elixir, despite this being his first attempt at the new magic. Such was his care in preparation.
Orderly shelves, tables and cabinets lined the walls holding ceramic pots and urns, flasks and carafes of glass, and various-sized demijohns, some encased in wicker. Chests and cases kept safe small, stoppered vials containing liquids in a rainbow of colors. From hooks in beams overhead hung tongs, clamps and spoons. Laid out upon a sturdy central table were a number of crucibles, a scale, large and small funnels, stirring rods, the book he referenced for this particular potion, and parchment with ink and pen at the ready for scrupulous note taking.
On the table next to his most prized cauldron, he placed the basket delivered to his back door yesterday morning by Lady Carbrey’s messenger. He plucked the cloth laid over the basket revealing within more than a handful of shriveling long-stemmed mushrooms with small, tan caps. Next he took down two jars, one packed with a kind of silver, hand-sized, almost oval fish with yellow stripes, the other holding a few light green toads with mustard-brown spots. All three items, in pieces and portions, would combine with other ingredients to produce a potent concoction designed to make the imbiber laugh uncontrollably.
Though seemingly innocuous enough as intended, its application and the hoped for result were quite devious. With this potion the master would destroy a man. To his mind, Lord Carbrey was a dour, bitter, spiteful, evil, malicious man, who had not only wronged him, but embarrassed him. While thinking about it, he ground his knobby little teeth and accidentally squeezed a fish so hard its eyes popped out. After disposing of the damaged remains and cleaning up, he selected another fish and dropped it into the cauldron. As he began stirring, the repetitive motion soothed him. Soon vapors rose from the mixing brew. He leaned back and averted his nose.
Embarrassment always vexed the potion master and its memory never faded. At the lord’s assembly when he deigned to laugh at a joke made by Lady Carbrey, whether out of spiteful jealousy or a need to feel superior, her husband made fun of him in front of all the nobles assembled.
“It must be wonderful to have such a simple appreciation for my wife’s mindless japes.”
The lord had been the butt of the joke and he didn’t like it. He wouldn’t retaliate against his wife openly, knowing he would surely lose that battle, but he could get his dignity back by lowering another’s, so the potion master took the brunt of his ire.
The master could not stand attacks upon his intelligence. Other slights over the years mostly derived from the lord’s mistrust of potions, his outlawing of the potion master’s particular familiar, and his bestowing patronage on all other magic arts aside from potions, made it quite an easy choice to join Lady Carbrey’s covert plan.
In fact, looking back on it, he couldn’t see why he’d waited so long. It all made perfect sense now, he thought while absentmindedly stirring faster. Before the assembled nobles, they would slip the lord a draft from this potion, which would send him into uncontrollable hysterics. A beautiful irony. And when the laughing went on for hours, perhaps even days, the assembly would take the lord for a madman. Once they removed his title in favor of his young son, Lady Carbrey would then be in control and he would have her patronage, perhaps even her love.
He let out a chuckle and immediately suppressed it, so self-conscious was he now of his own laughter. The hand covering his mouth slid over his nose as well to keep away the potion’s noxious vapors. A deep intake and he might be the one falling into potentially irreversible hysterics.
Time and toil over his malicious brew wore him down quite swiftly these days. His precision and the level of excellence he’d obtained in his craft could not overcome the fact that he resided in an all-too mortal body.
“Rogi,” he called out as his arms weakened perceptibly from the stirring. He rushed out the door to the hall and pulled a cord at the base of the stairs. A bell rang above. “Rogi!” He hustled back to the cauldron and resumed stirring. A poor constitution was his one great weakness. He didn’t have it in him to stir the pot all night.
The bright-eyes and plump face of the cheerful and rotund Rogi soon appeared at his side. Knowing just what was expected of her, his motherly cleaning lady took over at the cauldron as if she were relieving an arm-sore child from mixing cake batter.
“Off to bed with you,” said the jovial woman, “oh and I’ve left you some nice, warm milk on the nightstand. You make sure and drink that up before you slip in between the comfy blankets.”
The potion master grumbled as he dragged himself up the stairs and heard Rogi chortle behind him. His irritable side contemplated the notion of turning her into something unpleasant, but he knew he would never do such a thing. The woman was like the mother he never had.
Indispensible and utterly dependable, he could leave her to do the stirring and she would keep at it all night. Her stamina was enviable. He knew he could rely upon her from the very first time he instructed her how to stir, never touch, a potion. Simple woman that she was, she followed orders precisely, so precisely that when the fumes in the room went to her head, turning her a bit sloppy and causing one of the mushrooms to slosh out of the cauldron, she didn’t touch it.
Even if she hadn’t been one to follow orders to the letter, she wouldn’t have wanted to touch the thing. A pair of wet fish eyes and lips from a frog were stuck to the soggy cap, making for a rather comically grotesque hybrid. When the lips emitted a throat-clearing cough, Rogi’s knees buckled and she grabbed hold of the cauldron’s rim to keep from collapsing. A swoon threatened to pull the shades down on her world.
Exhaustion overtook the potion master for the first few hours of sleep, but from then on he tossed about worrying over the finer points of this scheme and the outcome of the new potion. Dreams haunted him in which Lord Carbrey’s face taunted him, at first with a condescending stare, then mad laughter. He sat up in bed damp from sweat, but joyous. Even realizing it was nothing but a dream did not diminish his elation. After all, this was a good omen. His potion would work, he was sure of it now.
He lay his head back down and drifted away again. Immediately the laughter continued in a ceaseless and hounding cackle. The demented lord smirked and leered at the potion master, who rolled around in bed half-naked and drenched.
“No,” he cried out before clamping his mouth shut. Awake at last, yes, and yet the tormenting laughter echoed on throughout the tower. There must be a rational explanation, he reasoned. “Rogi?” No answer came. “What is this devilish mischief?” He screwed up his courage, threw on his robe and tottered a few steps toward the door. Grabbing up one of his protective medallions along the way for good measure, he marched out of the bedroom. As the insane cackling grew closer, he could make out another voice. Creeping down the stairs and straining to hear, the second voice became clear though squeaky.
“Why did the claustrophobic fungi have to leave,” asked the squeaky voice and when no reply came but a gasping for air, it answered itself, “There wasn’t mushroom!” A crescendo of laughter followed.
“Why do toadstools grow close together?” Again, only gasping, and so the voice continued on, “because they don’t need mushroom!” And again, the laughter came crashing back.
This was all too absurd, thought the potion master. He burst into the room and found Rogi on the floor propped against a w
all gripping her stomach and barely holding herself up with one arm. On the table stood the mushroom with the cauldron as a backdrop. Its fishy eyes and wide froggy mouth were alive with mirth while it continued its routine.
“Why was the mushroom never late for school? He didn’t want to get in truffle!”
Rogi may not have been clever, but even so, the potion master doubted she could find these jokes half as funny as her laughter made them out to be. He peered into the cauldron and as he expected, it was empty. The expense and time wasted, the plan foiled and the probable permanent loss of a good cleaning lady all pushed the master beyond the boiling point.
“Why did the mushroom have a lot of friends? Because he was a fungi!” The grinning mushroom bent over and would’ve slapped his knee had he a knee and a hand to slap it with.
The potion master leaned over the mushroom with clenched fists and a terrible scowl that even the mushroom couldn’t mistake.
“How come people don’t like jokes about fungus,” asked the mushroom, his momentary concern giving way to a broad grin. “They need time to grow on you!”
The potion master knocked the cauldron on to the floor and swept an arm across the table, shattering glass containers against a wall. He slammed his fists down and leaned against the table with his head bowed. A tense, silent moment passed before he erupted in maniacal laughter and whirled upon the mushroom.
“Which vegetable does everyone like better than mushrooms?” he demanded.
“Which?” asked the mushroom, his humor returning in a rush of excitement at hearing a new joke.
“Squash,” said the potion master as he drove a fist down upon the mushroom.
TEARS OF THE ANCIENT