Too Late?

It finally happened. Just like that. Without any grand symphony playing for the victorious champion. Without any cheers of praise from peers for their brilliant colleague. It happened alone, amongst broken flasks and half filled vials that lay dripping on their sides. It happened quietly, with the champion sitting, as he always did, in the dusty cobwebbed study of his apothecary. Crumpled pieces of parchment, strewn about his work bench, the only witnesses to his momentous victory. The roaring silence, his only applause.

A tiny vial, filled to the brim with a honey-gold substance, sits proudly in the center of the intricate etching and runic symbols carved into the beautiful wooden work bench. Tears splatter against it’s surface, running into the brilliant gold inlay of the etchings, as they fall free from his eyes.

“I’ve done it,” he rasps, “I’ve finally done it.” Bringing his old frail hands to his face, he weeps heavily into them.

“I said I was better than any of them,” he continues between the heaves of tears, “that their ain’t a malady I can’t cure, nor potion beyond my grasp.”

Standing violently, he shoves his comfortable wooden work chair, knocking it down with a heavy thud, screaming, “an here it be, the most powerful elixir known, life immortal at my fingertips, MY MAGNUM OPUS!”

As he raises his fist to the air with his final declaration, his aging knees buckle and he falls forward. Reaching out, he manages to steady himself against his sturdy workbench, the outburst weakening his already failing vitality. Leaning against the workbench, tears again flow free from the deep sockets of his eyes.

“But, it won’t bring you back to me… I have failed you my son,” he wails, running a wrinkled hand up the side of his worn face, grasping his thinning stark white hair.

“All my boasts of greatness, my hubris of believing them…yet when the hour called for me, I FAILED TO RISE… I FAILED TO SAVE YOU!” His head drops, “I’m sorry, my son,” he cries softly to the empty study.

Leaning upon the bench, shrinking in heavy silence, his gaze soon finds its way to the vile, still displaying itself upon the bench.

“When Uros carried you off with the tides,” he sniffles, “I begged him to take me in your stead, that I would give my life to him for yours… and in the end… it seems my life mattered little to him,” he finishes, extending his hand and flicking the vile. Splashes of the golden liquid sizzle, quickly evaporating, as it spills from its tumbling container.

Giving in to the weight, he crumples to the floor, welcoming the coldness of the stones embrace, and loses himself in a familiar flood of memories. Of times before, when his shop was bright and packed wall to wall with exotics and rarities to rival even the Empires’ own Alchemical Institute. Of when his child’s songs, full of nonsensical words and sounds, would fill the air so sweetly. Back when his smile and laughter would melt even the coldest tide. Of how when his child, tired from the days play, would pull at the mans long brown hair whenever he was carried off to sleep. Lying upon the cold hard stone floor he cuddles close to those memories, ignoring how time has worn them down; how faded the edges are.

A soft knock upon the front door jingles the rusty bell attached above, rousing him from his dream filled slumber.

“Ughhh…,” he groans, joints creaking angrily from having slept on the hard stone. Another knock, this time heavier, jingles the bell again.

“Go away… we’re closed,” he yells towards the knocker, then whispering to himself “An that ain’t about change.”

Blinking his weary eyes heavily, he begins to rise. Stopping, his scraggly bearded face twists as wave after wave of needles wash over his aching back. Sighing, he closes his tear-puffed eyes and strains to lift his thin form off the floor. Groaning from the effort, he manages to lift himself to his feet as a third sharp knock raps against the front door, the bell coughing a loud scratchy chime

“Fine… I’m coming, quit that pounding,” he yells towards the incessant knocker.

Shuffling, he slowly heads to investigate who could possibly be bothering him now. Stretching himself as tall as his worn frame will allow he follows the well-worn path from his study, moving between the barren shelves and dusty jars with scraps of moldy herbs that dot his old shop. Squinting he peers, trying to discern the small form behind the dingy glass of the shops door as he approaches. Coming closer he is able to make out a little girl standing upon her tiptoes, using a small sign hanging from the door as a means of support, herself peering at him through a rubbed spot on the glass. Reaching the door, the old man slides the metal locking bars at the top and bottom of the door, each crying with a slight scream in response. As the door swings open, hinges creaking slightly, the rusty bell rings dully.

“What brings you here little one?” He asks curiously, checking the anger he feels begin to rise in his throat.

Rocking from foot to foot, the little girl nervously pulls at the hem of her lilac dress with her left hand, the white silken petticoat brushing against her knees. Her other hand cradles a stuffed doll, a tiny miniature of her owner, with her own lilac dress to match.

“Can you help me?” she squeaks, “I need to make Ms. Kuri better”.

Trying to blink the grogginess from his eyes, he stares at her in slight bewilderment

“Sorry little one, but I don’t make medicines nor do I take on any patients these days,” he replies. “See,” he continues tapping the sign that the girl had been hanging on.

“Closed” read the big block letters carved into its face, traces of the black paint that had once adorned the letters cling loosely in peeling flakes.

“Ohh…,” she puffs, deflating.

Silence fills the air as the little girl stares up at the old man, the rims of her deep brown eyes tearing up, twin pigtails of raven hair quivering on her shoulders.

“Well then, best be off,” the old man says, giving the girl as polite a smile as he can muster. Turning away he closes the door, just barely catching her squeaky reply.

“Please, no one else’ll help me ”.

Stopping, he hangs heavily on her words, the thin folds of his mottled knuckles whitening around the doors handle. As soft squeaky sobs emanate from the other side of the door, he finally relents, turning again he opens the door.

“Well… I suppose if no other can… shall we?” He asks, gesturing for her to come inside. “I apologize for the state of the place… I can’t rightly tell you the last time someone was in here,” he continues, as the little girl walks through the entry way. Shuffling behind his counter, waves of dust rippling in his wake, he does his best to wipe a spot clean, asking “So, what can I do for you little one”?

“Ms. Kuri is hurt,” the little girl states, locking her red rimmed eyes with his.

“Ohhhhh… well, can Ms. Kuri tell me what’s bothering her?” he asks, his eyes dropping to the little girls doll.

“She says her feet hurt, an she says she can’t do it no more,” the little girl starts, her eyes beginning to wet again, “an she says shes just gonna cut ‘em off an be done with them”.

“Calm, calm now little one, it’s ok,” the old man assures her, then suspecting his error asks, “Why don’t we start from the beginning, hmm”?

“Well, I was with Princess Delilah,” the little girl begins, shaking her doll. “An we were having tea in her castle when we heard Ms. Kuri say her feet hurt to the other maids…,” she stutters, her eyes watering, “… an I don’t want Madam Odellia to make her go away too,” the little girl sputters through her tears.

“Ok… ok… don’t you worry, nothing’ll happen to Ms. Kuri now, ok?” He quickly reassures her.

“Ok…,” she sniffles, rubbing her free arm over her eyes, the other clutching her doll tightly.

“I think I have just the thing here,” he states, then stooping under the counter, the old man rummages through the meager remains muttering to himself, “no… no… to far gone… not fermented enough surprisingly.” Jars and vials klink angrily at his less than graceful touch.

The little girl, having wiped most of her tears away, silently walks her eye’s over the shop, her feet dutifully following suit. Wandering around the empty shelves as the old man continues his musings on the state of his decrepit inventory, she spies something hanging, almost blended within the faded layers of peeling wallpaper behind the old man. Quizzically, she stares at the flat cut of wood examining the painted shapes under the dust.

“Ahhh, here this should do just fine,” he says from under the counter, placing a rectangular bar wrapped in a plain white cotton fabric, thin braided twine loosely knotted to securing it, on the counter. Poking is head up, he catches her quizzical stare and follows it behind him. “What are you… oh… I nearly forgot ‘bout these,” he says, standing to join the little girl in examining them. Then using the loose cuff of his tan linen shirt, he gently brushes away the dust. A small sad smile touches his lips as he caresses smiling faces long gone.

“Why are you smiling?” the little girl asks, her head tilting slightly to the side.

“What?” the old man retorts, turning around.

“Why are you smiling?” she says pointing to the painted wooden panel, “Madam Odellia says those’re important, and that we need to look right”.

“Well…,” the old man begins, “Madam Odellia is correct in that portraits are important”. Turning again, he lifts his hands carefully clearing the remains of any dust away, “but, I believe important things such as this are for us to remember… and if I am to do so, then I say let it be a happy one,” he finishes triumphantly, turning on his heels.

“Ohhhh…”says the little girl, her sparkling eyes wide.

“Well then… I suppose you should be getting this back to Ms. Kuri now…” he says, rubbing back of his slightly humped neck.

“Oh, ya,” the little girl says, quickly grabbing the medicine off the counter, and begins toward the door.

“Hold a moment little one,” he calls after her, making her pause, “Be sure to tell Ms. Kuri to rub it on the bottoms of her feet before the days start, an she’ll be set for the day.”

“Thank you, sir,” the little girl says.

“No… thank you, Miss?” he asks.

“Oh,” she quickly snaps, jolting as much from the sudden remembrance of skipped introductions, as from the usual stinging sensation that often accompanies such forgetfulness.

“Miss Jueviet Odellia, pleased to meet you,” she says with a little curtsy.

“Mr. Mustello, and the pleasure is mine,” he replies, bowing his head slightly.

Jueviet smiles, turns and starts again for the door. Following her to the door, the old man couldn’t help but smile at the joyous spring that accompanies her every little skip.

Swinging the door open, wooden sign thumping hard against it, Jueviet runs out, saying “Thank you, again,” waving as she skips down the cobbled stone path.

Holding the door open, the old man notices the sign, having come to rest from its sudden disruption, now read open. Reaching to return the closed sign to its vigil, when he stops. Hesitating, he holds his hand in the air, fingertips just brushing the edges of the wooden sign.

“Might be that she’ll need more,” he says to the empty air. With a sigh he lets his hand fall away from the sign. “An I best be sure I’m around when she does,” he says closing the door, bell ringing.