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deemoyza(Originally posted October 5, 2018)
The Spellcaster's Wife | 838 words | Fantasy
Her approach is heralded by an uneven gait, one foot dragging slightly in the gravel of the roadbed, and by the clinking of the multitude of little bottles she carries. Not long afterward, she crests the horizon, a woman who is not really old but whose body has been broken down before its time, carrying a large box made of varnished wood with gold latches, an ill-tempered dog with a mangy black coat at her heels.
She had a name, once, but it has long fallen into disuse, even by her, and thus been forgotten. Instead, those who recognize her – and they are few, for she is prudent about keeping always on the move – call her only the Spellcaster’s Wife. In so doing, they refer to the great magician of the age, Horatio Cain.
Talented and handsome, with hair so dark it shone blue, Horatio had as strong a draw toward the company of women as he did toward his magic. He met his wife while she mixed potions for a traveling medicine man, and, seeing she was docile and plain and not likely to make a fuss while she made his dinner and washed his clothes and while he spent evening after evening with a bevy of willing beauties, he married her. But, one day, while practicing for a show, something went horribly wrong, and Horatio magicked himself out of existence.
Her source of income gone, his wife was run from their home by the landlord, and learned to survive on the road, selling her potions in the towns she passed through.
And so it was today, when she settled near a stump beneath an old tree and set her box atop the stump, opening it to reveal row after row of tiny bottles filled with colorful liquids and labeled such wondrous things as "Love," "Confidence," "Power," and "Wealth." In front of the box, she propped a hand-painted sign, faded by the sun and warped by the rain, that read simply, "Take what you need."
The people who passed did not require persuading. They stood over the display and selected with dainty and discerning fingers that which they believed they needed most. Occasionally, one or two people would even deign to speak to her.
"I have been lonely too long. I must have love or I shall perish."
"I want beauty and youth to last my whole life through."
"I’ve traveled far in order to seize the throne for myself. Having the power in advance of the throne would be most helpful."
To each, she replied simply, "Take what you need."
She would not provide potions to the meek and the orphaned, however, instead sending them away with a hunk of bread or a piece of sweet fruit, and the admonishment that what is true and good can never be acquired so easily.
As people came and went, the woman kept her eye on a little bottle of clear blue liquid in the back row and noticed how people passed over it time and again. She was saddened by this, but not surprised; after all, no one needs humility. Everyone simply assumes they already have it, conferring upon themselves a virtue absent proper judgment. And just as well, for as beautiful as it looked, the potion was incredibly bitter. Rare was the person who had both chosen this potion and been able to drink it all. But as the days stretched on, the blue became clouded and dark, then finally, thick and black as pitch.
Around this time, familiar faces returned. They each had tales of woe to share, of loves gone sour, treasures lost, lands conquered. They called her a fraud, a trickster, a witch. And each time, she offered them the antidote. A single sip, she said, and their lives would be restored to order. But each time she offered them the dark and curdled brew, they turned their faces away, claiming it was nothing but poison.
And so, it was time to move on. She had provoked ire and wrath once again, and before she felt the consequences of this, she packed her supplies and made ready. She kept the fearsome bottle out, however, and uncorked it and offered it to the dog. The dog growled and backed away, shedding another clump of dark hair, which shone blue in the afternoon sunlight.
"You still refuse, eh?" the woman said. "You won’t admit that you are in your current predicament through no one’s fault but your own." She shrugged and downed the potion, grimacing and shaking her head at the taste. "We mustn’t let things go to waste. Besides, it’s always prudent to preemptively protect oneself against the sicknesses of the soul, wouldn’t you agree?"
The dog growled again.
The woman sighed and collected her belongings, then called to the dog. "Come, Horatio. I wish to be far from this town by nightfall. And I do wish one day you’d simply drink your medicine. You’re an eyesore in that state, and terribly smelly, to boot!"
Her approach is heralded by an uneven gait, one foot dragging slightly in the gravel of the roadbed, and by the clinking of the multitude of little bottles she carries. Not long afterward, she crests the horizon, a woman who is not really old but whose body has been broken down before its time, carrying a large box made of varnished wood with gold latches, an ill-tempered dog with a mangy black coat at her heels.
She had a name, once, but it has long fallen into disuse, even by her, and thus been forgotten. Instead, those who recognize her – and they are few, for she is prudent about keeping always on the move – call her only the Spellcaster’s Wife. In so doing, they refer to the great magician of the age, Horatio Cain.
Talented and handsome, with hair so dark it shone blue, Horatio had as strong a draw toward the company of women as he did toward his magic. He met his wife while she mixed potions for a traveling medicine man, and, seeing she was docile and plain and not likely to make a fuss while she made his dinner and washed his clothes and while he spent evening after evening with a bevy of willing beauties, he married her. But, one day, while practicing for a show, something went horribly wrong, and Horatio magicked himself out of existence.
Her source of income gone, his wife was run from their home by the landlord, and learned to survive on the road, selling her potions in the towns she passed through.
And so it was today, when she settled near a stump beneath an old tree and set her box atop the stump, opening it to reveal row after row of tiny bottles filled with colorful liquids and labeled such wondrous things as "Love," "Confidence," "Power," and "Wealth." In front of the box, she propped a hand-painted sign, faded by the sun and warped by the rain, that read simply, "Take what you need."
The people who passed did not require persuading. They stood over the display and selected with dainty and discerning fingers that which they believed they needed most. Occasionally, one or two people would even deign to speak to her.
"I have been lonely too long. I must have love or I shall perish."
"I want beauty and youth to last my whole life through."
"I’ve traveled far in order to seize the throne for myself. Having the power in advance of the throne would be most helpful."
To each, she replied simply, "Take what you need."
She would not provide potions to the meek and the orphaned, however, instead sending them away with a hunk of bread or a piece of sweet fruit, and the admonishment that what is true and good can never be acquired so easily.
As people came and went, the woman kept her eye on a little bottle of clear blue liquid in the back row and noticed how people passed over it time and again. She was saddened by this, but not surprised; after all, no one needs humility. Everyone simply assumes they already have it, conferring upon themselves a virtue absent proper judgment. And just as well, for as beautiful as it looked, the potion was incredibly bitter. Rare was the person who had both chosen this potion and been able to drink it all. But as the days stretched on, the blue became clouded and dark, then finally, thick and black as pitch.
Around this time, familiar faces returned. They each had tales of woe to share, of loves gone sour, treasures lost, lands conquered. They called her a fraud, a trickster, a witch. And each time, she offered them the antidote. A single sip, she said, and their lives would be restored to order. But each time she offered them the dark and curdled brew, they turned their faces away, claiming it was nothing but poison.
And so, it was time to move on. She had provoked ire and wrath once again, and before she felt the consequences of this, she packed her supplies and made ready. She kept the fearsome bottle out, however, and uncorked it and offered it to the dog. The dog growled and backed away, shedding another clump of dark hair, which shone blue in the afternoon sunlight.
"You still refuse, eh?" the woman said. "You won’t admit that you are in your current predicament through no one’s fault but your own." She shrugged and downed the potion, grimacing and shaking her head at the taste. "We mustn’t let things go to waste. Besides, it’s always prudent to preemptively protect oneself against the sicknesses of the soul, wouldn’t you agree?"
The dog growled again.
The woman sighed and collected her belongings, then called to the dog. "Come, Horatio. I wish to be far from this town by nightfall. And I do wish one day you’d simply drink your medicine. You’re an eyesore in that state, and terribly smelly, to boot!"
