Feisty Repartee

The Elixir

Shuffling unsteadily, Constance made her way down the well worn dirt path as her woven leather bag dragged behind her. Despite the wobble and unnatural bend to her spine, the old bunioned feet carried her between the sprawling rows of herbs and vines she had meticulously cultivated for decades. She stopped often to allow the gnarled fingers to pinch a bit of this or pull a sprig of that. With each selection she brought it lovingly to her nose to drink in the scent of its freshness. While her eyes had long grown dim and her body creaked and popped with age, her sense of smell and the machinations of her mind remained sharp.

Once she had shopped the garden, she clucked her tongue and a smoky grey cat emerged from the brush and trained his iridescent green eyes upon her.

“Mortimer,” she addressed him, "essence of bat, old friend, and newt’s breath, if you please.”

Turning to his task, he silently disappeared as the long shadows of the day disappeared into the darkness of dusk. The gentle caress of the afternoon breeze had already changed to stinging little slaps.

“Ah,” she smiled to herself, “the Father of Darkness suspects a change may be before him.”

Shuffling with greater urgency, she collected fresh water from the well and returned home. There she stoked the fire in the massive hearth which stretched across one entire wall of her small mud abode. Emptying the leather bag on to the wooden table, she noticed faithful cat had left her a baby bat under an overturned glass. Quivering in shock, it bared its tiny razor-like teeth and intently watched her with large luminous eyes.

Picking up a glass vial, she cooed to the small creature: “All is well, poppet, no harm will come to you. I just require a bit of a donation.” With gentle hands she released the bat from his makeshift cage and cupped him in one hand. With the vial in the other, she stroked his abdomen with the back of a knuckle, then ever so slightly squeezed the fragile body. Her efforts were rewarded with a vial of sharp smelling, dark colored substance.

She twitched with satisfaction, “Oh, you are a lovely creature.” Reaching high above one of the windows, she placed him gently on a rafter before asserting: “Little fellow, you are free to stay or go, as you please. You have been generous with me, should have need of me, I am in your debt.”

The dark eyes moved from her to survey the surroundings from this new vantage. While small, the house was neatly appointed and all the windows were open. The rafters afforded shadows for darkness and all tension of threat had been removed. The bat settled in to further consider his options comfortably.

Her attentions re-directed, Constance set a special copper pot to boil and carefully began to fill it with the results of the day’s harvest. Soon the heady scent of power began to permeate the tiny room.

Standing on the outskirts of the forest which surrounded the dreaded swamp, a pair of horses swished their tails and nervously sniffed the cold and foggy air.

“It’s a fool’s errand, old man. You’ll not make it out intact, if alive.” The guide warned as he snatched a pair of reins from the tall thin man with the long and wiry beard.

“God has forsaken all who have dared enter that bit o' hell on earth,” he continued as he pulled the long knotted staff from a saddle and thrust it toward the older man.

Reaching into the deep folds of his dark robe, the ancient one extracted a gold coin and absently tossed it behind him. His eyes were blue and clouded with age, but they remained focused as he continued to silently gather the forces at his disposal to meet the maelstrom he knew would be before him.

Turning from the boiling mixture, the woman found Mortimer sitting on the table. Beneath one paw was a squirming nude little newt. With delight she squealed: “My dear Morty, you are such a gem!”

Gently scooping the amphibian into her hands she eyed him happily. “Just a breath, little one, that is all I require from you and you will be on your way.”

“Almost there, Morty, a bit more stirring, a breath from our little friend, and the stroke of the midnight hour, then our tasks shall be done.”

From the table the agile cat jumped to the floor and made his lazy way onto the rug before the fire. A long stretch and a flick or two of his tail and he relaxed into a nap.

“Silly cat,” she mumbled as she coaxed a breath from the newt into yet another vial. Once corked, she slipped it into a pocket and released the creature onto a window sill.

Checking the copper pot, she noted the mixture had cooked down. With a thick towel she cupped it between her hands and poured the contents through a sieve and collected what liquid remained into two glass orbs.

Into one she released the newt’s breath and sealed the glass. In the other, she contained a breath of her own before sealing it, as well.

Between her thumbs and forefingers, she held them up to the light and gazed incredulously from one to the other. So intense was her scrutiny, she was transported outside the confines of her venerable body. She could hear the beat of her heart pounding wildly, then fade just as the clock behind her began to strike the hour.

“Dong, dong, dong.”

Her pulse began to slow.

“Dong, dong, dong.”

The room began to spin.

“Dong, dong, dong.”

A black void opened in the hearth behind the fire.

“Dong.”

The flames of the fire were sucked into the darkness.

“Dong.”

Mortimer leapt from the rug just as it, too disappeared into the abyss.

“D...”

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