The Transparency Tonic

by Frank L. Cole

  “Be careful about what you brew,” Gordy’s mom instructed. “Nothing volatile or complicated.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Stits,” Max said, his cupped hands full of cheese. “We’re strictly brewing Dismemberment Potions tonight.”

  “Your family’s really fun.” Adilene hefted her backpack onto the table, and Gordy could hear what sounded like aluminum clinking within. “If I threw even a single pea at the dinner table, my mom would swat me with her oven mitt.”

  Gordy grinned. They were fun, Isaac and Jessica included. He heard the family van pull out of the garage and onto the road, leaving the trio alone to brew. “What did you bring?” he asked her.

  “Uh, well . . .” She fretted with the zipper. “Esto es embarazoso. I thought maybe you could give us a lesson.” She opened her backpack and several containers toppled out. Adilene had brought two metal cauldrons, an electric hot plate, and a small assortment of vials and bottles. “I have my own supplies so you don’t have to use any of yours.” Adilene looked away awkwardly, but then scowled at Max, who was making faces at her. “Quiet, Maxwell! Don’t tell me you’re not interested to try it yourself.”

  “I’ve already brewed hundreds of potions with Gordy,” Max said smugly.

  “Whatever,” she snapped. “It’s just that Gordy’s always the one making things, and I thought it would be neat if I tried to do it myself, while you watch.”

  Gordy didn’t think it would work. Mixing potions wasn’t exactly like following a recipe for brownies. If you messed up the ingredients a little, the brownies might not end up the way they were intended, but they’d still be food, more or less. With potion making, there were actions and sounds and ambiance in addition to the ingredients. Certain mixtures required a good scolding while adding ingredients, while others needed the cauldron to be tipped on its side and tickled on its underbelly to produce the desired results. But even following the specific instructions wasn’t enough. There was no good way to describe it, but Elixirists and Drams, such as Gordy, had something else about them that made the potion work. Maybe it was magic, or maybe it was just the necessary skill inherent within them. Just as Gordy lacked the natural balance to walk a tightrope, he suspected Max and Adilene lacked the knack for concocting. But how could he ever say that to his friends?

  “Okay,” Gordy agreed. There seemed to be no harm in trying, and he walked to the bookcase to select a recipe manual.

  He dragged his finger along the spines of his mother’s tomes. Some were leather-bound and smelled ancient, while others were spiral-bound notebooks with multicolored tabs protruding from the edges. Gordy considered going to his room to grab his personal potion journal from beneath his mattress, but as he started to turn away from the shelf, a small, weathered book caught his eye. It had been wedged between two three-ring binders with plastic sheet protectors, but Gordy recognized it at once. It was his Grandpa Mezzarix’s potion journal, the one he had given Gordy as a gift when he and his mom had visited Greenland several months ago. Directly after arriving home from the trip, Gordy’s mom had confiscated the journal for safekeeping. Nothing his grandpa had concocted over the past twelve years would have been suitable for a Dram to brew, she’d told Gordy.

  He carefully untucked the book from its hiding place and removed the elastic band from off the edges.

  Gordy flipped the journal open to the first page and began to read.

  Steeped lily of the valley, heated to a simmer on smoked wormwood.

  Seven durian seeds caterwauled upon by an arctic wolf dropped into settling mixture.

  Slime from a zombie snail brushed around the lip of a limestone cauldron.

  Stir with the severed horn of a rhinoceros beetle.

  While keeping thoughts only upon the throat of your intended victim, bring to a staggering boil and add monkshood petals.

  Allow to percolate before smothering with the tanned hide of an ibex.

  Such weird instructions. Weird even for an Elixirist. The recipe had no title or explanation at the top of the page, but near the bottom, written with almost unreadable penmanship, were two words.

  Throttling Agony

  “Did you forget about us?” Max hollered, and Gordy snapped the book shut.

  The journal was a stark reminder of how dangerous his grandfather was, even while safely exiled thousands of miles away. There was no chance Gordy would be brewing anything from those pages anytime soon.

  Half an hour later, Adilene’s aluminum cauldron drummed its legs angrily against the countertop. She had clamped it tight with Gordy’s brass holder, but the heat from the electric hot plate had stirred the metal bowl into a frenzy.

  “You’re absolutely one hundred percent sure I’m doing this correctly?” Adilene’s voice carried the same rhythm as her dancing cauldron. “I’m not missing any ingredients?”

  “As far as I can tell,” Gordy said, but her potion didn’t look correct. At this point during the mixing phase, the liquid should’ve settled to a gentle slosh in the cauldron, with the distinct color and consistency of cotton candy. Adilene was trying to make a Slovenian Sottusopra Serum that would make everything look right-side up while standing on one’s head. She had recently taken up gymnastics and struggled to keep from getting dizzy during all her required tumbling.

  “What about mine?” Max was having even less success than Adilene. The contents of his cauldron, a bubbling mass of brownish goop, recoiled as each drop of liquid from the test tube made contact.

  Suddenly, Max’s cauldron leaped across the table, gobbling up an empty test tube like a greedy bullfrog. Every bit of his potion sizzled against the countertop, and Gordy patted his friend on the shoulder consolingly and handed him a roll of paper towels.

  “You rotten, no good . . .” Max snarled. His potion was supposed to have been a Decurdler. “I’ll never win a milk-guzzling challenge with this worthless slop!”

  It was what Gordy had expected. Max had followed the directions to the letter, but it hadn’t worked. Adilene’s brew, however, had started to simmer, which was promising.

  Gordy turned his attention fully onto Adilene’s mixture. “Not bad. Keep stirring slowly.”

  Max had already moved on from his failed brewing attempt and crouched close to a container holding a mammoth tarantula. He tapped something against the glass. The arachnid tucked its legs in more and more tightly with each annoying tap.

  “What is that?” Gordy asked, glancing distractedly at Max.

  “It’s my lucky rock,” Max explained, holding up some sort of circular stone. “Touch it! It feels different, doesn’t it?”

  Gordy touched the onyx-colored stone with his finger. It had a smooth texture, light and airy. He felt if he pressed hard enough, his finger might pass through it. Yet the stone made a sharp sound as Max continually whacked it against the glass terrarium.

  “Where did you find it?” Adilene asked, keeping her eyes glued to her constant stirring.

  Max grinned. “Under my shoes last Friday when we were at B.R.E.W. Headquarters. I think it’s an Elixirist artifact.”

  Gordy blinked and turned away from Adilene. “You found that on the ground at B.R.E.W.? You have to give it back.”

  “No way, man. It’s my souvenir.” Max squeezed the rock in his fist. “It’s no different than taking rocks from a National Park.”

  “That’s actually illegal,” Adilene said. “You can get fined for that.”

  Max frowned at Adilene and slipped the stone back into his pocket. “Let them try. Besides, Rivera, it’s your fault I found it to begin with. If you hadn’t—”

  “I didn’t push you, Maxwell,” she interjected, her voice even. Adilene’s eyes flickered up momentarily from her mixing. “I wish you’d stop saying that.” Max opened his mouth to protest, but Adilene quieted him with a threatening finger. “I think it’s ready.” She pulled back from the cauldron
to allow Gordy a clear line of sight.

  “Wow!” It actually looked right. Perfect color and consistency.

  “How do we know for sure?” she asked eagerly. “Without, you know, drinking it, of course.”

  Gordy crossed the room and opened a cabinet. He removed a bottle of Detection Spray and brought it back to the workstation. He hadn’t expected to use it, and he could tell by Adilene’s giddiness that she was thrilled with her accomplishment.

  “Maybe everyone should back away from the counter while I spray it,” Gordy instructed. “Just in case.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” Max grumbled, turning up his nose at Adilene’s cauldron.

  “Don’t be a poor sport, Maxwell,” Adilene chided. “I worked really hard on this.”

  “And what did I do?” he asked. “Pick my nose the whole time?”

  “Maybe.” She playfully kicked Max’s shoe.

  Gordy applied a generous dose of the Detection Spray across the surface of the cauldron. If it worked, it would crackle like rice cereal. He stepped back and felt Adilene’s trembling hands squeeze around his arm. He could hear her breathing, both hopeful and nervous, and he glanced at Max, who looked bummed.

  Then they waited. A few seconds ticked away, then several more, then a full minute slipped past. No popping or fizzing. No indicators that Adilene had brewed a successful Sottusopra Serum. When two minutes had elapsed and Gordy had resprayed the potion to no avail, Adilene released a disappointed sigh.

  “Oh well,” she said, crestfallen. “At least I came close, right?”

  “That’s right,” Gordy agreed. “It was almost perfect.”

  “If you look at it that way, then so was mine,” Max said.

  Adilene smiled at Max. “I think yours was perfect too. We just need to practice more.” Despite her failed attempt, Adilene was as chipper as ever as she cleaned her workstation. She returned her containers and flasks to her bag, as well as several pages of scribbled notes she had taken that evening.

  “I’m so excited!” Adilene said as Gordy walked her to the door. “Do you think there’s a chance I could become an actual Dram like you?”

  “I guess it’s possible.” But from everything Gordy had been taught, Adilene was too old to show the signs of a potion master. Judging by her potion, she seemed more skilled than most second-year Drams, even though she wasn’t one herself and would likely never become one. Then again, after tonight’s near triumph in the lab, maybe one day she would.

  The wards surrounding the opulent hotel were some of the strongest Mezzarix had ever felt outside of his cave in Greenland. He could sense a bending in the air, as if the protective potions were made of a solid substance, shielding the outside world from peeking through a crystalline window or striding into the immaculate lobby unannounced.

  “Good morning! Welcome to the Maestoso, Mr. Rook,” said a woman behind the receptionist counter, smartly dressed in a velvety blazer.

  Morning? Mezzarix glanced back through the lobby door. The sky had a pinkish hue to it, as if it couldn’t decide what time it wanted to be. Mezzarix supposed it was morning now, though. The long flight had messed with his internal clock.

  “Your room is all prepared for you. May we assist you with your luggage?” The woman gestured to a bellhop in a tasseled hat, who stood at the ready beside the counter.

  Mezzarix frowned at her and pulled his knapsack closer to his chest. It had been more than a decade since he had seen the inside of any building, let alone one with bellhops and sumptuously baked cookies steaming on the counter. Out in the open, he felt exposed. Chilly air nipped at his neck from an overhead vent. Almost thirteen years in the frigid temperatures of upper Greenland, yet this was the first instance he could recall actually shivering.

  “Don’t be so stiff, friend,” Ravian McFarland whispered from behind Mezzarix. “The staff have all been Blotched. Every last one of them.” He reached across the counter and snatched several cookies from the plate, shoving one into his mouth. Ravian licked each of his fingers directly in the receptionist’s face, though she did nothing but smile in response. “Should you request it, this woman would personally taste-test every one of your vials in that ridiculous bag of yours.”

  Mezzarix scowled and looked down at his vinyl knapsack. Aside from a few potions he had brewed aboard the flight, it contained two jars of a special murky, gray liquid mixed with pieces of stone taken from his cave back in Greenland. Mezzarix didn’t care if every member of the hotel’s staff had been placed under the mind control of Ravian’s Blotching potions. No one would be relieving him of his bag.

  “Can we get on with this?” Mezzarix asked. It had been a long flight from Sermersooq, and with his threadbare tuxedo, bare feet, and ratted mane of hair, Mezzarix looked more out of place than a six-foot-tall toad. They were in B.R.E.W. territory now, and he suspected there were hundreds, if not thousands, of Elixirists residing in the bustling town.

  “Of course!” Ravian crammed another cookie into his mouth, dribbling crumbs. “My dear, would you mind telling us where the meeting will be held this evening?”

  The woman smiled. “It would be my pleasure. Ms. Bimini is waiting with the rest of your associates in the Beekman conference room.”

  Ravian nodded and led Mezzarix to the elevators.

  A banquet table laden with desserts awaited them beyond the door of the Beekman Room. Mezzarix couldn’t help but wistfully eyeball the spread of cream-topped delicacies, a far cry from his usual meals of cave crickets and fricasseed bat. But unlike Ravian, who fell upon the table like a ravenous wolf, scarfing down pastries three at a time, Mezzarix wasn’t about to let his guard down. He clutched his bag and focused his attention to the circle of chairs at the center of the room—chairs occupied by a couple of familiar faces.

  “Where did you dredge up such an awful sight, Ravian?” a middle-aged woman bellowed in a resonating voice. She was both portly and tall, with stout legs that she extended into the center of the circle. She wore a blue jumpsuit adorned by several gold necklaces, which matched her gold-capped front teeth. Her hair, a mess of tightly wound curls, bounced when she spoke, and upon seeing Mezzarix, she folded her arms at her chest and spat an orangish wad onto the floor next to her seat. The woman was just as Mezzarix had remembered her from the last time he had seen her, thirteen years ago. Right down to the laceless white sneakers.

  “Lolly Gittens,” Mezzarix said. He hadn’t planned on showing any emotion during this meeting. Keeping his expressions unreadable would make it easier to negotiate his terms. But one didn’t simply lay eyes upon Lolly Gittens and avoid a scowl. “I see that you’ve managed to avoid capture despite looking like a member of an eighties rap group.”

  “I know how to blend in.” Lolly cracked her knuckles, and it sounded like a strand of exploding firecrackers. “You remember my husband, Walsh, don’t you?” She nodded to the man seated across from her.

  “How could I forget?” Mezzarix asked.

  Though not as tall or as thick as his wife, Walsh was still massive in his own way, and he had several gold chains as well, sparkling against his white tank top. Gray-haired with sunken cheeks and bulging eyes, Walsh had the unfortunate appearance of someone who had just swallowed a carton of rotten eggs. Mezzarix had worked with the Gittens before, and they were difficult to control, often preferring brutish methods as opposed to using their limited wit in battle.

  “I have heard wonderful things about you, sir,” said an elderly woman seated in one of the remaining chairs, staring up at Mezzarix with wonder. Her face was pinched with deep wrinkles, but her eyes twinkled with an almost lavender glow. “Your friends have told me about how you were once the most esteemed Elixirist in all the world.” The woman’s gentle voice held an odd accent, one Mezzarix couldn’t readily place. “But then you disappeared.”

  “You must be Ms. Bimini.” Mezzarix offered a slight bow.
“Ravian has told me very little about you, but that has always been his way. Pointlessly secretive.”

  “Secrecy is all I have left in my ancient years.” Ms. Bimini steepled her fingers, fixing Mezzarix with a piercing gaze. “Tell me, what are your desires? To become greatest amongst Elixirists? Powerful beyond comprehension?”

  Mezzarix gazed around the room. Aside from the dessert table, there were also several brewing workstations with heating elements, cauldrons, and an expansive display of ingredients. The sight of it almost made him salivate.

  “I have little on my wish list,” he said, returning his attention to her. “A quiet place to brew and to be at peace.”

  Ms. Bimini clicked her tongue in disbelief. “But Ravian assures me that you have lofty aspirations to rid the world of order and thrust it into chaos.” Her lips curled into a smile.

  Mezzarix’s eyes darkened. “Well, there is that. I do struggle when the corrupted oppress the innocent.”

  “The noble goals of a misunderstood master! What about treasure?” she asked. “I can provide you with all the treasure you could ever desire. Is it your wish to hoard valuables?”

  “Do I look like someone who needs treasure?” Mezzarix considered living above one’s means as a sign of weakness. Even before his banishment, the Rooks had always resided in meager conditions. Money meant nothing.

  Ms. Bimini clapped her hands and filled the room with rich laughter. “I like you, and I can see us prospering together in a wonderful partnership.”

  “Partnership?” Mezzarix raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t agreed to anything. I’m not even clear on what you want, nor am I convinced you have the means to deliver on any of your promises. And since I don’t have much time to stand here and banter with you, perhaps we should cut the casual niceties and get to the point of this meeting.”

  Ms. Bimini puckered her lips. And then she vanished. It happened so suddenly, Mezzarix could only suck in a breath. He saw nothing that would have caused such an abrupt disappearance. Her chair never moved, and from what he could tell, she hadn’t swallowed any concoction. Mezzarix tried not to look awestruck, but he was afraid it was obvious as he searched the room for the disappearing woman.