The Apothecary's Curse

by Barbara Barnett

  “Oh, Simon!” she said, her gaze fixed upon something outside his ability to perceive. “Do not look so grim and stodgy! Come, play with us. We’re having a walk beneath Mama’s heather trees—they are so full of flower, and the fairies dance within their branches as they do in the lavender. Can you not see them? Come! Hurry, or we shall lose sight of them!” Blindly, her hands reached out toward him, pulling at his sleeve.

  “Please my love, there will be time enough for that, but you need to heed me now.” Slowly he removed the stopper; this time, the phial did not heat as it had done before.

  He filled the attached dropper, the liquid an oily amber. “I need only give you a small amount. Do you understand me?” She nodded, but was she acknowledging him or someone only she could see?

  Sucking in a breath, Simon slipped the dropper between Sophie’s closed lips and released the medicine in the exact amount indicated in Erceldoune’s instructions. “Come, my darling, rest easy against my chest.” He settled himself in beside her, nestling her in the crook of his neck.

  “Yes, Simon. Much better. Please stay with me.”

  Simon blinked in surprise. Was it possible that Erceldoune’s elixir had begun to work so quickly? Had it chased away her delirium? “I shall. Of course I shall.” He forced hope back to the far reaches of his consciousness, until it was faint and hidden away . . . until he knew for certain.

  “My sister Anna, did I imagine her here with us just now?”

  Simon nodded into her hair, kissing it. “Yes, my love. I—” All she needed now was to sleep. Just sleep. “Hush now. Now let us rest, beloved, both of us, and you shall be much improved when we waken.”

  Finally, he turned to Mrs. McRory. “I believe we may have seen the worst of it. Please take your leave now and rest whilst you might. I shall call you when she awakens. There will be much to do.”

  “Your hand sir?”

  Simon had nearly forgotten. The reminder of it once again started up the throbbing. “It is of no matter, a small scrape; I shall attend to it later.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Mrs. McRory closed the door to the boudoir, and Simon was relieved to finally hear her slow, plodding footfalls on the stairs.

  The fading light of late afternoon painted the walls in flame, doused as evening’s darkness descended. The dying embers cast long, dull shadows as Simon waited. Seconds became minutes, a half hour. Nothing—a good or bad sign, he knew not. Just nothing. Sophie’s light breath upon his arm tickled, and he savored each tingle as if it were the most precious caress, lulling him to sleep.

  And then she tensed, arms splayed, back stiff, arched like a bow—the unexpected movement nearly knocking him to the floor. The suddenness of it caught him off his guard; he recoiled, dazed by the sudden turn. Then just as abruptly, she fell backward, no longer rigid, but convulsing, her movements erratic as her limbs shuddered and kicked. Drawing a candle near, he saw it: spittle gathered at the corner of her mouth foaming and pink in the dim light.

  Realization dawned as he spied the cobalt phial on the night table. This was poison’s signature, confirmed as convulsions wracked her petite frame.

  “My God, Sophie. No. Please, dear God, no!” Leaping upon the mattress, he tried to still her. “Please, Sophie, stop. Stop!” A string of desperate curses intermingled with prayer—to God, to the devil, to anyone and anything that might stop the relentless havoc of bone and flesh. She fought with the bedcovers and with him, and he only hoped the blankets would twist about her enough to tame her chaotic movements.

  He climbed astride her, arms bracing her shoulders in a feeble attempt to quell her anguish—and his own. He comprehended too well poison’s progression to keep hold even a thread of hope. The pink spittle darkened to red-black, a steady stream down her chin, staining the bed, staining his shirt.

  “Do not leave me, Sophie. Do not! Do not—” An inarticulate sob swelled from deep within his chest. “Please awaken, my princess. Please do not leave me alone. Please—”

  And then her shuddering stilled, and she lay finally quiet beneath him. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face, mingling with her blood and his tears. Panting from exertion, he wiped his face with cool water from the bedside ewer as he tried to calm his breathing. At least Sophie was quiet now, asleep once again.

  Mrs. McRory entered the room without knocking, a candle in hand. “Dr. Bell!” She crept to his side as Simon released a long breath. His housekeeper would make too much of his bedraggled appearance, try to coax him downstairs to dine now that Sophie was resting.

  Her fingers curled about his upper arm like a vise. He patted her hand, his voice gentle. “There, there, Mrs. McRory. You see? She’s fallen back to sleep. All will be right when she wakens.”

  “No, sir, I think—”

  Simon’s heart stopped as his gaze fell upon Sophie’s ashen face—and he died inside.

  CHICAGO’S NORTH SHORE, PRESENT DAY

  CHAPTER 10

  Gaelan slammed the front door of his flat, rattling the blinds along with what remained of his composure. The air was stale, a smothering fug of cigarette smoke and old paper. Letting his battered leather rucksack drop to the parquet tiles, he collapsed into deep cushions of a well-worn sofa.

  Visits with Simon Bell were never easy. And with a line on the ouroboros book, Bell would be relentless in its pursuit until he’d be once again disappointed. Gaelan appreciated Bell’s singularity of purpose, which lasted long past any hope Gaelan possessed of ever locating it. Gaelan had given up; Simon never had.

  And what then, if the book should actually be found? Gaelan recalled very little of it. The irony being that every other horrifying detail of his life plagued him in high relief. They invaded his dreams, his waking hours as well. Unexpected flashes of his past would bleed into his vision at inopportune moments, obstinate, defying every attempt to thrust it all from his mind. And it had gotten much worse these past few days.

  He could still visualize the cover of the book; how could he not? But all detail inside was in perpetual shadow, images, writing, color . . . all a blur. And this he had never disclosed to Simon. How could he hope to reverse what he no longer understood?

  Gaelan punched a button on the remote control, and a large flat-panel screen illuminated on the far wall, painting it with a mural of the cosmos: constellations, planets, stars near and distant. Tubular Bells enwrapped him in a sedative soundscape, transporting him far from the turmoil of his life.

  Gaelan never considered immortality quite the calamity Simon had done all these years. What extraordinary events he had witnessed—brilliant. Motor cars and space exploration, electricity and computers, Mozart and Billy Bragg. And Mike Oldfield. Television and video games were magic beyond the wild imaginings of his mortal era. Simon was fixated on his never-ending quest to die. To be with his beloved Sophie. What a terrible waste of an extraordinary life—a rich life, and a comfortable life. A hell of a lot more comfortable than his own.

  If they managed to locate the ouroboros book—and he could find in it a way to reverse their immortality—would Gaelan choose to end his life? He’d considered the question from time to time when living had grown especially unbearable. But it was a useless game; the book was lost forever.

  And now . . . those fucking diaries. Of course fucking Dr. Handley would have documented every last experiment, every scream, every cut, every . . . Memories of Handley were always too near the surface, ever vivid, but more or less consigned to the land of dreams. But now . . .

  The distant snap of breaking bone echoed in Gaelan’s ear, a harbinger; he braced himself for the attack of images sure to follow, as once again he was forced to relive it. That he knew it was coming, and that it wasn’t real, made little difference as he watched the index finger fall away from his left hand, severed. Gaelan blinked hard, and the image disintegrated, leaving him breathless and raw.

  Dear God, my name! What if that was in Handley’s diaries as well? He’d never thought to change it, as he’d
moved place to place, never thought it a necessity.

  Gaelan retched, and the taste of bile and cigarette smoke rose along his esophagus; he reached the bathroom just in time to lose the scant contents of his stomach. Sinking to the floor, knees drawn to his chin, he rested his head on the cool porcelain of the toilet, wondering if there was a point to leaving the dark comfort of the tile.

  Restless, he hauled himself from the floor unsteadily. He should read it again, that article; perhaps he’d misread the time or the place—perhaps he had imagined the entire thing. It wouldn’t be the first time his imagination had led him astray.

  Pushing the mop of hair from his forehead, he sat at a large, cluttered antique desk and opened his MacBook. The article immediately popped into view:

  In the midst of a major renovation of the Imperial War Museum at Southwark, workers unearthed a set of diaries in an underground section of the building untouched since it was transformed from Bethlem Royal Hospital (Bedlam) into the museum that now stands in its place. It is believed a physician there maintained the diaries, a so-called “mad doctor”—a sort of proto-psychiatrist—under whose care mentally ill patients apparently suffered many indignities, including possible torture. The finding is important documentary evidence of a time not so distant, when mental illness was treated, not as disease, but with lurid curiosity, even by those calling themselves medical practitioners.

  In a surprise turn, the documents and other artifacts have been given over to a British medical research concern for study. It is unofficially reported that the firm, whose name was not disclosed, have contributed a large donation to the museum’s renovation efforts for being granted exclusive access to one diary of particular interest to their area of research.

  Simon’s reassurances had been far from persuasive. “Think about it,” he’d said. “You ‘died’ in 1842 on the gallows—as mortal as any man. How would they even make a connection to Mr. Gaelan R. Erceldoune of Evanston, Illinois? In the bloody twenty-first century! And, might I add, thousands of miles from London!”

  Gaelan needed a drink. The good stuff. “Ah, there you are,” he purred, falling upon the bottle of Lagavulin, its beguiling amber-green curves beckoning. He poured a tumbler-full, letting it slither down his throat, followed by another, and a third, draining that one as well, until none remained of the bottle but glass and Scent de Islay: iodine and peat. Lag a’mhuilin—hollow by the hill. It fit him to an infinite degree. Perhaps not by the hill, so much as under it.

  He fell boneless into his chair, not yet resigning the battle to remain awake. No sleep. Not until he was numbed up right and proper, transported into a dreamlessness that would endure the night. But Gaelan could no longer fend off the growing fatigue as he drifted between wakefulness and sleep, too exhausted to move, powerless to thwart the inevitable plunge into a surreal conflation of past and present as his eyes slipped shut. . . .

  In horror, Gaelan watched himself slice a sharp blade through his arm, elbow to wrist—a demonstration for the punters. “You see? I cannot die! I am impervious.” Francis Handley hooted as he approached from the front of the audience, egging him on.

  “Do not come near me, Handley. I’ve the upper hand now. Not a freak anymore. I’m a fucking superhero—genetically enhanced with high-test telomerase, don’t you know? This is the fucking twenty-first century!”

  But the gathered punters were not listening, instead, encroaching on him five, then ten until half the audience rushed toward him, horrified concern on their faces. “Someone call 911!”

  “No, I’m fine, no need to call. I’m only just joking. See? It’s a magic knife—pure fakery—” His shirtsleeve fell away to his elbow—not a scratch where blood had just poured from an open wound! “It is magic. Ancient, ancient magic, my dear punters. Wrought of the fairies and elves a millennium ago. Do not be fooled into thinking it is anything else. Science is a lie. . . . It is all magic.” Now Gaelan sliced his other wrist, observing it close with detached interest until the only remaining evidence of a wound was the red-black of congealed blood on his white shirtsleeve. . . .

  The pounding of his heart jolted Gaelan from the dream; he was gulping air and soaked through to the skin. Shivering, he willed his pulse to slow until its rhythm matched the steady beat of his ancient mantel clock. He must’ve slept; three hours had passed since he’d last noticed the time.

  Post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD—a nice, sterile self-diagnosis; he remembered when it had been called shell shock or just plain fear. He needed neither Freud nor Jung to name it. Whatever it was called, Gaelan had not been free of its clutches, not in more than 170 years.

  Nothing worked for very long: not cocaine, not even heroin, nor any manner of concoction he might conjure in his private workroom at the back of the shop. What he wouldn’t give this very minute for a sip of laudanum to still his trembling hands, chase away the pounding in his head, each beat hurling a pitchfork of lightning through his temples.

  The empty Lagavulin bottle was a problem. He’d not consumed nearly enough, and he had neither the reserves nor motivation to go out into the snow for another.

  He massaged his brow, thoughts meandering to the familiar place where fragmented memory had played in an incessant loop since he’d read the Guardian story. “Stop! Just fucking stop!” he wailed, certain he would burst every blood vessel in his head. “Please just bloody stop!”

  For a long time, life had been palatable: three hours of undisturbed sleep a night had been more than adequate to face the morning, followed by siesta at three for the remainder. For years, he had been comfortable in this little corner of the world called Evanston, and he’d enjoyed it. And now?

  With an angry sweep of his arm, Gaelan sent books, papers, and his computer flying across the room—a sea of paper and gadgets, his laptop sitting at the top. “Well that bloody helped,” he mumbled. “Fucking hell.”

  Disgusted, Gaelan surveyed his handiwork. Pathetic. Bloody pathetic. Retrieving from the chaos a small packet of Rizlas, he flicked out a thin rolling paper. Ah, there you are. . . . An ounce of the best Cannabis sativa money could buy, better than his homegrown. His shaking hands could barely manage rolling the herb into the tissue. Three strikes of his ancient flint lighter later, Gaelan collapsed into the waiting arms of a wasted refuge.

  LONDON, 1837

  CHAPTER 11

  Gaelan Erceldoune worried a corner of the ouroboros book, wondering whether Bell had by now administered the elixir—and if it worked. He would inquire in a day or two, ready to stretch out a hand in friendship. Grief had robbed him of life beyond the confines of his shop, and it was time to rejoin the world. He had Bell to thank for bestirring him from this woeful lethargy.

  Now that the book had come down from its nook at the top of the bookcase, Gaelan had a mind to bury himself in it, scrutinize each page to truly comprehend the application of its odd and ancient science. Especially if Sophie Bell had been cured.

  Allowing himself a moment’s quiescence, Gaelan remembered the stories Papa would tell to him at bedtime after long hours of study and recitation. . . .

  “The Tuatha de Danann had amongst them great healers—fairy folk, they were called,” his father had explained. “Dian Cecht, god of medicine, had two children: Miach, the god of surgery, and Airmid, the goddess of healing. They knew all of healing, every cure, but Airmid was the most skilled. All the herbs and minerals, elements, for all of medicine’s . . . science’s magic she concealed in her magnificent cloak. This was her book—gift to our ancestor Lord Thomas Learmont, a gift to us for all time.

  “Yet it possesses a dangerous knowledge for these times. But some day, when you are ready, long after I am gone, which I fear will be soon, given the change of wind in the kingdom, you must, my son, study it thoroughly as you ply your trade. Do not fear it as others shall, yet use it only when you are absolutely certain it is necessary, and even then only with meticulous care. Its recipes are as fragile as the illustrations are intricate, but more po
werful than the strongest medicines known to men.”

  The flames burned bright on the hearth, providing warmth and light, but as with all of earth’s elements, fire could be used for ill—just as any medicine. These were but things without motive, clay in the hands of the skilled tradesman. And whether good or ill came of them was in the hands of the maker.

  Gaelan sighed, setting aside the book, his thoughts random and unsettled, alighting now upon Sophie Bell, curious how she had fared. Should he presume to stop by Bell’s home on the morrow and inquire after the patient?

  Restlessness gripped him as he wandered the sitting room, halting hearthside. Propping his elbow on the mantel, Gaelan stared into the blaze, finding comfort in the crackle of wood as the flames licked and sputtered.

  The roar of shattering glass came from below, jolting Gaelan from his thoughts and frightening the dogs of Smithfield, whose howls echoed through the streets. Had a stall crashed to the cobblestones, disrupting the quiet of the marketplace?

  Another explosion of glass, this time closer. The shop! And now footfalls thumped heavily on the stairs. Tremayne or his blackguards! Of course, come to hector him about Lil or some other matter. Four times this year alone they’d bullied their way past the door after hours, laying wreckage to the shop. But never had they broken the lock to the back stairway.

  He would not give into Tremayne’s bludgeoning; the scoundrel might tyrannize the whole of Smithfield, but Gaelan Erceldoune would not surrender. There was little that could be done to him—physically—from which he would not recover, and no damage to the shop was irreparable.

  Gaelan could afford to ignore the threat and the attempts to intimidate. Yes, the shop would be in ruins again—windows smashed and bottles askew, hundreds of pounds’ worth of herbs and chemicals strewn about. None of it signified, and Gaelan would persevere to aid Tremayne’s whores, treat their maladies, insist they take the time to heal, urge them from the scoundrel’s nefarious influence, even if only to find a less brutal employer.