Haven’s Cure

What once took a spark now takes a fire. Flint and steel cannot hold back the night, no, the night yields only to a blazing inferno.

Those words were carved into the cave’s walls, and not a day went by that Issabelle didn’t read them and shiver. As she swept unknown powders from her workbench, she thought back to when those words might have been carved. All apothecaries before her had read the same words, her mentor Arryn, his mentor Valor, and on beyond memory. Of course, such a time before the apothecary had been established could not have been long ago, but certain forces sped time and forced even recent events from collective memory.

But it did her no good to ponder the meaning of the words, nor to wonder where time slipped away to or why. With the latest tincture brewed and sealed, it was time to deliver the life-giving sustenance.

"Come, Prudence. Let's not keep the lady waiting," Issabelle said, beckoning her apprentice forward. With an eager nod of brown hair not yet dusted with silver, the younger apothecary brushed off her skirts and hurried towards Issabelle.

Issabelle grimaced her apprentice's dirt-grimed toes treading on the cave's floor, reminding herself to get Prudence a new pair of shoes, if only to delay the inevitable. Powerless against time and death, she gripped the crude glass bottle tightly and ignored the clouds of powder kicked up by Prudence's feet.

"Hurry, we wasted enough time as it is. No need to let laziness deal our lady’s fate." Casting a sharp look at the girl's sheepish face, Issabelle turned and strode to the exit of the cave and the sunlight that surely burned the faces of the commonfolk.

With a yank of a handle, Issabelle threw open a door to reveal humanity's haven, a paltry village of wood-boned mud huts roofed in skeletal straw. Her emergence from the mountainside captured the attention and rapture of the few workers out in the, as she had assumed, blistering heat. Those few dropped to their knees and said a quick thanks to the apothecary and all they do for humanity.

Brusquely, Issabelle hurried Prudence past the groveling men. "Rise," Issabelle cried, "for we are no more than servants to the Lords and Ladies who govern us all."

Prudence turned a shade of red at these words, her self-important smile crumpling into sour acceptance of the truth. Her expression reminded Issabelle that Prudence often forgot to wear her humble status as a cloak to mask her hubris. In all fairness, it didn’t matter whether she was a self-abasing servant or not, she would grow to fill Issabelle's withering shoes.

Withering, not a word most would use to describe themselves, but as surely as Issabelle’s hair grew out gray and straw-like, she was wasting away. Prudence would protest, claim that wasting away is a sorry turn of phrase to describe Issabelle’s necessary task, but Issabelle would never tell her these thoughts, these words she defined herself by. It would be treason.

“Issabelle? Are you alright?” Prudence’s voice reached out to her, pulling her back. Blinking back stars that hung on the edges of her view, Issabelle realized she had frozen amidst the matchstick trees, her atrophying thoughts having locked her feet.

“Yes, sudden worry gripped me about the lady’s condition.” Issabelle tugged up her cloak and continued down the forest path towards the manor. It rose in the distance, a towering structure of pure white columns and unnaturally bright yellow mortar. In front of the building, tiny figures knelt, praying the apothecaries could deliver one final saving dose of the concoction meant to save the heir to the Haven.

“Your worry would have made you run, not falter,” Prudence said, trying to keep pace with Issabelle. “Is your mind going?”

Issabelle shot her a sharp look, warning her not to speak of the mind’s weakness. Such lapses in judgement would speed Prudence’s ascension to apothecary, a role she wouldn’t be ready for until she could keep her thoughts about dwindling health to her own mind. Aging can be accepted. Dying cannot.

Without another glance to her willful apprentice, Issabelle continued down the path, wondering when a runner would cross their path to deliver the tincture. Through her thick-soled shoes, Issabelle felt the pebbled road become smooth and perfect. They had crossed into Upper Echelon, where the Lords and Ladies discussed how best to reclaim the Earth for all faithful Havenites.

But the wailing that rose up as Issabelle neared didn’t bode well for the Lady. Guardians walked among the kneeling peasants, supervising the display of woe. That the apothecaries had even walked to the road of Upper Echelon was an ill omen, but this display worried Issabelle.

Prudence hurried to Issabelle’s side, confused as well. Upper Echelon wasn’t meant to be tread by apothecaries, even in the most dire circumstances. She reached for Issabelle’s shoulder, trying to whisper something to her that the screaming drowned out.

“Follow me, stay silent,” Issabelle hissed, smacking away the insolent girl’s hand. She gripped the bottle in her hand tighter, wondering what the inside of the Manor would look like, what had happened. Their faces shrouded with apothecary hoods, Issabelle and Prudence bowed their heads and hurried past the sprawled peasants.

“Up the stairs and to the left,” one Guardian called. “And hurry.” Behind his goggles, Issabelle imagined redshot eyes from eye-puffing tears or blood-vessel popping rage. Hurrying would be a good idea, to keep her station for as long as possible. It could always be painted that Prudence had hurried Issabelle along, that Issabelle was the slow and lackluster apothecary.

Barely nodding in acknowledgement of her thoughts and the Guardian, Issabelle strode up the steps, then pulled open the massive white doors that shielded the inside from the dirt streaked outside. Beyond the doors, a wide entryway beckoned them in, awestruck by the crystalline light hanging above them. A sun indoors, it glowed bright white, illuminating a grand staircase made of carved deep brown wood.

Sobs echoed from someplace above the stairs, to the left, likely, as the Guardian had said. The choked mewlings shattered Issabelle’s composure and she threw herself onto the stairs, barely keeping from smashing the precious bottle on the stone steps. Panting with the effort of running so unnaturally, she cringed as the screams grew.

“Issabelle,” Prudence hissed, “this isn’t proper.” Halfway up the steps, Issabelle turned to see Prudence mounting the steps with dignity and restraint, completely oblivious to the life at stake. With that final act, Issabelle was completely certain she had made a mistake in choosing her successor. Issabelle’s death would mark the death of Haven, or at least those who relied on the apothecaries.

“Stay there, this is no place for an apprentice.”

Prudence choked back a gasp and resigned herself to dismounting the stairs with the grace of a Lady. Anger burned in Issabelle’s stomach, but she pushed onwards, not letting Prudence slow her down anymore than she already had. Her leather shoes slammed on the white stone of the stairs and onto the smooth wood of the floor above.

Various Lords and Ladies huddled around a bed, crying and bawling and sobbing, hiding the Lady Woodsworth. The tincture Issabelle had concocted was a mere swelling reducer intended to keep the Lady’s brain from further damage, but if the mourners were to be believed, the seizures had taken the Lady already.

“Apothecary,” Lord Gulliman said, turning, “I fear you’re too late.” Sharp eyes pierced her weak heart and accused her of the very thing she had feared. This was to be blamed on her as a way to move the more socially shrewd Prudence into place.

Or was her paranoia reaching a peak, could the pained faces of the Lords and Ladies merely be at the death of their dear mother?

“Let me speak for myself,” a wavering voice said. Gulliman stepped aside, letting Issabelle walk closer to the bedside of the still alive Lady Woodsworth. Though her well-padded face shone with sweat, her eyes shone with fire. Or was it fever?

Regardless, the Mother of Haven, the sole survivor of the original Lords and Ladies, was most definitely not dead, and Issabelle was not too late. Issabelle stepped closer, bowing her head in reverence. Though many apothecaries had served in the Lady’s lifetime, all apothecaries knew her as the even-keeled head in a circle of socialite elites, and for that reason, her sudden seizures were suspicious.

Issabelle held out the flask to the Lady, sunlight from a window illuminating the amber liquid. “Close that,” Issabelle snapped. “She’s burning up as it is!”

“How dare you address us like that? We are your rulers, Apothecary!” snapped Gulliman as the other Lords and Ladies tittered and whispered. Issabelle didn’t move, hoping she hadn’t sealed her fate prematurely. Cringing under the fury of the assembled, she peeked an eye open at the sound of a frail voice.

Despite the fierce illness taking over her body, Lady Woodsworth displayed her famous ferocity and sat straight up in bed. “Out, all of you. The apothecary was right, and you all are too dour for this. I need to want to live, not perish and your drivel is killing me.”

“But, Mother--” one tried to protest.

“No buts. I’ll still be alive after the apothecary is finished, Haven-willing. Now go make yourselves useful,” the Lady said, waving them away with a near limp hand. The Lords and Ladies didn’t notice the slight frailty and hurried out the door, creating quite the comical pile up.

Issabelle had to hold her breath to keep from laughing, but the air hissed from her lungs as she turned back to the Lady Woodsworth. As soon as the door had swung shut, the Lady Woodsworth had collapsed back and lay panting on the downy pillows.

“Lady, quickly. You must take the medicine,” Issabelle said, fiddling with the cork stopper of the flask. The cork popped out of the glass neck, the sound barely noticeable among the labored pants of the Lady.

Lady Woodsworth waved her away as Issabelle tried to hold the bottle to her lips. “No good. I need something stronger.” Her skin paled with the effort of speaking, and Issabelle realized just how weak the Lady had become. Defending Issabelle had taken the last of her strength.

“My-my Lady, we don’t have anything stronger,” Issabelle said her mind flitting through recipe after recipe of simple cold remedies and even the powerful demon-preventers, but none were as useful as the swelling preventer she had made.

“You don’t, but there’s a book in the Library that does,” she said, coughing violently. Her body seemed to shudder with the barking coughs, and Issabelle threw arms across the lady in preparation for a seizure. Forgotten, flask rolled off the bed and exploded with a sharp crash.

“A book?”

“A Guide to Modern Medicine After the Fall,” the lady breathed before the convulsions took over completely and her eyes rolled back into her head. Issabelle was nearly thrown from the bed as the Lady’s arms flailed, but she held on as tight as she could.

“What’s going on?” Lord Gulliman yelled, hurling himself through the door. Issabelle didn’t turn, too focused on keeping the lady stable.

"She started shaking before I could give her the medicine. The flask fell when I tried to stabilize her.” Issabelle felt the lady relax under her, and let go. Gulliman hurried to her side and hovered there, unsure of what to do.

Issabelle watched the fear flash in his eyes; his bristly exterior fading into a son, tired and worn at his mother's illness. Her suspicion faded too, any idea of ill-will gone in that instant.

Her mentor, Arryn, had looked at her the same way on his death bed as he pointed to the carving on the wall. His loss had resonated in Issabelle, not just of her beloved mentor but that those words meant something she couldn't understand.

"Go, you're of no help to her now," Lord Gulliman sneered, his fear evolved into bare rage. He swiped a hand at her as she backed away. "Send up the other one, the nice one."

A thousand thoughts ran through Issabelle's head, but she squashed them all down as she left the room, calling for Prudence. Her words didn't travel far; Prudence stood outside the wood door, hands crossed at the waist and a slight smile on her face. She pushed past Issabelle without a word and bowed her head to Lord Gulliman without a glance at Lady Woodsworth.

Issabelle couldn't care anymore and hurried down the stairs. The Library's doors were wide open, beckoning to her with shelves lined with the knowledge of Haven. Hopeful, she stepped among the shelves and began searching.

Running her finger down the spines of The Encyclopedia Britannica, Webster's Dictionary, and other leather-bound tomes, she finally stopped at A Guide to Modern Medicine After the Fall, by Charles Goodsmith. Arryn had talked of Charlie, the first apothecary who existed in a time before the Upper Echelon, though mention of such a time was treason as well.

Issabelle pulled it from the shelf with care, reverence filling her whole body. Here was a manual written by a master, a man who knew what to do! If he were still here, the Lady's seizures would have been cured when they had started or never have even occurred. Still, she pushed down her frustration and opened the tome, flipping the smooth pages to the index.

Her heart sank. The Lady had been so sure, but the same words were written in the rough parchment pages of her own manual. She let pages slide beneath her fingers, barely holding back the urge to rip the whole thing to shreds. Charlie's genius couldn't help the Lady. She needed something more, something stronger!

Rough paper sliced open her thumb and she shrieked, wrapping it in her apron. It burnt something awful and she realized too late that left-over ingredients from the tincture coated the apron and now, her cut. The end neared faster; she had never been this careless before and almost slammed the book with rage. Issabelle stopped, remembering the rough paper cutting into her skin.

A note lodged between the pages, chicken-scratch handwriting on both front and back. She recognized the writing immediately; the cave's cryptic words were written in the same script. Charlie had written them, Charlie had written these.

Something stronger, for when the Lady can no longer rise from bed.

I have concocted a delicate poison, made from ingredients now extinct in a recipe now forgotten. Do not fret, dear successor, this day was to come despite your undoubted skill or dedication. I knew this day would come and prepared; regardless of the taboo on death, it comes for us all.

The flask is in the Lady’s nightstand, beneath a false bottom. Brewing this poison will be my last act, but I know I die with worth. Give the Lady half a flask and discard the rest, though it will be a waste. So much knowledge has been lost to you, to us, to all of Haven, and I hope without bounds that one day our world will right itself. Until then, you are the torch burning life back into Haven. Be well, dear apothecary, the Lady depends on you.

Without pause, Issabelle left the Library, having slid the manual back on the shelf with a loving brush. Charlie didn’t have a cure, but he had created the only thing he could think of. The Lady was lost, and Issabelle could find her. She climbed the stairs, channeling the Lady’s strength as she threw open the door and ordered Prudence and the Lord out.

She slammed the door behind them, pleased Prudence’s manipulative ways ceased as she begged to help; it seems she would make a good apothecary after all, one unafraid of the Lords and Ladies. She simply needed some proper shoes, and Issabelle reminded herself to find some for her, like an echo in her head.

“Issabelle? Did you find it?” Lady Woodsworth stirred, sitting up on her pillows. Issabelle smiled at her frailness, her gray hairs wild and unbound around her head. There was a serenity to her that Issabelle hadn’t noticed before, peace, as though she knew what something stronger meant.

“Yes, Lady.” Issabelle walked to the nightstand and opened it; a journal sat on the false bottom. She set it aside. Just as Charlie had written, a flask sat beneath a panel. Seizing the Lady’s half-finished tea cup, she dosed it and handed it to the Lady. “Drink up, the light grows dim.”

The Lady took it with trembling hands, yet she held the cup steady. “Yes, Charlie. I see it does.” In two drinks, she finished tea she had barely touched over hours.

Issabelle smiled, picking up the journal. “Tell me, Elena, who carved the words into the cave?” She began to write, copying the Lady’s words, as well as writing her own.

“The words? Charlie. You’re not Charlie; I see that now, but he wrote them. Much was lost to us, and those despairing words were his last act.” She drew in a gasping breath. “We were so lost, never seeing what was to come. I wonder what will happen when I’m gone.”

Issabelle took off her leather shoes, tucking the note in them. She sat beside the Lady, reclining on the soft bed. “Don’t worry, Elena. Things will get better.” She took a long draw of the flask; time had no control over her anymore.

“What once took a spark now takes a fire. Flint and steel cannot hold back the night, no, the night yields only to a blazing inferno,” the lady whispered, her breaths slowing.

“Your children are strong enough to blaze a path for Haven.” Issabelle gripped the Lady’s hand. “Elena Woodsworth has been found, and so have I.”