by Dianne M. Williams
Edited by Anna Bendiy
People rarely find my shop, hidden at the back of the village and up an old ladder. But here you are. You push through the door, with your baggy shorts and a shield twice your size, an imitation of knights going off to war made miniature. You cannot be more than twelve summers old. Your eyes flare bright with the excitement of seeing a new world. A runaway, maybe. Or an orphan determined to prove your worth. I’ve seen many like you, with a sword on your belt that might be your father’s or a relic you found in some field. Who can tell?
The cheap potions will do. They’re for broken bones and skinned knees, but they’ve brought back a heart or two. The bottom of your purse comes sooner rather than later as you count out your pennies. I don’t warn you to save your money. I’m a poor woman. Those pennies would feed either of us for a few days, and I drop them into my own empty purse, happy to see a bit of good bread tonight.
I pray to the Three that I never see you again. What drives you into the night? What terrors are worse than growing up early? Go home, kid.
•••
The harvest months pass, and I’m settling in for the lean winter months when I see you again. Still lugging around that garish, painted shield. You haven’t grown into it, yet. I hope you give it up before you do.
I take in your leather bracers and the quiver on your back. Even your purse is bigger now, and I pull the more expensive stock from beneath the counter. “These are my best potions,” I lie.
I don’t ask where you found so many coins. I don’t want to know. They say there’s treasure lost in the tombs, guarded by spirits and spells, though only a fool would go looking for it.
You rush out so quickly I could almost swear you disappear without opening the door.
•••
Planting season begins as warmth returns to the land. Some of us did better than others through the lean months, I see. You have a colossal new sword slung over one shoulder. Ridiculous. I did not fare as well. Your money is appreciated. I suppose you understand that I’m upcharging you after seeing the fine gold stitching on your tunic. My potions certainly aren’t getting any better to justify the increase in cost.
I laugh to remember how small you were when I first saw you. You laugh when I remind you to be careful and give a little whoop as you jump from the top of my ladder.
•••
Rust flakes from the bell in my shop when I see you next. It’s been an age. Your eyes dart from corner to shadowy corner. You can barely catch your breath. Is that ichor on your sword? Some of it drips onto my wooden floors, mixing with the dust of a hot summer and a poor town. You’ll be my only customer this month. With the failed crops, all of the work moved to the city—the new lord is building a horrendous tower. The young men and the young mothers took their cuts and scrapes with them. There’s nothing left here for me to heal.
Your hand shakes as you pass me the bottle with a bit of red slime still clinging to the bottom of the glass. I pray that the potion I sell you is a good one. These I reserve for the kind of men who’ve earned a shield like yours on their backs. Regular price.
Why is your face so white? What have you seen out there?
•••
The skies are dark. There was no harvest. No one has come up my ladder in many months. I live on the supplies I stocked with your gold. Your fine tunic is torn. There’s blood on the hem. Your quiver is overfull. Why do you need so many arrows?
The capital city is full of the dead and dying, fit only for those few who aren’t bothered by dread things haunting their streets. You shake your head sadly when I warn you away from it. Surely you’ve proven your worth by now. Find a new home if you can’t go back to your old one. You don’t need to do this.
•••
Will I see you again after this?
You buy more potions than I think even you can carry. I can’t imagine how the weight of your pack must drag at your shoulders. Something about the hollowness in your voice, like you’re dead already. You pile money on the counter as though the coins are nothing more than leaves you plucked from the forest. More than I’ve ever had altogether in my forty-eight winters. I don’t refuse them. There are some potions in the cabinet I’ve been holding back for my own emergencies. I think you need them more than I do.
•••
The skies clear and the ground blooms again. People return to town with hope in their eyes. I catch a glimpse of you in the square on celebration day with a young person on your arm. You both wear ribbons in your hair. I nod and tip my hat before the two of you disappear again into the dance. You stand tall with the weight off your shoulders.
My knees ache as I climb the ladder to my shop. Just one more weird woman selling her wares out of a backroom. Most people don’t give my shop a second glance, but today, a customer is already waiting. A child. No shield on this one, but I recognize that look of grim determination as they shake one of the jars on my counter.
“Careful, kid. Those are my best potions,” I grumble.
I pray to the Three that this one is allowed to return home before their innocence disappears. But until then, I see you. I see you all.
DIANNE M. WILLIAMS is a speculative fiction writer from Lawrence, Kansas, where she enjoys finding the horror and the humor in everyday things. She attended the Clarion Writers Workshop in 2019. You can find her on the web at DianneMWilliams.com or on Twitter at @diannethewriter.
The Potion Seller Will See You Now can be found in Tales & Feathers Issue 2.
