Last Potion Shop on the Left | A Short Story
The entire shop smelled like that old, worn parchment she had handled when she was a scribe. Some might have thought it was off-putting, but Morrigan inhaled deeply and savored the musky strange scent. Even the wooden shelves seemed to smell like parchment, despite the fact that they were mostly laden down with glass jars and baskets of cloth.
It was exactly how an old dilapidated potion shop should smell. With an indifferent clerk behind the counter and the prices at least two copper above what they should be, it was perfect. Deep in her gut, Morrigan knew she would find what she needed there.
In the corner of the room, a small shrine with some feathers and some red cloth sat at it, and Morrigan smiled to herself. Though the clerk was indifferent, clearly the owner of the shop had some sense, even if they overcharged a tad.
She picked her way through a bin of empty glass vials and filled a bag with the prettiest ones she could find, double-checking that they all had stoppers. Then she meandered to the shelves lined with jar after jar of various ingredients, the air vibrating around the jars as each one waited for her to evaluate them. They were eager to please as any spices could be.
“Hello friends,” she said happily to the jars, and she swore she could smell cinnamon start to permeate the air.
She grabbed the jar of cinnamon first and smiled as she felt the warmth coming off the spice.
“Careful,” the clerk said drolly, “The cinnamon is excitable. Take less than you need.”
“I like it,” Morrigan responded, matter of fact. “Nothing worse than lackluster ingredients.”
The clerk grunted, clearly not caring what she did. “Ok. Sure.”
Un-phased, she grabbed more cinnamon than she needed, loading up a mason jar she had in her bag. Once that was filled, she grabbed another one and began to stuff it with some gryphon feathers, selecting the ones with black and white stripes down the length.
The bell to the front door rang, and another person entered the shop. Distantly, the sound of ravens cawing in the distance filtered to her ears, making her smile. It sounded like music to her ears. She could just barely make out the secrets the ravens were whispering before the door swung shut.
With the ravens cawing, the magic in the air, and the smell of parchment, this shop felt a little like home. Peaceful serenity filled her and Morrigan began to hum low as she puttered around.
“Welcome,” the clerk droned.
“Thank you,” an old woman’s voice croaked.
Soft footsteps came closer, and Morrigan glanced over at her new shopping companion. The older woman was short, but had a round, sweet face, creased by gentle wrinkles, and topped with a shock of white-as-snow hair.
At first, the other woman paid no mind to the other person perusing the shelves. She was driven, her eyes scanning the shelves for exactly what she needed. It was no-nonsense and to the point, a trait well developed with her age.
“Good morning!” Morrigan said happily, paying no mind to the other woman’s clear mission.
The woman’s shrewd eyes swung to her, unhappy. “Morning.”
Morrigan smiled at her, friendly and familiar.
The woman’s eyes grew wide.
Morrigan turned back to the shelves, “This shop is quaint, don’t you think? Reminds me of so many others, but the ingredients here are better than most. Even the coriander seems more active.”
The woman slowly turned back to the shelves. “Indeed. It is the best shop I have come across in years. They seem to like you.” Her voice was careful, reserved.
Morrigan hummed, and pulled a jar of raven feathers off the shelf, frowning. She extracted all of them, and settled them gently into her bag, tying the bundle off with a length of red ribbon. Setting the empty jar back on the shelf, she took stock of what she had grabbed so far. Her jars clinked together as she sifted through them, making sure she had grabbed enough of everything. As much as she wanted to shop all day, she had a task to complete.
The old woman turned back to the shelf, and slowly pulled off sesame seeds and thyme. She popped each one open and inhaled, before extracting some of each of the spices and depositing them into cloth pouches and tying them shut.
As they opened and closed jars, the air seemed to sparkle with just a touch of the magic thrown off of their ingredients, and it grew heavy with rich scents. It smelled like a potion shop just before opening; Rich magic with spicy herbs mixing together.
The shop was silent as they each gathered what they needed, and clouds rolled in from the horizon, plunging them into a grey-blue light. Shadows lengthened on the creaking wooden floor, and the wind began to blow.
Morrigan pulled some sage off of the shelf, and turned to the older woman, eyeing her closely.
The other woman’s hands froze mid-air, and she turned to face Morrigan with her eyes wide. They darted between the sage in her hands and Morrigan’s face, taking in high cheekbones and blue-black hair that draped and swirled around her shoulders and face.
“Sage,” Morrigan murmured. “For long life and wisdom.”
The woman accepted it slowly. “Back at my cabin… I… There’s a…”
Morrigan smiled serenely at her and spoke evenly, unphased, “You know, it’s been a long time my friend.”
It took a moment for the old witch to process what Morrigan was saying. Her eyes widened.
“Please! No!” The witch begged.
She raised her hands in front of her as if she could ward Morrigan off.
Morrigan laughed. “It has been a long time my friend, but did you think I had forgotten? All these years… I still have the scar on my arm.” She rolled up her sleeve and showed her the thin pale line across her forearm. “I have let you live this long, but now it is time for my revenge.”
Every ounce of blood drained from the witch’s face. “Please, forgive me!”
Morrigan laughed, “You know after a battle that the field is mine, the men there are mine. Why you wanted to venture there is beyond me. You knew better.”
“M-my husband!” She stammered, “I wanted to save him!”
“The dead are none of your concern. They were not then, and they are not now. They are under my care and will remain so until the end of times.”
“He didn’t deserve to die,” tears were welling up in her cloudy eyes and spilling over wrinkled cheeks. “He deserved a long life! We should have made children together and been happy!”
Morrigan froze, and then sniffed the air. It seemed to thicken around them, and it began to rain.
“Who are you to say who shall live and who shall die?” Morrigan asked, her voice dipping low, her eyes flashing. “Do you not think other men deserve to live as well? We cannot all live forever, and battles have a price. We must all pay. You knew this day would come.”
“P-please!” the older woman cried, her eyes wide and terrified and watery. “I didn’t mean to hurt you! I only wanted to find him.”
“Your intentions were noble but misguided. You were distraught, yes but you tried to stab me… Me. I am the fate driver behind all battles, the one who watches over every bloody swing of the sword and who is behind every arrow. I am the raven of death, of fate, of destiny. You had no claim over your dead husband, and so this must be avenged. I do not take such offenses lightly.”
“It was a mistake,” she begged, “I am so sorry. I should not have gone, but I had to see him.”
Morrigan smiled sadly, “I know you are sorry, and so I have let you live this long.” Her voice grew hard again. “Your time is over, and I have come to collect you. You have paid back what you can, but no repentance could ever be enough. No offering is great enough to forgive your slights.” She waved a hand out from her body, gesturing wide. “You have done good with the time I gave you, but I have already begun to prepare for you at the fjord, and it is time you went there.”
Soft sobs filled the air, and the rain outside grew heavier and the air foggier. The jars on the shelves rattled as a thick power manifested between them, filling the space and pushing into everything.
Blue-black hair began to float and Morrigan grew larger, towering in the small shop. Her eyes flashed and sparked, and her skin began to glow. Power and magic pushed into the walls and the floor seeped into the shelves, and pressed down on the inhabitants of the shop. It sparked like black fire around them, suffocating and intense. A blaze of energy and purpose.
“Do not despair,” she said, her voice booming. “You have lived a long and full life. But revenge must be satisfied. It is time to rest, and rejoin your husband.”
Taking in a deep breath, the witch tried to tell her something, anything, but she never got the words out.
The air went still, and the heaviness seemed to focus, the fire driving into the old woman, and then vanishing. As the power dispersed, Morrigan came back to her normal self and the air cleared. Her hands sifted through her hair, settling it back into place, and then adjusted the bag on her shoulder.
Sighing as the older woman fell to the ground, a soft slump, her face relaxed and peaceful, Morrigan considered her task complete. She glanced down at the witch, and then back at the white line on her arm. Morrigan did not feel as much better. In fact, she was a little disappointed. The old woman would still be with her always, but at least now the scales were balanced.
So it would have to be.
Humming again, she fished a gold piece out of her hip pouch and left it at the clerk’s desk. On light feet, she exited the shop, stepping out into the rain. She turned her face up to the sky, listening to the whispers of ravens, and then vanished.
The clerk watched her go with wide eyes, and then stared down at the old woman, speechless.
Gone was the heavy magic that had pressed into them, flooding the senses and clouding the mind. It was brighter now, and the smell of cinnamon began to filter out again, but the feeling of the shop had changed. There was something older there now, whispering at whoever walked in and brushing across their skin. The little stale shop would operate for years still to come, with little pieces of Morrigan departing with every customer.
