My Hex-Boyfriend

“Love potions,” Ms. Alice shook her head, white curls falling about her soot-smudged face. “It’s always love potions.” She stooped over a large silver kettle inspecting its contents, breathing in the rising steam. She pitched a rough handful of herbs into the kettle before turning the crane back over the fire.

The yellowed instruction card lay abandoned under the various implements and scraps scattered across the worktable. Ms. Alice had made this potion so many times before that it was ingrained in her memory. She didn’t need the card, it was more of a companion than anything else, a comfort. “You'd think we made nothing else. If you'd have told me 50 years ago that I'd be dealing in love potions, I'd have melted my kettle down and gone back to Ireland. Lived like a wisp in the woods for the rest of my life.” She picked up an unlabeled jar and pinched the white powder, flinging it into the mixture.

A flash of light erupted from the kettle with a jarring snap. Leona jumped back, knocking into a table. Something hit the tile floor and clattered away, lost to the darkness.

Qetesh hissed indignantly and retreated to the safety of the wooden mantel. The sandy-colored cat all but disappeared against the yellow brick of the chimney, with only her green eyes shining vividly through the smoke and firelight.

Ms. Alice rolled her eyes, “Steady on, it's not a hex." She waved a dry and withered hand at the apprentice, "get the strawberry leaves, the dried ones. Great love needs strawberries.”

Leona scurried to the back wall of the potioner’s den, weaving between tables and stacks of books. She scanned the lines of jars and pots. The shelves were a mess, with no particular rhyme nor reason as to where the ingredients were placed or, indeed, what kind of container they were kept in. High John, orris root, linden, ginger, burdock, strawberry leaves…She retrieved an old jam jar filled with pale green leaves and made her way back through the maze to Ms. Alice. Leona vowed silently to organize the herbs, alphabetically.

“I used to make a lot of hexes, messy business that.” Ms. Alice kept her eyes on her work as she chatted away. She was a talker. It didn't seem to matter whether anyone was engaged in the conversation, or even listening, she was always babbling about something. “Hexes, the ones I know anyhow, use broken glass, urine, animal blood, snake venom…or some combination thereof. Nasty things. They even smell evil; I didn’t know evil had a smell until I started with hexes.” She moved her hand through the steam, the tendrils twisting about her fingertips and up her bare arms. “And of course, when you're dealing in hexes people start asking about talismans, and protection powders. They're much nicer to mix up. Mind, protection spells use a lot of salt, so they dry your skin out. If you're not careful your hands end up looking like old onions.” She beckoned Leona to the kettle with a nod, “I'd like you to watch this bit.”

Leona leaned in over the hearth for a better view. The ingredients danced around in the kettle, rolling from bottom to top and back down again. It was a bright yellow color, like lemon tea but smelled sweeter than that.

“Grab that orris root and tie a string around it,” Ms. Alice commanded. “Orris root, you might recall from your studies, is for an old love. We get a lot of this you see, older folks not as comfortable with their appeal to one another, a little guarded after a life lived, and not as willing to fall in love. The orris root gives them a little push, a little boldness. Young love has all the boldness it could need.”

Leona took the root in her hands. Turning it over, she remarked how wholly unremarkable it was: just a plain root you might find in a roadside ditch. In the hands of someone who knew what it was, however, it was magic.

“Now you can simply carry around a chunk of the stuff in your pocket and get similar results, but then what would we do, eh?” She shook her head with laughter, the glass beads adorning her neck clinked, echoing their mistress’ pleasure. “Go on now, pop it in."

Leona dropped the root into the brew. It drifted down through the golden liquid, a cloud of deep purple taking shape as it sank.

Ms. Alice took a white stone and plopped it into the kettle, it clinked to the bottom. “Take it off the flame and look for that stone. When the liquid is just dark enough the stone can't be seen, it's done, and we need to yank the root out right quick."

Leona swung the crane and kettle out from the hearth, staring intently at the stark white stone as it seemed to shrink away.

“You don't want to let it over steep or the love will become too bold, and nobody wants love to be too bold. They might say they do; they’ll ask for a romance brimming with passion and fire, the thrill of being chased… But trust me, over steep the orris root and you'll have an exhausted woman begging you to take it back. Now. Now's the time."

Leona pulled the root up out of the potion and set it on a rack to dry.

“Good, good." Ms. Alice gestured to the bottling station across the room. “Let's get it in the bottle, a plain-looking one, you never know who’s watching."

Leona lifted the kettle off the crane and slowly made her way to a tea cart that served as the bottling station. She took extra care not to slop the contents of the kettle, the last thing she needed right now was to fall boldly in love. Setting the kettle down, Leona rummaged through a crate on the floor for something suitable to put it in. She settled on an empty olive oil bottled and wiped it clean of ash on her sleeve.

Leona poured the purple elixir slowly into the bottle. She dug around in the drawer for a cork or a cap of some kind to no avail. Leona let out a sigh. She'd have to organize the bottling station as well. How Ms. Alice found anything in this mess, Leona did not know. "Is that all for today?”

“I've one more, but it’s rather a tricky one. I think it's best I do it myself.” Ms. Alice tied her tresses back tightly into a bun and pushed a clear space at her worktable. “I’ll need to concentrate,” she said. She produced a small, red-bound book from her apron and flicked through the pages. “You can start the deliveries if you'd like. Qetesh and I can manage the shop if need be.” Qetesh pricked her ears at the sound of her own name, her green eyes wide and expectant.

“Which one is it?” Leona looked up and down her ledger, it all appeared rather routine: a couple of new love potions, a banishing powder, and a fertility balm.

“Oh, it isn't on there,” Ms. Alice furrowed her brow as she ran her finger over the list of ingredients. “She’s a serious one. Chasing the king of grain storage or some fooled thing like that.” The mistress peered up at the star chart, counting days with slight bobs of the head, “I wouldn’t worry about it today. Needs a moon bath…should be… Tuesday, if the weather co-operates.” She returned her attention to the little red book, and waived Leona away, “There’s a note down on the register with the address if you want to put it on your little list.”

Leona pursed her lips, annoyed to be chasing down scraps of paper and the apparent distaste for her efforts to organize. The chaos and clutter of the whole place vexed Leona. Every surface was loaded with piles of something: scraps of paper, dried or drying herbs, receipts and coins, empty pots, and jars. The den was a collective heap covered in a layer of ash. It would take her weeks to set it right, and longer still to get the mistress to stop making new piles.

Leona's fingers, finally, landed on a cork. She stopped the bottle and sealed it with red wax. Checking her ledger, she made out a label in slow deliberate strokes. Custom Bath Infusion: Connie Litman. Add 2 tablespoons to bath water and soak for 10 minutes. For best results do not towel off. Leona held the bath out at arm's length, inspecting her work for accuracy and legibility. Leona’s penmanship was not ornate, or even elegant, but it was neat and orderly. While she had never said as much aloud, Leona was quite proud of her pencraft.

Under the watchful gaze of Qetesh, Leona gathered the day's labors into a brown leather messenger bag. The cat twitched her tail impatiently, but Leona could not be rushed. She carefully wrapped each bottle in paper and placed them in the order they were to be delivered. She left the wax seals visible and marked the color of each seal on her ledger, to make things easier when she was out on the route. Leona checked the pockets on the messenger bag: transit pass, extra pens, charger cord, phone, antibacterial wipes.

Assured everything was in order, Leona hoisted the bag over her shoulder. “See you in the morning,” she called leaving Qethesh and Ms. Alice huddled over the kettle. Ms. Alice muttered something about a snake, to which Qetesh spat, the cantankerous thing.

Leona slipped into the stairwell, watching her step on the dusty wooden steps. The stairwell was tight and bent wildly halfway down. The stair treads themselves were narrow and gnarled like a forgotten mountain path. A misstep could be disastrous.

Emerging from the stairwell, Leona was greeted by the mid-afternoon sun as it fought its way in through the grime on the windows. It stung her eyes and warmed her skin. She stopped a moment, turning her palms outward to soak in the beams.

The shop was in much better shape than the den, at least there was nothing on the floor anymore. It was still a long way from being tidy, but it was coming along. Leona wasn’t sure that Ms. Alice had ever done the inventory. The filing system consisted mainly of sticky notes and the backs of envelopes. The products were all laid out on tables that the mistress had found here and there. Unwanted dining room tables, broken coffee tables, a couple of stacks of milk crates pretending to be tables lined up to create makeshift aisles.

Leona took a long look across the store, dreading the momentous task of setting it right, but also relishing the thought of what it could be. It was a good space, with a white tile floor, decent height, and two big display windows. If she cleared the jumble sale out and put in some shelving, maybe do some seasonal paintings in the windows, it could be quaint. Leona made a mental note to price out shelves, or maybe just lumber. How hard could it be to build a shelf?

Leona made her way behind the counter and rummaged through the ever-growing stack of papers: a weigh bill, the electric, a Chinese food menu, and a corner torn off a tea box inscribed with red ink 95 Hackamore Path. Leona groaned aloud, “new town, really?”

The shop was deep in the old town, Hackamore was way out beyond the suburbs. It would take her all day, two buses and a tram to get up there. Transit out there was awful, running every hour or so. On top of being inconvenient, Leona found the new town passively hostile. People always seemed to know when you didn’t belong to the neighborhood. Old ladies watched you through their windows and drivers slowed to see which houses you called on. It was altogether uncomfortable. Leona would rather deliver to tent town than up there.

She huffed nasally and wrote the address down on her ledger in slow deliberate strokes. She pulled her phone out of the messenger bag and stared at the search engine. She sighed and typed who lives at 95 Hackamore Path…nothing. Just some blank real estate ads, the kind that tries to convince people to sell their house. Leona scowled at the ledger, begrudgingly leaving the spaces for name and contact information blank, and tucked the ledger neatly in her messenger bag. Gritting her teeth, Leona resigned herself to not knowing. The question of who lives at 95 Hackamore Path would just have to be Tuesday’s problem.

Leona strode heavily to the back door. As she stepped out into the alley, her presence was announced by scattering pigeons. They fluttered to the safety of the fire escape above and cooed in umbrage to the interruption of their feast. Leona smirked at their intolerance and meandered up the alley. The dumpster, filled with moldy, and sour milk, was a prime location for pigeons. The bakery next door had tried almost everything to get rid of them, netting, special locking mechanisms, bird spikes, and owl decoys. They even had one of those speakers that squawk like a hawk on repeat. None of it worked. The pigeons were in league with the raccoons and so could eat wherever they wanted. There is truly no stopping a raccoon.

At the mouth of the alley, a stream of people rushed by, busily bumping from here to there. Tight knots took shape leading up to the coffee shops and gyro stands. Leona took a deep breath and dove into the current. Weaving her way down the crowded sidewalk, Leona’s eyes lingered at the brightly colored sandwich boards and painted shop windows. The lamp posts were littered with flyers: lunch specials, lost kittens, gyros, temp agencies, koulouri, roommate wanted, falafel, take-out menus, karaoke night all overlapping and pasted on top of one another.

Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and her stomach fell. She wished she had brought a traveler, and maybe an apple along with her. This neighborhood made her hungry. The street was lined with so many cafes, bistros, and restaurants, that the air smelled at all times of coffee and cinnamon and frying oil.

Leona arrived at the bus stop with two minutes to spare. She watched the line at the coffee cart a few meters away. It seemed to be moving, and they had loukoumades. Before coming to work with Ms. Alice, Leona had never heard of loukoumades, but in three short weeks, she had developed a deep passion for them. They were like donut holes soaked in orange syrup and rolled in pistachios. They were heavenly.

Leona bit her lower lip and made up her mind to get some loukoumades and a tea for the trip when the bus pulled into the stop. People poured out and scattered into the ever-flowing river of passersby. Leona sighed, squeezed in behind the last deboarding passenger, and swung into an empty seat. As the other passengers found places to sit and hang on, the bus plunged forward into traffic. Leona disinfected her armrest, or rather she wiped down a yellow pipe that they called an armrest. She endeavored to touch as little as possible. Leona was not convinced buses were ever properly cleaned. The yogurt top stuck and dried to the forehead of the real estate agent smiling down from her transit ad, certainly didn’t provide any comfort. She piled her bag onto her lap and pulled her elbows in close.

Across the way, Leona noticed, a middle-aged man in blue coveralls raising a paper cup to his greyed mustache. She regretted not stopping for tea. Her mouth felt parched, and her stomach began to gnaw at her navel. It dawned on Leona that she hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink since she left for work this morning. She envied the man for the warm, bitter liquid.

Leona could feel herself staring at the mustached man, and needing a distraction retrieved her ledger from the messenger bag. She studied her route. Most of her deliveries were in the old town, but there was one up by the castle. She could walk between most of them, catch the tram up to the castle, and then hop on a bus back to the shop. Maybe she could take a rideshare back to the shop. She could get home in time to take a shower if she did.

Leona silently resigned not to count on it and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. Working late. Start without me. Lydia wasn't going to love that. The apprenticeship was taking up a lot of Leona's time. She had missed a lot lately; it was damaging her friendships and she knew that.

K

Leona jammed the phone back into her pocket. She wondered if it was too late to call on that enchantress position. The enchantress' shop closed at 4 o'clock, and really, how much clean-up could there be? She could just enchant a broom to do the sweeping or freeze time while she did it herself and also while she showered.

The bus jerked as it rounded a corner, the riders heaving forward and snapping back. The market came into view. Being Monday, the market was closed, the vast empty building seemed to glare at the trickling of people on the sidewalk below. A woman in a green dress leaned against the entrance toying with her fingernails. Leona slipped the ledger back into the messenger bag, pulled the yellow cord behind her, and the bus slowed to a stop.