The Cauldron

Sliding into the apothecary, my mother laughed as my socks sailed on the waxed wood, I held out my arms, as if to present myself for the very first time. Unfortunately, the flooring was out to get me it seemed, my momentum landing me on my bum. I gasp but mostly laugh at myself, standing to face her.

I see her head lowered in a ridiculously low curtsy, “Your Majesty,” she offered, her braided hair mirroring mine, framing her face.

Most of the customers around us join in my chuckle, but there is a clearing of a throat to indicate we are, in fact, annoying someone.

The very rounding bald man, Samson looks between my young mother and I, eyes landing on my mother, “You know, Elena you grow more beauteous every day,” his eyes slithered down her figure.

The implication is always there, now that I know what the men of this town mean, when they say lovely things but look at her like she is meat.

Samson’s wife, who does not look pleased, slams a hand on her husband’s back, “You forget your place.” Spitting out each word, “There is little beauty in this woman as she could resemble her daughter, a mere child. No no, her beauty is in her craft.”

She finished her snarl off with a compliment, though it be a little drowned out as she did insult my mother along the way. The jealousy ricocheted off the dozens of glass jars lining the walls of the shop, filled with the ingredients of the craft she so desperately threw about. The flowers, herbs, teas and medicines, I simply waited for my mother’s diplomatic response. For although we are not royalty, just simple folk, adhering to the earth’s gifts to benefit the living, my mother had heard worse.

When I was old enough to comprehend what my mother had done it was years after she could not remember how to reverse it. The insults thrown at her were strange, from the men but also the women of our village. Jealousy and confusion for her persistent attractiveness while defying age and wrinkles.

“A goddess dripping in liquor.”

“Strange witch born of beauty.”

When it was late and she would stumble home from the night, her breath reeking of liquid sour, it was ale that consumed her. She was never abusive nor harmful, just a silly girl who forgot she had to be an adult. After I was born, she went out for celebration after 9 months of no fun, determined to make the most of that evening. However, when she returned in her bubbling state she wanted to create. To make some sweets for the morning, she told me she wanted to make it for me.

The cauldron was bubbling and boiling over itself all night, turning strange hues of purple and gold, with some old mixings and new creations added, she baked it into a cake. Cutting a slice of the buzzing pastry she ate with such vigor, a delicious blend, she told me it was. She realized that doing something drunk once, does not necessarily mean doing it drunk again, will result in the same success.

After many years, we started noticing that my mother was aging, but she was aging backwards, she was getting younger.

When I was born my mother was 34, and now that I am 15, she is 19. We use a mix of soot and dried tea leaves to create aging on her face. But neither of us know what will happen when she reaches 0, assuming death is not already craving her.

After I rang up Samson and Meg, we worked on the remaining customers till it was dusk. Tilting my neck to watch my mother in the candlelight, she sighed and dug her fist into her lower back and sides, I noticed the state she was in and placed my hands on her shoulders giving it a hard rub.

“You’re an esteemed herbalist now, and Samson is wretched, why do you still serve him?” I question my mother. Though we both know ‘esteemed’ is not the correct title to give her.

“Oh Malle, your back rubs are the best.” Completely ignoring my question, she continues, “I’m going to make another attempt tonight,” she pauses as I’m sure she can feel my hands tense. The attempts exhaust her as if the curse hates when she tries to fight back. “I think this, this- whatever is happening to me, was supposed to happen to you.”

With that accusation, I can’t help but scoff at her. “Me? I’m not the one who stayed up all night to throw this and that in the bloody cauldron.”

I’m not cross with my mother; I never have been. I can recognize it was an accident, even though what’s happening is impossible. I drop my hands and she turns to face me, we’re exactly the same height and if you were a stranger stepping into the shop, you would think us twins, born of the same mother. Though she was a goddess of golden hair and green eyes, eyelashes that only men ever seem to possess.

I love my mother, even when she is crying and hunched over the blackened cauldron, when the attempts drain her of the already shortened life.

When her strange cake was supposed to be a gift to me, not a curse on her.

“Maybe the universe, or the moon, or the sun is punishing me for not spending more time with you,” she grabs my shoulders, “maybe I wanted you to stay little forever so I could make up for the future.” We both share a moment of silence, as I think back to most of my childhood spent waiting for my mother to return from the taverns and pubs.

I exhale, “What are we going to do?” More of an attempt to stop myself from breaking than an actual question I needed answering.

Either way my mother waved for me to follow her to the basement. I do as I’m told, and we spend what feels like forever dumping random jars and spices into the pot, calling upon whatever demon or force made that wretched dessert. For a while, even I pleaded that I ate it instead of my carefree mother. The morrow after it was made, it was stale and could not be consumed by a newborn. An afterthought of a drunken woman, you cannot give babies solid food. Curious for only a second, what would have occurred if her plans went correctly.

“Mother I think it’s time to call it a night,” I plead, “we’ve been down here for hours.”

“Oh, come on Malle, this is starting to look better don’t you believe,” churning the giant melting stick she points into the cauldron saying, “Ah, ah?” and grinning the biggest grin that I cannot help but laugh at her.

“Mother, please let us rest,” I turned to ascend the wooden stairs but alas my mother got to me first, laughing that tired sort of laugh and yanking me into a strange waltz.

Did she forget I am a clumsy sort of human? We only make it two swirls before I lose my feet to the will of the ground. Slipping from my mother’s grasp, I fall into the shelves reaching out for anything. Potions and teas slam into the side of the cauldron shattering the bottles, while the liquids seep into the concoction brewing. I gasp but my mother only laughs, as she bends down to help me get to my useless feet, we look at the cauldron fuss with pity and sigh.

I was not there when she made the first cursed cake, I was barely a person. But I realize as my mother’s smile fades, and her eyes grow wide with shock and horror, that it probably looked like that.