Note to the Reader: The following vignette is based on a very tiny scene from Romeo and Juliet. This work is entirely original, with the exception of the dialogue between the apothecary and Romeo. The conversation was not changed to remain true to the work of Shakespeare.
At a crossroads, where two dirt roads converged, there stood an ancient shop. Though it was within the town of glorious Mantua, and though many travelers and wanderers passed those two roads, few ever entered that shop. Then, one day, seeking poison and death, one hopeless man did.
The Apothecary Shop
The rickety wooden steps, smelling of mice droppings, creaked and groaned. An old man, bent and haggard with wrinkles etched onto his face, was clad in a thin, ragged wavy robe. His breath was unsteady, as he walked up from the dark cellar below. He had been unable to find what he needed, amongst the splintery barrels and flea-covered rats. So, with one shaky hand pressing against his side, and another clutching a candle, he hobbled up towards his shop above.
His imagination wandered as the candle flickered and shadows danced across the wall. The depths of his mind had seen many horrible things. The rat infestations, the bloodied amputations, the hunger and thirst – this man was truly cursed. He reached the top, and blew out his candle. The smell of wax reached his nostrils. This old man was an apothecary.
The old apothecary soon was wandering in his own shop. He seemed dazed as he gazed distractedly around. He looked at the unusual trinkets on sale. He looked at the fungi, the bee products, the minerals and shells. He observed the tree oil, the grasses, the valerian root, and the peppermint oil. He walked passed shelves lined with small, meager, empty boxes. He smelled the honey, tasted the dry soy bean, felt a plant crawling with tiny beetles, and inspected other neglected objects.
A section of the shop, infested with ants, was devoted to filthy roots and bark. In another area, there were shelves with bright powders, shriveled berries, onions, and foreign fruits. Overall, the whole shop smelled of musty herbs and spices.
Near the counter, feathers, monkey skulls, and a tortoise shell dangled from the ceiling. There were misshapen fish skins, deformed bladders, a stuffed alligator, and other dried-out animal parts. Flies buzzed and swarmed in this part of the shop.
There were broken, earthen pots, filled with moldy seeds. Rays of sunlight came in through a tiny window, making the dusty air glow yellow. The sun was setting in the West. The apothecary sat down to take a rest, and he let out a long, faint sigh.
Then it was dark, and blue moonlight passed through the window. A red lamp filled with some kind of oil illuminated the shop. The apothecary brushed his hand through his unkempt, wispy, white hair. He sat in the shadows, and squinted due to his poor vision. He placed a patched and tattered hat on his balding head, and stood up in the darkness. After limping over to the counter, he lit some incense, just to burn away all other smell in the shop. He watched as the smoke softly rose into the air. His gnarled hand lit a candle, and his pale mouth twisted into a bitter smile with jagged teeth.
"Ah, time to read," whispered the man in a faint, trembling voice. He walked with unsteady legs, over to the darkest, coldest corner of the shop. Holding the candle aloft, he soon found what he was looking for. Brushing past cobwebs, he reached for a thick, dusty book bound in human skin. Spiders scampered from their spider webs, and moths fluttered in the clouds of dust. The candle grew dim, and very little could be seen.
"My book, I have returned." He opened the book, and a few pages fell out. It was handwritten, with blotted ink and scribbled writing. It contained information on ancient alchemy, herbal medicine, and magic. "Precious book," he murmured to himself, as if he had gone mad, "I shall be immersed in your pages once again."
The apothecary was just about to take the book into the light, when suddenly a knock echoed from the front door. His stunned eyes grew wide in the flickering light.
"Today is a holiday, is it not?" the apothecary whispered with concern. "Who would dare come at this hour?" The old man hastily set his thick book down, and walked towards the door.
"What ho apothecary!" shouted a young voice from the other side of the door. The thick door rattled as another knock came. The old man, tired and stiff, walked and then unlocked the bolted door. He yanked on the handle, and the door creaked open.
"Who calls so loud?" spoke the apothecary, his voice rough and ragged. A young man walked into the shop. At first he looked around, eyeing the tinctures, decoctions, potions, and concoctions.
He was well dressed, and was young and beautiful. His eyes held a powerful sadness, as if his lover died. He spoke in a poetic, elegant voice, yet talked of suicide. He demanded a poison that killed with speed. The minutes passed as his voiced flowed forth, and then there was silence.
"Such mortal drugs I have," replied the old apothecary, breaking the silence, "But Mantua's law is death to any he that utters them." But the young man insisted, and offered forty ducats, an extreme sum of money.
The apothecary swiftly went to a small part of the shop, which contained the deadliest poisons. He rummaged through jars with labels reading: Conium Maculatum, or The Blood of Socrates. There were vials of quicksilver and hemlock, and other unlabeled things. Then, finally, he found what he was looking for. It was a small jar of blackened powder. Its stench was terrible, and it was a poison unknown to most mortal men.
He very carefully took it off the shelf, and gently carried it over to his customer.
"Put this in any liquid thing you will," whispered the old man, "And drink it off, and if you had the strength of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight."
The customer seemed satisfied, and he left after paying plenty of money. The apothecary smiled, as he placed the money in the safest spot he could find. He had always stashed money.
The old man went back to his book, and began stuffing his head with knowledge. He seemed weary, yet the night had just begun. The shop was still and quiet. Clouds of dust settled in the stillness. While the shadows moved about, the light from the red lamp was fading. The colors of the shop darkened.
The apothecary was poor. He was poor in a way that money could not cure. He neither loved himself, nor another. This apothecary was starving. He was starving to learn something that books could not teach.
"Life is strange," he whispered, in a chilling voice, "Yet I want nothing less than life." But while he said that, he was shut out from the world, and shut in himself. His knowledge was a curse. His life had been futile. The silence of the shop brought the apothecary no peace. And in the gloom of his shop, it consumed him.
