Mordecai Letto
Mordecai rubbed the inside of his red, itching hand. There was a bitter irony in having to search The Celestine for nature’s cure to a wound it had inflicted upon him. He knew he should be thankful to have escaped his pursuers at all, thankful too that he was still rabbit-quick and skinny enough to slip between the bars of a wrought-iron gate. Perhaps if he’d been more careful he could’ve avoided grabbing the stinging weeds that grew like snakes between them.
If, perhaps, maybe…
If he had picked his mark better perhaps he could’ve been taking in the smells and sights of the Celestine, maybe even have enjoyed himself.
If, perhaps, maybe…
Hollow, meaningless words.
Dull eyes scanned the flowerbeds for the right plants; oil of roses, ceruss washed in rose-water, sifted and mingled with white wax and powdered camphire, or drops of sweet almond oil if the former could not be found.
He knew the recipe of white ointment by heart, not because he was a good student of the Collegium, nor had he ever been taught such things there. It was only because every working girl at mother Molly’s was his guardian to one degree or another and the more ill-tempered visitors of that establishment had made it into basic know-how.
There was still the gloss of sweat on his brow and the skin above his collarbone showed the frantic, but slowing beating of his heart when he entered the open air temple. He spotted a rose bed on the other side and half-hidden between the flowers was a shock of red fur; a common fox digging through the dirt for reasons only it could know.
Your loss, my gain, he thought to himself. The enthusiasm of the fox saved him the trouble of having the pluck the flowers himself.
He rubbed the inside of his hand again and approached with heavy, slouching footfalls.
If, perhaps, maybe…
If he had picked his mark better perhaps he could’ve been taking in the smells and sights of the Celestine, maybe even have enjoyed himself.
If, perhaps, maybe…
Hollow, meaningless words.
Dull eyes scanned the flowerbeds for the right plants; oil of roses, ceruss washed in rose-water, sifted and mingled with white wax and powdered camphire, or drops of sweet almond oil if the former could not be found.
He knew the recipe of white ointment by heart, not because he was a good student of the Collegium, nor had he ever been taught such things there. It was only because every working girl at mother Molly’s was his guardian to one degree or another and the more ill-tempered visitors of that establishment had made it into basic know-how.
There was still the gloss of sweat on his brow and the skin above his collarbone showed the frantic, but slowing beating of his heart when he entered the open air temple. He spotted a rose bed on the other side and half-hidden between the flowers was a shock of red fur; a common fox digging through the dirt for reasons only it could know.
Your loss, my gain, he thought to himself. The enthusiasm of the fox saved him the trouble of having the pluck the flowers himself.
He rubbed the inside of his hand again and approached with heavy, slouching footfalls.
