Shoes scuffed along the cobblestone street. Cloven feet, shone and otherwise, clattered and thud amidst the voices of the merchants and buyers. Miranda meandered down the crowded lane, weaving between the clumps of patrons and dodging the scurrying children. Market Street seethed with life and activity.
Destination well in mind, her feet carried her forward, sidestepping the hazards. Occasionally she would veer close to a merchant’s table, looking longingly at the contents, mindful of the merchant’s watchful eyes. They knew her, and although they had nothing to prove, they watched her anyway.
Manny the baker was here today, his pies and breads tempting the masses. His booth was crowded with buyers and window shoppers alike. Miranda slid between them, drawn by the sweetness. Several ragged children were pressed against the tables, chattering excitedly, daring to dream they could taste even a bite of the heavenly treats. She watched them, remembering many a time her own children had been amongst them, their bright eyes sparkling, hopeful. But alas, not today.
Miranda leaned down to whisper into the ears of the smallest boy, “I would be watching your hands carefully Toby. That Manny, he can see any hand that crosses his tables.”
Toby’s eyes widened and he stole a glance at Manny, who was busy discussing the local state of affairs with the laundress whose husband was on the council. The portly gentleman turned suddenly, his face a sneer, causing Toby to run quickly away. His face was quickly changed when he turned back to the woman in front of him, who hadn’t noticed he had looked away.
Miranda winked at the children and wove her way back out of the crowd, hands beneath her tunic. She was nearly to the corner before she heard Manny’s distinctive bellows. Several of the children scrambled past her, upsetting other patrons in their hurry. Miranda turned into the alley, plodded steadily along, not looking over her shoulder. Her destination was just round the next corner.
Unlike the bustling Market Street, here it was quiet, only a few patrons about. A young couple stood admiring the jeweler’s display across the street, and in front of the dressmakers, an elderly gentle lady was being helped into her carriage. The apothecary was tucked into the narrow strip of building next to the alley.
The shop was warm and inviting, as Miranda knew it to be. It was a comfortable place, and as familiar to her as her own skin. She quickly shed her coat, hat and bag next to the door so she could wander about unencumbered. With deep breaths she reveled in the calming herbal incense and the tang of the ever present pot of green tea that hung over the fire in the corner. Miranda pored herself a cup, and sat to enjoy it for a moment.
Elder MingNa stood placidly behind his counter, listening respectively to Widow Mason. Miranda skirted around the intense conversation to her destination. She needed no help, no direction. It would be where it was always, as she had come to expect it to be. For years it was there, always when she needed it, even when she did not. Weaving between the shelves that filled the different rooms of the shop, Miranda pondered if there had been a time that she had not needed it. If there was, she could not remember.
She certainly needed it now. Her hands shook with it. Her dreams had been filled with it. The reassurance that it was here, waiting, had moved her to come here, as it had before over the years. She barely thought of it now, the need for it. It was a compulsion, almost an addiction, but she found no reason to question it. Whenever she felt the need, she would come, often just for a taste, just a small amount to reassure herself that it was there for her.
Usually that was all it took, just a taste. A small amount on the end of her finger, melting on the end of her tongue, its warm sweetness taking the edge off the problems that were plaguing her every day. Her husband’s treachery, losing her kids, her ailing health, it mattered not.
Miranda glanced back across the shop. Widow Mason was still crying more than speaking. Elder MingNa handed her an envelope and lead her to the door, instructing her quietly. Sipping her tea, Miranda smiled. There were no small envelopes for her. She could take what she wanted, within reason of course. She frowned slightly, but then shrugged. Everyone had different needs, and she only took what was her share.
It was the lone shelf near the back entrance she wanted. The four jars that lined this shelf were each filled with sweet and precious substances. Although Miranda liked them all, there was one she had come to prefer, and she hurried to it now, anxious to have its taste on her tongue. Mostly Elder MingNa himself dispensed them in individual portions. But Miranda knew where it was and had long gotten it for herself, ensuring that she could have as much as she wanted.
But as Miranda approached the shelf, she could see something was different. On it was only two jars, and not any she recognized right away. She stood on her tiptoes peering at the jars, reading the label. Her mouth automatically puckered at the contents of the jars, when she comprehended just what was contained within. The slight sugar coating of the contents gleamed in the candlelight. These hard sour pieces were not what she had come for, and their bitter taste was a poor substitute.
At his counter, Elder MingNa was entering his accounts. Miranda hesitated. Her disappointment was strong, and made her angry. And yet, she decided it was probably just a mistake. Surely her jar was just moved, since it was not as if he would run out.
“Good day Elder MingNa.”
“Good day Miranda,” he replied, not looking up from his task.
“You have been rearranging the store?”
His golden eyes met hers briefly, before flickering across his shelves. “No, Miranda. Have I need to?”
“No, Elder MingNa. Only, maybe it’s just a mistake. The jars on the shelf, they are different.”
Elder MingNa didn’t need to know which shelf, he knew very well. “No mistake Miranda.” He pointed at the shelf above his head.
Miranda followed his direction. There stood her jar, gleaming brightly. It was quite clean, and thoroughly empty. Mouth open, her heart lurched in protest against her chest. “Surely not!” She protested, hands clenching at her sides.
“Just so.” The tip of his quill scratched across the parchment of his accounts as he recorded the day’s transactions.
“Have you no more, in storage perhaps? Surely it is not something that would be wise to be out of?”
“One would like to believe that, would they not? Do you think that all things are supplied endlessly Miranda?”
“All things no.” She rubbed her hands together slowly. “Some things, they are just there, aren’t they?”
“Air fills with smoke, water stinks with waste, the soil does not feed the corn forever.” He carefully put his quill in its rest, closed his book. Walking from behind the counter, he went to the hearth. “Even a fire will suffocate if piled too high.”
As he fed pieces of wood into the aroused flames, Miranda’s eyes jumped back to the jar, it’s emptiness a stark contrast to the overflow of the hard pieces in the jars that were its replacement. “But my needs are great today. Surely you heard that my children are no longer with me?”
“Always are your needs are great, Miranda.” Elder MingNa seated himself in a chair at the hearth. His eyes closed, and his hands folded carefully across his chest, which was soon rising and falling smoothly under his apron.
Miranda thought of her trek back across the city. She had hoped to come here, to ease the emptiness of her home, her life. It was not too much to ask, surely, considering all of her hardships? She stood before the herbalist, who was now softly snoring. “Elder MingNa, surely there is a better substitute than the bitter hard candy?”
The Elder sighed. “That is the only thing left Miranda. You have exhausted all others.”
Miranda’s brows furrowed. “Surely not! I only took what I needed!”
“Why do you need more than others Miranda? There are others with harsher circumstances that have not once asked for my assistance. Yet, you come for every little thing, taking all you want.”
“What of Widow Mason, does she not come here often? I have seen here several times during my own visits.”
“Widow Mason comes not to ask for herself, but for help relieving her daughter’s pain of losing a child to consumption.”
“Are not my circumstances harsh? My husband cares only for his own desires, and my children are now living with his family in the country. I only see them on Sabbath, and only if they come to town!”
“You married your husband against your father’s wishes.”
“I can choose who to marry!”
“And your children are no longer begging for their food and clothing in the streets, as your husband’s family is willing to work for their sake.”
“I am willing to work! Did I not help Mistress Lang when she was ill?” Miranda’s protest fell short of being convincing, when she remembered the circumstances that ended her employment. “It was not my fault. It was Ian, he was late, and I couldn’t just leave the baby. He had been asking about work.” After which her no good husband had stopped at the tavern, as was his all too often habit.
“Manny is doing quite well for himself, is he not?” he asked, reminding her that the famous baker had been her father’s choice for son-in-law.
The only sound was the protest of the wood, cracking from the heat of the fire. It shifted, making the fire jump higher, brighter. More examples filled Miranda’s tongue, but she kept them behind her lips, for behind each of them were the weak explanations of just what had gone wrong. There was always something that had gotten in the way; her every move was blocked it seemed. Many had offered advice, pushing her in some direction or another, but it never seemed to be the direction Miranda wanted to go. Her paths were different from others, and often were entangled with troubles.
That’s why Elder MingNa’s apothecary had become so important. She had always come here with her ever-present catastrophes, and his potion had made her feel better. He too had offered his advice with the sympathy, to which Miranda would listen, and agree that the direction to which he pointed was often wiser than her own. But she had never taken the advice as it was given, soon only revisiting to partake freely of his sweeter potions.
It was unfair, Miranda often thought. It was her own life, why could she not live it in the way she saw fit? Why were things always going wrong? Surely that entitled her to some sympathy in its own way?
“Elder MingNa,” Miranda began.
His golden eyes pinned hers, interrupting her pleading. “Take what is given freely Miranda. There is none else until you can see what is there in the truth. It is not all bitterness, if you are willing to try it.”
A clock chimed the hour, the lateness reflected in the length of the tones. The evening light was faded through the windows. Miranda would have to walk quickly to make it back to her home before darkness made it dangerous to be about. Elder MingNa’s face was glowing from the heat of the fire, the rich color of his skin highlighted by the gold and red reflections.
Miranda stood from the chair, straitening her rough clothing. Her mouth tasted bitter, as if she had actually sucked on the harsh bitter pieces in the jars. The green tea must have been brewed too long she decided. She took herself slowly to the door to gather her things. Her hands were shaking still as she buttoned her tunic, albeit for different reasons.
Elder MingNa appeared next to her, a small white envelope held out. “Take these, Miranda. They are not as bitter as you believe.”
She accepted the envelope, tucking it silently into the pocket on the inside of her tunic. Turning without a further word, she slipped out the door. As she started toward home, Miranda fingered the lumps that pushed against the paper. Drawing one out, she studied it. The round pill was coated only slightly with sugar crystals, their edges jutting into her skin. Sticking it in her mouth, she only sucked off the sugar, and then threw the bitter piece inside into a muddy puddle that reflected the fading light of the setting sun. It wasn’t quite what she wanted, but it was better than nothing. Maybe next week, Elder MingNa would have more sympathy for her. After all, she told herself as she spit out another of the hard bitter pieces, he knew this bitter truth was a poor substitute.
2004© by L Murray
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