A Recipe for Revenge

After making final arrangements for his father’s funeral, Lucas left the undertakers and headed back to the apothecary shop. Amphoras had passed away in his sleep the night before, following a long illness.  On returning to the shop, Lucas pulled up a stool at the mixing table. With shaking hands, he broke the wax seals and loosened the ribbons securing two small scrolls of parchment he had found on Amphoras’ bedside table that morning. Sunlight filtering through the dusty windowpane over his shoulder revealed the unmistakable curves and flourishes of his father’s graceful hand. The first scroll read:

“On the 14th day of March, Anno Domini 1295

To one and all, may this record bear witness that my adopted son, Lucas Coldebeouf has been a good son and a faithful apprentice these last eleven years and a great comfort to me in the final difficult days of my life. Consider this document my last will and final wishes upon my demise. I hereby affirm that Lucas is a fully qualified pharmacist and healer. I leave my practice in his capable hands, and hope that after my demise, all in need of comfort and healing will come to him with full trust and confidence in his care.  Also, I hereby bequeath to Lucas Coldebeouf what little worldly property I possess: the apothecary building and the small parcel of land on which it stands, along with its various and sundry contents, including all of my instruments, tools, books, animals and conveyances.  

                                                                                                                                              By my hand on this date,

Amphoras Coldebeouf”

Lucas sighed as he unrolled and read the second scroll.

“Lucas - I will rest in peace knowing that you are well prepared to take up my practice and carry on our work. Always remember the old saying: “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” To which I would add my own codicil, “If served at all.” You will find the recipe you seek in a book hidden under the floorboards near the head of my bed. You are a good man, Lucas. Leave evil doing to others. There is a balance in the universe.

                                                                                                                                              Yours always in fatherly love,

                                                                                                                                                                             Amphoras”

“Finally!” Lucas shouted, trembling in the power of the long-awaited moment. He closed his eyes and relived, as he had a thousand times before, the day that his destiny had been quite literally forged in fire. 

He is seven years old again. He is in his family’s barn feeding the animals before breakfast. Suddenly hoofbeats pound loudly up the road. He peers out toward the house through a crack in the barn’s siding. Four mounted men carrying flaming torches shout angrily in the foggy morning light. 

His father comes out from the house and exchanges words with the men. Suddenly, a spear slices through the foggy air, striking his father in the chest with a sickening thud. Two of the horsemen dismount and drag his father’s dying body aside, nail the door and windows shut, and set the house and its thatched roof afire. Lucas looks on, frozen in fear as their evil laughter mixes with his mother and little sister’s muffled cries from inside the house. The murderers linger until only the roar of the flames licking skyward remain, then they wheel their horses and gallop away. 

As soon as the attackers are out of sight, Lucas runs across the road and tries desperately to tear the door open with his bare hands. Heat and smoke choke him and sting his eyes. He tears his fingers to the bone, but to no avail. Badly burned and beaten back by the heat, he falls unconscious on top of his father’s motionless body. Lucas’ memory of the events of the attack end there. His life may have ended that day as well, were it not for the compassionate and decisive action of an old stranger passing by on his apothecary cart. 

As the memory faded, Lucas opened his eyes and looked around the apothecary shop. It was now his alone. The place had become his home, his school, his workplace, and his sanctuary in the years following that horrendous day. He would miss Amphoras terribly and would always be grateful for everything he had done for him. The old man had taken him in, adopted him, and raised him with more love and care than most fathers show their natural children. He provided him with comfort and condolence in grieving his murdered family, taught him to read and write, and trained him in the mysterious arts of healing and potions. Lucas tried to keep all of that front of mind and heart, but on his worst days, even his deepest gratitude was overpowered and consumed by one thought – revenge. 

A few years after Amphoras took him in, Lucas asked him if he knew what had been behind the attack on his family. At first the old man said he didn’t know, but Lucas was persistent. He asked about it so often that eventually Amphoras agreed to look into the matter. 

One cold winter’s night, when Lucas was twelve, they sat by the fire together and Amphoras told the boy what he had learned about the attack. The lord of the local manor claimed that Lucas’ father was sowing dissention among his fellow serfs, encouraging them to collectively withhold their required land use payments. The lord saw this an attempt to apply pressure on him to renegotiate their contracts and allow a path toward land ownership. As this was seen as an intolerable show of rebellion, he asked the local sheriff, his enforcer, to “take care of the problem.” 

Lucas listened carefully to everything Amphoras had to say. He sat silently staring into the flames for a long time as the logs sizzled and popped in the quiet night.  When he finally spoke, with angry tears reflecting the fire, he declared his hatred for the men responsible and solemnly swore that someday he would avenge his family’s deaths. Amphoras understood the boy’s pain, but did his best to dissuade him from doing anything he might live to regret. “Revenge is a tricky business,” he said. “All too often, the one seeking vengeance ends up doing more damage to himself than to his target.”

“But what they did was a crime! Is there no justice? Are they above the law?”

“It’s worse than that, my son. They ARE the law.”

Lucas again sat silently for a long moment, then said, “Father, remember last summer when you sent me to Wisenfeld to buy some unicorn horn powder?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“It was curious. I didn’t tell you at the time, but when he read your order, he grinned and said ‘Ah, mixing up a killing potion are we?’”

“Hmm. I see. And what did you deduce from that?”

“I didn’t know what to think. I told him I wasn’t sure what you needed it for, but I was quite certain you were not planning on killing anyone. Or ever would.”

“Quite so. I’m not a murderer, son. I am aware of several recipes which require unicorn horn, but only one which can cause death. And I hope it goes without saying – I have never used it. Of course, Wisenfeld, being sometimes inclined to operate on the darker side of our craft would assume the worst. But Lucas – why are you telling me this now?”

Lucas sat for a long moment, frowning and thinking. Amphoras had a feeling he wouldn’t like whatever the boy was about to say, and yet he was caught off-guard when Lucas turned to him with a steely glint in his eye and said, “I’ve never seen such a recipe. Can you tell me in which of your books I might find it?”

“By the saints, lad!  Please assure me you would ever consider using our craft as a weapon for revenge.” The boy frowned even harder and sat in telling silence. “You must have faith in the power of justice, Lucas. I speak now not of the justice of mortal men, but of a higher power. It requires faith and patience, but it is never wrong. It says that although men will not always get what they want, they will inevitably get exactly what they deserve. Believe in that, and you will live a better life.”

That was six years earlier. And while Lucas was no longer the obsessive adolescent fantasizing about his enemies writhing in painful deaths, his plans for revenge were never far from his mind. He was older and smarter now. His enemies would never see him coming; they had no idea that Lucas Coldebeouf was the little boy they had missed twelve years before. And now he would have the means to make them pay. 

That thought prompted him to get up from the mixing table and cross into Amphoras’ bedroom. Kneeling on the floor near the head of the bed, he quickly discovered a loose floorboard.  Reaching into the void below, his hand felt something smooth and leathery.  He grasped it and pulled out a small book with the inscription “Summo Secreto” engraved in the cover.

Lucas returned to the living area, started a small fire, and spent the next few hours reading the pages of Amphoras’ secret potions book. He was fascinated to find recipes for inflicting and healing all sorts of conditions. There were potions for striking a person blind – either temporarily or permanently, others for causing boils, stomach distress, heart attack, baldness, impotence, infertility, bad luck, and tonics for reversing all of those maladies as well. At last, he found what he was looking for.  His eyes widened and his heartbeat raced as he read the following recipe from the last page of the book:

Patiens Mortem Miseram (Slow and Painful Death)

6 drams              Liquorem mentholatum

3 drams               Wormwood

20 drops             Adder venom

1 dram                 Sclerotic rat liver extract

2 thimbles          Powdered Unicorn horn

In a small cooking pot, warm liquid ingredients slowly to a low boiling point, then decrease flame to allow a slow simmer. Add the unicorn horn powder, stir gently for 1 minute or until dissolved, then let stand on flame for 10 minutes or until volume is reduced by half. Remove from heat, allow to cool, then carefully transfer finished potion to a stoppered vial.

Lucas couldn’t help but notice that this was the only potion in the book for which there was no remedy. Apparently, reversing the finality of death was something yet beyond the reach of humankind. He prepared a batch of the deadly draft the following evening and kept it tucked in a special compartment inside his black bag so he would be prepared whenever the opportunity might present itself.

In the months following Amphoras’ passing, Lucas spent most of his days visiting nearby towns and estates, introducing himself and spreading the word that he had taken on the apothecary and healing practice of Amphoras Coldebeouf. These efforts were, of course, meant to help him establish himself as a reliable local man of medicine. But additionally, as he travelled the hill towns, mill towns and villages of the region, he consistently engaged the locals in seemingly friendly and casual conversation in an effort to gather information about his enemies. 

Through dozens of conversations with pub patrons, tavern guests, and service employees of manors and estates in the area, Lucas was able to piece together a good deal of information about the perpetrators of the attack on his family. The lord who had initiated the action had apparently died of the plague a few years later. Lucas had witnessed many deaths by plague during his apprenticeship. It was a horribly agonizing way to leave this world, and he took no small pleasure in imagining the man’s final days and hours. The four horsemen who had carried out the attack had also come to bad endings. One was hung for the murder and rape of a young laundress. Two of the others had sustained fatal injuries in a drunken knife fight with each other. And the fourth had lost his mind after drinking bad absinthe. He was dying in an asylum in London.

For Lucas, each new revelation of another of the murderers escaping his appointment with revenge caused an additional burden of frustration. But he used his intensifying lust for retribution to focus more tightly on the remaining targets. Eventually, only one perpetrator remained: the sheriff who had sent the four horsemen that fateful day.

One afternoon, Lucas was enjoying a flagon of ale in what he had learned was the sheriff’s favorite pub, when one of the locals mentioned that the sheriff had not been seen much of late. Rumor had it that he was suffering from some mysterious malady and no doctor had yet been able to provide him with comfort or cure. On hearing this news, Lucas showed what he hoped was a believable level of concern and suggested that he might stop by in his capacity as a healer to offer some assistance. When he added that, unfortunately, he wasn’t sure where the sheriff lived, his companion willingly provided him with the address.

The following morning Lucas pulled his cart to a stop in front of the sheriff’s house, strode up to the door and knocked. A servant appeared and Lucas introduced himself, stating that he heard the good sheriff was battling some difficult illness. He offered his assistance and asked if the sheriff would be interested in seeing him. She told Lucas to wait and closed the door. Lucas felt his heart beating hard as he waited, and only a few minutes later the door opened again.

“The master will see you now. Please come in.”

Lucas hoped his excitement was not as obvious as it felt as he followed the servant through the spacious house. The sheriff’s bedroom was in the rear of the home. The servant stopped outside the bedroom door and gestured for Lucas to enter.

The sheriff’s huge bed was draped in fine fabrics and set against the far wall of the room. As Lucas approached, he detected an unpleasant odor that he recognized immediately as diseased flesh.  The sheriff lay under a heavy blanket, with only his face and hands visible above the covers.

“Good morning, Sir.” Lucas drew as close to the bed as his disgust would allow.

“So you’re Coldebeoouf’s son?”

“Yes. I apprenticed and studied with father for over ten years. With his passing, I am continuing his practice.”

“Come closer,” he croaked, scanning Lucas up and down with his rheumy grey eyes. “Why, you’re just a boy.”

“I am young.  But my father trained me well and trusted me to carry on in his name. Please allow me  to examine you and diagnose your condition free of charge, as a show of gratitude for your loyal service to our community.”

“Humph. Well, I suppose you couldn’t do any worse than the worthless idiots I’ve already seen.”

“Very well then. May I pull back the covers and get a better look at you?”  Lucas reached out and pulled the blanket down and was immediately swamped by a hot wave of gangrenous stench. He nearly gagged, but composed himself and said, “May - I ask you to stand? Can you do that?”

The sheriff glared at him incredulously, but after a moment swung his legs over the side of the bed and with some considerable effort, got to his feet. 

“Now, I’ll need to remove your night shirt.” Lucas gently slipped the nightshirt off and dropped it on the bed. Seeing the man in his nakedness, Lucas immediately understood the problem. He was suffering with an advanced case of venereal disease. His body was a patchwork of infected sores and festering ulcers, the worst case Lucas had ever seen of someone not already dead.

The young healer was dumbstruck, suddenly consumed by a mixture of disgust, rage, and frustration. Standing before him was his very last chance to relish his revenge, yet he could not imagine that the potion in his bag was capable of producing any more misery than the sheriff had already endured or a more painful death than that which awaited him within weeks if not days alone.

“So, what say you, doctor? Can you save me?”  The sheriff sat down heavily on the bed and pulled the rancid nightshirt over his nakedness. “No? Ach, I can see it in your face. You’re as useless as every other blood letter who has come and gone from this room. Get out!”

Lucas hesitated. His eyes flashed as he thought about the potion waiting in his bag. He could still use it, but in doing so, he realized he may be delivering a measure of mercy to the evil coward by quickening his death. After another moment of thought, he spoke.

“You’re right, Sheriff. I’m sorry, but I have no good news for you.  You are dying. There is no cure for what is wrong with you. With that, I will take my leave. Good day, Sir.”

Lucas turned on his heel and walked out of the room, through the house, and out the front door. He got up into his mule cart and headed for home. He fumed about how his quest for revenge had ended.  He been foiled by fate in every case of the six men who murdered of his family. And yet they all died miserable, pathetic deaths. At least he would now be free to live his life knowing he had not murdered anyone. That would have pleased his father greatly.  As Lucas turned down the lane to the apothecary, the old man’s words came back to him, and he could not help but smile. “Men will not always get what they want, but they will inevitably get exactly what they deserve.”