The Crown and the Elixir

King Weston Juneberry sat on his impressive red seated throne on a raised dais, the better to look down upon mere peons and courtiers. His fat red lips curled in a sneer as Hanly West entered the cavernous, dark marbled receiving room. Bronze pillars and statues, gold and silver ornaments and censers reflected the flickering lights. The walls were covered with velvety shades of red and the same shades coated the floor in thick wool rugs.

The tall man that strode into the room thought to himself, ‘This is Hell.’

Hanly’s soft, tall boots made the faintest of pats on the cool, polished floor. On the carpets they made no sound at all. His simple clothing was black leather, his fine, Merino wool cloak fanned behind him. His dark hair was cropped in unruly spikes, his short beard was finely sculpted over a solid, square jaw. His warm brown eyes sparkled mischievously as he approached the pompous man glowering down at him. 

He bowed respectfully and said, “Hello Father. What a pleasant---”

“Cut the crap! You’re a bastard, an embarrassment to me! You’re an outcast!” The king’s voice softened slightly, “Your mother was a whore.”

“We do not choose who we love though, do we?”

King Juneberry took a deep breath. Then another, while the redness left his face.

Hanly said, “Why have you summoned me? Quite shocking really…”

“It’s true you are lowlife scum. You are a thief. And a very good one at that. I have a proposition for you.”

Hanly raised his brows, looking like a handsome, polished knight from a fairy tale. He waited patiently… and was intrigued.

“As you know, my crown was stolen by a lad posing as a bedboy. I find it highly unlikely that you would not have had word of who he is and where to find him. You seem to run in the same circles. No offense meant I assure you.”

“Ah yes, so assuring you are…”

“Wait. Hear me out. His sister, Poem, has been seen in the company of the Violet Diviners. She’s most likely apprenticing with them. Find her, find the boy. I want my crown back.”

“Can’t you storm their sect house? Take it back yourself?”

“The crown is not the only thing I want. There is talk of an elixir they have. An immortality elixir. Getting it will take the…uh… skills that you possess. In exchange for the return of my crown and a vile of the elixir, I will formally announce you as my legitimate son. You will be granted land and castle and title becoming a royal prince. I will retract your illegitimate name. You will be Duke Hanly Weston Juneberry. My son.”

“And Janella is okay with this?”

“She has no say. She’s an insufferable, money hungry, bitch who looks good on my arm.” The king showed his son a vulnerable side, he said, “Your mother, Katinka, has more grace and integrity in her little finger. I’m aged, nearly sixty. It’s not too late to be a good man. Screw being who I am now.  I desire to live longer to be a better man. A better king.”

Hanly thought to himself, ‘Maybe there is hope for us after all.’

***

Hanly traced the location of the gold crown through the underground world of thieves, whores, and deviants. It wasn’t hard, anyone who’d seen it or held it gossiped and bragged about doing so. The boy had taken it to his sister.

So now, on his black steed, Jerry, he travelled through desert terrain towards the Sect House of the Violet Diviners. As the sun descended like a glowing apricot, to the low hills in the west their shadows grew long. Stars timidly began twinkling overhead. An immense owl swooped close over his head. ‘Whooooo-hooooo!’

A minute later, the squeal of a rodent punctuated the desert’s pleasant song of night bugs and far away coyotes.

After another two miles, the only light in the sky was pastel indigo, the stars now blazing with confidence. The yellowy sparkling of man-made light sat on the horizon below the blackened foothills. ‘The Violet Sect.’

Two hours later, the light of a nearly full moon cast a blue glow on everything. He arrived at the white marble arch of the witches’ home’s entrance. In the moonlight, the polished stone looked lavender, the veins of tourmaline were midnight blue. There was no gate. Hanly felt a wave of unease. He said to himself, ‘They welcome visitors. Odd that I’ve never heard any tales from any.’

Before he could ponder longer, a young woman in a dark, hooded cloak appeared from around the left side of the arch. She held up a lantern and peered up at his face. She seemed pleased with what she saw, a warm smile overtook her lovely, delicate features. 

Hanly dismounted Jerry and another witch came from the right side of the arch. She was older, handsome, rather than pretty, with a low, smokey voice. She said to the younger woman, “Poem, where are your manners? Welcome our handsome guest into the parlor.” To Hanly, she said, “Please. Let me care for your steed. Poem will show you to a hot meal and bath.”

Poem curtsied and said, “C-come with me.”

The older woman tsked and led Jerry away. The horse whinnied happily as he caught a whiff of fresh sweet hay and the bready scent of oats. As Hanly followed the young woman into the beautiful, white, three-story manor, he heard happy snuffling and greeting whinnies from the other horses in the barn.

Inside the parlor, Poem lowered her hood. Her hair was the color of flaxen wheat, her pointed nose and high cheekbones complimented her rosebud lips. Her eyes were the blue-grey color of a glacier, but with an odd, faint lavender tint. She resembled the boy thief so strikingly; she could only be his sister.

She said, “Bath first.” Her nose wrinkled.

“That bad, eh? Sorry to offend thy delicate olfactory sense.”

Poem blushed and suddenly found her shoes fascinating.

Hanly laughed. “Lead the way, fair maiden!”

Twenty minutes later, Hanly rinsed the Jasmine scented lather from his hair. “Aaahhhh!” He exclaimed in a sigh as he sank back into the hot, bubbly water.

Poem entered the cozy room with an “Ahem.” She wore a black silk gown, simple, flowing, and body caressing. She had a deep violet scarf holding back her long, corn-silken locks. She came forward with a fresh tankard of spicey pear ale and Hanly sat up. In doing so, revealing cobblestoned abs and a hard, flat stomach.

“Oh!” Poem said breathily, trying to avert her eyes. Seemed she’d never seen a naked man before.

She held on to the tankard’s handle as Hanly pulled it to him.

“Would you like to touch it?” He said, winking.

She let go as if it were fire. She glared at him. “Hmf.” She picked up his empty dinner plate, swirled about gracefully, and fled the room like a shadow.

Hanly “teed-heed” and sipped his fresh cider.

When the tankard was half empty, his eyes shut like iron curtains. They fluttered as he fought to keep awake.

The sounds of silk-slippered feet on a smooth floor echoed along with the whispers of women. A cackle, then whispering, more cackles. As the voices grew closer, his vision cleared so the dark blurs gained limbs and legs and individuality. There were four of them. Hanly felt waves of nausea churn like cold grease from his stomach to his head. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep, his head stopped spinning.

The shadowy figures surrounded not his bed, but the one next to his. It was only then he realized there was another in the dim, airy space. He was alarmed to discover both he and the other were strapped securely to their beds.

Through his eyelashes, he watched in horror as the woman closest to him helped another up onto the bed. The woman climbing onto the body in the bed was stoop shouldered and white haired. She straddled the slim figure and pushed her skirt out of the way. After a minute she started rocking over the body, her breath coming faster. He heard the man’s breathing as well, faint but quick. The woman on the far side of the bed inserted what looked like a six-inch needle into the body’s stomach.

It was all Hanly could do not to chatter his teeth and sob out loud.

The woman with the needle rose and held a vile high, towards the lantern over the bed. She said in a smokey voice he remembered, “That’ll do it for this one.”

The slippered feet shuffled out of earshot, the only remaining sound was the thumping of Hanly’s blood in his ears. It was melodic and the remains of the drug pulled him back under.

 He awoke to a chill breeze and darkness. ‘I’ve slept all day.’ A silent light moved towards him.

He looked directly at the oncoming witch. She carried a tray with a lantern and moved like a cat. It was Poem. With a steaming bowl of brothy soup. She put the tray on the stool by his bed, then turned a crank that raised his upper body. He understood she had to feed him, his hands and feet were not to be untethered. The bed next to him was empty.

“Why do you do their bidding? You are too young and sweet…”

“You mean naïve.”

“No! Innocent. They are…evil.”

She raised the spoon to his lips; he turned his head away. 

“This isn’t poisoned.”  

He believed her and accepted the broth. When the bowl was empty, he glared at her silently. 

“Here.” She reached into her black cloak and brought out his father’s gold crown. She swiftly tucked it under his pillow.

“You must escape here.” Poem told him in harsh whispers. “I will help you. They should not be allowed immortality! You are correct. They are evil,” she glanced at the bed beside his and a fat tear rolled down her heart shaped face.

Hanly said, “He was your brother. The young thief who stole the crown.”

She nodded as her tears flowed. She said, “He followed me here.”

He said, “Poem. I am just as your brother was, a thief, an outcast. I came on a double mission. To bring the crown back to the king along with an immortality elixir. I’m not sure such an elixir isn’t fable.”

“It’s real. The Violet have discovered a small gland that perhaps one in a hundred males have. They excrete the fluid at the moment of ejaculation, when the gland is stimulated. There are five vials. They’ve tested your blood and found traces of the spores that the fluid contains. Tomorrow morning, they will milk you and fill the sixth vial. At midnight, during the full moon, we drink.”

Hanly shuddered. “Including you.”

She nodded. “You will eventually be eaten. They can’t have failures wandering about.”

Hanly’s eyes narrowed on the bowl. “Was that…um…erk…” he gagged.

“My brother broth? No.”

Hanly sighed with relief.

Poem added, “It was the visitor before my brother.” She handed him a tankard of weak ale. He gulped it, swished it around, and gargled. 

Poem said, “The witches dine at eight.” She pointed out a window high on the wall, “Tomorrow night, when you see the moon centered there, they will be dining. Unfortunately, for my plan to work, they must milk you and believe they have six vials.”

A shadow flickered silently through the moonlit floor by the door.

Poem put a finger to her lips.

The shadow stopped, its head turned towards them, two greenish white eyes glowed.

“It’s just a cat.” Hanly said.

“You can’t trust any creature around this place.”

The cat moved on.

 “I will hide the vial in your horse’s stall…under the straw behind the oat pail.”

“They’ll kill you when they find out what you’ve done. Come with me.”

“They’ll find me wherever I go. If my plan works, they won’t be hunting anyone. Oh, and by the way, I’m the youngest so I go last.” She got up quickly and left with the tray, leaving the lantern behind, and Hanly to ponder the meaning of her last words.

The footsteps came at dawn. Hanly moaned, pretending drugged grogginess. He opened his eyes as slim fingers pulled his sheet off and untied the cotton sleep britches they’d clothed him in. Today, there were just two of the creepy old women, chanting in soft, raspy voices in a foreign tongue. One held a six-inch needle.

Poem lifted her skirt and mounted him on the bed, as light as a feather. She smelled of jasmine and lemons. He was hard as a rock when she slid down onto him and he felt he would burst immediately. She sensed this and leaned over him, her hair like silken drapery. She whispered directly into his ear, “Not so fast.”

Her thick curtain of hair obscured his left wrist from sight. She pulled the leather strap loose from the buckle as she rocked her hips against his. The old witch on his left was busy inserting the probing needle. The sharp pain dulled quickly. Poem moaned and it was all over.

The ancient hag raised the vial to the soft morning light and cackled gleefully.

“Well done, my virulent one! A full one in one go!” Exclaimed the hag on his right.

Poem remained silent as she dismounted the bed and retied his pants. 

“Well, I can’t force you to eat,” grumbled the witch who’d come to feed Hanly. “It’s not poisoned you know.” She giggled and added, “We can’t have any of that shit in our meat tonight.” She snorted and laughed, a trail of pussy looking drool slimed down her wrinkly chin.

She left the tray on the stool. 

On her way out the door she said, “Hello dear,” to the cat who sat preening its whiskers. 

The cat sat by the door until it grew dark out. After it left, he kept expecting it to peek inside and spy some more. Only one other witch came to bring a lantern and a fresh bowl of man broth, he was disappointed it wasn’t Poem. 

At last, when the bottom edge of the window started glowing, he pulled his arm from the loose binding and quickly freed his other limbs as well. When the moon was centered in the window, he ran to the door, then over the dirt path to the barn.

“Jerry!” He whispered loudly. “Quiet now.”

Jerry nickered a low rumble in his throat and Hanly followed the sound to a stall at the end of a row of eight. Four were occupied.

Jerry pawed the ground in excitement. Hanly lifted the horse blanket and found his shirt and cloak beneath it. After saddling Jerry and retrieving the vial from behind the wooden pail, he removed the white sleep-pants. They would practically glow in the dark. In the third stall he found a load of fresh manure and coated the pants till they were dark. He grimaced as he put them on.

Outside the barn, he sadly gazed at the brightly lit dining room windows. He had to trust that Poem’s plan would work, and he wished her well.

Back at his father’s castle, Hanly told him of his adventures, skipping the part about the rape. He could not sully Poem’s reputation, he planned on marrying her one day.

“I am proud of you son. What a horrendous ordeal. What monsters!”

The king rolled the small glass vial in his fingers, admiring the way the fluid swirled like living gold in the candlelight. 

“Be sure to drink the elixir during the next full moon. It is more effective that way.”

After a minute of silence he said, “So…Father. What land will I be taking over?’

“I feel the Razorock Hills would be most appropriate. Heh, heh, they’re black, like you.”

“The Razorocks? But Father…that’s a wasteland. Nothing grows there…the Nevermore poisoned the entire expanse in the last war.” Hanly’s stomach roiled like stinking sewage as he realized that his father had duped him. He growled, “There is no title, is there?”

“Ha ha ha! Sure there is! One of The Fool. Or The Jester. Take yer pick.”

Hanly said, “You loathsome old fart. I don’t need you. Never have. I hope you rot in hell!” He was about to storm out but stopped and turned around. “I am your son. And that bitch of a queen seems quite barren.”

King Juneberry snorted. “Maybe so. But I am soon to become immortal! You’ll be dead and I will sit on this throne!”

The realization that the doomed land would have a rotten king forever, and that it was his fault, stabbed his heart like a sharpened iron stake.

In the small guest room where he kept his few belongings, he packed his satchel and grabbed his cloak. In the hidden inner pocket, he felt for his remaining coinage. Nothing clinked. “Damn.” But something crinkled. ‘Huh?’

He pulled out a folded sheet of yellowed paper, torn along the top. He opened it and caught the faint scent of jasmine and lemons. The brief note was written in a flourishy, feminine hand. It read:

Dear Hanly,

I can only pray that you are safely at home and happy with your new title and lands and father. By the time you read this, I will be no more. I poisoned all six vials to ensure that not a single witch survived. 

I must warn you that upon further tests, we have deemed the elixir poisonous to males who possess the gland. Since the gland is a genetic defect, there is a very high chance of your father possessing one too. Do not let him drink it.

Fare thee well, my Dark Prince.

Yours, Poem

PS…I truly enjoyed my encounter with you.