Lark's Tongue

On a humid day in northern Italy, Wold sat in his shop, calling out to passerby. His apprentice, Hornberg, meticulously organized the potions on his shelves, polishing them with a handkerchief and spit and sorting them by size.

The shop was a small room, separated from the outside street by a small counter. From behind the counter, Wold cried out to every man, woman, and child who walked by, rich or poor, and attributed his commercial success to this tactic. Many came to Wold’s shop, seeking medicines and potions. He was known as a trustworthy businessman, who sold moderately effective products at reasonable prices. An honest man, proud man, clean shaven and presentable.

On this humid day in northern Italy, Wold called out to a foreign noble, donning a white wig and frilled cuffs. Hornberg had noticed the noble, and told his master to call him over. Wold obliged. The man, lifting his chin, approached the shop, taking with him an entourage of guards.

“And what is this?” he demanded.

“Oh good day, my sir,” Wold smiled. “I am a medicine and potion merchant. Anything you’d like, I can procure. Any ailments you have, I can cure. Do not hesitate, good sir, today is the day to treat yourself.”

The noble eyed the potions, eyed Hornberg stacking them neatly.

“Are your medicines true?” he inquired, shifting his gaze to his surroundings.

The disinterest the noble exhibited did not deter Wold.

“But of course, I would not be permitted to sell them if they weren’t! God himself hasn’t seen such effective potions, I will tell you. Do not doubt them for one second. Try one, if you will, and see the miraculous effects. You will be moved. No doubt. Hundreds of testimonies can back this up.”

“Hundreds,” the noble repeated, fiddling with one of the vials on the counter. “Very well then. I shall be back tomorrow with my physician, and he shall determine whether your bombastic claims are true.”

“Very well,” Wold nodded.

The noble motioned with his arm and the entourage followed him away from the shop, merging into the flow of passerby. Wold sat frozen in his seat, staring at the vial the noble had been rolling between his fingers.

After an hour of silence from Wold, Hornberg came to the counter and began calling out to the passerby.

“What are you doing?” Wold hissed, grabbing him by the arm. “Go back and polish the jars, polish the vials, polish the glasses, one hundred times over. Sweep the floors and polish the countertop. Shave and wash your clothes. Wash mine. Leave no stone unturned. This shop will be pristine. Understand?”

Hornberg nodded and immediately attended to his duties. Wold continued luring in customers, although his regulars that stopped by noted that he was particularly melancholy.

The next morning, the shop was pristine as expected. The jars, vials, and glasses glinted as though they were straight from the furnace. The floors were clean enough to eat a banquet off of, and the countertop was so smooth, the jars began sliding off its minute tilt. Hornberg and Wold were both clean shaven, and their hair was neatly combed and tied back. Their clothes sported no stains, and any frayed edges were neatly trimmed off. Everything exactly how it needed to be.

“Excellent, my boy. Just excellent. This is why I am proud to call you my apprentice,” Wold said, patting him on the shoulder. “You know, Hornberg, my grandfather was a lord in England. He upheld the law and the nobility. The finer things in society. You must give nothing but respect to the nobility. They are the ones who keep everything controlled and peaceful, my boy. They are the catalysts of culture. Trust in your superiors.”

Hornberg smiled and moved up to the counter, opening up the shop. Wold stayed in the back, practicing in front of a mirror.

“And what about that one?” he asked himself, pointing to one of the jars beside him. “That one?” he responded. “Oh, that one is for headaches, and is composed of olives and a lark’s tongue, as well as other herbs. It is said that the lark’s song continues on within the body, clearing the mind of its pestilent plague and breeding biological harmony. But don’t take my word for it, try it yourself. Only ten ducats for a full jar, my good sir. Only ten ducats to permanently rid yourself of headaches.”

Once they arrived, Wold was prepared.

The noble brought three other nobles, stout men of different statures and identical expressions. They walked with their chins lifted, nodding and shaking their heads, clucking their tongues and whistling.

Accompanying them was an older man, his head wrapped in a turban and his beard touching his sandaled feet. He walked with a cane, and observantly peered at his surroundings.

The noble led the group with a haughty smile. He came up to the countertop, swiping his finger across it and licking it. Surprised, he nodded, and the other three nobles swiped and licked their fingers as well. They nodded and clucked their tongues.

“Very well,” the noble declared. “At least your shop is cleaner than it was before. I planned on beginning with that, but you have clearly outdone yourself, sirrah. Bravo. Now, I will have my physician come forward. His name is Mahmud ibn Sina. He comes from Damascus. His great grandfather was the famous Abu ibn Sina, a great physician and scholar of his time. I can attest that his great grandson was blessed with the same intellect. Mahmud, please. Come up.”

The bearded man came forward, resting his cane against the counter and scanning the shelves with his eyes. Wold sat on his stool, intently waiting.

“Well?” the noble laughed. “Sell something, merchant!”

“Right away, sir,” Wold said. “Now, as you already know, our shop provides cures for any ailment! That’s right, any ailment you have. You name it, we’ll cure it. No matter what it is, we can fix it.”

“Let’s say I have no ailments,” the noble speculated. “What use have I of your shop then?”

“We have plenty of potions to enhance your life by orders of magnitude, my good sir,” Wold began, eyeing Hornberg. “For instance, we have this sleep potion here, which will put you to sleep within five minutes of taking it!”

Hornberg rushed over to the shelf and pulled out a blue vial, placing it on the counter beside Wold. One of the other three nobles picked it up and began shaking his head.

“No more are the nights of tossing and turning in bed, unsure of when dream will finally take you away into rest.”

“I’m sure you struggle sleeping in a straw bed, but my bed is divine.” the noble replied. “No such struggles exist in my life.”

“Very well,” Wold continued. “Herein, we carry love potions, which can be administered to any woman to fall madly in love with you, or to any man to deeply respect and admire you.”

“I could use that now,” the noble quipped. “My respect for you is greatly deteriorating. The fact you’ve even assumed I have troubles in love is preposterous.”

The old man lifted his cane and pointed at the jar by the mirror.

“What about that one?”

Wold stood up and picked it up.

“This one?”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” Wold began, smiling. “One of our most famous potions. A concoction derived from herbs, olives and lark’s tongue, it will put to death any headaches-”

“Lark’s tongue?” Mahmud asked, raising an eyebrow. “How does this help with a headache?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Wold beamed. “The lark’s tongue is said to continue its song after consumption, which spreads throughout the body and clears away the pestilent plague that a headache is. Additionally, taking it without headaches is beneficial as well, as it increases biological harmony. Ten ducats only for the full jar!”

“Biological harmony…” the old man repeated. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you very much sound like a charlatan. This is absurd; the notion as primitive as that, that a lark’s tongue continues singing after death, and that this somehow benefits a headache… I don’t even know where to begin. It’s unscientific.”

“Wow!” the noble beamed, laughing. “Unscientific! Look at you, that’s pathetic! Primitive! Oh my days, this is wonderful! Mahmud, you are dismissed, you incredible man! And to think that he’s charging ten ducats for this!”

The other three nobles laughed together, pointing their stubby fingers at Wold. His expression darkened, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Oh,” the noble pouted. “What’s the matter? Lark got your tongue?”

He burst out laughing, slapping his knee and wiping tears from under his eyes. Hornberg moved to the farthest corner of the shop, where he was least visible.

“Regardless of my good humor,” the noble concluded, “This is truly a crime against the city of Mantua, that such a disgusting charlatan can be allowed to sell his false merchandise in the streets.” he paused. “I will have the Lord of Mantua revoke your license at once. Good day.”

The noble led the other three away from the stand. As Mahmud ibn Sina followed them, he gave Wold a remorseful look.

After they were far gone, Hornberg came up to Wold and placed his hand on his shoulder. Wold spun around and slapped the hand down.

“You fool!” Wold cried. “You’ve ruined it all! You were the one who told me to call them over! You were the one who left this shop a mess! Of course they ridiculed me! Because of you! For your horrible service- for your disservice, you are banished from my shop! Never again bring yourself to my sights!”

After Hornberg had left, Wold struck down his shelf and shattered all of his jars, vials, and glasses. Two of the Lord’s Guard arrived, remarking that he had done their work for them. He was given a broom, told to clean the mess, and nevermore sell his sinister stock within the city walls. He took his one remaining empty vial and left.

Over the course of the next few months, Wold took himself from merchant to merchant, offering his service in any task for three ducats a day. Most rejected him, fearing his name would tarnish his business.

He took up an alleyway with another beggar, an old man with no teeth and a torn ear. The old man frequently taunted him, and was especially fond of bringing up his Genoan whore mother and English father that left him a bastard. Wold never responded. He found himself doing the same as he had always done: calling out to the passerby. Only now, with his dirty and bearded face, he lured none.

Eventually, the food in circulation amongst the beggars became scarce. Many of the beggars had been dying of starvation, and from seeing his gaunt face in the reflections of puddles, Wold knew his time was near. Many resorted to crime, but Wold would never drag himself down to those depths. He frequently lectured other beggars, calling for respect of the law that created society. Trust in your superiors, he said. He was ridiculed.

Desperate, he returned to his roots, concocting potions of whatever he could find lying around. He caught rats and birds, even dogs, disemboweled them, and used their bladders to contain his potions, which were brewed in the one vial he had kept from his shop. He ate the rest of the body parts. Wold convinced many of the hopeless beggars that in exchange for what little coinage they had, they could drink potions of luck or medicines of hunger. While most of the criminal beggars ridiculed him as before, the dimmer beggars gladly purchased his stock. Every one of his customers died, and his potions were forgotten.

The Lord’s Guard frequently beat and jailed him for weeks at a time, and he only complied. The old man in his alley asked why he showed so much respect to the nobles and their goons. Wold wholeheartedly that following their orders and their laws would eventually find him success once more. Trust in your superiors.

Years passed. The old man in his alley died, and he moved to a different street to keep from loneliness. The beggars of that alley, two young disheveled boys, were infatuated with his deadly potion-making, and referred to him as the Apothecary. They ran around the city, advertising the Apothecary’s miraculous services, and from the sales he made, he gave them half. What he made from begging and selling poisons was only enough for a loaf of bread a day at most, as before.

One cold morning, as Wold was shivering in his blanket and fidgeting with his single ducat, a young noble walked into the alley.

“What ho! Apothecary!” he cried.

“Who calls so loud?” Wold responded.

The noble spotted Wold and came up to him, staring down at him with his chin lifted.

“Come here, man, I see that your poverty knows no bounds. I have forty ducats here with me, and would like a drop of poison, such that will disperse itself through all the veins.”

“What is your name?” Wold replied in shock.

“Romeo Montague,” he replied. 

“How did you find me?”

“A glass merchant by the name of Hornberg informed me of you.”

“Hornberg.” Wold scratched his beard.

“Now, how about that poison?” Romeo demanded, growing impatient.

“Well, such poison is illegal by Mantua’s laws, punishable by death to any man who sells it. I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

“Look at yourself, wretch!” Romeo replied. “You fear a death sentence, when you are so close to death yourself! Cheeks sunken in, starving eyes, and a beggar’s stance; the world is not your friend, nor is the law. The world provides no law to make you rich, my friend. But taking these forty ducats, you may be rich once more and free from poverty.”

“You are too wealthy,” Wold began, “too young to be dealing in poisons. You are but a child. I mustn’t help you.”

“I know what it is that I deal with. Do not worry about me, worry about yourself. How many years have you been a beggar now? Mantua has betrayed you! Your superiors have broken your trust. You must take up this opportunity to turn your life around.”

Wold stared at the floor.

“My poverty, but not my will, consents.” he decided. “Allow me a moment to concoct such a poison.”

“It is your poverty, not your will, that I am paying.”

Wold turned away and opened his sack, pulling out various objects of flesh and bladder-sealed chemicals. Romeo stood impatiently, waiting as he squeezed them into his one vial and mixed the potion. After he sealed the vial, he handed it to Romeo.

“Mix this with any liquid, and drink it off; if you had the strength of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. Be careful, boy. Do not be rash.”

“Here is your gold,” Romeo said, holding out a pouch full of coins. “A worse poison to men’s souls, doing more murder in this world than the compounds that you unlawfully sell. I have sold you the poison; you have sold me none. Farewell, buy food, and get yourself in flesh.”

Romeo Montague walked out of the alley, and Wold sat down, dazed, staring at the leather pouch in his hands. Forty ducats. Enough for a month of meals. Enough for a room at an inn. Enough for new clothes. Enough for a horse.

The two beggar boys approached him.

“Nobody wanted to come,” one reported.

Wold opened the leather pouch and rationed out ten ducats, splitting them into piles of five, placing them on his palm, and holding them out to the boys.

“Take this money,” he said. “Take this money and buy yourselves new clothes and a bath. Find a merchant named Hornberg, and offer yourselves as apprentices. He sells glass. Buy handkerchiefs, spit on them, and use them to polish his glasses one hundred times over. Hear?”

The boys nodded, reaching for his palm. Wold closed his fingers.

“Do as I say,” he repeated. “Nothing more. But don’t trust him with your fate; he may yet fail you. Have self-reliance, and tell him Wold gives his thanks.”

The boys nodded again, and this time Wold gave them the ten ducats. They pocketed the coins and ran off into the street with them, waving goodbye until they were out of view.

Wold stood up, wrapped whatever was left of his belongings up in a pouch, and slung it over his shoulder. He used his money to buy pickles, a bath, new clothes, and an old gray stallion. He rode the horse out of the city walls and followed the dirt road, stopping only once to turn around and view Mantua from afar. A distant wall of stone.

“Farewell, Mantua.”