The Lance, May 2021

Page 12

Potion Promises Lucy B. ’21 The bog was a mess of gnarled tree trunks and twisting vines snaked across muddy water. Lark waited in the midst of the thick fog seeping out from every dark crevice, her translucent form practically invisible. Soft croaks bubbled up from the water occasionally, but for the most part it was strangely silent. In the center of the water was a wooden hut made from branches and vines held together with mud. A barnacled pier led up to the door, which had a very unwelcoming looking welcome sign hanging sideways on it. As she floated up to the hut, she noted tangles of weeds latched onto the wood of the pier that would have made it hazardous to walk for anyone with an actual physical body. She phased through the door, unsure of what would greet her inside the hut. The pit of her would-be-stomach curled uncomfortably with anxiety. It was only a phantom pain, but the feeling remained. On the other side of the door the hut was lit with various candles. Dried wax coated the windowsills and pooled over the candelabras. The ceiling was cluttered with dangling plant life and figurines. Some looked to be made of bone while others were carved from wood and straw. Painted skeletal faces stared out blankly from the walls. Though they were lacking pupils Lark still had the feeling that their empty eyes missed nothing. Lurking in the low candlelight behind a large table covered in glass bottles was a man. Everything about him was dark: his hair, skin, clothes, aura. His face was the only exception. The top half of it was hidden with a white skull tattoo, and a pair of inky green eyes, not much unlike the sleek vines hanging outside, were staring up at her expectantly. They watched each other in silence. She stared with curiosity and unease, while his gaze was more piercing with a hint of humor, as if he knew something she didn’t. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable when all at once the candles burned brighter and he turned his eyes away. “Do you want a beverage?” He swept up a few bottles of vibrantly colored liquid from the table. “I’ve got swamp stain, pumpkin potion, spirit malt, bog brew, a gecko tail cocktail, and some”— he paused to lift one of the bottles to his nose, taking a swig and swishing it around in his mouth before spitting it back out— “frog poison.” She stared at the array of bottles he had shown her, the sudden change in aura throwing her off. “Uh—” “Anything sound appealing?” He held up what she thought might be the poison and shook it invitingly, the bone bracelets encircling his wrist clattering together. “No thanks I’m, uh...I’m good,” she mumbled. It wasn’t that he was scary, per se, there was just 11


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The Lance, May 2021 by Mercy High School - Issuu