Tale Bearer.

A somewhat short story.

This is my contribution to a painting prompt given by Original Worlds (Ira Robinson). I hope that you enjoy.

The old apothecary came to a stop at the edge of the swamp, sweat dripping down his temples, and knelt before the body of water in front of him, his limbs shaking a bit with palsy. His travels had been long indeed, and he was wary of danger in the darkness of the night. His ears strained to catch the sounds of anything that may be lurking beneath the violent symphony of crickets, cicadas, and frogs. The different groups seemed to all try to outdo each other, each singing in a different key and time signature. He heard nothing out of the ordinary. Throat parched, he fished an empty water bladder from his crowded belt and was about to place its opening to the water’s surface when the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood up in the faint moonlight. He pulled his hand back slowly and carefully rose back to his feet. There was a rumbling growl that he could feel through his legs, and it echoed in his chest cavity.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, human.” The voice that came from the darkness was deep like an earthquake, plates of solid rock rubbing against each other, beneath the weight of mountains as they floated on oceans of magma. The way it enunciated the word human told the apothecary that he was very much within danger’s grip if he did not play his cards just right.

The man swallowed hard against the dryness of his mouth, but held his ground with a tired, quiet dignity. He had come so far, he couldn’t fail in his mission now. His grey eyes scanned the surface of the water and the tall plants that grew in the direction of the voice, yet he could not see anything out of the ordinary in the darkness.

“Are you the spirit of this swamp, oh great one who remains hidden to me?”

A dark chuckle like an avalanche came in reply. The man could feel it reverberate through his body.

“So I am.”

Suddenly, something massive broke the surface of the water behind the line of tall reeds, some twenty feet away from the shore. The old man almost lost his footing as he stood in absolute awe of the beast. An ancient reptilian creature, with individual scales larger than a man’s head. It possessed two yellow glowing eyes that rested on either side of its colossal head with a long, stretched out snout, dripping with gleaming ivory teeth as long as its torso and then some.

“Have you come to drain my home, human? To hunt my brethren and steal our fish?” There was no mercy in the beast’s accusatory tones.

“I have not, oh great swamp spirit. I am here on a mission, that much is true, but it does not involve harm to your home, your kin, or your food. I seek only some water to drink and three blooms of a small flower. Once I have the blooms, I will be gone from your home, never to bother your mightiness again.”

“You seek the Blood Chrysanthemum.” Its voice roared.

The man didn’t dare move an inch, though he shook silently in his muddied leather boots. He’d never heard of such a plant. No. He sought something much more modest. He fought to keep his hands from fidgeting, fearful that the swamp spirit would be further riled by it or misinterpret his intentions.

“I know not of this plant you mention good spirit. I come to collect three humble Transikus blooms.”

The great crocodilian started to laugh at the human, but stopped.

“Transikus grows everywhere. Why did you come here to seek it?”

“I come from the lands to the north where snow has its grip on the earth. Transikus lies dormant below great crusts of ice. I need the blooms as an ingredient for a remedy to ease my wife’s many pains. She is not long for this world, and my stock has run dry.”

The spirit shifted, lowering its great body to the ground as it thought over what the human had said.

“You have traveled far human. What makes you think your wife is still alive?” The anger previously in the great creature’s voice was gone, replaced by something else, something more sympathetic, though the man could have been wrong in interpreting it so.

“I have to have faith that I will make it home in time before her current stores run out. She will not leave me without saying goodbye.”

Around them, a fury of fireflies began to swarm, lighting up the night around them in an eerie, yet warm yellow glow that mimicked the light emanating from the swamp spirit’s eyes. The sounds of screaming cicadas and crickets seemed to lower in volume, as if out of consideration for the two conversationalists. The spirit sighed, the sound resembling the low, far away rumble of rock fall.

“I will allow you to pick your fill of pale violet Transikus blooms, but in return for my generosity human, you must tell me the tale of your travels. Tell me of the lands to the north with their plant crushing ice crusts and frigid winters. The blooms will not awaken till the morning sun. You have till then to enthrall me.”

The apothecary wanted to slouch in relief, but he had one last request to negotiate for.

“I can do such a thing in return for your kindness, yes. But before I begin my tales, might I ask for one additional kindness?” He removed his hat as he suddenly remembered that it was still up on his head. How disrespectful of him, he thought in the moment.

The crocodile spirit squinted its eyes in response, suspicious still of all humans, regardless of how they initially appear.

“I simply request that I may have some water to drink. My throat is yet parched, and my stories will be better told if my thirst is slaked.”

The spirit was somewhat taken aback, but then closed its eyes and gave a strange nodding gesture with its massive head. The light from the fireflies intensified, and the murky water at the feet of where the human stood magically became clear.

“Drink your fill. I expect fine tales indeed from you.”

The apothecary wasted little time, nodding his thanks to the creature and kneeling down to fill his water bladder. When he brought the container to his lips to drink, the water was cool and sweet, spring fed. Instantly, he felt revived and refreshed. He drank hungrily and then filled the bladder one last time, closing it and saving it for his return trip home. The water before him returned to its murky, muddy hue as he stood up, and to his surprise, the swamp spirit had soundlessly, effortlessly, moved in closer towards him. There hadn’t been so much as a ripple of the water’s surface to show for it.

“Sit.” The creature bade, and so the apothecary sat, folding his long legs before him at the water’s edge. The spirit waited patiently for a moment and the fireflies around them crowded close. The man cleared his throat and took in a deep breath.

“I come from the lands to the north, as I have told you. The seasons are not in balance there like they are here in the southern lands. Winter is a cruel mistress who refuses to relinquish its grasp, like iron, on the land. Our spring is short, messy, and violent with storms and ice melt causing mudslides from the mountains onto unfortunate towns.

Those who survived the winter and spring are then put to the plow with the task of growing, hunting, and foraging as much food as one can to survive the autumn and winter months again.” The apothecary stopped for a moment and looked around him, surprised to see glowing eyes and the faint visages of many creatures all about him, having come to listen. He looked back at the swamp spirit, licked his lips and continued.

Time passed, and the tales switched from that of the frozen north to those of his journey south and then again to stories from his youth and how he had become an apothecary. It was a while before he realized that his audience had dwindled down and that it was just he and the swamp spirit once more. In his storytelling, he had more than once risen to his feet to reenact a scene or two. But now, it was at a more solemn point. The death of their only child and the beginning of his wife’s great illness. His words wavered here and there, tears threatening to flow till quite suddenly, the first rays of the sun pierced the sky. The bubble spell of silence over the swamp popped, and the world around him suddenly erupted into commotion.

“It is morning already?” He asked, almost in disbelief.

“It is.” The spirit responded, his voice echoing the emotions of the apothecary. “And because you have held up your end of the agreement, I shall not uphold mine, but grant you a far better deal.”

The apothecary was confused, but before words could cross his lips, the giant crocodilian continued.

“Worry not for the flowers, though take some if it pleases you. Give your wife the water you carry at your hip. Have her drink every last drop. It will work more wonders than a tincture or tisane. Go home to the north and whisper not a word to anyone of what you have found here, or face a curse like none humans have ever seen before. Do you understand me, apothecary?”

The apothecary stood from his crouch and went to pull the water bladder from his belt when he noticed something he hadn’t before. His hand was smooth. Gone were the wrinkles and swollen knuckles. He put the youthful hand to his face. His skin was no longer slack with age, no longer scarred from pox. When he looked down at the surface of the water, between the pockets of duckweed, there peeking back at him was a face he had long forgotten.

“Oh great spirit, what has happened?” he asked, gazing back up at the giant crocodile whose eyes no longer reflected yellow in the night. The sun was fast rising. They showed gold in the gaining light.

“Go to your wife, human. Have her drink every last drop. Then make an offspring to mend the pain in your hearts. And remember what I have told you about the curse. Tell no one of this swamp, or else.” was all it said before slowly started its retreat into the swamp waters. The apothecary started to panic.

“Wait! Great spirit! May I return?! To visit you and tell you more tales?”

“You may call me Morichii. Come back if you so desire, when your lands are trapped in the crunch of ice. Our original deal still holds. I will allow you to pick transikus blossoms and in exchange, you tell me new stories.” With that, the spirit faded away beneath the surface of the swamp, leaving no sign that he was ever there.

“Thank you, Morichii.” The apothecary whispered, before pulling his black hat off his belt and placing it back on his head, now covered in thick black hair. “I shall return when the ice crunches the lands of the north.”

For many years, the apothecary would return, bearing new tales for the spirit of the swamp, the great and terrifying Morichii. Each time, the spirit would offer the human water for he and his wife. No longer did the couple age, not with the water of the spring of youth coursing through their veins. Eventually, there came a year when the apothecary failed to return. And then another. The spirit waited, fearing the arrival of more humans, worried that his human friend had betrayed him. Then one day, his fears were indeed realized. A new human found its way into the swamp. This time it was a young woman with long black hair and striking eyes, the color of gold.

“What brings you here, human?!” The swamp spirit roared, his voice containing all the violence of a volcanic eruption.

“I have come, oh great Morichii, to honor you in the place of my father. His spirit has flown high.”

“And the curse…” growled the spirit, still simmering in rage.

“I gladly live with. I come bearing tales of both the living and the dead, if you will have me, great one.”

A part of the spirit secretly mourned the old apothecary. Another part of it began to grow curious about this new human. If she were not of the same cut as her father, it would simply eat her.