IGMS Issue 2 (14 page)

Skepticism returned to Osbert's mind. "I cannot believe you have the very same salt that was at the Last Supper?"

"It matters not what you believe. The power of the salt is real." The apothecary smiled. "But you are a clever young man to see that this is not the very same salt. The spilt salt was collected by one who recognized its power. And when that cursed salt is mixed with uncursed salt, the curse spreads. As it says in the Bible, 'If the salt has lost its savour, wherewith shall it be salted?' So this is known as the Salt of Judas or Traitor's Salt. The grains may not be the same, but the curse is."

Osbert stared in fascination at the saltcellar. "What does the curse do?"

"As normal salt is repellent to an evil spirit, Salt of Judas is repellent to a good spirit, only far stronger in its effects. Place your left hand on the counter here, fingers spread apart."

Osbert did as he was told.

The apothecary reached out and gripped Osbert's wrist with fingers hard and cold as iron. "This will be painful, but no real harm will come to you."

"Painful?" Osbert almost tried to pull his arm back, but the apothecary's grip held him fast.

"It will not last long." The apothecary sprinkled salt onto Osbert's little finger.

Osbert's knees buckled as he felt fire spread across his hand and into his forearm. He exhaled a choking scream, then found himself unable to draw breath. The apothecary's icy fingers tightened on his wrist. His vision blurred with tears, but he thought he saw a wavering tendril of fire rise from the knuckle of his little finger.

"There it is." The apothecary's voice was calm. He had put down the saltcellar and now held a pair of shears. Deftly he snipped the tendril of fire just above the knuckle. The tendril writhed on the counter, leaving scorch marks where it touched. "Looks very much like a salted slug, does it not?"

Still unable to breathe, Osbert tried to yank his hand away, but the apothecary did not let go.

"Oh, yes. The pain." The apothecary pulled Osbert's hand several inches away from the tendril, then poured some water from a bottle onto Osbert's little finger. "Holy water, to wash away the salt. The pain should subside." He finally let go of Osbert's wrist.

Clasping at his finger to make certain it was still there, Osbert realized the pain was easing. He was able to breathe again, and he took several deep breaths to steady himself before shouting, "What did you do to me?"

"Just what I said I would. I sprinkled Salt of Judas on part of your body to force your soul out of that part, allowing me to clip it off." The apothecary used tongs to pick up the tendril of soul and drop it in the mortar. He added some dried leaves, which burst into flames. "The salt also corrupted it enough that we can see it and even touch it." He took a pestle and began pounding it in the mortar. "There are many who say that the curse on the Salt of Judas is the curse of Hell itself, and that the pain you felt is what a damned soul will feel for all eternity, but I don't know that is so."

"You have damned me." His vision dimmed as despair filled his heart. "I have been touched by the curse of Judas."

The apothecary laughed. "You are a good man, Osbert Peale. If your soul were not good, the Salt of Judas would not cause you pain." The apothecary looked in the mortar, ground the mixture a little more, then removed the pestle. "Now, take this powder--"

He tilted the mortar and poured an ash-white powder onto a sheet of paper, which he expertly folded. "--mix it with linseed oil, then blend it with the paint on your next portrait."

Osbert looked at the packet but made no move to take it.

"Come now. Are you going to waste all the pain you've suffered? Take it."

Osbert slowly reached out his hand.

The gray light of dawn diffused from the window, blending with the yellow from the oil lamp. Still wet, a portrait of Her stood lifeless on the easel. On his palette, still unused, was some of the soul-paint.

Osbert feared it would not work. And he feared it would. The events of the night before were becoming confused in his mind. Was the apothecary a charlatan or a puissant witch? Osbert rubbed the little finger of his left hand. It had felt a little numb during the night, then prickly, but seemed almost normal now. Perhaps it was getting accustomed to missing its soul.

He took his blender and dipped it in the translucent soul-paint, then carefully began applying it to her face. Now that he had started, he worked feverishly until there was none of the substance left on his palette.

On the canvas, nothing had changed: Her eyes still looked to the distance, Her serious expression remained frozen in oils. The pain, the fright, his work -- all were for naught. Osbert threw down his palette and painting knife, then stretched himself out in exhaustion upon his cot.

He would deal with the fraudulent apothecary later.

When he woke up, the first thing he saw was Her smile.

A week later -- seven portraits later -- Osbert hurried into the apothecary shop and closed the door. "I need to make more soul-paint. And it needs to be stronger."

"Soul-paint? Apropos." The apothecary's teeth glinted in his smile. "Run out already, have you?"

"She smiles at me. She gazes into my eyes. But She doesn't talk, and when I try to touch Her, I can sense Her movement but She still feels like paint."

Nodding, the apothecary said, "Yes, a higher concentration is needed to give the portrait more vitality. But that would require a larger portion of your soul. Are you willing to give it?"

The pain hadn't been too much to endure, had it? And it had been over quickly, had it not? "How much would I need?"

The apothecary bobbed his head back and forth in thought. "For talking and touching, let me see . . . . Perhaps, to be on the safe side, we should take the whole hand."

Osbert clenched his left hand into a fist, then opened it again, looking at it carefully. "Will it make a difference to my hand, not having a soul? My finger felt strange that first night."

"Oh, my dear boy! Is that what you thought?" The apothecary laughed. "You do not have a soulless finger, nor will you have a soulless hand. The rest of your soul extends to fill the empty parts. It is the same with fat men -- they do not have more of a soul than thin men; their souls just stretch to fill their bulk."

Osbert's relief at this explanation made him realize how much he had feared having a part of his body without a soul. He rolled up his sleeve and put his left hand down on the counter.

Three days later his tongue was still sore from having bitten it during the agony of the salt on his hand, but he was otherwise recovered from the ordeal. Nonetheless, now that he had a sufficient supply of the soul-paint, he was glad he would not need to go through that again.

Osbert glanced at a portrait he had finished the previous week. Her face smiled at him, and Her eyelashes fluttered demurely. But that portrait was imperfect, flawed.

He would create a new portrait. This would be his best work, perfectly capturing Her eyes, Her hair, the flush of Her cheek. And this one would speak to him.

"Back again, my young friend?" The apothecary rose to greet him.

"Her portrait has stopped talking to me. She still smiles, but the earlier ones no longer smile. They are utterly lifeless!" Osbert gripped the edge of the counter.

Running a palm over the smooth dome of his head, the apothecary said, "Interesting. The ground-up soul must be gradually escaping the paint."

"How do I stop it?"

"It is returning to its natural state. I do not think it can be stopped."

Osbert looked at his hand. "Is it coming back into me?"

"I doubt that. You voluntarily surrendered it, so it no longer pertains to you."

"What can be done? I need Her."

With an appraising eye, the apothecary looked him up and down. "Perhaps an arm? Just from the elbow down? We'll have to do it piece by piece, though, to fit in the mortar."

The banging on the door roused Osbert from sleep. The afternoon daylight cutting into the room hurt his eyes. He stumbled to the door and opened it a crack.

It was his landlord, the butcher. "Peale, I'm giving you till Saturday to come up with two months' rent, or you'll have to leave."