The Price of Life

Fall 2019 Winners – WritersWeekly 24-Hour Short Story Contest

Honorable Mention

Writing Prompt:

The two children were laughing as they tried to catch the red leaves raining down from the sugar maples. A cold wind brought the promise of frost by morning and she shivered as she tried to keep the children on the narrow path. A fall in the river would be dangerous this time of year. When she glanced up, she instinctively reached for the children's hands. A man, whose untucked shirt was dripping with red, was approaching. As he got closer, he showed a toothless grin, tipped his hat politely, and said...

CRUCIAL HINT! You are very likely thinking the man just killed someone. The fact is, that's what MOST people reading this topic are also thinking! You should probably take this story in a different direction, don't ya think? (Wink wink!!)

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Tempeste Ensorceler sank slowly to the log, landed heavily, dropped her bag and tugged and pulled her boot until her foot was released. The stone that had been causing her to limp tumbled out and fell away.  She rubbed at the spot until the discomfort had eased.  Looking at the sky, she saw the oncoming clouds and knew the storm would arrive by dusk. At her age, she should be protecting her brittle bones from the pounding of her own footsteps but she found that being bounced around in a carriage was far more damaging than a simple walk.  She leaned over between her legs. Her coughing spell lasted nearly ten minutes.  There was a lot of blood this time.  Inside her satchel, her fingers latched onto the small leather pouch, the contents nearly gone since she had purchased it a week ago.  She pulled out her beaten wooden bowl with her bony, mottled hands, filled it with water from the river and sprinkled all that was left of the powder inside.  As she drank, she knew the potion would have little effect; her disease had progressed too far. The contents of the pouch were meant to simply ease the pain, not be an elixir vitae. She used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.

It was many miles to the capital where she had visited several apothecaries, these seven days past, each place a disappointment.  None of them had the ingredients for the concoction she needed.  The journey had exacerbated her symptoms. The nausea, vomiting, trouble breathing, and diarrhea were taking its toll. And as her body continued to deteriorate, she found her ability to use her charms suffered from the same ill effect.  Despite her gifts, she could not cure herself.  There was a time she could command armies.  Now the energy she needed to perform her spells depleted the remaining strength she had to sustain her life.  She judiciously guarded her remaining spell power, no longer performing simple magic to light her path or retrieve fallen objects and discovered that she had a great distaste for living like humans. 

Her quest had taken her to the outskirts of the city and to the dwelling of Monsieur Le Poudre.  His dimly lit shop was cluttered with glass vials, barrels, herbs, bags of what could be flour or maybe not, boxes of matches, candles, lanterns, liquids of every color.  He, too, could only offer hope and comfort; his mixture was a pain reliever, nothing more.  She took the small bag filled with powder and stashed it away in her satchel.  As she turned to leave, he said, “I do know someone who might help but his methods are crude.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“That kind of knowledge will cost you.”

“I can pay.”

He mentioned a sum which amounted to the exact number of coins on her person.  He too had magical intuitive gifts. She placed the payment on the counter and asked, “Will he cure me?”

Monsieur Le Poudre said nothing but wrote out the instructions.  She read the paper, a chill running through her.  Was she that kind of witch? She stuffed it in her pocket and left.

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The sky was getting darker and the wind was picking up.  She pulled her once magnificent scarf a little closer around her shoulders, thrust her hands in her pockets and fingered the note as she had every hour for the past week.  She had memorized each word, mustering up the courage to comply.  This would be a bridge she had never crossed before. But she also knew herself and she knew she was selfish, always grabbing for more, more.  And hope is difficult to extinguish completely, especially when a remedy was in her hand, however distasteful. 

As she sat there ruminating, she saw a tow-headed boy and a girl in pigtails, both under ten years old. The two children were laughing as they tried to catch the red leaves raining down from the sugar maples, dancing in the wind.  Before Tempeste even knew what she was doing, she whispered a simple enchantment spell on two of the leaves, a tiny little spell, hardly any effort at all. And her fate was sealed.

The boy caught one and then the girl caught the other.  They both turned, gripping their leaves and approached her. 

A cold wind whipped by and she shivered as she tried to keep the children on the narrow path. A fall in the river would be dangerous, spoiling her plans. When she glanced up, she instinctively reached for the children's hands.  A man was approaching, his untucked shirt dripping with red droplets staining the path. As he got closer, he showed a toothless grin, tipped his hat politely, and said, “Ah, just as I had asked.  One for you and one for me. The price of life, eh?”