It was a beautiful Hurtia in Hamis. There was a light drizzle, birds could be seen over head, and the little specks of sun could be seen. Although Glynn could have been in better spirits, he was not. His leg was flaring up again, the rainy season usually made his injury hurt even more. There was only one person that knew how to sooth Glynn's leg, Tzul Droon.

Glynn had known Droon ever since his injury. His father did not know of any other apothecary since Droon was an old family friend. After Glynn's first meeting with Droon, he immediately clicked with the man and couldn't wait until their next meeting. Ever since that fateful day, Glynn always hobbled his way towards the building when his injury was in need of some herbal help. On this particular day-- besides looking for a vial of medicine-- Glynn also wanted to ask Droon if he needed help around the shop. Glynn's mind was set, as soon a he turned sixteen, he was going to leave the city and wander the world. He would be a chronicler of sorts, traveling the world and recording history as it happened.

Upon reaching the shop, Glynn plastered on a false smile and walked through the door. His cane could be heard throughout the whole workshop, echoing with every step. His false grin morphed into a real one when he began to smell the pungent odors that the plants secreted into the air.

"Hello? Droon, are you present?"

In the room that Droon used as a combination work room, distillery, and laboratory a moderate copper cauldron sat over a low charcoal flame. In this cauldron was an opaque liquid that was in no way boiling. Over this becalmed fluid, like some sinister water bird, curled an apparatus of the most singular construction; a series of metal rods arranged in neat rows and affixed to an articulated wooden armature. This armature allowed the whole assembly of rods to be lowered with tolerable precision into the solution below and so collect a precisely calibrated coating of the the liquid on the aforementioned metal rods. At least, that was the theory.

Droon had had the apparatus constructed to allow him to make more of the little hard capsules into which is placed is various powdered medicines.While it seemed fine when he and the artisan with whom he had consulted had discussed its workings, it was very far from acquitting itself of the task honorably. It squeaked and moaned like a dying thing and lurched about in a similarly moribund fashion and those few capsules which Droon had managed to produce were of inferior quality to those he and Bawn (his apprentice) had been making by a considerably more manual process for years. He cursed the thing and the three jars of honeyed tincture he had given in exchange. He cursed the artisan, he cursed the tree from which the wood for the benighted contraption had come, and he cursed himself for his love of these and other strange contrivances.

He glared at the mute contraption and could have sworn that it was harboring secret feelings of baleful insubordination. It glared back at him in that vacant, vaguely supercilious way that only the truly inanimate can ever master. He kicked it and against all reason for such a rickety thing, it flatly refused to fall over. Droon laughed. A long trilling laugh thathovered dangerously close to the manic. It was the laugh, he would later think, that covered the sound of the ship bell ringing and masked the slightly irregular gait of the boy who had entered.

Something, like a hyena, was laughing in the back of the shop. It gave the building an eeriness about it, but being the inquisitive one Glynn was,he decided to follow the noise. He tracked the noise from room to room until he found Droon. The apothecary was the laughing hyena, to no surprise to Glynn. Upon entering the room, Glynn noticed a large wooden contraption, it creaked as it rocked back and forth, threatening to spill forth.

"Um . . . Droon, Master Droon?" Glynn hobbled forward, glancing down at the machine. It reminded him of a monster from his childhood dreams. "Master Droon, I hope I am not bothering you, but my leg is . . . making a fuss." He smiled, lifting up his pant leg up to his knee to show is reddened injury. "I am going to need some medicine."

"Oh! Hello," Droon said when at last he recovered from his laugh. "You come at a crisis, specifically a crisis in the life of this confounded contraption. Three jars of my best honey mixed with all manner of useful medications and herbs, this cost me. Three jars, say I, not one, nor two, but three. And no small amount of labor on my part went into those. The grinding of powers, the decanting of fluids, the . . ." Droon's voice trailed off as he looked at the boy. "But," he said brightly, "you did not come all the way down here to listen to me prattle on about what this accursed thing cost me and how I hate it. Now, sit yourself down, take the weight off that leg of yours and tell me, with precision mind never you mind how long it takes, what it is that's been giving you grief."

Glynn backed up slowly, gearing his bottom towards a stool level with his back-end. As he sat, the wooden seat creaked, threatening to break under the boys weight. Propping up his leg was an arduous task for Glynn, especially in his current situation. He could feel the blood flowing and circulating, that must not have been normal.

After his leg was properly stationed with no fear of abruptly falling, he engaged the apothecary. "Well, as you can see, Master Droon, the circulation of my blood seems to be odd. I can almost feel it; quite odd if you ask me. This always happens around the time of the rainy season, but never this bad. Maybe all it calls for is a more potent version of the herbs you usually give me?"

Glynn quietly gulped while he tried to work up the courage to Droon for a apprenticeship of sorts. For a boy full of temerity, regular conversations seemed to be trouble for him.

Droon did not possess spectacles, but of he had now would have been the moment that he would have pressed them up the bridge of his nose in a gesture universally recognized as the sign of a scientific personage about to attack some new and potentially interesting problem. Even without spectacles, Droon made a creditable variation on the gesture; pushing back the sleeves of his red quilted coat and spreading his fingers to their full, alarming span.

The offending leg was not visibly affected beyond some very superficial pallor and this was a good sign. Droon extended one long, bony finger and prodded; there was some small degree of rigidity and tightness. The apothecary let a little hiss of air escape from between his teeth before he looked up at the boy.

"Sadly I cannot see into your leg, and no amount of light would change that I am thinking. Ah well. However, I believe you have nothing much to worry about, in all likelihood you've had some kind of cramp or spasm. These things they do happen and with a boy of your age and with such a leg as that, I am surprised you do not have such complains for often. A diet richer in vegetable foods could do no harm though, nor could some regular stretching. For pain . . ah yes, a concentrated mint balm should grant you some relief and there is, of course, the usual red pill for the more persistent pains."

"Wait here," he said, drawing himself up to his full height and adjusting his coat slightly, "and I will get you the mint balm."

Glynn groaned and moaned as the medicine man poked and prodded at his reddened leg. He couldn't help but wish the young master had some form of anesthetic, one that would be administered before an examination. He was biting his lip and grinding his teeth by the time Droon went to get the balm and pill. It seemed like a great time, if not the best, to ask Droon if he needed a little extra help.

"Droon?" He said, quietly, to the apothecary a few feet in front of him. "I don't know if I've ever said this, but you have quite the nice place. Though it does look like you might need a little help. I would like to offer my services." He rocked back in forth in the stool while Droon prepared the medicines. "I could sweep and help you with the medicines. What do you think, Master Droon?"

"What?" It came out as a kind of whistling hoot, as though it had issued from a startled owl. "I don't exactly need another apprentice. I supposedly have one, though where Bawn is at the present I cannot be saying. And you're too old; too old by half and a little over. Why would you want to? What does the apothecary's life have to interest one such as you you? Long days before the mortar grinding medicines, the everlasting joy of neck cramps, and the very real possibility of never being able to get the reek of asafoetida out of your nose? No, I am thinking not. And all that says nothing of the horror of bee stings. I am thinking that none of these things would bring you joy. A kind offer yes, to be sure, but there is no needing of it."

After a moment or two of the sound of clay scraping on wood, Droon walked over the the boy, carrying with him a small pot containing a thick and glossy paste that smelled strongly of mint and, underneath that, faintly of honey. "Here," he said and not unkindly, "this should be the very thing to ease the pain in that game leg. It might be giving you a bit of the burn at first, and it may grow hotter, but it will take the stiffness and the pain with it right enough."

Glynn sighed as Droon applied the balm. As soon as the mint flavored application made contact with the boy's skin, his leg started feeling better. Balm always did the trick for Glynn. Oral medicines never took care of the pain for more than a few days, but balms acted quick and lasted longer. Glynn was silent as he contemplated a reply to Droon's reasoning. The apothecary made a valid point, but valid points weren't what Glynn cared for. He was a child of rashness, going on impulse rather than logic. He had only thought up the idea to work for Droon the hour before.

"Well," Glynn said, his eyes growing wider. "you may ne -- please, Droon!" Glynn had decidedly resorted to pleading. Glynn wasn't a quick thinking person, he was trained to observe and make careful decisions. There wasn't enough time to think of a proper explanation for his actions without outing himself.

And now the lame lad was pleading. It was not a thing that Droon cared to see and it was not something he would long tolerate. Such pleading made the apothecary suspicious and in the part of Droon's mind that was anything but amiable a thought occurred. A lame lad is in the way of wanting to be working in a shop. Odd enough in itself. But when the shop is known to be holding a variety of interesting substances, well then. Is he wanting the contents of the locked trunk? The trunk which is holding the juice and the tincture of the sleep-bearing poppy? Droon's features hardened slightly. "Boy," he said in a firm but not yet angry tone, "be doing yourself a very great favor and do not beg. It is not in the way of being a pleasant thing and not something I might be wanting even in the lad who sweeps the dust from out the door."

Droon drew away from the thing that had once been a boy, straightened himself up in an oddly mechanical way, and began a very serious inspection of a number of apparently clean glass jars. After a moment, he spoke again. His voice was flat and nearly emotionless. "What do you think you are wanting of me boy? And what would I be wanting of you? What do you know of tinctures and distillates? Have you ever worked a mortal and pestle or sat all night before a still condensing spirits?" He picked up a jar, turned in slightly so it caught the light and then put it down with exaggerated care. "You ask to come here, to be doing the sweeping and the polishing of the glass, and to be taught the ways of the herb and the tincture. And you are offering me no reasons, only offering me begging. Why boy? You should be telling to me your reasons or you may be going on your way."

The wick bit his tongue as he was mildly scolded by the medicine man. His rashness had seemingly turned right back on him and bit his leg where it hurt. His tan skin was still white from the balm and he had rubbed some specks in to make sure his leg would heal properly. Glynn hung his head, he wasn't very good about being disciplined; especially by adults he wasn't intimate with. Glynn was reluctant to tell Droon of his reasons for learning about the plants and other things that would help him survive in the wild of the unknown world.

"Fine." he mumbled. "I'll tell you why. Though you cannot tell another soul." Glynn's mind was running, he was frantic. If his father found out about his plan, no one would see Glynn Todou for quite some time. His father would have him put under house arrest until his own death. Finally swallowing his fear and a bit of pride, Glynn revealed his secret.

"Well, as you know, our wonderful city has become host to a few wicks from the outside world. These wicks have enstilled in me a sense of wanderlust that has been dormant since my accident. So, since this wanderlust is gnawing at me, I have decided to leave the city the day after my sixteenth birthday . . . " His sentence trailed off. His heart was racing and it wasn't a good racing.

Droon stood there, blinking slowly, not quite sure what to make of the boy's statement. That it could actually be true did occur to him, but it was a fairly low entry on the list of explanations that even now his mind was presenting for his inspection. He was about to say 'be so good as to be pulling the other one, it's got bells on,' or some other phrase expressive of comic disbelief but when he opened his mouth all that came out was the creaking sound of a badly suppressed laugh.

A fly buzzed lazily through the room; the beating of its wings oddly loud in the now otherwise silent shop. Droon watched it for a moment, his eyes taking note of the golden sheen of its abdomen and the erratic nature of its flight. Something like a grin passed briefly over his face as he saw the insect land on a heretofore clean glass bottle. When he returned his glace to the boy, all traces of the grin had gone and the apothecary's face had returned to its former expressionless cast.

"You appear," he said with careful deliberation, "to have let in a fly."

Glynn's eyes were beady and far away. He wasn't thinking about anything; after stating his claim, he went off into a distant plane to wait out his sentence. He didn't return until the observant apothecary made a comment. Glynn didn't know what the man was talking about, he had no control over the fly at all. He wasn't one for wordplay, obviously.

Though he didn't understand Droon comment, he did understand an opportunity when he saw it. This was his chance to show Droon is allegiance and helpful attitude.

"You want me to get it, sir." He slowly got off the stool and started waddling towards the bottle. "I'll clean this off for you. I don't want to bother you at all. And like you said, I let it in." His leg still ached. He got up so quick he forgot his cane. His hands flailed above the bottle, but the bug didn't leave the shop. He finally picked up the vial and shook it, hoping not to drop it.This fly was persistent.

"When you are done with the shooing of the fly, the bottle will be in the way of needing washed."

Droon looked that the boy has he tried to send the fly off. The fly, as stubborn a creature as Droon had ever seen, steadfastly refused to budge. The apothecary looked severely at the insect but it remained firm committed to its perch. "Quite the fly that is too. I don't think I ever saw one so fond of a perch on bottle. Still, when ever it is you can be convincing the poor confused thing to leave, the bottle will need cleaning. And, after that is done and is drying away, I shall be introducing you to the broom."

Droon grinned wickedly, "And we'll be seeing then how it is you do with wielding that in the war against the dust."

And, thought the apothecary with satisfied suspicion I'll be able to be finding out what it is you are really wanting from me.

After some heavy mental negotiating, Glynn managed to get the fly to perch on the window still and not on the instruments. Now the vial needed a good washing. Glynn scoped the room, but could not find a wash rag in sight. He looked under instruments, benches, and even in the dust-covered reaches.

How could there not be one cloth in this place, thought Glynn. His face slowly grimaced to expose his frustration. After placing the bottle back on the counter, he slowly crawled around the floor. His snout moving about in a fidgety way in both directions; He could have been confused for a wick raised by anteaters.

He was finally fed up with it. He had several close encounters with spiders and didn't want anymore bites. He sprung up and grabbed his cane.

"Sir, do you have a wash cloth? I can't seem to find one."

"A wash cloth? Yes, I think I am in the way of having such items about the place." Droon cast his eyes towards a series of wooden pegs which protruded from the wall some little away above the confused boy. Against all reason and good sense, and possibly in violation of tradition, the rags which usually hung there were conspicuously absent.

"Though I cannot for the life of me be entirely sure where they've been hiding themselves. An odd thing this is; it's not as though the clothes have been growing the legs and skittering about lately."

Droon pondered this for a moment, pacing here and there and finally drawing his long arms behind his back and absently began stretching himself vigorously as means to stimulate his memory. For some minutes he contorted himself in a number of shocking and quite possibly painful ways, extending here a hand and there a leg. Then, after a particularly convoluted stretch wherein it seemed that he was about to tie himself into knots, he began laughing again. It was, as before, a high shrill and not quite sane sound.

"Ah, what a fool I am being, and with no memory either," he said through ever decreasing peals of laughter. "Here boy," he said, drawing a long pale cloth from the sash that served the apothecary as a belt, "this will do the washing up well enough. Clever things these cloths, always hiding they are, and never where I would think. Now, attend to that bottle in the manner you see fit, and we'll be seeing if you wash better than you shoo flies"