The Potion

The potion swirled with color and light, beautiful to behold, but the smell of it made Beryl’s eyes water.

Was he truly supposed to drink this? Yes, when he’d approached the witch, his intention was to become more handsome and brave in order to win Alana’s heart. But the stench was almost enough to make him reconsider. Almost.
He looked to the witch who was already bustling and moving around her home as if she had forgotten he was there. Despite her bad reputation and the warnings from the other villagers to stay away, she had been very nonchalant upon his arrival. There had been no resistance from her, no spite. Was she used to villagers showing up to her small cottage in secret? Was he not the first?
The smell of the potion drew his eyes back down to the vial in his hands. He had come all this way. He had made his blood promise to the witch to grant her a favor when she called. But the thing that solidified Beryl’s resignation was the memory of being humiliated by Draven in front of Alana. The man had it all and he put it on display for Alana every day at the expense of anyone who happened to be in his path that day. Beryl seemed to constantly be in his path. Alana had not laughed at Draven’s antics. But neither had she come to Beryl’s defense. That had stung. But no more.
Beryl tightened his jaw, raised the vial to his lips and downed the contents. He got the concoction down, but just barely. Unfortunately, being beautiful had been the only thing going for the potion. He couldn’t decide if the taste or the smell was worse.
Beryl began to cough and sputter, bending forward in anticipation of hurling up his lunch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the witch stop and turn towards him. In between his heaving, he heard her ask “Are you still here? The others are usually gone by now.” So he wasn’t the first. He wondered if Draven ever dared to come see her.
Once he was sure that his lunch would stay right where it was, Beryl straightened and turned to the witch.
“Now what?” he inquired. She blinked at him as if he were insane.
“Now you leave!” she yelled back at him as if he were the dumbest thing to come across her path.
“What?! Is that it? Drink the potion and become handsome and strong and brave?!” he questioned sounding incredulous at the simplicity of it all. All his life he had been told of the terrible witch in the forest to be feared and this was it. Here, drink this and go away?
The witch rolled her eyes heavenward, slumped her shoulders and let out a belabored sigh. “You young ones are all the same. Expecting an old woman to jump around, wave her hands and mumble some mumbo jumbo.”
“Well . . . yes,” he asserted.
“Well, no!” she returned. “Now get out, go home and live your life. Leave me to my solitude. I’ll call you when I need the favor returned.” She turned away from him then.
Beryl still had questions; still had concerns about the side effects. But being confronted with the back of the witch, he knew she was done and it was time for him to go.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “thank you for taking the time to help me.” With that he turned and made his way to and out of her door. He was gone. He hadn’t seen the witch stop. He hadn’t seen her turn and stare at the door he’d just disappeared through. He hadn’t seen her shocked eyes. No one, in all the years she had been giving out potions and spells, had thanked her. They came, they made their blood oaths, they took her offerings and left. They begrudgingly fulfilled their favors. But not once had anyone thanked her.
“I just might have to keep my eye on you, boy,” she said quietly to herself.