Apothecary Melchior and the Ghost of Rataskaevu Street by Indrek Hargla

Author:Indrek Hargla
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peter Owen Publishers
Published: 2016-12-14T05:00:00+00:00

16

MELCHIOR’S PHARMACY,

RATASKAEVU STREET,

7 AUGUST, MORNING

WHEN KETERLYN OPENED the pharmacy door in the morning, to her surprise and evident astonishment she found a very old Dominican waiting for her, a mendicant’s basket in his hand, who asked whether the Apothecary was up.

‘He is indeed,’ replied Keterlyn. ‘Heavens, it’s already broad daylight outside. He’s working in the loft on his medicinal plants. But what’s happened? Do they need some remedy at the monastery?’

Instead of a reply the monk pointed to his basket and asked whether he could step inside for a moment to rest his feet.

Keterlyn headed upstairs to tell her husband that an odd visitor had arrived, some monk who looked so ancient that he might have dragged himself out of the mortuary. When Melchior came down he found the monk by the counter sitting on a chair and sniffing a plate of biscuits with evident interest. He reckoned that he might have met the man a couple of times at the monastery, but he was so old that he probably didn’t work any longer and presumably spent his time going between the infirmary and the dormitory. And he was certainly not the brother who usually went through town with a mendicant’s basket.

‘What brings you to my pharmacy, Brother?’ asked Melchior kindly. ‘And what would be your esteemed name?’

‘They call me Brother Lodevic,’ replied the old man. ‘And what brings me to your pharmacy is simply that, as our cellarius was saying after morning prayers, a certain apothecary bitterly regrets that he has not been donating recently to St Catherine’s Church as diligently as a Christian should.’

That isn’t quite true, thought Melchior, but he got the point. It was characteristic of Brother Hinric to stand first and foremost for the interests of the monastery, even when a friend had asked him for help. He nodded and went to close the shop door. Service would have to wait a little while today.

‘Ah, so Brother Hinric sent you,’ said Melchior. ‘May St Catherine be thanked in that case, because yesterday evening it occurred to me to go to the monastery to put a little silver coin in the donation box. But now, since the monks’ donation basket has arrived here …’

‘A little silver artig for St Catherine,’ cried the old monk in a high voice. ‘May all the saints bless you for such generosity. That more than makes up for the pain in my feet.’

‘Maybe you’d like a sweet biscuit, Brother?’ asked Melchior. ‘And, of course, you can stay and sit and chat, for where would a holy brother be going in a hurry in the morning?’

‘A biscuit, gladly,’ chuckled the old man. ‘But I don’t have time to stay much longer because times are hard now, and all the brothers at the monastery, whether they’re old and feeble or young and weak, have to toil through the day by the sweat of their brows to please the Lord God and praise St Catherine.’

Melchior sighed and cursed Brother Hinric under his breath. A sly holy brother was that old fox, his friend the cellarius.

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