By Jo
EnyaJo@aol.com
TRIO CHALLENGE: vellum parchment, metal pot, a ceremony
QUOTE 3: The evil that men do lives after them while the good is oft interred with their bones... Julius Caesar -
William Shakespeare
WORDS
horst - A mass of the earth's crust that lies between two faults and is higher than the surrounding land.
woof - threads that run crosswise in a woven fabric
triturate - to rub, crush, grind, or pound into fine particles or a powder; pulverize.
~~~~~
Montoya yanked opened Helm's office door without ceremony and stalked inside. Montoya had awaken with a sore throat that morning and if the doctor wasn't going to come to him... Damn that insolent man! Montoya had sent a man to inform the doctor that he was needed over two hours before. Helm was found at his worktable, was busy triturating various herbs. "I am working on it, Colonel."
"What is taking so long?"
"I had to deliver a baby this morning. The boy is fine, by the way, and I figured that your sore throat could wait. Have a seat, be quiet, and let me finish making your potion."
Helm took a metal pot down from the top shelf as Montoya silently wished he had the extra inches that Helm had. But that was the only thing he was envious of the doctor. In the pueblo, Dr. Helm was a metaphorical horst compared to the height of other men. Alto California was full of faults, and so was Helm. Montoya chuckled to himself as he watched Helm fill the pot with liquids and dump the powder he ground in to mix.
Montoya sat in the only seat he saw, a small rolling stool and waited. He fingered the woof of the fabric of his uniform jacket. Faults. Yes. To Montoya, one of Helm's biggest fault--one that was sure to get him killed--was that he was quite close to the Queen, Montoya's prey, the thorn in his side, the crinkle in his armor, the demon seed who kept him up nights wondering how best to get the better of her.
Helm poured a portion of the contents of the pot into a small glass and turned to face Montoya with it. Montoya took the glass and sniffed the cloudy liquid. "What is in this?"
"My secret recipe."
"Secret." Montoya glared at him for a moment, wondering if the doctor would have had the gall to actually poison him.
As if reading his thoughts, Helm picked up the parchment that contained the recipe for the medication and showed it to him. "Those are the ingredients. Unless you are allergic to citronella, which some have found does dispel insects, you should be safe."
"Insects?! You do think badly of me."
Helm thrust his hands in his pockets and remained mum. "I am only keeping the peace, Helm. You would do well to not forget that," Montoya said as he raised the glass to his lips. Both men's green eyes glared at each other as Montoya took a sip of the liquid. It burned while going down and Montoya set the glass on the table. "That is that most brackish liquid I have ever tasted in my life."
Helm smiled. "That could be the sodium chloride."
"The what?"
"How would you say?... Mesa sal." He poured the rest of the preparation into a small jar and sealed the lid and gave it to the Colonel. "You must gargle with it, and drink plenty of water, and your throat should be as good as new in the morning." He added, "You should also rest your voice, Colonel. This doctor's prescription is to not order any executions today."
Montoya took the jar and scrutinized the taller man. Straightening himself, he said, "You think so little of me, doctor. Yes, I do carry out justice, and I do remember saving your... how you say... arse... after the incident involving the cold-blooded murder of the man known as El Serpente."
That quieted Helm, and Montoya could see that his words had affected him. It was just the result that Montoya had desired. "The evil that men do lives after them while the good is oft interred with their bones, doctor."
As Montoya turned to leave, he heard Helm mutter, "Shakespeare is universal."