Chartreuse - a Sci-Fi Short Story, Page 3

tell before when I added or removed hyssop, how could I possibly expect a big change when I put in marjoram instead? Still, I had half expected the mixture to turn a shocking blue or for puffs of smoke to emerge from the new mixture.

  I took a small sip, and I imagined that it did taste a bit more tingly; a bit fresher. It was hard to tell, though. Perhaps my overwrought imagination had taken control. I put the remaining mixture into a bottle, corked it, and decided to try tastes of it over the next few weeks to give it a fair test.

  The next morning’s taste gave me the same sensation - slight tingling, nothing further. I decided if nothing else it was a pleasant way to wake up and made it a part of my daily routine.

  The weeks passed, the routine settling in once more. Spring descended on our world, waking me with its fresh breath each morning. I was lying in bed admiring the sunrise when a knock awoke me from my morning dreams. I pulled a robe around me and stumbled blearily to the door. I found the two elderly fathers standing there, looks of concern on their faces. I invited them in, and they went immediately to the yellow bottle sitting on the windowsill. Before I could utter a word, they had pulled out the cork and each taken a small sip of my concoction. Their eyes turned on me in unison with a steady look.

  John, the younger of the two, spoke softly. “Your grey is gone.” His gaze went to the small mirror which hung over my wash basin.

  Confused, I walked over to look at myself. He was right! I had paid so little attention to my looks since coming here that I hadn’t even noticed the gradual change. The grey which had plagued me since my mid-twenties was completely gone, and my hair was now a rich, lustrous black.

  John took one last sniff of the bottle’s contents, then reached his hand out the window and poured the rest onto the ground. He recorked the empty bottle and placed it again on the sill. “You must never change our recipe again, Leslie,” he said quietly. “You were told the rules by Arthur. It is important for our recipe to stay the way it is.”

  A thousand thoughts whirled in my head. “But if it’s true, if the recipe has been wrong this entire time, think what it could mean to humanity! Think what kind of reaction we would get if we announced we had really found a way to help people live longer!”

  The two stood solemnly, looking at me. “Yes,” answered John. “Just think of what the world would be like.”

  I slowly sat on the bed. I thought of the massive crowding I had come here to escape, of the starvation in the world. Of the troubles caused by too many people on a too-small planet. I realized just how devastating it could be if the cycle of life was disturbed - if by extending life we allowed the planet to fill up with more and more people, until there was no more room.

  Long minutes passed as my thoughts warred. We had a miracle here - but one which could bring on civil wars and battles over already scarce resources. The monastery itself could come under attack and the formula could be stolen by a greedy military who wanted it only for themselves. Only the wealthy would benefit.

  Perhaps in the fray a brother would be slain and the secret would be lost forever.

  My head bowed.

  I took a deep breath, the thrill of discovery being replaced by an acceptance of what was to come. “You are right,” I finally admitted. “The recipe must stay the way it has always been.”

  I looked up. Our eyes met in understanding, and the two nodded. They turned and left me alone.

  The years unrolled by in quiet circles of warm and cold, and it seemed not long at all before I was the eldest of the recipe keepers. All too quickly it seemed the monastery was full of younger monks, mere children, seeking the peace and quiet I had come to take for granted. I often had a young man or women in my cell, asking for my advice or seeking my guidance. And always, they commented on the profusion of beautiful roses which grew around my window frame, displaying their velvety blooms in the warmest summers or the chilliest winters.

  * * *

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  About the Author

  Lisa grew up adoring science fiction. She was seven when Star Wars hit the big screen, and she saw it ten times in the theaters. She also adores Frank Herbert, Philip K. Dick, and Ursula Le Guin.

  Lisa has published over 300 books of various lengths and genres. Chartreuse was first published in the Mused Literary Review.

 

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