“Masters Mefistolese and Pettigrew,”
So says the weathered sign above the door,
“Apothecaries, Nostrums Bought and Sold.”
Dim light through clouded glass. The wooden floor,
Unswept, creaks underfoot. The lamps are few.
The scents of mummy dust, of cobwebs, mould,
Of bladderwort, vanilla, sulfur, tin,
Slide through the room, and stranger scents than these:
Of longing, sighs, and stale regret, waft in
Their lair: Pettigrew and Mefistolese.
Behold Mefistolese and Pettigrew,
Twins in unlikeness, anti-mirrors thus:
Pettigrew, rounded, smiles, full of cheer,
Quick with your coin, begs you name your purpose,
Sorts through the clinking wares to find your brew,
While in the backroom, Mefistolese, drear,
Gaunt, hovers over the alembic, scowls
With care to boil the tincture, not to cease
Until it fills the bottle, jar, or bowl.
That’s them: Pettigrew and Mefistolese.
They say Mefistolese and Pettigrew
Know every trick of the alchemic art.
Poisons and poultices are child’s play.
Nightshade and belladonna, bleeding heart,
Mandrake, and aconite they’ll sell to you.
And rarer medicines, the whispers say:
The mead of poetry, blood of the lamb,
Ambrosia, water of youth, and such as these
Sold by the bottle full or by the dram,
Care of Pettigrew and Mefistolese.
Take heed: Mefistolese and Pettigrew
Extend no credit: payment on demand!
Their clientele are of a desperate kind:
Misers who feel the chill of age at hand,
And maidens weary of their hearts untrue...
Quick to smell profit, the alchemists bind
The deals together. Thus, the maiden, drained
Of feeling, weeps not, as her youth is seized,
And sold for every coin the miser’s gained,
All for Pettigrew and Mefistolese.
By night Mefistolese and Pettigrew
Count up the inventory, weight by weight:
This much antimony, that much despair.
Then, trembling, they unlock the cellar grate.
They gather ledgers then pass meekly through
And, anxious, cowering, descend the stair
To make their payments in the dark below,
On debts they know that they will never ease,
To things more terrible than you’d dare know.
Where faceless shadows stir an icy breeze,
Haunted by bargains they struck years ago,
The balance of their wretched alchemies:
Your pain for theirs, as round and round they go,
Pity Pettigrew and Mefistolese.
