One Summer's Night

The glass bottle was handed over to the page with the strictest
instructions as to the method of its delivery. On no accounts was the
boy to undo the fine silk thread, which twisted from the neck of the
bottle up to the tip of the delicate stopper - his master took pains to
place in the boy's mind the knowledge that the contents of the bottle
were none of his concern.

The bottle - as round as an apple and much heavier to the boy's hand as
he placed it carefully, breathlessly into a finely decorated velvet
pouch was a testament to the local glass-blowers art. Sufficiently
solid to hold the rich, oily perfume but at the same time so ethereal
that one might think that a harshly spoken word could cause it to
shatter. Although the twisted stopper was worked around with touches of
gold, the bottle itself was quite plain, the better to show off the
strange colour of the perfume it held. The scent had been created
especially for the perfumier's wealthiest client and was the most
delicious shade of rose pink. He had scattered tiny particles of flaked
gold leaf into his creation and whenever the bottle was moved even a
fraction, the glorious mixture of gold and pink rippled in oily waves
as though desperate to be free from the glass that held it
prisoner.

The master perfumier had created hundreds of individual scents in his
forty year career - some made to be uplifting and refreshing, some to
soothe and gentle the troubled spirit and yet he had never created a
scent quite like this before. His commission had been to create a scent
to make his wealthy client's new, young wife love her husband with all
of her soul, and hopefully all of her body too.

The old man had begun with the time-honoured combination of attar of
roses and oil of jasmine, adding a hint of the narcotic headiness of
lily and the barest breath of musk. But as he went from bottle to
bottle, it was as though a gentle voice whispered in his ear and a cool
hand directed his own. It was indisputable that he had made the perfume
and yet he almost felt that it was not his own - that something
otherworldly had entered him as he worked. He had been inspired and he
knew that he would never create anything so powerful again. The scent
seemed almost alive, so rich and enveloping was it, but the perfumier
had a suspicion that if the scent had, in fact, possessed a mind, it
would have been one bent only on mischief.

The boy left his master's establishment cradling the tender package he
had been charged with against his body. The bottle was more than hidden
by the folds of his cloak and combined with the fact that no footpad
would have ever dreamt that a young man so poorly dressed could ever
have possessed anything worth the effort of stealing, he still found
the desire to move furtively into shadowed ground irresistible. He
suspected that the bottle of scent in his hands was worth more than his
wages for the entire year; in fact he correctly suspected that it was
worth far more than that. He lingered in the darkened streets,
conscious that the scent was growing ever warmer surrounded by the heat
of his hands. He could feel the weight of the scent shifting with every
step he took and remembering the hypnotic sway of the liquid in the
laboratory, he disobeyed his master's strictest instructions and
removed the bottle from the velvet pouch.

The streets were dark, but the boy could still pick out the mysterious
sparkle of gold within the glass. He considered the complicated knot
crowning the intricate stopper before deciding that the risk he had
already taken was excitement enough. He began to slip the bottle back
into the velvet bag, but as he did a thin, almost unnoticeable trickle
of the scent made it's way through some invisible gap and slid over his
fingers. The boy was immediately surrounded by the most wonderful
fragrance. He had a tiny moment to wonder at his master's crowning
achievement before the bottle slipped from his hands and fell to the
cobbles.

And so, the perfect bottle was broken. Almost before the noise of the
shattering had disappeared the dark cobbles ran with syrupy streams of
the scent. The boy bent quickly, his first instinct to try and save
whatever he could, but there was no point; it was as if the glass
bottle had never been. All that remained as physical evidence were a
few long, thin splinters at his feet - the rest was as dust. The page
watched as sparks of gold swirled vibrantly through the puddle rapidly
spreading away from his feet. He took a moment to think of what his
master would say and do on hearing of the accident and then, pausing
only to dabble his curious fingertips in the perfume, he sped off
through the streets towards his family home and the sustaining thought
of a nice, safe career in his father's bakery and of the pretty
daughter of the neighbouring merchant.

It soon became clear that this was no ordinary perfume. It had a life
of it's own making and a mission to invade every corner of the city.
The scent swirled unseen in the calm night air. There was no wind to
pull it through the streets and yet, by morning, the sweet cloud had
forced its way under doors and through open windows, clung to the hem
of cloaks and gowns and impregnated itself on the soles of countless
shoes as the wearers hurried from whatever assignation caused them to
be abroad at three o'clock in the morning of this warm summer night. It
did not discriminate between the highest and lowest born either - as
content to be carried by a potboy as by a judge. The only visible trace
of its' path was the occasional sparkle of a flake of gold among the
cobbles. The scent touched many souls that night, lifting spirits and
stirring passions as it drifted on whatever breeze it could find. As it
passed, errant husbands re-discovered their desire for their wives and
more than one mistress sulked alone through that long, warm
night.

A bare five minutes from the second the bottle slipped from the boy's
hand, another young man's feet took the same path as the unlucky
pages'. He also sought out the shadows, as he waited impatiently for
his lover to arrive. They had chosen this night to escape the city
together, running from the disapproval of his family. He paced back and
forth across the cobbles, passing in and out of the shadows. A sparkle
at his feet caught his eye and he bent down and reached out towards the
golden fragment shining amongst the dark. His finger caught up the tiny
piece of gold but passed over one of the splinters of glass as he did
so. He exclaimed in pain as his finger ran with blood - the same blood
that now carried with it a few drops of the mysterious scent.

The scent had been intended to provoke a powerful reaction in a
loveless heart and so the effect on one so in love already was
incredibly potent. As the perfume wound it's way deeper into his blood,
the young man felt his heart pound hard within his narrow chest. He
watched the shadows at the turn of the street anxiously, waiting for
his lover to arrive. Finally, she rounded the corner and spied him
waiting. She hurried to him, oblivious to the change in her lover. He
gathered her into his arms and wondered at the luck he had been gifted
with. We will leave them as they should be - in each other's arms
trading kisses and it should be sufficient for me to say that the young
man and his love found themselves happily sharing their new marriage
bed by the time a pink sun had shaded the eastern sky.

For the others touched by the mischievous hand of the perfume, the
effect was merely temporary. Soon, long-suffering wives once again had
cause to slander their straying husbands and mistresses' beds were
warmed once more by their slandered lovers. And what of the perfumier?
Well, he cursed the page and created another bottle of scent for his
client who was greatly pleased with its results, but the perfumier knew
that it was not the same as the original and he mourned that the soft
hand that had guided him in its' creation never re-appeared.

But the effects were not so fleeting for the young man and his bride.
How to know whether things would have been different without his chance
encounter with a glass splinter? He may have been a true and loyal
husband without the scent's help but with the magic of the perfume
flowing in his veins her every word was poetry to him and the soft
touch of her breath against his cheek better than cool rain on a dusty
summers day. And so the young bride lived on to become an old, plump
matron with first children and then grandchildren playing at her
knee.

And, of course, she had her husband, whose love for her never waned -
always sparkling as brightly as the strange gold flecks that swam in
his blue eyes.