scribes' syrup
Lord Byron knew about it. Long before the capricious literary gentlemen of the Belle Époque. Since, there is no one left to tell the tale; this old, rotten secret is hereby for me to say.
It was a white sorcerer who found it ages ago. He was in the forest collecting dead bees when he saw it smoothly floating under the leaves. It was red, but almost green. They say, with a blink, the old man understood something was wrong with it. Yet, his inquisitive nature could not hinder him to take a closer look at the shady thing.
It was a ghost. It was a bodiless fume. It was an ardent mist which the old wizard bottled quickly and slid into his chest. Then he silently rushed it into his hut, for more inquest. There was hardly one drop, yet it illuminated his dark room bright enough. The old man worked till morning, using all his instruments; but, couldnot find anything about the alien substance to arrive at some judgments.
The next day when he woke up, the air was filled with warnings for the trouble that comes. He recognized the open cap, and the empty bottle all at once. It was enough for him to hear the sounds coming from the village, to leave the place without taking any luggage. They say, it was the wife of Bath's who captured it again accidentally, and then sold it to Chaucer for six pence on his way to Canterbury.
The rumor says, it traveled from hand to hand, from Africa to Newland, until one day the last driblet was spoiled by Wilde, during an unsuccessful suicide attempt. An admirer after seeing him depressed for the loss, promised him to find the formula at any cost. With this admirer I met on a long train trip. He told me the secret he found after thirty years of pursuit:
"Two bodies that die of excessive pleasure, exhale an exquisite vapor during decay. This miasma thickens under the shadow of a wormwood leaf, day after day. If you collect it during spring, you'll arrive at a syrub that heals even the poorest decrepit. The pens that dip in this ink, write verses no one dares to speak. Even one line satisfies to craze the public with jouissance; that is why, all writers crave for this stance where their pens are blessed in ecstatic essence."
