The Perfumers of Qukamar

By Beka Gremikova

Shallow breaths. Shallow breaths…

Shebalik repeated the mantra as he hurried through Qukamar’s perfume quarter, searching for an emerald-green cleansing stall. Around him, perfumers stirred vibrant powders and plants into jars of oil. Out of habit, his nostrils flared to draw in those varied scents.

The sweetness of coconut and vanilla swarmed him, overwhelming his senses. He doubled over, his head swimming.

Shallow breaths, idiot!

He pictured Merula rolling her eyes as he flailed under her curse, which had taken away his ability to smell anything other than coconut and vanilla and forced him to shut down his own perfume tent.

You won’t be gloating for long, Merula. I’ll find a cleansing stall and break your curse.

Once his head cleared, he straightened and continued, weaving through the purple tents that sold the floral perfumes preferred by most Qukamarian women. Like Merula, they probably considered his preference for citrus and brine scents lowly. Not many appreciated a hearty, blast-your-nostrils-off scent.

He found a few green tents, but they all belonged to Merula’s friends. One cast him a pitying glance and whispered, “I’m sorry, Shebalik, but I don’t want to anger Merula and lose my livelihood.” She shuddered. “Or be cursed to smell only sewage for the rest of my life.”

Shebalik sighed. “I know.” He should never have involved himself with an aromancer.

He glimpsed another green flash and stepped away from Merula’s friend. Tucked into a nook, a roughly-sewn emerald tent shielded a clutter of clay pots from the searing afternoon sun. Its attendant, a tall, heavyset young woman, nodded at him.

He stepped closer, grimacing as he breathed too sharply. He resisted the urge to spit out the sudden taste.

The woman’s lips twitched at his facial expression. “The smell overpowering?” She swept an arm over chipped and faded clay pots that swirled with shimmering oils.

“To be truthful, no.” He swiped a hand over his brow. “I can’t smell any of your perfumes.”

She leaned forward, her shining dark eyes alert. “Aromancer get you?”

He sighed. “Unfortunately.”

“What did you do? Say she smelled bad?” She laughed.

“A little more drastic than that.” Shebalik scratched his neck. “We were courting, and I told her I couldn’t stomach her favorite scents… She didn’t take it very well.”

“Scepters and scimitars!” The woman shook her head. “Aromancers and their perfumes are like nobles with their jewels!” She plucked at the frayed hem of her headscarf. “Anyways, why my lonely little tent? Surely there are more established cleansing stalls?”

He bowed his head. “They’re all friends with Merula. And…” He straightened. She deserved to know the truth. “Well, they don’t want to anger her.”

“Ahhh.” The woman frowned. “So, if I help you, she could come after me?”

“Quite possibly.”

The woman studied her chipped clay pots. “Well, almost anything’s worth an extra bit of coin.” Her voice quivered slightly. “Come on in. I’m Miryam.” She led him into the shade of her booth. A few oranges and a clump of salt sat on a spindly-legged table. “So, what sort of smell did she curse you with…?”

“Her favorite perfume. Vanilla bean mixed with coconut.”

“You poor man. You deserve a king’s medal for suffering through that.” Miryam grabbed a large pot and set it on the table. She poured in a vial of oil, then used a small knife to peel rind from the oranges into the pot. She sprinkled in salt and stirred the ingredients through the oil. “Inhaling a cleansing scent at least once each morning and night for a year should slowly eat away at the curse.”

Miryam lowered her face into the pot and inhaled. Her shoulders scrunched, then sagged as she sighed deeply. “Scepters and scimitars, that clears the mind!” She wiped up the mess she’d made of orange rinds and juice on the table. “Come try it. Much better than all those floral monstrosities.”

“Those things give me awful headaches,” Shebalik muttered. Miryam pulled up a chair. He sat, bending over the bowl.

“You’d never expect your beloved to wear such perfumes to be more ladylike?” Her tone was sharp. He turned to glance at her, and her round cheeks darkened with a blush.

“No,” he said. “She could wear whatever scent she preferred.”

“Even if society thinks only men should like it? A strong, sweep-your-nostrils-off sort of scent?”

He gripped the edge of the table. “Especially if it’s that.”

Her blush deepened, and she gently pushed his face into the bowl. Cool stickiness brushed his nose. “Inhale,” she ordered, slightly breathless, “and hold your breath for a count of thirty.”

He sucked in a breath of the usual sickly sweetness and held it. A strong, burning sensation, like sniffing pepper, buffeted him. When he released the breath and sniffed, he caught a whiff of saltiness.

His heart leaped.

Though the curse swooped back in at full force, for a moment, his head had been clear. He’d felt like himself again: Shebalik, who loved brine and citrus and rain—scents that cleansed rather than cloyed.

He was one step closer to getting his life back.

“It’s nice knowing I’m not the only one who appreciates a strong scent.” He counted out silver pieces.

“It really is,” Miryam murmured, pouring the perfume into vials. “I never thought…” She shook her head. “Anyways, come back whenever you run out. To buy more, I mean.” Accepting the silver from him, she tugged her headscarf closer around her face.

Shebalik paused at the threshold of the tent. “I pray you don’t get in trouble for this.”

“Well, if I do, I’ll just cleanse myself.” No tremor in her voice, she tapped the pot filled with the leftover brew and, with a teasing flick of her fingers, shooed him away.

Outside, he cracked open a vial. Surely he could catch that fleeting saltiness again. His pulse raced as he raised the vial to his nose. Then, for the first time in months, Shebalik let himself breathe deeply.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Beka Gremikova lives and dreams from the Ottawa Valley, Ontario, Canada. Her passions include wolves, travelling, folklore and myth, and nerding out over anime, manga, and The Legend of Zelda. She has multiple flash fiction stories published with Havok, including in the Bingeworthy anthology. She’s also published in A Kind of Death from Uncommon Universes Press and the upcoming Faces to the Sun collection edited by S.J. Blasko.

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