Cinnamon and Myrrh
Summary:
An herbalist creates an oil to help Christine's father which turns out to be her first introduction to Erik.
Cinnamon and a touch of myrrh. The fragrance always preceded the voice. The last scent she would associate with her father and her first awareness of the Angel of Music. Pappa never said how she would know the Angel, only that he would send him to her after his death.
The once stocky and sturdy Swede's body, rotting from within, withered to a shell, created an almost unbearable sweet odor drove her to seek respite outside the confinements of Adele's flat. Christine wandered, soon finding herself in the Marais – the Jewish District. A small shop attracted her attention – most of the signs were in a language foreign to her, save one offering herbs, spices, and healing medicinals.
A small bell rang when she opened the door, followed by a blend of fragrances that was almost overwhelming, were they not also enlivening. This was the first time in many weeks, months she felt the burden of Gustave's illness lifted – even a little.
"Mademoiselle?" A man of middle years, with a long dark beard hanging to the top of his waistcoat. A woven black cap on the back of his head. "How may I assist you?"
"My father…" Her voice waivered.
"I see," he said. "Come sit." He indicates a small chair next to a table holding a number of covered glass canisters.
The jars fascinated her – the names – rosemary, basil, mint, lavender, parsley, thyme. Each one seemed to want to speak to her. Pulling her chair closer to the table, she followed the man with her eyes. Which of these magical plants would he offer her – could they cure her father?
Taking a seat behind the table, he drew one of the jars toward him, opening it he removed what looked like a stick of wood. "Cinnamon – a most powerful herb – it gives one strength to face any difficulty – the last of which is meeting with God upon one's death."
"But he is not dead." Taken aback, she was barely able to contain the tears welling in her aqua-colored eyes.
The rabbi's own gentle brown eyes rested on the girl – worn by her grief. For her to even seek a Jew to help her father was indication of her desperation. "The spice is ancient and was used in Egypt and Babylon for embalming – purifying the flesh. It is also a perfume, used to enhance sensuality – thus, affirming life-giving properties." Holding out a stick of the spice for her to smell, he smiled.
"The fragrance is wonderful." A sense of peace settled over her.
"Taste it – a tiny bite."
Christine bit off a small piece, letting it rest on her tongue – her smile grew broader. "It is warm. The fragrance is richer now."
"It is particularly good to grate in cocoa." His own smile wider now that she seems more comfortable with the issue at hand.
"The Lord said to Moses: "Take the finest spices: 500 shekels of liquid myrrh, half as much (250 shekels) of fragrant cinnamon, 250 shekels of fragrant cane."*
"I am not to give him the stick?"
"No, no – you will take the stick and a few more to make a tea…or for the chocolate," he says. "I have an oil prepared, it includes the cinnamon and myrrh – a bitter herb, with a deeper sensibility – and some others. This is not the holy anointing oil, as I am prohibited by my religious laws to make it for personal use, however, the oil will give comfort to your father…and to you."
As promised, it eased his pain, but more importantly, the potion had eased his heart and hers. So when, on the first night she was assigned the small dressing room, she caught a whiff of herbs she had rubbed on her father's body, her heart lifted.
"Angel?"
"Christine."
A/N – My explanation for the "smell of death" Christine associates with Erik's presence.
*Exodus 30:23