He was greedy and charged too much for his cures, often taking more than the patient could afford to pay.
Nevertheless, he was surprised at how unloved he was by the villagers, thinking they should treat him with far more respect.
And because his attitude was poor, their attitude towards him was also poor,
until, as time went on, his patients began seeking other, more modern remedies from other, more modern healers.
Which only, of course, made the Apothecary even more bitter.
(The mist surrounded them again and the scene changed. They were now standing on a lawn atop a small hillock.
A parsonage sat to one side and a great yew tree stood in the middle of a few new headstones.)
In the Apothecary’s village there also lived a parson– (“This is the hill behind my house,” Conor interrupted.
He looked around, but there was no railway line yet, no rows of houses, just a few footpaths and a mucky riverbed.)
“The parson had two daughters,” the monster went on, “who were the light of his life.”
(Two young girls came screaming out of the parsonage, giggling and laughing and trying to hit each other with handfuls of grass.
They ran around the trunk of the yew tree, hiding from one another.)
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