Chapter 2: The Potion Maker’s Labyrinth
Chapter 2: The Maze Beneath the Bottles
The door to the Potion Maker’s hut did not technically exist—at least not in the normal sense. It shimmered where leafy curtains overlapped, shifting colors with every gust of wind, as if daring anyone foolish enough to enter. Arlo paused at the threshold, pulse hammering. Cat prodded forward with barely-disguised impatience, swishing her tail through the glimmer and leaving pale streaks of static.
Inside, the air fizzed with scents—zesty ginger, scorched sugar, rain-soaked moss, and something oddly like burnt toast. Vines trailed from the high ceiling, bearing clusters of crystalline gourds that dripped glinting syrup into jars arranged like a miniature army. Overhead, glass globes dangled from strands of sapphire silk, each containing a captive wisp of color that twisted and grumbled occasionally. Across the uneven floor, roots wove in unpredictable patterns beneath rugs sewn from bark and beetle wings. The centerpiece, however, was the cauldron: an enormous vessel that burbled with liquid fire and clouds, colors surging through its depths in fits and starts like an enchanted thunderstorm.
Arlo blinked, momentarily overwhelmed.
A laugh—a peal as sharp as chimes and as abrupt as a storm—rang from the shadows behind a heap of smoking bottles. "Ah! Intruders, or applicants? One begs for mercy, the other for mischief. Which are you?" With a flourish, the Potion Maker emerged: a woman as flamboyant as her hut, tall and robed in patchworks of peacock blue, moon-yellow, and the deepest jungle green. Her hair sprang in every direction, tangled with feathers and little metal charms, while her eyes, dark and sparkling, missed nothing. In her hands, she spun a flask between her fingers as if daring it to leap away.
Cat, never impressed, dared a languid bow. "We seek wisdom and... a certain liquid. No mercy required yet."
The Potion Maker bared a grin. "And why should I help pawed sarcasm and her hatless assistant? Many come here meddling with hope and nonsense. Fewer bring a pinch of genuine nerve."
Arlo stepped forward, voice steadying. "The Sanctuary is changing. Something dangerous is narrowing its heart. We need to find the Hidden Temple before the King does. We need your help—your magic."
She sized him up, lips twitching, then darted close—her gaze sharp enough to nick the secrets from behind his eyes. Cat arched her back in wary distaste.
"Courage, but is it true-blue or just stained by worry? Imagination, but have you tested its edges?" She straightened, tossing the flask high; it spun, caught in a net of vining tendrils, and began to sing. "To earn the Essence of Inquiry, you must pass my trial—both an ordeal and a game."
She gestured to a hidden hatch in the floor. As she tapped a sequence into the wood, it yawned open, revealing a ladder curling downward into green-lit gloom. Spicy mist drifted upward. "Below is my maze—a living puzzle that rewards the spirited and confounds the dull. There you’ll face what roots remember and leaves forget. Only those who value bold ideas over tired ones find my prize. Will you test your wits? Or shall I find fresh ingredients for tomorrow’s soup?"
Arlo gulped. Running away sounded sensible, but he could not—the Sanctuary needed him, and so did the stories he wanted one day to write. Besides, the Potion Maker’s challenge stirred something irresistible inside—a stubborn gleam of hope and possibility. "We accept."
Cat rolled her eyes dramatically—then leapt onto his shoulder, claws gentle. "No dying, please; I have five more lives, you have one. And watch out for the blue fungus. It bites."
They climbed down, vanishing into a world where shadow twisted with emerald light, and the air hummed with riddles yet unsolved.
The maze was more a living ecosystem than a simple puzzle. Luminous mushrooms traced spiral paths. Walls of intertwining vines shifted as Arlo drew near, occasionally revealing—then hiding—archways rimmed by gold-green leaves. Scattered throughout, pools of moss mirrors reflected scenes that wavered at each glance. Birdsong echoed in backwards notes.
No sooner had they set foot on the vine-woven floor than the first test rushed at them: a sudden mist thickened, and out of it loomed wriggling tendrils that lashed low, tugging at Arlo’s boots. Instinctively, he brandished the sage bundle, crooning the sparrow-song he’d used before—but instead of relenting, the vines began to sway to unfamiliar music, twining tighter.
"Try flattery," Cat hissed. "Or rhyme. Mazes adore being courted."
Heart hammering, Arlo tried, "O clever vines with emerald breath, release us now or face my wrath—" he stumbled, then guessed, "or, um, love?"
A second’s pause, then the leaves quivered—entirely, it seemed, with laughter. Several retreated. Cat smirked. "Sincerity mixed with nonsense. Not bad."
They pressed on, rounding a coil of roots that undulated beneath their feet like living waves. The next obstacle: a spread of quicksand puddles patterned with glinting stones. Arlo knelt to test one; it immediately pulled a stick nearly out of sight. On a hunch, he watched the reflections of the ceiling lights within each puddle. "Some reflect what’s above, others what’s behind—"
"What’s within, not without," Cat interpreted. "Maze logic. Step only where you see your companion’s truth."
He moved carefully, glimpsing Cat’s image in certain patches—her true amber eyes, never quite matching her shifting moods. He only stepped where her gaze lingered, trusting their connection. Cat followed, bounding in places where Arlo’s reflection settled on bravery instead of doubt. After several tense moments, they reached firm vine-carpet, sharing a silent grin.
Next came the illusions: walls of shimmering leaves that flickered between scenes—Arlo’s school, his attic at home, the Sanctuary’s library. Each vision begged him to enter, promising forgotten comforts or old regrets. It was the sharp nudge from Cat’s damp nose that brought him back every time. "If you look back, you get stuck. Mazes feed on nostalgia. Keep your mind here, explorer."
Together, singing silly rhymes or reciting Sanctuary facts ("the spotted toad sleeps upside-down in the moonlight"), they forced the illusions to dissolve. Arlo giggled, surprised at his own resourcefulness—each joke, each wild guess gave the maze less to cling to. At one juncture, he found a cluster of seed-pods blocking a doorway. He remembered a riddle from the Potion Maker’s wall: "From nonsense springs sense; from laughter, the key."
He tried a knock-knock joke on the seeds. They unleashed a cloud of golden pollen, sneezing open a hidden gate. Cat nearly lost her composure. "Your jokes are criminal, but effective."
At last, after what felt like hours but could have been minutes or lifetimes, they stumbled, winded but exuberant, into the maze’s glowing heart—a natural chamber beneath the hut, walls pulsing with a gentle emerald light. The Potion Maker herself was waiting, perched atop a root throne, flanked by bottles dancing in the air to a silent waltz.
She clapped, not without mischief. "Bravo! Suffering fools gladly and outfoxing my hedge-witted puzzles—well done. The Essence of Inquiry belongs to those who dare whimsy and wit in equal measure."
She produced a small vial, swirling silver and sapphire. As Arlo reached for it, she caught his hand gently. "A warning, explorer: the Essence reveals hidden doors, but the path beyond is never simply shown. To reach the Temple, abandon the well-lit road—follow where laughter echoes, not where logic blinds. Sometimes the shortest line is a spiral."
She winked, then, so abruptly serious that Arlo nearly jumped. "Also, beware: the Essense attracts curious company—sometimes helpful, sometimes not. In the northern glades haunts a Living Snowman, rumored to shine with both joy and sorrow. Even the King has reasons to covet such creatures."
When they emerged back into the starlit jungle, dew gleaming on every frond, Arlo held the vial like a fragile promise. Cat fell in beside him, her sarcasm left—momentarily—aside.
"You may be less hopeless than I thought," she allowed. "Maze-wit is rare. But our real trials begin now. What if the creatures the Essence lures have teeth?"
Arlo managed a grin, braver than he felt. "Then we’ll outwit them together. Besides, sometimes the things we fear most are the ones that help us find what matters."
As the night grew thick, the sound of distant laughter—unlike any bird or beast—bounced through the trees. Cat cocked an ear. Arlo pocketed the Essence, heartbeat quickening. The puzzle had only grown more tangled, the adventure richer. They pressed on, their fears not forgotten but transfigured, ready for the next whisper and challenge from the heart of the wild.