If they came​, they started hunting straightaway.

They traveled in masses, swarming. You didn’t see them until it was too late. When their bite pierced your flesh, you were done for. In the town of San Francisco, the bubonic plague had scoured the streets for what felt like ages. Through the homes, whether vacated by choice or force, two kinds of pests hid out: the killer, and the clean-up. The fleas devoured whatever they found, until the clean-up non-verbally ordered them to “Scram!”

Geraldo Ramòn Salamanca always knew that holding onto luck was like clamping your fingers around the neck of an inflated balloon; it holds, but only for so long. Breaking into the house, he tied his bandana over his nose and mouth, breathing as little as possible. He was shorter than most, with the speed of a wild cat and a pianist’s nimble fingers, perfect for nipping trinkets without letting anyone know. His poorly kept hair was lush and dark, and could have been attractive if not for the abundance of oil. His eyes matched his physique; sharp, open, and cunning, and his skin was sunburnt in many places, matching that of all in the dry desert weather. Harry, sliding off his satchel, placed candles all over the house, lighting them one by one. In the dim light, he could visibly see the tiny vermins scurrying across the floorboards from the gas that killed them. His father always reminded him, “Harry, a little bit of cinnamon can fix a lot of problems.”

Well,​ Harry thought to himself, ​evidently not ​every​ problem.​ Harry searched the house for something of value for his father’s untimely death. The fleas had eaten the life right out of him. It was the most painful thing to watch. ​Thief​ was the family legacy, and a few months earlier, while breaking into the richest house in the city, just one flea managed to get into his father’s glove while leaving their shabby home. Instantly, the poor man’s hand started turning black as he screamed that it was on fire. Pieces of the hand itself began to crumble off one by one while he rolled on the floor, begging for water. Harry had taken trips back and forth to the well for him, the black rash racing up his body. It was when his chest caved in to reveal intestines crawling with larva that Harry knew his dear father was gone. The wretched earthquake in the dry, desolate California land had driven the creatures from their eternal dormancy back to the battlefield: modern urban America.

Harry mentally punished himself. He had to focus. He took everything: a lace tablecloth, a dead flower bouquet, a shovel, and a large box that used to hold an umbrella for a patio table. Harry put everything in the box and attached a skipping rope he found in a young child’s bedroom to drag it behind him, scavenging for any spoiled food. However, a light beam shined into the window of the house, and Harry ducked, knowing it was either a nosy neighbor, or the authorities, and Harry had a prison cell waiting for him. He blew out all his candles and stashed them in his bag, missing one that he knocked to the floor, which shattered. But Harry didn’t have time to retrieve it. He fled out the back door across the sickly, narrow streets of San Francisco.

~~~

The next morning,​ Harry retrieved the remains of his father’s body from
the cellar. He wrapped it in the tablecloth and lifted it, with the gentle touch of a butterfly, into the box and softly shut the lid, closing out the life. He carried it over his head to the grave he had already dug, by the headstone he had hand carved and lied the two roses atop it. “I’m sorry, Father,” he whispered, reciting a funeral prayer. Harry never thought he’d see the day he was alone.

“Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Extra! The Daily Expedition Remedy! Extra! Breaking news! Recipe for disease curing candles will win big bucks!” the newsboy declared at the top of his lungs as his cycle went by. Harry looked through the trees. Startled, he dusted the dirt off his trousers and ran after the kid.

“Hey! Kid!” Harry panted as the bicycle skidded to a stop. “I’d like to buy a paper.” After finishing the grave, he skimmed through the article about the cash reward.

“Last night,” the paper read, “in the home of Eugene Schmitz, mayor of San Francisco, there was a robbery. However, what was left behind was greater than what was stolen. A candle was left on the floor, and around it was a circle with a fourteen and a half inch diameter in which there were no fleas at all. We ask that the owner of the recipe of this miracle candle show himself this evening at Trinity Chapel, ready to show his skills for a cash reward of six-hundred-fifty grand.” Harry dropped the newspaper.

“Six-hundred-fifty grand!” he exclaimed, running his worn hands through his greasy scalp. But he knew it could never be his, for he was a wanted criminal. Then again, they were expecting a burglar, so if anyone fit the description, it was Harry. So he headed inside, changed into nicer clothes and used his satchel to carry two candles and his herbs: cinnamon, eucalyptus, radiata, lemon, clove, and rosemary, as well as what he would need to turn them into an oil or wax. Then, he put on his fedora and bandana to conceal his identity until he got to the church. Harry was finally going to have everything he ever wanted!

~~~

Trinity Chapel was a church that could have been a palace. With two turret-filled castles on either side of the keep-like sanctuary, the church had a certain majesty about it. Like many churches, Trinity Chapel exhibited stain glass windows that illustrated the story of the bible, wooden pews with verses etched into them, and a steeple symbolizing its belief, but for many years, something had been missing from the structure. When anyone would walk through the doors, they felt absolutely nothing. Not a single emotion: not love, joy, peace, faith, grace, or even fear of God. At least, not until they entered the sanctuary. Their attention had shifted to the priest of the church, who all in San Francisco knew and feared.

Upon entering the church, Harry was shocked. A line cramping hundreds of men, from orphaned children to elderly men who seemed they could use a pew as their deathbed. “I swear,” pleaded a man at the front of the line, “this is my candle!” He frantically rustled through the glass jars of herbs on the table. As Mayor Schmitz and the judges tried to reason with the man, Priest Gifflet stared down at his hands, covered by leathery, ill-fitting skin. Priest Gifflet was an irritable man, whose blood was said to have ran as lava and was able to, in a fit, stomp so hard as to cause an earthquake. The priest wore shapeless black clothing, a peculiar trait. His eyes were cold, grey, and immune from emotion. His hair had been shaved countless times, but his beard grew quickly, showing stormy bristles, an evident sign of stress. When Priest Gifflet stalked by, the crowds quieted, and it seemed as though even the dust and rocks by his feet cleared a path for him. But he was rich, and he was holy, so town knew that they were forever under his crushing fist, tricked by his lying smiles. Priest Gifflet knelt down, not in prayer, but to retrieve a box made of diamonds, rubies, and gold, with a cross of silver etched on the cover.

The prize money, ​Harry thought, somewhat depressed.

“Father, shall we let him go?” asked one of the judges, while the other held the man back.

“No,” whispered Priest Gifflet, in his high, snakelike hiss, with a hot stench in his breath of death itself. “I think that this man is to be rewarded.” He gave the imposter a rotten, crooked smile, and with his worn hand, grabbed the fragile, pale hand of the imposter, who was both sporting a look of confusion and awe. Priest Gifflet slowly unlatched the pure gold lid of the chest, lifted it ever so slightly, and shoved the imposter’s hand inside. A mutter of shock from the crowd swept over Harry’s head like a breeze. The imposter’s dark eyes went wide in fear and confusion. Then, his pale face began to sweat. He howled as savagely as a boar, retracting his hand which was transforming quickly into a pile of rubble and dust on the ground. The hard coal that was now his skin gnawed at his body as he crumpled to the ground of the sacred chapel and his skull split open, revealing the gray remnants of his brain, eaten away by the gluttonous larva that scurried across the ground towards the streets of San Francisco. 

Harry could not believe that he had witnessed a murder in a sacred church by the priest himself. “Heed this,” croaked Priest Gifflet, raising his hands, “as a warning to all other imposters in the crowd. I demand that all of you return to your homes at once and make no mention of what has happened today, or face the wrath of God himself!” As slow as molasses, the men retreated one by one in shame and fear. Only Harry remained, standing his ground like a stone wall. “Who dare remains, spreading lies in the presence of God?” Priest Gifflet demanded, scaring the mayor a little.

“The rightful owner of the reward,” Harry haughtily answered, muffled by his bandana.

“Show yourself, scoundrel, and say it again, for your scarves have blocked communication.” At first, Harry stood, dumbstruck. It was the plan not to remove his disguise, just to demonstrate and leave with the money. Then again, the plan didn’t include Priest Gifflet or a box of fleas either. So Harry marched confidently further, ridding himself of his pointless disguise.

“I believe I said that I was the one who gets dough,” Harry repeated, showing a smug smile of pearly-whites.

“It’s Harry Salamanca! Seize him!” ordered Father Gifflet, though unfazed. Shocked as they were, almost instantly, Harry felt the rubbery skin of the judges holding back his shoulders and arms with a weak grasp that deserved the eyeroll they got.

“That will get rid of ​one​ vermin in our city,” huffed the mayor, crossing his arms over his suit.

“Please. I am not here to steal. I am here to help you end the plague,” informed Harry as monotone as possible.

“You wish to create an antidote?” the priest laughed. “But that’s an impossible task!”

“With no offense, Father, why are you here if you didn’t believe it was possible?”

“I wanted to see what Satanic monster had enough stupidity to declare himself worthier than God, the Father, himself and claim to have a cure to death!”

“I am here to help, not fight.”

“You Spanish people are always so... suspicious,” the mayor mocked. “Or maybe it’s just you.”

“I completely understand. It’s the tongue roll, isn’t it?” Harry replied sarcastically.

“You know, I’d be quite entertained to see ​Geraldo Ramòn Salamanca​ attempt to recreate a cure,” said the priest casually, stroking his bristled chin.

“As you wish, ​Father​,” spat Harry, struggling out of the weak grasp of the judges. Priest Gifflet showed his wicked smile and gestured to the ingredients, which Harry took one look at and set out of his way, opening his satchel of medical wonders and setting up his workspace. “Do you have a kettle?” asked Harry, taking out his heavy bunsen burner and realizing his foolish mistake.

“Of ​course​ we have a kettle,” growled the priest. After it was retrieved for him, Harry began the painstakingly slow process of extracting the oil from each of his ingredients.

Then, the process of changing the oils to wax began.

Only twenty minutes in, one of the judges annoyingly asked, “How much ​longer​?”

“Patience, ​ancianos,​” Harry replied through gritted teeth, spirit woven into his work. When his one soy candle was completed, Priest Gifflet menacingly lowered it into the box of unearthly pests and lit it. Harry held his breath, felt his heart hammering like hail pelting at the ground, when the bugs retreated from the flame to the very corners of the box. The priest seemed terrified by his sickly skin and tremulous jaw, though his cold eyes deceived them both.

“Now I see that neither a fool nor a possessed man has entered to challenge God,” Priest Gifflet shakily stuttered, “but a demon! Only Satan, with death itself on his side, can outsmart the... ​black death​. Arrest him!” Harry didn’t even let the judges try to grab him again.

“Please! I want to share this with your people! God’s people!” Harry pleaded, a rare occurrence.

“I promise,” Priest Gifflet snarled. “I will expose you as a demon, I promise! Meet me and the whole city right here at noon tomorrow!”

~~~

The next morning,​ Harry awoke from a restless sleep, sitting at a
shabby table in the kitchen. He had gotten through the previous day convicted as a thief and a devil, as well as not a cent richer. He washed his hair and face, cleaned himself up a little and spent the morning extracting the oils from his remedy, collecting as much as he possibly could. It was a process as soothing a shea butter lotion on peeling skin. The fragrance of the herbs, whether as a wax or oil, seemed essential, like every man should have it. Then again, Harry lost his reputation and stopped receiving the blessing of trust a long time ago. Seeing his father die before his eyes had truly changed him though, maybe revealing a heart that was locked inside of his ribcage, smothered in dirt and dust, just waiting for an opportunity. Or maybe it was the disease of grief, a sickening force that could force you down to your knees at any time. Grief is a lighter burden with more than one, and it was a shame that the only person who could possibly love a beautiful man like the late Mr. Salamanca was Harry himself, who would mourn his death alone. He collected a pint total of the oil and took it with him for good luck. The oil was not his discovery, nor his father’s, but an ancestor’s. And now it was time to share it. He wrote his recipe down on paper, re-doused his bandana in oil, and collected six or seven candles as well as all was needed to make the oil and wax again. When he arrived at the chapel, everyone was standing silently, waiting for his arrival. It was their eyes that intimidated Harry, so full of hatred and thirst for revenge. Harry had to make it up to them. He walked forward as quiet as the crowd and asked the priest, “What must I do?”

“Simply prove to us all that you are not a demon,” Priest Gifflet sneered, amused. “Look at this man. A thief, as well as immune to the plague. I’d say that this man is not of God!” Harry, seeing no other alternative, dropped to his knees and prayed, reciting Hail Mary, Lord’s Prayer, any prayer that came to mind. But the pastor was not convinced. “There’s only one way we’ll ​know​ you aren’t demonic,” he said with malice.

“How?” Harry gulped. He already knew the answer as Priest Gifflet withdrew the box of gold from under the table.

“You could confess now and return to Hell,” whispered Priest Gifflet cunningly.

“You wish,” hissed Harry back at his face. He closed his eyes and prayed again, ready to join his father. He fished the recipe for the oil out of his pocket and placed it gently on the table, then held out his shaking arm, a sign of readiness. Priest Gifflet took his arm and put it in his little box of horrors. It was instant. Immediately, a tingling sensation in Harry’s middle finger occured. Then, it buckled, along with all his other fingers, and it was as if all Harry ever knew was burning pain. He withdrew his hand. It was as if his blood was magma and his insides were ice, for he painfully sensed them being destroyed. Harry was destroying himself. He did not scream. Instead, he sobbed right in front of everyone, dropping to a fetal position on the floor as he watched his left leg crumble with his arms. He lay in surrender to the holy father as his whole world went white hot and then black.

~~~

As Priest Gifflet ​retreated in satisfaction, the crowd circled in around the
rubble that was Geraldo Ramòn Salamanca, master thief, and eventually hero. When the townspeople found the recipe left behind, they cried, for in the end the flawed man had done what was just. When all of the fleas and larva had scuttled away from the poor man’s remains, they brushed them onto a towel and carried it gently to the baptism dish of holy water, where they floated peacefully.

“The man would want to be with his life work,” reasoned a woman, adding the pint of oil to the holy water. Suddenly, a miraculous event took place. First, the black began to fade. Then, flesh and bone from various places drifted through the air to the rest of the body, glowing with unseen light. Finally, in robes etched with gold, stood the reanimated Harry Salamanca, absorbing healing. The crowd stood in awe.

“Impossible!” snapped Priest Gifflet, lunging towards the revieved man. But Harry eyed a loose string on the priest’s robe and yanked it with force, sending the man tumbling. His entire outfit unraveled. “What...have...you...done?” wheezed the priest.

 “Showing them who you ​really​ are,” replied Harry confidently. The clothing on Priest Gifflet retracted to reveal not a human, but a doll made of human flesh, stitched with thread. Harry dropped the empty jar of oil on the ground and used the glass shard to slice his chest open, and the demon of the black death escaped from the skin sac, leaving squiming larva in it, which turned black and died as the demon escaped, marking the end of the bubonic plague.

~~~

From that day ​forward, Harry Salamanca has been a renowned chemist
and hero. He used the prize money provided by Eugene Schmitz to build a chemistry lab for extracting oil from many herbs. He called his family’s discovery “thieves oil,” and discovered many more plants with essential scents and oils. It was discovered that in a rage against the mayor over re-election, “Priest Gifflet” had stomped his hardest and caused the earthquake that drove the fleas up from the ground. Then, showing the mayor his true form, the demon blackmailed him into keeping it secret, threatening to drag him underground and suffocate him, then send him to hell.. Though many don’t know it, every essential oil we use today was because of Harry Salamanca of San Francisco.