Sort of Deadly

29 - Jeel's Firecracker

A woman who looks as old as the hills wakes me up. 'Good,' she says, snapping her fingers. ‘Good?’

I nod weakly.

I’m in a hut, I guess. There’s a small, cracked window through which I can see the three moons craning behind each other. I think of the old four men and three hats riddle, then think of Goof, then think Get real, Bee! You’re in The City Of A Hundred Haunts!

'Eat' says the woman, shoving a weird-looking ball into my face. It smells like baby powder.

‘Erm, no thanks,' I politely excuse. ‘I’m not really hungry - '

‘Eat.’

I’m naturally hesitant. My last fruit experience here in Lakoswanion hadn’t exactly been first-class. 

‘Eat,' the woman insists again.

Patience, madam. You lived for so many centuries. One would think if anyone had learnt patience, it’d be you . . .

I take a bite of the ball. It’s really, really hard. Like, super duper hard. Like, diamond-is-the-hardest-naturally-occurring-substance hard. I’m glad my teeth don’t fall off . . . but hm. Not that bad, actually. Tastes like peach. A sweet peach.

The woman stares at me eagerly. ‘Eat all,' says she, her lips curving into a kind smile.

I take another bite of the ultra-hard fruit and watch as she walks slowly over to a battered chest of drawers, rummaging through some stuff. She’s got this huge hump on her back and this extra-large nose that would put Pinocchio to shame, and she looks way older than even Granny.

‘How old are you?’ I ask, unable to hold back. Kind of impolite, and very unlike me.

'Eat,' comes the reply.

I take another bite. I don’t mind that it’s hard enough to make my denture ache by now. Because it’s very tasty. Juicy, too. And this bed, ah, it’s so comfy! I could lie here for ever and ever!

'What's your name?’

The woman keeps going through drawer after drawer. ‘Name?’

‘Yes.’ I raise a brow. ‘Name. What people call you.’

‘Jeel?’

‘That’s your name?’

‘Jeel.’

‘Alright, I’m no one to judge. What's your job?’

‘Cook,' replies she, taking what looks like a plastic pyramid out of the chest.

‘Wicked,' I say, then barf, then giggle. Something inside my stomach does a backflip. ‘I’m so stupid. Who eats an amulet instead of a banana? And who eats a banana in the middle of night in the first place? To be fair, some vision and whatnot was troubling me, so.’

Why are you saying all this? some part of me asks.

Because I’m sending baby Yoda off to sleep, another part – one I’m unfamiliar with – answers.

That doesn’t make any sense.

Shish, he’ll wake up.

‘I low-key miss Pops a lot. He called me dots, you know. What did your Dad call you? Don’t tell me he called you Jelly. Humph. I miss Momma too, actually. I wonder if her research is done. What must Aar and Marra and Es be doing? See is probably asleep. Niffy is probably . . . being Niffy and charming everyone. No one likes me, you know. Not really, anyway. I’m just a geek. Whatever. Goof saved me, so at least she’s nice. I think they killed her, the ravens. Have you seen any giant butterfly around, Missus Jeel?’

This is where I turn my head and see that the woman is bustling outside the hut. I realize the flesh the raven had bit off was good as new. I jump off the comfy bed – miss you already – swallow the last of the diamond-hard fruit (seedless; parthenocarpic, I see – look it up, it’s super cool, there’s no fertilization in their production at all) and move outside as well.

It’s relatively dark. The three moons combined can’t light the place up well, what a shame.

I giggle again, feeling like I’ve been possessed. By the ghost of a failed clown.

The Jeel woman is setting up the plastic pyramid from earlier on the ground. Now I see a tiny wick standing erect on top of it –

'What are those two stones for?’ I ask, trying my best to control the giggles and already craving another one of those peach balls. ‘Never mind. Wanna hear a funny story about a boy who swallowed a stone that came to life in his tummy and gave babies that were named Saabu, Taabu and Faabu? And later Saabu had a quarrel with Taabu, so Faabu got irritated and crushed them both into pieces, but then each piece became a new – oops, spoiler alert. Pops used to tell me that story when I was a kid and ate a – hey, are you listening or I’m wasting my breath here?’

Ignoring me, the woman rubs together the two black stones in her hand. It creates a bright spark, which hits the wick and lights it up better than the three stupid moons light Lakoswanion.

The woman stumbles back a couple steps. ‘Yes,' she says, watching the wick burn out.

‘Yes you were listening, or yes I’m wasting my breath?’

‘Yes.’

From the tip of the plastic pyramid, a tiny fire rocket shoots out into the sky. Up, up, it goes, and my eyes follow.
Is it my declining eyesight (should’ve had that check-up when Momma said, dang it!) or is the rocket accelerating really, really fast?

Once it reaches a certain height – let’s say, oh I don’t know, high as the Shanghai tower – the rocket splits into many tiny ones. (Just like the rocks in the boy’s stomach!) Then each of the tiny rockets explode into even tinier rockets, and so on, until at last there is a dazzling spectacle etched against the dull black sky.

Precisely in the shape of a raven.

‘Well, poop,' I say. My tongue itches for another diamond-hard seedless peach-fruit. ‘I gotta run . . . a chore. For Mrs. L. T. Be back in a few.’

I make a dash for it. But less than five steps later, my shins start burning and my legs tangle up like limp guitar strings. I fall down hard, giggling loudly, my tongue drying up real rapid.

After epochs, the Jeel woman calls for someone else, who comes and starts dragging me back to the hut.

_lovehasnogender_ Jheel = Jeel = old crone.

Nah, ily ❤️