Sort of Deadly

‘You son of a witch, you’re not going to die on me like this!’

‘Gu . . . gurrrl . . . the danger is not averted yet.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, brushing away my tears.

Rasthrum croaks like the fake Rasthrum did in that creepy alleyway: ‘The ravens . . . they were promised blood and flesh . . . to taste . . . they will not go away till they get a . . . a sacrifice . . .’

We look up at the sky at that. The sky, only in saying. It’s essentially a ceiling of ravens. Or, rather, a shroud. For their evil clucking mother Ravenna.

‘He’s quite right,' Bob the Blob says. ‘They’ll lay waste to the whole city if they don’t get a sacrifice now. Ravenna promised them the son of the Grahi Witch and a human girl. They need at least one.’

Niffy gulps. ‘I can do it,' she says. ‘I’m pretty sure Queen Elizabeth said I’d lose my voice as soon as I went back to normal earth and I don’t think I can live as a mute anymore. I really can’t.’

‘Why don’t you shut your trap for a second?’ I snarl at her. Not out of kindness. Just out of spite. She can’t be the selfless one and live on as the great sacrificial girl, nuh-uh. Not while Sheriff Bee is in town.

‘Listen to me . . .’ Rasthrum falls into a spate of coughs.

‘No, you listen to me, you stinking Restroom!’ I rebuke. ‘I am the sacrifice, okay? I’m the one Ravenna really wanted. Save yourself!’

‘Can’t . . . can feel the life . . . slipping out of me . . .’

‘No, just hang in there, dammit!’ I hate the sensation of tears rolling down my cheek.

‘Listen . . . to me . . . gurrrl . . . I was born to . . . to a witch . . .’

‘You shouldn’t talk this much, Rassie bro,' Marra puts in. ‘Just relax, Niffy is great at medicines and stuff, she can find a plant or something.’

On any other occasion I would put in that I love botany as well, but I was practically drowning in my own tears by then. This was my fault! All my fault!

‘. . . born to a witch . . . I want to die a hero . . .’

Rasthrum starts coughing again.

A raven the size of Goof alights down besides him. Its beak opens a mingy bit and a robotic voice comes out: ‘Who is the sacrifice?’

‘We haven’t decided yet!’ I shout.

‘Bee . . . my gurrrl . . . please . . . I’m dying anyway . . .’

I break down. I can’t see anything through my blurry lens of tears. I can’t hear anything over my bawling. I can’t feel anything. I can’t make sense of anything.

‘Who is the sacrifice?’ the raven booms, louder and less robotic this time.

‘Please . . .’ Rasthrum closes his eyes.

Mr. Om is the only one of us who can muster enough courage to say the necessary words, and even he sounds all choked up: ‘Rasthrum. Rasthrum the Valorous. It is with a heavy heart that we sacrifice him by his own behest.’