Sort of Deadly

'So . . . are you going to roast and eat me now or something?’

The man shakes his head. He's got a ponytail which reminds me of “Dope Sue,” my drummer neighbor next door in {Undis-2-closed}. Behind him, the Jeel woman smiles her kind smile.

‘No,' says the man.

‘Do you guys only talk in single words?’

‘No.’

‘Are you with Ravenna?’

‘No.’

‘The Coven?’

‘No.’ And a frown.

‘Then can you tell me why you’re keeping me here and what that raven firecracker was all about?’

The man breathes like he’s doing oxygen a favor. ‘Ravens come here. Set fire to homes. Kill crops.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Earlier they say, “look for redhead”. Young. Human. Big bounty on head. Ravenna want her.’

‘Wants,' I correct.

Both the man and the woman frown.

'Your grammar. You said – never mind. That firecracker . . . it was to alert Ravenna here, wasn’t it? To call her here?’

The man nods. ‘Her, her troops, anyone. They come get you. Our homes don’t burn.’

I gulp. It makes sense.

The man mutters something into the Jeel woman's ear and hands her a purple whistle. ‘If she give you trouble, alarm.’

‘Gives.’

The two frown at me again. ‘Sorry,' the man then says to me, not looking the part, and moves out of the hut.

The Jeel woman smiles at me. I don’t return the smile, because I am about to be devoured alive – just like Goof probably was – by a bunch of ravens.

She doesn’t say anything after that. We just sit there, me on this bed – which doesn’t seem as snuggly now that I’m not drugged by those hard, seedless peaches – and the Pinocchio-nosed woman on a chair.

In my head, I recount some trigonometry formulas and some basic calculus concepts, but after awhile even that grows mundane. Numbers are demanding mistresses. You give them the time they deserve, they’ll help you a lot; you focus on them too much, and they’ll take over your mind and give you a migraine.

‘Tsk,' I say to the Jeel woman after it gets rather irritatingly boring and the said migraine starts to settle in. ‘Upto how many decimals do you know the value of the golden ratio?’

The woman stares blankly at me.

‘Phi?’ I try.

She blinks.

'Pfft. Take a barn and call it a cow.’

I don’t know, it’s something my Momma used to say. I don’t know what it means, really; she just shouted it out loud whenever she would get stuck on some research of hers. Pops called it her ‘fit bombs' – behind her back, of course. Some of her other fit bombs include: Take an epidermis and call it an endothelium! and Take an hydrophyte and call it a swamp! and . . . well, you get the idea.

'Tsk,' I say to the woman again. ‘Do you know who Rasthrum is?’

She gives me the same blank look, but this time I think I see something hidden behind that look. Shame, perhaps? I decide to explore. Curious by nature, as we established early on. Besides, it was too boring for me to believe.

Additionally, I didn’t want to think about Ravenna or one of her henchmen (-raven, whatever) coming to get me.

‘Yes,' she whispers.

‘Were you a supporter of the Coven Thirteen?’ I push.

'No.’ She looks scared.

‘The Grahi Witch?’

Even more scared. Interesting. I might have something to work on here.

What had the lobster queen said to me? Names hold much power of the Aqua Gods.

'Do you want another ruler, another dictator, like her?’

‘No.’

‘But that’s exactly what Ravenna is going to be. Don’t you see? I’m here to defeat her. She’s captured my friend Rasthrum, who helped us bring down the Coven's reign. If you give me to her . . . she’ll kill me. And you’ll be left with another oppressive - '

‘Stop.’

‘No!’ I say, trying to sound braver than I felt. ‘Not stop! How long do you think she’ll leave your houses and crops alone? She’s gonna come back eventually. Wouldn’t you rather have permanent peace?’

‘Please. Stop. No.’

I sigh. It’s of no use. ‘You spineless Pinocchio,' I mutter.

Missus Jeel looks insulted and maybe a bit hurt. I kind of feel bad, but not too bad. She’s about to sell me to man-eating ravens, for calculus' sake!

Time goes by. Ten minutes, fifteen, an hour, a decade, I don’t know. I think a lot about racing for the door – surely the old crone can’t catch me, there’s more dust than calcium in her bones – but the purple whistle hanging around her neck stops me every time.

Resigned, I slump down on the not-so-comfy bed. Thinking of what all would happen in the real world after I died here. Arbo and Garbo would be plenty happy, that’s for sure. My tongue dries up thinking about them.

'Too dry,' I murmur.

Missus Jeel looks up shamefully at me.

'Can I get one of those fruits, at least?’

She keeps giving me that look.

‘Please?’

‘Okay.’

She gets up, staggers over to that battered chest of drawers. I keep my eyes very intent on her and that whistle around her neck as she grabs a peach and starts teetering over to me.

‘Thank you,' I say as I take the diamond-hard fruit from her, bringing it up to my mouth . . . and throw it as forcefully as possible right at the tablet of wrinkly forehead above her Pinocchio nose. 

She's knocked out.

The hard ball of a fruit bounces off of her forehead and thumps me on mine.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Thanks, Sir Isaac Newton.

His third law, remember?

Gasping for no reason as such, certain I now have a pimply looking mark on my head, I check her pulse. She’s alive. She’s okay. I didn’t kill her. I probably won’t be able to live with myself if I had, I still remember when I smacked Marra's Dad with that club –

STOP. THINKING. ABOUT. ALL. THAT.

Hands shaking, I take the whistle off her neck and put it in my back pocket. Next, I run for my life. 

Missfairygirl_12 feralshadow celaenamoon Safa_Nas_Khan FALCON_FURY blessed are the wicked that are quenched by my updates.