Page 1 of Be-Djinn At The Beginning

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SOUL, A SOUL, FOR AN APPLE OR TWO

The first thing to rouse Sahar from his long slumber was a scent reminding him of home, even with so many foreign flavors swirled around it. Saffron, aniseed, currants, spices, the hint of char from an oven. He cracked open one eye to see an even bigger surprise—a tiny hand with stubby little baby’s fingers, placing a cake and a slip of paper inside the hollowed knot of the old tree where he’d been resting.

Sahar dared not move—what day was it? The veil between his world and the mortals’ was thin as spiderweb for the next few days, but he could keep himself hidden if he chose. Below, he could make out the tiniest of figures—a girl child, unless it had been far too long since he’d seen one, nearly swallowed by her hood. Her cloak was the color of the leaves still clinging to life as their brothers died in spectacular hues. Beneath the hood, Sahar could barely see one wide brown eye and straw colored curls framing a round, curious face.

If it can see me, I really ought to frighten it.

Before he could change forms, or unleash a swarm of beetles upon the minuscule creature, she was off and scampering across the field, skirts ruffling with her speed, back to the house at the edge of the forest. Someone called out a name from the doorway, and if Sahar had to guess, the creature was already in trouble.

Maybe he’d save the beetles for later, then.

The intoxicating scent drifted toward him, calling him back to her offering. The cake was a small round-ish blob with a wobbly X upon the top made in currants. Sahar took an experimental sniff and was rewarded with that same spice and char that felt like home.

Never one to consider the consequences of eating strange food left in a tree, Sahar took a large bite. A windstorm of aroma and memory overtook him as the edges of his tongue tingled in agony after tasting nothing at all this last year. The cake was dense, pleasantly spiced, and not sweet until he hit a currant and then tart sugar stung his cheeks as if he’d been slapped by a pretty hooker.

With a frown, he turned to the other item—a small piece of paper that looked torn from a child’s workbook with scrawled sums on the other side and an attempt at a doodle of a flower.

Deer friend,

I hope you are having a lovely Hallowe’en!

My naem is Beatrix and I live in the great big house on the hill just there.

Sahar raised an eyebrow at the description, glancing up at the house the creature had sprinted back to. Hardly great and big at all, but then, he supposed, she was herself minuscule.

I would like so deerly to have a friend to write to. Mrs. Donovan sais my alphabits are shabby but I think I right liek a princess.

I have run orf from Mrs. Donovan to right to you and she will be cross with me, but I do not care, she is always cross and she lets the other children corl me Bumble Bea.

I HATE THAT.

Sahar chuckled, popping the remainder of the cake into his mouth. Bumble Bea was a good nickname for this noisy little insect.

But you may corl me Bea if you like it and if we are to be friends.

Please right me, I shall look at the tree every day to see if you do. I hope you liek the soul cake, I helped Cook make them.

Love, Beatrix

Sahar grinned while reading the letter. The Djinn so rarely got an opportunity to interact with mortals unless they spoke the right words in just the right location while the right ears listened. The three days the mortals celebrated as Hallowe’en, All Saint’s, and All Soul’s Day allowed him to dip into their world—to steal their food and hide their keys and let loose their livestock, all while hoping no one would call upon him with a request. This little creature hadn’t spoken the words, but he was inclined to obey her wish and answer her letter—if only to terrify her.

“Be-a-trix! She’s only six! She’s always covered in leaves and sticks!”

Bea scowled at the other children as she tugged the hood of her cloak lower over her messy curls.

“Seven,” she grumbled, knowing they couldn’t hear her. “In two months.”

Bea was often teased by the other children in her village, including her three sisters who were all older by at least six years.

Her birth had rather changed her family’s fortunes for the worse. Bea was the very last of the Ashwood children. Her crime of being born a girl was far more odious an offense than that of her older sisters’, for they had still given Mrs. Ashwood plenty of time to have a boy that could inherit their estate. With Bea the youngest and last, all hope of an heir was gone.

Beatrix had entered the world all bright eyes and wonder, only to meet a chorus of groans, sighs, and wails of, “What shall we do now?” It was easy to understand how a little glimmer of rebellion grew year after year until eventually a fire raged within Bea that made the Hallowe’en bonfires across the village look like a wet sneeze.

“Bumble bumble bumble Bea, walks in mud and spills her tea, the Little People all agree, take away our Bumble Bea!”

At this, Bea swirled around to face her tormentors, raising her tiny hands before shouting, “I curse you all to become pies and taste so horrible you all go rotted!”