The Djinn of All Souls

1. Soul, A Soul, For An AppleTwo

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!”

The other children were quiet a moment—some of the younger ones looked shocked. With a smirk, Bea whipped back around and continued on to her favorite tree.

Her heart was a wild rabbit scrabbling in her ribs.

Would her letter work? She’d given up on other children and her own sisters for sources of companionship.

Once, she had asked her father why she never received any letters, as he always had a great stack of them at the breakfast table.

He’d told her, “letters do not appear by magic—you must write a letter first if you hope to get one in return.”

As Beatrix approached the tree, she saw a tightly folded paper inside the hollowed knot.

Squealing, she tripped and stumbled to grab it with shaking hands.

The writing was almost as poorly formed as her own.

It looked scrawled from charcoal pencils rather than ink, with dust and smears all over the edges.

Little Buzzing Bea,

You came sniffing for a rose and found foxglove instead. I am not a thing that dear little girls ought to seek out for fellowship.

I am that dark thing in the woods. I am that shadow with naught to cast it. I shall creep into your closet and fill it with flies and feast upon your tiny screams of terror.

There was a large area with no writing, as if the author had meant to conclude, but hastily added, just at the very bottom:

I liked the cake.

“What a funny creature!’’ Bea said, looking around as if she could see him somewhere. “And quite rude too! No name and no thank yous and no happy All Soul’s…”

Entirely undeterred by her new friend’s cryptic response, Bea sat in the grass, pulled out her work book, and started a new letter on the back of her last spelling sheet.

Deer Mister Dark Scary Fellow,

Or I think I shall corl you Jack Of The Tree, since Hallowe’en has past and now I shall think of you as looking like my carved turnip lantaern.

Above Little Bea, lounging on a low hanging tree branch, Sahar read over her shoulder as each misspelled and badly formed word appeared.

He... resembled a turnip lantern? He was tempted to hop down and reveal his true form to her right there, though he was not permitted to do so without an official request.

He was many times the size of this girl, and even after she was fully grown he would surely tower over her half again.

He was built with the lean muscles of a boatman, broad arms and shoulders swooped down to a narrower frame where his carved hips held a sash tying his loose trousers—his only item of clothing.

His black hair was a mess of unruly curls, forever crackling at the edges as if trying to escape his head and become a storm cloud.

His skin was the indigo of night upon the desert, bluish-purple with a tapestry of stars.

The little one seemed to have the reverse—her star patterns were smaller sprays of brown speckles across her nose and cheeks. She liked sunlight while he thrived in darkness.

What an odd child.

Or, had children changed since his last visit? In spite of his confusion and frustration at her refusal to be afraid of him, Sahar’s curiosity only grew. Very shortly it became something like fondness.

The rhymes the other children say at me are nasty, even if they are cleva and I would be proud had I rit them.

If you are so dark and scary, do people say nasty things at you? I might liek to be scary too, if it would make them leave me be.

I can bring you more cakes if you want them for tomorrow is All Soul’s Day and we shall be giving them out as treets.

Sahar wrinkled his nose. She was giving cakes out to the same simpletons who plagued her with insults?

When the neighborhood was positively silly with animal dung that she could gift them instead?

Resentment crept in toward these ingrates who hadn’t earned her kindness.

Then he unfortunately realized that he hadn't earned it either.

But she’d given him a cake all the same.

His life’s purpose was catering to the whims of others when called upon. Bea hadn’t asked for anything—not yet, not officially. Where grown men had demanded palaces of gold and gems, harems stretching into infinity, or riches that could never be depleted, this girl only wanted companionship.

And, in spite of his initial attempt to scare her off, she seemed determined to get it.

Fine, thought Sahar, hiding himself away as she placed her letter in the tree again. I will respond once more.

After all, the next day—All Soul’s Day—was the last day of the year in which he would be free to walk among the people, to drink and dance and play with the sumptuous bodies of grown humans until the rise of the sun.

After that, he’d be bound to the ether again until called upon, or next year’s Hallowe’en.

He may as well play nice and get one more cake out of her.