“You’ll need these every
time you handle living fruit. Don’t ask questions, just go along.”
I nod, going
along.
“Now every
once in a while,” she explains, “I like to sneak out of Trenton. A little ways
beyond the Harvesting Grounds is a lake—if you can believe it—around which the
most curious of things still grow. Like these,” she says, revealing a basket of
assorted roots, leaves, flowers, vegetables and stalks I can’t quite identify.
“Maybe there’s something here that can aid you in your recreations.”
“Yes,” I
agree, peering curiously into her collection. “I suppose I could, ah, toss a
salad …?”
“You’ll need
more, of course,” she adds, pulling a bowl from underneath her sink, “and maybe
a few of these,” she also adds, producing—to my surprise—a pair of plump
tomatoes from another cupboard.
“These are
amazing,” I whisper, genuinely surprised. The tomatoes, admittedly so, are not
the best a person’s ever seen, but in a world devoid of such color, these two
plump red things seem as beacons of sunlight in a very dark sky. “For a while I
was convinced there was nothing left in this world that isn’t dead or dying.”
“Rest
assured,” she murmurs, a sad tinge in her tone, “where these treasures came
from, far and few between. This isn’t the world you once knew in a breathier
state.”
After placing
the tomatoes and bowl into the vegie basket, she hands the entire thing to me.
I try to protest, but she insists. “No, no, take it all, my sweet rabbit. The
collecting of these is more a product of boredom. I’ve had my hand, it’s about
time someone else have theirs.”
“You’re
generous.”
Jasmine shrugs,
pulls off her gloves and pats my face. “Take these gloves, and invite me over
sometime. You can fix us dinner and we’ll talk the night away!”
Wondering for
a moment where in my house I might stash a Human before inviting anyone over, I thank her and head out the door, reminding myself that there’s a dying
living person on my living room floor, dying.
I make haste
across the courtyard with the basket hanging on my arm. Reentering my house, I
quickly shut and lock the door. He still waits there right where I’d left him.
Only his head lifts a bit at the sound of my entry, his eyes focusing somewhere
around my knees.
“Back,” I
murmur, like it’s necessary, “and I couldn’t get you much, but this’ll have to
do.”
As I approach
him, he presses up against the wall as though I were a giant insect. I
hesitate, sigh to myself, then toss the basket in front of him dejectedly.
“Feast on,” I tell him, annoyed, then plant myself at the table. He tries
reaching out, can’t seem to find the basket, then in an irritated grunt he
calls out, “Can I have a little light? Please? I could be eating clumps of soil
for all I know.”
“You’re such
a—!” And then I stop myself. After all, the Human is sort of my guest—or
permitted trespasser, whichever works—so I opt to be more tolerant and revise
my statement: “Of course. Light. You need light to see.”
I rummage
through a bag of things I forgot I collected during my first few weeks as an
Undead. From it I produce a box of matches and one gnarled candle. I stick it
on the table, flick the match against my thigh to inspire a flame, and then …
then …
Then I stare
at the flame.
This must be
the first time I’ve ever seen fire with my new eyes, because I’m instantly
entranced. I realize now that I have never seen fire. I have never truly, wholly,
completely seen the essence of a spark, an ignition, a breath of life, the
dance of particle and power at the end of a little match, at the seat of a
candle wick. The twisting of light, reds and whites and greens and purples.
“What?”
I look over at
the man, startled. “What?” I bark back.
“You gonna
light the candle sometime tonight or let it burn to your elbow?”
“What’s it to
you?” I move the match over the
time you handle living fruit. Don’t ask questions, just go along.”
I nod, going
along.
“Now every
once in a while,” she explains, “I like to sneak out of Trenton. A little ways
beyond the Harvesting Grounds is a lake—if you can believe it—around which the
most curious of things still grow. Like these,” she says, revealing a basket of
assorted roots, leaves, flowers, vegetables and stalks I can’t quite identify.
“Maybe there’s something here that can aid you in your recreations.”
“Yes,” I
agree, peering curiously into her collection. “I suppose I could, ah, toss a
salad …?”
“You’ll need
more, of course,” she adds, pulling a bowl from underneath her sink, “and maybe
a few of these,” she also adds, producing—to my surprise—a pair of plump
tomatoes from another cupboard.
“These are
amazing,” I whisper, genuinely surprised. The tomatoes, admittedly so, are not
the best a person’s ever seen, but in a world devoid of such color, these two
plump red things seem as beacons of sunlight in a very dark sky. “For a while I
was convinced there was nothing left in this world that isn’t dead or dying.”
“Rest
assured,” she murmurs, a sad tinge in her tone, “where these treasures came
from, far and few between. This isn’t the world you once knew in a breathier
state.”
After placing
the tomatoes and bowl into the vegie basket, she hands the entire thing to me.
I try to protest, but she insists. “No, no, take it all, my sweet rabbit. The
collecting of these is more a product of boredom. I’ve had my hand, it’s about
time someone else have theirs.”
“You’re
generous.”
Jasmine shrugs,
pulls off her gloves and pats my face. “Take these gloves, and invite me over
sometime. You can fix us dinner and we’ll talk the night away!”
Wondering for
a moment where in my house I might stash a Human before inviting anyone over, I thank her and head out the door, reminding myself that there’s a dying
living person on my living room floor, dying.
I make haste
across the courtyard with the basket hanging on my arm. Reentering my house, I
quickly shut and lock the door. He still waits there right where I’d left him.
Only his head lifts a bit at the sound of my entry, his eyes focusing somewhere
around my knees.
“Back,” I
murmur, like it’s necessary, “and I couldn’t get you much, but this’ll have to
do.”
As I approach
him, he presses up against the wall as though I were a giant insect. I
hesitate, sigh to myself, then toss the basket in front of him dejectedly.
“Feast on,” I tell him, annoyed, then plant myself at the table. He tries
reaching out, can’t seem to find the basket, then in an irritated grunt he
calls out, “Can I have a little light? Please? I could be eating clumps of soil
for all I know.”
“You’re such
a—!” And then I stop myself. After all, the Human is sort of my guest—or
permitted trespasser, whichever works—so I opt to be more tolerant and revise
my statement: “Of course. Light. You need light to see.”
I rummage
through a bag of things I forgot I collected during my first few weeks as an
Undead. From it I produce a box of matches and one gnarled candle. I stick it
on the table, flick the match against my thigh to inspire a flame, and then …
then …
Then I stare
at the flame.
This must be
the first time I’ve ever seen fire with my new eyes, because I’m instantly
entranced. I realize now that I have never seen fire. I have never truly, wholly,
completely seen the essence of a spark, an ignition, a breath of life, the
dance of particle and power at the end of a little match, at the seat of a
candle wick. The twisting of light, reds and whites and greens and purples.
“What?”
I look over at
the man, startled. “What?” I bark back.
“You gonna
light the candle sometime tonight or let it burn to your elbow?”
“What’s it to
you?” I move the match over the
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