Care for Some Stew?

The kettle shrieked. Puffs of thin smoke rose to the air.

Bea took it off of the stove, turned down the knob and poured the hot, steaming liquid into a large mug. She added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and swirled a tea bag around until the contents turned a warm honey-brown. She carried it into the living room.

Picking out a dusty hardback from the bookshelf, Bea proceeded to make herself comfortable in a large chair. A fire was glowing in the hearth. Bea pulled a woolly blanket over her stick-thin legs and sighed. It was a happy sigh. She was looking forward to a day of doing nothing.

Bea had never been particularly striking; she was your usual, garden variety beetle as far as one could tell. She did, however, possess a most stunning set of wings. A deep brilliant red, speckled with jet-black. They reminded her of the strawberries that grew on the other side of the shrubbery. Bea’s grand but tiny dwelling lay behind the tomatoes that grew closer to the greenhouse, next to the pond. It’s how she befriended all the yellow frogs that dove in and out of the pond’s waters all day. More frequently than several nights a week, and definitely every Sunday, she’d even cook them a nice, warm meal served with a crusty loaf of bread.

Bea took a long sip of her tea when she heard a knock upon the door. It was unlike any knock she had ever heard before. She groaned loudly and threw her head up. She was in no mood to entertain. All she wanted was an evening of reading, cooking and a few mugs of tea. An evening to herself.

Bea shoved her chunky blanket on to the couch and set her book down. “A minute!” she yelled in the direction of the front door, and quickly threw on a robe. She then unfastened the door.

An old, elderly woman (with a couple more legs than Bea had ever noticed on others of her kind) stood before her. She was dressed in a carrot-coloured pinafore and wore large, yellow-rimmed glasses. Her hair was a pristine white, and the shaggy bun she’d thrown them in was covered with a decorative hat. She looked at Bea, her face erupting into a wide smile, revealing wonky, yellow teeth. She took a good, long look at Bea, narrowing her eyes, and said, “Hello, dearie.”

Puzzled, Bea furrowed her brow. She rattled her brain, but she couldn’t place her. She didn’t think she’d ever seen her before. “Um, hello?” she asked.

“My, my! How you’ve grown! I remember when you were just a little girl!” the old lady remarked, making her way inside.

“And look at what you’ve done with the place! It’s exquisite! Such a lovely little home.”

Bea hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was come off as rude to this woman. She seemed perfectly decent. What was more was that she had apparently known Bea when she had been only a couple of feet tall.

“Sorry, I can’t, for the life of me, put a name on you. Could you perhaps help me out?” she asked.

The old woman cackled. “Well, of course! I’m your Auntie Sandra. Your grandaunt on your mother’s side. Come, give us a hug!”

As much as Bea was looking forward to going about her day the way she had intended to, she didn’t want to toss the frail old lady – Auntie Sandra – out. The sun had gone down, its dull orange embers dying out in the sky, and the shrubbery had a tendency to grow uncomfortably damp in the dark. If Auntie Sandra were to venture out on her own at this hour, she’d was certain to catch a cold. At best, she would find it incredibly hard to navigate the coarse grasses. Why, she might even run into one of those slime-skinned geckos that ate insects! It was decided then, Bea would house and feed the old lady for tonight.

Auntie Sandra was busy admiring Bea’s bookshelf. Wuthering Heights, Little Women, Frankenstein, some of her favourites sat gathering dust on that shelf. She ran a finger over their brittle spines and the gold lettering that spelled out the names of authors she adored.

“Auntie Sandra, I think it’d be wise if you were to spend the night here. It gets awfully chilly after sundown,” Bea offered.

“Yes, yes. That’d be excellent! You’re so wonderfully kind, just like your mother was,” Auntie Sandra remarked and held Bea’s face in her own hands.

Bea smiled. It was always lovely to be reminded of her mother. “I suppose I’ll get dinner going. Will stew be okay?” she asked.

“Stew is precisely what we need on a night like this,” Auntie Sandra said.

Bea handed the old woman a fresh, warm sheet and seated her by the fire. Auntie Sandra picked out a yellowing classic off the shelf and made herself comfortable. The young beetle made her way into the kitchen.

Struggling to put together a half-decent meal with only the handful of ingredients in her small pantry, Bea first decided to drag in a large, black cauldron from the outhouse. It being Saturday night, she figured she could walk down the vegetable patch, and offer some stew to the yellow frogs after Auntie Sandra had retired to bed. She placed the shiny utensil atop a bundle of dry wood and lit a fire. Bea grabbed some stock from a cupboard and emptied the entirety of the canister into the cauldron. To this concoction, she added some chopped-up carrots, onions and tomatoes, and some mint leaves for taste. Bea deliberated adding a few solid, earthy potatoes a friend had dropped off a couple of days ago, and then tossed them in. She also poured out two small cups of jasmine tea for them to wash the meaty soup down with.

“Your parents were such delightful people; you know?” Auntie Sandra called out from the living room. “The last I saw them was at their wedding. Such a happy affair! And your mum looked absolutely lovely in her white dress!”

Bea continued to stir. “I’m certain she did, Auntie Sandra!”

“Of course! And you’ve got her big, brown eyes! I could see the moment you answered the door,” she added.  

The young beetle smiled. It was nice to be compared with her mother. It made her feel like she was carrying a small but significant part of her. She added some flakes of chilly to the stew.

“Your mum was unquestionably one of the loveliest spiders I ever saw! What, with the dainty legs and the big, furry pincers…”

Silence. Bea didn’t stir. She didn’t speak. Her mother had been no spider. She’d been a beautiful, brick-coloured beetle. Exactly like Bea.

“Oh, dear. I think I misspoke,” Auntie Sandra said. Her voice louder, her tone suddenly sinister.

Bea turned around. The old spider stood menacingly behind her. Her yellow-rimmed glasses had slid down her nose, and her mouth looked like it had been elongated to arrange her dreadful teeth in a most wicked smile. Old and rickety though she was, the old woman was remarkably strong. She grabbed Bea’s shoulders and thrusted her into the boiling cauldron. She quickly scanned the room for the lid, rushed over to grab it and placed it on the utensil. She could hear Bea’s muffled cries interspersed with the crunches and sounds of her being seared with the stew.  

Auntie Sandra, though she wasn’t quite Auntie Sandra, placed an enormous flask of oil on the cauldron lid and exited the kitchen.

She made herself comfortable on the sofa-chair and placed the priceless classic with the golden lettering in her lap, picking up right where she had left off.

Bea’s muffled struggles played on until they could be heard no more. The yellow frogs that lived by the pond were probably going to go hungry that night.