Djinni Mugs

DJINNI MUGS

Jay Stempin

Chapter 1

Batilda

The crescent moon shone bright in the night sky, its beady gray eye haloed by a lopsided grin. Yes, that sharp-edged crescent in the sky illuminated the forest floor, shoving bags of darkness under Mother Earth’s grassy misshapen rug. Batilda Bahama loved taking walks late at night, even when it was cold, especially when flakes of frost bit into her heart. Darkness was her favorite venue. Darkness was her friend. Darkness was a pastime. And when she really thought about it—her faithful enemy. Brought a smile to her long angular face.

Ye Olde Mosquito Shoppe had been in business for centuries here in the Land Between. It stood near Graveyard Gardens, the local cemetery and popular hangout spot for the dead. Oh how she loved the cemetery: quiet, dead, dismal. But using Old English to name a shop, in her opinion, was a waste of letters. But who wants to pay for new signage? Way better than anything on Earth.

Something far up on the rooftop was shuffling about in the dark.

Something went clang.

Batilda noticed the rusty drainpipe jiggling on the shadowy stone wall, like a nervous petrified snake. Her deep gray eyes followed the quivering drainpipe from the black earth to the rooftop gutter. She gave the fur-lined collar of her coat a tug, covering her ears, steam escaping her mouth.

Someone was standing on the roof, casting a long narrow shadow. She could just make out shiny silver toe-clips of black boots in the moonlight, foot tapping on the dewy shingles. She squinted through the dark. This figure was wearing some sort of floppy hat.

“You there,” she shouted. “What’re you doin’? For the love of Hades, get down!”

No response.

“I said,” she repeated in a loud, rattling voice, “get off a there. This’s private property.”

Floppy-hat man, after a moment of staring into the starry sky, spoke, “I’m here on personal business. Thanks for your concern. Doing just fine.” He tipped his hat.

Concern for his wellbeing was not on her map. In fact, unless you were dead or purchasing a plot, she cared nothing for anyone within five zip codes. Floppy-hat man’s words, however, rolled out and clung to her brain in a skittering fashion, like someone squeezing a handful of greasy potato chips in her hair. This was followed by a familiar buzzing in her ear.

Batilda, not a woman to be pushed around by an intruder, flared her nostrils, steam escaping like dragon-smoke. “If you fall, stay clear of my flowerbed. Don’t want your dead body squashing my plants. My tulips’ll have a fit, silly man. Then I’ll have to pay for one of my hired hands to drag your bones away. Waste of time and money.”

The man responded, by way of threat: “Your two lips might think twice about cussing at me if I have to come down there. Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

Oh, so he wanted a war of words, did he? Batilda, amused by this man’s idle threat, scratched a mole on her chin and arched an eyebrow. She was ready for a challenge on this dark night. “My good demon of a man,” she said with prickly undercurrents. “Get off my roof or I’ll have you thrown down. And if you think I’m kidding, I’ve got a fresh hole in the ground out back waiting to bury you in. And don’t think you get to die for free. You’ll pay handsomely, in advance. Burial and plot-fee rates have gone up, you know. And I’ll have your ghost incarcerated for breaking the law.” She folded her arms across her bosomy chest. “What’s your name? Want to make sure I stencil in your tombstone correctly. Spelling’s something I honor. Even for a twit like you.”

She waited. The man, apparently deep in thought, although someone wandering around on rooftops at night is either a thief or an idiot, or, more likely, both.

“I’m here on personal business,” the man repeated in a cool voice, again his words were crunching away at her thoughts. “Trying to find the Mosquito store. Need to make a few purchases. Heard good things about the place.”

Was he even hearing her?

“Listen to me, listen carefully, you knobby old wart, I own the Mosquito shop. You’re standing on it, fool. And I won’t be doing business with you.”

The man clapped his hands together. “Your shop? Marvelous, my lady of the night.”

Batilda watched as he began rubbing his hands together and then squatted at the edge of the roof. Flakes of shingles parachuted though the air; he reached one leg over the edge and notched the toe of his boot into the mortared groove of the brick wall. He began to make his descent, using the drainpipe as some sort of wobbly aluminum rope. The pipe jiggled away as he scampered down the wall like an inchworm, butt sticking out, knees bent into his chest.

Down, down, down, he went.

Batilda wondered how this man even made it to the roof. Based on his descent, he was less than dexterous, like a turtle climbing a rope.

He landed with a silent thud, avoiding her flower garden. Dusting his hands on his jacket, he said, “Brr. Sure’s a cold one.” He put out a hand in greeting.

Batilda just stared at his long, thin fingers, as if wrapped in barbed wire.

The man, tall and thin, removed his floppy hat revealing a bald head, save for stubble. Hair recently mown.

“Just what’re you doing on my roof?”

He began inspecting his fingernails in the dark. “Oh that. Just my job.”

“And what’s your job?” she probed.

“I’m a thief, ma’am. Rather good at it, if I do say so myself.”

“Hmm. Not a very good one. Any references?” 

“It’s my duty to steal, so if you’ll just go about your business and leave me to mine, everything’ll be sweet as a worm in a peach.”

That buzzing sound returned in her head and then she heard a voice, tiny and distant, sing out in her thoughts: sweet as a worm, sweet as a worm.

Batilda had not paid to renew her psychic messaging subscription and was surprised to get a message.

She whispered out the side of her mouth, “This man’s a fool.”

“What’s that?” the thief said.

Batilda had thought she was cueing into with a psychic message. Why would she make such a verbal blunder?

“What’s your name, thief?” Batilda said, hoping to divert the conversation.

“Bagwell. Ball Bagwell.”

“Well, Mister Balls, I won’t have you thieving anything from my shop.”

“It’s Ball.”

“That doesn’t help your name very much, Balls.” Her eyes drilled into him as she leaned closer, gazing up at his steeple of a chin. “There’ll be no stolen thoughts on my property, either. But that hole in the ground can be reserved for you, if you know what I mean.”

He turned and made his way to the window, his high boots soundlessly moving along the dewy stone path. He peered inside the shop.

Batilda had dealt with her fair share of miscreants and wayward travelers coming into town. Most were dead. But there were a few lost ones traveling around in the dark with aimless intent. She had learned to trust no one, unless they gave her a reason. Which never happened. And this man had the nerve to turn his back on her. Then he went so far as to make such grand claims as to advertise his profession after being caught on her roof? It just didn’t add up.

“Think I could take a look around?” He hitchhiked a thumb at her window. “Crystals and djinni mugs for sale. I see ‘em. Could make great gifts.” He raised his eyebrows then peered through the window again. “Those are djinni mugs, right?”

“Nothing’s for sale, Balls. Now leave.” Her words came out smooth as an icepick up your nose.

“But I’ll pay for ‘em. A beautiful bounty can be yours, my lady of the night.” He winked at her. “You are lovely, my dear.”

No one had ever said she was lovely. Probably because she wasn’t. Batilda was more likely to be mistaken for a well-used mop: long stringy hair and a constellation of moles dotting her face.

Another psychic message came in: Dreams can be your gift to unwrap, but be careful when removing the wrappings. His energy was stolen from the San Andreas Fault-Line. He’s an eruption waiting to happen. Steal his energy then drop him in a fresh tomb, my beloved thundercloud.

Batilda loved being called “Thundercloud.” But who was calling her?

Batilda mulled over the idea of stealing the thief’s life. Sure, she could kill him but doing so in a nonchalant fashion is what brought it to an art. No sense in leaving a trail of gluten-free bread crumbs.

She could clonk him in the head with a spade and bury the cad alive. Edgar Allan Poe would be proud. 

 “You really interested in buying them, Balls?”

“It’s Ball, ma’am. And yes, I’ve got a sack of gold in my possession.” He padded his trouser pocket. “What’s your name?”

“But you said you’re a thief. Isn’t that against your code of moral conduct? What sort of professional thief buys anything?” She leaned on one hip and crossed her arms in defiance.

“It’s my day off. Have the whole weekend off, actually.” He grinned like a sheep in a barbershop, eyes volleying from the window to Batilda and back again.

Was the man nervous? That sheep-shearing grin made her think twice.

“Are those bronze djinni mugs? I do have exquisite vision. Prerequisite for my profession.” He cupped his hands around the glass. “Could be bronze. Love to get a closer look.”

Bet you would. “Gold agate blend. Rare,” Batilda advertised, taking pride in her artistry. “Crystal and rare metals forged with these two hands. I have a garden where I unearth my own crystalline structures, got hybrid crystals growing out of other base crystals. Adds a little punch to the energy flow.” She splayed out her pudgy fingers, dirt under her nails.

“That, Miss whateveryournameis, is just what I’m looking for. Rare crystals. I’m a bit of a hobbyist myself. And your loveliness is rare, indeed.”

She almost smiled but did her best to dodge Ball’s apparent staged praise. Plus, she was not all that familiar with crafting grins. Just the thought of it hurt. She volleyed back a theatrical retort: “A thief and a hobbyist. Wow. Must have an impressive resume. Bet you’re fighting off the job hunters with a wet spaghetti noodle.”

“So, about those mugs?”

A few seconds clocked across the airways.

“Don’t sell to thieves. Goes against my code of conduct.” She crossed her heart. “Cross my heart and may you die.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t like that,” he said frostily, to the point where Batilda was suffering from one of those 7-Eleven Slurpee headaches. Again, something with the way he spoke, his words, they slipped into her eardrums and traveled up the canal and left sticky cold footprints on her brain

Bagwell continued, “Some of us are better off dead. And I’ve done dead before, only to return here.” He made a face, reached a hand into the folds of his dust-brown trench coat and pulled out a folded-up sheet of parchment. Holstered to his hip was a short tawny sheath. From that sheath he retrieved a feathered quill, tipped in shiny silver. “Tell you what: I’ll gladly return in the morning. Pay for the beautiful mugs. But nothing can match your mountainous beauty. Your eyes are like boulders.”

“Mr. Balls, I’ll need to see some sort of qualifications,” she lied, vying for more information. “Got any ID?”

“I do,” he said. “Back in my cabin. Renting a place downtown. On Stress-In-Me Street.” He used the quill to scratch something on the folded-up parchment and handed it to her.

 Ball Bagwell, Thought Artist

Thief and Metalsmith

“Why you giving me this?” She handed it back to him.

“Those are my credentials. We have a common interest: metalwork.”

Did Ball really take her for a fool? How dense was this man? But she continued to study his actions. She had no interest in metalwork but her curiosity was tickled, just a bit, though. She wanted to cuss at him, for wasting her time. She went so far as to take a step closer when Iggy flew into her ear.

 Play along. Play along. Play along with him, said the mosquito with psychic intent.

“Metalwork?” Batilda said, doing her best to keep calm and refrain from scolding the man further instead of feigning interest.

He said, “Jeweled metalwork on deceased bodies is the new craze. Some, if they reincarnate and reanimate in the same flesh, enjoy having nice earrings or a necklace.”

She glanced at the parchment in her hand. Looked at Ball.

The parchment was now read:

Ball Bagwell, Thought Artist

Thief and Metalsmith

Do it when

“What’s this supposed to mean?” she said to the parchment. More letters were scrawled onto the sheet.

Ball Bagwell, Thought Artist

Thief and Metalsmith

Do it when you’re dead

“Neat trick,” she said in a flat tone. “Not impressed, though.”

“Just trying to set the stage. I’ll be here, first thing in the morning. Count on it.”

He was gone before she could even spit at him.

The following morning Batilda pulled on a pair of yellow leggings and a hand-woven wool sweater. Laced up her hiking boots and made her way to work.

She flicked on the lights inside and hit a switch behind the front counter; neon letters flashed, in bright green: Ye Olde Mosquito Shoppe OPEN! STAY DEADLY. MOST WELCOME. GHOSTS AND ZOMBIES BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

Batilda busiest herself with watering some of her indoor garden: elephant ear plants in tall clay pots and window boxes of purple and yellow lilies, all growing in dark rich soil. She grabbed a mug from a hook on the wall and poured some hot tea while chatting with her flowers.

Images of Ball Bagwell hung out in the forefront of her frosty imagination. While sipping her tea and inhaling the aroma she curled out a brief smile to her potted flowers. Yes, her plants were one of the few things to seed her with happiness. They didn’t talk back, didn’t lie, didn’t do anything but grow and respond to her care with new buds and more faithful energy. She hoped this would take her mind off that twit Bagwell.

A bell chimed as the front door swung inward. She looked up from her steaming mug to see Ball Bagwell with a small red sack over his shoulder, using his hooked index finger to hold the rope cinching the bag closed.

‘Good morning to you, Miss whateveryourname is.”

“It’s Batilda. What do you want Balls?” she said void of emotion.

“It’s Ball. Wondered if you got my note.”

She narrowed her vision, eyebrows daggering toward her nose, studying him a moment. Sipped her tea. “Referring to the parchment you handed me last night. You saw me read it.”

“No. That.” He pointed his long many-knuckled Grinch-like finger to the edge of her desk.

There, sitting on top of her mail bin was a rolled sheet of parchment with a blue-wax seal; the initials BB pressed into the blobbed wax. A slight wobble of an eyebrow was her only indication of surprise. Batilda did her best to appear non-pulsed by the sight of mail on her desk. Mail did not arrive until late afternoon. And none of this was in yesterday’s delivery.

 “Oh. Mail just arrived,” she said. “Haven’t gone through it. And what is it I can help you with?” she said.

“The djinni mugs.”

She gave the blue wax seal another look. “Like I said yesterday: not for sale. Don’t you have some place to be? Someone to pickpocket?”

“I’d rather be here. With you.” He pressed his hands onto her desk and leaned in a little closer. He sighed, sharing his coffee breath. His gaze moved to the three-tiered round shelf displaying mugs, crystals, saucers and tea cups, and various other hand-crafted goods. “Looks like you sold the gold djinni mugs.”

She followed his gaze. Sure enough the two gold-agate mugs sitting on display last night were missing. She walked over to the shelf and then looked at him.

“That’s odd.”

She was doing her best to get a psychic-read on him, but was coming up empty. Even if he was a dolt, she should still be able to cue into his thoughts.

Ball reached into his sack and pulled out two gold-agate mugs, set them, with deliberate care, onto the front counter. They shimmered in a pool of light from pair of fat stubby candles. His fingerprints remained on the edge of the shiny mug.

“My good demon of a foul man,” she spat. “You thieved those. I should have your fingers minced into a pie for that.”

His fingers disappeared into the inner pocket of his purple silk vest and retrieved a small black bag. Set it on the counter with a clink. “I’d like to pay for them, thank you very much.”

She hoisted the black bag into her hand. Heavy. She poured its contents into her palm. Gold nuggets. Looked to be enough for three months’ rent.

“Not sure what I should do with you?” she said, feeling the weight of the gold in her hand.

“Hire me.”

She grabbed a letter opener and slit his throat at the jugular.

Dead.

“Great,” he said with a sigh, looking at his dead body puddled on the floor. “Now I’m a ghost again. Gotta check back in at Inn Between.”

Inn Between was a treatment center for transitional spirits on their way to one of two places: Heaven or Hades.