When I lived on an island, I encountered a few magical beings who guard the woods and the shore, the wildflowers and the wild edibles. I cannot explain what they are, but I can verify that they do, indeed, exist. _SJ
A small blackberry deva stands between me and the thickets it is guarding, chubby hands (I’ll call them) on plump hips (for lack of a better word). It scowls at me, looking altogether adorable. I fight an urge to grab it and kiss its darkly stained lips. This would be inadvisable with such a volatile life form. Besides, I'm not sure it's a he. You know what a closely guarded secret their gender is, to a deva.
-May I pass? I ask, with a pretty curtsey. May I collect some of your berries?
-I don't know. I haven't decided about you yet.
It spies my bucket.
-Confident, weren't you, it smirks.
I want to laugh, but I know this cheeky being, however small, can swallow a chain link fence. Not to mention stab me with the thumb-thick thorns up and down its… arms.
-Where are you from, I inquire, changing the subject.
-The hot lovely lowlands of the Himalayas.
Not only are blackberries delicious, but they have poetic sensibilities.
-Ooh, I gush. I've never been there. What's it like?
There's not a deva I know can resist talking about its home turf.
-Very beautiful. Wild. Untamed.
One of its segments bursts with purple pride. The tip of my tongue begins a journey around my lips, until I realize what I’m doing and pull it back in, quickly.
-My name is Rubus, it says. Rubus Armeniacas.
-Hi, I’m Sandra. I reach out to shake the proffered appendage. It feels like jello, unmolded.
I blink and the blackberry deva is no longer there. Permission granted!
Still, I move quickly to fill the bucket. Things can turn sour easily in dealings with people of the fruit and indeed, with all beings not quite human.
No comments:
Post a Comment