Page 3 of Be-Djinn At The Beginning

He found another cake, another letter, and a delightfully horrifying little doll woven together from sticks and colorful string.

Dear Jack O’ the Tree,

How I have missed you!

I do hope you will come back and see how my writing is coming along. It is the only thing Mrs. Donovan says I do well but I’m not simple, I just do not care for sums or history.

You are older than me, Jack, do you know why history is nothing but men and killing? Can not women kill too or better yet do lovely things to get into history books?

Please tell me all of your adventures wherever tis you go away for the year. Mine are quite dull but I am taller and can snap with both hands now!

Love, Bea

Dear Little Bea,

You do buzz most fine this year. I can very nearly read your writing. It is no great crime to be inattentive to an instructor such as Mrs. Donovan with a mind as active as yours.

Perhaps you might ask her about Julia Tofana, the most infamous poison maker of all Rome who specialized in punishing men who were cruel to their wives. You might continue your education with Hungary’s Elizabeth Bathory who, while accused of crimes so gory and cruel I will not damage your young mind by describing them here, was in fact no more murderous than your average woman inheriting a title and property desired by men.

You women have all the universe within you, it is only that the men speak louder.

I have no adventures to convey as I am very old and very tired, and very hungry too, you must pay for another letter this time with two cakes.

Thank you for the doll, although it looks nothing like me.

Dear Jack, Silly goose!

The doll is not of you but of me. Did you not see the yellow hair? It is to take along with you when you go off and leave me. I would so love to go along, or just to hear more.

My village of Barleywine is very small, and I think I should like the far East where the spices grow. William Portlock called me a fat freckled witch last week and when I shoved him in the pond. Twas me that got punished for it.

Mrs. Donovan said it’s because words cannot hurt me but if that’s so, why can I still hear him say it so many days after? Come to the All Soul’s festival with me so I can see what you look like.

Love, Bea

Sahar felt a strange burning in his rib cage. Who is this William Portlock and where does he get such nerve to insult my friend—well, my…writing companion. Before he took up his own letter, Sahar decided to pay a visit to this young cretin.

Never mind about Mr. Portlock, Little Bea,

I dare say his own words will torture him in time.

The East is far too dangerous for young girls, and I fear the West is worse. Stay where you are and I am certain adventure will find you anyway.

I must decline your generous invitation, for if you should see what I look like your hair would go all white with terror.

Beatrix frowned at the last line before looking up to see a commotion by the fountain where William Portlock was howling in pain, covered in red welts and shouting about bees.

Jack O’ the Tree cannot be that terrifying to look at, she reasoned. He’s my dearest friend.

The letters came year after year in the same way—a flurry of correspondence for three days when the veil was thinnest, followed by an entire year of silence. Bea grew so quick that there was more to share with every note—reports of her accomplishments, as well as her many lapses in good behavior which her dear Jack was never inclined to scold her for.

Her writing turned from scrawled block letters to a fine cursive hand as her reports on the village turned from which bugs she liked best and how the children who’d insulted her became mysteriously ill, to things like being fitted for new, strange dresses and dances in the public house.

In every letter she’d ask about Jack. What was his true name? What were his favorite foods? Did he read or listen to music? Where was he born? Did he have any family? Many of these questions were simply ignored, and what he had revealed only made his secrets more tantalizing. More often, rather than telling Bea stories of faraway lands, strange animals, or deadly encounters, he’d write just enough to make her mouth water for adventure before telling her to stay home and not get into trouble. Bea found it more maddening with each passing year until it reached such a pitch she felt like kicking the old letter tree since she could not kick Jack.

Sahar hadn’t changed much at all. A creature as old as himself had learned to view years as tiny moments—that is, until he had a way to mark their passing. Bea changed from one year to the next so quickly that an unfamiliar sensation began gnawing away at his chest; cold and hot at once, punching against each other while eroding his bones and crawling up his throat.

Time had meaning now.