KAI1
The shopkeeper yawns. I yawn as well. I wish I could nod at the pimply kid and say, Yeah, it’s mind-numbing stuff, innit, watching over a shop like this? But alas, I’m here undercover, so I am unable to say anything to him for fear of giving myself away.
When I say “undercover,” I mean it in a very real way; I am currently under the folds of a burlap sack filled with—ugh—dried bright-purple beetles. I’ve changed into a purple beetle myself just to fit in, though of course I lack the desiccated, blank appearance the other beetles in the sack have.1
At four minutes to closing time, one last customer hobbles in. The customer base of the health shops on Stockton Street are always hobbling, given they’re all ancient with gray hair, gently bowed backs, and missing teeth. The one who’s just come in is a sweet old granny with cloudy eyes who shuffles ever so slowly while peering at all the containers of rare and not-so-rare medicinal herbs and lizards and various animal parts. A stark contrast from Theo, who I catch a glimpse of pacing outside, a worried frown dug into his face. Normally, I have nothing but the utmost respect for elderly humans, but right now, I’m practically boiling with impatience. I mean, come on, coming into a shop four minutes before closing is such a Karen move. I scratch my chitin irritably with my front legs.
The shopkeeper speaks in fluent Mandarin, greeting the customer without any trace of irritation.
“Two hundred fifty grams of yínxìng, please,” the old lady warbles.
The shopkeeper nods and takes out a tin from the back of the counter. “We’re also having a special on fortune-telling here,” she says, gesturing at a poster behind her. The poster says: THE PAST, EXPLAINED! THE FUTURE, REVEALED! JUST $5.99!
Ugh, charlatan. There’s nothing I despise more than those who claim that they can see the future, because no one can predict it. I make a face at the shopkeeper, but of course she doesn’t see it.
As the shopkeeper doles out the dried herb, the old lady asks for a hundred grams of dried léi gōng téng. “It’s for my arthritis,” she explains. “I’m brewing a spell to prepare for the autumn weather.”
Uh-oh. Arthritis medicine usually requires some …
“Oh, I have just the thing for that!” the shopkeeper says. Argh, what is this kid’s problem? All they have to do is get the lady’s order and be done with it, but nooo. They have to go above and beyond. “Powdered beetles.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I don’t like the bitter taste of insects…” The old lady grimaces.
“You really can’t taste it at all,” the shopkeeper says. Maybe she’s paid on commission. “We powder them right here in the shop for you, and you just sprinkle a pinch over your food or drink and voila! My grandmother swears by it. A miracle cure, she calls it.”
The old woman peers suspiciously at the shopkeeper, who smiles and says, “Tell you what: I’ll give you two ounces for free, okay? You can tell me if it works or not.”
No, not okay!
But the old lady is smiling. “Oh, what a polite child you are. So kind to your elders.”
“It’s nothing,” the shopkeeper laughs, walking over toward the section with rows of burlap sacks.
Uh, what to do, what to do … I should skedaddle out of here. But then she might see me and try to, I don’t know, crush me with a shoe or something.2 Instead, I burrow deeper into the sack, scuttling past hundreds of dead beetles, their hard, shiny carapaces clicking crisply around me. Not my finest hour, I must say. Now that I’m buried under dozens of layers of beetles, I’m probably safe. Safe-ish.
But instead of scooping up the top few beetles, the shopkeeper plunges her metal scoop deep, deep into the sack. I catch a glimpse of dull metal and have scant time to say, “Uh-oh,” before the scoop turns my world into a tornado. I’m yanked into a wave of beetles stirred everywhere in a mad jumble. I scurry, fluttering my wings, desperate to get away from the chaos, but as a tiny beetle, I’m no match for the brute strength of a teenage human, even a pimply one. Then the stirring stops, and I feel a sudden sense of weightlessness. Light blinds me for a second before my little beetly eyes adjust. AH! I’m at the top of the pile of scooped beetles! This is bad.
And the shopkeeper is moving swiftly toward a horrible rectangular contraption with metal teeth inside it. She flicks a switch and the machine clunks to life, the metal gears grinding with the most horrific noise. Okay, the time for subtlety is over. I rush off the pile of dead beetles.
“Aiya! One of them is alive!” the old woman screeches.
The shopkeeper looks down and spots me. She moves fast, without any hesitation, and her hand closes over me. Ack! I focus my qì and change into a tarantula. She must have felt my bristly fur because she goes, “Huh?” and opens her hand. I wave a furry leg at her and grin, flashing my fangs meaningfully.
She throws her hands up and shrieks. Beetles rain down on us as the two humans dance around the shop, screaming. I scuttle away as fast as I can, but tarantulas aren’t known for their speed, and the shopkeeper has recovered from her initial shock and grabbed a broom. Thump! The broom crashes down less than an inch away from me. Now it’s my turn to shriek. I zigzag as fast as I can, shouting, “Spiders are your friends! We eat flies! Everybody hates flies! They eat poop, you know!” But it comes out as a spidery squeak, too high-pitched for lousy human ears to catch. I run into the wall. Trapped. No cracks to slip into, no burlap sacks to hide in.
I’ve got two options.
1. Change back into fox form and tell off these humans for almost killing me, a venerable almost-goddess. Downside: They might not know what an impressive creature I am and treat me as a demon and make a huge fuss.
2. Stay in character. Downside: I will get squished by the broom, which is probably quite injurious to my health.
I close my eyes.3
But before I can do anything, the front door swings open and someone rushes in and shouts, “HI! HELLO!”
We all pause, mouths agape. Theo stands at the entrance, his eyes wild with panic, his mouth frozen in a terrified grin. “Um, HI!” he shouts again. “I AM HERE … to, uh, buy ingredients for, um … one potion.”
As the shopkeeper/spider-murderer and the old lady stare at Theo, I quickly change into a fly and zip away into the air. Theo watches me for a second before realizing that would give away my position, and he tears his eyes away from me. I land in the farthest corner of the room and wipe my brow. That was way too close for comfort. If only I could leave this place now, but no, a fox spirit’s work is never done. I rub my two front legs together and watch as Theo babbles on about needing to brew this and that for a summer project.
The shopkeeper grits her teeth and glances at the spot where I was. Seeing it spiderless, she sighs and turns to Theo. “Kid, there’s like thousands of ingredients here. The number of potions you can make is practically endless. You need to come back when you know exactly what you need, okay? Shop’s closed.” She ushers him out impatiently before turning back to the gruesome task of crushing dead beetles for the old lady. Far, far in my corner, I stay as still as I can, watching as the shopkeeper gives the old lady her order and locks up for the night.
As soon as the lights go out, plunging the shop into darkness, I buzz around the room, checking for any alarms. I spot one at the front—a lizard perched above the front door, its eyes red as it scans the room for any warmth that might indicate life. Another lizard guards the back door. Okay, not a problem for me, especially since in my current form I’m way too small to register any body heat. But just to be safe, I give the lizards wide berth in case one of them decides to have me as a late-night snack.
Copyright © 2023 by Jesse Q. Sutanto