By Nelson Stanley

Artwork by Carole Humphreys

Small children cried when Esmerelda passed by.

 Adults crossed busy intersections to avoid her; old women crossed themselves and put undue strain on their catheters.

 Esmerelda smiled, and light flashed off her teeth. She had masses of shiny black hair piled atop her head, and dimples, and the cutest smile you ever saw.

 Dogs whimpered where she walked; cats climbed trees.

 And Esmerelda walked past, humming to herself.

 One day, a man stopped Esmerelda in the street. He was a very poor man, he said, and could Esmerelda spare some change, for he had nowhere to spend the night...

 Esmerelda smiled her brightest smile and she put her head on one side and looked at the man.

 He smiled back, for a few seconds. Then he gave up trying to hold her gaze, which could probably have stripped paint (the man was sure it had already dried out his acne) and stared at the ground beneath his feet.

 After what felt like a very long time, but could only have been half that, Esmerelda stopped smiling. The man felt as if he had been dropped a few inches onto the pavement. She reached into her purse, and held the man’s big, worn hand in her tiny ones. Then she released him, and skipped off up the street.

 The man stood and stared at Esmerelda as she went, then opened his hands.

 A big, silver coin, nearly the size of his palm, shone up at him like a reflection of the moon on still waters.

 The man was very happy, and thanked Esmerelda under his breath, and hauled himself off to a bar, where he intended to spend his money.

 It was his favourite drinking establishment, and he knew the owner well. He’d been thrown out many times before, because his wallet was unable to keep up with his thirst for alcohol. The owner eyed him suspiciously as he entered, but the man assured him that his fortune had changed, and that he would be more than able to pay his way, as he had come into some money.

 Well, the owner of the bar --a fat man despite his great height, with shaven head and unshaven jowls and piggy eyes and a sweaty, stained leather apron-- thought that maybe the other man’s brain had finally rotted away for good, for he knew him of old.

 But the way the man talked made greed blossom in the heart of the bar owner, and the mention of an unspecified (though large) sum of money caused his hands to sweat and his pulse to go “Kathump-Kathump”.

 The big sweaty bar patron poured the man a drink.

 After five or six drinks-- and another two that the man paid for and gave to the barkeep --the owner began to feel uneasy. The man had never had so much money before, and the barkeep wondered whom the man had robbed to be able to afford such a heavy drinking spree. But the man kept ordering, and the barkeep kept serving, and now the man had attracted quite a crowd, all wishing to share in some of his good fortune.

 Eventually, as the shadows lengthened and twilight slipped its dusky arms around the world, the man said he had to get going, that he had places to build, people to go and walls to see (he was very drunk by this time).

 The barkeep nodded, and held out his big hand, palm up, for remuneration. The man smiled, and reached into his pocket for the big silver coin.

 “Oh no!” Thought the man. “I cannot find my coin!”

 Where had he put it?

 He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The barkeep had seen people mime this before, and with each succeeding performance of the routine he grew more and more irate. In his own way, he had become something of a critic of this art-form. He smiled, and bent down so he could reach the sturdy stick he kept under the bar for delivering his reviews.

 As the barkeep’s fingers closed about his sturdy stick, the man gave a triumphant shout of joy. Within his ragged clothing, he felt the outline of something hard and solid. Muttering an apology to the barkeep (whose fingers relaxed and drew back from his stout stick), he reached into his smelly clothes with his free hand.

 When the man pulled his hand out he placed it on the bar, palm up, a look of triumph written across his face.

 The barkeep looked down to the bar.

 Then he looked back up to the man.

 Then down to the bar again.

 The fat, black beetle stirred itself, unfolded and shook its wings. It rattled chitinous forelegs against midnight-hued carapace with a noise that sounded like a coffin lid closing, or possibly finger bones falling on a marble tomb. It exuded a clear, viscous fluid that pooled around its fat body, and made it glisten under the bar-lights.

 The man just stood, looking down at the beetle.

 For a second, no-one moved.

 When the barkeep smashed the man across the forehead with his stout stick, blood spattered, dripping down onto the black beetle’s back.

 A few minutes later, as the man lay broken and sorely abused in an alleyway at the back of the bar, the barkeep tossed the fat, black beetle out after him, and it rolled and skittered and came to rest against the opposite kerb.

 The man, bemoaning his lot and feeling rather put-upon, followed its trajectory with his eyes.

 As he watched, the darkness exuded a tiny figure, a silky prominence.

 Esmerelda checked both ways, then stepped off the kerb over to where the beetle crawled in dazed circles. She stooped down and scooped it up, whispering soft nothings as she stroked its back.

 As she passed, the man put his shattered arms around his head, and began to blubber.

 Esmerelda smiled, and skipped off up the street.

   THE END