Jack o’ Lantern

Cold air. A crisp autumn. The sound of leaves crunching under her feet. It’s a season for stout coats and warm soup, of grapes and wheat and berries. The season of long indulgence before the winter draws in, and Christmas rears its head. For Aru, it’s a time of rest before the long, dark nights spent sourcing toys and checking lists.

“You’re making another one today?”

He leans against the wall as he watches her work. Slouches, really. She likes that. Every time she sees him outside the shop, he stands ramrod straight, every step carefully measured, exactly the same length. He always seems so taut, so frayed. Like a well-worn bowstring. She likes that he can relax here, with her.

“Mmhm. It’s fun. I don’t really get to do Christmas since I’m working, but Halloween is something even I can take part in,” she says. Her marker squeaks as she draws it lightly across the surface of the pumpkin, tracing out the designs in her head. She’s not a bad artist, really – she has no instruction, but plenty of time to doodle in her bold, cartoonish style. “It’s always fun to decorate the shop.”

He can tell. There are silk spiderwebs hanging in the corners and swags of ragged black cloth hung like banners from the ceiling, carefully torn to look like witches’ cloaks. Hidden in conspicuous nooks and crannies throughout the shop are tiny plush rabbits decorated for the season – vampire fangs in tiny mouths, witches’ hats with holes for rabbit ears, neck bolts without a neck to really attach to. Most striking is the row of jack o’ lanterns on the counter, which seems to grow longer by the day. There’s one with the traditional toothy grin, but the other designs are a little more esoteric – a pudding, a block with a question mark inside it, a scowling face with an eyepatch. He only recently realised that she’s carving the designs based on her friends.

“You know,” he says, “if you carve one for all your friends, you’re going to spend a fortune on pumpkins.”

She chuckles, maybe a little sourly. “I’m flattered you think I’ve got that many friends.” She sets down her marker, picks up her carving knife, and gestures for silence. When she’s done, the pumpkin’s face is a backdrop of a wolf howling at the full moon. He shuffles his feet uncomfortably.

“You don’t have to carve one for me.”

“Of course I do,” she says, reaching for a candle that smells of cinnamon and spice. “You’re my friend, you know. And besides, it’s symbolic.”

“Really?” he asks. He was never one for symbolism.

“It shows,” she says patiently, “that there’s a light inside of everybody. Even a big, bad wolf. Speaking of, do the honours.”

He rolls his eyes, but reaches for his lighter. As the fire catches and the scent of cinnamon fills the air, he feels warmer than before.

When he returns a week later, the fire is still burning.