Eleven-year-old Deo faces the hardships of being an immortal in a very mortal village, seen here in a routine near-death experience with bitchy girls, worker boys, and angry Japanese.

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Pohkie bitched. OK, so it was more of a wail, or a plea—something along
the lines of crying that was capable of turning heads. She grabbed at my
cuff, torn from earlier on, and forced me to look at her. If I turned away,
her volume knobs cranked. I looked down, she slapped. Already having a migraine, broken nose, and sore dick, my eyes looked straight into hers, and the chick was happy again. Sort of.

And like three hours ago, Didier had been threatening me with his father’s swords, kodachis I think. He’d pat his gut and laughed and pointed. He’d shaken his head and told me: “Just forget her.” And I said that wasn’t possible.

But he always said that girls were weird—really, really weird, especially sisters. Pohkie just happened to fit this real good. Like dying on the final floor on the last stage, girls seemed to hate you. The village chicks were the worst, with their eyelashes and their makeup and their “teehee” faces near festival time. So I wondered like, what was up with Pohk? What was up with those looks she gave me, the funny way she talked, the strangeness at dinner? Didier cut the air. I told him he’d get in trouble, but he shrugged.

Then: “It hurts again,” I said.

“Pohkie?”

“Maybe…I dunno. The dreams.”

“Take your meds?”

“I don’t like pills.”

“Well then, you’re screwed.”

I knew that walking sick through the central square had nothing to do with his sister. The artisans and market traders saw this big cut across my eye and turned away. Nothing new, just the kid. They knew it was time, everyone did. Pohkie must’ve marked it on a calendar. ‘Cause there they were: The Ungrateful Five, poor washed-up husbands, widowers, or divorcees, followed behind me. They ambushed me first thing outta the gate—here I am, out for a morning walk, and there are these greedy, eldery folk threatening me in their cleanest shirts and their tightest suspenders with tools. They whoo-hooed and hit on these cheap tamborines ‘cause they were either hiding boredom or scared I’d been demonized. Every year was the same wordless song, in the same damn key, sung so bad and loud that the life of the mornin’ seem to die or run away in its path. Pohkie was the icing on the stale, hard cake, clapping along to some beat I couldn’t recognize and holding my hand while filthy old guys used their shovels to prod me in the back. Biting my tongue, I led them north to the plains, wiping sweat from my forehead. Pohkie did the honors of moving the hair outta my face, but I slapped her hand away. She offered me water but got a grunt instead. By the time we were almost there, she’d pouted her lip, gone to the back, and gotten revenge on me by singing the end part louder than the rest.

Course only here did they decide to shut the hell up. The grayish crater, its hole a bloody red, spread before us, five foot deep and eleven dreams long. Its smell, rotten, earthy, burned my nostrils and shook the old folk; they were probably wondering why it still carried a scent after all those years. ‘Round here, to me at least, chirps came across as screams. My knees began to give in, but I straightened, knowing that they’d love to see me fall. So, feeling the air, I took a deep breath and waited.

Nothing came.

And when the gas bags noticed this, they were like understandably mad.

Mr. Kinnikun said, “Well, what’ve you got? The soil should be good this time-a year, right?” His spit landed on the back of my neck. All that desperation in his voice had to go somewhere.

“Just wait a sec, ‘kay?” I told him, frustrated. “You geezers gotta be more patient.”

Pohkie had my back, as usual: “Yeah, just a few moments longer!”
I turned back to her with a smile and said, “See? She knows,” and this made her smile, too. Girls, man.

But Kinnikun didn’t have it. “You’re doing it wrong, boy. On your knees!”

He thrust the spade into my back real hard, hard enough to put me on the ground. Not the worst of blows, still painful though. I heard Pohkie scream and run to my side, then Kinnikun said, “No, stay away from him. Let him work.”

Kneeling there, with dirt up my nose and a spade to keep me down, there was no other choice except to listen. It must’ve been like this no more’n five seconds before the relapse came. Gasping, I struggled to catch my breath, turning on my side and curling in a ball. Blurring vision, stomach pains—the norm. Except this time was a big fuckin’ exception. I saw death. The crater was my grave and the geezers, their sweaty faces looking over me, were my mourners. Through the pain, I managed to say, “It’s—it’s here.”

As vomit spluttered all over the ground, the Five got to work. They shoved and kicked me outta the way to make digging room. Only Pohkie seemed to notice—or care—about the pale, trembling kid dying in front of everyone. She yelled and clawed and begged with the men, but there was no persuadin’ ‘em now. I continued to gasp, cough and wince from the pain in my body, her tears mixing with the blood running from my eye.

Before blacking out for a bit, I saw Didier running up the hill, waving his shovel.

“Hey, I’m here! You can’t start without me!”

Far as I could tell, Mr. Kinnikun actually stopped digging, if only to slap his apprentice behind the head. That didn’t matter much, though, as Didier carried me all the way back to the village, and Pohkie couldn’t shut up, no matter what.

Resting in bed with her beside me, her bitchisms came off subdued and droning. This was all while Didier sponged my forehead and held a cloth to my eye, and all Pohkie could do was complain about how the mister and missus argued downstairs. They sounded low, too, little rhythms and patterns swirling in my eyes, stinging them, then putting me to sleep.

Course, a dream visited me. Back at the crater, the chirps turning to screams. There was no danger here, only silence. The sky consisted of a red cross, always changing position, always getting closer.

Next time I woke up, a little over an hour later, Pohkie had her head on my shoulder. Didier nudged her off, smiling down at me, still holding the cloth at my eye. The dream must’ve hurt me, but I was thinkin’, it’s all right, and tried stand. He was quick, though, punching my chest, forcing my head on the pillows, and making me see shapes again.