Chapter 6 – Gaspberry

Ari approaches a low maple shelf by a rainbow bead curtain for a door. His latex gloves, stained green and yellow, reach up to where his rolled sleeves begin. In his left hand, he carries a squat jar twice the size of his palm and places it on the shelf. The dark green liquid inside, up to less than half, sloshes beneath its handwritten label ‘Ari’s Viper recipe (final v3 v4).’

He turns, arriving at a steel workbench in a couple of paces. A lone pendant light at the centre hangs over the bench where a thick glass pan simmers on a stovetop.

As he tilts the pan, steam rises from it, smelling sweet at first until a metallic scent catches up with it and turns into a stench that lingers.

Ari watches the liquid slither. Green and black fluid threads marble through a deep amber blob at the core, too green for honey, too dense for tea, a rustic attempt to trap poison in syrup, at a guess.

He grabs a toothpick from behind the hob. Careful to maintain a distance even with his glove, he pokes the surface of the liquid with the tip. He lifts it and studies the layer of dark green that covers the pick’s pointy end. When he moves it near his nose, his face scrunches up. He throws the pick into a bin under the bench before he lowers the flame to medium.

Two trays wait next to the hob, steel beside steel. He reaches for a pocket knife standing upright in a tall glass tumbler behind them, tipping over one of the many open metal boxes in the shape of mint tins.

He leans closer to the next, which a sheet of baking paper covers from ridge to ridge. It holds neat rows of blackish yet green discs, each as small as a pill, smooth, sleek, and with thin edges. He prods one with the spine of the knife, and the light reflects across its top, not far off a single snake scale under sunlight.

Ari balances it on the tip of the blade.
“Coating is… stable.”

He guides it into an empty mint tin and lets it fall into it with a tinkling skitter.
“Good. Six more.”

The rising steam darkens the edges of his hair where it frizzes before a strand falls onto his brow. He quickly flips it away with the back of his hand, takes a pen from beside a ledger laid open by the trays, and writes:

‘Batch 10B. Coating reduced. Density acceptable. Taste unfortunate.’

From the vent overhead, a distant thud rumbles out, as if someone in the next building shut a door too hard.

The pan pops. A bubble spits green flecks across the hob. The curse he mutters sounds nothing more than a whispered snap as he turns down the flame. He lunges to snatch a mixing spoon, up and out, from the tumbler while the liquid carries on bubbling. A vigorous stir follows, scraping the bottom of the pan in swirls.

A scrabbling sound comes from near the door. The claws of something small click on the wood.

Ari sighs before a scritching fuzzy blur of russet shoots across the floor. A squirrel climbs the leg of the workbench until it finds the top of it and skids to a stop beside his ledger in the corner.

It carries a folded scrap of paper between its teeth. Its tail gives an abrupt hitch, as close as it gets to an annoyed exhale for a squirrel.

Ari rests the spoon on the ridge of the tray lined with baking paper as the squirrel drops the note onto a clear spot on the bench.

“I’m in the middle of a reduction.” He looks at the squirrel.
“It’s not out of the norm to use the post, you know. Lick a stamp for once in your life.”

The squirrel bristles. It scampers towards a shelf behind Ari. The claws scratch across a row of empty jars. By the time the pan’s next bulging bubble pops, it squeezes its tiny self into the gap between stacks of cardboard boxes and disappears.

Ari peels a glove loose and lays it on the bench before the flat of his finger pushes the scrap open. The ink smudges at the topmost edges where the steam catches it, but the handwriting appears otherwise neat; the numbers, less so.

“A thousand?” The paper creases in his grip.

He leaves the scrap on the ledger, closes the book on it, and returns to the pan.
“Mercy always looks like more work from this side.”

The bead curtain rustles with the scent of wine and lush fruits drifting in.

“Tell me that sticky mist is on the tasty side of wrong.”

Ari’s shoulders stiffen as he stares at the pan.
“Back room, Deon. Staff only.”

“Oh, Ari.” Deon leans against the doorway with an unlit cigarette twiddling between their fingers. The partly drawn beaded curtain drapes across the dark jacquard flamboyance of a suit jacket tossed over Deon’s shoulder.
“I’ve hosted three lil’ powers that may as well be in this broom cupboard during a flood audit.”

They flap a hand as they step in. A dark lipstick mark on their wrist shows from under the sleeve of their purple shirt, unbuttoned to a daring depth.
“Your ‘staff only’ sign is optimistic at best.”

They stop beside the bench, open palms raised in feigned surrender.
“May I? Don’t tell me Health and Safety will smite me on the spot.”

“Don’t touch anything, D.” Ari gives the mixture one last stir and turns off the hob.
“Try not to exist too close to… anything.”

Deon leans into the tray anyway. Patches of glitter, which cling along Deon’s hairline and the dip of their neck, catch the light.
“Oh, dangerous little dry lies.” They look up at Ari.
“Where’d you bury all the joy in them?”

Their nose wrinkles at the scent from the cooling discs, upper lip raised near the corner.
“Smells like venom had a theological disagreement with honey.”

Deon reaches past Ari for a lightly dulled cloth and wipes a clear space on the bench with it before Deon hops up to sit there, leg swinging loose. The movement knocks Ari’s ledger askew. It wobbles at a precarious angle on the edge until Ari lunges to that side to catch it with both hands.

“There are chairs.” Ari points over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Chairs don’t convey intimacy, honeybee.” Deon leans sideways to Ari’s line of sight.
“Or urgency.”

They tip up the flopped edge of the baking paper with a fingertip.
“How goes your miracle for the traumatically inclined?”

Ari watches the pan instead of Deon.
“Effective is a word for reports. This is maintenance. Routine’s the only thing keeping it from becoming a disaster.”

He takes half spoonfuls and pours them onto the sheeted tray, each drop forming a fresh glimmering disc beside the others. The new pieces cool in a second and harden with a fine crack across the top that mends as they finish setting.

“A thousand more.” Ari glances at the new discs.
“They send a squirrel instead of a briefing and still expect compliance. I only went for a goodwill moment, you know… only for that once. Now, for some reason…” He knocks on the ledger.
“It’s my job to cover for the failures below.”

“Why not make something for yourself, sweetheart?” Deon’s gaze rolls from the pan to the tray to Ari’s face.
“The memos will nag at their will.”

They flick a nonexistent ash from the unlit cigarette into an empty ramekin by the hob.
“So, when were you planning to invite me back to your garden?”

Ari’s head snaps up.
“My what.”

“Your garden.” Deon grins.
“Little patch at the edge of reason that thrives in spite of the season’s given up. Last time you brought something from there… it tasted like summer getting away with a secret. What did you call it…” They snap their fingers.
“Gaspberry.”

“You called it that. It’s just a berry.” Ari gives Deon an unimpressed, flat smile.
“It likes growing where autumn forgot to stop. That’s all.”

“Exactly.” Deon’s eyes light up.
“Eternal non-season upstairs.” They tip their chin towards the door.
“Clerks running in circles downstairs.” The back of their shoe clacks against the workbench leg.
“Clocks sulking everywhere.” They roll their head around.

Deon tries to catch Ari’s eye.
“Your plant ignores the whole system. That’s a vintage waiting to happen, honeydew. Let me take a crate. We make wine, pour it at the next staff gathering, watch time get tipsy. I would trade very good gossip to see Cron’s face.”

“I don’t have time for wine, since– I seem to only have time for… this.” Ari nods at the jar on the shelf behind him.
“The order’s suddenly already late.”

“You never have time.” Deon’s voice subsides any inflection without softening.
“It needs to stop being something you can keep giving away to everyone else’s orders.”

“It’s not–” Ari stops himself.

Deon huffs as they slide off the bench and heads towards the doorway.

Their hand goes for the hook near the door where a small ring hangs, holding two keys, both marked by use. One, made of brass, catches the light when Deon turns it. The other, iron, looks older and matte. A charm shaped like a bee dangles between them.

“These still open the wondrous allotment?” They lift the keyring with a fingertip.

Ari straightens.
“Those are my spares.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m asking.” Deon smiles.
“You trust me with souls every time you pour that sludge into a mint tin, but keys are a step too far?”

Ari walks over and reaches for the keys. He stops halfway before deciding to respond instead.

“Shop.” He touches the brass key.
“Gate.” He taps the iron one.
“You lock up behind you. The hives need… quiet, so you can’t stagger in at dawn with a drum circle.”

Deon places a hand over their heart.
“I will bring no drum bigger than a wine barrel.”

“That doesn’t… reassure.” A smile twitches to make an appearance on Ari’s face as he returns to the workbench.

Deon takes the keys and drops them into their palm, and the metals give a soft chime against the bee charm.
“Fine. I’ll bring Val to carry the crate. We snip a few handfuls of your reality-dodging berries. We leave offerings for the bees. Everyone’s a winner.” They tuck them into their shirt’s chest pocket.
“You keep your scales. I’ll see what your stubborn little plant wants to be when it grows up.”

They take half a step towards the curtain and glance back.
“And Ari?”

Ari looks up at an empty point in the air straight ahead of him.
“What.”

“Whatever this is…” They waggle the cigarette in a loose circle around the jar and tray.
“Stop behaving like you built it alone. If it goes wrong, management will swear it fell from the sky.”

“It’s not how chemistry works.”

“It’s exactly how blame works.” Deon tips their head up and slips out.

Ari stares at the glossy discs in their ordered rows.

His fingers curl on the edge of the tray of open mint tins. He drags one closer and fills it with the discs, each dropping and skittering to an edge before coming to rest. The seventh lands with a sound too loud for something so small.

When the tin clicks shut, he covers the lid with his hand.

“Blame needs a recipe too.” He pushes the tin away from the others.
“Mine’s already on file.”

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