The Boy Who Loved Jam
Disclaimer: Naruto and all its characters are Masashi Kishimoto's legal property. I'm not making any money off this story; however, all the Original Characters, Original Plot-lines, and Original Themes are my own.
Warning: Morbid Content.
# # # # # #
Apples and berries were hard to find in the desert; they did not grow in sands, sea of yellows that shimmered. Traders brought them from vendors in Konoha. He loved them: lush and sweet red things. They were like the blush on his mother's cheeks in that picture in his room, like sun-ripened berries that hung heavy from vines. One of the servants told him that, when they got ripe and juicy in summer, they fell down the branches in droves. What a pretty sight that must be?
So he walked, tiny feet carrying him through the crowd. 'Twas that time of day when sun was cool and about to say its farewells across the sky. It, too, spread out the love. Yes, red was the colour of love; his mother's face had that colour about the pretty cheeks and neck in every photo where she smiled!
He looked to the horizon and it was so red: a child's slit throat and vividly it bled with love's last fire; and he closed his eyes against the sensation, night-mellowed wind sloping down the dunes. Sand formed little waves, and the footsteps of the caravan were lost. They had chakra to guide their way, not like he . . .
Touching his shirt's smooth cotton-fabric, he looked ahead at the market again. He was muffled up in a scarf against the prying eyes; a shock of wavy red hair hung low over his verdure-nurtured eyes: no one could see the shadows that rimmed the eye-sockets, as drearily as soot—shadows guarded them well.
He gazed at the vendors and women: they were buying the new stock that had come from far off villages. Smile galloped across his countenance, pinked it, and keenly, he searched for the red paste in the tents. There it was, the sweetest red jam made from apples and berries. It always tasted very sweet, and he felt his tongue quiver and salivate at the thought of relishing this heavenly delicacy. How fortunate was he, a pursuer of this ambrosial pleasure? His mother's love was in the jam, a slow, syrupy, saccharine red!
He stopped by the vendor's stall, put his hands on the counter made of dry-wood, tip-toed to look at the bottle. It was not too big; he could carry it easily in his jute bag. So he stretched his plump arm to its full length and pointed at the bottle. The vendor smiled and told him the price and then suddenly looked so afraid at the sight of the black tattoo etched into his brow. The wind had ruffled up his hair—playful whore!
He was a fat old man with wobbly arms and thick ankles. He twitched uneasily and quickly put the jam on the shaky wooden-counter before the little boy, insisting that he did not need any money from him. This was strange. No man refused money for his jam. It was sweet and made with the greatest care and love. He frowned a little and dug deep into his pocket to take out the silver coin for his work of art. With an uneasy movement, he placed it on the counter and grabbed the jam and stuffed it into his jute-bag.
Then the little boy slung it over his shoulder and walked off to the ruins where red roses grew. Red was the colour of love! It took him a good thirty minutes to make it to the ruins. Shadows shivered, and sand rippled as silk combers in the wind that blew towards the west. That was where the wind was going. Would it carry the voice of his love to his mother? He did not know. So he sat down on the little stone there and took out the jam that was red and delicious—rich! The bottle was cool; the vendor must have used Suiton round it to keep the heat away.
A smile touched his lips and eyes, rosying the cheeks. His stomach tightened, and, in great anticipation, faster and faster the heart-beats thrummed. He turned the jar's lid quickly and took the top off. The sugar-light scent of jam went up into his tiny wriggling nose, and his nostrils flapped. Breathe in, breathe out, he spoke to himself in a ritualistic manner, ah, jam, pieces of love in a bottle; his mother would adore this piece of red, too! His uncle had said that she had gone off to the west. He would go there tomorrow, find that oasis, press his face to her breast. He would gift her this jam. This was the only thing could give her . . . and his love. Yes, she would cherish the jam and his love!
He was still looking, eyes choking up with love, dressed in evening's pleasure, when a stone struck the bottle, and it shattered to pieces in his hands. The jam slid right out of his fingers; he watched in horror as it fell down in thick clumps on the sand. It was dirtied—his love was dirtied!
He breathed with difficulty, and his pink lips rattled. Suddenly, he clutched at his heart when he heard the kids chant monster! in unison. Their words hurt: his heart hurt. The jam was already drying by his feet in the desert's heat—a sullied gruel of sand and paste. What would he take to his mother come tomorrow? What would he say to her? His gift of love was spoilt—ruined!
A big hole tore up in the heart and out came the nurtured malice from within; he was a mother to his own unloved spirit. He looked at the kids, and they were still laughing. He hated their laughs, their joy at the expense of his misery. A mass of sand rose up and began spinning about him. Their smiles vanished, and they took to their heels, but the sand was his domain—his home. He would not forgive them for what they had done! They would pay, sons of mewling whores!
He shot his arm forward and closed the fingers into a tiny, trembling fist that was mighty as a warrior's, firm as a judge's, cruel as an executioner's. Their fates, sealed—little bastards! They could not run more than a couple of feet in the direction of the shadows when the sand overcame them in waves: it went into their mouths and filled up their lungs to the full; and like clay pots they trembled, sand everywhere, every nook and cranny stuffed up with the slowest death . . .
He made five good and neat coffins, and round and round he made them float in the air as pretty sepultures; and he squeezed that fist good, wept out bitter tears that the gift was lost. Blood exploded out from the sand-coffins—love streams in the sands and sunlight's golds. Then, as fresh life rolled down, it became thick and gooey like jam—like love . . .
A small smile returned to the lips, and he wiped away the tears. The coffins fell down and sands scattered and a writhing mass of limbs, heads, guts materialised from it. From where he stood, it looked just like a red jam. Red jam . . . the gift of love!
So he picked up his jute-bag and whispered an apology into the wind, hoped that it would carry his words to her in the west. Then he took slow steps to the vendors' shops again. He touched his pocket and felt three coins there; he would buy her a new one, an even redder one, for red was the colour of his . . . love!
# # # # # #
The End