Hello

“Nice Does Not Mean Good”

(Alternatively: “I Saw Granny Ethel with the Devil”)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Grocery Store

Todd the demon is a he, now, if only because Granny Ethel insists upon using copious ‘Dear boy, keep trying’ and ‘Atta boy!’ critiques to varying degrees depending on how well his needlework, crochet, and knitting attempts progress.

Gender isn’t a concept the demon concerned himself with before. If Todd had been, say, a girl named Tonya, he supposes he’d be a she instead. If Todd had been gender-neutral and properly communicated with his grandmother, he supposes she would call him they or child, appropriately. Granny Ethel isn’t one to discriminate. Even when she properly wears her glasses and sees his obviously un-Todd-like appearance, only shaking her head and smiling with a good-natured “kids these days” on her lips. But he wouldn’t mind if Granny Ethel called him boy, girl, thing, or abomination, so long as she stayed happy.

Granny Ethel is a patient woman. Todd simply can’t understand why or how she’d become the black sheep of her family, especially after a full week of living with her hospitality. Through the constant baked goods and the modest but satisfying three-meals-a-day; the careful (oh-so-careful) dusting of trinkets and bookshelves with tiny cloths and feather dusters not fit for large claws, which he insists upon doing while she looks on in worry before brewing more coffee; the midday television re-run breaks spent sealing cash donations into envelopes and discussing human rights issues instead of watching old shows, he simply can’t think of her as anything but a paragon of her kind.

It’s a problem with them, he concludes. Not her.

It isn’t a decision he makes lightly.

Spending such a brief time with her, he’s already learned so much more about humans than he ever would have cared to know, beyond perceiving them as vessels or a means to an end. There is much suffering in the world—sometimes even more than that in Hell—but there is also kindness.

He’s known that, but he witnesses it first hand during their first trip outside of Granny Ethel’s home.

“Come, now, Todd, we have much shopping to do. I’m afraid my pantry isn’t stocked appropriately for the upcoming food donation drive and I can’t just skip it this month.”

Todd remembers addressing an envelope to the local food bank—most people would stop there, figuring their good deed was done.

“I also have to stock up on this week’s groceries. Feel free to buy whatever you want, dear. I can cook anything, you know! At least, I try. I suppose you’d like some snacks, too. But I am so glad you’re here; think of all the bags we can carry between the two of us!”

There is no car in Granny Ethel’s driveway, or a garage to store it. He wonders how they’re going to make it to the grocery store as he waits for her to lock the door behind them, as she hobbles down the two small concrete steps with her cane in hand.

It isn’t until she’s halfway down the sidewalk that he realizes they’re walking. In public.

An old crone in black and a demon at her side, wearing a handmade shawl so lovingly stitched with various, terrifying occult symbols.

He isn’t the only one who sees a problem with this—the neighbor’s dog, a small, bug-eyed thing, yaps indignantly at them from the front lawn as it bounces around the dewy grass at its owner’s feet, soon erupting in warning yowls and howls, before falling silent mid-yip when Todd locks eyes with it. The neighbor—Maurice, if he remembers Granny Ethel’s gossip correctly—stands frozen, watering can dangling limp from his hand as he overwaters the begonias at his feet, mouth hanging open in undignified disbelief.

“Good morning, Maurice!” Granny Ethel calls with unmitigated cheer, and a hint of pride. “Nice morning, isn’t it? Oh! Have you met my wonderful grandson Todd? He finally came to visit! We’re going shopping now. Will you watch my house?”

Maurice simply stares, dumb with shock.

Halfway down the block, another neighbor’s car brakes with a squeal before they make it out of the driveway and they stick their head out of the window to gape.

Shutters crack open. Curtains are shoved aside.

Before Todd knows it, they are the cul-de-sac’s center of attention.

Granny Ethel doesn’t pay it any mind and continues obliviously on, waving to each face in turn as those faces pale, yet hers remains rosy.

“My, such a busy day today. I haven’t seen everyone out like this since the Fourth of July block party. Oh, if you’re still here during summer, Todd, we should definitely take part. Maybe we should start knitting an American flag for the occasion. What do you think?”

He can only nod.

They make it to the grocery store without incident—aside from the broken fire hydrant caused by a distracted driver and the one, single person who ran away screaming, and the handful that crossed themselves, and the one person bold enough to snap a picture with their phone before Todd grabbed it from their hands and threw it while Granny Ethel wasn’t looking, too distracted with how well the city’s roadside flowers were blooming—and Todd, ever the gentledemon, takes a small shopping cart from its line and trails behind Granny Ethel as she consults the list taken from her purse.

As expected, those within the store stop and stare. Even the calming elevator music jolts to a pause.

A young man in an employee vest, who looks high, shoots Todd the demon-horn hand sign and smiles before swaggering away to the frozen food aisle, and the manager meekly approaches them, skirting around a fresh fruit display.

“Ma’am, is there—is there something I can—do you need help?” he asks, sweating from his receding hairline to his neck as he tugs at his collar and straightens his frumpy tie.

“Oh! I’m so glad you asked. I didn’t see any sales circulars by the door—what kind of specials are on right now? Particularly on things like pizzas and cereals and whatever else young men like to eat.” Granny Ethel leans in close to the man, close enough to loudly whisper, “See, my grandson here is a quiet, shy boy despite his appearance, and I don’t think he’d ask me himself, but I bet he’d love to get some junk food to snack on between meals.”

The manager’s eyes widen, blood-shot, as he looks to Todd, who only smiles—which comes off as terrifying, he’s certain, with all the sharp teeth and red eyes involved.

“S-SURE! Junk food. Right. Um—uh, w-well, I think there’s a BOGO—buy one get one free—deal on the frozen pizzas. Uh…most cereals are marked down right now…th-there’s a sale on potato chips…hot dogs…” His voice trails off, too burdened with trembles and fear as he continues to hold Todd’s gaze. “And—you know, I’m sure some other employee can help you, ma’am. I’m not one anymore as of this moment. I QUIT.” That said, he yanks the flimsy plastic nametag from his shirt and runs for the door, followed by half of the shoppers who abandon their carts and drop their baskets, scattering groceries everywhere.

Granny Ethel watches him go, then sighs. “He must have been overworked and stressed. I almost walked out on a job a long time ago for the same reasons, but I needed it. You be careful of corporate America, Todd.”

He takes her words to heart, and he fully agrees.

Shoppers that remain in the grocery mart avoid them at all costs as they meander through the frozen food section, the bread aisle, the junk food corner—and Granny Ethel pays them no mind, filling the cart to the brim with refills of groceries she needs back at home and treats she thinks Todd needs more of in his life. He supposes he does, if she says he does. Far be it from him to contradict her adolescent-savvy wisdom.

Even so, the single shopping cart is far too small for all of the spoils—halfway through the shopping list, he finds them in need of another. It isn’t an issue. Many are left scattered, abandoned, around almost every corner. By the end of the list, both carts are full to the brim, and Granny Ethel is simply beaming.

The checkout lines are deserted—they have their pick. Although only one station is manned by a clerk, and it greatly narrows their choice.

As Todd wheels the two shopping carts to the register, he recognizes the young employee from before, who once again shoots him the demon-horn hand symbol.

“Love your poncho, dude,” Sam (as his nametag reads) comments with a bit of a tired drawl, and there are dark shadows under his eyes as expected from an overworked youth on minimum wage, but he is otherwise energetic, quickly scanning each of the items set on the conveyor belt, and smiling at demon and old woman in turn. “Did the little lady here knit that for you?”

“Crocheted!” Granny Ethel corrects with a grin, preening like a proud parakeet. “It does suit him, doesn’t it? Of course, I would never make something that didn’t suit my dear grandson. He must always be well-dressed.”

“You seem like a really supportive gramma. That’s cool. When I was in my super hardcore death metal phase, mine just dragged me to church every Sunday.” A digital beep accompanies nearly every word as he skillfully rings up each grocery down the line.

“Oh, I would never do that. Mainly because I no longer belong to a church. And also because Todd seems so averse to discussing Bible passages, so I never force him.”

At this, Todd gives a wry smile. He places the final handful of groceries onto the conveyor belt and sidles around Granny to the other side of the checkout, bagging the groceries that have already been scanned. It seems the official bag boy has fled in fright.

“I can imagine. Never one for religion, myself. Oh, and you’re eligible for the senior citizen’s discount, so let me just…” Sam pauses a moment to key in a code on the register and it dings. “Aaand, there. Your total comes out to $204.56. Stocking up for the winter already? It’s only March.”

“Oh, dear, no. Half of this is for the food drive!” Granny Ethel chuckles good-naturedly as she leans her cane against the counter and digs through her small pocketbook and produces a checkbook, then dives back in to search for her favorite pen.

Sam turns to Todd while awaiting payment. “By the way, dude, that costume is killer. I’ve never seen anything so realistic, with the added bonus that you scared the boss away! Totally made my day. My week, even.”

Todd gives a nod, happy to be of service, even if it isn’t a costume. He can’t exactly say it aloud. Perhaps one day he’ll learn how to speak English coherently, but for now nonverbal cues work just fine.

Finally, Granny Ethel finds her pink, plastic jewel-encrusted ballpoint pen and makes out a check to DeVille-Mart, even going so far as to take one of the heavier paper bags for herself, never one to make Todd carry all of the groceries himself. “You have a wonderful day, young man. Thank you.”

“Y’all have a great day, too, Ma’am.” Sam offers a toothy smile, and it seems sincere enough as he sees them off with a lazy wave “Hope to be seeing you shop here again.”

Todd isn’t so sure they’ll ever return once upper management hears about this visit, but it’s nice to know they are accepted by at least one individual.

“Now, Todd, let’s get to the food bank. We have such a long day ahead of us. But there’s a reward at the end of it—I bought ingredients specifically for chocolate turtle brownies!”

It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.

It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.

As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.

Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.

“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”

She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.

The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.

That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.

“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.

It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.

Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.

The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.

“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”

The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.

“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.  

“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters