Ben - Chapter Twelve

The calm and droning hum could not be mistaken for anything else. A sting in the bottom some years before promptly reminded of this. Careful footsteps taken. Thankfully, a racing mind makes no sound.

A passing honeybee stopped in front of Ben and examined him with an efficient thoroughness that could only be known to the top security apparatus of the forest. Ben stood still, his dry monocle clasped in his paw and hidden from view.

Curiosity could slowly turn to dread, but the smoked manure consumed moments before had the bonus effect of removing all anxieties. This putrid concoction, when smoked, would only have an effect on rabbits and hares. Ben knew that this great secret would save his fur this time around. Only the strong legged big-ears of the forest knew of this, and would never let it up - not even to a passing raccoon.

Ben proceeded further along, sidestepping the dreaded flying beast. The magically coloured slug, who found, stole, grew and otherwise sold all, was around the corner with the selection of delights of all sights. Not only could Ben find his scratched brown to replace the dreaded fox manure, he may even find some ritchet branches and a spare monocle, a gift if true, so as to restore his vision in hands-free glory.

Ben approached the door of this multifaceted apothecary and pushed gently upont’. The resident caterpillar, whose legs were brushed as it moved further ajar, would let out the customary sneeze to signify the entrance. And with that, one protruding eye appeared on the end of a large fleshy and slimy prod. This was quickly followed by another - peering and examining with curiosity, before the creature revealed herself in all her glory - the white coat and all.

The smells in the shop numbered many, along with the sounds of liquids drawing themselves and groaning under heat and cold. The plap of their unfamiliar guests especially so, as potatoes were boiled and soon, presumably, to be used in the construction of a new roof for the premises. There was no doubt that the garbled whabberslies would be the ones to take care of this - the natural roofmakers of the forest.

As she revealed herself and her comforts rose, she knew she was standing on solid and familiar turf. She knew the smell even before the sight. She knew the smell of burned tobacco and dry fox-dropping-leaf. She knew that for Ben, it was high time for a refill of the dried-brown smokedish.

As aforeseen, she placed the pouch clean upon the counter with the monocle-stayers and cast her hand across in a motion of presentation, holding it steady and welcoming for her reward in the story. Before time could pass, a matchbox with three butterflies was placed thence, and so completed the chapter.

A dancing Fae laughed as the transaction continued to its completion.