We were getting Tiberio's funeral ready and the cheeky bastard was still complaining about the flowers. Not the yellow ones, apparently. They made him look peaky. Half his body had gone transparent, we could see an ant through his backside, and he still wanted to look his best. Some people insist on going out in style.
It had started that morning. He'd slipped into a window recess where three humans had spent hours tearing strips off each other. We told him to get out. He rolled up his sleeves.
“I'll sort this lot out. Hold my cheese.”
First he hid the remote. Then he made a teaspoon dance inside a glass. He even put on a moustache made of fluff and wiggled his hips across the windowsill. Nothing. Every prank gave them another reason to argue. They were still blaming each other for buying the wrong napkins for a wedding fifteen years ago.
First the glow went out of Tiberio's ears. Then the toes on one foot faded away. We stopped laughing when we could see the wall through his belly. Two of us grabbed him and hurried him out to the clearing.
That little episode is why we never give a number when people ask how long we live. We can last for centuries, as long as we keep our spark. Some of us have watched mighty oaks grow from acorns and still squabble over the last chickpea. No need to overdo the whole growing-up business, for fuck's sake.
The soul's still out having fun
In the magic of our woods, death means coming apart. The shape you had breaks down and your soul moves into something else. A tree, a little creature, another person. Life finds itself a different body and carries on looking for trouble. We can picture a few old mates being born human and eyeing the midwife as if she might bring them a snack.
“Are we out, then? Lovely. Any chance of a sandwich?”
But we Magikitos brownies have one bloody nasty weakness. Constant nastiness can break us apart completely. The spark holding us together goes out and we drop dead on the spot. The soul carries on, but that friend, with that voice and that crooked hat, won't sit at our table again. That's why we take it seriously.
We try a bit of cheek, a few pranks and a joke while we can. When all anyone wants to do is spit venom, we leave. We don't have to die trying to cheer up someone who enjoys grinding other people down. Sadness is different, mate. If someone's hurting, we sit with them. We don't demand a bloody tap dance.
The dearly departed was ticklish
Tiberio was so faint by the time we got back that Pindongo fetched a matchbox for him to lie in. The poor sod lay down, took our hands and delivered his last wishes with all the drama he could muster.
“Share out my cheese. But give the rind to those three bastards.”
We stayed beside him. We rubbed his hands and started telling stories about his finest disasters. Pindongo attempted a solemn farewell bow, stepped on the tip of his own hat and landed face first in the cheese he'd promised to hold.
Tiberio let out a little giggle. Then another. Pindongo got up with cheese stuck to one ear and kept bowing, the magnificent idiot. We all fell about. With every laugh, another bit of Tiberio came back. First his toes. Then his belly. That's how joy heals us, drawing us together again while there's still a spark alight.
Soon he was solid again, sitting in his matchbox and dunking his bread. He hugged every one of us. We all had a lump in our throats, even if Pindongo still smelt of cheese.
Eventually Tiberio stood up and reached for the boots beside the flowers. One had an enormous hole. He looked at Pindongo, who was sporting some lovely new footwear.
“Don't look at me like that, mate. Mine would've done you fine lying down.”
