The Celestial Gate by Avital Dicker (red white royal blue txt) 📗

himself. A small tuft of gray cloud remained stuck on his white turban and continued to drip plump drops of water onto the fellow’s forehead. Annoyed, he shook his head, stretched out a thick arm, and vigorously shook a long finger at Yam. “Young man, let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got to get through another nine hundred and eighty-six of you.”

Raindrops continued to fall steadily from the turban, even as the Indian seated himself in the air and, with surprising ease, folded his legs into the traditional full lotus position.

“As I’ve explained to those who’ve come before you, which means I’ve had to repeat myself a million times, I have no patience for unnecessary delays.” He scratched his head, blowing a pink cloud of smoke from a long pipe. “I’m completely wiped out. These shifts are too long. But as usual, no one’s interested in listening. I’ve said it a thousand times already: we need more staff up here.”

Yam laughed, and the Indian man turned red with rage, rising higher into the air.

“It’s not funny,” he scolded Yam, blowing a forceful stream of air out of his mouth, causing the star in the room to spin in circles. The star hit the wall, flickered, and then went out, offended.

The wind sucked Yam in and belched him out into the air. Aloft, he twirled around and found himself stuck to the ceiling.

“Ill-mannered,” scolded the Indian. He extended an exceptionally long arm and pinched Yam hard on the shoulder. “I don’t know what’s going on down there on Earth, but here we just can’t keep up. Women with rotund bellies are everywhere, waiting for their baby to be born. Everyone is pregnant. And the number of twins and triplets makes you wonder if God is running some kind of promotional deal – two-for-the-price-of-one or buy-two-get-the-third-one-free. Add to that the fact that life expectancy has doubled and you can understand why I’m up the creek without a paddle.”

The Indian continued spewing angry words until he was completely out of air and began to shrink. “Take it easy,” Yam replied. “I didn’t mean to upset you, but your reaction is a little over the top.”

The Indian extricated four long arms from his body, sighed and then inflated back to full size.

“If it’s not too much to ask, please lift a finger. Go ahead and push the button!” he boomed, waving his four arms in every direction. “This is where you push the button to choose the family you want on Earth. You have to choose one of three options. Come on, we don’t have all day. Get on with it!” he roared irately and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief to wipe the sweat that was trickling down his furious ruddy cheeks. “Just press the button, for crying out loud it’s not brain surgery,” he groaned. “The day has only started and I already have a headache.”

That was more than enough for Yam. He pushed the button. The room began to spin, the Indian disappeared, and darkness enveloped him like a soft blanket.

The next thing Yam heard was the sound of birds chirping. Color had returned and arranged itself in his line of vision and the image before him slowly came into focus.

He was in a forest. The hot steam rising off the rocks and the thick clouds of dust that hovered in the air testified to the heavy mid-summer heat. He looked around, but other than a drowsy fox roaming lazily on the lookout for its next meal, the forest seemed deserted. A rustling sound came from a path at the bottom of the hill. The fox whipped its head around toward the direction of the noise, sniffed warily, and swiftly disappeared between the pine trees.

Two boys were approaching at a run. The first was around eleven years old. Beads of sweat were dripping down his rounded cheeks and he had a panicked look in his eyes. The boy glanced nervously over his shoulder at his older brother who was rapidly closing in on him.

Yam heard a man’s voice from a distance yelling, “Wait until I get my hands on you!”

That must be their father, Yam smiled to himself, grateful that they couldn’t see him.

The little boy, startled by his father’s voice, stumbled on a rock and fell to the ground with a shriek.

His brother – a scrawny fourteen-year-old wearing a blue baseball cap – soon caught up with him, sneering triumphantly.

The little boy covered his head in resignation and tried to suppress his tears. Yam was sure that this wasn’t the first time his older brother had used him as a punching bag; it looked like he was used to being slapped around.

Yam observed the father, who was striding toward the boys as fast as his short, stumpy legs could carry him. His hands were laden with bags, and beads of sweat dripped down his bald head. With a sigh of relief, he dropped the heap of plastic bags that also held an orange cooler bag and a straw mat fraying at the edges.

The contents of one of the bags scattered all over, and a bottle of cola loudly burst open, spraying sticky fizz everywhere.

Yam watched the father – his big belly wobbling, his face flushed with fury – as he yanked the older boy off his sobbing brother with a thick arm and slapped him hard across the face. The older brother burst into tears.

The father lifted the pudgy younger boy who was still splayed on the ground, wiped the dust off his teary face, and then slapped him too. Now both boys were wailing.

The father turned away from them and sat down wearily on the threadbare mat, only to spring back up immediately, sounding off a foul curse.

Yam stared, amused, at the brown cola stain on the seat of his pants.

A heavy woman emerged from the trees and awkwardly plodded their way. Her waist was buried in rolls of fat she had only barely managed to squeeze into