The Blue Scarab

By Rachel Dib

“A blue scarab!”

I glanced over at the spectacled woman currently interested in my daughter’s new… pet. While I wasn’t a big fan of bugs in general, our metro had been delayed twice already, and the beetle had kept Zahra occupied. Since an insect crawling across Zahra’s arm was more preferable than listening to her whine in boredom, I’d allowed its temporary presence.

I hadn’t known it was a scarab, though. I’d thought it was just an abnormally large beetle. Currently residing in my four-year-old’s hand, it took up her entire palm.

Don’t scarabs live in poop? I didn’t like the sound of that. But Zahra had been playing with it for over an hour. I couldn’t suddenly command her to drop it—not without a tantrum.

I’ll just have to wash her hands really well when we get home. Sighing, I checked the arrival board. My shoulders slumped. Our metro had been delayed yet again. If we ever get home.

Pushing her glasses farther up her nose, the woman bent closer to watch the scarab crawl around on my daughter’s hand. Intense fascination blazed in her eyes as she met my gaze. “In ancient times, the blue scarab represented the eternal lifecycle. I’ve never seen a live one here in Cairo. Only a black one now and again. Where did she find it?”

“Just outside somewhere.”

“Hmm.” The woman clicked her tongue. “Remarkable.”

While remarkable wasn’t a term I’d have used to describe the glossy blue bug, to each their own.

She studied the beetle for a moment longer, then passing me one last smile, turned away. As she stepped forward, a man dressed in a dark, floor-length cowl bumped into her. She grunted in protest, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Rude.” She glared after him.

I shrugged. “People these days.”

The woman shook her head, muttering something undiscernible under her breath.

Normally I wouldn’t have taken much notice of the man past his apparent rudeness, but something about how he walked—with a sliding limp as if his left leg was bound in some way—drew my eye. I couldn’t see what was wrong. The cowl covered him from head to toe, and by that point, his back was to me.

As he trudged through the terminal, everyone merely stepped aside, allowing him to hobble past. Most had their eyes trained on their phones, and those who didn’t barely spared him a casual glance.

Therefore, when the cowled man suddenly halted in the middle of the walkway, lifted his arms, and began yelling booming words of doom and destruction, I wasn’t surprised when hardly anyone stopped to listen. I, of course, had nothing better to do besides watch a beetle crawl up my daughter’s arm, so…

“If, by the time the clock strikes midday, not one of you has returned my blue scarab, I shall rain down upon thee the curse of Ramesses the Great!” the man warned.

I checked my phone’s clock and pursed my lips. So the crazy man plans to curse us in an hour. How festive. Then remembering his condition, I eyed Zahra’s beetle. Surely he doesn’t mean… nah. Can’t be the same one.

He lifted his voice again. “Your water shall turn to blood. Frogs, lice, and flies shall torment you. Your livestock will die of pestilence. Your skin will be covered in boils. Hail shall fall from the heavens. Locusts will blacken the sky. And lastly, all your first-born children will perish!”

The man received some lifted brows from a few passersby at that last one. Still, since he wasn’t acting violent—just weird—no one cared.

His speech finished, the man dropped his arms and stood statue-like in the midst of the crowd. Not a very convenient location, but at least now he was quiet.

Zahra, on the other hand, let out an annoyed sigh. “Just when we were becoming friends.”

I blinked. “What’s wrong, honey?”

She lifted the hand cradling the scarab. I did my best not to flinch.

“He wants his blue beetle back,” Zahra explained. “I really like him, though.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip, once more eyeing Zahra’s scarab. “Honey, I doubt he meant your beetle.”

“He did,” Zahra said matter-of-factly. She turned toward the man and sighed again. “Fine.”

“Zahra,” I called out, but she was already weaving through the crowd.

I gave chase, reaching my daughter just as she offered the large bug to the cowled man.

“Sorry.” I grasped Zahra’s shoulders and tugged her backward. “She just thought—”

As I gazed up into the shrouded face, further words of apology failed me. The man’s veiled visage was sunken, his high cheekbones protruding sharply through dried out, almost leathery, skin. His nose was hooked, though still intact. His lashless eyes were dark slits.

While I stumbled backward in horror, Zahra seemed unfazed by the man’s appearance.

“Here’s your beetle,” she pouted, lifting her hand once more.

The man tilted his chin down to examine the bug. His translucent, chapped lips puckered, and he released a wheeze. “You, a mere child, stole my scarab?”

Zahra shook her head. “It fell out of someone’s pocket, and I picked it up.”

He accepted the scarab. “My thirst for revenge shall remain unsated.” Clasping the beetle in clawed hands, he breathed over it. When he again revealed the scarab, it had turned into a dull blue stone.

Zahra’s eyes widened. “You killed it!”

“One cannot kill something already dead. It was merely reanimated.” He handed her the stone scarab. “It is no longer of any use to me.” With a final wheeze, he lurched backward, and vanished completely.

While I gaped at the sudden empty space, Zahra’s face crumpled.

She traced the outline of the scarab’s wing with a finger. “He didn’t have to kill it.” Lip quivering, she glanced at the metro pulling into the station. “Well, at least we can go home now.”

I checked the board. Zahra was right. Our metro had finally arrived.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the United States. Her works of short fiction have been published by On the Premises Magazine, Havok Publishing, and Ye Olde Dragon Books. She has also had short stories published by Toasted Cheese Literary Journal under the name R.J. Snowberger.

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