Crepitus

Sandra looks at the rows of corpse honey jars on the shelf. And one before her. In hers, a surprisingly well-preserved index finger floats, suspended in amber goo. A sure-fire cure for her crippling arthritis, or so says the frail raqi behind the counter.

“Drink! Drink!” he insists.

“But I don’t eat honey,” she demurs, “I’m vegan.” The old healer and her translator née taxi driver confer. The cabbie returns.

“He says not to worry. The bees who toiled for this honey passed to the next life centuries ago and gave of their labor willingly to his ancestors.” Sandra shrugs and hoists the quart jar.

An hour later, the entire bazaar is watching.  Sandra is slumped on a crate triumphantly shaking the jar, empty save for the lean little digit stuck to the bottom.

“Did it,” she blurts.

“Good, good!” the raqi claps, “All’s left is to eat the finger!”