You were human… in another world." A pause. "And now… you are a honey badger."
Her voice softened—gentle, curious. "What is… a honey badger?"
Jimmy blinked slowly, fur still puffed from the panic. He looked down at his claws, his striped coat, his short, stumpy legs.
"Fox gyal, a how yuh know that mi was a human, from a different world?" Jimmy asked.
"I have been reading your thoughts from the moment you ate that fruit."
"Bloodclaat obiya fox gyal! Stop use yuh witchcraft pan mi!"
The fox narrowed her amber eyes, confused. "I don't understand your thoughts very well. Your way of speaking… it's weird. If you're upset about me talking directly into your mind, it can't be helped. You're just… an animal. With a human mind, I think?"
That's when it really hit Jimmy.
"Mi rass... obiya fox gyal... a how yuh know fi talk English?"
"English? What is that?" she replied.
"Wait. Yuh nuh know a English yuh a talk?" Jimmy squinted at her.
"So you're saying the language from your world… is the same as this one, but with a different name?"
Jimmy nodded his little head up and down vigorously like a bobblehead on crack.
The fox tilted her head. "What kind of world did you come from? And… how did you die?"
Jimmy stopped nodding. He squinted at her with suspicion.
"Fox gyal, a suh di obiya man up a St. Mary ask question when him waan work obiya. Mi cousin did mess wid him, now di man grow goat tail." He paused, still glaring. "Mi not telling yuh nothin' til yuh tell me how yuh talk inna mi head… and what kinda obiya fruit yuh gimme fi heal all di cut pon mi body."
"I don't understand everything you say," she replied, head tilted slightly. "But if you're worried about me doing something to you—like how I attacked you the other night—I'm… sorry. I was hungry. As a demon beast, when I sensed you weren't one, I thought you'd be easy prey. But that didn't go… well."
Jimmy scowled. "Suh why yuh neva just eat di Obiya Fruit? It nuh can full up yuh belly?"
The fox glanced at the glowing tree beside them.
"That was my plan. But then I saw you jump out of the lake. I've never seen an animal like you before. How can you survive in this forest without demon blood?" She paused, eyes narrowing in curiosity. "Wait… and what is this obiya and Obiya Fruit you keep mentioning? Is it… your world's magic?"
"Yeah… somethin' like dat," Jimmy muttered.
"Oooo. But this fruit's real name is Scientia Fructus."
"A what di rassclaat dat mean?" Jimmy exclaimed.
"I'm not sure," the fox admitted. "But I know that all demon beasts eat it to learn how to speak like humans—and the other intelligent races."
She tilted her head at him again.
"Hey… aren't you going to tell me about your world? I'm not your enemy. I'm not that Satan… or that God person you were cursing at. I'm just… curious."
Jimmy looked at her long and hard, then sighed loudly.
"Mi... mi nuh even know how fi explain."
He dropped to his haunches and leaned his tiny back against the Scientia Fructus tree. Its bluish-white glow reflected in his wide eyes as reality settled over him like a cold, wet blanket.
"Mi name was Jim… Jim… Jim."
The fox's ears twitched.
"You can't say your name."
"Huh? A what di bloodclaat yuh mean by dat, obiya fox gyal?"
"The moment you say it," she explained gently, "it will imprint itself onto your soul. And you'll die."
Jimmy gasped.
"Say wah?"
"You don't have magic like humans, divine beings, or demon beasts do," the fox continued. "If you did… then the name you keep calling me might've imprinted on my soul by now too."
"Wait—so yuh a tell mi… yuh nuh have no name?"
She shook her head.
"No. I don't. But someone with a lot of mana could give me one."
"A wah name mana?" Jimmy asked, still baffled.
"I'll explain what I know. But first, tell me about your world—and how you died!" she shouted directly into his mind.
"HEY! BLOODCLAAT FOX GYAL! YUH PLAN FI DRIVE MI MAD OR WAH?!"
"Sorry! Sorry!" the fox apologized quickly. "I'm just excited to know there are more worlds that exist."
Jimmy groaned.
"But how mi supposed to call mi name if mi cya even say it?"
The fox thought for a moment, then brightened.
"Maybe… try carving it into the ground. You don't have mana, so maybe that won't trigger anything."
"Alright… mi a guh try."
Jimmy stood shakily on his hind legs and instinctively tried to walk upright—like a man. But his stubby legs gave out, and he landed belly-first in the dirt.
The fox watched him with curious amusement. A small smirk formed on her snout as she tilted her head again.
Just as she was about to tease him, she heard his thoughts:
"Bomboclaat… blood rassclaat… a wah Satan gi mi dis ya type a small body fah, man?"
Now crawling on all fours, Jimmy used his front claws to carve the letters into the dirt:
J-I-M-M-Y M-A-R-T-I-N
He paused. Waited.
Nothing happened.
Then he looked at the fox and thought clearly:
"Dat was mi name inna di other world. Mi was a real man. A hunter. Now? Mi a short, furry, angry likkle ting wid teeth sharper dan sense."
Author's Note:
To explain Jimmy Martin's life and his last hunt, it will be a mixture of English and Jamaican Patois. If there's anything you don't understand, feel free to leave a comment and I'll explain. Thank you!
Jimmy Martin's Life and Death (Flashback)
April 3rd, 1993.
Westmoreland Parish. Savannah-la-Mar Hospital.
The night of the solar eclipse.
That was when it all began.
When Jimmy Martin entered the world with his first cry, thunder rumbled across the heavens. Rain poured—but only over the hospital. Nowhere else. The skies wept only for him.
Some said the heavens cried in joy. His father, Stanley Jimbo Martin, believed that. He stood outside in the rain, smiling, whispering, "Mi son born... and di sky rejoice."
But others whispered something darker.
They said the heavens were mourning. That something evil had just been born.
Jackie Ashley Martin, Jimmy's mother, struggled to breastfeed her child. The moment her nipple reached his mouth, he bit down like a wild animal, gnawing as if trying to rip it off.
Screaming in pain, she snatched him away and swore never to try again.
From then on, she fed Jimmy breast milk only through bottles. But even that… was difficult. He chewed on the rubber like he wanted to tear it apart.
Seven months later.
Jackie had a rabbit pen in the backyard. A dozen soft, fluffy babies. On a calm Sunday morning, she carried Jimmy outside and placed him in the pen so she could do the laundry.
She propped open the bathroom window to keep an eye on him.
Twenty minutes passed. Jackie had just finished hanging a towel when her neighbor Pam—heavily pregnant—called over the fence, eager to gossip.
As the women chatted, something horrifying unfolded behind them.
Inside the pen, Jimmy first tried to pet the rabbits. But the two adult rabbits—male and female—seemed uneasy. They kicked and bit at him. Jimmy didn't cry. He didn't make a sound.
Instead, when the father rabbit turned to hop away—
Jimmy grabbed it.
Bit into its nose with five dagger-like baby teeth.
And gouged out its eye.
The mother rabbit bolted to the far end of the pen, sensing the danger.
But she was too late.
In a silent, animalistic rage, seven-month-old Jimmy hunted down and killed all twelve baby rabbits. He bit their necks. He clawed out their eyes. By the time Jackie turned around...
Her baby was covered in blood.
She screamed loud enough to wake the dead. Snatched him from the carnage and ran to the hospital, trembling.
Nine years passed.
But the horror didn't stop.
From that day forward, Jimmy Martin left behind a trail of dead animals like breadcrumbs marking the path of a curse.
• At age one, he strangled a puppy with his bare hands.
• At age two, he stabbed a cat and a piglet to death using a kitchen fork.
• At age three, he broke into Pam's chicken coop, stomped on 30,000 eggs, snapped the necks of 46 chickens, and bit the heads off 12 baby chicks.
And then came the worst.
At age eight, his school held a "Pet Day." All the kids brought their pets—parrots, kittens, rabbits, puppies.
Jimmy came too. But he didn't bring a pet.
He brought his father's hunting knife.
By the time the teachers stopped him, every single pet was dead.
Slashed. Stabbed. Skinned.
Blood soaked the classroom floor.
They said he was cursed.
They said he was possessed.
They said something unnatural entered the world the day Jimmy Martin was born.
But nobody knew what to do.
No pastor could pray it away.
No doctor could explain it.
No obeah woman dared touch him.
And that... was only the beginning.
Jimmy's First Hunt – Westmoreland Hills, Jamaica
The sun hadn't even climbed fully over the Blue Mountains yet, but already Jimmy's bare feet were bouncing with excitement.
Today was his day.
"Yuh ready, mi son?"
Stanley Martin's voice boomed like thunder behind him, a heavy calloused hand resting firmly on Jimmy's shoulder.
"Today, yuh become a real Martin hunter."
Jimmy nodded hard, chest puffed out, even though the morning dew soaked through his shorts and made him shiver. His heart? It felt like it was doing cartwheels.
He was nine years old today.
And in their part of Westmoreland, that meant one thing:
Your first hunt.
Stanley's hunting team was already gathered near the edge of the forest—sharp-eyed men with machetes slung low and weathered boots caked in red dirt. Hunting bags swung from their backs, and their grins were wide, teeth flashing in the early light.
"Wah gwaan, Jimmy! Yuh ready fi hunt goat like a real man?"
Uncle Steve laughed, tossing him a wink. His dreadlocks were tied back tight, a red cloth wrapped 'round his forehead like a warrior's band.
Jimmy nodded again. "Mi ready, Uncle."
"Yuh sure?" Paul asked, the quiet one, lifting his handmade slingshot. "Dem goats fast, yuh know. Faster than yuh mouth."
Jimmy snorted. "Mi faster than both."
The men roared with laughter.
The hunt began just past the yam fields, where the trail vanished into thick bush like a snake swallowing its tail. Stanley led the way, machete slicing through the overgrowth with rhythmic swipes. Leaves and vines rained down around them like green confetti.
They moved in silence, broken only by the soft crush of boots and the whisper of wet grass beneath their feet.
Then—
A rustle.
Low bleating.
Goats. Wild ones.
Stanley held up a hand. Everyone froze.
"Yuh see dem?" David whispered, eyes sharp. "Three… maybe four. Mountain goats. Big ones too."
Jimmy's pulse kicked up a gear.
There they were—nibbling shrubs just beyond a break in the brush. Oblivious. Fat. Perfect.
Five shadows crept behind them like ghosts in the bush.
Stanley crouched low, motioning for Jimmy to come forward.
"Listen mi boy," he murmured, lips barely moving. "Yuh go 'round de right, quiet. Stay low. Cut off de back one. We circle left. If yuh get close 'nuff—pounce. Understand?"
Jimmy swallowed the lump in his throat. "Yes, Daddy."
His small hands gripped the mini machete Stanley had gifted him that morning. The handle felt slick, but it belonged there. His breath trembled, but he crept forward—feet soft on the damp earth.
Every step made the goats look bigger.
One turned.
Locked eyes with him.
Jimmy's heart slammed in his chest.
Now.
He exploded from the bush like a wildcat, machete raised, voice roaring through the trees—
"YAAAHHH!"
The goat shrieked—high-pitched, panicked—and bolted. Mud flew into Jimmy's face, but he was already chasing, legs flying, adrenaline in his ears like drumbeats.
"Come yah, yuh blasted goat!"
It dodged left—he followed. It jumped a log—he jumped too. Slipped. Rolled. Scrambled back up.
Behind him, the hunters whooped and hollered, cheering him on.
Then—
The break.
The goat's leg caught in a vine. Just for a second. But that was all Jimmy needed.
He lunged. Tackled. Arms wrapped tight around the creature's middle. The goat thrashed, bleated, kicked. Jimmy wrestled it down, mud splattering up his chest. He didn't let go.
His machete had fallen somewhere, but he didn't care. He held on with every ounce of strength he had.
Moments later, Stanley arrived. Machete in hand. Eyes proud.
Father and son locked eyes.
"Yuh did good, mi boy."
Stanley raised the blade. Whispered a quiet prayer.
Then struck.
Silence.
Jimmy stared at the goat's lifeless eyes. Something swelled in his chest—pride… but also a strange, quiet ache he couldn't name.
Stanley knelt. Took off his shirt. Wiped the mud and blood from his son's face.
"This is what it mean to hunt," he said softly. "Respect life. Take only what yuh need. From now on… yuh ain't a boy anymore."
Jimmy nodded, even as something cold and electric stirred deep inside.
That day, under the canopy of green, with blood on his hands and his uncles cheering in the distance…
Jimmy Martin became a hunter.
But something in him changed.
Something small.
Something silent.
Something that one day… would grow into doubt.
ONE YEAR PASSED
🕊️ The Last Goodbye – The Death That Made the Hunter
The morning air in Westmoreland was thick with mist, like the island itself was holding its breath.
Stanley Martin stood by the old pickup, loading his gear with calm hands and the steady focus of a man who'd hunted half his life. His machete gleamed on his hip. His boots were clean, but well-worn. And slung over one shoulder — the same brown leather hunting bag he'd carried since Jimmy was born.
Jackie Ashley Martin stood a few steps away, arms folded across her chest, her face unreadable.
"Canada cold, yuh know," she said softly. "Bear country, Stan. Is not like here."
Stanley smiled and reached for her hand. "Mi know, Jackie. But mi haffi go. It's a special hunt. Big money. Big challenge."
She didn't smile back. Just looked at him with those dark eyes that saw more than most.
Jimmy stood beside her, holding onto her skirt, quiet and wide-eyed.
Stanley knelt down beside his son.
"Mi soon come back, Jimmy. Gonna bring yuh back something from dem cold forest. A bear claw… maybe a wolf tooth."
Jimmy's face lit up. "Promise?"
Stanley chuckled. "Mi never break mi word."
The boy threw his arms around his father's neck, holding him tight.
Jackie turned her head away, pretending to look at the trees, but her lip trembled.
Stanley stood, gave her a long look — the kind that says "If anything happen, yuh strong enough to carry on."
She nodded once, silent.
And then he was gone, the old pickup rumbling down the red dirt road until it vanished in the mist.
Three Weeks Later – Montego Bay Airport
The hunting team came back… without Stanley.
No smiles. No words. Just lowered eyes and heavy footsteps.
Jackie Ashley Martin stood still as stone when Paul handed her the box.
Wrapped in white cloth.
Inside: Stanley's bloodstained machete. His shredded vest. His cracked boots. And at the bottom… the little string necklace Jimmy had made for him when he was seven.
"Bear got him," Paul whispered, not meeting her eyes. "Was too fast. Didn't even get to draw his blade."
Jimmy stood beside his mother, staring at the gear.
At the boots he once tried on for fun.
At the machete that had once split bush and bone alike.
At the necklace that now smelled like old smoke and sorrow.
Jackie didn't cry. Not in front of them. But her hand never let go of Jimmy's.
The Funeral – Westmoreland Church Ground
Rain fell like it had the day Jimmy was born — heavy and strange, falling only on the graveyard.
As Stanley Martin's coffin lowered into the ground, Jimmy clenched his fists, jaw tight.
Jackie stood tall beside him, her black dress soaked, but her spine unbent.
"You a man now," she whispered to her son. "But never forget — yuh father's blood still run through yuh veins."
Jimmy looked at her, eyes burning.
"I goin' be more than a man, Mama."
That Night – The Shed Behind the House
Jimmy sat in silence, Stanley's gear spread out in front of him. The machete gleamed under the hanging bulb. The hunting vest still smelled of sweat and cold.
He picked up the necklace, slipping it over his own head.
"I goin' finish what yuh started, Daddy," he whispered. "Mi goin' build mi own team. Hunt de whole world. From jungle to tundra. Ain't no beast alive gonna catch me off guard. Mi swear it on yuh grave."
And Jackie Ashley Martin, watching from the doorway, knew that something had changed forever in her son.
A boy died that night.
And in his place, a hunter was born.