Chapter 8: The Crone, Enya
After a week of relentless digging for information, Jonas finally struck gold. A merchant, visiting the tavern from a city hundreds of miles away, provided the crucial lead. He spoke of seeing a man with striking magenta hair in his city's grand bazaar, haggling with a strange old fortune-teller named Enya.
The item being traded? An ancient, ivory-colored box.
Hearing this, Jonas knew. He was certain that this was the man he had been hunting with every fiber of his being: Diavolo.
Now that he had a trail, it was time for Jonas to make his move. All he had to do was find this "Enya" and pry the next piece of the puzzle from her...
He packed his travel bag, changed into a sleek, avant-garde outfit suited for a long journey, and tucked away the pistol he'd acquired from the police. Before he left, Aya and her father insisted on a farewell drink. Aya opened a bottle of her most prized spirits and poured Jonas a glass, filling it to the brim. It was her blessing, a prayer for his safety on the road ahead.
Her father, however, had a mischievous glint in his eye. He produced a box of matches, struck one, and with a flourish, touched the flame to the glass.
WHOOSH!
The potent liquor instantly ignited into a column of blue flame.
"Drink up!" the old man said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Only by drinking the sacred fire can you truly receive a blessing for your journey."
Jonas stared at him, his face a mask of exasperated disbelief. "..."
"Father, how could you do that to Jonas?" Aya scolded. With a delicate puff of her cheeks, she blew out the flame. The father's gleeful expression immediately soured.
Jonas just shook his head, raised the glass, and downed the contents in one go. The searing, high-proof liquid was like an explosion on his palate, a shockwave that shot straight to his brain. He felt as if his taste buds were about to go on strike.
He slammed the glass down, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Just how strong is this stuff?" Jonas asked, his brow furrowed.
"It's a home brew," the father said, his pride restored at seeing Jonas's reaction. "I don't know the exact proof, but it's at least one-twenty."
"Well, the drink is drunk," Jonas said, rising from his seat. "I must be on my way."
But Aya's father stopped him, pointing to the now-open bottle. "Take the rest with you. For the road."
Jonas hesitated. If he drank that whole bottle, he'd probably die for real this time.
Seeing his reluctance, the father pressed on. "This was personally distilled by Aya herself. Are you saying you don't like it?" His inner monologue was a gleeful cackle. You don't like it? Then you can drink more of it!
Aya, too, watched him with an expectant gaze, eager to see how he would respond, to gauge her own place in his heart. Jonas found he was powerless to refuse her earnest expression.
Fine, I'll take it, he thought. Doesn't mean I have to drink it. There's still room in my bag.
With the bottle of high-octane liquor secured, Jonas shouldered his pack, bid farewell to the father and daughter, and stepped out into the blistering desert sun, officially beginning his hunt for Diavolo.
By the time Jonas arrived, the evening market was beginning to empty. The crowds had thinned, and vendors were packing up for the night. He found her stall tucked away in a corner. The crone, Enya, was tidying away her various bottles, trinkets, and antique jewelry. And, just as the merchant had described, both of her hands were right hands.
She was a fortune-teller, a purveyor of curses and charms, and, more importantly, a middleman for rare and dangerous goods.
Just a few days ago, she had paid a handsome sum to a European man with magenta hair for five peculiar arrowheads. These were no ordinary artifacts. Legend told that they were forged centuries ago by a mad emperor seeking godhood, using metal from a strange, otherworldly meteorite. Those pierced by the Arrowheads would face a trial: they would either die, or awaken a miraculous power known as a Stand.
Her master, the magnificent Lord DIO, had a profound interest in these Arrows. He had already used one to awaken his own Stand, and had tasked her with scouring the globe, creating and recruiting an army of Stand users for his grand purpose. She, who had long ago been captivated by Lord DIO's overwhelming charisma, would do anything to fulfill his command. So now she posed as a simple merchant, all while searching for those worthy of surviving the Arrow's trial.
As Enya was packing her wares, a tall, powerfully built man in fashionable attire approached her stall. He carried a travel bag, and his deep-set eyes were hidden in shadow.
Jonas's gaze lowered, fixing on her two right hands. "You are the crone, Enya?" he asked, his voice low and steady. The information was correct.
After a long and arduous journey across hundreds of miles of desert, he had finally found her.
Enya paused her work, her cloudy, ancient eyes settling on Jonas. "I am," she rasped. "Are you here to have your fortune told, young man?"
"I'm not here for a reading. I'm looking for someone," Jonas said, producing a folded piece of paper. "I was told you made a deal with him a few days ago." He unfolded the paper to reveal a startlingly lifelike sketch of Diavolo's face. Drawing was another of Jonas's talents, and he had committed every detail of his would-be murderer's face to memory.
Enya took the drawing. Feigning the poor eyesight of an old woman, she held it close to her face in the fading twilight. She studied it for a long moment, then looked back up at Jonas.
"Yes... I believe I do recall this man," she said slowly. "He sold me five interesting arrowheads."
As she spoke, she reached into the folds of her robe and produced one of the artifacts—an ancient arrowhead, already affixed to a short, ornate shaft.
Jonas's eyes locked onto it, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. It was one of the Stand Arrows. This crone was, without a doubt, the one who had bought them from Diavolo. He was close. He was finally, truly on the trail.
"Do you know where he went?" Jonas asked, unable to keep the urgency from his voice. "Is he still in Egypt?"
"Now, now," Enya said, a sly, cunning look on her wrinkled face. "In my line of work, client confidentiality is everything..." She adopted a pained expression, the very picture of a greedy merchant looking to squeeze more money from a desperate customer.
Jonas's face fell. Under normal circumstances, a problem that could be solved with money was no problem at all. The problem was, he was currently broke.
Enya seemed to sense his predicament. "You know," she sighed, putting on the air of a lonely old woman. "My dear son recently left for France. I so rarely get to see him these days... it gets terribly lonely."
She looked up at Jonas, her expression one of pitiful solitude. "If you would be so kind as to come back to my home and keep an old woman company for a while... perhaps, in my gratitude, I might just remember what that man's plans were."
Jonas froze. A strange woman inviting a man she just met back to her home in the dead of night? Every alarm bell in his head was screaming. His first instinct was to refuse, to walk away.
But the thought of Diavolo, of the vengeance he so desperately craved... it made him hesitate.