ONE MAN’S FRIEND IS ANOTHER man’s meal – or so Prosatio Silban discovered on an ill-starred expedition to nowhere.
The cook had made enough recent coin catering to Pormaris’ wealthy that he could let his dray-beast, Onward, choose their course for a time. They had begun with keen anticipation as they trekked northwest from the City of Gourmands to Hole-in-the-Air, a village marking the border between the Uulian Commonwell and its adjacent part of the Exilic Lands. I have always been curious as to what lay in this direction, Prosatio Silban thought as he surveyed an undulant line of distant hills. Does anyone live here? We’ll have to find out!
Perhaps tomorrow we shall turn back, he thought.
The galleywagon’s chest-high wheels made easy work of the landscape’s short and bunchy redgrass – the only flora within eyeshot, save an occasional lofty stand of yellow pillar-trees. As one blithe, fine-weather day wore into the next, the beefy cook idly contemplated how much free rein he should allow his buopoth. Perhaps tomorrow we shall turn back, he thought. On the other hand … perhaps not.
At sunset of the fifth (or was it sixth?) day, the pair found themselves in a grass-tufted hollow bisected by a narrow but musical stream. Prosatio Silban tugged on the plaited yak-hair reins, bringing Onward to an obedient halt. “This looks about as good as any other blessed place,” the cook told him. “Here is where we shall spend the night-hours.”
He stood up from the driver’s bench, stretched a stiff back and stiffer legs, then stepped down to the loamy earth. From under the bench he produced a jute sack, which he opened to reveal a number of greasy maroon fatberry-cakes. On scenting his customary fodder, Onward gave a happy rattling hoot. Prosatio Silban unharnessed his animal, told it what a good buopoth it was, and the immediate area was soon filled with the sound of enthusiastic munching.
“How much do you want for this buopoth?” came a soft sibilance from behind the startled cook.
A squat, jovial-seeming man with black hair, blue eyes, and skin the color and texture of manzanita bark was looking up at Prosatio Silban. He was dressed in a calf-length leather poncho, but something about the man’s build and proportions seemed odd. The cook narrowed his eyes to disapproving slits and colored his voice to match.
“He is not for sale at any price,” the cook said.
“You do not yet know my offer.”
“It does not matter. He is my companion as well as my locomotor. Even if I wished to sell him, which I do not, such a transaction would leave me stranded far from my lands and people.”
“You are certain?”
“Never more so in my life.”
The man smiled with an over-large mouth.
The man smiled with an over-large mouth. “A pity. Well, then. I will take my leave of you.”
With that, the mysterious stranger retreated into the gathering twilight. Who was that? Prosatio Silban thought. But I suppose it is too late for questions. Not, I think, that I would understand, or even welcome, any answers.
* * *
In his galleywagon’s sleeping berth, Prosatio Silban wrestled with uneasy dreams before awakening with a shout. He sat up, gasping for breath.
Not much chance of sleeping again right away, he thought. A middle-of-night snack would not go amiss.
The cook shrugged into a long blue cotton robe and padded barefoot across the ornate braided rug. He opened the galleywagon’s upper door, eager to see his dray-beast’s great chatoyant bulk snoozing in the moons-light.
Only empty darkness met his eyes.
His stomach tying itself into cold knots, Prosatio Silban unlatched the door’s lower half and strode out into the night. Aside from the stream’s gurgle, and the low buzzing of wakeful insects, he was alone.
“Onward? Onward!” he called. Receiving no reply, he descended the galleywagon’s three steps.
Still no trace of anything. Or was there?
The cook knelt. The moons-light revealed faint but unmistakable marks in the redgrass carpet, leading away to the stream. I’d better accouter myself appropriately, he thought. This might take a bit of doing.
A moment later, dressed in black tunic and kneebreeches and gripping a stout cudgel, Prosatio Silban followed the marks across the stream to a wide scattering of waist-high blue-and-black boulders. He had threaded among them an uncertain passage for some distance, when a plaintive bellowing quickened his pace, set his jaw, and made him clutch the cudgel with fierce intent. By Diello, Goddess of In-Time Deliverance! he thought. Onward! Where are you? And what’s happening?
The bellowing grew closer, and all at once he broke upon a fearful scene. Surrounded by a crowd of squat figures was Onward, lashed heels over head with a glowing red cord to a sturdy wooden tripod towering over his captors. On a large flat rock was a neat assemblage of slaughtering and culinary implements – knives, bowls, skewers, skillet, cauldron, salt- and spice-bowls and the like – on a scale matching that of the buopoth’s abductors, three of whom were stoking various cookers and smokers. Blood boiling, the cook burst from the encircling boulders.
“Stop this immediately!” he cried. “How dare you?”
“Stop this immediately!” he cried. “How dare you?”
The figures turned and regarded Prosatio Silban without curiosity. “There is no ‘dare’ involved at all,” one said. “We must eat to live, and that need justifies our actions. We’ve not tasted buopoth for some time, and one this size will satisfy our burrow-village for weeks. Skewered, pan-fried, stewed, roasted, smoked – its shapeshiftery gives up a variety of flavors, all delicious.”
“But he is a sentient being, not to mention my sole means of transportation!” the cook replied with vehemence, and raised the cudgel for emphasis. “I must demand his release.”
The diminutive folk searched each other’s faces. “What can you provide in its place?” one said at last.
Prosatio Silban spoke in measured tones. “If I can present you with an appetizing and sustaining alternative, will you return him to my care?”
The figures again considered each other in silence. “Done,” said their spokesman. “But it must be good, as our mouths and palates are set for buopoth-meat. Meanwhile, he will remain magik-bound – we do not trust him to shapeshift you both away from here.”
“Allow me a momentary colloquy with my gods,” Prosatio Silban said, and closed his eyes. “O Scofi, Provider of Culinarian Inspiration; Hartiz, Protectress of Companion Beasts; and Penteget, Goddess of Righteous Desperation,” he prayed in an almost-audible voice. “I thank You for Your many benevolences over the years of my devotion to You. Please guide me in the way I need to go, in order that one of Your many beloved creatures may live and be well. Help me to help You save him. In return, I will accept Your judgment – whatever it is – with gratitude and equanimity, and continue to publish Your kindnesses wherever and whenever I encounter the opportunity. This I affirm.”
As he expected, no palpable or obvious response was forthcoming. The cook sighed with mild disappointment. Just then his eye fell on a nearby thicket of unfamiliar trees. From their meshed overhead branches dangled bunches of purple, honeydew-sized fruit. He reached for the lowest-hanging one, plucked it with ease, and split it open with his folding knife. The flesh was dense and springy, and its rich aroma hinted more of savor than sweetness. “What is this?” he asked.
“It is called ‘maladrio,’” one of the folk said. “We do not eat it, as neither its harvesting nor its taste are to our liking.”
“Perhaps you have not had it correctly prepared,” Prosatio Silban replied. “To do so, I will need a bit of time, and a bit likewise of your patience …”
* * *
Prosatio Silban rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms, and greeted the dawn. The long night had worn by with speed due to his many labors, and he was at last ready for their presentation. These people may reject everything out of hand, he thought with disquiet. And then where will we be? At least I know I have done my best. Please, O Scofi – let it be good enough.
With that brief prayer, he spread his arms in invitation.
With that brief prayer, he spread his arms in invitation. “Good my hosts,” he said, “prepare to be moved in both heart and palate.”
The small folk were seated around makeshift tables laden with what Prosatio Silban called “maladrio five ways.” The first variation consisted of skewered chunks of marinated fruit-flesh alternating with diced sailor’s cap mushrooms, shallots, and tomatoes. Next came a pan-fried “filet,” done with morels and plated atop mashed turnips. Third up was a bubbling cauldron of stew containing seared maladrio with potatoes, gold carrots, celery, onions, and jaraanga beans, all from the village garden and accompanied by fresh-baked olive-bread. A steaming oven-roast served as fourth course, followed by a similar maladrio bulk which had occupied the smoker for most of the night.
Prosatio Silban tried not to look at and fret over the still-bound and suspended Onward, who – thank Hartiz! – had remained silent throughout the cooking and judging, eyes fixed on his human comrade. The squat villagers were likewise quiet, tasting each dish with nary a smile, sigh, or moan of pleasure. In fact, they were so quiet that the cook steeled himself for what he feared their verdict would be.
Finally, the last morsel was chewed and swallowed, and the last bit of sauce sopped up with the last bite of bread. The villagers gazed into each other’s faces, then at the cook.
“We have feasted tonight on strange fare,” said the spokesman. “It is fare that grows abundantly, but one that we never deigned to try. Quite frankly, the thought of it was repellent to dedicated carnivores such as ourselves.”
Here it comes, Prosatio Silban thought.
“Loath though we are to say, your victuals are wonderful. We will return your companion to you on one condition, and one only.”
“Yes?”
“That you teach us the fruit’s harvesting and preparation. But when next you pass this way …”
“You need not worry about that,” Prosatio Silban said, eyeing with ire the two folk who moved to release Onward. “One visit has been quite enough. But if next I pass this way … believe me. You’ll have cause to remember it.”
(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. And if you want them all (so far) in one easy-to-read package, here’s the e-book!)