Prosatio Silban and the Grave Matter

ALTHOUGH THE UULIANS COMMONLY CREMATE their deceased, it is also common for the bereaved survivors – at least, those with means – to erect quaint stone monuments in favored locations. Rare is the park, garden, or waterside lacking at least one discreet marker listing a decedent’s name, death date, and tender qualities, thus:

Melora Hyart
13 Jackal, Year of the Panting Cat
Beloved Friend, Wise Mentor, and Devoted Daughter-in-Law

On occasion, the memorial might also mention an achievement of some sort – Honest Launderer, perhaps, or Accomplished Throat-Musician, or Taxidermist Supreme.

And sometimes, the “achievement” was a favorite recipe.

The content is dictated by cost as well as taste and setting.

In the sprawling lake-island city of epicurean Pormaris stand forty-seven of these culinarily specific cenotaphs, bearing formulae ranging from simple Blue Rice with Spiced Lentils to such entire and elaborate feasts as Seven Courses of Tangible Delight. The content is dictated by cost as well as taste and setting. On occasion, amateur cooks – and even professional chefs! – can be spotted employing blank broadsheet-paper and lumps of charcoal to preserve these recipes for later use.

One fine day, in the balmy Season of Rebirth, Prosatio Silban joined them.

I must be insane, he thought, briskly rubbing away. But I have never before encountered the like, and to be honest: after years of rotating menus, I am desperate to add somewhat to my repertoire. Can’t let my customers get bored!

The recipe, Stuffed Gut: The All-Weather Break-Fast, was chiseled into a squat piece of green marble in one of the Park of the People’s public shrubbery-groves. The stone declared the memory of “Mama Atney,” who had died some fifty years previously and was notable for feeding dozens at a single sitting.

A woman in my same line, the cook thought with a genial smirk as he blew off excess charcoal grains and held the paper up to the sunlight. The dish’s name is somewhat off-putting, to be sure, but the ingredients are not. What’s the worst that can happen?

* * *

There is a profound alchemy involved in cooking, as base elements transmute through heat and time into culinary gold.

Such was the case with Mama Atney’s celebrated creation. The elements were simple: grated carrots and onion; flour and coarse meal; rendered fidget-hen fat; scant but piquant spices; and garlic – much, much garlic! – all packed into a sturdy “beef casing” (as the monument euphemized it) and baked in a hot oven. As it cooked, Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon filled with a pleasant reek, so much so that he fancied the walls would burst from the olfactory pressure.

At least it smells good, the cook-errant thought, humming a tuneless ditty as he opened the oven door. And that is something in itself. I believe it is now as cooked as cooked can be.

He removed the near-to-bursting sausage, deposited it on his preparation counter, and passed the appropriate cooling-off period by whistling his favorite yava-house melodies. At last cut a fragrant slice, dug in his fork, and took an experimental bite.

To describe the flavor would do an injustice to its ineffability: rich but not cloying, savory in the extreme, with crispy edge and dense middle. Each chew sent a new wave of pleasure across his tastebuds and into his very soul.

I like it, he thought with an appreciative smile, raising another forkful to his eager lips. I like it. A lot. And so will my customers. But wait – wait – WHAT?

Without warning, his spine began to curl forward, his eyelids drooped, and his knees buckled to the sides.

Without warning, his spine began to curl forward, his eyelids drooped, and his knees buckled to the sides. But before he could react to these changes, a strange voice sounded between his ears.

– So? it said. What’s going on? Am I awake enough already?

He caught a glimpse of himself in the sleeping-berth mirror, and turned to study his image in greater detail. Although his body felt odd, his usual reflection looked back at him: beefy frame, hairless brow, bare scalp, ironic mouth. But for the look of terror in his deep-set brown eyes, his external form was unchanged. Yet he had the distinct and uncomfortable impression of regarding himself from behind a stranger’s eyes.

– So? How else should I be looking at myself? came the unfamiliar inner voice again. It seemed high and nasal, like an old woman’s, and he – she? – found himself skeptically appraising the galleywagon’s interior.

– What a dump, came another unbidden thought. Who lives here? Doesn’t anybody ever clean up? How hard is it to run a dust rag around this place?

“Who are you?” Prosatio Silban tried to say, but his mouth didn’t want to work.

– Who am I? Who are you?

I’m this body’s rightful owner, he thought, trying not to panic. Is your name ‘Mama Atney?’

After a pause, the unbidden thought-voice came again:

– Who else should I be? What are you, some kind of idiot?

Prosatio Silban tried shaking his head to clear it, failed. I must be dreaming, he thought.

– This is no dream, sonny boy. I’m awake again, after only the Flickering Gods know how long. As for you – feh. What sort of place are you running here, anyway?

The cook-errant could only watch in frustrated silence as his hands opened and investigated his pantry and coldbox; examined the dishes and cutlery in the ceiling-high service cabinet; tested the fatberry-oil stove and oven; fingered the overhead tangle of cookware, cheeses, drying herbs, and cured meats; and even ran the hydrator and dishcleaner through their paces. Finally, Prosatio Silban felt his mouth twist into a wry smile.

– Nice place you have here, I must say, the interloper thought. My apologies. So you’re the ‘Cook For Any Price,’ huh? I’m sure I’ll be right at home in this body and life. Now. Let’s have a nice glass of tea!

* * *

As bad as the situation was, the worst part came when the first break-fast customers arrived.

Prosatio Silban now experienced life as it must have been for a small child in the back of an oxcart, driven by reckless strangers increasingly farther from his home: helpless, unable to object, and frightened of what might happen next. He watched his arms and legs work without his volition; someone else’s words spilled from his mouth and into his ears.

“May I help you?” he heard himself say to a modishly dressed women.

The longtime break-fast patroness cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Master Prosatio?” she asked. “Is this a new greeting?”

“What do you mean?” his voice said.

“For the past eight years you have begun my day by asking, ‘With what may I please you?’ This ‘may I help you’ business is so … unimaginative. Dull. And not like you at all.”

That’s because I’m not me! the cook-errant tried to scream.

“Sometimes a little change can be a nice thing,” his voice replied. “I don’t suppose you’ve never changed either?”

The woman’s quizzical eyebrow and its mate creased with concern. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked.

“Try the Stuffed Gut. You should eat a little something, but tell me what quick – I got people waiting.”

“What are you, nosy? I’m fine. Today’s menu is especially delicious. Try the Stuffed Gut. You should eat a little something, but tell me what quick – I got people waiting. Now. What d’you want to eat?”

She stood. “Something other than what you’re offering, Good day, Master Cook,” she said, flouncing away.

As it happened, she was not the last to leave.

“Master Cook?” asked a strapping young market-porter, proffering a brimful dish. “These jaraanga beans taste a bit off.”

“So don’t eat,” came the brusque reply. “Nobody’s putting a crossbow to your head.”

“Master Cook!” protested a slender, middle-aged liquor merchant. “This nutted porridge is cold!”

“That’s because you let it sit too long while you ran off at the mouth with your buxom lady friend here,” was the brisk retort. “Less flirting, more eating! I suggest the Stuffed Gut.”

“Master Cook?” inquired a timid old coin-counter. “Could I please have a bit more yava?”

“You shouldn’t drink so much of that at your age,” Prosatio Silban’s voice shot back. “It’s bad for your nerves. Have some Stuffed Gut instead. Takes the edge off.”

So it went throughout the morning, and on into the likewise thinning lunch-crowd. Every time the hijacked cook opened his mouth, more customers left – some with rancorous disbelief, others with dubious mumbling, all with various degrees of perplexity.

As the sun began its twilight descent, Prosatio Silban’s unwanted tenant grumbled to herself and made ready to stow the tables-and-chairs. Suddenly many of the chagrined customers, led by one of the South Market’s resident Sacreants, hove into view.

“So? What’s all this now?” asked the cook’s voice in a sharp tone.

“I think you know,” said the marketplace Sacreant, her steely eyes glinting. “Tell me: Where did you find that new recipe you’ve been encouraging? The one for Stuffed Gut?”

A mingled stab of fear and elation shot through the combined entity’s heart. “Wh-what d’you mean? It’s been in the family for generations. I only just remembered it this morning, and –”

“It is not like you to lie, Master Prosatio,” the Sacreant interrupted in a quiet voice, nodding at a member of the soft-murmuring crowd. “You were seen yesterday obtaining a recipe from one of the city’s culinary monuments. Specifically so, in the verdant Park of the People.”

Prosatio Silban’s arms spread wide. “You must be mistaken. I was never there. I was at home all day. Reading. And, ah, sleeping.”

“That is your second lie,” countered the cleric. “I believe you are suffering from Grave-Rubbers’ Malady, the bane of those whose death-marker-derived recipes consumed the very soul of their creators. It is quite a rare condition, although distressing for all parties concerned. However, there is a cure.”

The Sacreant raised both hands and took a deep breath. Before she could speak a word, the hapless cook’s legs propelled them away from the scene.

Pormaris’ South Market is an intricate labyrinth of transient stalls and permanent shops, only navigable by those familiar with its oft-shifting mercantile geography. Prosatio Silban well knew the area’s layout, specifically the Itinerants’ Quarter where – as now – he usually parked his galleywagon.

But he was not the one controlling his body.

But he was not the one controlling his body. Mama Atney’s topographical knowledge was limited to her long-ago and faraway native village, and she/he had taken fewer than a dozen steps before being seized by the cook-errant’s disquieted clientele.

The Sacreant again raised both hands, and began to chant in a low singsong:

“O Blessed Galien, Lady of Life; and Angrim, Lord of Time! Bohoran, Giver of Strength Where None Is Felt! and Bulwar, Goddess of Righteous Purpose! – hear my plea and grant my boon. Deliver this beloved servant of Yours, Prosatio Silban, from the sizeless grip of what and who has possessed him. May he once more prevail to walk on his own legs, grasp with his own arms, beat blood with his own heart, and think with his own mind. I ask this as Your fourfold emissary as well as Your holy, and wholly enraptured, proxy. May he be set in Your balances with no further hindrance or obstacular delay. In return, he will serve you as before with all renewed vigor, restored power, and humble honesty. This I affirm!”

“This we affirm!” chorused the assembled multitude.

Despite Mama Atney’s violent struggles both internal and external, a great and constricting weight began its slow slide from Prosatio Silban’s essence; his awareness loosened and his limbs reacquired their accustomed lightness. With one final convulsion – accompanied by the disappearing thought, Let me go! I don’t want to sleep again! – he relaxed into the crowd’s tight embrace.

The Sacreant lifted her chin at him. “Better now?” she asked with a grin.

The restored cook-errant shook himself, then smiled a weak and weary smile. “Much and more so,” he said. “And many thanks for saving me from a horrible misfortune. But what of my estranged patrons?”

He gestured toward the concerned crowd, and that morning’s first customer grasped his outstretched hand and squeezed it.

“We’ll be ready when you are,” she said, and beamed at him. “Just take your time.”

-=-

“STUFFED GUT”

One way to conserve limited food-resources is through ingenuity. Take this recipe for example: cleaned beef-intestine is packed with common vegetables and otherwise discarded byproducts to produce a savory “sausage” that’s both economical and tasty. It is said that the Flickering Gods Themselves have been known to dine on this dish, and that most enthusiastically.

To cook: Cut intestine in foot-long sections; tie one end of each with twine and turn inside out. Grate equal parts carrot and onion; mix well with flour and coarse meal, paprika, salt, pepper, rendered fidget-hen fat, and sufficient garlic (through a press) for pungency. Stuff casings until very full, tie the open ends, and drop in boiling water for ten minutes. Retrieve and arrange on baking sheet and place in medium-hot oven for at least one hour. When cool, slice into disks and fry in a pan until brown on both sides.

To serve: Can be eaten on their own or as an accompaniment to roasted fidget-hen or braised beef brisket, eggs, or soup.

(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. And if you want more of them, in two easy-to-read packages, here are the first and second e-books — and a cookbook. Enjoy!)