Prosatio Silban and the Proxy Diner

SOMETIMES, “HUNGER” IS JUST ANOTHER word for “desperation.”

Prosatio Silban heaved a sigh and pondered his bleak future. How does this keep happening? he asked himself. How do my circumstances seem to always drop so low?

To be fair, it wasn’t all his fault. Already scant on funds, he had arrived in Village-at-the-Old-Forest on the premise of feeding the hungry locals and any prolific passers-through with the rumored plenty of the hamlet’s woods, fields, and orchards. Here it was a week later, and the rumors of abundance had been thoroughly disproven – call it “bad luck” if you believe in that sort of thing, or “the fickle whims of the Flickering Gods” if you don’t. Either way, he had nothing to show for his generous ambitions but a nearly depleted pantry, an empty coin jar, and negligible custom.

I can’t afford to stay, Prosatio Silban thought, sitting at one of his empty tables-and-chairs and drumming his fingers on its painted wicker surface. Neither can I well afford to leave. So – what shall I do?

“You there.” A gruff voice interrupted his moody mentations. “You’re The Cook For Any Price, yes? You will prepare for me a special meal. And then, if I am pleased, I will pay you what I feel is its worth.”

His piercing grey eyes held no hint of mercy or kindness.

The voice’s owner stood with legs wide and arms crossed in the grand gesture of situational supremacy. He was tall, blonde, burly, and clad in a hunter’s greens and browns. His piercing grey eyes held no hint of mercy or kindness.

Prosatio Silban held the man’s gaze as he stood. “With what may I please you?” he asked.

“I am Polius Jakreen; you may have heard of me,” the stranger replied. “There is an animal that lives in these woods. It is called a ‘forest-wraith,’ and he who eats of its flesh will gain its qualities of stealth, concealment and speed. I am already blessed by the Flickering Gods with cunning and strength, and if I add the beast’s traits to my own, I will be invincible – to be precise, even more so.”

Someone thinks highly of himself, the cook-errant thought, then said with an emphatic shrug, “I am not a hunter.”

“I am,” said Polius Jakreen, cocking a thumb at his broad chest. “I am also, of necessity, a butcher. But I am not a cook. Which is why I want you.”

He hefted and shook a heavy-looking coin-pouch, its muted jingle emphasizing his point.

“Well then,” Prosatio Silban replied, and bowed. “You have me.”

* * *

The easy part of the beefy cook’s employment was waiting for Polius Jakreen to reappear from the forbidding and shadow-shrouded Old Forest with the proposed feast’s main ingredient. The hard part was Polius Jakreen himself.

“Here is what you will do,” the hunter had said the previous day. “You must slow-roast the forest-wraith, being sure to seal the flesh intact. Boiling or braising would dilute its virtues, as would – of course! – making of it a soup or stew.”

“Excellent,” Prosatio Silban said, nodding. “And what do you desire to accompany it?”

“Fresh etherya-fruit and stoneless apricots,” Polius Jakreen replied with visible disdain. “They are the forest-wraith’s natural provender, and the benefit it derives from them shall be mine as well. I am surprised you do not know this. Must I explain everything?”

The cook’s ears and cheeks reddened, but he made no protestation.

The cook’s ears and cheeks reddened, but he made no protestation. Instead, he said, “I see you have good, clear forest-spring water as a paired beverage, and –”

“Dolt. What else would such a beast quaff?”

Your blood and brains, I hope, Prosatio Silban almost retorted.

As the preparation-filled day wore on, so did Polius Jakreen’s abuse. He criticized the cook’s equipment, called into question his sense of gastronomic propriety, and even tried undermining his culinary instincts. Above all, the hunter emphasized and reemphasized his economic grip on the hapless cook.

“Do you know how much I will be paying you tomorrow for this privilege?” Polius Jakreen had asked more than once, patting the coin-pouch hanging from his belt. “You should count yourself lucky to be doing it at all, for any price.”

Though thick-skinned by nature, Prosatio Silban was beginning to tire of this treatment – and even more so of the polite half-rictus that had been aching his mouth. If only I didn’t need the coin, he thought as the slow hours passed without the hunter’s reappearance. Oh! what I’d say, and do, in return! I would – at last. The hunter returneth.

Polius Jakreen emerged from the ancient dark-tangled woods, a grey animal-carcass slung over one shoulder and a malevolent grin plastered on his craggy face. He stalked up to Prosatio Silban and let fall the dead forest-wraith at the cook’s feet with a soft clatter. The slender beast was well-named; one-and-a-half manheights long, four-hooved, with a dappled hide and a wide strip of curly brown fur running from its head to its stubby tail. The splayed form appeared graceful even in death.

Poor thing, the cook thought. I would rather have seen you in life, than like this.

Poor thing, the cook thought. I would rather have seen you in life, than like this.

“I will now break down this beast for you,” the hunter said as he unsheathed a hooked knife. “Then you may finally accomplish the task for which I am paying you. I hope you’re worth the cost.”

And you, the effort, Prosatio Silban thought as Polius Jakreen bent to his grim and bloody work.

Soon the cook-errant was sprinkling flaked ocean-salt, grinding multicolored peppercorns and fragrant dried herbs in his well-used mortar and pestle, and rubbing the results into a sizable mass of raw red rump-meat. When all had passed Prosatio Silban’s muster, he opened the oven door, winced at the heat, slid into it the tied roast, and sighed.

It’s now in the hands of Grahkerr, God of Impromptu Provender, he thought. May He look with favor upon my creative emulations – and it wouldn’t hurt to also have the assistance of Hopmon of the Ever-Full Purse.

Several hours later – which time the cook passed inside his galleywagon by catching up on his cookbook-reading and staying as far as he could from Polius Jakreen – the roast was at last ready for consumption. The boastful hunter seated himself at the table-and-chairs and began pounding on it. “Bring out my feast!” he called with a sardonic chortle.

Mumbling inaudible imprecations, Prosatio Silban emerged from his galleywagon bearing a large platter. Small green apricots alternating with fat purple tree-fruit ringed the steaming roast, which Polius Jakreen surveyed with a critical eye.

“On second thought, I won’t need the vegetables,” he barked. “Just give me room to devour this meat and the coin will be yours.” So saying, he raised knife and fork and set to.

He certainly eats like a beast, Prosatio Silban thought as he turned away in disgust. Maybe the shy creature he’s gobbling will affect his disposition as well as his belly.

Polius Jakreen set down his utensils and gave out with a mighty belch.

Soon the platter lay empty, save for its abandoned garnish. Polius Jakreen set down his utensils and gave out with a mighty belch.

“Delicious,” he said, and stood. “You are to be commended for your work, such as it is.”

There came a pause, which Prosatio Silban broke with a tentative cough. “I am glad you enjoyed it,” he said. “As to the matter of my payment …”

Polius Jakreen waved a dismissive hand. “First I must see if you have imparted the desired and agreed-upon effect.” And before the cook could stop him, the hunter strode into the woods and was soon lost to view.

Damn him! Prosatio Silban thought, clenching his fists. I should have seen it coming and never allowed him to pay me afterward. When, oh when will I learn?

Time passed with no sight or sign of Polius Jakreen. Frustrated, the cook cleaned up the hunter’s meal remnants, stowed the table-and-chairs, and readied his galleywagon for departure. I’ll just have to leave and take my chances on the road, he thought. I suppose I could set out for Ixtachet, and …oh, my. What is that?

A muscular and dappled quadruped had emerged from the Old Forest, regarding him with piercing grey eyes. Its curly blonde mane gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

Could it be … no, Prosatio Silban thought. No. Poetic justice doesn’t happen in the real world. Or does it?

With one graceful leap the creature vanished into the forest. Prosatio Silban’s eye fell on a bulging coin-pouch at the wood’s edge. He knelt and opened it, disclosing an assortment of silver and copper currency.

“I’ll be a marmot’s brother,” the cook said in wonder. “I suppose it does happen, after all.”

(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. Enjoy!)