A hooded figure hurried back through the forest, as the daylight was already fading. The weather and trail had been too inviting on a morning free of obligations, and Zenia had lost hours in the deep meadows. The butterflies were dancing at this time of year, a paradoxical good omen that heralded the darkest night of terror to come. Tonight. She batted away intrusive thoughts questioning why she had gone out today at all.
The old battered compass she had stored around her neck pointed back to the river, but Zenia could not be sure anymore how far inland she might have wandered today. The skies had darkened to purple and the jumble of pink and orange clouds on the horizon pointed the way home, a small fishing village on the bay with a stout central meeting hall and strong metal doors and shutters. Zenia exited a stand of trees and found the river where it should have been, with an unfamiliar wooden bridge. She thought, How far away am I?
Now it was entirely possible that Zenia would not reach home before sunset. Pa would have been angry at the violation of curfew, as a general rule, but this night was a different matter. Zenia was just as sure that Ma would begin mourning the death of her only daughter far before midnight. Zenia could not remember anyone from their village missing curfew, on this day of all days, not in her entire lifetime.
She was now twelve years old, and well-studied in the unique art of her own personal Gift. Hers was not as important as Pa’s Gift, nor like Ma’s jade elephant that could chill water. Everyone received a Gift on the morning of their eleventh year, though some Gifts were more obviously helpful than others. She should have brought more protection.
She also knew this simple truth. No one would come looking for her after dark tonight.
Zenia wiped tears from her face, and began to steel herself for the run of her life. Is this why Uncle Joe lives on a boat? He tends to sail into open water this time every year. Could it be safe out there?
A shadow moved below the bridge, and someone sneezed. A man about Pa’s age emerged. Zenia instinctively stepped back and grabbed the small pouch slung around her neck. The man smiled like a school teacher as he raised a fist full of mushroom caps. “Good evening, young one! These will taste wonderful in an omelet soon, wouldn’t you say?” He stuffed the mushrooms in a sack thrown over one shoulder.
The man clearly enjoyed the look of disgust that washed over her face. Zenia stood straight and washed back one side of her cloak as her Pa had taught her, exposing a long knife. She said, “I am leaving now. Do not follow me.”
The man laughed once, and waved at his own hip. A small iron cooking pan was tied to his belt, where a weapon should be. “Forgive me, I have not seen another person in a long time. I am Alfred, a humble cook, and no threat to you.” He looked downriver. “Daughter of fishermen, I offer you a meal, and a safe haven until morning.”
She looked down, and saw that the fishbone pinning her cloak closed had given away her parentage. “My name is Zenia.” She was about to protest further, when she caught sulfur on the wind.
Alfred also raised his head, sniffing. “Quickly! It is not far!” He sprinted over the bridge and towards the hillside.
Zenia looked back to the bay once more, but the sky had darkened completely. Too late. She ran after him, towards forbidden hills, dangerous rockfalls and the creatures that stories told still lived in the tight and secluded spaces.
She caught up to Alfred standing in front of one of those impossibly small cave openings, now holding his pan. “Okay, once you shimmy through here, you can crawl the rest of the way. It is much bigger on the inside.”
Zenia shook her head. “How does this make us safe from them?”
“Once I have a cooking fire going, the smoke will fill this like a chimney.” Alfred handed Zenia the frayed end of a very old piece of rope, tied to his waist. “Just in case, this will lead you after me, around and away from traps I have set. Otherwise, you are safe. I promise.” He banged on his pan with a fist.
That indeterminate whiff of sulfur and rancid food had followed them. Zenia sighed. “The alternative is death.”
“Not tonight, child.”
Alfred dove headfirst between moonlit rocks. Zenia followed the rope and emerged in a space big enough to stand up in. Oil lamps burned low in each corner. Alfred had built support framing and dug beneath the main boulder now overhead. One wall of the room was dominated by a stack of wooden logs, sized and shaped with a careful hand. Across from Zenia, jars filled with herbs and things she could not describe lined the back of a stone table. She also noted a collection of carving knives on that wall. Closer to their entrance, Alfred stacked wood in a battered old metal ring. He lit a piece of kindling over one lamp, and started his fire.
Alfred walked to the opposite wall and opened a curtain slightly. “This is an emergency exit. There is metal like a sieve blocking their way, and the tool to remove it, if necessary. For now, it provides airflow.” He threw a handful of leaves onto the growing fire, raising a great plume of smoke that rapidly filled the entrance. He lowered a cooking grate into place, and placed his pan over the flames.
Zenia thought, Is that pan bigger, or is it a trick of the light in here? Is it the smoke? She smelled only familiar local trees.
Alfred opened his shoulder bag and frowned. He looked over at Zenia sheepishly. “I confess that I do not have much beyond those mushrooms, child. But, they will sustain us until morning.”
Zenia heard Pa’s lectures in her head, but she was already breaking his rules. She said, “Alfred, tell me, please, what is your favorite meal to cook for yourself?”
Alfred stared into space for a moment. “I have lived out here for so long, and yet my snares never work. Clever devils! I would very much like to prepare rabbit again, someday.”
His eyes widened as Zenia reached into her pouch and pulled out a fully skinned and dressed rabbit. He said, “If that is your Gift, thank you for sharing it with me. Be careful who else knows about that. A ready food source like that will be coveted by the wrong sorts of people.”
Zenia said, “Now, you sound like my father.”
He laughed again as he cut the rabbit into four pieces in a bowl on his table, tossed in a few root vegetables with spices, and added everything to his pan. “Here, this will put you right in a few minutes.”
“Your hospitality is already very generous,” said Zenia. “If I am not imposing, please cook these for me.” She reached in and pulled out two bay fish, already cleaned and descaled.
“Hang on,” said Alfred. He flicked the pan in a practiced motion, as if flipping breakfast cakes like Ma would do. Looking close to perfectly done already, the rabbit flew up and out, disappearing into the smoke. Alfred grinned. “Some Gifts are a little strange, I admit. I can cook more than one dish at a time.” He looked at the pouch again. “Zenia, have you ever asked your Gift for anything more? Anything different?”
“I am content to help make sure that no one goes hungry.”
“That is an admirable goal.” Alfred reached for the two fish.
Three white oblong shapes, each about the size of a chicken egg, rolled into the room, ignoring the wall of smoke streaming through the entrance. They sprang up onto stubby feet, brandishing claws and sharp teeth. “Behind me!” Alfred cried, raising his empty pan.
One advanced on Zenia immediately. It snarled and dodged as she threw her fish at it. She fumbled and dropped her knife, tripping backwards. The beast opened its mouth and wailed with the screams of billions of fallen siblings. In the hazy background, Alfred swung his pan.
Zenia expected to be consumed by panic, yet an almost cold alertness washed over her as she calmly reached into her pouch. Finding a leather bound handle, she withdrew and slammed downwards. The beast’s cry was silenced, accompanied by the satisfying crunch of cracking shell.
She beheld the instrument of her salvation for the first time, though she was not too surprised. The shape of the frying pan in her hands was different from Alfred’s, less angular. The unblemished cooking surface was coated with a shiny, almost jewel-like color. Zenia thought, Was our enemy always this fragile, or have we been wielding the wrong tools as weapons?
Alfred said, “Ew! The annual vanguard is always so hard-boiled! …What is that?” Zenia glanced up to find him staring back at her, scratching his head. “Hey, kid. Uh, Zenia, was it? Have you ever thought about becoming a chef’s apprentice? We might have a shot at cleaning up this forest a little. Together.”
If they survived this Eostre’s Eve, Zenia thought that sounded like a fine idea.
An amusing premise from WritingPrompt Once someone turns 11, they get a magical weapon. on your eleventh birthday, you get a frying pan.
There is a continuation into a suitable Chapter 1, and also more.