My brain was not done with this past Friday’s WritingPrompt. This appears to form a whole (thoroughly unedited) Chapter One, and I fear I need to work on a new outline. This particular story starts here. There is even more.
“Are you offering to teach me the art of cooking, or the art of defense with whatever is in my hand?” asked Zenia. She lifted her pan from the ground and heard an ugly plop as something slid off the base.
“Both, I suppose.” Alfred shrugged and placed his empty pan directly on the fire ring’s embers. He began to sweep up the mess in silence. Zenia discovered that her small attacker was not as solid as the two that Alfred had bested with iron. The illusion of an egg persisted even in death. She peeled off a large section of shell that had remained stuck to the underside of her pan. A clear viscous liquid and deep orange yolk were seeping into the dirt floor.
“Don’t touch that!” said Alfred, snatching away the shell with a small towel. He threw both into the fire ring. Alfred grabbed two handfuls from a bowl on his table and spread salt evenly over the spill.
Zenia raised her open palm. “I am not cut, if that is your question.”
Alfred clasped her hand and turned it over, inspecting closely between the fingers. He raised an eyebrow and dropped her hand. He said, “The first shell I touched burned like a fireleaf rash, for weeks.”
“I am fine.”
“So you are.” He dug his boot into the salted dirt. “I have been out here for more than twenty winters, yet I still do not know where they come from. Salt appears to keep them from coming back, and more importantly, it masks the smell.”
“How many –”
He shook his head. “I will teach you everything that I do know, but first we must cleanse your pan with fire,” said Alfred. “May I have your pan?” He spoke with the reverence a swordmaster would have for an apprentice’s weapon. Zenia handed it over.
Alfred circled the inside with a finger. “Curious. We shall have to test a few oils for smoke points. You may have a different material entirely from my pan. What did you think of, when you asked your Gift for help?”
Zenia looked at the pouch around her neck. “I am not sure, exactly. I wasn’t really thinking of any particular thing, but then something my Uncle Joe would always say came to mind.”
“Did it?”
“He would joke: If I ever catch one of those freaks, I know which one of us will be eaten that day.”
“Interesting.” He turned her pan over and scowled. “Ew, first we make sure that this will burn off.”
Zenia bent down and picked up her two whole fish, now caked with dirt. Alfred said, “Oh, dear. I can clean those and still prepare them for you. We have had a terrible evening. Please rest.” He motioned to a pile of blankets in one corner.
“Okay.” She sat down in the middle of the blanket pile.
Alfred pulled his pan from the fire and placed Zenia’s on the cooking grate. He flipped his pan twice, and the rabbit returned, landing out of smoke. Using two long sticks held in one hand, he moved the cooked meat to a plate. It was sizzling very lightly. Alfred started to explain how he had kept it warmed at a low temperature during the fight. He said, “You will need a wood fire to cook each time, but the pan will always know which temperature is best.”
Exhausted, Zenia leaned back against a stack of pillows. She asked, “How do you know that my pan is a Gift capable of anything magical, like yours?”
Alfred moved her pan to the embers. “Well, for one, your handle is fireproof. Do you recognize this inscription?”
“What?”
He lifted her pan out of the flames with his bare hand. The inside cooking surface remained blue, but was covered with a spiral of words in an unfamiliar alphabet, burning bright yellow. As the strange sight faded to red, Alfred placed her pan back in the fire. “Yeah, me, neither. Rest, child. I will cook your meal, and I will keep watch.”
In spite of that promise of a second potential invasion of this sanctuary tonight, Zenia nodded off. She dreamed of the altar of the gods. The natural stone table was far inland from her village, a three day journey past the unsafe forest Zenia slept in now, close to but not at the center of the island. Every child nearing the end of their tenth year felt drawn to this place. Anyone present on the dawn of the day of their eleventh year received their Gift. Anyone who stayed away and missed their birthday, no matter the reason, received no Gift at all. Uncle Joe was full of stories, after fishing in the deep waters, about other boats in the far distance. Zenia hoped those people had their own altars. Are they also plagued by the Ova?
When it had been her turn, Zenia had traveled in a group of five from her village. They joined a gathering from three other populated regions of the island, a mix of children receiving their Gifts at one upcoming dawn or the next. The group shifted over several days, with island custom dictating that no more than three cohorts of birthdays were vying for limited space at the base of the altar. Many children built lifelong bonds despite the community’s fluidity, based on the shared experience of meeting the Giver of Gifts. As was the natural order of things, some bonds would be immediately broken, when the most ambitious chose to test their Gifted weapons. Others were more lucky, like Zenia’s parents. They had grown up on opposite sides of the island, before they met at the altar.
In the dream, the altar looked as she remembered, a nearly horizontal slab of weathered granite standing alone at the top of a small hill. But, if this was supposed to match her memory, the situation was completely wrong. Zenia was alone.
The sky grew brighter as the new day approached much too quickly. All the stars in the sky overhead fell at once, coalescing into a figure seated on a cloud. The figure, clothed in robes of overlapping red, green, and black, had no face. Twelve arms unfolded and arrayed themselves in a circle.
Repeating the greeting that Zenia had witnessed for three mornings, the Giver of Gifts said, “Welcome, children. What you each receive today is given freely. May you all learn each Gift’s true purpose.”
Zenia looked left and right, but remained alone at this altar. She was unsure what to do. One important final warning was given to the eldest before they started their journeys. The stories were very clear. Anyone attempting to receive a second Gift at the altar would die in some unmentionable fashion. And, she already wore her Gift around her neck. Ma’s name for it had stuck as soon as Zenia had returned home: the pouch, a tan velvet bag of exquisite craftsmanship no bigger than her hand. The drawstring was braided leather in green, red, and black. The Gift had included the silver chain that hung the pouch around her neck and dangled it against her chest.
Dream logic prevailed, and Zenia stepped forward, as she had done 15 months ago. The blue frying pan that she had pulled from her pouch tonight materialized on the altar.
The Giver of Gifts was immediately angry. “You already have your Gift!” The blank face of the GIver of Gifts turned to regard Zenia directly, for the first time. “Unless…”
Symbols that Zenia did not recognize flashed in the air above two of its outstretched hands, now turned palm up. The Giver of Gifts said, “Yes, a path towards balance. A Collector.”
Zenia awoke to find a meal left at her bedside, served in her blue pan. Her fish had been washed and lightly fried. The dish tasted exactly as Pa had once described as his Great Ma’s preference. The recipe was one that he had tried to replicate forever, with only partial success. Zenia picked a small amount of her side salad’s moss and placed it inside her pouch.
“Young Princess of the Eastern Bay, I am beginning to think that your Gift will provide that ingredient again, should you need it,” said Alfred. Her host was sitting cross-legged, turned away towards his fire.
Zenia thought, He knows me too well, and he controls both flame and smoke. Was that a dream, or a vision he wanted me to have? Hungry from her day of frivolity and the turmoil of the evening, she ignored these provocations and ate, looking around the room. He had certainly lived here a long time, but she could find no mementos or decoration. She said, “And, who are you again?”
Alfred sighed and shifted in the dirt to face Zenia. He said, “Try to sleep more. It will be light again in a few hours. Those who survived at the altar tonight will receive their Gifts.”
Zenia nodded, “Those who survived.” Births on Eostre were avoided in her village when possible, for the stories were clear here as well. It was forbidden for elders to defend receiving parties, even on this night.
She suddenly realized why she had been able to slip away from the Village on the Eve of Eostre itself, escaping even Pa’s notice. A party of three cousins had journeyed to the altar, for this morning.
“When it is safe to travel again, I will return you to your home,” said Alfred. He looked away, blinking at his fire. “And there, you will learn who I am.” Alfred threw more leaves on the embers.