Storytelling Week 12: The Cook

The Cook

She had been the Inn’s cook since she was twelve, but she only was in the position because the Innkeeper burned his hands and could not find a replacement.

She was praised for being a good cook for the past five years now. Many rich people offered to buy her, but the innkeeper knew what he had and did not sell her.

Until one day a rich young man demanded to see her after his first bite of her stew.

She saw he was very rich indeed, when she walked out into the parlor to bow low and saw the rich, light wool covering his shoulders and the fine leather boots on his feet. However, the crown on his red, curly hair was evidence enough he was the King.

Her thoughts went rampant with worry – perhaps he did not like the stew. Her thoughts went from floggings to execution in a matter of moments. 

However, when the young King realized the cook was the girl in front of him, he beamed at her - his teeth big and white.

She was startled at the show of expression, and in her fit of nerves bowed even lower which caused the young King to raise his hand to halt her lowering.

The young King admitted he was surprised such a young girl was able to produce such savory flavors in a stew.

She told him she picked herbs from the forest and mixed them together to create the flavor.

He praised her for her cooking and in the same statement offered employment at his castle as his personal cook.

He also said she would be paid handsomely.

Well, she could not say no to the King.

*

Her King had become her friend rather quickly, although in private since the hierarchy of the court was not to be disturbed - not even by her King. 

She would slip him sweet treats, try new recipes and take notice of wines she would stumble upon at the market for him to later request at her private recommendation.

When it was announced her King was to be engaged to a younger woman within a fortnight, the Cook had a sinking feeling in her belly. A feeling of worthlessness and hollowness, but she brushed it away for her King’s well-being. 

They gossiped together before he married his wife, celebrated when his firstborn was a son, but the merry day turned into one of sorrow when his wife departed this world. 

She grieved for him. She grieved for his son. She comforted him with sweets and her companionship when he allowed himself to be comforted.

His demeanor had changed in the short time. He was not the young, carefree King he once was, but a solemn and quiet man.

Months later, they were in his chambers enjoying the warmth of the fire. They relinquished their titles of King and Cook while he read aloud and she cuddled his son, and, suddenly, he told her of his upcoming second marriage.

The same feeling from before his first marriage returned; a hollowness in her stomach and sharp prickling behind her eyes - though much stronger than the first time.

She held onto his son tighter and looked at the reddish wisps of hair on his soft head, and his sleepy blue eyes blinked lazily at her. She did not want to look at her King and let him see how sad and worried she was at his announcement.

She nodded and softly murmured, “A mother figure would be good for the Prince.”

The queen arrived in the castle and a darkness surrounded her. The cook was wary of this woman with black hair and pale eyes that watched all the on goings of the castle.

She mentioned the dark aura to her King; he waved her off telling her she was a jealous, suspicious spinster.

His words hurt and she saw the moment he realized how hurtful his words were to her. However, when he apologized for his harsh words, she simply bowed low, accepted the apology and walked away.

She no longer confessed her opinions to him after their discussion or anything for that matter.

When the Queen birthed a son, the Cook feared for the firstborn Prince.

The day came when the Queen found her alone with the ovens warming in the kitchen. The Queen grabbed her from behind and shoved her against the ovens while a vial was pushed under her nose.

The smell of carrots entered her nostrils – hemlock.  

The Queen’s pale eyes were wide and malicious as she demanded this be put in the firstborn Prince’s meal. The Queen’s raspy voice made the hairs stand on her flesh because she knew what hemlock would do to the young Prince’s body.

The Queen warned the Cook that if she were to tell anyone of the plan to murder the Prince, it would cost the Cook her life. She waited pressed up against the stove; the wood burning inside made the heat of the brick oven unbearable and made her skin burn. She waited until the dark woman disappeared with her fine wool dress.

She ran to the King.

She told him what the queen had planned. He did not believe her at first until she revealed to him the vial of hemlock given to her by the Queen.

The King’s face was in an array of emotion: shock, bewilderment, guilt, anger and then pure rage. He screamed at his guards to throw the Queen in the dungeons and to bring his firstborn to him. He did not shed tears, but his eyes were watery when he clutched his son to his body in a protective gesture.

He grasped her hand, his thumb caressing her knuckles, and thanked her for saving his son. Their companionship was restored to what it once was and she sat next to him at the dinner table – the social hierarchy be damned. 

(Poison Hemlock from Wikimedia Commons.)

Author's Note: This story was based on the beginning paragraphs of The Ridere of Riddles from the Celtic fairy tales. The main story is basically the same as the beginning I wrote in my story. The King marries a Queen, who then dies in childbirth, and then marries a second Queen, who gives birth to another son. This second Queen realizes her son will not rule the kingdom since he is the second son, so she devises a plan to poison the firstborn prince through the food the cook prepared him. The second born Prince overhears his mother's plan to poison his half-brother and tells his brother not to eat the food. What I did not understand from the story was why the Cook did not tell the King the queen was trying to murder his first son. Since my portfolio is based on strong women, I decided to play with the gender of the Cook. I also created a friendship between them and hinting at an unrequited love (or is it?), so the King would trust the Cook when she told him of the Queen's treachery. I also decided not to really include the second son and keep it between the King, the Queen and the Cook as well as keep the Princes as babies instead of fully grown adults.

More Celtic Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs (1895).

Storytelling Week 9: Gaho

Gaho

(Addie Billie wearing traditional Seminole beads and patch work from Web Source.)

The old woman was crinkled and impossibly fragile. Her skin loose and folds so deep and pronounced the old man had a hard time imagining what she looked like as a young woman. The fire, spitting and crackling, deepened the shadows on her face and cast an eerie orange and gold hue to the woman.

Old Mother, she was called by his people. Gaho. But she birthed no sons or daughters.

Her presence preoccupied the mountain cave above his village for many moons – too many moons to count. If there had been stories of her youth and beauty, then those stories died with his ancestors.

Although, there are stories of her kindness as well as her wrath - he depended on those stories depicting her kindness for he had grown old with no wife, no children, no wealth, no peace, and a wasted youth.

The fire illuminated only the spinster and the old man. He waited impatiently for her to speak for if you spoke before her, she would disappear into the smoke - or that is what the story told him.

Her eyelids were heavy with age and they dropped so low he could not tell if her eyes were open or not, but her bony hand gripped a stick to prod the fire to life. Sparks of embers shot up into the night air and he watched them float. When he looked back at the woman, her blind eyes were staring right at him.

His breath rattled in his old lungs, his tired heart stumbled, and he thought he would die if her milky eyes continued to burn his soul.

She finally ceased staring at him when she murmured with a cracked voice, “You come to ask for five wishes.”

“Yes, Gaho. Please grant me such wishes. For I was not born in wealth, and so, I wasted my youth in war as a general. I did not take a wife for none wanted me and I was never blessed with children of my blood.”

Her white eyes did not stray back to his form, but she huffed. The sound of old bones rattling as she breathed and moved.

“Rules must be followed. Five wishes deserve five dances and songs must be performed every moon month until you are ready to pass over.”

His heart wanted to beat out of his chest as he imagined himself living a life he would not waste.

Suddenly, a bony hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the fire. He could smell his skin burn and blister. He opened his mouth to scream at the old woman and watched as her milky eyes brightened and then darkened again. Trapped in her gaze, he did not realize when the wrinkles melted away into firm and strong skin, when skimpy muscle turned big and brawny, his gray hair shed to reveal thick, black hair or his threadbare clothes to tighten and become strong leather.

He wept with appreciation and hope.

He left her mountain and went over the dances and songs in his mind until he returned to his village.

Peace came immediately to the village. He danced and sang for his five wishes when the moon month passed.

Wealth came in the form of crops and a leadership role a month. He danced and sang for his five wishes when the moon month passed.

His wife came into his life five days later. He danced and sang for his five wishes when the moon month passed.

Finally, his first child arrived after many moons of dancing and singing, and many more children arrived later.

He danced and sang every moon month.

His youthful appearance was later realized to be everlasting as his wife grew old and he did not, and his frustration and sorrow grew as his wife died and his first child soon after her.

He took many wives and had more children. The same ending happened. They grew old and died while he remained young.

It was not long before his frustration turned to action and he looked to war as his answer.

He danced and sang every moon month.

He won many battles and lost many men, but he continued to go to war. He found a certain comfort in its familiarity: the way the sword easily slipped into a man’s flimsy skin, the crush of the hard bone against his mallet and the spray of burning blood across his face.

He danced and sang every moon month.

Years passed until there were no more wives to tend to him and no more children carried his bloodline.

He danced and sang every moon month.

Until he was the old man again in everything but appearance.

He walked up the mountain and into Gaho’s home. He looked up with a tired body and mind and watched as the old woman stood from behind her fire - more fluidly than a woman of her age should, and walked toward him.

He was surprised yet not when her age slipped from her with every step she took.

When she came to stand in front of him, she watched him with clear brown eyes with thick, black hair nearly to her knees. Her regalia new and beautiful.

“Are you ready to pass?” She whispered quietly, her voice soft and gentle.

Listening to her voice made him compliant, lulling him to relax. He welcomed it and nodded his head once.

She nodded her head in answer and took his young, firm hands in her own.

The young man before her slowly morphed into the old man who came into this cave long ago.

He smiled at her and he finally closed his eyes to pass over.

Author's Note: I read the Pacific Northwest Native American unit this week. My story is a combination of theme's of the stories I read this week: How Silver-Fox Created the World, How the Beaver Stole Fire, How Dog Stole Fire and The Story of Ashish. I took many themes from the stories except for the inclusion of animals. The number five was a repetitive number in all the stories whether they were five trees or five roasts on the fire. I decided to take the use of the number five and include it in my story. There are five wishes in the story and I think they are realistic wishes for nearly any culture: youth, wealth, peace, wife and children. Fire is also a theme in the stories, so I used fire to transform the man into his younger version. In the stories, fire did not really behave like fire should. Animals touched fire without being burned. I thought my twist on the fire was interesting and I like how it transformed him as well.

Gaho means mother in Hopi, and I wanted to include the name simply because I like how it sounds. This also creates the assumption that Gaho has been around for a long time and is also the only name I provided. Even though the man is the protagonist in the story, he is only a blink of time in Gaho’s lifetime. The implication that this scenario has happened before is there, and if it is not obvious enough I will try and figure out how I can make that easier to read.

 Myths and Legends of the Pacific Northwest by Katharine Berry Judson (1910).