Citizen 160 Calliope

Calliope’s father had adopted her later into his years, and as she grew older she could feel his breath grow weaker with each season. Despite this solemn premonition, she refused to accept the signs. Calliope could not fathom that the only significant figure in her life had would leave her before she was ready. As she prepared for her coming of age ceremony, Calliope spent many nights wishing that he would regain his health. Yet, as the cruel fates would have it, she awoke one morning to find that her father suddenly passed away…

—-

The past month Calliope had been muddling through her grief and responsibilities aimlessly. Yet today, she had awoken with restless stirring. Even after a light breakfast, the armored rexal could not shake that inexplicable emotion. Choosing to ignore this odd feeling, Calliope set out to do her chores. The hens were especially cranky that morning, and by the time she had collected all of the eggs, she had been thoroughly pecked. Her mood further plummeted when she remembered she also needed to tend to the beehives.

Calliope had been suddenly left with this land to tend to on her own. Beekeeping was one of the many things her father had yet to fully teach her, lessons time would not give back. Although she had learned the basics, she had yet to figure out how to settle the insects like her father had done. Every night after she tended to their bees, she would be left with a few painful welts to rub ointment on. Despite her armored scales, the tiny insects would always find a crevice of tender skin to sting. Today proved to be no different.

By noon, a sweat-soaked Calliope ambled towards her home. A light shade had made its way across the field, and cool breeze swept avidly across the countryside. She inhaled the clean scent, and felt refreshed by the light breeze against her damp skin. Her heavy steps became noticeably lighter, although Calliope would not perceive this herself. After a much needed break, and a bath, Calliope changed into clean attire.

She gathered some of the fresh eggs she had collected this morning before setting out to visit town. While her home was not terribly far away, it was still a considerable walk. Not too long after she began making her way through the crowded streets, a familiar scent floated by. Roasted pheasant, with a hint of honey and a bite of onion. Calliope felt her mouth tingle in anticipation, yet the scent vanished as soon as it arrived. She wandered around the street for some time but she would not find the source of that tantalizing smell. Unable to squash her own expectations, Calliope quickly decided on her evening meal without much thought.

This dish was all too familiar to Calliope. Her late father had cooked this meal many times when she was younger. She had always watched him curiously, following him around the kitchen like a second tail. While it had been a few years since her father last cooked it, Calliope thought it would not be so hard to make this dish from memory. With that in mind, she gathered what change she had brought with her and managed to bargain with the butcher for some pheasant. From the grocer next door, she exchanged her fresh eggs for some barley, and a bit of onion too. With ingredients in both hands, Calliope hurriedly made her way back home.

After she arrived home, she began preparing her anticipated dinner. The pheasant drumsticks were evenly seasoned with salt. After a short search, Calliope also found some garlic to rub onto the meat as well. Her father had always teased her about her taste for garlic, but she knew he liked it even more than herself. After the drumsticks were throughly seasoned, she set them over the fire to roast.

As the pheasant began to cook, Calliope stooped over the counter diligently and brandished a sharp knife. She thought of her father’s hunched back and steady arms, a figure she had seen numerous times throughout her years. A memory so embedded within her it was as if she could almost see him there.

Yet, as she she tried to mimic his actions, Calliope could only poke and slice into her own hands. Quickly enough, her inexperienced fingers became patched with plaster. The ingredients processed by her rough paws were not in any better shape. It would be a reach to call the partially crushed chunks of onion ‘diced’. The barley was just about pulverized under her heavy hands. At the very least, the garlic was mostly intact. She could only hope the flavor would not be ruined.

Further away from the flame, Calliope placed the vegetables in another pan to lightly cook for a short time. She then added the remaining thigh meat from the pheasant to this pan with vegetables, occasionally stirring. As the drumsticks were getting close to being fully cooked, Calliope lightly glazed the pheasant with a layer of honey. Once the skin became crisp, and a sweet aroma danced around her snout, Calliope finally removed both pans from the fire pit. She quickly plated her dinner. The steaming drumsticks sat lopsided atop a mixed pile of cooked veggies and leftover pheasant meats. A crude arrangement, yes, but it was her proudest work yet.

As pulled her chair back, the fragrance of her dinner filled the room. Settling her weight on her seat, she could not wait to dig in. An excitement settled in her bones, a spark that Calliope was not willing to admit. As she brought the hot food to her mouth, she was pleasantly surprised. Despite the less than stellar appearance, her home-cooked meal was palatable. The pheasant was a little dry, but it was already more than she had hoped for. The onion and honey flavors fused harmoniously on her tongue. In that moment Calliope forgot about the itchy welts on her tender skin, her poorly bandaged hands, and her tired eyes that yearned for sleep. She couldn’t help but savor the fruits of her efforts, and fill her belly that clamored for more. It was barely a shadow of her father’s cooking, but all she could think about was his content smile when he sat with her for a meal. Silent tears streaked down her cheeks, soaking the bandages wrapped around her trembling fingers.

Simultaneously, a summer breeze blew outside of the window. The swaying branches of a familiar oak tapped against the window, revealing soft yellow rays. The oak tree that shaded the swing he had swung her from on many summer nights. The same oak tree she had sought shelter from whenever they had a spat. Its branches now parted with the breeze, and the drab kitchen was brightened. Warm light rubbed against her scales as if welcoming a lost friend. Suddenly, nature’s soothing touch pried open her tightening chest. Calliope let out a gasping sob, and for the first time, she felt a glimmer of hope that she could make it through this tough period on her own.

Calliope did not move from her seat that day until the light faded, until the frigid table reminded her of the chilling touch of her father whom laid heavy in his bed that dreadful morning one month ago. Calliope feverently watched the last burning streaks of sun drift beyond the horizon, until her own moist streaks wetting her face had dried. The inexplicable feeling that bothered her all morning finally buried itself deeply in her heart. The setting sun would not wait for her any longer, it was time for her to move on.

~ Mitts