The Redwood Palace

by M K Hutchins

  “Plum cooks when she’s stressed or sorrowing. It’s good for her,” Father defended me. I whispered a silent prayer of thanks. He understood.

  “Maybe you should take note then that all she does is cook. Ancestors above, I told her I was mad about my post and you know what she suggested to make it all better? Come with her to Clamsriver and watch some cooking!”

  I winced.

  “She’s naïve and dull and it’s cruel of you to throw her to some other family when she’s obviously not ready to get married,” Dami continued.

  I closed my eyes tight. This is why I needed to—had to—marry a chef. Some other man might speak about me the way Dami did now. Find my skill and my dedication unseemly instead of admirable.

  “Your mother spent today packing your things for your trip to the palace. You should thank her. You leave in the morning,” Father said. “I know you don’t believe me, but I do hope that your time there goes well.”

  “You mean you hope I’ll marry well so me and my husband can come back and take care of you when you’re as old and delusional as Grandma was.”

  She shouldn’t say things like that about Nana.

  “Sorrel’s a first son. He can’t leave his parents’ home for this one. A second or third son would be lucky to marry you and inherit this house. You have great prospects, and yet you deride us for putting you in the position to make the most of them,” Father chided.

  “Yes, you put me in this position!”

  Mother cut in. “Perhaps we should all go to sleep,” she said. “I feel our conversation is not at its best with the day fading away.”

  Dami stomped out.

  I rolled back onto my pillow. Dami was leaving tomorrow. How had I not realized that? We had little time to reconcile, especially when we understood each other so poorly. I’d tried to cheer her and made her furious. She’d bluntly defended me to our parents, but it wasn’t a defense I wanted.

  I listened to her hang up her skirt, then sit on the mattress next to me.

  “Dami?” I began.

  “Shut your annoying face. I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Fine!” I snapped. “I don’t want to talk to you, either!”

  She sat, silently brooding. I rolled away from her and hogged the covers around myself.

  I never did hear her lay down. When I woke, my feet were cold and weak morning light glowed through our fabric-backed lattice window. Perhaps Mother was right—perhaps we could talk better in the morning. Our last morning together.

  I rolled over to see if Dami was still sleep. On her pillow lay her shorn-off braid. The rest of her was gone.

  As I stared at her hair, cold foreboding prickled my skin. Had she cut her own hair, or had someone done that to her?

  Her sandals were gone, but her skirt lay crumpled on the floor. Her dress, too. Without a person in it, it was a just a rectangle, woven and sewn to the proper width for the shoulder seams to drape to yellow-ranked length. Usually Dami and I helped each other with our skirts in the morning, so the dress fabric hung the right way over each other’s waistband.

  I hastily knotted on my skirt, skipped folding up my mattress, and jogged to the kitchens, hoping Father was already up. My mouth tasted stale and sour. How could I tell him his daughter was missing?

  The kitchen was empty. The counters lay clean, bare, unused. The clay crocks sat neatly on their shelves, next to the knives and four well-oiled maple cutting boards. The brick hearth held only ashes.

  I headed to my parent’s room. Their door—a wooden lattice backed with fabric—did little to muffle their voices.

  “... find Dami?” Mother asked.

  “I don’t know. But I have to try.”

  Eavesdropping made my ears burn. I knocked.

  The door slid open. Father stepped out, scuffed traveling boots tucked under his arm. His skin hung a decade older on his face, flabby and lifeless as duck skin peeled from its carcass. He opened his mouth to say something, then gave up and sighed.

  Mother still sat on her mattress, one hand pressed to her back.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Father shifted his grip on the boots. “When I woke this morning, someone had rummaged through my things and stolen my spare clothes. Then I peeked into your room and saw Dami’s hair. I have to go look for her. I don’t know what trouble she’s gotten into now.”

  Cut hair. Men’s clothes. My stomach sank. “I do.”

  Mother and Father stared at me.

  “Yesterday... yesterday she talked about how she should have been a soldier. I think she’s run off to join the army.”

  Mother stared. “Dami wouldn’t be so reckless.”

  But her protests rang hollow. Dami was exactly that reckless.

  “I have to stop her before she reaches Meadowind,” Father said. Meadowind hosted our nearest recruitment camp. He hurried past me, accidently knocking me against the wall. Father didn’t notice, didn’t apologize.

  Mother groaned and twisted on her mattress. I knelt by her side and tucked pillows under her back. “Stay calm, Mother. You’ll make yourself ill.”

  “Don’t you know what could happen if Dami joins the army?”

  Of course I did. Lying to officers during war was treason. They’d hang her for pretending to be a boy. I couldn’t say anything to blunt that reality. I fetched Mother’s brush and combed her hair in long, smooth strokes, then braided it into a simple knot at the base of her head.

  She relaxed slightly. She tried to rise, but I waved a hand. “I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry. You’ll feel better after breakfast.”

  “Ah, Plum.” She squeezed my hand. “Thank you.”

  I left her to haul in wood and build up the coals. As I worked, I whispered a small prayer to our Ancestors. Let us be wrong. Let Dami be doing something else, something less foolish.

  I got the tinder flaming, then added the wood piece by piece. Father would return with Dami. All would be well. I should just cook for Mother.

  I mulled over the four basic tastes. Spicy to enhance perception. Salty to encourage agility. Sour to bring strength. Sweet to provide endurance. Regardless of the prominent flavor, a dish became more potent when balanced and backed up by the other flavors—even the subtle natural saltiness of celery or a sour note of chopped dandelion greens. Wildly unbalanced, one-note dishes could actually harm the body

  Mother suffered physical pain and heartsickness. Sour would dull the pain; sweet would ease her heartache. I couldn’t harvest more rhubarb without hurting the plant, the asparagus wasn’t ready to harvest, and we were out of dried lobster mushrooms. I’d have to settle for targeting her torso and muscles—rutabagas and dried apricots would work well enough.

  I needed something for her soul, too. Using beets might make the dish too sweet, but Father had given away the last of our hazelnuts, so I’d just have to season carefully.

  I fetched what I needed from the cellar, then washed everything thoroughly. I wasn’t about to let a bit of dirt flatten the dish. I nestled the beets in the coals, then put a few moon-yellow slivers of rutabaga and strips of dried apricots into a small crock with a splash of brine from the bottom of a jar of pickled fennel. After that, I put on a crock of buckwheat. We’d need it for lunch and supper.

  With everything cooking, I tromped down to the well and back several times, bringing in today’s water.

  By then the beets had fully roasted. I fished them out and rubbed them all over with a towel to remove the skin and reveal the gem-like interior. I sliced them into rounds, then fanned them prettily on a glazed plate. For some kinds of meals, presentation wasn’t crucial, but the eyes feed the soul, too. I dipped a spoon into the crock with the rutabagas and apricots. Sweet and tangy—and the rutabagas were meltingly soft. I added a pinch of salt to bring out the flavors. I tasted again. Perfect. But sweet-and-sour rhubarb with chopped hazelnuts would have been better. I sighed. Sorrel probably had abundant rhubarb in his greenhouse already.

  I pour
ed the apricot-rutabaga stew over the beets and took it to Mother.

  She’d curled onto her side, not moving at all. She had to be in horrible pain.

  I gave her the plate.

  “It’s lovely, little blossom.” A shaky smile touched her lips. She ate. Almost at once she stopped quivering. When she finished, she stood without so much as a grunt.

  “Mother.” I gave her a stern look. “You’ll hurt worse tomorrow if you run around today. Do you want me to butcher your rhubarb plants trying to take care of you?”

  She laughed, a happy sound, almost like a simmering crock. “Scolding your elders! You sound like your nana, you know.”

  Just hearing someone mention her left my insides hollow. Good food promoted longevity, but no amount of cooking could bring back the dead. “You should be a good child then,” I replied. “Rest.”

  “I’ll just take a little look around the garden.”

  She’d immobilize herself before lunch. “How about I fetch the mending for you?”

  Mother shrugged but didn’t protest. I sat and worked with her. Occasionally, her stitches faltered. Her brow pinched. Dami, Father, the recruitment camp at Meadowind. Sweet beets weren’t stronger than a mother’s worry.

  I bit my lip and tried not to mirror her expressions. Should I have said something different yesterday? Or warned my parents of Dami’s soldier-talk? I didn’t think she’d actually risk her life and toss an enormous debt on her father.

  I told Mother cheerful stories about Amari’s children to pass the time. Mother laughed, but the sound died too quickly into silence. I couldn’t make either of us stop glancing at the door for signs of Father.

  After an hour, I checked on the buckwheat. A tad overcooked, but still good. My aching stomach reminded me I’d skipped breakfast. I dished up a bowl, then scraped the rest into a basin to cool slightly. Buckwheat doesn’t target any part of the body, but it would give me sustenance.

  The daily task of making buckwheat branches was unnervingly normal—unlike everything else today. I mashed the grains, then shaped them around skewers and grilled them over hot coals. The insides stayed chewy, but the outsides crisped. Buckwheat branches were easy to haul around—the standard lunch of working people. Any leftovers could be softened in the evening hotpot.

  I laid all my pretty branches in a basket, covered them with a towel, and returned to Mother’s side. Every creak of wood or whisper of wind made us jump. We laughed nervously at each other, like we didn’t know who the other was listening for.

  Let them both come back safe, I prayed.

  Lonely old Hifal came around noon, wondering why we hadn’t been by to treat his cough. I cooked him a quick bite, made polite apologies about Father and some important business, then saw him to the road. Today was not a day for visitors.

  I’d begun a dipping sauce for the branches for lunch when Father arrived. Mother and I both ran to greet him in the hall. He’d left his boots on the porch, but somehow, he still trailed mud inside. I winced at the mess—I’d have to handle that quickly or Mother would get to it—but my stomach turned to stone when I saw his face: gray and limp. Like his words. “I can’t help her.”

  “You found Dami?” Mother asked.

  Father nodded. He trudged into his room and slumped against the wall. “She was already inside the camp, in uniform, drilling. There’s nothing we can do for her.”

  Mother tried to hide her sob behind her hands. Her mending lay crumpled, forgotten on the floor. I stared at Father, feeling hollow inside, waiting for different words to come out of his mouth.

  Dami would die on the battlefield, or she’d die when someone uncovered her treason.

  Father’s voice sounded as empty as I felt. “Dami’s supposed to report to the palace in seven days.”

  The issue of the back-taxes hung thick in the air—taxes we didn’t have the amber to pay. My throat tightened. Did Dami think she lived alone in this world? That her actions affected no one else? “We’ll have to take out a loan from the officials in Meadowind,” I said. “We’ll have to start charging the villagers. Eventually...”

  Mother shook her head and the words died on my lips. Father looked like old dishwashing water.

  “Clamsriver is poor, Plum,” Mother said. “I know you smell the good hotpots simmering on their hearths, but this war has cost them. Do you know how high the tax rate has soared these past three years?”

  “N-not exactly.”

  “We have more to pay back than Clamsriver can give. They’d loan us a blanket if we needed it, but they don’t have amber to spare.”

  “Then... maybe we should tell the palace that Dami died.” The words tasted tart on my tongue. It could be true all too soon.

  Mother sadly shook her head. “We’d still owe the taxes. King Alder is already persuading the Purple-Blue Council to change the exemption for being on the list at all. No one expected a three-year wait... but with the war dragging on, servants are staying much longer than their mandatory two years.”

  Father squeezed Mother’s hand, his eyes apologetic. “We’ll have to sell the house.”

  My insides wobbled. This land, where our Ancestors’ ashes lay?

  “If we can find someone to sell it to,” Mother said. The common, orange-ranked citizens of Clamsriver couldn’t own a building of yellow-ranked size. “Perhaps we can convince a wealthy official to buy it as a hunting lodge.”

  A hunting lodge, empty most of the year. An official wouldn’t care for my nana, anyway. She’d be left to wander this world as a Hungry Ghost. “And where will you live?”

  “Hifal has room and he’d enjoy the company,” Father said. Two of Hifal’s sons died in the war; their widows had returned to their own villages. “We’ll have to put up a good face until after your official engagement, Plum. You’ll be comfortable, at least.”

  I didn’t want to be comfortable while my parents and Ancestors suffered. I bit my lip. “Sorrel’s father... might he buy our house? His younger sons might want their own home.”

  A brother-in-law might care for my Ancestors.

  “Chef Yarrow is one of the best chefs in Rowak, but what little wealth he has, he’s poured into his library and greenhouses. If he were a richer, more ambitious man, he wouldn’t have accepted a yellow-ranked woman for a daughter-in-law.”

  Even though Father spoke in a listless monotone, the words stung.

  Mother cut in, voice soft. “We have to tell the Royal House that Dami died. If they’re insulted she abandoned her post, we could be demoted to Orange-rank.”

  An orange-ranked citizen couldn’t hold the post Father had. He’d lose his work, his salary. And he wouldn’t be permitted to own this house, either. Nausea coursed through me.

  Father’s face drooped. “You’re right. We’ll draft a letter informing them of her death and sell the house. Quickly.”

  Mother nodded, the matter settled. Before I could stop her, she started scrubbing furiously at the mud, as if that could sap her grief away.

  Nana left to wander as a Hungry Ghost. My parents homeless.

  “Won’t the villagers ask about Dami? Where she went?” I asked.

  Father paused; he hadn’t considered that.

  “If we say she died, they’ll wonder why we didn’t invite them all to the funeral. There will be questions. Especially since there’s no body.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll come up with an excuse.”

  “You think you’ll be able to keep Hifal from sniffing out the truth if you’re living with him?” I asked.

  They glanced at each other and frowned.

  I swallowed hard. I couldn’t let Nana starve. “What if... Dami fulfilled her two years at the palace, anyway?”

  Father couldn’t meet my eyes. “She can’t leave the training compound, little blossom. Her supervisors would notice.”

  “I know that.” I felt like I’d eaten a basket of bad mushrooms. “But there’s still a way.”

  I read and re-read my acceptance le
tter. Penned by an actual former Master Chef, accepting me as a fellow cook. Sorrel and I were supposed to marry come summer, when the valerian flowers bloomed pale pink all through the meadows. His name danced like poetry on the page. A greenhouse with strawberries all year round. A library of recipes. Instruction from his incredibly talented father. A chef for a husband, a man who might love me as unconditionally as Nana had—not because we shared blood, but because we shared the name of chef.

  If I already had all the skills I’d learn there, maybe Nana would still be alive.

  I tore the letter into tiny pieces, my chest ready to crack like an unseasoned crock over hot coals. Per my instructions, Father had already written a letter to Sorrel’s family, informing them that I’d rejected the proposal. I wouldn’t be here in two weeks for the formal engagement and I couldn’t delay for two years without arousing suspicions. My parents would tell anyone who asked that I was visiting my mother’s relations. They lived nearly a weeks’ journey away, on the northern border.

  In the morning, I’d leave. Not for any relative’s, but for the Redwood Palace. No one there had met Dami. I’d pass for her well enough, I hoped.

  I’d always been the responsible one. I’d always tried to keep Dami out of trouble. Today, preserving her life meant giving up mine.

  I let the bits of paper fall and scatter on the floor.

  Father insisted on cooking me something besides buckwheat for breakfast before I left for the palace. He wouldn’t let me help, either. He started by cleaning a basket of clams.

  “How early did you get up this morning?” I asked. Digging for clams took time.

  His weary smile belonged to a man two decades older. “Couldn’t sleep. I figured you’d need a good meal.”

  Since clams are eaten whole, they target the entire body. They’re no good for specific problems—say, swollen ankles or an upset stomach—but they’re perfect for a healthy person starting a journey.

  I still loved watching him work. He nestled a crock in the coals, then added wine, green garlic, and the clams. Father fussed over the pot, adding salt and a touch of maple syrup. Balancing spicy, salty, sour, and sweet perfectly would center my soul and grant me perception, agility, strength, and endurance.