by Pete Prown
* * *
An hour later, Wyll was busily cooking venison stew for their supper. Orli had cleaned and dressed the doe and handed the haunches and flank meat to his friend to cook near a stream. With a few herbs he recognized and root vegetables they’d found over the past day, Wyll was creating a gently bubbling feast, while he laid the rest of the doe’s flesh on surrounding hot rocks to cook and dry; this, he’d store for them to eat over the next day or two. Theirs was a journey of both walking and constantly looking for their next meal—both were crucial to reaching their goal.
“This is fine food, Wyll. Where did you learn to cook so well?”
“I don’t know; I suppose just from watching Uncle Dorro,” said the sandy-haired boy with pride. “He loves to eat—actually, he loves anything to do with food—so it’s fun to watch him in his kitchen. Dorro doesn’t think about what he’s doing or use any recipes; he just knows what flavors go together.”
“Any band of Dwarf hunters would be proud to have you in their ranks,” continued Orli. “We can cook, but not like this. You picked herbs from the ground, and they gave birth to such wondrous flavors. That’s like magic to us.”
“It’s not hard; you just have to know what you’re picking. That’s thyme and sage in this stew, along with those tuber roots you found—they’re like little turnips when you cook ’em.”
“We should sleep soon.” Orli was looking at the setting sky intently. “Tomorrow, the landscape will become considerably rockier and harder to traverse. There may be rain, too; we’ve been lucky so far. Is there enough venison to last us for two days? There won’t be any fires or fresh meat if it showers upon us.”
“It will be close, but we should make it.”
“Fine. Let’s clean up and rest,” said Orli. “I want to move on from these grounds. We’re far too exposed for my liking—that is another trick my father taught me.”