Page 32 of The Verdant Cage
Inhaling raggedly—I’d have had a lot of explaining to do if one of the Tzus had been home—I bustle around the kitchen, tearing open cupboards and wrinkling my nose at the weird smell inside. The tablet has been moved. I’m curious about where it charges and what instructions it needs to raise and lower the Harvest basket, but for now, I’m focused on finding enough stores to scrape together a meal by lunchtime.
Every home is given the same allotment per person: wild rice, rolled oats, fresh fruits and vegetables delivered every Friday by the Crop Farmers depending on the season. Bread, when it was regularly available, was dropped off by the Bakers on Tuesdays and Sundays. Cricket flour and mealworms are delivered by the Insect Farmers on Wednesdays.
The Tzus have shoved their stores into the cupboards with no rhyme or reason. That’s the rotten odor. Carrots gone limp, tomatoes melted into a furry black pile, herbs that’ve become one unrecognizable swamp. What have they been eating? It’s shocking, the waste, but I can’t address that now. I must get food on the stove.
To my great relief, I spot a jar of wild rice, and nearby, a stalk of celery that can be resurrected. The droopy carrots will be fine once they absorb water, and the onions I locate are in good shape. I even find a jar of usable mealworms shoved into the cool space beneath the sink. They’ll add protein and a nutty plumpness to our meal.
First, I scrub my hands with soap and hot water. Then, I set a pot to boiling and use a dusty mortar and pestle to crack the rice before chopping the vegetables, plus the thyme and oregano I’d gathered near the creek. I toss it all into the boiling water alongside the rinsed mealworms.
Then I use a smaller pot to boil a second batch of water for the slippery elm tincture.
My father called this recipe “poop soup” when he taught me how to make it. Once the mixture is strong and dark, I peel and chop my apple, tossing it in to mask the bitterness of the strongest laxative available to us. Then I pour the tincture into the rice pot.
Let the Tzus choke on it.
I pace the kitchen for a few minutes, waiting for them to arrive, before realizing I’m being foolish. I’m alone in the house. There’s no better time to dig back into Mom’s journal.
I take the steps two at a time and fish the notebook out from beneath the mattress, relieved to find it’s still there. I turn to the page where I’ve scribbled the letters I’ve found so far, minus the V-E-X.
That leaves HAROTIS.
I start back at the front of the journal, skimming what I’ve seen so far to confirm the pattern was real. It is, and once I get to the pages I haven’t yet examined, it’s not long until I find the first new error.
The note on mint describes it as having a natural magnetic field capable of attracting metals. Ridiculous. And I barely need to squint to spot the darker letternin mint. I add it to my list. I now have HAROTISN.
My blood starts buzzing. I expect to find more letters quickly, but the next few entries are more obscure, the plants less familiar. Like the entry on pipsissewa that says it should be avoided in treatment of the kidneys, or the one on spikenard that claims it’s a front-line treatment for external fungal infections. Without knowing if these entries are true or not, it’s impossible to guess whether the slight variations in the darkness of certain letters is meant as a clue. My heart sings its grief—if only my mother had had time to finish my training!
That’s when I hear the front door open downstairs.
20
I shove the journal beneath Gryphon’s mattress and race downstairs, lightheaded with worry. The table has been set, the wild rice stew is bubbling, and Jarek is standing in the middle of the kitchen, seeming too large for the space. My automatic response is ingrained so deep it feels like a part of me: get small.
Jarek’s corvid eyes flick to the stove and then to me. “Within the Wall,” he says. And then, “It smells good.”
I nod so abruptly it feels like a spasm. I’ve never been alone with the man. He’s tall, over six feet, lean and sinewy. His work outdoors has tanned his skin. He appears to be in good health, if not spirits, but there’s something unsettling about the way he holds himself taut, only moving his eyes.
“Don’t look so scared of me, child. I won’t bite.” When he smiles, the sharpness of his incisors belies his words. “Serve me some of that stew. It’s been long enough since I’ve eaten a good meal under this roof.”
The children of the Wall are all taught to cook, preserve food, and keep house. If none of the Tzus are doing a good job of it, it’s by choice, not ignorance. I turn to the stove and ladle him a hearty serving. A whisper of worry tells me I shouldn’t have added the laxative to the congee. It was petty and, worse, could put me in danger. Besides, it won’t replace Wendy’s finger.
“You’re as slow as a pregnant sheep, girl,” he says. “Serve me now.”
Just like that, my worry vanishes. I set the heaping bowl onto the table. “May there always be more.”
He drops into a chair. The room’s quiet except for the click and slurp of him shoveling congee into his gob like someone’s about to steal it away. I turn to fumble at the stove, wishing that courtesy didn’t dictate inhabitants of a home eat meals together when they’re not working.
While I stall, thoughts of Jonas enter my head. Jarek hadn’t even known my twin. He’d sentenced him to death atop the Wall without a second thought. I eye the knife at his belt and think of the deer I gutted earlier today. How fast would I have to move to grab that blade from its sheath and plunge it into Jarek’s throat?
Rose!I startle myself.
“Is this apple?” Jarek holds a chunk of it up to the light trickling in through the window.
I twitch, horrified at my thoughts. “It is.” I swallow wrong and begin coughing. “I found one lying on the ground. Didn’t want to waste the sweet flavor.”
When his eyes slide to me, I hold my tongue. I’m telling the truth.
Jarek shifts abruptly. Is the slippery elm already working? But then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square of gray cloth no larger than the palm of his hand.
