Twelve days was a long time to spend doing nothing. Even with Sam getting up everyday, cooking, cleaning, and talking with Ebahra the days felt so slow compared to his normal life. Back home there were distractions around every corner to keep his mind idle and not worried about how shit it was living that way.
He always wondered what life on a farm was like. When he was still a kid he went on a field trip to a vegetable farm and got to eat fresh food out of the ground. They gave him a strawberry from the owner's personal strawberry patch he grew out in front of his house, it was one of the sweetest, juiciest things he ever ate. Even now as an adult that memory came back to him easily.
Now Sam was on a farm, not in a world he knew but still a farm. Outside Khomu began hauling empty buckets to a river for watering their crops while Ebahra was working on weaving thread into cloth. She said it was for a new shawl since Khomu’s had gotten dirty the other day.
That left Sam alone for the morning to prepare a meal for the evening once the first chores were done. Luckily Khomu told him they had meat ready to use so he could make a filling meal. He left Sam standing by a pen.
There was a chicken strutting around with a bit of red string tied to its leg.
This is the meat? Crap. Khomu expected him to slaughter and prepare a live chicken on his own. That made enough sense from the old man’s perspective, from their conversations Sam learned that Lawashar had been a big animal farm. Every soul on that land had to learn to raise, care for, and kill animals for food and goods. Now that Sahmat was up and able to walk he was expected to be able to kill a chicken and cook it. He was fucked.
“How the fuck do I do this?” He asked aloud to no one, just frustrated with himself. There was a time early in his culinary school that the students learned to kill and prepare live fish. The next week it was chicken, though they had a group of three to do it.
The phrase ‘a chicken with its head cut off’ wasn’t completely a joke. After one of his group chopped the head off the little monster thrashed around and popped out of Sam’s hands and started running around, slamming into a gate and flailing all around the yard spraying blood on several students' legs. He didn’t eat chicken for months after that incident.
Standing there just staring at the feathery creature Sam felt a bit odd. Even in this world they looked a bit weird to him. Beady little eyes, beak, that flapping wattle beneath the beak, and sharp claws of the skinny feet.
This particular bird had dark brown, almost orange, feathers from head to ass with a little tuft of black on the rear. Khomu told him it was a rooster, their last hatching had a few too many males so they were needing to cut down on them. So the task of getting rid of the first was given to Sam. Great. He groaned a bit.
Armed with the small machete in a pouch on his sash he stepped into the pen. The animals remained in a barn, ushered in by Khomu earlier in the morning, leaving just the singular bird. “Alright little guy, just come quietly and I’ll make it quick.” He spoke to the animal as he inched closer.
The chicken’s tiny head bobbed a bit then turned to him, beady little eye staring, unblinking right at him. Sam leaned in, stepping forward. The chicken responded by stepping to the side and clucking once. For some reason he felt like it was egging him on, little asshole.
Another step closer it would step or bound away. Well, no use trying to be subtle. Sam took in a breath and stepped quickly now, lunging down for the bird. It broke into a sprint, kicking up small clumps of dirt as it ran across the pen.
He chased after it, running in circles and zig zags all around the pen. The little beast was crafty, every time he lunged one way it ducked and sped off in the other direction. Any time he tried to drive it to a corner it slipped around him or between his legs. After only a couple minutes of running he started to feel winded. Damn this fat gut. Bard couldn’t have at least carved out some when he stabbed me.
The pain in his stomach was aching, radiating through his core. The stab wound had almost completely healed and the stitches were taken out last night. Now he just felt the familiar burn of exercise. Well, not too familiar.
He stopped, hunching over and breathing heavily. Sweat started to bead on his forehead as the sun crawled overhead. There was still plenty of time until noon and the afternoon meal. He was going to strangle and cook this chicken at all costs.
A fire lit under his ass and he clenched his hands into tight balls. He took in a sharp breath and scooched himself across the ground closer to the soon to be lunch. It raised a leg up, getting ready to dodge. He took the chance.
Sam leapt forward and sprinted, only the balls of his feet hitting the ground and rolling off to push him forward. The chicken let out a loud SQUAK! Then it ran on those little feet.
It rounded him on the right side. He swung out his arm trying to catch its leg. The little monster jumped over his hand, flapping its wings. He missed.
The force of his lunge carried him forward against his will and he ended up face first in the ground, a small burning sensation crawling across his cheek. He coughed and rolled over, facing the sky and staring up. With a gentle finger he prodded his own cheek, it felt a bit scratched up but nothing too bad. “I’m losing a fight to a fucking bird… this has got to be a sick joke.” With a long sigh he rolled onto his side and pulled himself up onto his feet.
He looked over at the beady eyed fucking monster at the other end of the pen and growled a bit in frustration. Sam scrambled to sprint over at it. Again and again it dodged his grabs and lunges. Again and again he missed. Sweat dripped down to his chin now, his lungs burned with every breath, his legs felt weaker with every long stride and step.
Maybe half an hour had gone by and he still hadn’t gotten any closer to lunch being done. He stared at the bird, strutting and pecking at the ground. The pain in his stomach was quickly being replaced with hunger. It had been a long time since he put in this much work for… well anything.
His mind wandered back to those days in class, to the farm and slaughterhouse they went to for the lesson. How did the farmers catch chickens? Well, their birds were all in small boxes so it was easy for them to pluck one out of a cage and toss it in a machine. But he remembered something else.
One of the tour guides mentioned using food to lure the birds in specific places, getting behind them, and grabbing them by the feet. Sam turned and looked for something he could use. On the wall of the barn was a bag.
He ignored the chicken for now and strode over to the bag hanging from a hook near the large doors. Inside he felt many small bits of grain. Chickens ate grain right?
Sam shoved a hand into the bag and pulled out a handful of what looked like barley. It had an earthy smell to it, the grains each about as long as his nail. He turned his head over and saw the chicken watching him. This was it.
Shaking his hand in a closed fist let just a few of the grains spill out. As they fell to the ground the bird came over and began pecking at the grain and eating them up. Soon Sam dropped a small pile of barley in one spot. The rooster pecked eagerly at the small mound and focused entirely on its meal, ignoring the fact it was right at his feet. Stupid animal.
He made sure not to be too quick. Slowly, carefully, he leaned down. He leaned down so slowly he felt more snail than human at that moment. Every inch was deliberate, not a single sudden movement.
Before he realized it he was half bent over. His hand could shoot out and grab the damned thing by its feet and snap that stupid little neck. But he was patient. If he screwed this up he’d have fucked up lunch, and besides making a fool of himself to Khomu and Ebahra he was hungry.
Down. Down. Little by little. Soon enough he was basically squatting down beside the beak faced monster. It was almost done with the meal. He had to move.
Now.
His hand shot out like a compressed spring. Fingers open like a claw. He went right for the feet. The loud clucks and cries from the chicken came as he stood, making it dangle in the air.
“FUCK YEAH! HAH!” He gloated at the bird and grinned like an idiot from ear to ear. “I GOT YOU! SUCK ON THAT!” The cheers and hollers came out easily, it took him a while to notice Khomu just across the field staring at him. The man was sweating so much he glistened in the early afternoon sun.
He turned and looked at the chicken, still flapping wildly in his grasp. There was still plenty of work to do, this was only step one.
“Alright fellah, let's get this over with.” He walked to a wooden table set against the home and pulled the bird onto it, trying to lay it onto its side. It still struggled and flailed, desperate to get away. It’s beady eye staring up at him, almost as if pleading for him to not eat it. “Sorry, not gonna happen.” With his free hand he reached to his sash and pulled the knife out.
No use in thinking too much about it. If he over thought then he’d hesitate and not want to do it. Pull out the knife and just… He raised the blade up and swung down, the blade cleaving through the small neck and hitting against the wood with a THUMP.
The head popped off, blood squirted out, and the body flopped around. Sam quickly let go of the knife and pressed down on the body to keep it from struggling too much. The small body bucked and struggled still even without the head. Why were chickens so fucking creepy!?
He remembered that a chicken could keep moving for a while after decapitating them. Shit. Was there anything he could use to throw it in? He scanned around the pen, and found a large empty bucket sitting beside the table. In one quick motion he lifted the dead body up and threw it down into the wooden vessel.
Inside it still sprayed blood and flopped around, almost jumping out of the bucket. He had to cover it with something. Sam marched around the pen and looked all around. He needed something, anything. A plank of wood? A flat stone? Then he finally found a large, wide piece of wood and some bricks under the table. He hated how easily he missed them initially.
With quickend hands he covered the bucket and shoved two bricks on top. The bucket still nudged a bit to the sides but it seemed secure enough with the heavy stone on top now. Finally, he managed to kill the chicken.
Slowly a smile creeped over his face and he slapped a hand to his forehead. The first fight in this world, the first kill he made, was against a chicken. A fucking bird.
“Bard, what kind of fucking weird shithole did you send me to?” It wasn’t a shithole, not in the least. But his situation was. He was a fat, dumb, regular guy in a world he didn’t know. He couldn’t even kill a chicken without doing a full workout trying to just catch the thing.
Sam was quite simply not suited to this life. But, maybe Sahmat can be. That man would’ve been slaughtering chickens and skinning animals all his life, Sahmat was a farm kid, grew up in Lawashar with a rough and tough father that had been doing this sort of work all his life and made sure his son knew it too. Sahmat butchered a chicken as soon as he was big enough to hold the knife, and was feeding cows and pigs at the same time. He knew how to handle an animal and what to do for cleaning, curing, smoking, grilling and every sort of way to cook up meat.
Just be that man.
He groaned a bit as he waited for the bucket to stop moving, watching Khomu in the distance as he got to taking the animals out for a daily walk. Apparently it was good for them to get a little exercise each day, kept the blood flowing and the fat from sitting in them. If only the chicken had been on a leash he might not have embarrassed himself as much today. Even still, only a few minutes after the ridiculous display, he smiled and laughed a bit at himself for it.
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It was good to laugh at yourself, made it hard for others to do it first. That’s what Sam always believed, and for the most part it worked. Wear your insecurities on your sleeve and no one could use them against you.
Make people laugh, put up a shell of jokes and a tough face and no one could fight you. It was simple. Just keep on making jokes about yourself and you’d be invincible. But that wasn’t all true. For all the jokes and jabs at his gut he did still despise the fact he could never stick to a diet, go working out regularly, or feel comfortable without baggy clothes.
Oddly enough, from what he saw, baggy clothes were the norm here. The tunic-like shirt Bard put him in and the new one Ebahra made hung off his shoulders, the pants left plenty of legroom and were tied at the waist rather than the hips. His feet did need to get used to being on bare ground. Ebahra wore sandals but Khomu opted to go barefoot, that was probably the normal thing for men and women here.
Every question he had in his mind he carefully weighed how odd it would be for a native to ask. If he questioned something that everyone else just knew then it’d stand out. Bard’s warning about letting people know about him being from another world still rang around in his head.
What exactly would happen if they found out?
While he was curious, however, he was even more cautious. He’d wait until the asshole showed up again to ask about that. For now there was food that needed cooking and this would be the first fresh meat he’d have in weeks.
The soups and stew Ebahra made were good, but they did mostly consist of vegetables and broth. Apparently they’d gone through their dried meat during last winter, what they called ‘Thavir’ or the cold storm, and now they only had dried fruits and veg. He craved meat.
Thump.
He looked over at the bucket, now barely moving at all, and grinned. I’m gonna enjoy eating you, little fuck. The time for cooking was upon him. Sam pretended to be Sahmat and lifted up the stones weighing down the board that covered the bucket then the board itself. Small patches of fresh blood stained the side that was faced down, but the inside looked like hell. The walls of the bucket were coated in blood, now pooling at the bottom, the chickens feathers were painted with large swathes of the red liquid.
Part of him wondered if he did something wrong. Okay, killing the chicken was step one. What’s next Sam? He stared at it a while, focusing on the feathers. They were drenched at this point, sitting in a pool of its own blood. He would have to wash it off right? No. He had to boil it.
You didn’t eat the feathers, you had to pluck them. His mother once talked about being on a farm in the old country and when she killed chickens she would dunk the body in hot almost-boiling water. Sam picked up the whole bucket and walked back around the house, going inside to see Ebahra fanning the flames of the hearth, a large stone bowl set over the fire.
“You were taking a bit to kill the rooster so I thought I’d get the water ready for you.” Apparently boiling chickens was common knowledge.
He smiled and walked in, pulling the dead bird from the bucket. “Sorry, I guess I’m still getting my strength back.” Sam forced out a smile and walked over to the stone pot, lowering the chicken in, holding it by the feet. He couldn’t boil it too much, he just needed the skin to loosen up so the feathers came loose.
Tendrils of steam rose up from the water and snaked around his hand, the water turned a murky dark red, almost black from the blood. Just a minute should be enough to start plucking.
Once he was sure the chicken had been sitting in the water for long enough he swished it around, shaking off some blood stuck to the feathers. He laid it out on the counter and began pulling the feathers out in small bunches. His fingers gripped a small bundle of four or five, wiggled them up and down, then pulled back, releasing the feathers from the flesh.
Soon enough he was left with the carcass of a defeathered chicken. Not bad progress. Now he had to… Carve and gut the body.
Using the knife he made long cuts down the sides of the spine, pulling it out and butterflying the bird. Then he began scraping out the gizzards and waste, cutting around joints and separating the white and dark meat. While he cut the bird into pieces he wondered how he should cook the animal.
I’d kill for some fried chicken. Crispy fried batter around juicy meat, spices mixed right into it all. Maybe even marinated meat. Unfortunately he didn’t see nearly enough oil or fat in the pantry to accommodate that kind of cooking.
He settled on something that would be quick, and filling. A chicken and egg bowl. “Ebahra, sorry to bother you but, can you make some rice?”
“Of course, I’ll get that started.” As the kind elderly woman retrieved a clay pot and rice from the pantry he got to work. They still had a handful of eggs left and he discovered a fermented sauce not unlike soy. Khomu had called it ‘Doyur’ and it had that deep, salty umami taste of something between soy and fish sauce.
He grabbed the thin clay bottle of doyur, his metal cooking pan that was just a concave sheet of metal, then walked back into the kitchen. He set everything out neatly and began slicing into the meat away from the bone. Before cutting he tapped the knife on the counter twice and cut the meat into chunks about the size of his top section of thumb. A nice bite sized piece. Next were the onions, a sweet yellow onion would’ve been better for this but he had to make due with the reds. He sliced them into half-rings and threw them into a prepared pan with some of the ghee, putting his knife in a sheathe Ebahra made for him hooked onto his waist sash.
The onions cooked with a strong aroma as they kissed the pan. He used the wooden spoon to stir them, then once there was a nice bit of brown on them he tossed in the chicken meat. The smell of meat hit his nose and Sam wanted to eat so much he nearly thought of trying it while still raw.
He pushed down the hunger and continued his cooking, the meat cooked quickly enough since it was all in small pieces so he worked on the eggs. In a bowl he cracked the last four eggs they had and poured in the doyur. He mixed the dark liquid in with the beaten eggs until it made a dark brownish-yellow color almost like clay. Ebahra glanced over once or twice, probably confused by what he was doing, but by now she trusted that he could cook.
Once the meat was cooked all the way through he poured in the egg mix. With a quick hand he stirred it around in the bowl and then immediately pulled the pan off the fire, using a thick cloth to hold the edges. He watched as the eggs slowly cooked on top of the chicken itself, the warmed sauce throwing up waves of rich aroma.
“Oh my, that smells wonderful, Sahmat!” Ebahra walked over and sniffed the air around the pan. “It smells like the sea on a warm day, so salty.”
He nodded and let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, warming up the doyur makes it taste even richer, and thickens it so it sticks to the meat and eggs. How’s the rice?”
“It should be ready in just a minute.” She stepped over to the clay pot and grabbed the lid with her dress and peeked inside. “Almost ready. I can’t wait to try more of your cooking.” She smiled over at him like an excited child. His food must be good to get that kind of reaction from her.
The two of them had been alone on the farm for the better part of a year now. He learned that occasionally they’d go into the village but it took them some hours of walking just to get there. Having someone on the farm to help around and talk to must have been nice for them ever since their children all left.
From what he could tell their kids all had their own interest they sought after. Khomu and Ebahra had four children; Ebaali, the oldest son, worked as a merchant selling spices all over the region. Rasvalan, their oldest daughter, was married and moved to a farm far away. They hadn’t seen her in many years. Then there was Khomuran, the second son, who worked as a carpenter in the village Hradar not too far away but he often went to work in other farms and villages. Lastly was the daughter Khamara. She apparently left to a large city to be a warrior of some kind.
Now it was just Khomu and Ebahra on the farm. They must have gotten lonely and when Sam showed up in need of help at their door they were all too ready to give it. Maybe it was the religion of the area, or just common courtesy, but he was glad they were there to help him.
Not long after the rice finished Khomu walked in, rolling his arms and rubbing his legs after a day of labor. Oddly enough he barely had a single bead of sweat on his face, just a couple at the temples. “Something smells good! What have you made today, Sahm!?” The old man spoke with glee in his gruff voice even after working.
“Chicken and eggs. Come, sit and eat. You’ve been working hard all day.” He helped set out bowls with Ebahra. They said the hymn of Vridan, with Ebahra leading this time, and dug in.
They had no utensils besides the large cooking ones as far as Sam saw. So eating with your hands was the norm. He tore off a bit of the chicken and egg mix, got a clump of hot rice in hand, then shoved the mixture in his mouth. Warm, savory eggs. Hot, lightly browned chicken meat. Sweet and crunchy bits of onion. It was delicious.
Sam didn’t cry at his cooking, but he did feel elation in his chest with every bite. From the way the other two eagerly devoured the meal, so did they.
“Mmmm it’s so, I don’t even know the word.” Khomu made little discs of rice on his fingers, then used it like a piece of bread to pick up the food. Sam mimicked the action and found it much easier than trying to hold onto the wet food. The man was some kind of genius.
“It’s wonderful, Sahmat. Cooking must be your passion with it being so good.” Ebahra often spoke of the passions. Sam heard Bard talk about a god called ‘Passion’ but he wasn’t sure if they were the same thing. The way the two of them spoke of it, it seemed as though it was more than hobbies.
“How do I know if it is?” Sam let the words come out, not really thinking.
“Well, have you ever had a flair?” Ebahra leaned over and looked at him.
“A what?”
She just smiled and ate a bit more food. “It is a… eruption. Within yourself. Here let me show you.” With that she stood from her seat, cleaning her hands on a towel and went to the corner of the room where she often worked on weaving.
She picked up an orange colored shawl, the one she had been working on for Khomu, then placed it around his neck, wrapping it around him and making a hood for his head.
“Isn’t this for Khomu?” He asked as he stared up at her.
Ebahra just smiled and let out a soft laugh. “No, silly boy. I was making it for you.”
For him? He looked down at the cloth. She made this, just for me? He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him a gift. A warm bit of red crawled across his cheeks. “Really… thank you Ebahra.” He turned to look at her, the woman had a glow to her skin now.
She shone a bit, even in the covered home with only light coming from two slotted windows. It was like she was her own sun, standing there.
“Wh… what’s happening to you?”
“This is a flair, Sahmat. Surely you’ve seen it at least once or twice back in Lawashar? Or seen how Khomu is when he’s working.”
He turned to Khomu and thought back to when he saw him in the field. The man wasn’t sweating from work, he was glowing. “What… does it mean?”
Khomu chuckled and swallowed down some food before answering. “Magic is born of passion, boy. If you love doing something then it is influenced by your love, your passion. When I work the field and tend the animals I feel younger, stronger, it fills me with life so I can keep doing what I love.”
“For me, my passion is making clothing. The cloth spins easier, the clothes are mended with no effort, and they keep my loved ones warm and safe.” Ebahra smiled down at Sam.
“Passion…” Sam looked down at his own hands, to the last bits of food. He loved to cook, to see people enjoying his food. Maybe that was his passion. “I think it is.”
“That’s good. People need passion to live a good life.” Khomu ate the last of his food and smiled.
“Wait, have I been glowing at all?” Sam was curious, how would he even know what a flair felt like?
“Hmmm, I’ve not seen you flair, but it’s possible you haven’t been inspired enough yet.” They went on eating without explaining what the hell that meant. Sam would ask later, he mostly just wanted to eat.
He had so much more to learn about this world, about the people, the magic, and so many more things. Most of all he needed to learn about himself apparently. What was he most passionate about? The thought ran through his mind as he ate more and more. The food was great, and he did love that he could cook for people again and not want to throw a tray across the room.
Instead of being frustrated about cooking he actually started looking forward to it. Every afternoon he made something, the egg scramble, the next day he made a vegetable medley stir fry, the next day Ebahra and he made the kacha bread and made a stew to go with it. Now he made chicken and eggs.
All of them were delicious, putting smiles on their faces. He was sure cooking would be his passion. How the fuck would magic cooking work? Maybe he’d make fireballs, no, that’d be ridiculous.
Regardless of what it would be like, he had to know more. He finished the last of his food and patted his gut. It still stuck out quite a bit, the days bedridden had made him think he lost some weight, but he still had rolls of fat.
While he was busy wondering if he should start working out now that he could move around more, a banging knock came at the door. Ebahra and Khomu turned to the door, Ebahra stood first and gently swung the wooden panel open. Standing there was a man, nearly as dark skinned as Khomu, wearing a dirty shirt with stitches all over it. Over that he had on what looked like armor, his head was a mess of tangled and kinky hair with dried blood, twigs, and leaves stuck in it. There was a streak of blood coming from his mouth.
“What’s happened to you! Come in we-”
Ebahra fell, letting out a high pitched shriek. Sam looked over, Khomu burst out of his seat towards the front, yelling but Sam couldn’t hear anything. He was too fixated on the man. The man was holding a sword, wet with Ebahra’s blood.