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“No!” I yell, whipping around and stopping him with a glare.
He comes up short and his eyes widen with shock or surprise I don’t know. More, I don’t care. I shake my head, gritting my teeth.
“No,” I repeat.
“Niya—”
“No. I am not a prisoner. Why would you say that? Why?” I’m struggling to not scream. “All I want to do is help. To get along. What is happening here? What is wrong with you? All of you?”
His skin flushes and his mouth moves then he snaps it shut. He raises his hands then drops them to his sides. He looks shaken. Lost and maybe confused. Or something. What do I know about how to read him?
“I do not know.”
That stops me. His answer is honest and there is a rawness to it that I don’t know what to do with. It’s not like we weren’t briefed before we agreed. The Urr’ki society is on the brink of collapse. The situation here is awful. I thought, I think we all did, that we understood. After our experiences in the bunker, the riot, the deprivations. I thought I did, but I could never have imagined how bad this is.
11
BHOJA
Istare at the ground unsure what to say or do. She is right. She did not ask to be a prisoner and once, before the Shaman, before we lost the war, things would probably have been different. Now, though, now we are not what we once were.
We are a people fallen. I know that this is the end of this world, but that does not mean I am ready to rush into the next. I thought I was, before her. Now, I am not so certain as I was. I see her hands rise and fall in the peripheral of my vision but she doesn’t speak. I wait, unable to meet her eyes or even look at her directly.
“I am sorry,” I say at last. Words that are too small and insignificant by far, but what else can I say?
“Sorry,” she snorts. Her hands rise and fall again. “You and me both, I guess.”
Something flutters in my stomach and I dare to dart a glance. She too is staring at the floor, appearing as uncertain as me. Apparently neither of us are sure what to do now. I resort to the one thing I know. The one thing that brings me comfort in almost all times.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She looks startled by my question. She frowns then her mouth opens and closes. She purses her lips then ends with a shrug.
“Why not,” she says.
I nod and move past her being very careful to not get too close or to accidentally touch her. Though I want to. Badly. I satisfy my carnal urges by accepting she is in my space. I remind myself that I didn’t ask for this, though. If for no other reason than she causes me to have too many questions.
I gather my utensils and prepare food. The rhythm of chopping is soothing. Muscle memory takes over as I focus. This I know. Preparing food. Combining ingredients to create new and interesting flavors.
Maybe in the next world I will be free to pursue my passions. In this one I am cast into a role I do not relish. I do believe that all of us are. This world has devolved and the only role left for an Urr’ki male is that of warrior.
“Can I help?” she asks, startling me from my reverie.
I look around not wanting to deny her involvement but I need to find something she can do. There.
“Would you mind stripping the gajara?” I ask, picking one up so she will know what I am talking about.
She looks at the vegetable then nods and holds her hand out. I place it in her hands and she studies carefully. I wait, giving her time to look it over herself. I do not want to impose myself.
“How?” she asks.
“Let me show,” I say.
I take it back and show her how to peel the husk. Then I clean the leftover fibers. She nods her understanding and I point to the small pile of them that need prepped. She sets to work and I resume chopping.
Somehow the two of us, disparate as we are, find a togetherness in the preparation. This is one of the things I love about cooking. Food brings people together. The common ground that everyone needs is that of needing to eat I suppose. And I do not know anyone who doesn’t appreciate good taste. Some, of course, do not understand it, but if it is well prepared, well seasoned, then even the most uneducated and low-born know it tastes good.
When she finishes the husking I have her add them to the stew pot then she takes up stirring it as she did before without my asking. Soon enough our food is prepared and I dish up the stew. It is not as thick as I would prefer, but there is nothing I can do about it. Vegetables and stocks are hard to come by and I am stretching my resources thin.
