My theory is that Oberon might be a master of Tao. He always sees what we filter out. The wind and the grass and something in the sky, sun or moon, shining on our backs as we run: They are gifts that humans toss away like socks on Christmas morning, because we see them every day and don’t think of them as gifts anymore. But new socks are always better than old socks. And the wind and grass and sky, I think, are better seen with new eyes than jaded ones. I hope my eyes will never grow old.
Chapter 7
I really wish castles had never become passé. I didn’t shed a tear at the passing of the feudal system or the chamber pot, but I’ve always loved the castles themselves. They’re so much fun to invade and take down from within, and they often have secret passages and catacombs and a tower, ivory or not, in which Someone Important usually lives and rarely comes down. Sometimes they have libraries with old tomes written in a crabbed Latin script full of alchemical recipes or musings on the mysteries of magical arts, complete with idiosyncratic spellings. I get nostalgic for the old days whenever I see European architecture that evokes the age of castles, and Poland is liberally peppered with those sorts of buildings. Perhaps it was nostalgia, along with a gnawing rumble of hunger, that encouraged me to stray from the fields and enter a small town in search of food. Well, that and the insistence of my hound. Aside from a side trip into Katowice to snag some knives for Granuaile, we had run all through the night, and Malina’s coven—presumably with Loki—was more than two hundred miles behind us. Around midmorning, my hound snapped us out of the running zone we were in.
<I am going to eat these knives if you don’t feed me soon,> Oberon said.
I immediately felt guilty. With Gaia replenishing our strength and with so much else on my mind, I hadn’t thought much of food. Our ability to snag three squares a day had been destroyed. We had become opportunists, snatching melons or whatever we could along the way, and once we scarfed it down, even though it was never enough, we kept thinking we’d run across something else soon. Too often we didn’t.
<Okay. You’ve certainly been patient. How does prime rib sound?>
<Ack! Um, sorry, Clever Girl, I just drooled all over your knives. Blame it on Atticus. He said, “prime rib.” For breakfast. I’m all for that, as long as there isn’t any horseradish on it.> After a moment he added, obviously speaking to Granuaile, <You like horseradish? Well, I guess you have a good excuse, being a horse, but that doesn’t explain why anybody else likes it.>
<I’m not guaranteeing prime rib, mind you. I just wanted to know how it sounded.>
<What? You mean you were messing with me?>
<Well, not exactly. We’ll look for it, but I’m not sure we’ll find a place that serves it. I’m just saying you may have to settle for something else.>
<I hope not, but I’m hungry enough to settle.>
We were about fifteen miles southwest of Wrocław, crossing more farmland, when we came across a road marked E67. Looking south along the road, we saw some buildings; it was one of the many wee villages scattered throughout the country.
<Let’s see if they have a place to eat in that town,> I said. A couple of minutes brought us into a hamlet called Pustków Wilczkowski, and there we found an interesting rural hotel with a restaurant attached called Gościniec pod Furą. It was a white building with black boards accenting it in diagonal slashes, Tudor style, which was a surprise in itself. Wagon wheels braced the sign, so I guessed the name of the place had something to do with wagons. Red and pink flowers in hanging pots dangled from the eaves, and the property thrived with burgeoning hedgerows and cultured gardens. We went around to the back, where the garbage and the woodshed were, and spied the kitchen door. It was open to let out some of the heat from the grill fire, only a screen door present to keep out insects, and through it we could hear sizzling and the clack of a pair of tongs by a chef waiting to flip a breakfast steak. The breakfast grill looked shoehorned into the layout of the kitchen, a clear afterthought and a recent addition. Since it was the only restaurant in town, demand for breakfast must have eventually convinced the owners to supply it.
A waiter called out an order, but it was lost on me: I still needed to learn Polish. Granuaile and I shifted to human and leaned our weapons against the back wall, leaving Oberon to guard them. We camouflaged ourselves, and Granuaile drew on my bear charm to keep her spell powered, since she didn’t have her own charm yet.
Interesting fact: It is really fun to sneak into a restaurant kitchen stark naked. I nearly collided with a stern-looking waitress, who would have no doubt kicked me in the package if she saw me. She had a severe beauty that was probably softened by a smile in the dining area or when surrounded with good company, but out of sight of the customers—customers who may decide not to tip well—her face was taut and unforgiving. There was one other waiter, a younger man who clearly feared the waitress and made way for her, and a chubby, jolly cook in an apron and sweatband working two grills: one was a wood fire for steaks and pork chops, and the other was the flat metal kind for scrambling some eggs and frying bacon. I liked him instantly because of the faint smile on his face as he worked. Maybe he was just thinking about a funny joke or the smile on his lover’s face, but my intuition was that he was a soul at peace with the artistry of his job.
A few minutes’ observation revealed that he never turned around to face the server area unless he had a plate to deliver or a ticket to look at. He kept his attention on the grills otherwise. The two servers spent more time out in the dining area than they did in the kitchen.
The cook eventually put up four plates, two with pork chops and eggs and two with pancakes and bacon. Oberon would be grateful for any of that. But a place like this might serve prime rib sandwiches for lunch. If so, they had to put the slow-cooking prime rib in the oven in the morning. That meant it was available for breakfast if you liked it ultra-rare, which Oberon did.
The oven was behind the serving area but also behind the wood-fire grill’s stone walls, which allowed me to tiptoe back there and open the oven without being seen. The large hunk of meat that greeted me elicited a smile, because I knew how happy Oberon would be. I removed it and rested the prime rib on a prep area next to the oven. I found a couple of carving knives and a plate and sliced off a generous hunk of bloody beef for my friend. Granuaile snagged the pork chop plates and stole the bacon sides from the pancakes while the waiters were out of the kitchen, and the cook never noticed. The pancakes she left behind utterly failed to raise the alarm.
I felt sorry about the inevitable argument that would erupt when our theft was discovered—especially sorry to give the waitress an excuse to yell at the cook—but we were hungry and in a hurry and nobody’s lives were at stake but ours.
Try to chew it slowly and enjoy it, I said, putting the plate down for Oberon.
<Oh, great big bears, Atticus!> he said as he laid into it. <This is the best prime rib ever!> He gave a soft whine of appreciation. <Stolen and succulent, like forbidden fruit when I’m already starving. This shall be known as the Great Meat Heist of Poland That One Time. All future meals will be measured against this one. It’s even better than the Big Juicy Barbecue of Atlanta That Other Time, remember that? Or the Beloved Boar Sausage of Scotland We Had Once. And do you remember the Heinous Worldwide Bacon Shortage of 2013? This totally makes up for it.>