The Dreaming: Dark Star (Book 5)

12.3. Convergence (Imorah)

Her hands were freezing in the cold creek water. She'd rubbed the strange potatoes once and he'd made her scrub them again, "Until they came out white."

She was certain he was stalling, and wondered why. She could feel his deception oozing from him. It made her nervous — what was he hiding from her?

She returned with the roots in a bag and dropped them in front of him.

He glared at her for making a mess of his tiny kitchen. The cloth bag was dripping with water.

"Sorry," she apologized and sat down on the mat beside the tiny fire.

"Nevermind. Now use this," he said as he threw a metal object into her lap.

Imorah smiled through her teeth, trying to be pleasant. She never liked working in the kitchen. "What do I do with it?" she asked.

"Scrape them across," he made a motion.

Imorah realised it was a grater.

"I'll teach you how to make cassava. We will take this for our journey, so hurry, we must leave soon."

Imorah nodded, trying to keep her face straight. If they were in a rush than why didn't he do it with her? She exhaled a frustrated sigh and grabbed a root and started rubbing it across the grater.

She'd done this job in the kitchen in the Shelter before, but unlike carrots, these roots turned into a grainy, milky mush that looked very unappetizing. The root was also more tough and after only a few minutes, her arms were aching.

She switched arms, and watched as Tashin grabbed a jar of some white substance and threw it on a pan resting above the fire on two rocks. The substance melted into a clear liquid. "What was that?" she asked.

"Fat from the zabi."

"Oh," Imorah replied. "And this?"

"Cassiva."

Cassiva. Imorah lifted her hand and smelled the substance — it smelled like earth, kind of bitter.

Tashin grabbed a handful of the grated cassiva with his hand and threw it on the pan, where it began to bubble in the hot fat.

Imorah stifled a grimace — his hand was filthy and he hadn't bothered to wash it before touching the food. What an annoying man, she thought.

After a few minutes it turned into a golden, crispy lump. Tashin cooked many of these lumps, putting each onto a basket next to them. They certainly weren't beautiful, but they smelled good.

The smell was sweet, and reminded Imorah of pancakes, but these looked more crispy. She couldn't wait to take a bite, and eyed the growing mound of golden lumps with desire.

When Tashin offered her one that had cooled down, she bit into it immediately: it was chewy and delicious. She smiled, and took another bite, her stomach grumbling in anticipation. "Thank you," she said to Tashin. "This is delicious."

He shook his head. "Now you hate the zabi and love the cassiva, but soon it will be the other way around: you will hate the cassiva and love the zabi."

Imorah doubted that could be true, and held out her hand for another lump.

"That's not the way you ask for food," he responded.

"How should I ask?" Imorah always just held her bowl out at the food circle and one of the servers would fill it up, often without even a look. Sometimes they would exchange a nod.