The Muffin

Haggis placed the muffin in the middle of the upturned cookie tin which served as the dinner table. “There’s a hearty portion for every one of us!” he beamed. He knew his friends would muster several rounds of objections, for politeness can be the twin of neurosis. Blood Pudding only stared down at the tin table top, his lips creased. Meatloaf countered: “Haggis, we’ve all just eaten a hearty breakfast! I mean-are you hungry?” He looked to Petite Sirloin, who sat just to his left. “Not at all,” she yawned. “Even just one bite? Look-I’ll cut slices,” countered Haggis, as he produced a butterknife. Moussaka and her kid sister, Chicken Salad, both shook their heads.

Shepherd’s Pie softly said “Haggis, we want you to be able to enjoy your muffin; it seems you’re hungry-and I think none of us are! Right chaps?” All of them nodded or grunted approvals, even Bratwurst, who was the grouchiest of the lot.

“Alright lads n’ lasses: I need ya each to take a bite of this here muffin. It’s necessary for our journey! It’s got the…properties needed, to give us all a boost up there in the sunlit hills!” There were more objections: all seven of Haggis’ friends had assured him that they were full. But Haggis was able to convince them that eating but a single bite of his muffin would make him happy; so happy in fact, that being turned down would make him sad. So each ate a single bite of the poppy-seed, sweet lemon muffin. And all agreed, it was indeed delectable.

Haggis ran down the list of ingredients as he chewed his own bite, and stood from his seat. His red-patterned plaid kilt and over-the-shoulder brooch had collected crumbs. Beaming proudly, he brushed off the crumbs and looked at each of his friends, stopping at least a second over each face. Blood Pudding smiled curtly; the two had grown up as neighbors. He was all too familiar with Haggis’ highland culinary concoctions. Bratwurst remained frowning beneath his Landsknecht hat, his ornately segmented, plate-armored ams crossed over his fluted breastplate. The bright Bavarian boy only made passing eye contact with his Highland friend. And to each of his friends, Haggis made sure to briefly search their faces. He didn’t want any of his friends to feel as though they weren’t a part of his plans for this fine day.

Chicken Salad piped in suddenly, fidgeting with her blond curls: “I do feel a bit enlivened, Haggis.” She looked at her friends all around her. “This must be what a hot cup of coffee early in the morning feels like!”

“I did use chocolate…and sugar,” admitted Haggis. The Scottish boy’s face became grave as he continued. “And it is true, Chick, we do all need to be alert and enervated this morning, so that we can make it up through the sappers’ tunnels and arrive above ground for the morning!” There was a derisive snort from Bratwurst, and sighs all around the tin. “Or, vee could just go up our own stairs, up into our own safe, nice hovel above ground-when the time is right, at night!” Bratwurst looked at his companions as he spoke. Nods from all them agreed.

“Guys-I thought this was the plan? For today?! We all agreed we were going to make it up to the surface, didn’t we?” There was a breath of silence from all around the tin table. In his cockney accent, Shepherd’s pie began after clearing his throat: “There’s still too much mystery around actual sunlight, I think I speak for all of us when I say this Haggis.” Chicken Salad suddenly held a tome in her hands, and, rising from her seat, began to read from it: “direct sunlight is a known cause of many ailments of humans, as ultraviolet rays can not only burn the skin to varying degrees, but are the most common source of skin cancers.” Bratwurst and Shepherd’s Pie both gestured approvingly.

“Yes, I don’t contest that; but what about all the positive aspects of sunlight? We’re not going to expose ourselves to the bare sunlight in midday! Humans need sunlight! Surely you can tell us that there is a sorely-needed source of vitamins in your codex, Chicken Salad?” There were more objections raised then by nearly everyone: Petite Sirloin came to her friend Chicken Salad’s defense, and it seemed as though Bratwurst, Shepherd’s Pie and Blood Pudding were more avidly gesturing agreements with every objection the two girls made: the sun was a mammoth orb of 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit, and only some 95 million miles away-too close for comfort!

“Look mate,” began Blood Pudding, as he readjusted his crimson tam above his brows, “the wide earth has all sorts of wondrous things to see-mysteries to boot that I personally would love to visit! But the world up there is also quite harmful to us humans. It’s flat-out dangerous, and, hear me out Haggis, I know it’s your dream to see some of it one day, but methinks the vision you have of the world above is from eons past, back before the earth had turned against its human polluters so fiercely.” Aggressively affirming nods accompanied Blood Pudding’s words, even from the two quietest, who sat furthest from Haggis: Meatloaf and Moussaka. “I don’t anyone of us wants to get burnt,” quipped Shepherd’s Pie. “Yeah, we’re all the right temperature, just the way we are,” Petite Sirloin dreamily agreed.

Haggis could see then, quite plainly, that though his muffin of wonderful ingredients had been eaten, and though the time to make the trip to the above tunnels for day sun was slipping with every second of deliberation; he realized with solemnity that he’d be making this adventure alone. He frowned. He looked again, at each of his friends’ faces. Only this time, they were hesitant to meet his eyes. Even Moussaka, the quietest of the bunch, and usually the most reasonable; even he seemed to hide his face beneath the brim of his petasos hat. And Meatloaf uncomfortably shifted his scally cap atop his head, and began fidgeting with his suspenders. He glanced ever so quickly to meet Haggis’ gaze and raised his brows as if to say “sorry, buddy!”

It was quiet for sometime, uncomfortably so. Finally Haggis, having not sat back down, sighed and turned from the table. “I’d hoped you’d all be excited to come with me.” He turned back as he walked to the wooden frame of the doorway: “I’ll see you all later. I’ll be sure to describe how gorgeous the sunlit world is!” And with that, Haggis tipped his tam and bowed to his friends, and then turned around and began walking at an even pace. His friends all glanced at each other, worriedly; excitedly-in a swirl of disbelief. It was as if everyone was waiting for someone to speak, but no one knew how.

His feelings had been hurt before, to be sure, but this was different. With each step, Haggis felt less and less like moving forward. This was supposed to be an adventure, a journey-and those are done with others; with friends. This was not the way he’d imagined going. He wondered: should he stop, turn around and go back? But he knew, as painful and bitter as it was trudging alone down in these finely-engineered mines, it would be a solo trek. He nodded politely at kobolds and gnomes he’d pass here and there. They were all either beginning shifts or concluding them: testing the lanterns they wore, or replacing candles and torches in the sides of the walls; checking on cart wheels and chatting over steaming little cups of coffee and tea. One stroud-shouldered gnome, about equal height to the boy, held his lantern out to him, looking him over sternly.

“You know where you’re headed, lad?”

Startled slightly, Haggis assured the Phrygian cap-wearing miner that he was going to visit a friend up closer to the surface. The gnome grunted knowingly and nodded. “Just makin’ sure, you looked a bit lost. Good walkin’ to ya!”

If only it could be a good walk! And as Haggis moved onward, he began to debate within himself: am I feeling sorry for myself? Or is this reasonable? He couldn’t discern between the two, and, seeing as though he was still quite sad none of his best friends had agreed to go with him, he decided that he could maybe feel sorry for himself for just a little while. But he’d by no means have a private pity party! He couldn’t help feeling sad, and, he deduced, that was an okay feeling to have. How beautiful will the day seem alone? He trudged onward, with more troubling thoughts about the sunlit beauty beginning to form clouds of doubt. The whole point of this was to be with them!

It was Petite Sirloin who was the first to speak up after Haggis had left. “We should go with him.” Silence, a wake of noiselessness followed, and it was broken not with words but with shifting postures and stretches. Moussaka was first to rise. He stared down at his friend Meatloaf, until forcing him to acknowledge him. Mumbling under his breath, Meatloaf stood, too. “Oh, now what’s this?” insisted Shepherd’s Pie. There was no immediate response, but when Blood Pudding slowly rose, followed by Chicken Salad, Shepherd’s Pie knew the course was set. But the group began to hesitate on another imperative problem, which only grew exponentially with each passing second: how long had they already tarried?

Even after Shepherd’s Pie had stood and made many flamboyant gestures in his wide sleeved tunic, the group seemed to be unable to make a decision: if they indeed went after their friend-though they had no interest in the surface-how would they know they could reach him? Mumbling loudly, incoherently, Bratwurst made his way towards the room’s exit. “If we’re going to go up to the surface to fry with him, let’s get on with frying!” And so the seven friends all began a brisk walk, just shy of a jog, through the tunnels.

“Um…excuse us, but you haven’t seen our friend Haggis, have you?” Petite Sirloin would ask in her quiet voice. But each gnome, each kobold and sprite they asked all gave the same shrugs and polite replies. Still the friends hurried onward, dodging parked carts, standing patiently by the side of tracks for moving carts to pass, waving at miners and trying their best to be out of their way. It wasn’t until they reached a great junction that the seven friends came to a sudden stall. “Oh, no!” Chicken Salad dramatically threw up her arms. This caught the attention of several gnomes, who were repairing a rung in the tracks.

“What could be the matter?” The calm-faced gnome held a candle far out in front of him. “We’re looking for our friend, but we don’t know which way he went!” exclaimed Petite Sirloin. As Petite Sirloin described Haggis, it was she who became the spokesperson for the seven of them; they formed a bevy behind her. As she described his distinctly brown tam and bright red kilt and brooch, his orange red hair and freckles, more gnomes and kobolds began making their way over curiously, each holding a candle or a lantern.

“Ahhh!” one of the gnomes remembered. He’d seen this fellow described, and, asking his kobold friend beside him to hold his candle while he sat cogitating, he began twirling his beard. The seven friends all looked to each other in this boon of encouragement; even Bratwurst seemed to be frowning less, his thin lips looking less creased. Alas, the gnome, squinting and sighing, could not be sure if he’d seen Haggis beyond the junction, but could certainly remember passing him on the main road they’d all just walked. Disappointments rippled from out of the group like custard.

“Oh, well now maybe we should just all make our way back and wait for him?” Shepherd’s Pie offered. Bratwurst nodded agreement. But Petite Sirloin said “we hurt his feelings once-we all ate the muffin he so kindly cooked for us and didn’t go with him on his surface trip; a trip very, very special to him.” There were sighs and mumbles; Chicken Salad and Moussaka made agreeing quips. “We did try to go with him, though, didn’t we?” countered Shepherd’s Pie. “True, we shouldn’t have dithered so long, and we ought to have just gone with him, but, at least we tried!” Blood Pudding concurred. Meatloaf frowned, looking at the ground. “Yes, we tried, and we’ll continue trying! What’s the point of going all this way, if we’re only going to turn around now?” Chicken Salad inquired.

Eventually, the gnome and kobold miners went back about their tasks, the seven friends deliberating in a torch-lit corner of the grand junction. Having been silent for most of the back-and-forth, Moussaka walked towards a kobold, who was looking over a list in his hands, standing by a cart. The friends asked Meatloaf where he was going? Meatloaf shrugged, then called after his Greek friend. Moussaka turned back to the group. “If we want to know which way our friend went, there’s an easy solution-if we’re really serious about going up to the top.”

Chicken Salad became instantly nervous, both by the realization that any one of the miners would know the way to the surface; and by the reaction of the first kobold Moussaka approached. “You don’t want to go up there-you know how much damage can happen to you by the sun’s cruel rays?!” Some passing miners also chimed in, hearing their kobold friend’s exclamation. They nodded and clicked their tongues in agreement, warning Moussaka against trying to make it to the surface. Chicken Salad rapidly twirled her curls, looking to and fro anxiously. “Maybe-maybe you’re right, Shep. We did try, and we are trying; but…”

“But…?” Petite Sirloin let the conjunction linger like smoke. Moussaka had ankled back over, and pointed to the tunnel leading upward. “Nobody could give a precise estimate on the distance,” he admitted. “But, that is the tunnel towards the surface.”

The afternoon sunlight was every bit as dazzling as Haggis remembered: every different shade of green imaginable glowed in an array of plants and vegetation. Tame and light yellows accentuated the greenery, and in the flower garden just before him were violets, sky blue petals and creamy pink blossoms. There were white and yellow dandelions, and an impossibly bright green dragonfly buzzed by some short distance overhead. And he smelled the summer, warm and bright summer afternoon, in every sound and sight surrounding him, in the Gardens of New Java. Sparrows and fantails chirped, high in the castle-like trees far above him, and complimenting them were the coos of pigeons. Haggis was about to smile, as he walked forward into the wondrous sunlight. He saw little round tables here and there-some upturned teacups, others hand built out of teakwood; with intricately carved teakwood chairs to match. People of all colors sat at these little tables, lost in conversations with each other, sipping and munching delectables.

Suddenly in scintillating dollops before him were all sorts of mushrooms. And Haggis allowed himself to smile; for he did not like being alone. Even sorer was the notion that the fear of imminent danger was a lie. There was such beauty that his dearest friends wouldn’t see, because of such notions. He stopped in his walk, noticing a butterfly noiselessly alight on a mushroom. Would he want to continue alone? The thought of meeting a new friend in this brightly lit place was painful; he wanted his friends; his closest friends.

“Haggis!” suddenly the voice of his sweetest and smallest friend erupted through the gardens. “Petite!” Haggis erupted, as his long face instantly warmed into waking joy. Behind her came Moussaka, Chicken Salad, Meatloaf, Bratwurst, Shepherd’s Pie-and his oldest friend Blood Pudding! The seven friends walked into the golden sunlight of the archipelago, and Haggis ran towards them. Each one took off their hats, and marvelled at the sunlit sky above. “You all came!” was all Haggis could manage.

“You didn’t think we’d just eat your muffin and not oblige you for a sunny walk above the surface, did you?” Petite Sirloin jumped into her friend’s embrace. The eight of them stood for some time, feeling the warmth of the sunshine, and being comforted in the bright orb’s enervating rays.