A Chef's Journey

“Turn back.” An unfamiliar man with an unfamiliar voice warned Elizabeth.

“What? Why? Didn’t you say Sherwood was this way?” Elizabeth pointed in the direction behind the stranger. She looked back at him, and only his smile was visible beneath his forlorn cloak.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” The stranger chuckled to himself before adding, “if you seek answers, turn back. But if you seek repose, you may find it sooner than expected.”

Huh? What the hell does that mean? Is he toying with me? Elizabeth waited for the stranger to elaborate, but instead, he departed as silently as he came.

“Great. Just great. Thanks for nothing, you old bag of bones.” She sighed loudly. How will I find the wandering chef now?

Elizabeth crouched and fiddled with the pebbles for a moment, then shot up. “Ah, what the hell does he know? He could have dementia for all I know. Yes? Yes.”

She walked eagerly down the dirt trail, her steps crunching softly, until a decaying wooden sign, streaked with fungus, came into view that once read, “Welcome to Sherwood.”

“Huh. That old geezer wasn’t lying.” She cinched her straps to her yellow backpack, double-checked the laces to her sneakers, and pressed forward. “Best be prepared… to run if need be.”

The crunch of pebbles beneath her sneakers began to fade, replaced by cold, uneven dirt, still damp from recent rains. A thin fog crawled between the trees, curling around her neck, carrying soft, haunting hums of flutes that left a lingering chill down her spine.

She quickened her pace, as fear gripped at her ankles and an uneasy silence engulfed her ears.

An hour passed, the trail widened, and ahead, the outskirts of a town shrouded in a gray, spectral haze began to emerge. As Elizabeth drew near, the smell was salty, earthy, and pungent all at the same time.

Her pace faltered as she neared the center of town. What the…? Her eyes widened as she witnessed the townspeople, mostly fluting pensioners, circling a pyre, its solitary stake like a dark invitation.

Their movements were odd, like shadows of a cat burglar. Definitely not normal.

“What did I just walk into?” Elizabeth blared. She quickly covered her mouth as dozens of eyes snapped toward her, pinning her in place. “Don’t mind me, just looking for someone… Nope, not here. Okie-dokie, onto the next town.” She turned sharply, only to nose-dive into a robust man towering over her.

“Oh, uh, hi.” She reached out and pressed his chest. “That’s what I thought.” He nearly shattered my nose!

“Nice, Chip. You found our first volunteer.” An elderly woman stepped forward from the crowd, her expression bright yet unnerving.

“V-volunteer?” Elizabeth stammered as her eyes darted towards the pyre.

“Ah, don’t get hung up on the title too much. Now, what do we call you?”

“Oh, uh… Elizabeth.” She said, her eyes never leaving the pyre. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know who that person is at the back of the pyre?” She gestured toward the center.

“Do people still fall for that?” The elderly woman asked, sarcastically. “At our age, it’s best not to jerk in any direction, lest we face an out-of-body displacement–our bodies simply can’t keep up with the oncoming pain.”

“Sorry?” Elizabeth shrugged. “Did you really mean to ‘sacrifice’ me?” She clamped her eyes shut and her heart raced at an alarming rate, bracing for the elderly woman’s reply.

The elderly woman leaned in, voice soft but firm. “Do you know how we make our shepherd’s pie? There are no cows here… we have to substitute it with—”

“Don’t tell me the infamous ‘seafood stew’ has–has bits of flesh in it?” Elizabeth paled, collapsing to her knees.

“What? No, you pelican.” The elderly woman said with a sigh. “We use crawfish along with shrimp, mussels, clams, and whatever else we can scrounge up.”

“What is up with the pyre?” Elizabeth gestured toward the center and added, “It’s not exactly inviting. Not to mention the whole ‘volunteer’ skit nearly aged me beyond you.”

“Oh, that. We use it as a guide for our boats, as this damn fog comes and goes,” the elderly woman stated nonchalantly.

“Then what about the flutes I heard?” Elizabeth asked, brow furrowed.

“Flutes? I don’t know about any humming, but we do have a radio. Though it's mostly pre-War tracks.”

Elizabeth blinked. That’s weird–I swore I heard flutes on my way here. She shook her head. “No use agonizing over a pinch of salt.” Remembering her purpose, she straightened.

“Please tell me where I might find the wandering chef?” She asked, voice almost desperate.

The elderly woman sighed, eyes narrowing. “That’s your big question? He isn’t here… nor there.”

Elizabeth rubbed her forehead. “What the hell does that mean? Speak plainly.”

“He’s dead.” The elderly woman said dryly. Seeing Elizabeth’s doubtful expression, she added, “he died of his own volition… Who cooks weeks-old fish and decides to smother it with peanut butter?”

“That… sounds about right.” She affirmed and added, “Though really, who hasn’t tried peanut butter on everything at least once?”

“He had a peanut allergy.” The elderly woman replied flatly.

“Ah… well, that’ll do it,” Elizabeth said, crossing her arms and nodding.

“There is another… wandering chef,” the woman continued, her tone warning. “Further north, in a cabin on the outskirts of Duskwood. Though I’d advise against it–strange things happen there.”

Elizabeth gestured toward the pyre. “Stranger than here?”

The elderly woman smiled, serene yet unnerving. “No… I suppose not… It's best to stay on the path when traveling north.”

Elizabeth exhaled, rubbing her temples. “Let me guess… more flutes and eerie silence?”

“If you hear what sounds like a woman screaming,” the woman said softly, her gaze steady, “don’t run toward it. Run away from it.”

What the…? Is she toying with me, again? Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Anything else?” She asked dryly.

“Before sunset,” the woman continued, her tone serious. “Find an area of rest and quickly light a fire. Keep it lit until the rooster crows.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms and furrowed her brow in doubt. Hmm. Best to heed her warning. “Okie-dokie. I’ll be on my way now.” She walked a few steps and added, “Later, Granny.”

Elizabeth clasped the straps of her backpack and started walking. A thorny shiver ran down her spine as the warnings echoed in her mind–the uneasy silence, the slithering fog weaving through the trees, the pyre behind her looming like a watchful sentinel. She knew, then, that this journey would be far stranger than anything she’d faced so far.