Spicy (Notevember 2023, #12)

The Holy City of Qoro Marth was alive with a thousand colors and ten thousand voices. There was movement everywhere I looked. Up above, gaudy pennants hung from every lamppost, flagpole and windowsill, fluttering in the light breeze. Below, the streets thronged with priests, penitents, pilgrims, penny-stand pie peddlers, posh perfume-shop proprietors – and probably pickpockets.
Our caravan had arrived on the outskirts early in the morning, but would not reach the city proper until mid-day. The line of travellers had been well over a quarter mile long, snaking from Southgate all the way out into the shanty towns where the road was nothing but frost-hardened mud.
We counted ourselves lucky that weather was unseasonably mild. Even so, for those not rich enough to be waiting inside a covered wagon, snugly swept in blankets and with servants to attend on them, there was a lot of pacing and stomping to keep warm.
Some of the slum’s inhabitants – what else could they be, raggedy and sickly-looking as they were – paced along the line with steaming pitchers and clay mugs. I had seen quite a few pilgrims sniff and then decline the heated brew on offer, only to change their mind half an hour later, as the cold was getting to them.
Half a penny for a warming drink was a perfectly decent price, if one used one’s own cup. But using the ones provided for free along with the drink, and not even rinsed between customers? That might cost you dearly – likely a nasty disease of some sort. And yet, it was the sour smell of the swill, akin to rotten plums, that kept me from buying any. Pay me three pennies or more, and I still would not drink it.
By the time the dirt track had changed to cobblestone, the chill had me wiggling my toes and rubbing my chest ferociously. Fortunately, this was close enough to the city gates that there were braziers lining the road, and people crowding around them. Every time the line moved ahead a little, the folks who left the fires to walk forward would look back wistfully, and ahead longingly, to the next source of warmth.
I could not help but think that, despite our suffering near-freezing temperatures, the Holy Sun Festival must be a worse time to arrive. I had never seen this many people at once before, but I had been told that the summer arrivals far outnumbered the crowds gathered here during the Winter Pilgrimage. Ten times as many, supposedly, all waiting in the midsummer glare, having walked or ridden for weeks, if not months already. The stink must be prodigious indeed.

A deep clanging sound, the last bell of noon, was quickly fading as the guards finally waved my party through. We were barely a few steps beyond the towering arch of Southgate when we were greeted by an onslaught of painted signs, advertisements and open storefronts. This first section of High Street was prime real estate for all manner of places catering to weary travellers: pubs, stables, inns, bathhouses and even shrines, for the most impatient of pilgrims.
However, in contrast to the large and bright signs, the level of noise here was, mercifully, not as loud as I had expected. Certainly, there were the everyday sounds of such businesses, as well as the rhythm of the foot traffic and accompanying conversations. But no loud preaching or shouts to announce news, wares for sale, or to clear the road for a passing dignitary. I was later to learn that the city’s council had outlawed such behaviour outside of squares and markets, so as to spare its citizens from the cacophonous combination of holy fervour and (arguably more fervent) commerce.
The one exception to the anti-noise decree was the ringing of penitent’s bells. After all, one could not prohibit such a common religious practice during the Winter Pilgrimage. So the jingle that had accompanied us for the last few days of our journey would keep us company at our destination, too. This really was the one thing that bothered me about the penitents. Everything else they did quietly: prayed, ate, and spoke softly, huddled together. Being winter, none of them were of the self-mutilating sort, the kind that screamed out their pain and prayer such that one could not tell which was which. Another good reason to make this journey in the cold time of the year.
Among the rest of the pilgrims, the demeanor was more varied. We had a rich, boisterous, fat man who loudly proclaimed his devotion to his gods (which I suspected were called “coin” and “profit”). His wife, who looked like a constantly surprised bird, would not speak except to complain about whatever she felt was lacking at that moment: food, rest, proper manners (as if she would know), and respect for the particular gods she happened to favor, of course.
There was a girl of sixteen or so, jovial and glad to help with any chore that needed doing. When no help was needed, she would play her flute, taking requests from the merchants and religious folks in equal measure. Any song you could think of, she knew – if not in its entirety, then most of it, at least. I doubted she had any faith to speak of. First, because she never spoke of any. Second, because no one who had contemplated gods, sin, penitence or the hereafter could possibly be this happy.
Her uncle, on the other hand, would talk at length about his devotion. Not in a manner that bored or annoyed, mind, but in earnest contemplation. The pilgrimage had been his idea (no surprise there), and a means to show gratitude for the entire family having survived unscathed after a plague ravaged their province. He had heard of other households who had come through the horror untouched, or barely sick, but they were mostly isolated farmsteads. His extended family – some thirty-five in total – were townsfolk in the thick of it. Parents, children, cousins and even his own aged father, bilious and frail at the best of times, had avoided the disease. He swore there must have been a divine hand held over them, and a pilgrimage to the Holy City was the least he could do to show thanks for this mercy. His niece, bless her, whispered to me that if only her cantankerous grandfather had perished, then there would be cause for thanks. Even so, she smiled and winked as she said it.
Lastly, there were those who I suspect made their pilgrimage less for religious reasons and more out of wanderlust. Some of the merchants, too – especially the younger ones – were clearly more keen to explore this place than to reap silver. I could hardly blame them, as I was much the same. Though I had made the journey not as a devotee or salesman, but as a caravan assistant and guard, the truth is it was not the sizable pay that had brought me here. It was Qoro Marth itself.

I had bid the pilgrims and penitents farewell, and gathered my pay from the caravan master. He promised to swing by my boarding house before leaving, and let me know he would pay a similar sum as before if I were to join him on the road back south. Still, the winter festival was only on its first day, so I had a full week to roam Qoro Marth in all its glory.
I had heard the stories – I always heard stories of distant places, mind – but for once, they turned out to be true. The city was as spectacular as I had been told. The sights, the sounds… the smells. Greater gods, the smells! Every shrine, house of worship and waypoint altar was flanked by incense vendors. One might think the thick scent on the air would be cloying, but no, whatever blend of resins they used – a different one for each cult – made for a refreshing experience. I breathed deeply at each one I passed.
Once, I even bought an incense stick and lit it. The altar was devoted to Mes Tela, the Mother of Iron, protector of smiths, soldiers and guardsmen. I have never believed, but felt it could not hurt to offer something, considering my profession. Besides, it smelled sublime. The smoke mingled with that of the forge set up next to the altar. A group of warrior-smiths, likely Bear Clan, were taking turns at the anvil and showing off their skills with the weapons they had on display. If it worked as a sales tactic, I could not say, but it certainly drew onlookers. Whether Mes Tela was pleased is not for me to say.
Perfume shops catered to finer clientele than me, but every so often some silken-clad noblewoman or high priest would pass by, their expensive choice lingering in the air behind them. Some scents were light and flowery, gone so quickly I was not sure I had smelled them at all. Others were musky, asserting their presence for minutes afterwards. There were ingredients I could immediately identify, some I could not, and yet others I had not imagined possible – or even advisable – in a perfume. Needless to say, not every combination was a success. All interesting, nonetheless. I thanked my little gods – metaphorically, of course – that I did not have the coin to spend on such luxuries, or my curiosity would have ruined me.
On I went to the food stalls lining the sides of Divinity Square. In the shadow of the palatial Pantheon, Qoro Marth’s largest and only temple dedicated to all gods, saints and sacred spirits, known and unknown, I let my nose guide me once more. Knowing I would take some time to peruse the spice merchants’ corner, I decided to leave it until the last day, lest I miss out on other curiosities.
One such curiosity had gained the attention of a large crowd on the eastern side of the Square. As the wind was away from me, I could not yet smell what had drawn them in. I pushed through the gathering, gently, until I was close enough to sate my inquisitive mind, only to find out it was not so much the smell as the view. Bent over a huge, bubbling cauldron was a lizard, standing upright and measuring, no lie, seven feet tall. I am sure my eyes popped out of the sockets, though no one noticed. Everyone’s attention was directed solely at the creature stirring the simmering concoction.
I realized that I knew what this was, and it was not an overgrown reptile. This was a Totem-Priest of Culmia, a lush land across the sea, far north of Qoro Marth. Rumor had it the most pious of them would go into the depths of the jungle and stay there for years, meditating and conducting secret rituals to connect directly with their animal gods. Many had got lost in the green and died, some had lived, only to return unsuccesful in their task. But a lucky few would be blessed with a new form and come back with new directions from whatever god had bestowed their favor upon them.
The Forever-Changed is what their people name them. They could be tasked to lead their village through a crisis, to innovate and invent, or sent to distant lands on diplomatic missions. This one, apparently, had been given a far stranger task: to cook mealsno citizen of Culmia, or those beyond its borders, had ever tasted.
“No lowly thing it is to cook,” the Totem-Priest said. “Through cooking, the bounty of earth, sea, river and air we refine. Life-force, to’oka, from gods placed into these gifts. Now into pot, into fire, into mouth, and into you. And you, and you, and you.” He pointed at a different observer each time. “Into ourselves, the essence of gods we take, and in so doing, to them link ourselves.”
He sounded nothing like I expected him to. Instead of a rasping, high-pitched, lizardy voice, his was a low, steady rumble. “First, I am, of my people to offer a gift of food at this for-all-gods-temple. Now reside my gods here. Also your gods, can be. Gods to all belong, like food to all belong. No one to live hungry, no one to live godless.” He stood silent for a moment, peering into the cauldron. “Who here lacks the gods?” he asked. “Who?”
Not a single person spoke up. I did not believe for a second that I was the only one here without faith, and in Qoro Marth, unlike in a lot of places, there was no judgement for those who did not worship, or had yet to choose which god to turn to. Maybe no one dared say anything, for fear of what this exotic foreigner might do. The silence was a bit too dramatic, so I decided to puncture it.
“I am bound to no god,” I admitted, “but I do worship food!” I pulled my shirt up to pat my exposed stomach. It elicited a few scattered laughs. “No offense meant, your holiness,” I hastily added, so he would not think I was mocking him. Bad manners, it has to be said, to poke fun at a new arrival – especially in a place so full of them.
“Come!” the Culmian said. “Here, come. You will taste.” He beckoned me towards the pot, then dipped the ladle with which he had stirred it, and lifted it out to serve me. The thick, bright red liquid has pools of rust-colored oil floating on top. Until now, I had been so occupied with what I could see that I had not noticed the smell. It was meaty, fruity, rich and tangy all at once. And it felt like something tickled, or even pricked, the inside of my nose.
“What is it?” I asked as I stepped closer. “Again, no offense meant.”
“Offense? No. Wise it is to ask first. Buntua?” He rubbed his scaly throat.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Buntua? When some things you eat or drink? Get sick and hard to breathe?”
“Oh.” Allergies. “No, no buntua. At least nothing I’ve tasted so far.”
“Have tasted many things?” He raised an eyebrow, a very human characteristic on and otherwise animal face.
“Not as many as I’d like, but more than most, I think.”
“Good. Taste this too?”
“As I said, what is it?”
“Has no name. Has bellfish from the sea here, fresh this morning.” He pointed down the road leading to Qoro Marth’s harbor. “And oil from sakturu. Fruit it is, hot.” With this he shook his hand over his tongue.
“Like peppers?” I wondered.
“Yes, like peppers, but different hot. And dry susu leaf from Culmia, lamb from this merchant” – he waved at the woman tending a nearby butcher’s stall – “onion, wild bruiseberry, and… tappur? I bring from long-away east. This I do not know your name, but like your earthbulb. Grown in sand. For texture of stew, not to be soup.”
“To thicken it?” I suggested.
“Yes, thicken!” He looked genuinely delighted to have learned the right word. “Thicken,” he repeated. “Also good spices. You will taste.” It was neither question nor demand, not even a request, rather spoken like a statement of fact.
“I suppose I will,” I agreed. And taste it I did.

It was like nothing I had ever tried before. Well, not strictly true – I recognized half the ingredients he had listed, but in this stew they were somehow transformed into strangers. The smell, while lovely, had not done it justice. This stew was a revelation.
“This could well be the best dish I’ve had,” I told him, and meant it. “Your god should be proud of you.”
The crowd, which apparently had been waiting in suspense for my verdict, broke out into a round of applause. Several of them sidled up next to the cauldron, hoping to try this fantastic meal for themselves.
“Thank you,” the Totem-Priest answered. “I hope this is so.” He smiled, which due to his reptile features made him look not so much happy as strained. “I give you more.”
He offered me a bowl of stew, which I consumed with gusto, thanking him once again. And there I should have left things. I cannot say for sure why I did not. Before I could stop myself, I proffered:
“It needs something, though.” This turned out to be the wrong thing to say.
The lizard-man’s smile turned into a look of annoyance. “It is complete,” he stated, as matter-of-fact as when he had declared I would taste the dish.
The people around us fell silent again. “Well, I mean…” I began, like an idiot not knowing to keep his mouth shut. Which everyone but I had realized that I was. “It’s amazing, your holiness, but there’s always room for improvement, is all I’m saying. Just because it’s the best thing I’ve had, doesn’t mean it can’t be better, right?”
“It need nothing more.” The Culmian’s deep voice now had a slight hiss to it. “Finished it is, as it should be. Aya! You do not know. Can you even say what it requires?”
“I…” did not. Not for certain. Or at least, I did not know how to express it. Better to keep my peace. Which I failed to do, once again – almost as if I could not control myself.
“A last ingredient to… To make it… fly? It doesn’t fly yet.”
“Bird? You say it should have bird?” asked the divinely inspired cook.
“No, I mean, maybe, but… I don’t know how else to say it. The dish should… fly.”
Now the crowd was laughing. The Totem-Priest, however, was not. Nor, I noticed, did he seem angry anymore. Confused, yes, and intrigued more than anything. He set the ladle into the cauldron and started rummaging around in his travel pack. At length he pulled out a small book, bound in blue leather, and opened a page, seemingly at random.
“Here.” He held up the book in front of me. “You will read.”
The script was unfamiliar to me, and I told him as much. “I can’t read that. Sorry.”
“No sorry. Read,” he insisted.
“Look, whatever writing that is, I haven’t seen it before. Even if that is a language I know, how am I supposed to read it?”
“How is stew supposed to fly? You will read!”
I assumed it was an obscure metaphor of some kind, but still, I took a closer look. And began to read.
Do not ask me how I could speak those strange words. But slowly at first, like a child just starting out, and then gradually increasing in pace, I read aloud both pages the Totem-Priest had shoved in my face. I read them, and knew their meaning.
“How…?” was all I could ask.
“Revelation, yes? Now you have a god,” he proclaimed.
“No, I don’t believe in your god,” I protested.
“In you it believes. Have god, have task. Like me, walk the world. First to Culmia you go, then further. And find ingredients to make a dish fly.”
“What ingredients are those?”
“I do not know. Not my task.”
“But I don’t want to become a lizard!”
“Hah! Will not, not for you. You have Winter Pilgrimage to make, and Summer Pilgrimage. Many winters, many summers, I think. Good luck.”

On the last day of the festival, I bought an assortment of spices. I passed the altar of Mes Tela – bowing, but lighting no incense. I shared a drink with the joyous girl and her pious uncle. I informed the caravan master that, regrettably, I had decided not to return south with him. I made an offering of fresh herbs and roasted chicken in the temple on Divinity Square.
Then I walked out of Qoro Marth through the city’s northern gate, towards Culmia and beyond, in search of ingredients I had never heard of, so as to cook something no one had ever tasted before.
I still have not figured out exactly what it means to “make a dish fly”, but I have managed to find a few things that make it happen. I think I will find a few more, because my god chose me. It has good taste, yes?