Meg Evans

This is the 14th story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.

On the morning after the blizzard, I woke to the cabin door banging shut after it let in a frigid blast of wind. Fragments of a dream fell away—something about a pickup truck on a narrow road in the mountains. I stretched and sat up, feeling stiff after another night of having slept on the rug in front of the fireplace. My head pounded, which I had to admit wasn’t a result of the sleeping arrangements.

“Note to self,” I muttered, “lay off the alien booze.”

Ira hung his snow-covered coat on a peg by the door, next to the coat he’d cut down to a smaller size for me. After yesterday’s creepy discussion of the local predators, I made sure to arm myself with one of the larger knives from Ira’s box before stepping outside. It fit into a loop of the coat’s belt like a dagger and left me looking suitably warlike—not that I had any plans to slay dragons on the way to the latrine.

Last night’s heavy snowfall came almost to my shoulders, with higher drifts in some places. It was a good thing for me that Ira had gone out first. I followed the path left by his much larger body until I got into the shelter of the trees. The branches hung low, but there wasn’t as much snow under them.

The outline of the trench that served as the latrine was clearly visible. And whatever might be said about Ira’s cooking, it didn’t induce constipation. My lower parts hadn’t gotten too chilled before I was finished. Shoveling dirt into the used area of the trench didn’t take long, either. Ira had helpfully left the shovel propped up on the dirt mound, making it easy to find. I decided this wasn’t too bad of a start to the day.

Well—it wasn’t bad until I heard a low growl from the trees on the other side of the trench, where large orange eyes gleamed. The bearlike warhagalla looked much bigger in real life than the pelt of its unfortunate relation that I’d been using as my bed. While it might have been an exaggeration to say the beast was slavering, I did see a glint of fangs that were much too long and sharp for my liking.

Trying not to look nervous, I backed up a step, holding the shovel in front of me like a medieval pikeman about to face a cavalry charge. The shovel’s handle was much longer and thicker than anything sized for humans, which made it somewhat useful as a weapon. I wasn’t entirely confident that the shovel would stay in one piece, though, as rusty as it looked.

Absurdly intruding on the scene, a winged rodent flew out from behind a tree, singing sweetly. It was considerably larger than the others I’d seen, resembling a great fat woodchuck. Flying slowly, with its bright pink wings pumping for all they were worth, it came close enough that I had the good view I’d wanted yesterday. Its melodic tones echoed from the snow-covered trees like a hymn at an outdoor church service. If I got eaten, I’d at least have music for my funeral.

With that thought, I finally lost control and hollered, “Oh, will you just shut up already!”

The rodent, looking startled, fell silent—just as the warhagalla sprang.

This is the 13th story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.

The morning’s hazy sunshine had given way to clouds and rain showers by midafternoon, turning to sleet soon afterward. A thick bluish glaze had built up on the cabin’s ancient windows by nightfall. Howling winds shook the walls. Ira, lighting candles that gave off the crisp scent of the forest’s conifers, observed in his usual calm tone, “There will be a blizzard tonight.”

Not looking at all bothered by that prospect, Ira sat down in one of the cabin’s two chairs, propped a giant hairy foot on a stool, and started buffing his toenails with what looked like a pumice stone. If I had really been a dragon-slaying warrior hero like some people foolishly imagined, then I’d have been doing something useful—mending armor, or whatever. Instead, not being anything of the sort, I got myself another cupful of hard cider from the old barrel in the back corner.

I was already tipsy enough that I had to look away from Ira so I wouldn’t start giggling. Even if he might not really be a Sasquatch, the thought of Bigfoot’s nail care routine struck my semi-functioning brain as hilarious. But of course, laughing at one’s host while stranded on an alien planet during a blizzard wouldn’t have been the smartest thing to do. I glanced toward the hearth where the stewpot hung.

“Tomorrow’s dinner will be baked fish,” Ira informed me, in the tone of a waiter announcing the daily special. “There’s frozen fish in the cellar.”

Following his gaze, I noticed a trapdoor set into an open area not far from the cider barrel. Its hinged metal handle was tucked neatly inside a groove cut into the floor for that purpose.

“A creek not far from here has good fishing,” Ira went on. “Usually it runs clear and fresh, with meltwater from the mountain’s snows.”

He removed his foot from the stool, swigged some cider from his own enormous mug, and then started working on the other foot. I looked away again, trying not to think about how much this sounded like a normal conversation about fishing with my friends back home. The urge to giggle had gone away by now, and I just felt gloomy.

“Where I’m from, in northeastern Tennessee, there’s a road called Stinking Creek Road, high up in the hills. Back when I was in high school, I stole one of the road signs and used it to decorate the inside of my locker. I told my classmates that I grew up in a cabin in the backwoods, along Stinking Creek, eating roadkill for dinner. I wanted to build up some hillbilly cred. None of it was true, of course. I grew up in an ordinary trailer park like any other ordinary kid, and I only ate roadkill once, when my brother hit a deer with his truck and we brought it home to butcher it.”

Ira listened quietly, nodding once, though—even with a magical translation—he couldn’t have understood much of what I was saying. A half-burned log fell to the bottom of the fireplace with a thud, sending up a shower of sparks.

“The creek here doesn’t stink, but it can be dangerous,” he finally said. “Ice serpents lurk beneath the surface. When they haven’t eaten in a while, they become nearly transparent, with only the faintest outline over the mud and pebbles. One of them almost got me last year.”

I added that unwelcome bit of information to my mental file on this planet’s bestiary, which already had gotten too long. Just then, a ferocious gust shook the cabin and dislodged one of the small creatures squeaking in the rafters. It tumbled almost to the floor before spreading its leathery wings enough to stabilize itself. Evidently a juvenile, it wasn’t much larger than my hand, with a sharp beak above a long, wrinkled neck like a turkey’s; it had fur rather than feathers. Cawing triumphantly, it managed to beat its wings enough to lift itself toward the ceiling.

“They’re harmless,” Ira said, looking over at me as he set down the pumice stone. “And beneficial. They keep the cabin free of venomous pests.”

Of course, I started to ask about those pests; but, on second thought, I just drank more cider and kept quiet. I really didn’t want to know.

All parts of this story are consolidated on one page here.

Ina, wearing a faded but clean dress that fit reasonably well, sat in an oversized chair on Nellie’s front porch, piled high with embroidered cushions. Her bandaged feet rested comfortably on a feather pillow on a low stool. A table held a teacup and a large plate overflowing with apricot scones. Beyond the porch, in the hazy afternoon sunlight, bees buzzed serenely in a flower garden along a white picket fence.

Nellie hovered like a hummingbird, full of nervous energy, pouring more tea into Ina’s cup and pacing from one end of the porch to the other. Inside the cabin, Mabel and her little brother Godfrey were napping. Mabel had woken briefly, murmuring “Mama,” when Nellie stripped off her wet clothing and put a clean gown on her, but then she had fallen back to sleep.

Hammering and clattering could be heard from across the yard, where Nellie’s husband, John, was busy repairing a shed. Ina suspected he was working nearby to keep a close watch on her, given Nellie’s evident fear of witchcraft. In truth, Ina couldn’t have posed much of a threat to anyone at present. She felt weak as a kitten, and just reaching for a scone made her shoulder start to ache.

“Are you quite comfortable, Ina? Do you need anything more?”

A gray cat ran across the porch and leaped into the grass. Nellie’s gaze followed it for just a moment before darting back to the doorway. The children still slept quietly.

“I’m fine, Nellie. Sit down and have some tea yourself, why don’t you?”

Taking much slower steps, Nellie got herself a cup and sat directly across the table from Ina, with her chair pushed back so far that she could barely reach the table. Not meeting Ina’s eyes, she looked down at the cup but did not make any move to lift it.

Ina gentled her voice. “I won’t harm you, Nellie. I am a healer, taught to serve always with love.”

She turned the word over in her thoughts, seeking certainty. Healer. Yes, she could claim that status now. It seemed as if ages had passed since she had tried—and failed—to summon healing energy in the infirmary where Phoenix was recovering from a broken leg. It had only been this morning, though.

“Why do you fear the witches of the Wild Forest?” Ina took another sip of her tea, which tasted of lemon and soothing herbs. “Have any of us ever done you any harm?”

Finally glancing up, Nellie opened her mouth as if about to speak, but then closed it again. Her hands clenched around the edge of the table.

Ina took another scone and bit into it, waiting patiently.

“Six years ago, on Midsummer’s Eve—the witches killed my sister.”

All parts of this story are consolidated on one page here.

Nellie stopped in mid-screech when she got close enough to see her daughter’s slack, unconscious face and the bloodstains on the child’s torn skirt. The rolling pin that she had been brandishing fell from her hand, landing with a dull thud on the wet ground. Next to it, a cobweb quivered atop the grass, catching the light in spiraling reflections.

Going down to her knees, Nellie raised Mabel’s skirt just enough to see the large scar that had not been there earlier, from an injury that could have been healed only by magic. She shook her head twice slowly, as if dazed, and then lifted her head and met Ina’s eyes.

“Did you…”

Nellie’s speech trailed off raggedly, as she mustered the courage to go on. She bit her lip and tried again, her voice so faint that Ina, standing a few paces away, could barely hear her words.

“Did you bring her back from the dead?”

Ina took a step closer and replied just as quietly. Although Mabel did not yet appear to be regaining consciousness, it was possible she might hear, and Ina did not want to frighten her.

“No. But it was close.”

Biting her lip even harder, until a drop of blood could be seen, Nellie lowered her gaze again. Her face had gone paler than the child’s as she watched the slow rise and fall of Mabel’s chest. She gathered the little girl into her arms and rose to stand.

Only then, glancing warily back and forth from Ina to her house like a frightened animal getting ready to bolt to its den, did Nellie appear to take in the details of Ina’s bare, scratched feet and sopping wet dress.

“If you, uh, want,” Nellie stammered, her bitten lip twitching as she looked into Ina’s eyes again, “there’s hot tea in the house—I was brewing it just now—and fresh scones. I have a clean dress that you can put on until yours is dry, and ointment and bandages for your feet.”

While that wasn’t an apology or even a wholehearted invitation, Ina supposed it was the best she could expect, given Nellie’s fear of witches. Even if begrudging, it was an offer of hospitality, and it felt like one that should be accepted. Although she couldn’t have explained why, Ina had a sense that there was something more she needed to do here.

This is the 12th story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.

My feet dangled like a small child’s from the oversized chair when I sat at the table to chop vegetables for Ira’s stewpot. He had given me an odd choice of knives: most were crudely made from bone or obsidian, but one looked like stainless steel, with a cracked and discolored plastic handle. I took a bone knife because it was the smallest.

Even more incongruous was the dainty floral-pattern teacup, complete with saucer, in which Ira had poured me some hot cider. Taller than a beer mug—and with a noticeable amount of alcohol in the contents—it sat on the table next to the rough wooden platter that held the veggies.

I didn’t mind helping to get dinner started, especially since Ira had given himself the much nastier rat-butchering chore. He was sitting on the front steps—out of my sight, thankfully—and whistling like it didn’t bother him at all.

Another swig of the cider gave me enough courage, or perhaps foolishness, to start questioning him about what the heck was going on here.

“So, Ira,” I began, as cheerfully as I could manage under the circumstances, “how did you learn to be a sorcerer?”

The whistling stopped, and something landed in Ira’s bucket with an icky splat.

“My mother taught me to read the ancient runes. But we have no more sorcerers; they left our world long ago. My spellbook has simple household charms, such as for preserving flowers and vegetables.”

Just my luck, I thought, as I picked up another lumpy vegetable that did indeed seem to be unnaturally well preserved. I could’ve used a powerful sorcerer to send me home, but it looked like what I got instead was a Sasquatch script kiddie.

“Magically teaching me your language in my sleep was more than just ordinary household stuff,” I observed, not quite ready to give up on the possibility. “Does your book have any spells for traveling to other worlds?”

“No. Most of the spells are simple and practical, as I said. There are a few—such as the language spell, and the friendship charm that I spoke over yesterday’s dinner—that once were useful but now have little value. They came from a time when my people lived in great cities, speaking different languages and often going to war. Now, because of the curse, we are few, and the old languages have mostly been forgotten. I never had occasion to use the language spell before last night.”

I chewed on that answer for about a minute (along with a thick glob of fruit peel in the cider) and came to the conclusion I was lucky I hadn’t been turned into a frog by accident. Or an operatic winged rodent. Another of them had just started singing, not far from the door. I was glad Ira didn’t go for his slingshot this time.

“Okay. Can you tell me about the curse?”

“Very long ago, the cities were vast.” Ira’s voice deepened into a storytelling cadence. “The people fought over land and food. Their machines befouled the air and water. Their great boats stripped the seas bare of fish. Left hungry, the dragons destroyed fishing boats, snatched livestock from farms, and set forests ablaze. The people fought back with powerful weapons, but the Last War had no victors. The world was left in ruins, and the sorcerers created portals to escape it. Before they left, the sorcerers cursed us to diminish until we learned how people and dragons both could live in the world.”

Ira carried his bucket inside and dumped the contents into the stewpot, together with my chopped vegetables, some mushrooms, and a pailful of water. He hung the pot over the fireplace and went back outside for wood.

“But I don’t know what the sorcerers might have meant by that,” Ira continued, once he had a good blaze crackling. “The Last War ended long ago. People and dragons have left each other alone for many generations, yet we have not ceased to diminish. The cities still lie in ruins. We scavenge in the rubble like insects. When my mother settled here, she believed that there might be another spellbook hidden in the tunnel under the mountain and that she could learn from it how to break the curse—but she never found it.”

Scowling, Ira stirred the stew with his huge ladle before he turned toward me and spoke again.

“I think it doesn’t exist, and the sorcerers just left us here to die.”

This is the 11th story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.

I stomped through the slush on my way back toward Ira’s cabin, mentally rehearsing how I would demand that he explain his sorcery. Distracting me from my thoughts, the cheerful trilling that I had taken for alien birdsong sounded again, much closer. I glanced to my right and saw a bird perched on a snowy branch. It resembled a cardinal, but it was larger; and the song I’d just heard did not sound at all like a cardinal’s distinctive notes. Whatever the differences might have been, the bird’s bright red feathers reminded me of holiday cards and winter travels.

This wasn’t a trip to a vacation resort, my grumpy subconscious informed me again. When I saw Ira standing in the doorway holding up a white fur coat, however, it did almost look as if I had acquired my own personal Sasquatch valet. Scraps of fur littered the dusty wooden floor under the table where he’d been cutting the coat down to my size.

For a moment, I hesitated, wondering if he might have put an enchantment on the coat. Common sense told me it was much more likely he just didn’t want me to freeze, given my obvious lack of both winter clothing and furry skin. Besides, I wasn’t interested in freezing; so I held out my arms and let Ira put the coat on me. It came to my ankles, comfortably warm, with no weird magical effects—or at least, none that I could notice.

“The coat belonged to my mother,” Ira said in a soft tone, looking past me toward the forest. “She has been dead for three winters now.”

I bit back the complaint I’d been going to make about sorcery, not wanting to sound like an ungrateful jerk.

“I’m sorry, Ira.”

“She was gathering mushrooms on a misty autumn day, and a warhagalla got her.” Turning to look inside for a moment, he gestured toward the big pelt on the floor by the fireplace. “They don’t often range this close to the mountains. Even wild animals can feel the curse.”

I couldn’t feel anything but the warmth of the fur coat, honestly. The bird didn’t seem perturbed either, to judge from the happy chirping. I glanced in its direction and was surprised to find it sitting motionless on the branch, with its beak closed. What other creature, I wondered, might be doing the singing?

Then the bird opened its beak and produced a screech so hideous that my first impulse was to cover my ears. I wasn’t sure if Ira might consider that rude, so I kept my hands at my sides. But evidently, he wasn’t a great fan of the noise either. A stone from his well-aimed slingshot hit the bird right in the middle of the chest, knocking it into the snow.

Without a pause, the angelic singing continued. I saw something moving behind the tree, and then a large flying rat came into view, its mouth wide open as it warbled. Its fur was a silvery gray, and its ears and wings were a rosy pink. A large tail curled over its back.

I didn’t have time for more than a quick glance before another stone flew.

“Hey,” I complained, as the rat thudded to the ground. “I’m sort of a tourist here, you know. Couldn’t you let me discover the wildlife before you start killing it?”

Looking perplexed, Ira was silent for a long time as he tried to sort out my meaning. Finally, he gave a practical answer.

“You’ll be glad enough of the meat when it’s time for dinner.”

All parts of this story are consolidated on one page here.

Ina stepped on another jagged fallen branch, tearing what little remained of her stockings farther into shreds.

She had lost her shoes in the lake rescuing Mabel, and she hadn’t even realized it until she started carrying the child home. Although Mabel’s family lived very close by, Ina was starting to feel as if she had been walking forever on scratched and bruised feet. No, it had been only a few minutes, she told herself sternly, and she could manage a few more.

Staggering under the young girl’s weight, Ina flinched when a green snake passed in front of her. She couldn’t see it clearly in the long grass. Most snakes are harmless, Ina told herself as she took another step, repeating the words as if they were a calming mantra in her morning meditations. Still, she was glad when the snake slithered out of sight into a tall stand of cattails.

The storm had blown through quickly, and the humid air of early June felt heavy and warm. Wild roses, thick with blooms, gave the meadow a pleasant fragrance that Ina would have appreciated much more if she hadn’t been so focused on avoiding their thorns. The hem of her sodden dress kept getting caught; she’d torn it in several places already. Just one more step now, she told herself, trudging along with her head down. And another step.

When she looked farther ahead for a moment, the little cabin where Mabel’s family lived was much closer. Perhaps Nellie, looking to see where her daughter had gotten to, would notice Ina struggling under the child’s weight and come running to help. Then she would understand Ina wasn’t evil after all, and whatever grudges she might have held would be set aside.

Having distracted herself with a fantasy in which the villagers all shed their prejudices and lived forever in neighborly peace with the witches of the Wild Forest, Ina didn’t even notice when Nellie stepped out of the cabin. It wasn’t until the woman came rushing toward her, with something held high overhead, that Ina snapped back to reality.

“What are you doing with my daughter, you horrible witch!”

Ina blinked, not quite believing what she saw. Yes, that really was a rolling pin that Nellie was brandishing. It was still white with flour from the apricot scones Mabel had mentioned.

Dropping to her knees, Ina very carefully set the little girl down in the grass. Then she backed away a few steps, taking just as much care to maintain a calm and unthreatening appearance. Once, in the forest, she had come too close to a wolf den and had been delighted to see the tiny cubs at play, until she’d realized her peril a moment later and stepped cautiously away. She’d learned not to frighten wild creatures or to get between them and their young; and sometimes people, she thought, weren’t all that much different.

This is the tenth story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.

Dragons wheeled and dove in a clear sky, their mouths open as if screaming in anger, but producing neither sound nor flame. Following the flight of the nearest, I turned my head to the left, and something crinkled under my ear. I was just lucid enough to notice it wasn’t a pillow as the dream faded. The thick fur that had been put over me wasn’t exactly a blanket, either.

I sat up, finding myself still on the bearskin (or whatever kind of animal it was) rug in the cabin where I had fallen asleep. Embers still flickered in the grate, but there wasn’t much heat or light, either from the banked fire or from the sun coming through dirty windows. On second glance, the windows were not only quite dirty, but looked as if the streaked and yellowed glass might be hundreds of years old.

When I became uncomfortably aware of bodily needs, that didn’t come as a surprise after last night’s rodent stew dinner. The cabin evidently had no plumbing, and I didn’t see anything that might be intended as a chamber pot. Presumably Ira, being a Sasquatch or caveman or whatever, didn’t mind going outdoors in any weather when nature called.

With a sigh, I reached for my shoes and started putting them on. Ira, who was sitting at the table sewing some kind of white fur garment with a bone needle, gave me an inquiring look.

“I was just looking for a toilet,” I muttered, feeling rather foolish.

After that uncreative sentence came out of my mouth, I realized that I hadn’t been speaking in English. The words rumbled in my throat like Ira’s mysterious chanting yesterday.

Putting aside his sewing, Ira obligingly opened the door, gesturing toward a line of tall conifers just past the snowy clearing. He replied calmly in the same language. “The necessary is over there, behind those trees.”

Taking that to mean an outhouse, I stepped onto the porch, shivering a little in the wintery chill. It wasn’t nearly as cold as last night, though. The wind had died down, and the snow was already starting to melt in the midmorning sun. Slush splattered over my shoes.

Had I really slept that long, or were the nights here shorter than on Earth? A warbling melody interrupted my thoughts, and I saw what might have been a flutter of wings behind the nearest tree. No birds were in sight, however, when I found the narrow path into the woods.

Unfortunately, there was nothing as civilized as an outhouse. There was only a shallow trench, half filled in. A heap of dry leaves, some loose dirt, and a rusty shovel provided the bare minimum for sanitation. Not having any better alternatives, I did my business and shoveled some dirt over it. With a little luck, the makeshift T.P. wouldn’t turn out to be the local equivalent of poison ivy.

Turning back toward the cabin, I considered what I was going to say to Ira, now that he had contrived for me to speak his language. If Ira had anything to do with the sorcery that had literally snatched me out of my world, then it was high time he started explaining himself.

This is the ninth story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.

While Ira washed the dishes, I took off my shoes and folded my dragon-protective suit into a neat rectangle. It made a reasonably comfortable pillow on the rug in front of the fireplace. I stretched, yawned, and listened to the cozy sound of the flames crackling as I watched Ira put the dishes away.

My self-preservation instincts nagged me again that I’d better stay on my guard. After all, this cabin wasn’t a vacation resort; it was an oddly oversized building on a strange planet, currently occupied by my Sasquatch host and whatever small creatures were squeaking in the rafters. For all I knew, they might be vampire bats, just waiting for me to doze off before they pounced.

I couldn’t muster enough energy to do more than turn my head, following Ira with my gaze as he opened another box. He carefully removed a book that looked ancient, with discolored pages. On top of the book, a bright pink flower had a weirdly lifelike appearance, as if it had just been picked.

Setting the flower back down in the box, Ira carried the book toward the firelight. He thumbed slowly through the pages, holding the book wide enough that I could see it wasn’t in any alphabet I recognized. Neat vertical columns filled the pages.

When he found his place, Ira began reciting the words in a slow, measured tone, moving a thick finger beside the letters as if he wasn’t much in the habit of reading. His voice felt soothing to me, although I couldn’t understand the words. After a minute or so, though, I started to pick up a few flickers of meaning. One word that he repeated three times sounded as if it meant “stranger,” and I understood another word as meaning “magic.”

At that point, the warnings at the back of my mind turned into clanging alarm bells. I had come to this world through what I’d been told was a sorcerers’ portal, which meant it was a reasonable assumption that there were sorcerers in the vicinity. And, of course, sorcerers had spellbooks. Ergo, Ira was casting a spell on me.

Before I could collect my muddled wits enough to decide what to do about it, the spell took effect, and I fell soundly asleep by the fireplace.

This is the eighth story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.

I hadn’t been walking much more than ten minutes before I saw a cabin through the trees, but by then it was nearly full dark. The two moons, which had taken on a greenish hue after sunset, had risen enough that they no longer seemed perilously close. Their light helped me to stay on the path when Ira, with his much longer stride, got well ahead of me with his lantern. Snow had started falling and already coated the frozen ground near the cabin, where the trees were sparse.

The word “cabin” seemed to suit Ira’s house because it was a simple wooden building with the dimensions and general appearance of a hunter’s cabin, although sized for giants. The doorknob, which was barely within my reach with raised arms, came to shoulder height on Ira’s sturdy Sasquatch-like body, leaving me to wonder what sort of people might have lived here originally.

Inside, the cabin felt wonderfully warm after my sojourn in the frigid woods. A fire burned brightly in the large stone hearth across from the door, and a stewpot hanging above it gave off an enticing aroma. I hadn’t eaten since grabbing a quick breakfast at the Bucharest airport in what seemed like another lifetime, and I sternly reminded myself that I’d better keep my focus on looking for potential dangers.

Nothing looked ominous when I surveyed the one-room cabin. The furniture, all made of wood, consisted only of a table, two chairs, and a footstool. Boxes of various sizes were scattered along the walls. A rug covering the floorboards by the fireplace was the pelt of a large animal I might have taken for a brown bear, except that its paws were absurdly oversized and had seven toes. In a corner, another rug on a raised platform apparently served as Ira’s bed. It all looked spartan in the extreme. I heard squeaks and flapping wings from somewhere far above in the darkness of the rafters, but otherwise there seemed to be nothing of concern. Walking across the room, I held out my hands to the fire’s cheery blaze, trying to get some warmth back into my icy fingers.

Ira picked up one of the smaller boxes and the footstool, setting them down next to me and gesturing for me to sit on the box. When I did so, the footstool came to a reasonable height for a small table. Rustling around in the other boxes, Ira took out two chipped ceramic bowls with mismatched patterns, two dented metal spoons, and a ladle that I thought at first might be a shovel. I brushed some dried mud off my makeshift table while Ira ladled stew into the bowls.

When he put a bowl in front of me, steam rose from the bubbling stew in the firelight. Mushrooms were recognizable, and there were chunks of a red root vegetable that looked like beets, along with the mystery meat. No, rodent meat, I corrected myself, noticing part of a tail. Doing my best to look on the bright side, that at least meant Ira probably wasn’t a cannibal.

I hadn’t quite gotten up enough gumption to start eating my big helping of alien rodent stew when Ira, now seated at the table, spoke. Although he was looking directly at me, his voice had the cadence of a ritual chant. Guessing that he might be saying grace, I stayed still, politely waiting for him to finish. Not having grown up in a religious family, I then mumbled awkwardly, “God is good, bless this food, amen.” I picked up my spoon and silently added a more fervent prayer that it wouldn’t kill me.

Ira’s chant had left me feeling calmer, though, as if his words—even though I couldn’t understand them—had somehow brought peace to the cabin. I managed to relax enough to eat the stew like it was an ordinary meal. It didn’t taste half bad, honestly. I wasn’t adventurous enough to eat the tail, however, and left it at the bottom of the bowl. So that Ira wouldn’t feel insulted, I rubbed my belly and let out a loud belch to make clear that my skinny little body had been very well fed.

Chuckling, Ira gathered up the remains of the meal, took a pail of hot water from the hearth, and poured some water into a basin to wash the dishes. The familiarity of that simple chore left me, for just a moment, nearly forgetting that he wasn’t human.