On the Hills of Eden

“Done, Rumi!”

Qingxi poured out the brine from the pot they’d soaked their cured slices of chicken within, letting the saltwater mingle with the ebb and flow of the clear forest stream.

“Okay!” Rumi responded, briefly looking up from the block of parmesan she was grating with a small knife. “Just pass it to me and then do the veggies!”

Qingxi nodded, the grasses beneath her sandals rustling slightly as she made her way over to Rumi and the cooking fire.

“On the fire?”

“Mhm.”

Qingxi set the metal pot atop the fire, the full extent of its knobbly form and almost twisted iron coming to light. It wasn’t rusted, sure, but the way its misshapen, tired metal bent and caved in where it shouldn’t have fooled no one. A rather stark contrast to the other metal pot, yet pristine and unblemished and not worn out– a fresh gift from Hibara. That one had been placed just by the fire and filled with Japonic ramen and water, set to cook at a relatively lower temperature.

“Thank you,” Rumi said, shooting a glance over to Qingxi to see she’d already hurried off to chop up the onions, garlic and their last few leaves of basil at the other end of the small camp.

Turning back to her work, she set down the partially grated parmesan and picked up a circular mesh strung from plant fibres. The mesh’s outer rim was formed from carefully bent wood, little tags of its fibres sticking out over it to serve as makeshift latches to hold onto whatever pot it were to be attached to.

She placed it atop of the newer pot, her right hand methodically going around its entire perimeter to secure it into place.

“Okay, Soleiman,” she said to herself, heaving the pot up with a burst of her strength before resting it atop her knee. “Here we go.”

She tilted the pot gradually, watching carefully as a waterfall of steam-spouting pasta soup fell forth and into the pot of chicken slices. She kept on pouring, the growing fatigue in her right shoulder and left hip flexor eased by the rapidly decreasing weight of the pot. Until it stopped, and Rumi realised not a single bit of pasta had fallen through the mesh during the entire straining process.

She hummed to herself in satisfaction.

“Rumi.”

“Yeah?”

She set the pot of pasta back down, further away from the fire, turning to see Qingxi standing behind her with a tray full of chopped veggies.

“I’m done.”

“Oh,” Rumi responded, pleasantly surprised. “Thank you.”

She took the tray from Qingxi’s hands, supporting it with her left palm and stabilising it with her right hand as she moved over to the mortar and pestle. She set the tray down on the grass for a moment, rushing to grab the little plate containing the parmesan and its knife. She quickly swiped in all the already grated parmesan, hurriedly striking the block with the blade a few more times to make the final product just a little bit cheesier.

They always preferred it that way.

She set down the parmesan, swiping the chopped vegetables into the mortar and mixing them into the parmesan.

“Qingxi, can you grab the olive oil for me please?”

Rumi sat herself down, cradling the mortar with her left palm as she began grinding its contents with a pestle.

“Thank you.”

She paused mid-way, drizzling a little bit of the olive oil into the half-mashed mix of veggies, spots of green and yellow and white all showing together under the glossy gleam of the golden oil. She resumed grinding, the oil helping to turn it into more of a paste than a powder.

A slight wind blew through their camp, the emerald blades of grass responding by dancing in the light of their fires that fought against the continuing encroachment of the night.

It had already been a few days since they’d left Hibara, and every single night up until this one they had spent eating something basil-related. One would think such an uninspired flavour palette would have left them bored of the taste already, but the novelty of the herb, the knowledge of its sparsity and the sheer cooking prowess put on by Rumi helped to prevent that.

“Is there anything I should do while you make the pesto?” Qingxi asked, her hands held together by her skirt, as a maid would.

“Mm,” Rumi mused, her eyes drifting away in momentary thought. “No. Just stay here and watch me grind it.”

She smiled slightly, her right hand not skipping a single beat as it pushed and pulverised the ingredient mix.

“Alright.”

The two of them sat themselves down on the grass, deciding that the time they were going to spend making the pesto would do well to double up as a brief break from the rest of the cooking process.

And, in the silence of the night accompanied only by the quiet whistle of the forest breeze, Qingxi heard a tune.

A hummed tune.

For Rumi was happily grinding away, her head gently swaying left and right in tandem with the pestle and in beat with the melody.

“You really like using that, don’t you?”

Rumi huffed slightly in laughter.

“Of course I do,” she said. “Isn’t it really relaxing?”

“That is true.”

“All you have to do is grind, grind and grind some more. Slowly but surely. Massaging the foods until they become all mixed up and delicious.”

“Doesn’t it ever get tiring?”

“Well, Qingxi,” Rumi said, pausing temporarily. “I never get tired doing something that’s for you guys. It’s like a labour of love!”

Qingxi chuckled softly, her hand rising to cover her mouth instinctively.

“Thank you, Rumi,” she said, placing a hand atop her scarf-covered head– the white fabric having been worn specifically to keep her curly golden hair out of their food.

Rumi smiled in turn, and it was almost as if it was day again.

They returned to making pesto, letting the silence of the night take over once more.

There was a chirp in the air, the distant cry of a cicada and the gentle boil of the chicken.

“It also helps that… that this is a lot nicer than the other times I’ve cooked.”

Qingxi pulled her eyes from the pesto, analysing Rumi’s tired face with her gaze. A tiredness not from a hard cooking session, nor from a several month-long journey. It was a tiredness from years upon years of enslavement.

She put her hand on Rumi’s shoulder, patting her softly.

“Do you want me to take over?”

“No, it’s fine,” she responded, shaking the fatigue of having had her childhood stolen from her off her face. “That was then. We’ve long since left the vile Lord Gravitas’ Demesne now. And… and if there’s anything that I can do to help free everyone else suffering under his– or anyone else’s hands–, then I will do it. Including making dinner.”

Her fingers were going white.

A shadow fell upon her face.

Qingxi didn’t know if she should say something to help calm her down.

“Think of it as my own little rebellion!” Rumi said, suddenly bursting back into her usual bubbly self.

After some time, Rumi finally became satisfied with her handiwork. The pesto now a beautiful mix of soft yellow and rich, verdant green, she got back up, bringing the mortar with her.

“Alright,” she said. “Could you help drain the chicken for me again, please?”

Qingxi nodded.

They proceeded as such, working in tandem to drain the chicken into the stream, before proceeding to prepare for the frying of the slices of meat.

Rumi went first, brandishing the precious bottle of olive oil that probably cost more than everything else in their wagon combined, pouring a moderate helping of the golden liquor in a swirl to help coat the bottom of the wok.

Then, she transferred the pesto into the wok, Qingxi stepping in midway after she started showing difficulty with balancing the mortar mid-pour with only the palm of her left hand.

And finally, as a team effort, the two girls dumped the chicken slices into wok.

“Alright, Qingxi,” Rumi said, stepping back slightly to fetch a spatula from off another foldable table. “Can you help shake the wok for me?”

“Sure.”

Qingxi grabbed one of the two handles of the wok and began rocking it gently atop the precariously fixed metal stand buried amongst the burning tinders. In turn, Rumi began shuffling the spatula back and forth, tossing the chicken up into the air and working the pesto into its flesh.

They were slow at first. Rumi even giggled a bit.

“Hehe, sorry,” she said. “I’m not very used to cooking with a wok.”

Qingxi shook her head.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not either. It’ll be a learning experience for the both of us.”

But they grew faster. Not drastically faster, but noticeably so. Their movements became more coordinated, their actions more confident. More bold, more meaningful, more courageous.

And they were just two girls working a wok, in the middle of the sleeping forest.

“It’s good that we have each other then, right?” Qingxi asked, her eyes still on the increasingly more appetising pieces of meat.

“Mm?” Rumi hummed. “Oh, to… to cook this chicken?”

“No, to get over our pasts.”

“Ohh, right.”

“I mean, I can’t say that I’ve experienced even a quarter of your hardships, but,” Qingxi said, never once breaking away from the task at hand. “I know– at least to some extent– what it feels like to be used.”

Her eyes traced over the maze of scars on Rumi’s forearms. That reminder of a past not too far detached.

“Well, you shouldn’t say that,” Rumi replied. “Just because you didn’t suffer the same way I did doesn’t mean your trauma isn’t any less valid than mine.”

Qingxi nodded.

“But… yeah,” Rumi added, forcing the spatula into the chicken for one big flip. “It is good that we have each other.”

The leaves overhead rustled, the waters of the stream splashed and the chicken before them sizzled in invitation.

Pallas and Soleiman should be back soon.

“...And…” Qingxi continued, struggling slightly. “For what happened after the fight at the Living Cemetery-”

“Qingxi!” Rumi giggled. “Haven’t you already apologised like three times already? How many more times do I have to tell you it’s okay?”

“I know,” Qingxi responded, closing her eyes as she sighed. “But I always feel so bad thinking about how frightened you must have been.”

The truth is, Qingxi didn’t see herself in those memories. She saw a spectre of her father, manifesting itself within her. And the fact that she could very well end up betraying herself the older she grew and the more she resembled her father, terrified her.

“I’ve honestly never forgiven myself for that,” she said, the thoughts in her mind finally weighing down the movements of her arms. “And what I did to Soleiman.”

“It’s fine, Qingxi, really,” Rumi insisted, stepping around the fire to caress her shoulder with her left palm– her spatula still held and at the ready. “You can ask Soleiman if you want to. The main thing that matters,” she added. “Is that you become a better person.”

Rumi set the spatula down, signalling to Qingxi to grab ahold of the pot of pasta. They picked it up together, and poured it in with the chicken.

“And considering how children usually tend to take after their parents…” she continued, just as they set the pot back down. “I think you’ve already done a great job just being you!”

“Mmm,” Qingxi hummed. “I guess so. Thank you, Rumi.”

“Of course,” Rumi replied. “Now let’s get this off the fire before it gets overcooked.”

They took the wok off the fire, placing it atop the largest of the foldable tables they had.

“...Or maybe you just took more after your mother,” Rumi thought aloud.

“Huh,” Qingxi said.

Dinner was ready.

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”