Secret Ingredient
(Random
2-word prompt- pie, tiptoe)
Flower had
been waiting over an hour for the last of the lights to turn off in Old Man
Grundle’s farmhouse. He’d been waiting…
hiding in the cold under the shadows of the hedgerows for far too long. It’d been late when he’d arrived, and he
thought he’d be in the clear to get what he came for quickly and quietly,
without detection, but he hadn’t expected the old farmer to stay up so late. It was weird; it was now well past midnight,
and the farmer was usually in bed by the time he got here. Or he had been every night for the last ten
days or so.
Flower
stretched his legs and straightened out; he’d begun to cramp up while crouching
in his hiding place. He made one final sweep
of the empty lane to make sure he was truly alone, and that no-one had followed
him. Not that anyone in their right mind
would’ve waited around for an hour in the dark and chilly night, pressed
against a thorny hedge, spikes digging into their back, leaves tickling their
ears and neck, and he was pretty sure he’d been accosted by a bug or two. No, he was alone. He drew his jacket in closer against the
chill. And of course, anyone following him
wouldn’t’ve known what he came here for.
Even Old Man Grundle didn’t know what was hidden on his own property.
The
secret ingredient.
Flower scurried
towards the farmhouse, breaching the grounds via a broken fence, then staying
low as he crossed the small front garden.
He stepped over and around turnip shoots, meandered around pumpkin vines,
and tried not to trip over the cabbages.
It was quiet. That kind of
silence you get in the depths of night when life sleeps and death stalks. There were predators lurking, waiting. Owls.
Foxes. Badgers. And him, a hunter of ingredients.
He’d
been asked, of course, what made his fruit pies so delicious, so moreish, but
he only replied with a tap on his nose and a wink. He’d only been sharing the pies with his
friends and coworkers for a week, but they couldn’t get enough.
Flower
reached the pebble-dashed wall of the farmhouse, and pressed himself close,
staying in its shadow, hiding from the full moon. He tiptoed alongside, following the edge,
fingering the stones as he moved. He
paused at the corner. A hinge creaked
somewhere, a door or window, above his head.
He kept still, then slowly drifted his gaze upwards…
He
couldn’t let anyone down; he had to keep bringing them pies.
An
unsecured window shutter on the first floor swayed in the breeze. Intermittently, the wind tickled it just
enough for it to titter and snicker. Hmph. It was laughing at him for thinking he’d been
discovered by Old Man Grundle. Flower
sighed. He was safe to proceed.
It had been a Sunday morning
almost two weeks ago when the mysterious old woman had accosted him the
market. She’d grabbed his arm while he’d
been looking at the baking supplies, glared into his eyes and whispered the
secret. He hadn’t believed her. She’d insisted. He still didn’t believe her, but he’d
assuaged her with false affirmations.
Flower breached
the corner and edged his body along the wall to the back of the farmhouse,
stepping over and around a few plant pots that’d been haphazardly arranged in
the shadows, some empty, some not, but all seemed uncared for. To his left, were fields of corn and barley,
but ahead, just on the other side of the koi pond, was a small wood, and where
the secret ingredient appeared every night.
Something felt off this time, not just the old farmer’s lateness,
something else. He skirted the pond,
ignoring the laughing shutter behind him.
It felt like something was going to go wrong, but maybe that was just
his nerves; trespassing on someone’s property was always a little scary,
especially on Grundle’s farm; the old man was known for his ‘ask questions
later’ attitude. Flower hurried into the
safety of the trees.
He wasn’t sure what’d compelled
him to check out what the old woman had told him. Boredom.
Curiosity. Stupidity. It didn’t matter. He’d kept the first fruit pie for himself,
and it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. He’d come back every night since.
Flower
looked back at the farmhouse from the shelter of the woods; its lights were
still out, no signs of life from within, and only the creaking shutter paid him
any mind. He moved deeper into the
forest. He could smell moss and damp. His boots squelched through the mud, and
leaves rustled as he moved further and further from Old Man Grundle’s farmhouse.
The old
woman had given him only one warning; go alone, or the magic will cease.
A sweet
aroma cut through the earthy air, as the trees began to thin out, almost as if
the foliage were giving reverence to the small miracle in the clearing in the
woods. Even the plants along the ground
gave way, leaving only the dry earth.
Flower stepped lightly forward.
The smell was different every night, but always saccharine and delicious;
yesterday’s scent had been flowery and delicate, tonight’s was fruity and tangy. Flower almost enjoyed the smelling more than
the eating.
He
paused.
There
it was, the secret ingredient, bathed in a halo of moonlight, out of place in
the forest, but waiting to be seized.
And Flower would seize it again this night. He took a tentative step closer. He didn’t want to disturb the dirt, ruin the wonderous
ingredient in the centre of the glade.
Another step closer. And
another. He stopped. A creak cried out in the cold air behind him,
a distant giggle… the window shutter again, though it sounded louder, bigger,
this time.
Flower
inched closer to the secret ingredient.
He crouched to collect it… and froze.
He
wasn’t alone. He had nowhere to go,
nowhere to hide, as he heard a hurried rustle of leaves as footsteps rushed through
the trees. He knew who it was. The hammer of a gun clicked by his ear.
“You’re
trespassing.”
He swallowed
hard; he didn’t know what to say. He
couldn’t move.
“Turn
around,” said Old Man Grundle.
He didn’t.
“I said
‘turn around,’” repeated the farmer.
Flower’s
head orbited the gun’s muzzle, slow, careful, away from his secret quarry; he
didn’t want to startle the man into a premature discharge. He smiled awkwardly as he faced his discoverer.
“Flower?!” Old Man Grundle lowered the gun. “What on earth are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”
Flower
shrugged as he stood; he didn’t want to reveal the secret of the pies. He couldn’t reveal it. It might be too late. He was eager to turn back around and look
directly at the ingredient.
“Lost,
are we?”
“I… er…
I thought I…” mumbled Flower, “I saw a kitten run into the woods.” The old woman’s warning was playing in his
head. “I must’ve been mistaken.” He was no longer alone. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“You’re
lucky I didn’t shoot you, dummy.” The old
man laughed. “You shouldn’t go chasing
imaginary cats onto other people’s property.”
“I know
I know,” he said. “Sorry, I should
probably get going…” He wondered what he
was going to do about the secret ingredient.
Was it still there? Could he
somehow wait and come back even later, in the early hours of the morning?
“Come
and join me for a nightcap first,” said Old Man Grundle. “It’s a cold night and you look frozen half
to death. Some whiskey’ll warm you right
up.”
Flower
nodded. He’d been out in this cold for
hours. Too long. Maybe it was time to give up.
“Come
along, my friend.” The farmer placed a hand
on his shoulder and led him away. “You
can tell me how to make those tasty pies of yours.”
Flower glanced
back.
The
secret ingredient was gone forever; only a halo of empty moonlight coated the
earth of the clearing.
The
End.
