A Taste of Freedom

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Smoke rose from the formerly deserted chimney and the smell of greasy, fatty meat lingered in its wake. The smell of meat was more intriguing than the cabin’s new resident. Food of any kind was a rarity in the years since the war began, but meat was an absolute luxury. Rowan’s mouth watered with its still lingering impression. His stomach echoed his longing in a low pitiful growl. It was that of a wounded animal hoping for sympathy on a late November night. Even just the smoke rising from the house wrapped Rowan in the warm memories of sitting by the fire with his parents and older brother just a few years ago.

With his gaze locked so intently on the deserted structure that had been given new life, he didn’t notice the older gentlemen collecting kindling a few yards left of the home until he was approaching him. He stumbled slightly as he walked and his hands shook as they grasped the twigs he managed to gather. No doubt age and loss were getting the better of him. Still, it was impressive to see someone become an elder at all in their current world. Not only that, he did not have the grayish, sunken appearance of undernourishment that plagued Rowan and his brother, James.

Rowan collected himself, trying not to drool over the man’s apparent wealth of food, “Hello sir, I just noticed the candle and fire, I always knew this cabin to be abandoned.”

Wisps of thin gray hair fell like feathers in different directions on his head, thickening into a coarse beard that surrounded his wide, toothless smile. His lips smacked with the sheen of grease as he spoke, “ah, felt like gettin’ way, seemed like a good place. You and your family always live here or the war put ya here?”

“I grew up here, but it's just my brother and I now,” Rowan admitted sadly, dropping his gaze to the ground, “our parents tried to stand their ground against the rebels, but they didn’t make it.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” the old man said, giving the acknowledgement a moment before continuing, “food’s ‘bout done, why don’t you join me?”

Rowan’s heart leapt, he couldn’t believe the man was being so forthcoming, especially at times like this, especially being as vulnerable as he clearly was.

“Oh, no, I should be getting back to my brother, he’ll be waiting for me” Rowan halfheartedly protested.

His stomach begged for a taste of whatever was cooking, loudly contradicting his attempted decline of the man’s offer. It had been so long since he had a proper meal. Besides, he wanted to see what the old man had, maybe James and him could actually survive this post war hell if they knew how to get some food. He wished James was with him, he was always better at talking to people.

“Come now, best eat when you can, something tells me he’ll understand” the man said, already turning and taking unsteady steps back to the small house.

Rowan looked from the back of the man to the direction of his family’s property where James should have already returned. He will likely be mad at Rowan for eating and investigating without him, but justifying it as an opportunity for more food, he hurried after the old man.

“Here, let me take those for you,” Rowan said, taking the kindling from the old man who was dropping twigs here and there from his shaking hands and uneven gate.

He turned his unending smile toward Rowan, “Well aren’t you nice.”

Rowan smiled back and they continued to walk. When the old man rested a trembling hand on the rotting wooden door and pushed it open, the smell of food permeated the night air. Dust, dirt and dried leaves whirled around as the door creaked to a halt against the front wall, but nothing compared to the smell of a meal.

He couldn’t help remembering the days of coming home after school or a long day with friends to find dinner being made. He thought then he was starving, incessantly bothering Annett, their nanny, about when dinner would be ready. He almost laughed at the thought now as his stomach ached for things he hadn’t smelled in years.

The growls that came now seemed to be echoing around in his stomach before escaping. There was not only meat, but different plants to go with. Some looked like the weeds his parents used to complain about when having a yard mattered to anyone. That was so long ago now, another world. He swallowed the saliva filling his mouth.

“The corner, the wood,” said the man, pointing to the cobweb ridden corner to the right of the fireplace where he now crouched. Nestled atop the hearth was a modest fire heating the bottom of a pot that hung above it as the man stirred the contents.

There were only a few other bits of branches sitting in the corner. More than anything there were leaves that had blown in with the winds of numerous autumn seasons and piles of dust that came from neglect and nearing the worst of the bomb sites. Rowan did what the man instructed, then stepped around the small dwelling taking it in.

The creaking remnants of a wooden floor flexed and whined beneath his every step. He looked around at the cabin he always passed with curiosity as a child. It had been some time before they crossed this part of the woods. At first Rowan and his brother didn’t come out of their family’s bunker. As the fighting receded and provisions ran low however, they started venturing.

Even then there was no need to come to this part of the woods, it would be unlikely they would find anything useful with only the long abandoned home here. But today Rowan and his brother got separated. Rowan, not having a great sense of direction, tried to follow things that looked familiar. This eventually ended him on the trail he used to walk with their parents that snaked past the cabin and back to the edge of their land.

Around were multiple things the man must have brought with him. A few pots, pans and dishes laid next to the fire with various utensils jutting from their different layers. A small table held greens and garlic. There was only one chair beside the table. Rowan supposed at his age, in this world, that’s probably all he needed. A single pillow and blanket were balled up together in the corner on a mattress that laid on the ground. On that was a picture of a couple dozen young men in front of a mine entrance, uniforms covered in dirt and coal dust.

“Why do you have that?” Rowan asked tensely, pointing to the picture.

The man looked over to where he was pointing, “‘cause I was a miner,” he answered matter-of-factly, still smiling.

“You, you were one of them?” Rowan asked, unable to hide the edge of anger in his voice.

“Long time ago. Don’t fret ‘bout that now, war’s over. Here,” the man said, filling a bowl and handing it to Rowan, “sit, eat.”

Rowan tried to relax, reminding himself that the picture was taken long before the war and no one in it would have been alive or well enough to be a part of it. Regardless, there was a sense of unease associated with the man now. Rowan took the bowl without thanking him. Miners built the backbone of the rebels. The rebels that desolated everything he ever knew and hated people like his father and mother for having things they didn’t. If they couldn’t have it, they would rather destroy it all. Miners were why his parents were dead and he and his brother were starving.

Rowan sat in the chair. The man made himself comfortable on the floor in front of the hearth. Rowan, refocused on the food, ate hungrily. Savoring the warmth, the salt, the earthy bitter taste of the greens that complimented the tender meat. It tasted different than he remembered, slightly tougher and more bitter than beef he knew. Perhaps it was his longing for it, but it was better somehow than any meat he ever tasted. It was hearty, filling and juicy. It reminded him of the one summer his father received a promotion and they went out to a fancy dinner to celebrate. It was the only time he ever tried veal.

“Slow down there boy, don’t want to get sick now, plenty more where that came from in the cellar,” the old man said, then filled the walls with laughter.

He’s gloating, Rowan thought, it's not enough to win the war, they clearly have resources they aren’t willing to share and now they’re here, gloating!

“How’s that?” Rowan asks bitterly, wanting the man to confirm what he already knows.

“How’s what, I got more?” the man says between gasps of laughter, “us miners had to adapt a long time ago to not havin’ much boy.”

“Is that so? You didn’t just take it from the men and women who earned it?” Rowan spat.

The man’s laughter grew in intensity until tears filled the corners of his eyes. The sound enraged Rowan. The fact that this man not only had enough, but was able to laugh about the people the miners had killed to get it, the families they left ripped apart.

When he could catch his breath enough the man spoke again, “Earned it? Demanded more like. No boy, I earned it.”

“Is that what you call it? Killing innocent people who give you work? Work that provides for your families?”

The man’s muscles were jerking a bit with his laughter now, seizing his body in their rapture. He was trying to speak but unable to articulate any words beyond his air deprived fit. Rowan’s rage began to boil at the sight of this well fed enemy. Why did he even need all this food? How does he have so much while orphaned children like him and his brother starve. He was old, he had no life left ahead of him. It was unfair. The food he had rightfully belonged to the citizens who defended their nation, who earned that food to begin with.

Impulsive thoughts pulsed through Rowan, thoughts of hurting him, of stealing his previsions completely. Was he really capable of that? Did he really want to stoop to the level of their enemy? But it was so unfair, the man would survive a couple more years at best while he and James had their whole lives ahead of them still. Surely it wasn’t stealing if the food never belonged to this deranged old man to begin with. Right?

“Innocent?” That man finally croaked out, “‘bout as innocent as a sinnin’ preacher!”

Wheezing, breathless laughter filled the small dwelling on every side, consuming Rowan in the insult of its sound. His hands were that of a ghost wrapped tightly on the bowl of stew. Before having time to question it, he stood, crossed over to the man and slammed the bowl down against his head. It shattered, slicing the man’s head open and littering the floor with its shards. The old man fell to his side, lost somewhere between a cry and a chuckle.

After glancing back at the man, ensuring he was unable to follow, Rowan closed the door and stepped tentatively around the building. In the back behind a rusted out truck he found the cellar doors.

He fumbled with the latch a moment, his heart pounding. The adrenaline was making his hands shake and it was hard to control them. His legs felt weak, like his body was so much heavier than they were used to supporting. Perhaps the sudden influx of food wasn’t sitting well with him.

Finally the doors came loose and he was able to pull open the heavy, rotting wood just as the man’s incessant laughter began to rebound. The stench of metallic blood rose from the doors mingled with the mildewy scent of damp earth. Rowan hopped onto creaking, bowing steps and raced down them into a large opening with dim flickering lights.

There, on a filthy workbench reinforced with freshly cut wood, lay his brother. One of his legs had been sloppily butchered from his body and hung on a meat hook next to the workbench. Sizable chunks were cut longways from the thigh and nowhere to be seen. Blood still slowly dripped from the edge of the work top, adding to the pool beneath his brother's motionless frame. Rowan began to gag as he realized what he had just eaten, how the man had survived so well.

His eyes blurred with tears as he stepped closer to his brother, saying his name, trying to wake him. But James’ eye’s were already open, glossed over and staring through his world. He did not respond. Rowan began to call his name louder, throwing himself over his brother’s body and shaking him, refusing to believe any of this was true. In the distance he could hear the old man’s laughter growing louder.

He started talking to James, “it's going to be okay, I’ll get you out of here. You’re okay,” he said as he tried to shift his brother’s body into a position he might be able to hoist over his shoulder, “I’ll get you out of here, you’re okay. It’s going to be okay.”

He was choking on his words, grief lodged like a suffocating vice inside his throat. His arms felt heavy and hard to control as he tried to summon the strength to get a hold of his brother’s limp body. Rowan’s pleas became desperate and completely nonsensical as he struggled, begging his brother to wake, to help lift himself and hold on. Salty tears and gooey drags of snot dripped into his open mouth as he sobbed his brother’s name over and over again and pushed the sweat drenched locks of brown hair off his brother’s cold forehead.

Rowan felt weak and nauseous. Everything, all of this was wrong. His arms weren’t working, his mind began to feel jumbled like he couldn't hold on from one thought to the next. His brother slumped out of his arms and onto the table. Rowan’s legs shook with the effort of holding himself and eventually gave way. He fell, catching himself on the edge of the workbench with his arms, trying to brace himself. His vision was becoming blurred, not just from the tears, but drifting in and out of focus. The old man’s chuckling was close now, crawling up his spine.

He looked around, searching for answers, screaming for someone to help. What he saw instead was a yellowing, blood spattered newspaper page tacked to the wall behind his brother. Concentrating his doubling vision on it he could just make out a picture that showed a much younger version of the old man and a headline that read, “Man Survives Latest Mine Collapse After Making an Impossible Choice.”

Rowan collapsed, his head colliding with the dirt floor as his now helpless body slipped completely from his control. The final note of laughter that came from above was silenced by the sound of the cellar doors sealing their fate.