Contest Entry - Reflections - Part 1 -

REFLECTIONS – An Amber Hunt Story.
By John Paul Dodds

Part 1 - Out Of The Frying Pan

I woke with a scream.  Something cold and wet was gently yet insistently pressing itself against my leg under the bed covers.  I threw off the covers in a panic.  There was something small and furry in the bed with me.  A mammal!  It looked up at me and made a mewling sound.
I scrambled back against the headboard in fright.

“Well, you will feed them, Moll”, a girl told me from across the room.  I jumped again.  Who was Moll.  What was this girl doing in my room...

Except it wasn't my room.  I was in a dormitory.
I belatedly remembered my blankets, and reached for them to pull them up and cover myself.  I don't like people seeing me undressed.  I don't like them staring at the patches of scales that mark me as a Kindred.  A half-blood.  As something less than Human.  Or Kith.

And what I saw as I did stunned me.
Slender, even skinny legs, tanned darker than my pale legs should be.  Tanned, skinny Human legs.  Without a single trace of the patch of blue-green scales that cover most of my left thigh!  I just stopped and stared.  What was going on?  How could this possibly be?  

“Come on, red!”.  The crimson haired girl told me exasperatedly, which seemed a little unfair.  She pulled a maids uniform out of the wardrobe next to my bed and throwing it at, or actually on top of me.  “You don't want to be getting on Her Bossiness' bad side this early in the morning.  You know what she's been like all week”.  

Amazingly I wasn't sluggish, either in body or mind.  A common complaint of mine, especially in the winter months.  Being cold-blooded will do that to a person.  I feigned a huge yawn to cover looking around the place.  There were eight beds in the dormitory, but only one other showed any sign of recent use.  The light coming in from the windows showed me the room was on the ground floor, and it was early, perhaps five in the morning.  

But the light was coming in the wrong direction.  If, and I mean if, I was still in my world, then I was on the other side of the world!  Why would I question if I was even in the same world?  Well that's a story for another time.  Let's just say I once met three travellers from much, much farther away than I had even suspected was possible.

The furniture was utilitarian and well made, and yet there were signs of wear.  Strange, square plates above the heads of each bed, not unlike Tomas Eddison's experimental Elektrical light's back home, lit the room.  The room itself was grander than the dormitory I had used when I worked undercover in the Kith Palace back home.  It gave me the sense of a huge, palatial building on a scale I would never see in the looming, crowded streets of Kitholme.

As fate would have it, the light above my bed was malfunctioning, but less explosively than I was used to.  Instead of the warm yellow light of the others, it bathed my bed in a hideous purple glow.  The girl strode over and casually thumped it.  I twitched and leapt away, expecting pyrotechnics, but it merely flickered, clicked loudly and changed to the same warm yellow as the others.
“Does nothing work properly in this place”, she complained resignedly under her breath.

“Come On, Moll”, she turned her attention back to me, making hurry up gestures.  “You know the Duke's due back today.  The Duchess will want everything perfect for her beloved brother...”, she dropped her voice to a whisper, glancing around, “and that little minx of a wife of his”.

I didn't see any choice.  If this was a prank it was the most elaborate one I'd ever seen.  Besides, in my experience, pranks tended to be short, to the point, and usually stupid.  Or painful.  Or both.  A reflection of the people who employed them.  If it wasn't... Then something very strange indeed was going on.  And my best chance at figuring it out was to play along with my assigned role and see what I could learn.

I turned my back and changed into the maid's uniform.  Trying to settle my mind into a suitably docile demeanour.  It wasn't particularly working.  I was buzzing with questions and half-formed theories, none of which could even begin to cover a part of the 'facts'.

Standing up had brought another stark realisation.  I'm not a small woman, I'm as tall as most men.  Five feet and ten inches.  But here I seemed like a midget. Everything seemed just a little too high; a stretch to reach.  People towered over me.  It was an uncomfortable sensation.  Like being a small child again.  I don't know if it was me, or simply this Moll, who's body I seemed to have usurped.

And her long, long hair was already starting to get on my nerves.  It was red though a good five shades darker than my own and fell, unstyled as far as I could tell, past my waist.  I'd already sat on it, painfully.  Twice.  And was constantly brushing it out of my eyes.

Annoyed with it, I moved to the nearby mirror to tie it back, and nearly died of fright.  The woman who stared back at me, almost a head taller, was, well... me.  And by that I mean Amber-me.  Real-me.  That same long straight nose, sharp amber eyes and intense expression.  The same orange-red bob-cut hair, cheek length on the left, shoulder-length on the right, with a leading edge that trailed down to my breast.  The same oh-so familiar pattern of blue-green scales on my neck and shoulder that faded into the human skin.  A mark of my half-blood heritage that I chose to wear as a badge of honour rather than one of shame.

What.  The.  Hell.

I blinked and looked again.  It was disconcerting to say the least, to have to strain my neck to look up at my own reflection.  That answered the height question anyway.  This 'Moll' was obviously that much smaller than the real me.

I looked down at myself, and under the same maid's uniform I saw... Amber wearing, I could see bone thin, tanned legs without so much as a hint of a scale.  I mean I'd never been anything other than slender, even boyish figured.  But this Moll looked so thin she might break.  Did the girl not eat at all?!

I quickly stepped away from the mirror, seeing the wrong reflection there was bad enough for me.  And I knew something strange was going on.  If someone else were to see it gods only know what they would do.  I might be burned as a witch, or a demon.  Or a follower of the Fallen Lady.  I instinctively made  the sign of the Broken Circle over my breast.

“What's up with you this morning, Moll?”, the tall, crimson haired girl asked.  I looked down and shrugged non-committally.  I didn't answer because, to be honest.  After looking in the mirror, I wasn't sure who's voice would come out.

I looked up at her and felt a little stab of jealousy.  The girl was gorgeous.  She stood there without a hair out of place.  Smooth, wine-dark red hair that fell past her shoulders framed a perfect face.  She grabbed my hands and pulled me too my feet.
“Come on sleepy-bones”, she chided me gently.  “You're usually the first one up”.  She waved a finger in front of my face.  “Have you been up all night flirting with the boys?”, she asked in so arch a manner I had to assume it was the opposite of what this Moll would do.  I smiled.  I couldn't help myself.  Her energy and positivity was catching.  You couldn't dislike this girl, it would be like kicking a baby Ankylosaurus.
“That's better”, she smiled back at me.  “Now come on”.   And she dragged me from the room.


“Moll!”, a dark haired, professional-looking girl bustled up, and grabbed me by the arm.  I jumped, not used to casual contact like that.  Or my assumed identity.  The grasp wasn't malicious in any way, just unexpected.

“Miss Cecile”, the girl with me greeted her, almost, but not quite formally.  Not quite genuflecting.  

“Adel”, Miss Cecile acknowledged her with a nod.  Which told me what I needed to know about the newcomer.  And not just her name, which I carefully filed away, along with Adel's.  

Miss Cecile obviously thought herself first among the maids.  Whether this was official or just self-assumed remained to be seen, but I was betting on self-assumed.  There was a certain arrogance in her carriage and the way she spoke to Adel.  But I didn't see anything too 'proper' as might be expected from a supervisor.  And she seemed a little young for a supervisor.

“I'm glad I caught you, Moll”, she told me.  “Basir told me to fetch you.  He needs a quick word”.  She placed a surprising gentle hand on my shoulder.  “Don't worry.  I'll be there with you”.  That last addition made me suspicious.  Why would she be so solicitous?  Why would she need to accompany me to see this obviously authoritative man?  Dark suspicions started to to form in my mind.

“Don't you let that big, bad brother of mine take advantage of your good nature, Moll”, Adel called after us, lightly.  It didn't ease my tensions any.

Miss Cecile led me along several corridors.  And whilst I pretended to be deep in thought, I was paying careful attention.  Glances into several rooms along the way helped calm my nerves a little.  Though the architecture, and most likely the layout of this place; this palace, I presumed, was unfamiliar, there were certain patterns that soon became clear.  We were headed into the kitchen area.  I could tell by the storerooms, and dining spaces of varying sizes.  But mostly by the rise in temperature.  In a place like this the huge ovens would run almost constantly.  Whether it was baking bread, hot meals or snacks for the Family, or simpler fare for the undoubted army of servants it took to run a palace.  

Miss Cecile knocked on a door and opened it without to be called.  Whether that was from her sense of her own authority or simply that we were expected, I didn't know.  The room looked like a small office, complete with desk.  Something that might have been a very flat typewriter sat there, but I couldn't see where the paper went.  It was literally just a keyboard.  And speaking of paper, I couldn't see any.  Anywhere.  No piles of bills to be signed off on, no audits nor delivery notes to be checked and paid.  Not even a filing cabinet for their records.  How could you have a paperless office?

There was a man standing by the desk, ignoring the chair.  He was holding what appeared to be a small picture frame in his hand, frowning and tapping at it intermittently.  As we shuffled in, he glanced up and tossed the frame negligently onto a small pile of others.  I tried not to gawp as I saw the frame contained not only a list of words and numbers that scrolled by almost interminably, but photographs as colourful, crisp and lifelike as if they were small windows.  Pictures that moved!  My eyes followed the frame as it fell onto the desk, I couldn't help it.  And then, all of a sudden, it went black.  I wanted to touch it, to see if those pictures would appear again.  But I didn't, of course.

I dragged my eyes back up to the man.  Basir bore a close resemblance to his sister.  His hair was more brown than crimson, and he was as handsome as his sister was beautiful.  There was an easy charm to him that you felt immediately.  But more than that there was a sense of action.  This was not a man to be tied behind a desk.  There was a vigour to him, a sense of constant movement and busyness, even when he was still.  It showed in a dozen different ways, not least the way he ignored the presence of the chair.

He smiled a greeting.  A warm and genuine feeling smile.  But I still didn't trust it.
“Moll”, he acknowledged me warmly, with a nod to Miss Cecile.  “Thank you for coming so promptly”.  His voice was low and warm and dripped charisma.  But was neither false nor overdone.  It was simply who he was.  But it didn't make me trust him any more.  Cecile's words, and presence saw to that.

“Don't worry”, he continued, “You haven't done anything wrong.  In fact you may have done things too right”, he laughed lightly at his own joke.  This was a man who was comfortable in his own skin and in his authority.  Like his sister; Adel, his charm came as naturally as breathing.
“I need to ask a favour of you, Moll”, he started to reach out to take my hand, a very natural gesture when entreating someone, but caught himself and pulled back.  Trying not to seem awkward.  It made me even more suspicious.  The gesture was so innocuous, why would he stop himself?

He plunged on.
“I need you to run the kitchens today”.  He let it sink in.  I almost heard Cecile's jaw drop.  “Just for  lunch.  Something light.  I'll leave it up to you”.  He rushed on.  
“I have to go and meet the Duke's ship.  There are some urgent matters that need dealing with.  And Hassan is sick today.  And you know Fikriyya just had her baby.  I couldn't possibly ask her right now.  You practically grew up in that kitchen.  You know it as well as any of the staff.  If you'd wanted you could probably have been Second Chef by now...”.
I baulked.  I couldn't help it.  I mean I can cook.  I'm pretty good if I say so myself.  But cooking for myself or for a small dinner party was a long way from cooking in a professional kitchen.  And whilst everyone here knew Moll.  I didn't know any of them.

“Well, Moll.  Will you do it?”, he asked.

I couldn't see any way out of it.  How could I give an excuse when I didn't know anything about the girl I was meant to be, never-mind the rest of the staff.  Or the kitchens.  Or the palace itself for that matter.
Slowly, keeping my eyes on the floor, I nodded.

Miss Cecile nudged me in the ribs.  I took a deep breath.
“Yes, Basir”, I answered, barely more than a whisper.  She elbowed me again.  “Thank you, Basir”.  I was horrified.  My voice was gravelly and carried the carefully, if unconsciously, annunciated tones of the nobility.  It wasn't the voice of a young serving girl, it was my voice.  Amber's voice.

I glanced up, meeting his eyes for a moment.  What I saw there wasn't what I expected.  Neither one so much as batted an eye at my voice.  Perhaps whatever it was that made them... us... see Moll, made them hear her voice too?  But that wasn't what I meant.  At least not all of it.  Meeting his eyes, I'd expected the cold eyes of a manipulator.  Or the lustful eyes of an abuser who knew his victim was powerless.  But what I saw in his eyes was a stab of pity.

It forced me to re-evaluate everything I thought I'd learned so far.  Maybe Basir wasn't the kind of man I'd assumed.  Maybe it wasn't Basir.  Maybe it was Moll there was something wrong with?

He glanced up and seemed surprised to see me still standing there.
“You seem pensive, Moll”, he told me sympathetically.  “Why don't you have a walk in the gardens for a few minutes to mull things over.  That always seems to make you feel better.  I'm sure that Cecile can cover for you”.  

His eyebrows raised and there was a tickle of mirth in his eyes.  “After all, what Kaisha's eye doesn't see, Kaisha doesn't need to know”.

Cecile sniggered in a sort of shocked manner.  Then sensing we were dismissed, took me firmly by the elbow and led me out.  Basir in the meantime returned to whatever he was doing.  Picking up one of those... frames that seemed to spit numbers and information at him.  Were they magical?  Technological?  I already had the sense that the technology here in this palace was beyond what I was used to in Kitholme.  Perhaps any advanced enough technology might seem like magic to the uninitiated.  Besides.  I wasn't ready to believe in magic.  I lived  in the real world.  I hoped.

I realised that Cecile was talking to me, and had been since we left Basir's office.  I just hadn't been listening.  Cocking half an ear I realised it didn't matter.  She wasn't so much talking to me, as talking at me.  Telling me how lucky I was to get a break like that.  And to do my best, and not let Basir down.  She seemed genuinely fond of him, or at least loyal.  And that kind of loyalty is hard earned.

Maybe I had been wrong.  But as she steered me in the direction of the gardens as he'd suggested, I half-wondered if he might make a sudden, unexpected appearance once she was gone.

He didn't.
And within moments of setting foot in those gardens I'd all but forgotten about him.

There wasn't anything like this in Kitholme.  There were no parks and few gardens.  Crops were grown, for the most part, in the city-state of Trandalor.  Sometimes called the 'Breadbasket of the Empire'.  Nothing grew in Kitholme.  It was a place where old values held true.

Like everything, it all boils down to religion.  There are... were thirteen gods in the Empire.  They guarded the world against Chaos, a force of nature that brought destruction, devestation, and, well chaos.  But Fashalla, wife of Ashaad, ruler of the Gods, fell from grace.  A goddess of Earth and Nature she was tempted by Chaos and it's essence infested nature itself.  The Green Lady was cast down.  But her husband couldn't bear to see her destroyed so he banished her to a cave on a tiny island surrounded by water, her nemesis.  But her mind still reaches out on occasion to tempt and poison the unwary.  And nature is still her bailiwick, so it's growth is strangled and controlled within the bounds of the Empire.  Yet just outside the cities, savage jungles teem with monstrous dinosaurs and plants that seem all but impossible to hold back.

But these gardens were nothing like that.
Here nature was controlled, bidden.  Crafted, even weaved into a facade of serene beauty.  Not a twig or a blade of grass fell out of place.  The paths that cut through were clean and sharply defined, falling away to half-concealed groves.  I crossed an impractically decorative wooden bridge over a gurgling stream of clear water that I could have almost stepped over.  Well, probably.

Everywhere I looked patterned leaves and impossibly bright, beautiful flowers vied for my attention.  Scents that varied from the delicately perfumed to almost sickly sweet... well stench I think is the best description, teased at my nose.  It was beautiful in a way I'd not really seen before.  Back home, nature was something to be wary of, even feared.  Here it was a tamed plaything.  An art form not unlike a painter's canvas or a wordsmith's papers.  But more than anything, it was calm.  Quiet.  Restful.

A respite.

I sat down by the stream, out in the open grass.  It felt strange to be at peace here amongst nature, but I was all the same.  The crisp scent of the bubbling waters of the stream cut through the worst of the flowery scents, leaving those delicate ones to pluck gently at the senses.  I dangled my fingers in the stream, wider here than at the bridge.  The water tugged playfully at them.  It was cold but not so cold as to be painful, warmed by the sun overhead.

I glanced at the skies, shading my eyes from the sun's glare with my hand.  Was this the same sun that shone down on my native Kitholme?  Or was it some world far removed in time and space?  I might never know.

Something small and furry nuzzled against my hand.  The mammal brushed up against me, mewling softly.  It wasn't an unpleasant sensation.  A high pitched tweeting made me look around.  Several small birds had alighted in the tree above me.  They were bright colours, blues and reds.  Their songs mingled into an almost orchestral sound.  Was this how Moll's life was?  Did she spend her time surrounded by birdsong and the love and attention of small creatures?  

The small, furry mammal butted at my hand, demanding my attention.  I scratched it's head absently and it began to purr.  It fairly vibrated with the contented sound.  I found myself smiling for the first time since I woke up in this strange place.  Maybe Moll's world wasn't so bad after all.  

I remembered what Adel had said when I first woke up.
“I'm sorry”, I said absently patting the pockets in my dress, though I'm not sure why I was apologising to an  animal that surely couldn't understand me.  “I don't have any food for you toda... oh!”.  There were several pieces of broken biscuit in the pocket of the dress.  I took them out and the creature nibbled them off the flat of my hand happily.  It was a strange, gentle, tickling sensation.  And the soft wet rasp of it's rough tongue searching for any last crumbs brought a quiet snicker to my lips.  

For a time, there in the gardens.  I found a contentment that I hadn't known in a long time.  And then Adel was shouting for me.

“MOLL!  MOLL!”, she was sort of half-shouting.  Caught between trying to find Moll... well me, I guess, and not being overheard by the palace owners... Kaisha, in case I got into trouble for shirking.  It was kind of sweet and thoughtful.

She almost jumped out of her skin when I appeared behind her.  But she grabbed my elbow and half dragged me off to the kitchens.  Was everybody around here so grabby?  It seemed that casual physical contact seemed to be the norm here, far more than back home.  Or perhaps it was just me.  I have to admit I wasn't used to such casual familiarity.  Knowing who... what I am, people, even those few I regard as friends, are mostly loathe to touch me in such a causal manner.  Except Jem, of course.  But then Jem's pretty much the exception to every rule.

The kitchen was huge, high-roofed, even cavernous.  The walls were white and tiles.  Large metal vents and fans dotted the ceiling, pulling the smoke, steam and conflicting smells up through tubes and presumably out of the building.  Where I would have expected huge gas-fired black iron ovens stood row upon row of polished steel doors built into the very walls.  A bench of nothing but small gas burning hobs, stood where I would have seen vast cauldrons.  Indeed work benches intersected the whole kitchen, where food was washed, peeled, diced, shaped, baked and all the other various processes involved with it's preparation.

And yet despite the sheer amount of people working over the top of each other it felt like organised chaos.  And the kitchen itself felt so clean and uncluttered that it almost squeaked.

Adel, ever a people person, greeted each of them by name.  Which was incredibly handy for me.  After all, I was supposed to know each and every one of them.  Or Moll was anyway.  She spoke up for me, re-inforcing my notion that rather than being a victim of Basir, Moll was, in fact, in some way socially impaired.
“I'm sure my brother made the announcement earlier, but just in case anyone was asleep”, she grinned widely, “He's had to go meet the Duke personally.  So he's put Moll in charge of the lunch menu.  You all know Moll.  She practically grew up here.  So I'm sure you'll all do your best to help her today”.

Whilst she was speaking I ran an experienced eye over the staff.  I picked out the troublemakers easily enough.  The passed-over Third-Chef with attitude problems and no people skills.  The lazy girl who thought her looks should get her everything, but wasn't half as pretty as she thought she was.  I had to hide a smirk at the covert glower she directed at Adel; a girl far prettier than she was, and far sweeter to boot.  These people were stereotypes for a reason.  You found them everywhere.  Which is why I'd known to look for them.

The kitchen, like other's I had been... even worked in, seemed to pretty much run itself.  Everyone knew their place and their role.  I wouldn't have to run it so much as just hang on and steer.  There were the usual pranks and tricks that accompany a large, busy kitchen; the metal spoon left too long in a boiling pot, the carefully concealed hole in the bottom of the bag of flour.  Nothing too serious or disruptive.  I would let them slide.
Besides.  I wasn't sure Moll had the authority... Or given Basir and Cecile's obvious coddling of her, the wherewithal, to put a stop to it.  Which made me wonder why she'd been put in charge in the first place.

Adel put an arm around my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze.  “Good luck.  'Though I'm sure you won't need it”.  And then she turned and left.

I was left staring at the organised chaos.  Of course, it wasn't the first time I'd been in a professional kitchen.  I'd even worked in one.  What felt like a million years ago.  It's not a time I like to talk about, or even think about much.  But it was a time that shaped me, like it or not.

It was about twelve years ago.  Less than a year after Deveran... my beloved husband, died.  I was devastated.  Distraught.  I blame my heritage as much as anything.  The Kith... the other half of my bloodline are ancient, primal creatures at their heart.  And I inherited that from them.  As much as I try to disguise it, or control it with logical thought, I tend to feel things very deeply.  And I have a hard time letting go.  Of anything.
Unable to cope.  I ran away, as far away as possible.  I took ship to the Azullian Isles.  What I didn't do, in my haste, and my devastation, was to make any kind of preparations for when I got there.  I ended up penniless, a stranger in a strange land where I didn't understand the language, or the culture.  In order to survive I did things I'm not proud of and won't talk about.  Ever.  But I ended up working in a kitchen, not so different from this.

Actually, that's not entirely true.  I started in the kitchen's of the House of Hann, when a stranger took pity on me.  He may even have had designs on me though I have no idea why.  In most people's eyes I'm a disgusting half-breed, and right then I was down-trodden, distraught and little more than a vagabond.  Or he might not.  There are some people in this world that are just genuinely kind.  And that put me in the right place, at just the right time.

I make a lot of my intellect and my observational skills.  That's because I am, to all intents and purposes, a genius.  False modesty would be just that.  False.  But I was in a place to help the Lord of the House with something no-one else might have spotted, or known what it was even if they had spotted it.  In gratitude he raised me to 'majordomo no' or chief steward of the house.  Pretty much the highest position an outlander could hold.  Honorary at first, of course.  But eventually earned and held by respect.  I served there for eight years, a lucky number in their land, before I felt strong enough to come home and face my loss in person.

But I'm wandering.  Safe to say I knew how to run a kitchen.  But I had little idea of how to put that into perspective from Moll's obviously troubled point of view.

I needn't have worried.  Within moment's people... well women actually were crowding around me.  Congratulating me, jibing and jesting with me.  It all felt very relaxed and natural.  And strange given how Moll had been treated elsewhere.  The menfolk held their distance, though most had accepting smiles on their faces.  Apart from that Third Chef, of course.  Who was muttering imprecations into the dish of vegetables he was dicing.

Various menus and lists were thrust into my hands.  Paper ones, thank The Twelve.  Maybe those frames I'd seen Basir using were only for the important staff.  Or maybe they didn't work well in the hot, greasy atmosphere of the kitchens.  That thought sort of brightened my day.  Maybe, like the light over my bed this morning, everything here wasn't as fantastically perfect as it first seemed.

I glanced down at the menus and breathed a carefully concealed breath of relief.  I could read them.  Don't laugh.  It was a perfectly just worry in my situation.  This wasn't my home, possibly wasn't even my world.  I hadn't taken it for granted that I would know the language here.

But whatever it was that let me understand, and more importantly, speak their language, also let me read it.  At a casual glance, it looked like Danak; my native language.  Though I spoke and read all three languages common in the Empire, and Azullian too.  I even spoke a smattering of the Kith's native tongue.  Which is a damn sight harder than it sounds since much of their language is based on poise and even pheromones.  But if I concentrated, really concentrated I could see the actual letters for what they were.  But more than that, I could draw basic parallels, almost as if their were some common root.

I didn't recognise many of the meats, though most of the vegetables and sauces were familiar.  From that I could easily hypothesize which were red or white meats, and which were fish.  Though one particular dish remained unknowable.  I wondered what in the world, whichever world this was, Pizza was.  I was tempted to order that up for the lunch menu, just to find out.  But I didn't.

I decided on a dish they called Carbonara.  It seemed to be a simple light dish of pasta and some sort of diced white meat served in a rich cheese sauce.  Simple, light and easy to prepare.  Everyone seemed happy enough with the choice, except that Third Chef, of course.  But he would never be happy unless he was making the decisions.  And most likely not even then.

Everyone got on with the various tasks needed.  There was the usual banter, but a sense of efficient busyness too.  Pots were scrubbed, many placed into a large machine that seemed to function as a mechanical dish-washer and glass cleaner.  Deliveries arrived and were dealt with by whoever was handy.  Bakers baked.  The sauce cook pottered around making sure the sauce  was just so.  Vegetables were washed and diced, the meat was cooked and smoked.  Other meats were laid to marinade in rich sauces, often over days. Various other sundry tasks went on as they should.  I wandered about, observing casually.  Trying to look diligent but unsure.  Everything seemed to be going smoothly.

I should have known better.

The double doors to the kitchen flew open with a crash.  I spun around, gaping, like everyone else.  There was a blur of movement, too quick to see clearly as I turned, and a yell full of joy and freedom.  Which turned into a curse of consternation as the movement came to a sudden crashing halt.

I shut my eyes, like many of my fellow kitchen workers, but not for the same reasons.  They were ducking for cover as utensils and pans and worse went flying.  I was far enough away that I wasn't in any immediate danger.

No.  I shut my eyes to see more clearly.  It's a trick.  Sometimes things happen so quickly the brain can't process them at the same speed as the eyes, so they get lost in the jumble of following events.  So you don't try and process it, you just watch.  By shutting my eyes immediately afterwards, I cut out further visual information, and in an almost meditative state was able to make sense of some of what I'd seen.  It played back like some crude moving picture show.  Like a Magic Lantern.  


Blink.  The doors crashed open.

Blink.  A young woman.  No a girl.  A teenager.  Her body bent low, arms outstretched for balance.  A stream of long brown hair flying out behind her.  

Blink.  She's riding some sort of shaped wooden board.  Small wheels propel it at speed.

Blink.  She leans heavily.  Steering it with her weight.

Blink.  A ladle bounces on the floor.  Dropped by a surprised kitchen worker, diving for cover.

Blink.  The ladle jams under the small wheels of the board, flipping it.

Blink.  The girl flies off the board.  No restraints or harnesses to hold her in place.  She crashes.   Sliding across a worktop.  Sweeping it clean.  Practised action turning her momentum into a roll.

Blink.  She flies off the worktop.  Crashing bodily into the one yards behind.


My eyes flickered open.  Nothing had changed.  No-one had moved.  They were all still stunned, caught up in the shock of the moment.  The entire process had probably taken me less than three seconds.  But now I knew what to do.

I rushed over.  The young woman seemed a little dazed but otherwise almost miraculously unhurt.  I grabbed at her arm and pulled her free of the wreckage as she stumbled to her feet, shaking her head groggily.  As she came free, I could see she wore protective pads at her elbows and knees, no doubt part of why she escaped injury.  But mostly it had been the practiced ease with which she turned her uncontrolled slide into a roll.  And the fact she had struck the thin metal side of the workbench which bent and all but gave way under the impact, cushioning her fall somewhat.  Though I had little doubt that by morning she would be a walking bruise.

She'd taken out almost the entire contents of the workbench with her stupid stunt.  Pots, pans and utensils lay scattered among the remnants of  whatever foods had been being prepared there.  As Samir, the sauce chef scrambled out from his hiding place, I was struck with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

His distraught stare confirmed my worst fears.  The sauce.  The main component of the dish.  Was gone.  Not just gone, but spattered all over not just the floor but the bench and even the walls.  There was a clamour of activity as pretty much every member of staff in the kitchen rushed over.  Everyone was talking at once.  I could barely hear myself think.  But I got the point.  The dish was ruined and there wasn't enough time to cook up another batch of sauce before lunch.