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narniaexchange2012-08-05 05:33 pm
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Fragile Layers - for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ilysia_039
Title: Fragile Layers
Author:ceitfianna
Recipient:ilysia_039
Rating: G
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: Set during Horse and his Boy
Summary: Hayat lives in Tashbaan and wonders about the Northerners that she is cooking for. When one of them comes to visit her, her views on her neighbors to the North change.
Author’s Notes: I read the prompt and thought of conversations that happen in kitchens and this was the story that resulted from it. The food in this fic was inspired by my own experience with Moroccan cooking, it made me hungry as I wrote it. The first proverb is Berber and the second is Arabic. The heavy use of proverbs in The Horse and his Boy sent me out looking for appropriate ones.
Fragile Layers
Hayat was one of the finest pastry makers in all of Tashbaan. It was whispered that the bees knew to provide the sweetest honey for her, and those who had eaten her ktefa spoke of how all the flavors created the finest music in your mouth. When the Northerners came to stay so that one of the Queens might decide to join the two kingdoms, Hayat offered to bake for them so that they would know the best of Calorman and the sweetness of her pastries would complement the sweet words of the prince.
When their ship, a golden, shining thing arrived, everyone lined up by the harbor to see it and Omar, from the stables, pointed at the standard. “A lion, it is a lion,” he said. “Why do they care for lions?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps we may ask their servants when they move in, but we must be polite,” Hayat chided him though she also wished to know why the Northerners who were spoken of as diplomats should favor such a terrifying beast. They were spoken of as brave fighters and gentle folk, she wasn’t certain how they could do both. The lions of Calormen were hungry and scraggly creatures that figured in many a story where someone went too far from home, a reminder to not step far from where you are meant to fit.
One day while she was in the midst of the layers of a bisteeya (chicken, spices, dough that threatens to crack), there were footsteps, no, hooves and she sighed, carefully placing the delicate layer before she turned around. Omar must be doing something with that foal he found and insisted could become a good horse. When she turned, taking a moment to consider how many more layers of filling remained, she clutched her apron. It was the half goat creature. She had seen him when the Northerners arrived but he was in her kitchen wearing a linen scarf with a pocket, an odd use for a bit of cloth. He seemed barely dressed and she didn’t know where to look, at his hooves on her clean floor, at how he was almost as bearded as a sage just with it all in the wrong places, a wisp of a beard and hair up his arms and those ears that turned to her. Finally she bowed, that was proper. “May I be of assistance, visiting master?”
“Oh, I do hope that you can. We’ve all been enjoying your wonderful food and I bake at times and was wondering if perhaps you might teach me?” His words were polite and rather hurried, he almost sounded shy. He reminded her of a scholar she knew who seemed to never know how to take control of his words, they were either a torrent or a trickle.
“My recipes, those are not mine to give. I have learned them from my teachers and my mother’s mother.” It would be best to not be rude, but to share all of what defines her is not right.
He blinked and considered her before starting to turn away. “My, yes, I’ve just been terribly rude haven’t I? Forgive me for being so ignorant.”
“It is said: Knowledge is better than wealth: you have to look after wealth, knowledge looks after you. I will not share my secrets with you, yet we perhaps may share some knowledge. First though I must finish this dish for the meal tonight.” There should be an offer after that; if he were an apprentice, she would take him to the market or set him to caring for the many layers of the bisteeya. He is a guest, an important guest as well for it’s clear that he is treated as a confidant by the visiting Northerners, and it would not be proper to have him doing the work of the apprentice. It would also be a shame if any of his many hairs got caught in the dough.
As Hayat considered what to do next, she returned to the bisteeya, the thin phyllo that was almost invisible after butter had been brushed on it then the mixture of chicken and spices between. He was quiet while she worked and the silence was beginning to worry her, perhaps he was being polite. “Might I ask you a question?” she asked.
“Yes, anything you wish and please, call me Tumnus.” His voice was eager, he had probably felt that creeping silence as well.
His name wasn’t as awkward as some of the other Northerners and she tested it. “Tumnus, why is a lion the symbol of your land? They seem such unpredictable creatures.”
“Because of Aslan.” When he spoke the name, there was awe in his voice. She looked at him and his gaze was seeing something far from her kitchen. Believers had that timbre to their voice, she had known a few true believers in anything in her life. Once there had been a hermit who came from the desert who spoke in the souk, she had heard him when she was a little girl and his words had made her think of the care her mother put into each fold of phyllo dough. He had spoken much that day, but she had been hot and only remembered the look in his eyes and one proverb, which she whispered, “You are like a tree, giving your shade to the outside.”
She had not expected him to hear her, but then he did have such big ears that turned about, “Yes, he is like that. He watches over us.”
“And Aslan is seen as a lion?” Prophets and saints often saw visions, and a lion would be right in a vision.
“No, no, Aslan is a lion. His roar brought Spring back to Narnia and where the White Witch brought cold, he gave warmth.” His hands twisted in his scarf and Hayat leaned forward, she knew of the Long Winter and had heard tales of the Witch. He had lived through them, he must have for how grateful he sounded to Aslan.
“Then I think I begin to understand. He is the strength and hope of Narnia.” Then there is nothing else that should be upon their banner. She has more questions but they are not for now, not when he looks cold and far away. “There, that is the last layer of the bisteeya. Help me put this into the over and then we shall have tea. I believe that I have some almond cookies remaining from lunch. I am glad the young prince enjoys them so but he must learn to leave more for everyone else.”
At the mention of tea, Tumnus’ face began to warm once more and he smiled. Hayat could find herself used to that smile. “Might I be of any help?” he asked.
“Yes, the sweetmeats are over there and set the water on for the tea.” She gently put the bisteeya into the oven as his hooves clicked on the floor. The North was not as simple as the stories she had been told and Tumnus did seem to hint that he might be a worthy teller. It was hard to tell but the care he took with his words was like her uncle, who always told the finest tales.
Original Prompt that we sent you: What I want: Let's talk about Calormen! Alternatively: one or more of the Pevensies attempts to explain Narnian theology to an outsider. Predictably, it doesn't go overly well. Feel free to be as creative as you like with the prompt.
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: "No mortal power may stay her spinning wheel./The nations rise and fall by her decree./None may foresee where she will set her heel:/she passes, and things pass." -Dante's Inferno Canto VII 82-85; politics; religion.
Author:
ceitfiannaRecipient:
ilysia_039Rating: G
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: Set during Horse and his Boy
Summary: Hayat lives in Tashbaan and wonders about the Northerners that she is cooking for. When one of them comes to visit her, her views on her neighbors to the North change.
Author’s Notes: I read the prompt and thought of conversations that happen in kitchens and this was the story that resulted from it. The food in this fic was inspired by my own experience with Moroccan cooking, it made me hungry as I wrote it. The first proverb is Berber and the second is Arabic. The heavy use of proverbs in The Horse and his Boy sent me out looking for appropriate ones.
Fragile Layers
Hayat was one of the finest pastry makers in all of Tashbaan. It was whispered that the bees knew to provide the sweetest honey for her, and those who had eaten her ktefa spoke of how all the flavors created the finest music in your mouth. When the Northerners came to stay so that one of the Queens might decide to join the two kingdoms, Hayat offered to bake for them so that they would know the best of Calorman and the sweetness of her pastries would complement the sweet words of the prince.
When their ship, a golden, shining thing arrived, everyone lined up by the harbor to see it and Omar, from the stables, pointed at the standard. “A lion, it is a lion,” he said. “Why do they care for lions?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps we may ask their servants when they move in, but we must be polite,” Hayat chided him though she also wished to know why the Northerners who were spoken of as diplomats should favor such a terrifying beast. They were spoken of as brave fighters and gentle folk, she wasn’t certain how they could do both. The lions of Calormen were hungry and scraggly creatures that figured in many a story where someone went too far from home, a reminder to not step far from where you are meant to fit.
One day while she was in the midst of the layers of a bisteeya (chicken, spices, dough that threatens to crack), there were footsteps, no, hooves and she sighed, carefully placing the delicate layer before she turned around. Omar must be doing something with that foal he found and insisted could become a good horse. When she turned, taking a moment to consider how many more layers of filling remained, she clutched her apron. It was the half goat creature. She had seen him when the Northerners arrived but he was in her kitchen wearing a linen scarf with a pocket, an odd use for a bit of cloth. He seemed barely dressed and she didn’t know where to look, at his hooves on her clean floor, at how he was almost as bearded as a sage just with it all in the wrong places, a wisp of a beard and hair up his arms and those ears that turned to her. Finally she bowed, that was proper. “May I be of assistance, visiting master?”
“Oh, I do hope that you can. We’ve all been enjoying your wonderful food and I bake at times and was wondering if perhaps you might teach me?” His words were polite and rather hurried, he almost sounded shy. He reminded her of a scholar she knew who seemed to never know how to take control of his words, they were either a torrent or a trickle.
“My recipes, those are not mine to give. I have learned them from my teachers and my mother’s mother.” It would be best to not be rude, but to share all of what defines her is not right.
He blinked and considered her before starting to turn away. “My, yes, I’ve just been terribly rude haven’t I? Forgive me for being so ignorant.”
“It is said: Knowledge is better than wealth: you have to look after wealth, knowledge looks after you. I will not share my secrets with you, yet we perhaps may share some knowledge. First though I must finish this dish for the meal tonight.” There should be an offer after that; if he were an apprentice, she would take him to the market or set him to caring for the many layers of the bisteeya. He is a guest, an important guest as well for it’s clear that he is treated as a confidant by the visiting Northerners, and it would not be proper to have him doing the work of the apprentice. It would also be a shame if any of his many hairs got caught in the dough.
As Hayat considered what to do next, she returned to the bisteeya, the thin phyllo that was almost invisible after butter had been brushed on it then the mixture of chicken and spices between. He was quiet while she worked and the silence was beginning to worry her, perhaps he was being polite. “Might I ask you a question?” she asked.
“Yes, anything you wish and please, call me Tumnus.” His voice was eager, he had probably felt that creeping silence as well.
His name wasn’t as awkward as some of the other Northerners and she tested it. “Tumnus, why is a lion the symbol of your land? They seem such unpredictable creatures.”
“Because of Aslan.” When he spoke the name, there was awe in his voice. She looked at him and his gaze was seeing something far from her kitchen. Believers had that timbre to their voice, she had known a few true believers in anything in her life. Once there had been a hermit who came from the desert who spoke in the souk, she had heard him when she was a little girl and his words had made her think of the care her mother put into each fold of phyllo dough. He had spoken much that day, but she had been hot and only remembered the look in his eyes and one proverb, which she whispered, “You are like a tree, giving your shade to the outside.”
She had not expected him to hear her, but then he did have such big ears that turned about, “Yes, he is like that. He watches over us.”
“And Aslan is seen as a lion?” Prophets and saints often saw visions, and a lion would be right in a vision.
“No, no, Aslan is a lion. His roar brought Spring back to Narnia and where the White Witch brought cold, he gave warmth.” His hands twisted in his scarf and Hayat leaned forward, she knew of the Long Winter and had heard tales of the Witch. He had lived through them, he must have for how grateful he sounded to Aslan.
“Then I think I begin to understand. He is the strength and hope of Narnia.” Then there is nothing else that should be upon their banner. She has more questions but they are not for now, not when he looks cold and far away. “There, that is the last layer of the bisteeya. Help me put this into the over and then we shall have tea. I believe that I have some almond cookies remaining from lunch. I am glad the young prince enjoys them so but he must learn to leave more for everyone else.”
At the mention of tea, Tumnus’ face began to warm once more and he smiled. Hayat could find herself used to that smile. “Might I be of any help?” he asked.
“Yes, the sweetmeats are over there and set the water on for the tea.” She gently put the bisteeya into the oven as his hooves clicked on the floor. The North was not as simple as the stories she had been told and Tumnus did seem to hint that he might be a worthy teller. It was hard to tell but the care he took with his words was like her uncle, who always told the finest tales.
Original Prompt that we sent you: What I want: Let's talk about Calormen! Alternatively: one or more of the Pevensies attempts to explain Narnian theology to an outsider. Predictably, it doesn't go overly well. Feel free to be as creative as you like with the prompt.
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: "No mortal power may stay her spinning wheel./The nations rise and fall by her decree./None may foresee where she will set her heel:/she passes, and things pass." -Dante's Inferno Canto VII 82-85; politics; religion.