Pakals

Practically every area of the world has come up with its own method of putting food inside bread. There is the sandwich. The pasty. The pie. The calzone. From Froongia, we have smooshi and sashaymi, layered stacks and intricate little slices like edible millefiori wrapped in rice and seaweed; from the Great Shwamp, the gleaming boiled spheres called gulashlub; from Banterkrat, a hundred varieties of intricately folded flatbreads, like origami with food baked inside. If one prefers desserts, there is the cream bun, the eclair, the jambritch, the crepe, the scone, the krifle, the cannoli, the tanchee, the rangoon, the pillidesh. I have yet to find a place without its own variety of food-in-a-crust.

Wherever you go, the purpose is much the same. Everyone wants food they can carry around, food that won't dry out or get squashed or make their fingers sticky. The best way is usually to wrap it in some sort of crust and turn it into its own little self-contained object.

The Golden Desert's version is the pakal.

Pakals are collections of food wrapped in dough and baked, or fried, or occasionally boiled. They are the shape of rounded river pebbles. The crusts are hard on the outside, making a beautiful bready thump when you tap them. They can contain virtually any food that exists in the Desert. Meat, cheese, cabbage, chocolate, fish, fruit, an endless variety of vegetables and spices - if it's edible, you will find it in a pakal sooner or later. They come in practically every imaginable size as well, from tiny ones the size of marbles (popular among children and the Desert's rodent populations) to the steaming, house-sized pastries baked for certain festivals.*

Of course, it's impossible to tell from the outside what is inside a pakal. As a result, it's traditional to punch patterns into the outer crust before baking, like the holes in a pie. The holes let out steam and keep the pakal from exploding when baked. The pattern they form tells you what's inside. Market-goers in the Desert learn to read the crusts as they go. Little fish symbols mean fish of some sort, usually some species from the river Lahra. Triangles mean cabbage. Diamonds mean chocolate. Meat pakals usually have a simple picture of the animal on the top, unless the baker wasn't quite sure what it was, in which case they just have a star instead.

Some pakals are left unmarked, for the adventurous eater.

I have been largely living on these little pastries, in addition to my usual diet of meat and vegetables and chocolate and whatever else happens to be available. (The Golden Desert is sadly lacking in slug meat, but it makes up for it with its wide variety of tasty hoofed animals and edible cacti.) Pakals are common, varied, and cheap, and they travel well. It's what they were made for, after all. Though many modern pakals are essentially pies, juicy pastries of meat or sand-apple, they were originally a way to make dried meat and vegetables last longer and require less packaging on long Desert voyages. In less civilized centuries, some of the more warlike Desert tribes would skewer pakals on their spears, so that they could snack on horseback while fighting each other.

There has been no war in the Golden Desert since the Locust Marauders died out, but it's still easy to find tough, salted pakals baked for long trips. In the dry Desert air, they last nearly forever.

I have always had a kind of magpie attraction to small, beautifully made things.** Pakals are no exception. It is nearly as much fun to collect the little patterned loaves as it is to eat them. I love nearly all food, but there is something special about these compact little gems of the baker's craft.

If they weren't so tasty, it would almost seem a shame to eat them.



* Some of these giant pastries have gone on to become permanent homes. I met a woman in Hemrikath who lived inside one of the empty crusts. It had been emptied of its filling long ago, and larger holes had been cut for windows and a wooden door. I asked her if she ever got the urge to gnaw on the walls. She said no; the old bread had gone stale years ago and was roughly the consistency of granite. The smell of its contents still lingered, though, however faint, and she occasionally woke up from blissful dreams of figs and cinnamon.

** As a traveler with no permanent home, I have to be wary of this tendency, lest I end up as ridiculously overburdened as Elva Ursunorn's fabled Packrat. Though the world is full of beautiful things, I have trained myself to keep only the miniature and the edible ones. People often ask why I have so many random small objects hanging around my neck.

Spring in the Railway Regions

Once again, I apologize for the prolonged silence. If someone exists who is a less consistent correspondent than myself, I have yet to meet them. However, while several months of the delay (December, January, and February, namely) were entirely my own fault, most of March and April were not.

Spring has come to the Railway Regions (the lower parts, anyway. It won't reach Milldacken for another two months). The snow has melted, bringing the worlds of the snowflies to an end in a blaze of molten water. Rain is a daily occurrence. Mist-wolves pad through the towns and forests on silent cloud paws, passing like fog-furred ghosts over the rooftops. After spending the Winter as sleeping layers of frost, they seem happy to be moving again. It's considered good luck if one of their intangible paws lands on you.

In short, it's no longer Winter; the snow is gone, and it's possible to travel on foot again. I can't stay on the Train any longer. I rarely stay in one place for even a month. The longer I stay, the harder it is to leave. I left the Train three weeks ago, bidding farewell to Norrel Hepsidine, Flishel, and the sleeping passenger (and receiving one reply in English, one in some other language, and one snore). Flishel gave me a little wooden... thing, presumably as a goodbye present. It looks a bit like a snail, or possibly a very round trantelope. A string goes through holes in the spiral bits so that it can be worn around the neck. Over my years of traveling, I've gathered quite a collection of little charms and trinkets hanging there.

There has still been no sign of Professor Flanderdrack.

My fur has gotten steadily shaggier all Winter; I haven't worn a coat since before Christmas. It's white this time, with black markings around my eyes and the tip of my tail. I'll be sad to see it go. (Actually, when the weather gets ten degrees warmer, I'll probably be quite happy.) With any luck, it will come off in one piece like it did last year, and someone will make a coat out of it.

I left the Train in Findlebar, a small town built around a small and highly specialized library. It is, apparently, Hamjamser's largest collection of books on the Gastropod Conspiracy.* The townspeople make a point of bowing to any snail they see (just in case). As a traveler who lives largely on slug meat and smoked sump squid, I was rather uncomfortable there and only stayed overnight.

From Findlebar, I set out by road; there are a few in the Railway Regions, though they tend to be small and precarious. They only exist where there are no Train stations. Several sections were washed out entirely, forcing me into detours that involved more climbing than walking, and the road was so narrow that I had to climb over fruit carts coming the other way. (I have no idea how they got past the washed-out sections.) At least there were no troll booths.

I don't know the name of the part of the Regions I've been in for the last three weeks, though it's quite clearly separate from the rest. I'm not sure it has a name. It's only a cluster of villages, four or five at the most, but it might as well be a separate country. Postbirds don't go there, as the villagers speak a language completely unknown to the rest of the world. Anyone they could write to is within a few hours' walking distance. Fortunately, each village has a few people who speak English as well.

I'm finally writing from the village of Rampal's Pleek, the first place I've seen a postbird in weeks. I think it may be in Tetravania.** The villagers won't tell me. When I ask, they say Rampal's Pleek is "in the four-cornered land," or "below that which is above," or "it's right here. Can't you see it?"

This, of course, is why I'm almost certain I'm in Tetravania. No one else in Hamjamser talks like that.



*I refuse to comment or respond to comments about the Gastropod Conspiracy. It only leads to trouble. If you want trouble, get in touch with Commander Squish.

**I don't know which Tetravania yet, or how many. I'll let you know when I find out.

Traveling Companion... or... something

First of all, O relative of mine who has a birthday today, happy birthday!

Second of all, I am now traveling with a llama. I came across a stable yesterday, by the side of whatever road this is, next to a small market and a lemonade stand. The two reptiles that run the stand are trying to get rid of all their remaining lemonade so that they can switch to hot tea and cider for the Winter. They don't see the point of wanting to cool off in the first place, being reptiles, but they make good lemonade anyway.

I'm not one to pass up opportunities like this, so my meals for the last two days have consisted of baked paisley slug and carrots from the market (they're not selling much else that isn't pickled by this time of year), paisley slug stew from the llama stable (it doubles as an inn, so it serves more than hay and salt. Guess where the owner shops), and half-price lemonade. It's been interesting.

There were no llamas staying at the stable when I got there, so - rather than keep lugging my bags around - I stayed overnight. It could be weeks before I find another one. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long; when I woke up this morning, there was a llama in the stall next to mine. (Doubling as an inn doesn't mean they have any actual rooms.) He was wearing a pair of rather scratched spectacles and chewing some thorny plant as if he wanted to break its bones.

We introduced ourselves. Since I was looking for a llama and he was looking for someone looking for a llama, it was really the only thing to do, but I don't think he enjoyed it much.

His name, he said, was Plack; he didn't care much for people at the moment; the last one whose luggage he carried ran off after a two-month journey without paying him. He had to spend all the money he had left just to stay in the stable last night. He would have skipped the stable altogether, but it's November in the Mountainous Plains, and it was raining. He was not happy. He informed me that I would pay him the full four Loundas before he would carry so much as a sock for me; that my luggage would be padlocked to his carrying harness; and that he would keep the key in his mouth. That way, if I ran off before the trip was over, it would be my problem.

You might think that after being paid, he wouldn't care what I did, but the money is less than half the price to a llama. Customers of llamas are expected to groom them, take care of their traveling equipment, and do more or less anything else that requires hands. In a way, travelers don't hire llamas so much as they trade the use of their hands for the use of the llamas' strength. That's why llamas charge so little. They only need money for stables and repairs to their carrying harnesses.

As if carrying luggage weren't enough, llamas often protect the people they travel with as well. Very few things, no matter how nasty, will mess with a llama. They bite as hard - well, almost as hard - as they kick. Plack wanted to make sure I knew that, especially when he found out I had only a vague idea of a destination and generally just wandered around the countryside.

"You've traveled with llamas before, then?"

"No, actually. I've always carried my own luggage before."

He stared at me, as if luggage were the least of my problems. "What if you get attacked by bandits who've run out of pencils? What if a wild cathomar decides you look like a stupid, edible creature who wouldn't put up a fight?"

"It's never happened before..."

He gave me a disgusted look. "Well, it certainly won't happen while you're with me. Watch this."

With that, he walked over to a tree that was standing innocently nearby.

Fifteen seconds later, it was missing several branches and had four small, round holes straight through its trunk.

I didn't know llamas could spit THAT hard.

Seven More Random Facts

Having been tagged with this meme by Leia, tagged with this meme by Megan Doyle (soon to be Hansen) , and not tagged with this meme by Ginaagain, I will happily do it again. There are a lot more than fourteen random facts about me, and writing down another seven will provide one more post for the month. I'm still eight days behind.

Besides, today is the thirteenth, which is seven times two minus one, and two plus one is three, and three times seven is twenty-one, so it all works out. How can I overlook an opportunity like that?

1. I have never heard a song with a sitar in it that I didn't love immediately. No exceptions. If it has a sitar, it's going to be good.

2. A complete stranger once gave me a clockwork pipe crawler, for no reason I could see. He didn't speak any language I knew. He just handed me the little machine in a Train station, said something very solemn and full of consonants, put on his spectacles, and marched off into the night.
It was a very nice pipe crawler. Unfortunately, I don't actually own any plumbing, so I gave it to a troglodyte the next time I passed through Baconeg.

3. I keep exactly one of every kind of coin I ever get. Gold Loundas, extinct Kastels, Toli beads in various colors, purple Lint... There are far too many to carry around all the time, so I keep them in the Bank of Bannarbangle.

4. I don't seem to be able to post anything before ten PM. I can post pictures earlier in the day, but no long pieces of writing. I don't know why.
Come to think of it, you probably knew that already. Oops.

5. Every time I travel anywhere, I always end up at a slug farm at some point (which is odd, as they aren't really all that common). As a result, I can now identify 36 different kinds of slug by taste.

6. I always whistle in any room that has stone or tile walls. Nothing makes whistling sound as good as a smooth wall does. I scare people in bathrooms a lot.

7. Almost a fifth of the places I've been have shown no sign of existing before or after my visit.

Having said all of that, I am going to break the rules now and not tag the seven people I'm supposed to tag, because I'm lazy. I am going to tag whoever reads this. Yes, you, at least if you feel like doing this and happen to have seven random facts about yourself and time to write them down and a blog to post them on. Go right ahead. Or not. Either way.