[Original Novel] Not Long Now, Part 12

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The empty plate set before me was actually sort of a relief. I didn’t much care for the usual offering and usually ate just to keep my body going. From what I gathered, we were being treated to something different tonight.

Confirming my suspicion, Miss Alice appeared at the far end of the room on that slightly elevated platform, carried by her usual servants. Then, a procession of children in white chef’s garb pushing wheeled dollies, which bore instantly recognizable decorative jugs.

Broth? Really? I couldn’t imagine it would make for a satisfying dinner. But then, if wealthy men were willing to pay a handsome price to get their hands on it, surely it must be something special. The wheeled dollies were pushed down between the rows of tables, and as the little chefs ladled out broth into bowls and handed them to us, Miss Alice began to speak.

“My dear little grease monkeys. Hard have you toiled this past year, and I would be remiss if I did not recognize it. To mark the occasion, you will tonight be permitted to sample the fruits of your labor. A generous helping, given the cost, of the product.”

The product? I didn’t realize I said it aloud until the girl across from me replied “Yes! The product! Aren’t you excited?” I answered that I didn’t know whether I should be as I’ve no idea what exactly the product is in the first place. She seemed flabbergasted, as did several nearby children I assume were eavesdropping.

“The product will make you handsome” one said. “The product will make you fit” added another. The girl who initially addressed me chimed in. “The product will change your life.” My exasperation mounted. “That’s all well and good” I muttered. “But what IS it?” All I got back was “It’s what comes first”, as per rule number one.

I tentatively blew on a spoonful of the stuff, then smelled it. Overwhelming. Intoxicating! Even after the others built it up so much, I was still impressed. Moreso by far when I took my first sip. No wonder. The fact that it was made to order exclusively for the wealthiest clientele suddenly made perfect sense.

It remains to this day the most savory, satisfying flavor I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting. I still dream of it sometimes, if I’m honest. I think the closest comparison is a soup I was served at a party, thrown by one of the more well to do host families I lived with.

A reducing process was employed to further and further enrich the broth with the addition of more and more cuts of top shelf venison. A wasteful process in my estimation, so much perfectly good meat sacrificed for what in the end amounted to perhaps six or eight litres of fluid.

The remarkable flavor achieved by that process made sense of it. As the flavor of the broth I now swirled about the interior of my mouth, reluctant to swallow something so enticing, made sense of the high price Grandfather was able to demand for it.

This is how the upper class eats, isn’t it. Not every meal of course, I knew this broth to be a delicacy for special occasions, which cost a staggering sum even by the standards of society’s wealthiest few. It served as a glimpse of the vast gulf in quality between what goes into the mouths of the moneyed elite, versus what has gone into mine for most of my life up to this point.

Pet food. Offal! What you’d find in a pig’s trough, by comparison with the mouth watering ambrosia which I now eagerly slurped down. That’s no exaggeration, though I imagined I could convince nobody of it who hasn’t savored this marvelous concoction themselves.

I slowed myself, suddenly conscious of the meager portion remaining. When would I next get a chance to partake? I cannot say how, but at the same time that it satisfied me completely, it also provoked ever-intensifying cravings for more. Not entirely unlike what I have read about Opium addiction.

I looked around. Everyone else was carefully savoring every spoonful. Smelling it, then sipping bit by bit to extract maximum pleasure from the experience. When I asked how frequently we would be served ‘the product’, a few glared at me in obvious irritation, ignored the question, then returned their attention to the aromatic concoction in their bowls.

When my own bowl was finally drained of the lovely brew, my thoughts turned of course to how I might obtain more of it as soon as possible. Hoping he’d be more forthcoming with answers, I asked Frederick on our way to the kitchen when we’d next be fed so well.

“Same day every year.” I balked. A whole year? It’d been just a few minutes since I finished mine and, though my belly bulged, I desperately wanted more. “What is the product anyway?” In retrospect don’t know why I expected anything else from him but the cryptic answer that I got.

“The product make you healthy. It make pretty girls like you. The product come first.” Another baffling non-answer, which only raised more questions the longer I thought about it. I thanked him anyway so as not to be impolite. To my surprise, the invigorating effect of the meal extended to my work in the kitchen.

Dishes seemed to wash themselves, but by way of my hands. It was all over before I knew it, a blur of rote movements which occurred without once invoking my higher brain functions. Though it seems shameful to admit, it is a great relief to exist in that state. The burden of complex thought lifted from my shoulders, only the primal pleasure of synchronized physical exertion remained.

I found myself wishing for some means to prolong it. I would find one quite soon, in fact. After finishing the last of the dishes and completing trivial evening patch jobs, I returned to my room for some much needed slumber. But once again, though my body was willing, my mind was not.

Well after I should’ve been fast asleep, I was instead hunched over Grandfather’s journal. This time because of the queer metal slide rule I pried from between two gears the night before. I’d retrieved it from the top drawer of my dresser to inspect it more closely, whereupon I discovered its purpose wasn’t performing mathematical operations after all.

Instead of numbers, there were letters engraved along either side of the rule itself. The slider, when fixed upon a particular letter on one side, framed a corresponding letter on the other. For what purpose I could not fathom until, on a whim, I applied it to the encoded journal entries.

At first it yielded only gobbledygook, which nearly compelled me to give up on the endeavor. But then I tried it in reverse. After decoding a few characters, I gasped. This time it was outputting comprehensible words! Not a slide rule then, but a decoding device. Rather a clever way to disguise it too.

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