• Chapter 3 - A Very Hard Lunch

    “You really ought to try some of that. It’s very tasty,” Tarren insisted.

    Bree had followed Tarren two floors down to the cafeteria in the
    museum. It was oddly empty there, but Bree suspected that it wasn’t really lunch time yet. She wasn’t hungry in any case. Tarren had paid no mind to the lack of occupants in the room and quickly seized a tray in her mouth and marched over to an empty aisle along a table. At the table, several large women looked grumpily around. They showed no surprise that a cat had come in for food.

    “What can we get to eat here?” asked Bree, taking a tray of her own.

    “Shee fo youshelf,” grunted Tarren, her mouth full with the tray. When Bree looked confused, the cat set down the tray and repeated “See for yourself.”

    But Bree had not really been given a chance to see. As soon as she approached the table, one of the grumpy women scooped a large something off of a plate and dropped it on Bree’s tray. Bree had paused, wondering what to do next. She wanted to see what else there was to eat and knew she ought to pay something for what she was given, but she was also afraid that if she stayed too long, the ladies would be angry with her. So she ran back to the table Tarren was sitting at.

    Now, Bree was inspecting her food and wondering still what it was. It was black and very hard and in circle-like slices, like ham. She could not pierce it with her fork and felt that despite Tarren’s claim, it would not be very tasty.

    “What is it called?” Bree asked, poking it with her fork.

    “It’s a slice of mineral,” replied Tarren. She had been served what appeared to be a bowl of milk and a scoop of glop that smelled like tuna. “Onyx to be exact.”

    “It’s a rock?” asked Bree in alarm. “I can’t eat that!”

    “Of course you can,” insisted Tarren. “Other people do.”
    “Do they really?”

    “They must, or at least they must buy it. Otherwise, why would the museum serve it?”

    “Well I can’t eat it,” insisted Bree. “I’ll never be able to chew it!”

    “Alright then, just go get something else to eat,” said Tarren calmly, lapping up her milk.

    Bree did not like the idea of seeing the lunch women again, but decided she might as well try, if only to see what else there was to possibly eat. She took her tray and went back to the table of food. Before she could say a word, the closest woman grabbed the tray of onyx from her hands and replaced it with a new tray. The food on it looked soft enough to eat in any case, so Bree quickly left to rejoin Tarren.

    “What’s this?” she asked the cat as soon as she sat back down. The food appeared to be some sort of a large stuffed roll.

    Tarren glanced at it before resuming eating. “Meal in a roll,” she said between bites. “It’s got meat and vegetables and sauce in it.”

    Bree wasn’t sure if she wanted to try it or not, but decided it would seem rude not to so she took her knife and fork, cut off a piece, and ate it. Almost immediately after she swallowed, she began coughing.

    “There’s also a large number of spices,” added Tarren as Bree coughed. “Pepper, salt, basil, and of course garlic powder.”

    “I don’t like garlic,” choked Bree, reaching for a napkin to cough into.
    “Then you shouldn’t have eaten it,” said Tarren simply.

    Bree wanted to say that she was never told that there was garlic in the meal, but was too busy trying to stop coughing. She noticed a glass by her plate and drank from it quickly. Much to her relief, it was full of ordinary water (and if she ever thought water would be extraordinary, it would have been in the Cagier En Museum).

    “Oh look, someone else is here,” said Tarren carelessly as Bree swallowed.

    Bree looked up and noticed a nervous-looking young man coming through the doorway. He had what appeared to be a large bag of fertilizer in his arms, so heavy he seemed almost unable to carry it.

    “MacArthur!” shouted the cook from the kitchen window. “Where have you been all day?”

    “I’ve been…I’ve been out sah,” said MacArthur (he spoke with a strong accent that Bree did not know).

    “Out? In that garden of yours?” The cook looked severely at poor MacArthur, who was shaking. “I told you to bring me a bag of flour as soon as possible! I have a cake to finish!”

    “Another?” frowned MacArthur, shifting the bag in his arms. “Didn’t ye finish one jus’ yesterday?”

    “Yes I did,” said the cook irritably. “And if you had taken it immediately to the banquet hall as I had told you, I wouldn’t have had to make this one! But no, you had to take your little detour out into your gardens -”

    “The trees and bushes needed tending,” muttered MacArthur.

    “ - And you forgot to bring the cake with you when you went back in and it was ruined in the rainstorm that came. All the icing melted off in sticky green puddles, it was my best work yet and of course I forgot to write down the recipe for it so I may never make its equal again!”

    “Well now sah, I told ye I was sorry,” said MacArthur uncomfortably. “But ye knows that my garden is what keeps ye with yer fruits and vegetables for dinner.”

    “Never mind that, now bring me my flour!” snapped the cook. Without waiting for a reply, he leaned an alarming distance from the window (so far that Bree felt sure that he would fall), grabbed the bag of fertilizer, and pulled it back in to the kitchen with him. MacArthur gave a cry of dismay, but he was ignored. He sat sadly on the seat next to Bree.

    “I’ll be getting’ it fer sure this time, lass,” he sighed. “I didn’t even know that wasn’t flour ‘til I was in the door.”

    “I’m sure worse mistakes have been made,” said Bree, eager to cheer him up. “Aren’t there, Tarren?”

    “Hm?” said the cat, looking up from her cream. “Of course. Many times, people choose to take dogs as pets.”

    Bree couldn’t quite see how that was a mistake, but decided to let it pass. “Anyway,” she continued, “I’m sure it’s wonderful to take care of a garden. In my class, we once raised flowers in little pots, but mine died.”

    “Aye,” said MacArthur. “’‘Tis a difficult task, taking sumpin’ so small and fragile and making it so strong. An art in and of itself. So much to look out for! The weather, the cold, and jus’ the other day, I had to chase out an infestation of fur-ets.”

    “Infestation of whats?” asked Bree.

    “Fur-ets! Fur-ets! Ye knows what a fur-et is, don’t ye? Small and furry and long?”

    “I believe he means to say ‘ferret’” said Tarren lazily.

    “Aye, that I was missy,” said MacArthur with a nod.

    “Oh, I see,” said Bree. “What else do you do here, besides work in your garden and deliver things?”

    “This an’ that missy. Whatever needs done.”

    “Do you ever do anything with the exhibits?” asked Bree. “If they get broken?” She had always wondered what the museums did if something was broken. It seemed so important that things stayed whole, that she assumed they never did break.

    “Nay miss, that would be the work of Brittirb.”

    “What sort of a name is ‘Brittirb’?” asked Bree.

    “It’s her name,” said MacArthur. “Now stop bein’ silly and what do ye say we meet her?”

    “I’ve finished eating,” announced Tarren, as if that were the answer to the question.

    “It sounds like fun,” said Bree.

    “Then off we go then,” said MacArthur, hurrying them to the door. As they left the room, Bree could have sworn she heard angry shouts from the kitchen. She supposed the cook had gotten around to opening the bag of “flour” and decided that MacArthur picked a very good moment to give them a tour indeed.