The Cursed Blood, стр. 50
“All of you lot. Come. Sit. Now,” White Owl demanded in a tone that brooked no argument as he indicated the empty chairs with a nod, his finger tapping rhythmically on the tabletop.
“Oh dear…” Milly eyed the chili pot as she and Gramps supported an obviously unwell Countess. “I do ever so detest rustic fixings.”
“Now, if you please,” White Owl demanded again, pointing a finger firmly to the chairs yet again. “Her, too.” He snapped as he waved them away from settling the Countess on the sofa.
“Chili makes things better, especially my chili. It took well over two hundred years to perfect it. It’s all about the seasonings, and the special ingredient, of course,” he concluded as he flipped closed the battered book (where incidentally he keeps the recipe for said chili, among other things), absently running his hand over the great winged owl bearing aloft in its talons a lantern radiating rays of light, stamped and inlayed with silver onto its front. Then with a sigh he snapped it shut and set it carefully aside.
I’ve come to understand it’s a journal of sorts, and that White Owl is terribly protective of it, and not just because of the coupons he secrets away between the pages. He penned it himself over the centuries to help keep precise track of things he deemed crucial enough that he couldn’t allow to get lost or blurred over by the long passage of time.
Gramps uneasily eyed the book, then his old friend. Whenever he saw that book, or the Master whipped up his chili, it rarely boded well. When both happened at once it was never good news.
“Is it too much to hope that special ingredient is a nice aged scotch?” My newly discovered Aunt asked apprehensively as they helped the Countess sit down onto the indicated chair as tenderly as they could manage.
The Master merely eyed her coldly and loudly snapped his fingers. Carved wooden bowls and cups flew from the counter and plopped down with a clatter before each of us along with a startling, clattering hail of utensils as a cutting board with loaf, knife, and butter swooped over to land before him on the table.
Everyone watched in silence as he carved up the bread.
“Things exist for a reason. Things like prophecies, for instance,” he began as he sawed through slice after slice. “All things must be minded and respected,” he concluded as he carefully set aside the knife and began doling out tableware.
“Oh, Ben told you, did he,” Milly snickered and waved dismissively at me with an apologetic smile. “You can’t be worried about that silly old prophecy. If I had a quarter for every time I’ve heard some alarmist foretelling about the Dark Lord rising again, I’d be far richer than I already am. I assure you, it was probably written by some half witless Witch half Clairvoyant Nostradamus wanna-be who got tired of jotting down fortune cookie for Chinese restaurants.”
She paused wistfully. “Ah, Asian food… Now I desperately crave some dim sum, dumplings, perhaps some noodles and Sushi. Are you quite sure we all can’t just order take out? I know this lovely place in San Francisco, the Happy Dragon, that offers teleported delivery…” She trailed off and fell silent at The Master’s witheringly irritable look.
“It’s my prophecy,” White Owl informed us simply as with another snap of his ringed fingers the ovens dials went to “off” and a large ladle, potholder, and the chili pot swooshed over and joined us at the table, a thick, meaty, healthy dollop of it spilling on the floor conveniently right by where Manx was lying, about an inch from his snout.
“Oh.” Milly deflated as Manx eagerly lapped at his spillage and everyone else just sat about staring uncomfortably at the table in a long pregnant silence as the Master patted his journal and fixed her with an unblinking, scathing look.
He scoffed quietly to himself, irritably grumbling in a language no one but him seemed to know and set the hairs on the back of the neck to tingling before retuning his attention to dinner.
Using the old ladle he deftly scooped up heaps of meaty bean chili into the bowls that slid to him one at a time, each then magically sliding to each of us in turn steaming and full, not spilling a single drop as he recited the prophecy he’d just refreshed his memory on with me from the page of his journal.
“In true darkness’s fall the doom shall be woken
As from brightest Knight the dread shall spring
When the yellow eyed curse be broken
In blinded world threatened by beasts of fell wing
Should eternal nights scourge wards be smoten
The only hope the Dark One shall bring
If Forsaken lights truth finally be spoken
From among the risen a throne shall again find its king”
White Owl swirled his spoon in his chili. “Those are my words. I spoke them. I remember. You simply forgot they were mine.” He ate a spoonful and sighed serenely before adding, “Though I may have had much to do with that last bit. You need to mind what I say, even if you don’t remember it was me who said it, especially if I made you forget in the first place.”
He looked about and noted no one was eating, instead siting staring at him in horror at what he had admitted. He snorted and jabbed his dripping spoon at us. “Eat,” he ordered.
As to his famous chili, it’s delicious. Rich, thick and hearty. And cooked with a healthy half bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey, a cardiologist’s nightmare portion of bacon, and quite a few other bits and such that’s for me to know and you to wonder about.
I know the recipe quite well. I helped him cook it more than once after that horrible day as we talked by Gramps’ old sweatingly hot stove—me