Dreams of garlic, tomatoes, and Parmesan Reggiano

Animaswolf is puzzled. Smoke means fire and fire means people. Yet this is an acrid smoke. With a sense of alarm and foreboding, she scampers up a scree slope. From this perch – she sees the remains of a town – a town destroyed by fire. Embers glow in a few places, but the entire town – church, saloon, school, jail, shanties, houses, cemetery, all gone – destroyed by fire.

Scrambling down from her perch, she begins to explore – walking down the deserted street, looking for signs of life. The gate to the cemetery is open – the fire did no damage here except to scorch the already dry grass. None of the names on any of the tombstones sound familiar to her – she knows no Firths, Bensons, or Canallys. Glancing over the tombstones, she sees a glow on the eastern horizon. Dawn is coming.

It is time to find shelter. Her pace quickens and now she is running – feeling the power of her shoulders and hips propelling her away from this place of death. She notices a small outbuilding on the edge of a field. Checking the sky, she estimates that she has time to slip inside before the sun rises.

Crossing the field, she smells ripe tomatoes, they appear to be ruby red tomatoes. Animaswolf is one of the few wolves she knows who loves Bruschetta. Perhaps the woman who planted these tomatoes and farms this land will be willing to serve her tomatoes and garlic in olive oil, with basil, and a touch of Parmesan Reggiano. Mouth watering, tummy growling, she noses the shed door open and slips inside just as the first rays of light catch the high peaks of the Olympic Mountains in the distance.

But first – the task of sloughing… purification rites in preparation for entering the mine.
Posted by Soulwright