Onion Porridge

The farmer’s name was Ifan Solanum and his wife was Gwen. Two farm hands (not arms) lived in a separate hedge-house. The children slept piled together on the floor of the farmer’s house, and did not wake when Ifan left to work in the morning. Perhaps he would have let them sleep all day, but Gwen thumped pots and clattered dishes together until they woke. When Ifan and the hands came in for breakfast an hour after dawn Gerhardt was sweeping, the twins winding yarn from a skein into a ball, Claire chopping an oniony-smelling grass that made her eyes water, Adolphus polishing the stiffened leaves that served as plates, and Bettina shelling peas.

Ifan frowned when he saw this activity, and spoke to Gwen at length. The twins strained to hear until Mirabelle thought to roll the ball of yarn in the arguing couple’s direction and slowly retrieve it. A few minutes later Gwen clapped her hands and gestured everyone to the table, her glittering eyes bright in her red face. Breakfast, a sort of onion porridge, was tense, and not very tasty. Afterwards the children washed up.

“He doesn’t think we should be working,” Mirabelle told the others. “He says we’re too important.”

“Important how?” Claire asked.

“We’re explorers and adventurers,” Adolphus said, “of course we’re important.”

“I think…” Mirabelle hesitated. “They were talking fast and I’m not sure of all the words, but I’m afraid it’s because we have lighter color skin than he does.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Gerhardt pulled his hands from the hot wash water. “My hands are the same color as he is now.”

Adolphus looked thoughtful. “In the Indian subcontinent–”

“Will you leave off about the Indian subcontinent?” Annabelle demanded. “I can give you half a dozen reasons proving we are not in the Indian subcontinent, and the first one is they don’t speak Welsh!”

“I will not leave off! I have a salient point!”

“Go on, Adolphus,” Claire said. “There’s a first time for everything.”

Adolphus glared at her, but would not be distracted. “In, as I say, the afore-mentioned Indian subcontinent, society is managed through a caste system.”

“Broken leg?” Bettina asked.

“Not that sort of cast!” he said. “It’s this idea that some people are more important than others, and that everyone has a defined place. Certain castes are limited to certain jobs, and you can’t switch or marry outside it and so forth.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice,” Annabelle observed.

“I dare say I wouldn’t like it,” Adolphus agreed. “Don’t like being told what to do. The point is, the salient point being, that factors determining caste include lineage, occupation, and skin tone.” He looked around at his siblings expectantly.

Claire nodded. “That was a salient point. Wherever we are, this society may have a caste system, and our hosts might think we’re in it.”

“If that’s the case,” Annabelle said, “then we’re lucky they think we’re higher up. They might not let us stay if we were lower down.”

“I hope our luck holds, then.” Mirabelle said. “After that I heard Gwen ask Ifan why we were abandoned or alone – I don’t know the exact words but I think she wants to know if we’re so important why are we so pathetic.”

“That is the nature of a life of adventure,” Adolphus said. “One day you’re sipping cocoa on a sumptuously decorated airship, and the next you’re begging onion porridge from red-skinned Welsh-speakers.”

“I don’t like being dependent on strangers,” Gerhardt said.

“I don’t like that we’re causing our hosts to fight,” Claire added. “Maybe we can work hard today and leave in the morning.”

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Photo credit Blue Lotus