Cocodrie's Flambeaux

[Metrice]

Spice in the Swamp.

“Yeee-heee boy; I got a yarn to spin for all you, me. Is a funny bit of sa-sa cher, but I will spin it true. Out in dese swamps here, life ain’t always so pretty. Ain’t got that laigniappe you other folk got, you. But, we make somethin’ out all dis strugglin’.   Let me tell you ‘bout this fine early mornin’, crisp and cold eh?”

 
The air was stale and bitter, stinging at the tongue. For most, it was an abhorrent experience, but such was the marshlands of Meranthe. Sour, festered with the odor of decaying plant matter. Within those lush swamplands was a dimwitted soul, one living every day as if it were instinct. It had yet to awaken its higher functions. The beast held a familiar form, albeit larger than one would expect. A well-fed, sizable alligator. Happily, accustomed to the hydrophytes that softly bobbed about them. The beast was waiting, biding its time in the shallows.  Hours churn by listlessly as it lies, only the tips of its bestial gaze cresting the water. Falling towards the shoreline with intention. They were awaiting a potential meal. Fortune soon struck; the approach of a deer took the beast from its indolence. The tail softly swaying beneath the glassy waters, moving in a silent and cautious manner. The crocodilian wouldn’t want to scare off his prey, not after biding their time so patiently. The cover of moonlight made for an even more opportune moment.
 
Just as the Deer began to lap the pristine, stilled marshes would that tranquility shatter. A loud lashing of the crocodilian’s tail disrupts the silence. Splitting the water to and fro, allowing for only a singular call to breach the silence of evening’s grasp. It was stifled, crushed by overpowering jaws. How the beast felt satisfaction, the chance to dine after days of patient biding.  Soon the alligator would learn, life wasn’t always so kind.
 

“’Dis here be what happened, I was resting to set ‘bout managin’; getting myself a meal good, me. ‘Den, just as I was ‘bout to manage? ‘Dis here beastie burst out da blue, snatchin’ up my catch ‘fore I got the chance to be samplin’ it. I was t’inkin’, Allons birdie!! But, dat boy flew off faster ‘dan ‘dis gator could track. Left me with nothin’, me. Sad t’ing dat.”

 

The night trickled to morning, one crocodilian left with a vacant gut and a burning need for a fine meal. However, despite the beasts wanting it, fate had other plans. A rotund, but sharply dressed traveler made their presence known on this day. Crossing into land unknown, all to share the knowledge he had culminated over his lifetime. The art of cooking eternalized within his many scribblings. All of which collected in a tome he held closely to his breast. Amber eyes fell upon the traveler, watching from afar. Silently appraising what was a potential meal; only to be greeted with the sight of a bumbling outsider. 
 
Nothing worth eating. Yet, that smell, there was something to it. Something unseen, something new and alien; yet nonetheless enticing. The scent of fine spices and good sweet wines clung to the air. It coaxed the beast forth, hapless at the whims of its burdened gut. It trailed behind the pontoon supporting the portly visitor. Soon, he’d make shore with a hungry gator in tow. Maybe an hour's trip from Gloomlight Grove, but, fate once more had other plans. The man stops to rest, leaning against a tree within the evening’s fog; what appeared to be a palm tree. However, it was a special palm tree. The man soon was graced with that surprise. Something looses, plummeting forth before clonking him hardily on his crown. It was a rather robust coconut.  Dazed, disorientated, the man was left stumbling about. Struggling to find his bearings, only to waltz directly into a rotting oak. Misfortune struck with the sound of creaking wood, then a thundering crash. Fauna rushed about, scattering in every direction from the sudden disturbance. All save for our crocodilian protagonist. He’d waddle forth, staring at the gruesome scene. What enraptured his vision was something more alluring. The bloodied tome rested just above the twitching palm of its previous owner. The alligator ambles just a touch closer, inspecting the fading life, and its previous treasure. 
 
The smell coming from that oddity was amazing, leaving the beast to act without reason. Snatching up the tome, it rushed off, leaving the Ransettian to his fate. All while happily totting its prize away into the marsh.
 

“Well, you best be knowing something cher. Back then, I ain’t the brightest gator ‘bout eh? So, t’inkin’ I got myself a good ol’ snack. I sunk my teeth in deep cher, but you best be believin’ it ain’t food. Nah, it was somethin’ so much more. Findin’ out fast from that taste, boy was it somethin’ nasty. Mais it was tastin’ like mold and dust, spat it out fast me. ‘Dat was when I found out what it really was…”

 
The crocodilian would cherish its tarnished possession, slowly developing with tome in hand. Days turning to weeks, the once feral gator now having a semblance of sentience. Simple, but growing by the day. All tinged by the Ransettian spark that inspired such growth. The beast, now made somewhat mannered, had a new passion.  Those spices, those scents. They would recreate them at any cost, to bring those flavors into reality. How their pallet had craved to sample the succulent wonders hidden just beyond its reach. Now was its chance, a chance to bring wondrous cooking to the world. The tastes of the marshland gave their own wondrous tinge, a flare like no other. That was the alligator’s dream; what it pursued second to none.  To bring the tastes it envisioned forth to the world. A quest that would never quell, no matter how long the beast pursued this path. It was time to put some Spice in the Swamp.

“Laissez les bons temps rouler, Allons!”