The Phantoms of Marvis Pass

One - Bold Flavor

        A thin veil of chilly mist rolls over the forest landscape of northern California.  A bird of prey shrieks in the distance, crying out to others of its kind, and the hefty flap of its broad wingspan echoes over the reaching branches of countless white firs.  The pale clouds, shrouding and sealing away the clear sky, prevents enchanting sunlight from reaching the ground, casting shadows across the world.  It's an unrelenting, sad realm, and the moss itself cries each morning from the condensing dew dripping from its dark green skin.

        A set of upbeat footsteps interrupt the mourning woodlands, slapping against the dampened leaves coating the forest floor.  The set of stockman boots belong to Daryl Okafor, a quite scrawny fellow hailing from a small town east of the broad expanse of the Rocky Mountains.  While his parents had origins in Nigeria, the shacks of western America was where his childhood was spent.  It was a peaceful upbringing, decorated with caring for chaotic chickens and blundering cows, but it still had its hardships.  Poverty was always looming above, raining down malnutrition and sleepless nights, but he was a hardy lad.  He was always determined to provide what he could for his family and town, no matter the cost on his body.

        It pained his mother and father to see his already low body fat percentage continue to fall as he worked diligently, chopping fallen trees to bite-sized pieces for the fireplace.  His figure caught on quickly, now always sticking to a perpetual underweight state.  But it is no matter for Daryl.  He enjoys his small body.  His lanky fingers and arms make it simple to reach into tight areas to repair things such as a malfunctioning car engine.  Daryl was able to scoop a poor kitten out of a pipe one time because of his slenderness.  Sometimes he wishes he had the incredible form of someone like Albert Lewis, but there is nothing he can do to change himself.  He's tried.

        Daryl wiggles his shoulders, trying to alleviate the pain the yoke is pushing into his neck.  Two buckets of water swing on each end of the stick, and his adjustment causes a few droplets to fly out, sparkling as they cascade onto the ground.  It was his turn to complete the early morning water run, and this was his second and final trip to the cackling stream flowing nearby.  Al could get his four buckets in one trip, balancing the load across his bulging trapezius, but little Daryl had to shuffle about with his lighter cargo.

        Al was a miner before the dreaded Sorrow took him and Daryl, and his strength was built up in the talc mines of the town they stayed in.  Each day, he would harvest the white mineral with his bare hands and a crooked pickaxe, feeling the cooling beads of sweat drift down his sloping forehead and heaving chest.  He was paid minimally, but in a basically deserted land, this job was one of the only ones he could have.  He learned to push through.  Daryl, on the other hand, doubled as the town's barber and baker, putting his nimbleness and skill to excellent use.  When no one needed to freshen up their look, he would slave away in the kitchen, throwing together flour, water, and yeast to later produce a golden loaf.  He could produce all sorts of amazing goodies, from bagels to morning rolls and even semisweet danishes if the ingredients were on hand.

        The luxury foods that Daryl occassionally produced were actually what brought him and Al together.  Al and his men would visit the bakery after the long days in the mine, picking up supper before they headed home to feed their wives and children.  Al didn't have a family to return to, not even a sister or brother.  He was lonely but not so much to the point of endless depression.  He had his comrades to chat with about drama and scoop around town, but he and Daryl hit it off quite fast.

        Daryl had caught Al's eye right from the moment he first set foot into the homey bakery.  The glass oil lamps cast a wonderous golden sheen over Daryl's skin, making him glow.  Al talks about the moment quite often, depicting Daryl as a fantastical painting in his descriptions of the heartwarming scene.  He was counting change behind the counter after he had served the miner patrons and they headed on their way, but Al remained in the lobby, munching away on a fresh Nigerian egg roll.  Daryl loved introducing the members of the town to foreign recipes, and their bored tastebuds celebrated the new variety of sparkling flavor and texture.