The Legend of Canacadea Valley

By Roman Olynyk

Alfred University lies sprawled on one side of the gently sloping Canacadea valley. At night it is blanketed by fog -- typical weather for this bucolic part of southwestern New York where dairy farming is a way of life and agricultural technology heads the curriculum. Years ago, teetotaling Seventh-Day Adventists settled the quiet village of Alfred, and their sober descendants aren't the least bit bothered by the nightly fog, nor do they see anything peculiar about it. Tonight they are all sound asleep in their beds. Much to their chagrin, however, there are some in the student body who see things differently. After an evening of hitting the books at the library, they think it's time to belt down a few beers at the Saxon Inn Pub.

Banewood is an avowed Seventh-Day Materialist and he has no particular desire to spend more than four years here. On this evening that goal seems distant, for he has hit more beers than books. Walking back home to his dormitory, he is a single, mist-shrouded figure passing like a sheep through the night. The main entrance to Ade Hall, which serves as the cafeteria for this side of the campus, is like a lighthouse in the fog. Its security light provides Banewood with a point of reference, a destination. For no reason, other than that which would beset any other person in his position -- bored and drunk -- he tries the door and finds that it is unlocked. Surprised by this unexpected bit of luck, Banewood decides to conduct a little late-night exploration and maybe stave off the munchies. Something smells unusually good in there. Following his nose, he feels his way along the walls of the concourse and finds the stairs up to the main dining area. The upstairs isn't as dark because it has more windows than the lower level. Confident that he isn't going to bump into anything, Banewood walks with considerable ease -- that is, until he barks his shin upon a misplaced chair.

"Watch it!"

Banewood is startled, to say the least, to hear a tiny voice coming from the chair. At first, he sees no one in it, but after careful inspection, he finds a porcupine meatball. In a last-ditch effort to divert his panic, he murmurs "Who's there?"

"Down here on the chair," says the meatball in a high-pitched voice typically associated with tiny creatures. "What are you doing in here?"

"Uh... Nothing. I mean I just stumbled in. I guess that I'd better be going now," says Banewood as he turns to leave.

"Wait!" Pipes the meatball. "Maybe you can help me. Come over to this door." The meatball falls to the floor, and in a sort of bouncing-rolling motion, leads Banewood to the kitchen door. "Go ahead, open it!"

Banewood obeys. In the kitchen he sees an entire congregation of meatballs (some porcupine, some real); a small herd of lettuce and tomato-filled Lil' Abners, and several amorphous gourmet casseroles, which he recognizes as leftovers from last month's meal. Seated prominently among the rest of the food, a dried-up bacon, lettuce and turkey sandwich speaks. "Thank you for freeing us," says the BLT. "We are very grateful."

"It's nothing. Really," says Banewood. He is unusually calm, despite the shock of what he now sees before him. Talking food? A couple of pitchers of beer probably have something to do with this. With his eyes accustomed to the darkness he is now able to see more food lurking in the shadows -- food that he's never seen on any menu.

"I'm sorry but we can't let you go now," says the BLT.

A murmuring demonic throng begins to close upon him. A putrid odor fills the air, but Banewood recognizes it too late. From seemingly out of nowhere, a baked cod flies into his mouth. The food chants: "Chew it, chew it! Swallow it, swallow it!"

The mass forces itself down Banewood's throat. He becomes nauseated and turns to run. Outflanked by some Jello, which has crawled around on the floor behind him, he slips and falls backwards out the door and hits his head on the tile floor, loosing consciousness.

It's almost dawn when Banewood wakes up and rubs the back of his head, a bit disoriented by his perspective from the floor between the kitchen and the dining area. Whatever has happened to him, there remains no evidence in sight. Everything before him is stainless steel, polished and neat. No food, least of all, no talking food. He decides that it must have been a dream... except now his stomach rumbles. He feels a wave of nausea but can't vomit. His mouth retains a scummy taste somewhat reminiscent of dead fish. One whiff of his breath produces another wave of nausea. He gets to his feet, figuring that the kitchen staff is bound to show up soon, so he staggers down the stairs, exits by a side door and heads home.

After several days everything continues to taste like dead fish. When Banewood finally allows himself to eat again, it is sparingly and with many precautions. He takes up the habit of wearing a crucifix, and when he eats he first drives several toothpicks through his food. Naturally, Banewood's friends can't understand this behavior, and many are nervous of his constant internal rumblings and put off by his chronic halitosis. No longer the beer-guzzling party animal, Banewood sees his entire social life hit an all-time low. Even his parents, who know of his eccentricities, fear that he may be on drugs or fallen in with a bad crowd.

Banewood knows he must to do something about his raunchy breath. But what? The whole episode in the dining hall now seems like a nightmare. He doubts that the kitchen staff can be involved in this situation. At best, they are mere dupes who prepare the daily slop-gobble with the strange names. What he wants is the leader behind whatever is brewing in that dining hall. Who or what is doing this? Has, perhaps, a cooking experiment gone wild? Could this be the product of spontaneous generation, or is this a deliberate plot hatched by a fiendish mind?

After careful thought and out of sheer desperation, he decides to make another night visit to Ade Hall. This time, however, Banewood arms himself, taking along an odd assortment of magical weapons that would probably be more suitable if one has plans to spend the weekend with the undead. He waits for the heavy fog to set in. His chance comes within a few days.

Mysteriously, as if someone or something anticipates his arrival, the entrance to the dining hall is again unlocked. Proceeding cautiously, but this time sober and carrying a flashlight, Banewood climbs up the stairs to where he found himself on that fateful night several weeks ago. Shining his light around on the chairs, he spots a porcupine meatball sitting where he had found one before. In the same sort of bouncing-rolling motion, it hops from the chair and rolls across the floor, trying to get away. This time Banewood is ready and he draws out his net.

"Gotcha, you lousy meatball!"

"Let me go!" The meatball shouts in a tiny voice. "Help, help!"

Not waiting to see what the cry for help will bring, Banewood stuffs the meatball into a can and runs back down the stairs and out of the building. He makes his way back to his room at the dorm. There will be no problems here, since his roommate has moved out to better-ventilated accommodations. The administration wisely decides to let Banewood keep his room to himself, at least until they can find someone who lacks a sense of smell.

Banewood places his prisoner on his desk and aims a gooseneck reading lamp over it. Just for added measure, he traces a circle of anti-acid powder around the meatball. The porcupine meatball eyes the surrounding powder as if it is the line of death. It closes its eyes and rests inert within the pseudo-magical circle. The interrogation begins.

"All right, meatball, talk! How do I get the baked cod off of my breath?"

The prisoner remains silent.

"Talk!" Banewood shouts, but his breath only manages to flush a nearby cockroach from its hiding place. He picks up a toothpick and starts jabbing at the meatball. "C'mon, talk."

"Okay, wait. Stop it. I'll talk," says the meatball. "What do you want to know?"

"Like I already said: how do I get the baked cod off of my breath?"

"I don't know... Wait! I'm telling you the truth." The meatball says this just in time to stop from being jabbed again by the toothpick. "You'll have to see the Great Muffin."

"Yeah, yeah. Right. Then I'll end up with another baked cod stuffed down my throat. No thanks, I'll pass on that."

Although they appear to be tough, meatballs can at times be softhearted -- even a crusty, old porcupine meatball.

"I'm really sorry for what happened," says the meatball. "It wasn't my fault. The Great Muffin was away and we were all under orders from the BLT, who's the Muffin's second in command. The Great Muffin is wise and formidable, and I'm sure it can help you."

Banewood knows that he has no alternative but to trust the greasy little critter. "All right, can you take me to it?"

"Yes," replies the meatball, "but it's no longer in the kitchen. Most of the food has moved to a safer location after you freed us. We'll have to go to the basement of Ade Hall."

The campus is still enveloped by the grey fog as Banewood and the meatball journey back to the dining hall. By now, the mist is so dense that it is impossible to tell whether there is even a moon out. The only visible bearings come from the distant glow of a security lamp, which does little to impart any confidence, for it is their destination.

As if acted upon by fate, the entrance to the basement is unlocked. Upon entering, Banewood places the meatball on the floor and turns on his flashlight. The door clicks shut behind them. Cartons line the shadowy walls on both sides as the two proceed down a corridor which leads to the rear of the basement. When Banewood opens the door at the other end of the corridor, he hears a commotion and smells something putrid: baked cod. Opening the door even wider, he sees the chaos of battle.

"It's war!" Declares the meatball.

The walls resound with Ping-Ponging meatballs of all sorts, while others are locked in violent hand-to-hand combat. Lil' Abners lie disemboweled upon the ground with their tomatoes and lettuce strewn about. Turkey shortcakes, their bodies glistening with warm gravy, fight savagely with the shepherd pies, who are literally getting the corn kicked out of them. Smashed hamburgers lie soaking in their own ketchup. Here and there a baked cod leaps through the air.

The door slams shut behind Banewood, trapping him in the midst of the power struggle within the stock room. His porcupine meatball leaps into the air and joins the fray, displaying such agility that Banewood wonders how he was able to capture it in the first place. The meatball quickly makes short work of some ravioli, knocking their greenish fillings out upon the concrete floor.

With his flashlight, Banewood scans about the room. In the direction of the worst commotion, he sees what must be the Great Muffin throwing itself against one attacker after another, crushing its opponents with little effort.

In the other direction, up among boxes of condiments, sits the BLT directing its campaign. It is flanked by two powerful looking casseroles of slop-gobble. Banewood and the BLT spot each other at the same moment.

"Get the human!" the BLT shouts and leads the attack. The remainder of the leftovers rush to follow their leader, while the Great Muffin's forces retreat to the far wall.

A turkey shortcake leaps up and knocks Banewood's flashlight to the floor, where it casts flickering shadows upon the advancing horde. A baked cod hits Banewood repeatedly in the face, going for his mouth and forcing him back against the wall. Fumbling in the darkness amid the attacking food, Banewood's hands come upon a familiar shape.

"If only there's time," he thinks as his fingers alternately wrestle with the wire and the food. "Finally!" Banewood breathes in relief as he works the CO₂ fire extinguisher into position and depresses the handle. After he discharges all of the gas, he falls exhausted to the floor of the now silent room.

Banewood's eyes slowly come into focus. He retrieves his flashlight and looks about the room, which is strewn with dry ice and frozen food.

"Thank you for helping us. We are very grateful," says a baritone voice from the far wall.

"Oh God, not again!" Banewood murmurs. Fear and nausea are a Pavlovian response to these words. His flashlight plays across the room and casts a beam upon the source of that voice. There, surrounded by its legion of food, sits the Great Muffin.

The Great Muffin senses that Banewood is agitated. "You, sir, are a hero," says the Muffin. "The BLT was planning to run us all down the garbage disposal. Your timely intervention has saved us from those rotten meals."

Banewood belches and says "Excuse me?"

"Those of us that you see here before you are the creations of one cook, who practices the culinary arts," says the Great Muffin. "I am one of her best creations." It turns sideways to proudly display various flecks of nuts and blueberries on its surface.

"What is this other stuff?" Banewood asks, kicking over a chunk of frozen food.

"They were created by the rest of the kitchen staff for the sole purpose of feeding you students. That so-called food has no soul, no sense of goodness. It exists only because some nutritionist has combined a number of ingredients that are necessary to sustain life."

"Along with bad breath and flatulence," adds Banewood.

"That, too," says the Great Muffin. "But time is running out for us here. Name your reward and I shall do my best to grant it."

"I want my life back to normal. Just get rid of this lousy fish breath," replies Banewood without a moment's hesitation.

With surprising grace, the Great Muffin jumps down to the floor. "Come over here," says the Great Muffin and heads to one corner of the room. Banewood walks over cautiously, on the look out for an ambush. The Great Muffin disappears into a crack between some boxes on the floor. In a moment, it is pushing out a fifth of Southern Comfort, apparently concealed there by whoever manages this supply room. The bottle is just a little more than half full.

"You'll have to drink all of this, though I prefer that you don't do it here," says the Great Muffin.

"Will drinking this will bring my breath back to normal?" Banewood looks skeptical.

"Yes," says the Great Muffin. "Go now, for it will soon be daylight and we'll have to hide."

"Will I ever see you again?" Banewood asks.

"No, not in our lifetime," says the Great Muffin.

For a brief moment, Banewood thinks that he sees what may pass for a smile -- that is, if a muffin could smile. Banewood picks up the bottle of Southern Comfort and begins to leave the room, walking carefully so as not to step on any former food. As he nears the still-frozen BLT, however, he takes a quick step and kicks it toward the wall. The BLT glides over the concrete floor like a hockey puck and hits the wall with a satisfying crack. Brittle as a result of its being still frozen by dry ice, the BLT shatters against the wall and sends pieces flying in dozens of directions. The food behind him cheers. Banewood turns one last time, and he catches the Great Muffin smiling back at him.

Back in his dorm room, Banewood wastes no time. He locks the door behind himself and unscrews the cap from the bottle that he brought back from the basement of Ade Hall. Without a moment's hesitation, Banewood chugs from the bottle and quickly finishes it. Soon the room begins to spin, and Banewood spends one of the longest nights of his life hugging his wastebasket.

Indian Summer visits Canacadea valley for one final time this year. On such a nice day as today -- a Friday at that -- Banewood should be sitting out on the steps of the student union and admiring the view. Instead, he's loaded down with books and has plans to spend the better part of this evening catching up with his studies at the library.

"Hey Banewood!" Shouts one of his buddies. "It's great to see you finally up and about."

"Hey Shaky," Banewood replies as he walks from his last class.. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"You bet," says Shaky. "Going to the beer stomp tonight? I hear they've got a live band."

"No, I've got to hit the books and catch up on my reading," says Banewood. "If I finish three more chapters of chemistry this evening, I might catch you later down at the Pub and ... On second thought, forget the beer. I need to get some shut-eye."

Shaky rolls his eyes. "Tomorrow is Saturday," he says as if he's explaining this to someone who's not altogether there.

"Yeah, well I need to get up early. I've got a telephone interview at the Culinary Institute of America tomorrow. I'm thinking of becoming a chef," says Banewood.

"What?" Shaky in now certain that Banewood is not altogether there. "Why in the world do you want to be a cook."

"A chef," says Banewood, correcting him. "I just think that there's not enough good food in the world right now."

"Okay... Well, listen, I've got to run. I guess I'll catch you later."

"Yeah, later," says Banewood. As he turns and walks away, he reaches into his pocket and removes a toothpick dispenser. "I'm going to need a lot of these in the meantime." Banewood says under his breath.

The End