It was another dewy morning at the old, electric stop. A comfortable humidity had filled the air, moistening the skin but not the clothing of anyone outside. It was indeed a pleasant aftermath to the frequent rains that had visited again the night prior, with the birches and beeches swaying heavily but remained tall and plentiful in the abundant woodlands. Now, work could commence once more.
A peculiar rusted sign hung unevenly at the forefront of a faded red barn, almost sheddish if one could consider it so, and read “Troak’s ‘Lectric Centre.” The brick walls were hugged tightly by some sort of seamless satin cloth, and every passerby was surprised by its enduring quality. A small dormouse stood at a wooden bench in front of the red shed, in a thickly wrapped aluminum coat that did not match his deep black boots and extra large bucket hat that covered his ears and forehead. Chaucer was a friendly dormouse, if not a little naive by some standards. A hefty voice ringed in his mind, reminding him how the aluminum “kept the electricity on the outside,” which Chaucer agreed with wholeheartedly. Time called for operations to commence.
Lightning bugs began flying through the bushes, camping predators awaiting opportunity. The business specialized in collecting donations from the lightning bugs in the area, bottling up their excess and using it for various ends, such as powering local towns and other “governmental necessities,” as their usual buyers called them. The “‘Lectric Centre” was a local spot to earn some extra money, while also performing a “civil duty” in the mind of some bugs.
Onlookers might be confused if they saw some of the clientele that frequented the spot. The first customer in line had a homely, ragged cloak that hung far below him while he was fluttering in the air. Behind him was a bug in a sharp slate suit, as much of a suit that could fit on a lightning bug, and he was continually looking at his watch. One could try to identify a pattern from the line, but it was too eclectic and haphazard to make much sense of. The lanterns at the base of each of these bugs bodies were radiating a bright neon yellow. However, they appeared more of a pastel due to the haziness of their translucent lanterns.
The brightness of these bugs could be complemented by none other than Chaucer's gleaming countenance. It was as if his face reflected the light of the sun, though, it could have simply been his demeanor that was blinding.
“Beautiful day for a donation.” Chaucer said to that forefront customer. His smile grew and his gleam seemed all the brighter.
“Beautiful day indeed. What's today's rate lookin’ like?” The cloaked bug asked.
“Today is seventy orns!”
“T'day's worth fifty! Fif-ty!” A hefty voice shouted from inside the building. A stout toad waddled outside to Chaucer's station. He was donned in a large trench coat covered in quilt patches where it had torn previously, and wore what appeared like goggles over his bubbly eyes. The goggles were not attached to one another, resembling monocles, another often blended in, making it difficult to know where the eyes stopped and the goggles began.
“I'm sorry. That's my mistake, Troak.” Chaucer said to the toad before turning back to the bug. “Fifty indeed.”
“Fifty? That ain’t much these days. It's especially tough since you said seventy. Seventy could do me a lot.”
Chaucer's face was squeamish no doubt, his whiskers becoming tense. Troak looked to the sky with his glass-like eyes, not moving his head once and released a deep sigh. “Give ‘em seventy. N’one else. Line gets longer and longer by the minute.” The relief and smugness were both palpable. As Troak turned to walk inward, he looked back at Chaucer with a crinkled expression and slight grin. “Make it seventy for the day.” Troak said with a gentleness and tension in his voice. Following lightning bugs heard Troaks's decree and passed the info downward, adding glee to the occasion. Tensions were chipped away by each smiling lightning bug and any remaining air of smugness was entirely swallowed up.
Once greeted by Chaucer, each bug went inside to find Troak sitting next to a wall housing three large tubes. All of the tubes collected into a cylindrical vat the size of two horses stacked upon one another. On the other end of each tube was a plug-like opening for the bugs to connect their lanterns to. A collection of wires connected the cylinder to a hand crank, and at the base of the crank was a trough where Troak took his station.
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As soon as all three tubes had contributors, Troak began to crank with great force, moving his body in a way that onlookers could only compare to a toad dancing. This process continued through many hours of the day, until the sun came to a softer orange on the horizon and the last lightning bug had been tended to.
Chaucer maintained his usual giddiness by the end as he had throughout the day. In contrast, Troak was sitting in his trough silently. No longer wearing his trench coat but only a thinly-woven blue vest and beige baggy trousers. His skin was covered in something like sweat, more of a secretion, that he had pooled throughout the day. When night came, after his short reprieve, Troak would exit his trough and go to a nearby pond to rinse, and Chaucer would always volunteer to bottle up the secretion so Troak could rest upon his return. Every instance like this Troak would forget any annoyances he had from the dormouse's ignorance, and could only offer a simple thanks. Troak’s secretion was bottled up for its medicinal qualities. He often sold it in local towns to studious apothecaries who could concoct balms and the like. Troak always managed to save some for himself, as he had learned some recipes over his many years.
Once Troak returned home, the small loft that hung above their workplace, the toad would begin to prepare a meal for himself and Chaucer. Often some sort of stew, but with a flavor almost never repeating as ingredients varied by availability. Troak took great pride in his cooking, despite his small kitchen space that had middling candlelight. Aromatics would greet Chaucer’s nostrils at this point in the day, overpowering the slight mossy scent the secretion held, and it was always a new experience. “Running through dandies” and “underbelly of oak” were the previous two nights scents, according to Chaucer. As today’s scent grew stronger, it began wafting downward to the trough where Chaucer was typically finishing up. Chaucer always finished his philanthropy quickly, since he knew better than anyone it would be difficult to return to the mossy odor after dinner.
Once today’s fragrance found him down below, his stomach came to life as if for the first time, and, speaking of “thyme,” that was at the forefront of today’s smell, with tart undertones. He could feel his heart swell, beating particularly rhythmic, and suddenly he ran toward a ladder that connected their operating room to their home.
“First kiss in sweet summer,” Chaucer declared across the room.
Troak was startled, as he usually is, by Chaucer. Troak has always been renowned for his eyes, not his sense of hearing, and it did not help that the dormouse could be quite stealthy when he was in a hurry.
“Fav’rite one this week,” Troak said with a grin, “I think you’ll like this one. Found some fresh crans on the way back from washin’. Had some good pots and oils leftover from yesterday.” Chaucer never heard anyone else call things the way Troak did, “crans” for cranberries, “pots” for potatoes. Frankly, he did not spend much time with anybody other than Troak, besides those donating lightning bugs if one wanted to count them. It never bothered Chaucer. He never gave it much thought, as these were his main memories of life, and he enjoyed them well.
Troak walked two bowls to a small wooden table at the end of the loft, resting next to a thick paned window, and Chaucer followed. Another pair of candles greeted them on the table, already lit by Troak earlier, and even more the moonlight tended to find a way to their windowsill every night. As Troak laid their dinner down, they both took a seat across one another in anticipation. The bowls were also wooden, handcrafted, along with the spoons that lay within. This never took away from their experience, but always added a smoky flavor in their eyes. Inside the bowl Chaucer saw a creamy mixture of potatoes, herbs, cranberries, and carrots. The carrots never had a smell, and that always boggled him. How could something be so brightly colored and pungent in the ground, yet be so subdued in both categories when cooked? He always assumed the smell was linked to that bright color, so that if one goes the other must follow suit.
“Here we go,” Chaucer said. His eagerness brought the spoon from bowl to mouth. With how quick he always took his first bite, it is safe to assume his tongue would have no more tastebuds from the scolding stew. But the stew was never scolding, always that perfect temperature one dreams of when eating, and Troak always guaranteed it so. The dormouse’s eyes widened as he enjoyed the orchestral ensemble of flavors, in their unity and individuality, even the carrots ever so slightly. Chaucer stood up from his seat and nodded toward Troak, giving a generous but soft clap, such as the moment the opera finishes their first song. Troak gave a humble nod back, grinning like a tortoise in its wisdom.
The two of them ate together, lion and lamb, and the moonlight always seemed brighter during their meal. One could only consider the moon envious at that moment, and how could it not be? Nothing could compare to a home cooked meal shared in a home, and in this home, between a toad and a dormouse.
