The Great Feast Quest

The Great Feast Quest

Chapter 1: The Map That Smelled Like Pie

The trouble began on a Tuesday.

Not that Pip had anything against Tuesdays. Tuesdays were perfectly respectable days, especially when they happened to involve breakfast, second breakfast, or a suspiciously generous bakery owner who had forgotten to lock the back door.

But this particular Tuesday smelled different.

It smelled of cinnamon.

It smelled of warm butter, toasted almonds, caramelized apples, and the sort of golden pastry that made a person reconsider every important decision they had ever made.

Most importantly, it smelled like pie.

Pip stopped in the middle of the cobblestone street.

His nose twitched.

His stomach growled.

A nearby pigeon looked at him with concern.

“Oh, don't start,” Pip whispered to his stomach. “We had breakfast.”

His stomach growled again.

“Yes, I remember. It was bread.”

Another growl.

“And cheese.”

The growl that followed was so thunderous that a woman carrying six jars of pickled turnips stumbled into a barrel.

Pip sighed.

“Fine. Technically, it was a small breakfast.”

He adjusted the straps of his enormous green backpack and followed the heavenly aroma down a narrow street in the village of Crumbleton.

Crumbleton was a remarkable place, even by the unusual standards of Munchara.

The houses were constructed from enormous loaves of bread, their golden crusts weathered by rain and wind. Their chimneys puffed out fragrant clouds of woodsmoke and baking yeast. Pretzel bridges arched over little streams of melted buttercream, while flower boxes overflowed with sugar blossoms and tiny, edible strawberries.

The town square was paved with hard gingerbread bricks.

The fountain in its center spouted warm chocolate.

And every morning at precisely eight o'clock, the town crier climbed onto a flour barrel and shouted the day's special.

Today, he was shouting something about turnip pudding.

Nobody seemed particularly excited.

Pip wasn't listening anyway.

He had discovered the source of the smell.

At the end of a crooked lane stood an old bakery called The Crusty Crown.

Its windows glowed amber beneath a roof of dark, flaky pastry. Golden steam curled from the chimney, and a little wooden sign swung above the door.

Fresh pies inside!

Beneath that, somebody had scratched a second message into the wood.

PLEASE STOP EATING THE DISPLAY.

Pip pressed a hand against his chest.

“A bakery that understands me.”

He pushed open the door.

A tiny brass bell rang overhead.

Warmth swept over him like a wool blanket fresh from the sun. The bakery smelled of nutmeg, vanilla, honey, toasted pecans, and a dozen other wonderful things Pip couldn't identify but desperately wanted to.

Rows of pastries filled the counters.

There were apple pies with latticed crusts so delicate they resembled golden spiderwebs. There were little sugar buns dusted with cinnamon. There were custard tarts shining like polished jewels beneath the lantern light.

On the tallest shelf sat a pie the size of a wagon wheel.

Its crust was golden brown, with tiny star-shaped holes that glittered faintly from within.

Pip stared.

The pie stared back.

He blinked.

Pies were not supposed to stare back.

Then again, this was Munchara.

“Good morning!” called a voice from behind the counter.

An elderly baker emerged from the kitchen. She wore a flour-dusted apron, a white cap, and an expression suggesting that she had seen every possible variety of nonsense and expected several more before lunchtime.

“Welcome to the Crusty Crown. What can I get you?”

Pip pointed at the enormous pie.

“That.”

The baker folded her arms.

“That costs twelve gold crowns.”

Pip lowered his hand.

“How about a compliment?”

“Eleven gold crowns.”

“Your apron is very clean.”

“Thirteen.”

Pip gasped.

“That is outrageous.”

“So is your face.”

Pip considered this.

“I like you.”

The baker snorted and reached for a smaller apple pie.

“Here. Fresh out of the oven. Mind your fingers.”

She placed it on the counter.

The pastry was warm enough to fog the glass beneath it. A thin ribbon of steam curled from a little crack in the crust, carrying the scent of sweet apples, brown sugar, and cinnamon.

Pip took a bite.

His eyes widened.

His knees trembled.

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang.

He was fairly certain it had not been ringing a moment ago.

“Oh,” he whispered.

The baker raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, what?”

Pip swallowed.

“Oh, that's ridiculous.”

“Good ridiculous or bad ridiculous?”

Pip stared down at the pie.

“Madam, if I had been born a pie, I would have wanted to be this pie.”

The baker looked pleased despite herself.

“It's a family recipe.”

“Your family deserves a statue.”

“Finish chewing before you start proposing monuments.”

Pip obeyed.

Mostly.

He had reached the last bite when something strange happened.

A smell drifted from beneath the counter.

It was warm, buttery, and unmistakably sweet.

It smelled exactly like the pie Pip was eating.

Except the smell was coming from an empty corner of the bakery.

He leaned sideways.

The aroma grew stronger.

He leaned farther.

His backpack slid off his shoulder and knocked over a tower of flour sacks.

A white cloud exploded across the floor.

The baker stared at him.

Pip stared at the flour.

Then he looked back at the empty corner.

“Your floor smells delicious.”

“My floor is made of stone.”

“Then you have exceptionally talented stone.”

The baker grabbed a broom.

“Out.”

“Certainly.”

Pip stood.

He took one step toward the door.

The smell intensified.

He took another step toward the corner.

The smell became so wonderful that his stomach made a noise like a tuba falling down a staircase.

Pip froze.

The baker slowly lowered her broom.

“What in the world was that?”

“My stomach.”

“That was your stomach?”

“It has strong opinions.”

Pip crouched beside the counter.

There, hidden behind an old flour barrel, was a small wooden cupboard.

Its door hung crookedly from one rusty hinge. Dust covered the handle, and a spider had constructed an elaborate web across the front.

The spider watched Pip approach.

Pip watched the spider.

“I'm going to need you to move.”

The spider did not move.

“I respect your commitment to the property, but this is a matter of extreme culinary importance.”

The spider lifted one leg.

Pip nodded solemnly.

“Negotiations have failed.”

He opened the cupboard.

Inside lay a small wooden box.

The box smelled like pie.

Not ordinary pie.

Not even the extraordinary apple pie he had just eaten.

This smelled like every wonderful meal in the world had gathered together for one enormous celebration and decided to invite his nose.

Pip lifted the box.

It was surprisingly light.

He opened it.

Inside was a rolled-up sheet of parchment tied with a red ribbon.

The parchment was old and yellowed at the edges. Strange symbols shimmered faintly across its surface, and tiny illustrations of mountains, forests, rivers, and cities shifted as Pip tilted it toward the light.

In one corner, somebody had drawn a loaf of bread wearing a crown.

In another, a little dragon was chasing a sausage.

Pip stared at the drawing.

“I like this map already.”

He untied the ribbon.

The parchment unfurled across the floor.

A series of golden lines appeared, stretching from one illustrated region to another. Tiny names formed beneath the drawings.

Crumbleton.

Glimmergrove.

Syrup Sands.

Teatop.

Bubbledeep.

And finally, at the very center of a magnificent city crowned with towers of sugar glass:

Feastfall.

Pip leaned closer.

A message appeared beneath the city.

Beyond the known roads lie flavors no tongue has tasted, dishes no chef has mastered, and a final course lost to the ages.

Pip stopped breathing.

For three entire seconds, the world went quiet.

Then the message continued.

Only those who follow the trail of extraordinary ingredients may discover the greatest feast in all of Munchara.

Pip's mouth fell open.

He read the message again.

Then a third time.

Then he licked the corner of the parchment.

The baker smacked his hand with the broom.

“STOP EATING THE MAP!”

Pip jumped.

“I was checking whether it was edible!”

“IT IS AN ANCIENT MAP!”

“Ancient ingredients can have wonderful flavor profiles!”

“PUT IT DOWN!”

Pip clutched the parchment protectively.

“But look!”

The baker reluctantly glanced at it.

Her expression changed.

The annoyance vanished from her face.

The color drained from her cheeks.

She set the broom against the counter.

“Where did you find that?”

“In the cupboard.”

“What cupboard?”

“The one behind your flour barrel.”

The baker looked toward the corner.

For a moment, she seemed much older than she had a few seconds earlier.

“That cupboard hasn't been opened in forty years.”

Pip looked at the cupboard.

Then at the map.

Then back at the cupboard.

“Perhaps it was waiting for somebody hungry.”

The baker gave him a long, thoughtful look.

“What's your name, boy?”

“Pip.”

“And do you know what you're holding?”

“A map?”

“More than that.”

She came around the counter and knelt beside him.

“That is said to be the Feastfinder. According to the old stories, it belonged to the first great culinary explorer of Munchara. It led its bearer to extraordinary dishes hidden throughout the world.”

Pip's fingers tightened around the parchment.

“Extraordinary how?”

“Magic food. Forgotten recipes. Ingredients from places ordinary travelers would never dare visit.”

Pip's heart began to pound.

“Talking food?”

“Sometimes.”

“Flying food?”

“Occasionally.”

“Food that grows back after you eat it?”

The baker paused.

“I'm told there was once a cake that did exactly that.”

Pip's vision blurred.

Not from tears.

From possibility.

“Madam,” he whispered, “I must find this cake.”

“The cake isn't the point.”

“It sounds very much like the point.”

“The map leads to something much bigger than a cake.”

Pip slowly rose to his feet.

Outside, the wind swept through Crumbleton, carrying the scent of fresh bread along the cobblestone streets. Sunlight glimmered on the chocolate fountain in the square. Somewhere, a baker shouted at a runaway baguette.

Pip looked down at the map.

An entire world lay before him.

A world of glowing fruit, caramel deserts, floating kingdoms, underwater banquets, and dishes so wonderful that people had preserved their legends for generations.

He could almost taste them.

His stomach growled.

The baker sighed.

“I suppose you're going to go after them.”

Pip rolled up the map with great care.

“Absolutely.”

“You'll need supplies.”

“Of course.”

“You'll need traveling companions.”

“Probably.”

“You'll need money.”

Pip hesitated.

“How much money?”

The baker named a sum.

Pip stared at her.

“Could I perhaps pay in compliments?”

“No.”

“I'm very good at compliments.”

“OUT.”

She pushed him through the bakery door.

Pip stumbled onto the cobblestones, clutching the map to his chest.

The door slammed behind him.

The brass bell rang.

For a moment, he simply stood there.

Then he looked toward the distant hills beyond Crumbleton.

Somewhere out there, the world's most extraordinary foods were waiting.

Somewhere out there, a legendary feast promised wonders beyond imagination.

And somewhere out there, Pip suspected, was a pie that would change his life forever.

He took a deep breath.

“Right,” he said. “First, I'll need a proper adventuring team.”

He considered this.

“Second, I'll need provisions.”

Another pause.

“And third…”

His stomach growled.

Pip nodded.

“Second breakfast.”

He turned toward the town square.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten one very important thing.

The Feastfinder was magical.

And it had just awakened.

Far away, beyond the rolling hills and the gingerbread roads, a tiny golden symbol began to glow on the map's surface.

A symbol shaped like a fork.

Then another symbol appeared.

A spoon.

Then a knife.

And deep beneath the streets of Crumbleton, something enormous stirred in a place that had been quiet for a very, very long time.

Something sniffed the air.

Something opened one enormous eye.

And something whispered, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like a burp:

“Pie?”

End of Chapter 1