Those Damned Parsnips

The little cottage stood alone in the woods, the stars bright and vivid in the long night of midwinter. From the kitchen she heard her name called and she stood from where she lay beside the hearth and ran the few steps to her mother's side.

"Get down the root cellar and fetch us up a few good parsnips for dinner"

She grimaced at the though. She hated the cellar, dreaded the long walk through the fresh snow, and the icy dampness inside. The deep, deep, endless darkness underground.

"Come on, supper's waiting"

Reluctantly, she took the basket from her mother and put on her wools and her lapland boots, picked up a kerosene lantern, and trudged out through the snow which, even on the beaten down path to the root cellar, came up to her chest.

When she came around back to the doors over the cellar she scooped the snow with her hands, shoveling away at it until she could reach the handle, then she forced the doors against the ice built up on the seams. She stepped inside.

Coming down the ladder, she felt the warm, moist air wrap around her, and she turned and stepped off towards the back, where the crates of parsnips were stored buried in damp river sand. The lantern's light was dim, pitiful, she couldn't even see the walls through the soot-stained glass, and she walked slowly lest she trip over a misplaced box of carrots.

The root cellar was larger than most. It had once served a whole village and the inside was positively cavernous in the dark. She searched and searched the shelves for what she had begun calling "those damned parsnips".

The lantern's oil had not been topped off, and the light from the flame sputtered and threatened to vanish and leave her alone in the dark. She brought it up close to her face and stared into the little flickering spot of brightness and watched it like a dying friend. She hissed at the darkness:

"I hate the root cellar. I hate the root cellar. I fucking hate the root cellar!"

The man behind her spoke, with a voice that ground and stuttered like old machinery.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

She never did.