Cabbage
—
Matt Rowan
A YOUNG MAN, SPINDLY OF CARRIAGE, Ernst Schlesser, set off one evening from his cousins’ residence.
The cousins themselves were two large-bodied men (looking like bricks, particularly in their torsos) who lived a distance of no fewer than five miles from Ernst’s own home, a farm where he and his family mainly grew corn.
These same cousins were great cultivators of cabbage, in contrast, and would not hear of Ernst leaving without pocketing at least one of their harvest for a later meal.
“Delicious cabbage stew,” one cousin, Berlov, declared.
“You don’t even require a protein, so hearty is our cabbage. Real fleshy texture. Boil it. Mix that with some salty broth, and you have yourself a meal,” the second cousin, Arlanoff, said.
The young man had been estranged from the cousins for many years, due to a family feud that began before any of the three men were born. A feud that, at its lowest point, engendered the rawest depravity imaginable, in relation to each other and crops (ears of corn broken in half and leaves of cabbage spread far and wide). Ernst’s visit with his cousins was the first of any family member since the feud’s initiation, or rather, it was the first that involved peaceful relations and, among other possible violence, no one’s brains being bashed out on a rock.
It had been a nice trip full of hugging and singing and making amends. If there was any lingering hostility, it was masked well, even when Berlov mistakenly touched a red-hot fire poker to Ernst’s back. The cousin apologized effusively, going so far as to touch his own face with the poker, to the point of sizzling skin and screaming terribly while this happened. And though Ernst protested his cousin’s self-flagellation, a small part of him was glad his cousin was willing to go to such lengths to prove his sincerity.
They sent young Ernst away with a cabbage in his overlarge, sack-like pocket, which they suggested he stew for his supper. They told him the exact spices that would go a long way toward making the cabbage a worthy meal bursting with flavor, and not just for cabbage stew but in the context of any stew.
And Ernst would have followed their cooking instructions dutifully had it not been for the trouble he was headed toward.
He set off in his usual unassuming way.
Admiring the shop windows and the goods they made viewable, he took no notice of the town folk who’d been watching him, mortified. The town folk were staring and they were pointing.
Ernst was blissful and ignorant, ambling down the main thoroughfare now.
About halfway across the municipality, he was stopped by an officer of the law.
“All right. Show’s over,” the officer said, thrusting a fat, gloved hand, palm first, in Ernst’s direction.
“I’m sorry?” Ernst said, surprised by the officer who’d approached him suddenly.
“You are in violation of a law. The penalty is immediate and indefinite imprisonment.”
“What is the law I have broken?”
“What law? The municipal law that clearly states an individual is not to be transporting cabbage in a pocket of their trousers or their skirt within the city limits. All cabbage must be clearly visible and in plain sight.”
Ernst was arrested and imprisoned immediately.
So began his life’s one real struggle.
Ernst began to form reasons for why it was illegal to carry a cabbage concealed in one’s pocket. None of his reasons made much sense. Maybe people were afraid you might use the cabbage as a weapon. Maybe there had been cabbage-related fatalities. He looked out the barred window of his cell. People were walking around with overlarge pockets filled with all sorts of things, just not cabbage, which of course added to the cruel and arbitrary nature of his situation.
He stayed in prison for days and days. Fortunate was he that the guards had let him keep his cabbage, because that was all they left him to eat. Then, some days after that, he’d been given a potato. They gave him that potato in a watery gruel. He was grateful for it, grateful for the smallest things despite himself.
Visitors came. The cousins, Berlov and Arlanoff. They’d gotten word of his unfortunate situation. The cousins trotted heavily down the prison foyer, arriving at last at Ernst’s tiny cell.
“Gee, Ernst, we’re sorry. We really didn’t know about pocketed cabbage, but boy, are we sorry now.” That’s all they could say for themselves, as they stared at him sheepishly. Ernst looked down at his feet. They offered him another cabbage. Being the polite and decent man he was, and much needing the additional nutrition, he graciously accepted it.
Arlanoff touched a red-hot poker to his face, too forlorn to even make a yelp of pain.
Years passed. Many, many, many years. Ernst’s beard grew to a tremendous length. But in all those years, he did not die.
The judges he visited within the courts only warned that he would need to be imprisoned much longer yet if he imagined for a second his life could be better.
One judge said, "Don’t imagine you’ll be saved like the stories of yore, when some enchanted machination makes everything right.”
The thought had never occurred to Ernst in all his years, and yet imprisoned he remained.
“We urge you to forever be mindful that such things can never be. There is no hope.”
One day, when the moon was as full as it had ever been, and the night guards had abandoned their posts in favor of putting back shots of a popular distillation, Ernst was visited by a divine being, seemingly.
The being slid their ethereal hands along his sodden, bearded cheeks. They wiped the idea of tears from his eyes. They put a finger to their mouth to quiet him, just when he was about to speak.
Then they spoke, “They cannot hear me. I want you to know this one thing, Ernst: it is far better to become a fable than a martyr.”
Ernst nodded.
“Be free to imagine a better world,” they said. “It’s true I am a fickle one and don’t necessarily enjoin all, but for those I do enjoin, the future tends to be better. In that sense of possibility, there is hope for all.”
A tangle of trees and vegetation opened up the outer walls of his tiny cell, as though pulling apart a nut.
They next handed him a cabbage, which he stealthily pocketed.
Into the awaiting wilderness and perhaps a better life, the elderly Ernst Schlesser ambled. •
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Matt Rowan lives in Los Angeles, a place he never imagined he'd live until he (almost suddenly, it felt like) did. He founded and edits Untoward. He’s author of the collections Big Venerable, Why God Why, and How the Moon Works. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in hex, NUNUM’s 2026 Opolis Anthology, Twin Bird Review, and
Bluesky
The cousins themselves were two large-bodied men (looking like bricks, particularly in their torsos) who lived a distance of no fewer than five miles from Ernst’s own home, a farm where he and his family mainly grew corn.
These same cousins were great cultivators of cabbage, in contrast, and would not hear of Ernst leaving without pocketing at least one of their harvest for a later meal.
“Delicious cabbage stew,” one cousin, Berlov, declared.
“You don’t even require a protein, so hearty is our cabbage. Real fleshy texture. Boil it. Mix that with some salty broth, and you have yourself a meal,” the second cousin, Arlanoff, said.
The young man had been estranged from the cousins for many years, due to a family feud that began before any of the three men were born. A feud that, at its lowest point, engendered the rawest depravity imaginable, in relation to each other and crops (ears of corn broken in half and leaves of cabbage spread far and wide). Ernst’s visit with his cousins was the first of any family member since the feud’s initiation, or rather, it was the first that involved peaceful relations and, among other possible violence, no one’s brains being bashed out on a rock.
It had been a nice trip full of hugging and singing and making amends. If there was any lingering hostility, it was masked well, even when Berlov mistakenly touched a red-hot fire poker to Ernst’s back. The cousin apologized effusively, going so far as to touch his own face with the poker, to the point of sizzling skin and screaming terribly while this happened. And though Ernst protested his cousin’s self-flagellation, a small part of him was glad his cousin was willing to go to such lengths to prove his sincerity.
They sent young Ernst away with a cabbage in his overlarge, sack-like pocket, which they suggested he stew for his supper. They told him the exact spices that would go a long way toward making the cabbage a worthy meal bursting with flavor, and not just for cabbage stew but in the context of any stew.
And Ernst would have followed their cooking instructions dutifully had it not been for the trouble he was headed toward.
He set off in his usual unassuming way.
❊
Admiring the shop windows and the goods they made viewable, he took no notice of the town folk who’d been watching him, mortified. The town folk were staring and they were pointing.
Ernst was blissful and ignorant, ambling down the main thoroughfare now.
About halfway across the municipality, he was stopped by an officer of the law.
“All right. Show’s over,” the officer said, thrusting a fat, gloved hand, palm first, in Ernst’s direction.
“I’m sorry?” Ernst said, surprised by the officer who’d approached him suddenly.
“You are in violation of a law. The penalty is immediate and indefinite imprisonment.”
“What is the law I have broken?”
“What law? The municipal law that clearly states an individual is not to be transporting cabbage in a pocket of their trousers or their skirt within the city limits. All cabbage must be clearly visible and in plain sight.”
Ernst was arrested and imprisoned immediately.
So began his life’s one real struggle.
❊
Ernst began to form reasons for why it was illegal to carry a cabbage concealed in one’s pocket. None of his reasons made much sense. Maybe people were afraid you might use the cabbage as a weapon. Maybe there had been cabbage-related fatalities. He looked out the barred window of his cell. People were walking around with overlarge pockets filled with all sorts of things, just not cabbage, which of course added to the cruel and arbitrary nature of his situation.
He stayed in prison for days and days. Fortunate was he that the guards had let him keep his cabbage, because that was all they left him to eat. Then, some days after that, he’d been given a potato. They gave him that potato in a watery gruel. He was grateful for it, grateful for the smallest things despite himself.
Visitors came. The cousins, Berlov and Arlanoff. They’d gotten word of his unfortunate situation. The cousins trotted heavily down the prison foyer, arriving at last at Ernst’s tiny cell.
“Gee, Ernst, we’re sorry. We really didn’t know about pocketed cabbage, but boy, are we sorry now.” That’s all they could say for themselves, as they stared at him sheepishly. Ernst looked down at his feet. They offered him another cabbage. Being the polite and decent man he was, and much needing the additional nutrition, he graciously accepted it.
Arlanoff touched a red-hot poker to his face, too forlorn to even make a yelp of pain.
❊
Years passed. Many, many, many years. Ernst’s beard grew to a tremendous length. But in all those years, he did not die.
The judges he visited within the courts only warned that he would need to be imprisoned much longer yet if he imagined for a second his life could be better.
One judge said, "Don’t imagine you’ll be saved like the stories of yore, when some enchanted machination makes everything right.”
The thought had never occurred to Ernst in all his years, and yet imprisoned he remained.
“We urge you to forever be mindful that such things can never be. There is no hope.”
❊
One day, when the moon was as full as it had ever been, and the night guards had abandoned their posts in favor of putting back shots of a popular distillation, Ernst was visited by a divine being, seemingly.
The being slid their ethereal hands along his sodden, bearded cheeks. They wiped the idea of tears from his eyes. They put a finger to their mouth to quiet him, just when he was about to speak.
Then they spoke, “They cannot hear me. I want you to know this one thing, Ernst: it is far better to become a fable than a martyr.”
Ernst nodded.
“Be free to imagine a better world,” they said. “It’s true I am a fickle one and don’t necessarily enjoin all, but for those I do enjoin, the future tends to be better. In that sense of possibility, there is hope for all.”
A tangle of trees and vegetation opened up the outer walls of his tiny cell, as though pulling apart a nut.
They next handed him a cabbage, which he stealthily pocketed.
Into the awaiting wilderness and perhaps a better life, the elderly Ernst Schlesser ambled. •
Matt Rowan lives in Los Angeles, a place he never imagined he'd live until he (almost suddenly, it felt like) did. He founded and edits Untoward. He’s author of the collections Big Venerable, Why God Why, and How the Moon Works. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in hex, NUNUM’s 2026 Opolis Anthology, Twin Bird Review, and
Bluesky