A Taste of the World by Debby Huvaere

I breathe heavily, crouched behind a tree. My heart races. I need to slow it down: time, breath, beats, everything. But there’s not a second to spare. Through the forest, the high-pitched screeching starts again. The sound of a hundred nails on a blackboard, and I taste chalk on the back of my tongue. My jaw clenches. I push up and sprint. The bag of berries I picked, bumps against my thigh.

Speed saves you, father says. I can see him, pointing his fork at me, lecturing me, again, on how to be faster. At any point, we all need to be ready to head to the bunker, fast as we can. He drills us regularly, father, for when The Last Day comes.

And it is coming, Viviane, father says, his dark eyes piercing mine, you better believe it. I have no reason not to.

The sound ends abruptly, and I drop down again, scurry behind a trunk, panting. I pull my sweater over my mouth to mute my raspy wheezing.

Silence saves you, father says. He taught me how to be still. How to hear with my skin and see with my ears.

We are The Chosen ones, Viviane, father says. We continue to show God that we are worthy. So, when father makes the siren wail, I run. When it quiets, I hide. He keeps a record of all our times.

Over fifteen minutes, and you’re dead, father says.

The air explodes with the torturing sound again, so abruptly that I bite my tongue and I taste blood. I spit, scramble to my feet and run. I hop over branches, duck from tree to tree.

And then the ground vanishes. My heart stands still for a second, then shoots up my throat as I fall. I land hard on my back, slide down a slope I hadn’t known was there. I instinctively pull my knees up and grab them tight.

Make yourself small, father says. He taught me everything I know. That the edge of the world is where my eyes stop seeing from the hilltop. That whatever is behind the forest is unholy. That one day, the earth will shake and darkness will fall upon us. That I’ll be safe in the bunker God made father build for us. That all I’ll ever need, is right here, in our village.

My rolled-up body smacks into a tree. The wailing has stopped again, which is good, because I’ll need a moment to—

“Hey, are you okay?”

I bounce up and pull my knife from my belt.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy!” The stranger stands five yards away, a little hunched, hands flat and open in front of him. Signs of submission.

He carries a small household on his back, way too heavy a load; it’s laughable. There’s no way he can be quick or agile, but I yield my knife regardless. My eyes lock on this man who’s not supposed to be here.

“I’m not going to hurt you, okay... My name is Stephen, Stephen McIntyre.” He stares at me and waits. I don’t know what for.

He looks a bit like father, but his beard and hair are still the color of tree trunks, the wrinkles around his eyes less pronounced. I step back, cautiously, until I feel a tree behind me.

Make sure you don’t regret not having eyes in the back of your head, father says.

“I’m lost, I think,” the stranger says, “I’m hiking the Appalachian trail – well, not entirely, I started in New York, that’s where I’m from, New York City...” He talks a lot. What the hell is he talking so much for?

The wailing starts again, more muffled now, but I startle. I need to go, I’m going to be late.

“Is that a sawmill? I was trying to get to it, figured there’d be people there... is it far from here?”

“You can’t go there,” I say.

“Okay... well, then could you maybe—“ he kneels down slowly, lifts his backpack from his back, and pulls something from the side, “—show me on this map where I am?” He unfolds a paper, flattens it on the ground like I’d strike a table cloth. I don’t move.

“I know the last check point was here,” he taps the paper, “and now, I guess I’m somewhere around here, just need to get back on the trail...” His finger draws a circle. I have no idea what he’s talking about. He’s right here, and wherever he came from, is not. I take a step closer, try to see what he’s looking at.

The wailing stops. Father is going to be so mad when I don’t make good time.

“That way,” I point, away from the village.

The stranger looks up, and follows my finger.

“Yeah?”

I nod.

“Alright then... well, thank you so much,” he folds the paper and puts it back in his backpack.

He ruffles a little, and pulls out a bag of crinkling paper, its sound almost more obscene and obnoxious than dad’s screeching. He holds it out towards me.

“It’s not much of a thank you, but... do you want a peppermint candy?”

At night, I lay awake in my bed and stare at the ceiling. Father had been unable to hide his disappointment when I arrived at the bunker last. I didn’t tell him about the stranger in the woods. But I wonder where he came from, and... whether he was even real.

 I stretch my arm and feel under my pillow, the crunch of the wrappers reassuring, like leaves in the Fall.

The taste of peppermint is now a memory on my tongue, sweet and cool like Winter. Each white and red patterned button, like seeds, now plants a question in my mind. Many I can’t even comprehend yet. I guess they’ll sprout in Spring... I wonder where I’ll find a backpack as large as Stephen’s, for when Summer comes, and I’ll set out to find the answers.