It appears in the corner of my vision time and time again. I never paid it any mind. I doubt it even knows it has a neighbour. To be fair, I hadn’t even known that others lived in this part of the thicket, until I saw that bright red flash, there, right there, in the corner of my vision.
How quickly it moved. I thought I had imagined it. But it kept coming. Here and there, dancing about the wet and tender space between my ears, buzzing at me like a mosquito. Its short and shrill giggle, bouncing across the walls of my mind. Incessant jingle bells. Or maybe…a wind chime. Maybe a thousand…
Very soon after that, I began developing migraines. Red drifting in and out of my vision underneath closed eyelids. Sharp daggers in my temples that blinded me and left me bedridden for days. Unable to get up even to eat. I was so, so hungry.
My cravings returned. I envisioned red. Red apples. Red snapper. Beetroot. Raspberries. Red meat. Beef tartare. Black pudding. Blood.
I thought of how good the butcher had tasted. How the metallic tang of copper clung to his hands.How his hair smelt of freshly laid eggs.
I thought of the savory taste of the fisherman I sampled on my travels to the coast. I thought of how his eyeballs exploded with a saltiness under my tongue. It had reminded me of caviar.
I have never tasted the flesh of youth, not even when I was younger and sharper. As I grew older, I found myself leaning towards tastes I had considered more refined. Flavours rich and aged, slow cooked for an entire day with the meat sliding off the bone. The taste of smoke. Yet now I am convinced that there are flavours that exist in the world that I have completely neglected. Something my tongue has been yearning to taste, without being able to name it.
After the butcher perished, I couldn’t source the rarer meats I had a particular fondness for. Veal; rabbit; baby lamb; horse; imported kangaroo; crocodile; quail. I hunted, of course, but the woods have a very limited selection of wildlife, mostly birds, and I dared not venture into the town and wander amongst the crowd of people with their smells and their skin baking in the sun like crackling pork belly.
But today is different. I wake with a clearer mind and a greater appetite than I have in weeks. I rise with the sun and set off with my gun to gather the meat I have been thirsting for all week. After spending about an hour shooting at birds unsuccessfully, it just so happens that I find myself on the path by Small Red’s home. Upon hearing the door open, I jump behind a neighbouring tree. I know what will happen if I look at her. Another bedridden week, after which I will surely be nothing but bone.
“Now, Baby,” hollers her mother, “you make sure you take that birthday cake and wine to Granny, ya hear? That’s not for Baby! Granny needs her strength! And give her a big kiss from me!”
“Yes, Ma! I got it!” Small Red hollers back in a near perfect imitation. The door shuts and I hear it trot down the footpath and onto the trail.
I can’t help it, you see. All I had found that morning were magpies and robins. I’m a big man. I need a meal.
I move through the thicket beside it, ditching my gun in a hedge I know I will recognise later, quickly fleeing ahead of it on the path. This way it will be the one running into me. I pull a cigar out of my tobacco tin and strike a match, waiting for the hunt to begin.
The small red dagger in my peripheral vision begins to move closer to my cornea. The beginnings of a headache rumble against the base of my skull. It coughs as it walks past me, tiny lungs filling with smoke. The poor thing enters a coughing fit, putting down its basket of goodies to cover its mouth.
“There, there, small thing.” I pat its back with my hand. The plumpness of it causes my mouth to spontaneously water. “Are you quite alright?”
For the first time it looks up at me underneath that hood of red and bats its big, watery eyes at me. It smells delicious. Vanilla ice-cream and sherry vinegar. Its face is flushed. Oh, to imagine blood spiralling beneath its skin…
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Those windchimes again…
“That’s quite alright, small thing.” I put on my friendly-but-not-too-friendly-grownup voice. “Where are you off to this fine day with that basket of sweets? And so early too!”
“I’m off to my grandmother’s, sir. It’s her birthday. She’s very ill and Mother and I baked this cake to give her strength.”
“And the wine?”
It shrugs and picks its basket back up.
“Well, sir, I really should be headed off.”
“Now, now,” I tut, walking beside it on the path. “That’s no way to bid farewell to a grown-up, no less your neighbour.” It gives me a puzzled blink. I clear my throat, extending a hand. “I am Señor Lobo. But you, small thing, may call me Mr Wolf.” It curtsies. How sweet.
“I am Blanchette, but you can call me Baby.”
“Well, well, well, Baby. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now tell me, Baby, have you ever heard the phrase ‘stop and smell the roses’?”
“Roses?” It sniffs. “What roses?”
“No roses. It’s a saying. It means that you should stop every now and then and appreciate the things around you. For example, listen to the sound of the forest. Do you hear the birds? The bugs? The frogs? Listen now… And what about all these flowers you’re treading on? Look how beautiful they are!”
Small Red crouches down and takes a peek, “Wow, Mr Wolf!” it cheers, “You’re right!”
“I have the most marvellous idea!” I exclaim, clapping my hands together, “You slow down and pick a lovely bouquet for Granny. Oh, how lovely that would look in your basket! She would be delighted!”
The stupid small thing shakes its head with eagerness and begins picking. While it’s distracted, I walk back to retrieve my gun. You may be wondering why I didn’t just shoot the thing right there and then and get to work crafting myself a hearty breakfast.
Let’s just say, I enjoy the thrill of the hunt.
I quickly move ahead of it on the trail, my sneaking form obscured by the trees, until I see a cottage with, you guessed it, balloons tied to the mailbox.
I quietly rap on the door, “Granny?” I call out, in my most wind-chimey voice.
“Just upstairs, Baby! Come give Granny a kiss!”
What more is there to say? I shoot her, I eat her, I put on her clothes, and I get into her bed, waiting for the arrival of the small red thing.
It knocks on the door and speaks in that same language of bells, “Granny?” My head roars.
“I’m here!”
“Come upstairs, Baby!” I call, mimicking the old woman, adding a cough. “I’m just in bed.”
As she climbs the stairs, time seems to slow. My stomach growls with anticipation and I can’t contain my tongue from licking my lips. God damn it, I’m hungry.
“Happy Birthday!” She walks towards the bed, peering at me with those wet eyes, “My goodness, Granny! What big ears you have!”
Is it dense? No matter, I don’t think stupidity affects its taste. I’ll play along.
“All the better to hear you with.”
“And what big eyes you have!”
“All the better to see you with.”
“And what teeth you have!”
Now that’s the final straw.
Primality overcomes me. Suddenly I envision myself as a starved hound. The hairs on my back raise in delight, my hands reach for her throat, and I swear, even foam gathers around the corners of my mouth. My teeth have never felt sharper !
“ALL THE BETTER TO EAT YOU WITH!!!”
A gunshot rings out through the room and I’m thrown back against the bedframe. My head explodes with pain. My ears… I can’t hear anything. Only tinkling bells, ringing and ringing and ringing. Small Red screams. A figure looms in view. A huntsman, bearing a beautiful hunting rifle, certainly outshining my own that hides under the bed.
He raises the gun to my head. As I stare down the abyss of its barrel I think of the butcher, the fisherman, the shop-keep, the dentist, the baker, the gravedigger. All delicious, yet I know, in my last moments, I know through the sound of bells ringing in my head and the needles of red that stab at the corners of my eyes, through the screaming of Small Red and the leaking pain beneath my rib, I know that none of it could have ever compared to the taste of that small red–