By P. James Montaño
From the tips of your hair,
To the ends of your feet,
You eat what you are
And you are what you eat.
She whispered the nursery rhyme over and over to herself, crossing the sodden rail yard. Metal behemoths rusted in browns and oranges, similar in rot to the brittle leaves flailing and falling from the emaciated trees. She wrapped her scarlet hoodie tighter around her neck, buffering against the drizzle and leaped over a rail. Darkness was falling and the sky turned its dark pinkish hue. She must hurry before the shadows swallowed everything and her path became impossible.
From the tips of your hair…
It certainly wasn’t the safest way to Gran’s. The streets at least were lit and busier and, going this way, she still had to duck into the Black Forest before arriving on Gran’s porch. But this was the quickest, most direct way. And she could smell it now, the bread baking in Gran’s oven, a bumbleberry pie cooling on the table and a stew! Gosh, the stew was always delicious. Clutching her lunch pail close to her chest she hoped Gran would be happy about her contributions to the dinner. She stumbled slightly over a protruding rail nail and almost lost her grip on the pail. She just had to make it less than a mile more and the dinner would be theirs to share.
To the ends of your feet…
Recently, two people had disappeared around the rail yard. Some said the wolves had come from the forest and devoured the poor souls. Others said they simply disappeared into the Forest. She didn’t believe any of it. She had never seen wolves around these parts- she slipped between two decaying train cars- and she knew the Forest like the back of her hand. The canopy of trees rose only a few feet away.
You eat what-
A slight crick interrupted the deep silence of rails. She glanced over her shoulder and tucked away into her hoodie, only a sliver of face framed by red. A crack made her jump and she saw him. He was swerving slowly towards her, a shadow of a man, trailing rags and a limp leg. Her feet remained rooted to the gravel as he ambled forward. A guttural, slow grumble spilled from his open mouth. Her fingers wrapped even tighter around her pail. “Huuungry,” he said, his features slowly coming into focus, “doyooouhaveannnny? Fooood. Doyooouhaveanyfoood? I’msoohuungry!” His head lolled backwards, a long nose pointing in the grey sky and she saw his eyes, glinting, brown and wide. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, when he smiled. A large mouth full of teeth gleamed at her and she stepped back. Her feet slipped on the wet gravel and her hands loosened on the pail and he quickly plucked it out of her hands.
“No!” she yelled but he was opening the box. The lid popped open and plastic food containers spilled onto the ground, thunk, thunk, followed by the clatter of a spoon, a fork and a knife. “Yeeesss,” he hissed between clenched teeth. His long fingers pawed at the plastic containers. He turned his ragged back to her and hunched over the plastic wear, popping the airtight lids. He stopped. A breeze lifted as he slowly turned towards her, his rags and alcohol odor lifting slightly in the wind.
An empty container lay in his grimy palms and confusion sat across his brow. “Whatis…?” Before he could finish she was on him, a spoon and knife in her hand, boring deep into the hollow of his left eye socket.
–
Gran already has the water boiling in the pot. The bread is almost finished, filling her kitchen with the warm scent of yeast. Her granddaughter sits shivering in the corner, wrapped in a warm quilt.
“Your clothes will be warm in a spell, dear,” Gran says. Her granddaughter’s deep auburn curls bob in weary agreement. Gran smiles, “This one must have put up quite the fight. You look so very tired. Yet,” Gran opens the plastic containers, contentment softening her face, “the spoils go to the victors, right?” The container seeps oil-slick, black blood but Gran is careful to not lose a drop. Over the boiling water she daintily lifts out a large brown eye, veins and nerves hanging off the edges like an uprooted turnip. “Oh my,” Gran says, “what a great big eye this is! Beautiful.” Her fingers then lace into a nostril which she pulls, dripping long strands of black, out of the plastic. “And what a long nose he had. Better to smell with.” She plops it into the rolling water before reaching for the next container.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she says to the girl, “the stew will only be a few more minutes. While I finish this will you sing to Gran?” The girl clears her throat, closes her eyes, thankful for the warmth and begins, “From the tips of your hair…”