Taste

Nan

Once upon a time... Isn't that a cute way to start a story?

I looked out the window. It was raining outside, so hard in fact that the old tree in front of my grandmother's house bent to the wind's will. It creaked loudly every time, as if it was screaming in pain. The house smelled of pork stew and chocolate chips cookies. It was a warm and comforting place, like a mother's embrace.

I never knew my parents. They died when I was just a babe, killed by an unknown man in a dark alley. My grandmother always said that she wished every day and night that my mother hadn't died. She never said anything about my father though, preferring to stare outside in stubborn silence whenever I would ask about him. I learned not to ask, like with most things in this house.

For instance, though she never worked or seemed to earn money in any way, my grandma always found a way to have something to cook. The gas bill was always paid and we never ran out of tap water. I never saw her pay bills or receive any, but when I asked she simply chuckled and told me some things were not to be questioned. I just went with it, knowing she wouldn't answer it again.

She was a stubborn woman, short and slightly chubby, though she never seemed to have any trouble reaching the top shelf compared to me, who never seems to be tall enough. She always wore the same old black and white wool jacket, often having to stitch back some new hole in the fabric. What surprised me most is that it hasn't fallen apart yet, seeing how easily the fabric broke down. She always kept her silvery hair in a bun, which was often adorned with a silk bow. Her eyes were a calm, ocean blue which often changed to grey when it rained. She always told me to call her Nan, which I always have done.

That short, stubborn woman had raised me all my life.

She always insisted on cleaning my clothes and helped me tame my hair, which often resulted in a black mass of knots on my head when she didn't. She'd then say I looked like my mother when she was my age, which somehow always made me blush. In truth, I'm 5.6 feet tall and pale as cream with freckles and a very thin nose. My eyes are green and even when I'm sad, they seem to glow on their own. Nan often told me I got those from my mother as well, sometimes getting emotional and saying she misses her with wet eyes.

I looked back at my grandmother, who was working on making the stew somehow better, but I already knew it was good. The smell told me all about it. Carrots, potatoes, celery and pork, seasoned with pepper and some spices I didn't know the name of but affectionately nicknamed the "magic touch" by Nan. A base of beef stock and butter. It was going to be a delight.

Except that I knew it wasn't pork, though that tender meat has the approximate flavour. Children have been disappearing for years around these parts and no one suspects a thing. Nan taught me how to meddle in the dark arts very young and today I'm her helper. She always found something to cook? She's too old for that now. But I'm not. I'm friendly and I look nothing like the kind of threat I, in fact, am. Human children are so fat these days that the meat comes off their bones so easily when you cook them.

Of course, the old way of doing things, she taught me, was to boil them alive. But it was noisy and people immediately knew it was the witch who did it. No, the best way now, she said, is that thanks to this neighborhood's already high danger levels, you have to put the child to sleep and, in some restricted area, hack it up. Always do it differently, so the dumb policemen don't figure out it's the same killer. We take turns in taking care of that, though I mostly do it. I find it oddly relaxing, to cut through flesh. The squishy noises it makes as the air bubbles pop inside as you move and dice it and when the meat separates from the bone fibre by fibre, like the sound of Nan sucking on bone marrow, or millions of tiny succion cups coming off one at a time. It makes me feel at peace.

Obviously, our lifestyle wasn't really... normal. But it was what it was and we liked it this way. No one thought the kind old cookie grandma Nan is nor the sweet young girl I am could be the cause of those killings and it was good this way. Besides, our guests never told a soul.

So it was a real surprise, that rainy afternoon, to see an old policeman approach our home, walking through such a storm. He was blind in one eye and wore what people in our community called a golf hat. His long, black trench coat almost useless through the deluge going on outside. He looked at the porch a moment, then, like he had taken the worse decision in his life, he walked up to it and rang the doorbell. The cheerful chiming rang loudly through our house, playing what Nan told me was the Toreador March. Noticing that my grandmother didn't hear it over the bubbling of her cauldron, I went and answered the door.

The man stared at me for a moment. From up close I noticed he had a small beard, accompanied by a rather thin moustache. His hair was pepper and salt, just like his beard. He spoke in a low, gruff tone.

"Can I come in? I've got a couple questions for you and your grandmother." He said, without even a hint of politeness. I was about to tell him to go away, but Nan was suddenly behind me, putting her hand on my shoulder as a sign that I needed to be quiet.

"Ah, commissioner Spark is it? How nice of you to come visit us. You'll stay for dinner, yes?"

Waste our food on such a rude visitor?

"Why, it smells so good from here I'm already hungry. Thank you for letting me in." And with this he walked past me and Nan and threw his now soaked coat on the hanger. He didn't even take off his muddy boots, which left plenty of filth everywhere he went. I immediately knew I hated him.

Mister Spark, as Nan has called him, sat down at the counter, looking around with his one good eye. I honestly wanted to curse him to death, but Nan talked to him first.

"How are the news, commissioner?" She asked.

"Sad, I'm afraid. Many kids've disappeared you see. I'm here to ask about them."