by Adam Sidwell
The carriage picked its way carefully around the sinkhole, the driver steering the yaks off the hard-packed candy cobblestone and into the creamy, purple mud. He gave the sinkhole’s crumbling sides a wide berth, which Guster appreciated, especially after peering down into the deep pit left where the road had once been. The bottom was a long way down.
Princess Sunday clapped her hands once at the driver. “Come, we must get you back to the castle. Guster, you have to rest before tomorrow. The Trial by Taste will be exhausting, and I want you to be prepared for what will follow.”
The driver slapped the reigns. The yaks lumbered forward, then turned back up another narrow street toward the castle.
“What if Guster is found innocent?” asked Mariah.
Princess Sunday looked away. “I wish that were possible. The Trial does not find people innocent. Either Guster is the Exquisite Morsel, and he will be fed to Yummy, or he is not.”
“What happens if he is not?” asked Mariah.
Princess Sunday looked into Guster’s eyes. “You will be cast out of the city and left on the mountaintop to die.”
A lump formed in Guster’s throat.
“I may have had power to rescue you from the Mayor’s guard, Guster, but I cannot defy the Culinary,” said Princess Sunday. “Their decree stands. Tomorrow you will undergo the Trial by Taste, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.”
***
Guster could not sleep. He stared up at the marbled blueberry ceiling, trying to muster the courage for tomorrow.
The only problem was that he had no idea what tomorrow would bring. The Princess was mostly silent about what would actually happen during the Trial by Taste, despite his many questions. All Guster could gather is that it would test his character somehow, and that, as Mariah had described it when they got back to the castle, it sounded like a witch trial. There was no way to win.
He sat up in his bed and threw back the thick quilts. The city of his dreams was quickly turning into a nightmare.
It was time to get out.
Guster pulled on his woolen trousers and socks and buttoned up his parka. Princess Sunday had left their packs with them; he could use his for the journey. But where would he go? He could hide. He could try to hike back to civilization, as impossible as that seemed.
He grabbed an extra sweater and three pairs of socks Princess Sunday had given him. He’d have to go into the mountain.
He unzipped his backpack. The red glow of the jelly doughnut spilled out onto the room, casting an eerie crimson sheen across the walls and floor like a submarine’s cabin. It was pulsing faster now than ever before—as fast as Guster’s heartbeat.
He’d almost forgotten about it with all that had happened since they’d arrived in the city. Where had it come from? Was it a gift or curse?
If only Mom were here. She would know what to do. Guster tucked the jelly doughnut back into his backpack. If worst came to worse, he could still have it for a snack.
He pulled on his boots and tiptoed past a snoring Zeke into the corridor. One of the Cherry Brigade stood watch at the end of the hall, his back to Guster. The guard was there to keep people from getting in rather than to stop Guster from getting out. Guster snuck carefully down the hall in the opposite direction. He turned left then took two rights until he was at the banquet hall that opened onto the castle courtyard.
There were still sandwiches from that night’s supper on the long wooden table. He stuffed three of them into his pack and unlatched the door leading into the courtyard.
It was very cold. The frozen strawberry ice cream walls and ground twinkled in the moonlight.
Three guards patrolled the top of the castle walls. Guster waited until their backs were turned, then darted to the nearest shadow. He paused and then ran for a nook in the wall next to the drawbridge.
The drawbridge was shut tight. He’d have to find another way out. He slunk along the wall, his pack pressed up against the cold ice cream bricks.
Just then the drawbridge opened, the chains click-clacking around enormous gears as it lowered slowly. Guster froze.
As the golden light of dawn began to peek over the mountaintops and warm the butterscotch streets and ivory towers, a procession of men armed with spears and burning torches marched across the drawbridge into the courtyard. There were dozens of them with shining armor chest plates and bright red pantaloons.
At their head was a line of men dressed in bacon robes with square caps. And in front of them was a short, pug-faced man with one monocle and a bright blue ribbon hanging from his chest.
They stopped when they reached Guster. “Hello,” said the Mayor, peering at Guster with his gloved hands clapped together. “I hope you weren’t leaving. We have an appointment, after all.” He smiled smugly. “We are here to escort you to your Trial by Taste.”
The time had come.
Chapter 15—Trial by Taste
Guster stood in a grand chocolate amphitheater in the chocolate district. Both his wrists were chained with heavy irons to a platform. It was past noon.
What must have been the entire city was gathered there, sitting on rows of curved chocolate slabs, each one higher than the row in front of it, all of them ringing the platform in the center where Guster stood. Some of the citizens looked hungry, like they were eager to see Guster fail. Others had pity in their eyes.
Princess Sunday and her Cherry Brigade sat to Guster’s right on the row closest the platform. Her Confectioners were with her. A sour expression covered her face.
Zeke and Mariah sat on either side of her portable throne. Mariah looked worried.
To Guster’s left, the Mayor sat on a raised platform. His black top hat was polished with oil so that it shone. He was surrounded by the Baconists, and below the platform, a dozen of his Guard kept careful watch, their spears raised. More guards lined the exits to the amphitheater.
Whatever the result of the trial, there was no way for Guster to escape its verdict.
In between Princess Sunday’s throne and the Mayor’s box sat a row of thirty or more men and women, all in extraordinary, colorful costumes with ruffled white collars that looked like whipped cream had squirt up out of their necks. They wore small caps with feathers stuck in them. Many of the men wore bulging yellow pantaloons that made them look like they had bananas for thighs. The women were clad in bell-shaped red or black dresses woven from fine strands of licorice. Each of the people in that row had something pinned over their heart, either a shiny strawberry medal or a square of chocolate turned on its side so that it looked like a diamond. Some of the strawberries or chocolate squares were studded with marshmallows.
The largest of the men rose to his feet. He wore a bright green costume with banana-yellow pantaloons. “As the Chancellor of The Culinary, the rightful legislature of El Elado, and the mediator in all things, I hereby grant you permission to begin.”
The Culinary. Princess Sunday had said that their word was law.
The Chancellor waved his hand in a circular flourish, and a Baconist with nostrils as wide as dimes rose to his feet.
The Baconist sniffed. He hefted an enormous leather-bound book onto the podium. It landed with a thud that seemed to shake the entire audience. He opened it, then read in a lofty, droning voice, “By decree of the established laws of the Delicious City of El Elado, the Flatlander Guster Stephen Johnsonville, being suspected of being the embodiment of the Exquisite Morsel shall—according to the peer-reviewed research and the collected, irrefutable wisdom of the Baconists contained in this volume, and by tradition and by vote of the Culinary and his Majesty the Mayor of El Elado—now undergo the Trial by Taste.”
The Baconist closed the book. “Confectioners, you may present the goblets.”
Drums echoed at regular, slow beats in the amphitheater. Three men in floppy hats and short, furry capes scrambled forward, their leg
s turning furiously. Each had a shallow, wide-brimmed metal goblet in his hands.
They placed the three goblets on a low table in front of Guster, one bronze, one silver, and the last gold. From where he was chained, Guster could not see their contents. They then set the table with three spoons, one next to each goblet.
“The Suspected will now consume the flavor in the bronze cup and describe how it tastes,” said the Baconist.
The drums stopped.
Was that it? Guster would tell them what he tasted, and this Baconist referee would tell him if he was correct? There was something far too simple about that.
One of the Confectioners handed Guster the spoon next to the bronze goblet and lifted the goblet toward Guster’s chin.
The goblet held a single scoop of pure white vanilla ice cream so delicate it looked like it had fallen from the clouds.
The chains were loose enough that Guster could lift his arm. He set his spoon into the ice cream.
Every eye in the amphitheater was focused on him. It was so quiet, he could hear the mountains creak with age.
He pressed the spoonful of vanilla ice cream to his lips. It was so pure and simple, sweet and sure. It was like taking a bite from a snowball. He felt it seep into his neck, his shoulders, his chest, and then his bones.
It made him . . . what was that feeling? . . . happy. He unzipped his warm puffy parka with his free hand and turned his face toward the sun. It had grown warmer now. It must have peeked out from behind a cloud, the way it shone so warm and strong on his cheeks.
The Confectioner nearest him spoke. “Go on. Tell us how it tastes.”
Guster opened his eyes. Now what would he say? How could this be a trial? It tasted wonderful. “Clean. It tastes warm and clean and . . . sure. It tastes sure,” said Guster. He slid his coat off his shoulders and let it dangle by the sleeves from the iron chains.
The audience let out a mild gasp, then a low hum and chatter. The Baconists scratched notes furiously onto their scrolls with feather quills. What had he said?
The ice cream was good. What else mattered? How could that prove anything?
And yet, the faces in the crowd were waiting for something. They wanted something. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his forehead. His neck felt hot.
“Interesting,” said a Baconist next to the Mayor.
Interesting? Guster would have to be careful what he said about the next taste.
“Next goblet!” announced the Baconist.
Princess Sunday leaned forward in her seat. She bit her lip. She looked as nervous as Guster felt.
“The Suspected will now consume the flavor in the silver cup and describe how it tastes.”
The Confectioner handed Guster the spoon next to the silver goblet and held the goblet out to Guster so he could see. Inside was a scoop of sparkling peppermint ice cream.
Which jurisdiction did peppermint fall under? Perhaps he wasn’t meant to know. Maybe that was part of his test.
Guster took a bite. It was cold to his lips, and as soon as he tasted it, he shivered. The sun darkened just a little, and the air grew chill.
It was good—the best peppermint ice cream Guster had ever tasted. Whoever had made it had been . . . sincere. Yes, that was it. Sincere and perhaps a little afraid. Was he doing it again? Was that really someone’s emotions he was tasting? It was just a hunch, but he thought he could taste their true intent, and they were . . . concerned.
He opened his mouth to speak. He would tell them it had a dull nutty flavor with a sharp, sweet aftertaste. “It’s . . .”
Something stirred at the top corner of the amphitheater. Guster turned. Up on the top row, an enormous shadow shifted, stalking methodically behind the people seated there. It was hard to make out its features from so far away. It looked like it had no head, just a solid mass of fur and arms, lumbering over toward the aisle that descended between the rows.
Guster dropped his spoon. The light caught the shadow, and it faded from black to gray as it slowly descended, its long, stout arms jerking back and forth as it stalked.
Yummy.
“No!” cried Guster. He pulled on the iron chains with both arms, struggling to free himself, the metal biting into his wrists. Why weren’t they running? Didn’t they see it?
“Mariah! Zeke!” shouted Guster, his breath bursting from his lungs. “Run!”
Mariah and Zeke turned in their seats and looked up the steps. But they did not run.
More shadows emerged from the back of the amphitheater. One from the left corner. Two more from the right. A fifth from the center. There were more. Of course there were more. The Princess had said there were thirteen in all.
The Yummies stalked downward between the people, more like rolling billows of smoke than tangible flesh and fur. The monsters’ mouths opened all at once in gaping, hollow voids.
Guster yanked again on the chains. “Let me go! They’re coming!” he cried, pleading to the Confectioner.
The Confectioner cocked his head sideways. He looked puzzled.
“There!” said Guster, pointing to the monster that was already at the bottom of the steps.
The Confectioner turned to look. His head scanned back and forth across the crowd, right where the monsters stalked. He shrugged, then looked back at Guster. “Where?”
Then, as the first of the Yummies reached the bottom step, he began to fade. He stalked forward, slowing down as he came closer to Guster, until, finally it reached out one gigantic clawed paw, turned to mist, and was gone.
Guster shook his head. “Did you see . . .?” The Confectioner’s blank face already told him he hadn’t.
The crowd was silent for half a moment, then all at once burst into a roar of conversation. People in the crowd were yelling and gesturing to each other, pointing at Guster and then up at the top steps where Yummy had been. One of the men in the third row stood. “I told you it was him! He’s the Exquisite Morsel!” The woman next to him shook her head and pulled the man back into his seat.
The Baconists were standing, some of them shaking each other with excitement. The others were scratching notes furiously on their scrolls. The Mayor glanced over at Princess Sunday, who was sobbing. A slow, malicious smile spread across his face. Whatever it was that the Mayor was hoping for, Guster had done it. He’d fallen into their trap.
The head Baconist with the pointed nose held up both arms for silence. The crowd calmed almost at once. They were eager for more.
“The description of the taste by the Suspected has been duly noted,” said the head Baconist. Guster hadn’t even told them what he thought. This test was less about the flavors and more about what he saw. Felicity had been convinced that Guster could taste a chef’s intentions and emotions in the food that they’d prepared. Was that what this was about?
Then who had made the peppermint ice cream? Were they trying to scare him?
He looked to Princess Sunday. She looked at Guster with pleading eyes. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed at him. The ice cream must have been hers.
Fear. Worry. Concern. That’s what he had tasted before the vision of monsters came. Princess Sunday was worried that the Yummies were going to eat Guster up.
“Next goblet!” cried the Master Baconist. “The Suspected will now consume the flavor in the golden cup and describe how it tastes.”
The third Confectioner held the golden goblet up for Guster to see. Inside was a light-yellow butterscotch flavor. Guster took the final spoon.
He had to think. He’d played into their hands twice already. Now he had to find a way to prove his innocence. He hadn’t left home to save his family and traveled all the way to a lost city high in the Himalayas just to die when Yummy finally came to eat him up.
He took the spoon and dipped it into the butterscotch. It was strange how none of the flavors were either fruity or chocolate. Th
ey couldn’t be linked to the Princess or the Mayor. It was as if all three scoops were intentionally neutral. Why? Were they worried he would know who’d made them? Did everyone else there know who had made each of the scoops?
He pressed the butterscotch to his lips. Mmmm. It was buttery and rich. This one tiny spoonful held far more butter taste than entire bowlfuls of most ice creams. It was strong and good and . . . false. He swallowed.
The audience’s expressions changed. They went from jeers to smiles. Their faces softened. They looked on Guster with fondness, much like Mom would have before tucking him in at night.
A short man in a white chef’s hat stood up in the second row. Long, white hairs stuck wildly out from under his hat, and he wore a navy, blue bathrobe and slippers. He shuffled into the aisle and lifted a large, red three-tiered cake lined with silver beads. He was very old and looked very familiar.
Renoir. The chef Guster had met in the abandoned Patisserie in New Orleans so long ago. Renoir had given Guster his first taste of the gourmet world. He had been the one to change Guster’s life.
What a fond memory. Such happy times. Renoir brought the cake to the bottom step and held it up to Guster.
Hadn’t he been killed by the Gastronimatii?
Guster shook his head. No. This was a vision. This was what someone wanted him to see.
Now he understood. Falsehood. Flattery. That’s what he’d tasted before the vision began. That was the intent of whoever had made this flavor. They wanted Guster to see something he loved. They wanted to see how susceptible he was to the ice cream’s influence. They wanted him to incriminate himself.
They hadn’t counted on him seeing deeper. If the peppermint flavor was made by Princess Sunday, then this butterscotch had to be Mayor Bollito’s ice cream.
The vision of Renoir faded into mist.
So they wanted to know what he saw, did they? He could give them something to talk about.
He stood up tall, his back straight, and pointed his spoon like a sword at the Mayor. “I see a devil in our midst, with a black heart and clouds of gloom gathering over his head!” he shouted.