Evertaster

by Adam Glendon Sidwell

  “Egg-static!” Zeke said, his eyes wide. He plucked an egg from the nearest tree, then cracked it and ate it too. Guster wanted to say ‘I told you so,’ but if he hadn’t tasted the egg himself, he wouldn’t have believed it either. “Shouldn’t these come from chickens?” asked Zeke, the yolk dribbling down his chin.

  “Normally, but it’s kind of reasonable, though, if you look at the carvings,” said Mariah. “The eggs ripen on the trees. The trees are grown from a seed. The seed is laid from…” Mariah shook her head. “No, it’s too extraordinary.”

  Yet there they are, thought Guster, hundreds of eggs growing from tree branches all around them. He cracked and ate another, then another without stopping to wipe his mouth in between. The yolk coated his stomach; it soothed his burning hunger. For the first time he could remember, he started to feel full.

  Zeke collected a whole armful and shoved them in his backpack. He zipped it up and slid it back on his shoulders. After that, he shook the trunk of the next tree. A few dozen eggs fell, where they shattered and spilled golden yolk all over the ground.

  That’s when Guster spotted it — the mother of pearl — a large white egg the size of a watermelon, gleaming and glistening like polished marble in the sun.

  Mariah noticed it too. “It’s gigantic!” she said.

  It hung from the center branch of a massive tree on the far end of the orchard. The tree was enormous — its trunk was as wide as five of the other trees, its branches spanned outward, low to the ground, like a giant bush.

  “That thing’s bigger than my head!” said Zeke.

  “Just barely,” said Mariah, running toward it.

  Guster slurped down the last of the egg he was holding. “It must be the one we’re looking for.” He started toward the massive tree. The smaller eggs were good, but to make the One Recipe, they needed the best.

  Something still puzzled him, though, as he picked his way through the trees. The eggs ripened on the trees, which were grown from seeds, which were laid by the chickens. But where were the chickens? And what did those chickens eat?

  That’s when he saw them: bleached-white bones piled twice as high as they were in the tunnel, scattered at the roots of the massive tree. There were broken femurs, ribs pointing skyward, and skulls with deep, hollow eyes.

  Suddenly, the symbol of the chicken eating the bone made sense. The life cycle of the trees began with one thing: meat. Panic burst inside him. He dashed after Mariah. “Don’t!” he cried.

  Just then, two giant chickens the size of tigers scrambled from either side of the massive tree, straight toward Mariah, thrashing their wings, chomping with their beaks, and striking at her with razor-sharp talons.

  “No!” Guster cried. He lunged, yanking Mariah back by her backpack as far as he could. The chickens’ beaks slashed inches from her body. Cringing, he threw his arms up to block their attack.

  It never came. The two chicken-monsters hissed at them, struggling wildly in place, more like feather-covered dragons than birds. Their ankles were latched to a heavy iron chain anchored to a pair of stone columns rooted into the ground on either side of the huge tree. Somebody had put them there to guard the egg.

  Guster pulled Mariah behind a tree and tried to calm his pounding heart. That egg had to be the one they were looking for. She let out a tiny sob.

  “Who comes to disturb the Sacred Orchard?” wheezed an angry voice from somewhere in the trees. The chickens went quiet, the wind stopped stirring and the leaves stopped rustling, casting an eerie silence over the orchard. Zeke froze in his tracks.

  “Who comes to disturb the Sacred Orchard?” the voice wheezed again, angrier still.

  Again, silence. Maybe if they answered, they could bargain with him, “Guster Stephen Johnsonville,” Guster said aloud.

  Someone came out from behind the base of the leftmost stone column. It was a skinny, weathered, brown-skinned man. He wore a large feather headdress and long, colorful robes. His neck and hands were covered with golden jewelry. His skin was very, very old, like brittle autumn leaves that could crumble and fall at any moment. In his right hand he held a long wooden staff. He wheezed, “You have come to taste the fruit.”

  Guster stepped cautiously out from behind the trunk. The man knew they were there; Guster might as well take a chance. “Yes sir,” he said.

  “Many have come to seek the treasure, though it has been so very, very long since then,” said the ancient man.

  Zeke came up behind Guster. “Are you a mummy?” he asked. Mariah jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

  “Be polite,” she said. Please don’t mess this up, Zeke, thought Guster. He didn’t want to end up as shredded chicken feed.

  The ancient man struck the stone with his staff, his eyes blazing. “I am the Priest of the Tree of the Fowl,” he said. “And this is the Sacred Orchard protected by the Lost City in the clouds which was built by my Fathers! I have guarded this place for one hundred years, and when I’m gone, another shall protect it for a hundred more. We have bred these trees from the seeds laid by the chickens which have hatched from the fruit!

  “You have eaten the fruits. For that I can forgive you this once, but now, you must go your way!”

  “We only want one more,” said Mariah. Guster tensed. She was brave to ask, but he knew it was impossible.

  The priest glanced at the great gleaming white egg. “That I can only grant to the Great White Chef who came long ago! It was he who gave our people the tastes which built our empire! It was he who prophesied the destiny of this pearl. It was he who said that it would be part of the greatest taste ever known. It is only to him that I can give this fruit.”

  But that wasn’t possible. Any chef who came to the orchard that long ago would have been dead for hundreds of years.

  The priest’s eyes narrowed on Guster. “Are you the Great White Chef?” he asked. The chickens snarled.

  “Sure he is,” Zeke interrupted. Guster cringed. Like anyone was going to believe that.

  “Ha!” laughed the priest cruelly. The chickens clucked, as if laughing with him. He pointed his staff at Guster, “If you are the Great White Chef, then tell me boy, what is your name?”

  Thanks a lot Zeke, thought Guster. He shot an angry glance at his brother. Whatever he said would be a shot in the dark.

  “Felicity Casa?” said Zeke, pointing to Guster, a sheepish grin on his face.

  “Lies!” cried the priest.

  “We have the One Recipe!” said Mariah. She pulled the eggbeater from her backpack and held it up. Surely the priest would recognize that.

  “Buc-cah!” clucked the priest, striking his staff on the nearby column. “Your weapon will not harm me!” he said. Gears groaned and the iron links clanked together as the chain slackened. The chickens charged forward, talons slashing. “The Guardian-Birds will have their flesh today!”

  Wrong answer! thought Guster, jumping out of the way. He felt the chicken’s beak swish past his leg. It was too close. For whatever reason, the priest did not recognize the eggbeater.

  Mariah lunged toward Zeke, pushing him behind a tree. They were on their own. Both chickens took a sharp turn toward them, and Guster saw his chance. He dropped his backpack and dashed round the far side of another nearby trunk.

  He ran hard to the massive tree, one of the birds striking dangerously close to his ear as he reached the trunk. He planted one boot on the bark and leapt up, grabbing hold of the lowest limb. He hoisted himself up, just as a beak clamped down on his pant leg. He kicked out with his cowboy boot and struck something soft. Hope I got its eye, thought Guster as his jeans tore in the chicken’s beak. It fell backward, wings flapping.

  He didn’t stop to see it hit the ground; he was already climbing outward on the limb toward the giant egg.

  “Do you not see the bones from the flesh they have eaten?” shouted the priest. “You will die the same as the thieves before you did!”

  Guster hoped the priest was wrong. The chicken below leapt
upward again, trying to take flight, but the heavy iron chain kept her from getting more than two feet off the ground.

  Guster ignored it. The limb was sagging under his weight; he had to get that egg. He scooted further out, his arms and legs wrapped around the branch. Just a few more feet.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mariah lead the second chicken around a tree then dive out of the way, tangling its chain. She was alive — for the moment. Zeke was nowhere in sight.

  The chicken below him leapt again, narrowly missing his foot. One more push and Guster stretched out with both hands, closing them around the egg. It was hard and smooth like porcelain. And it was heavy. He snapped it from the branch.

  There was a crack as the limb broke beneath him. Guster fell, twisting himself between the egg and the ground. Can’t let it break! he thought as he slammed into the ground. The pain nearly knocked him out.

  The branch struck the chicken as it fell, knocking her over. Guster struggled to get up, to breathe, but he couldn’t — it felt like an elephant had stomped on his chest.

  It didn’t take long for the chicken to recover. In a flurry of feathers she was on him, beating him with her wings. Her beak struck down like an axe.

  He rolled, clutching the egg with one arm to keep it safe. He barely escaped the attack. The chicken reared its head again. He had to get away; he had to breathe.

  In a flash, the second chicken struck from the other side, slashing at his legs. Guster covered his face as the chicken’s talons tore into his leg, slicing it with pain. Warm, wet blood oozed over Guster’s skin. This was it; they were going to tear him apart.

  “Run for it, Capital P!” shouted Zeke. Zeke charged out of nowhere like a football player, smashed his shoulder into the closest chicken and knocked it to the ground. Guster pushed himself up with his free arm and ran, his leg burning with each step.

  Something sharp scratched his back then yanked his shirt backward. The first chicken clamped down on his shirt like a pit bull. Guster tried to shake himself free. “Zeke!” he cried.

  Zeke smashed his walking stick down on the chicken like a mallet, beating it to the ground, feathers exploding into the air. Its grip slackened, and Guster broke free. He ran for it, the blood pounding in his head.

  Mariah picked herself up off the ground as he ran past her. She was right behind him. “Let’s get out of here!” Guster cried, glad she was able to move. More than half an orchard length stood between them and the tunnel.

  “You shall not escape!” cried the Priest. Guster heard the grinding of metal again, then a loud clanking. He chanced a look over his shoulder. The two chickens flapped after them, chains dangling loosely from their feet.

  Guster dashed as fast as he could, but Mariah was quicker. “Inside!” she shouted, scrambling over the boulders and down toward the narrow tunnel. She slipped through the gap between the stone column and the wall.

  Mom was waiting for them on the other side. “You have never been in so much trouble!” she cried.

  Mariah took the egg from Guster as he pried himself past the column, Zeke right on their heels and the chickens gaining.

  “Zeke!” Mom cried as she realized what was happening. The two birds caught up and struck at Zeke’s face with their beaks. He turned and blocked with his stick, knocking one’s head aside while the other chomped the stick in two. “That’s my son you foul fowl!” Mom said, kicking one of the chickens through the gap and knocking it backward. “I’ll bread you and eat you for dinner!” Zeke dove into the gap, and Guster pulled him though to the other side. The chickens flapped hard against the stone, trying to squeeze through. Mom grabbed Guster by the hand and led them all up the tunnel at a run.

  “The tourist office will certainly be getting a strongly worded letter from me on this!” Mom exclaimed as Henry Junior began to scream.

  “Mom, I don’t think this has anything to do with —” said Mariah.

  Mom threw up her hands. “I know, but somebody needs a talking to!” she shouted. Guster was shaking. They had nearly been killed. All that for an egg.

  He whirled around, frantic. Mariah was cradling it gently in her arms. It was safe.

  When they emerged from the tunnel, he took it from her. There was no visible yolk or cracks. Mariah had been quick enough to pick up his backpack from behind the tree. She gave it to him, and he gently stuffed the egg inside.

  “No one should be allowed down there; they’ll just get hurt,” said Mom, pointing to the angry stone face.

  “We’ll make sure no one is,” said Mariah and pushed the carvings in the opposite order from before. The mouth ground shut.

  They came out of the shallow cavern into the light. “My boys!” Mom exclaimed at the sight of their dirty, bloody legs and arms. She looked like she didn’t know whether to scream at them or hug them. She pulled a handkerchief from her apron, dipped it in a water bottle from her backpack, then wiped the gashes on Zeke’s arms and legs, all the while shouting at him.

  Guster cringed when it was his turn; his back felt bruised from landing so hard on the ground, and his leg was hot with pain. “And you! You kept that eggbeater when I clearly told you to get rid of it!” Mom yelled as she cleaned his wounds. “You’ve put the whole family in danger because of your own selfishness!” Guster winced. She was mad, and he knew he’d only seen the start of it.

  “Let’s go,” Mom said when she was done. She led them to the rope. Guster was just as eager to leave as she was. They climbed down the steep rock and hiked back to the parking lot as fast as they could go. It was much easier than going up, though Guster stepped more gingerly this time.

  Mom didn’t stop lecturing the whole way back to the city, while Mariah tried to explain everything that happened. They passed the last remaining tourists who eyed their ragged, bloody clothes. Some even took pictures, but Guster didn’t care. When they got to the road, Estomago was waiting for them.

  “You saw beautiful sights, yes?” asked Estomago, a quizzical look on his face.

  Guster hoped that no one would say anything about the orchard. Something told him that they ought to keep the egg a secret.

  “Yes. Yes we did,” said Mom hesitantly. “The… ruins were breathtaking.”

  Estomago smiled, but his eyes narrowed.

  They got back in the faded orange truck and rode down the mountain as clouds filled the sky. It started to rain. After an hour of driving, Estomago stopped the truck on a muddy patch of ground just outside the airport. Guster could feel his heart start beating a little softer. It would be good to get back on the dry, safe plane again.

  Guster got out of the back of the truck. Estomago opened his door and stood with his arm holding something inside the cab. “I just wonder. Is there something that you found in the ruins? Something you want to share?” he said, his face growing grim.

  “You know about —” Zeke said, before Mariah clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “About what?” asked Estomago. Zeke shook his head.

  “What is it that you are hiding boy?” Estomago took whatever it was he held in the cab and put it behind his back. He inched forward, pointing to Guster’s backpack. “You have something there, don’t you? Show it to me!” he said, swishing a rusty old machete from behind his back and brandishing it in the air over his head.

  Mariah screamed and swung the eggbeater like a baseball bat at Estomago, who knocked it easily out of her hand. It rolled through the mud.

  “Boy, you have something I want. Am I going to have to take it from you?” Estomago said. Guster backed away slowly. Estomago was serious — and dangerous. But Guster couldn’t give up the egg. Not after they’d come so far.

  Mom spoke, “Guster, maybe you ought to —”

  Suddenly, Braxton sprang out from behind the truck and, before Estomago even knew he was there, landed a swift karate chop to the back of Estomago’s neck. Estomago’s eyes closed and his knees buckled as he fell to the ground with a thud. “I can’t have anyone disturbing my passen
gers on their vacation!” Braxton said. He bent down and pulled on Estomago’s closed eyelid. “He’ll wake up in a few hours, but what do you say we skedaddle before then?” He motioned toward the plane.

  Guster let out a long breath of relief. He would never have guessed that old Braxton could move so fast. “How did you do that?” he asked.

  “Old trick I learned in Vietnam,” said Braxton. He winked at Guster.

  They boarded the plane quickly, and before night fell, were flying through the skies, far away from Peru.

  Chapter 9 — Lovelock, Nevada

  Guster placed the giant egg inside the jet’s fridge as its engines hummed.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that it would turn out like this,” Mom sobbed out loud. She held Henry Junior tight in her arms, while he clucked at her like a chicken. “I didn’t know what we were getting into — no, I was being selfish. I wanted to see the world. But we should have stayed home, on the farm. Housewives shouldn’t be off wandering the planet.” She frowned at Guster. “I’m disappointed in you.”

  That’s all it took to make him feel hot all over. He hated it when Mom cried. It meant she was blaming this all on him. It wasn’t his fault that Estomago had attacked them, or giant man-eating chickens had almost bitten Zeke’s legs off, or that they had taken Henry Junior into a cave full of traps, or even that the Chef in Red had burst through the window that night in the Patisserie. He wasn’t picky! Just careful. Besides, he thought, We wouldn’t be out here if Mom knew how to cook a decent meal.

  Mariah sat down next to Guster. She was probably mad at him too; he did not want to talk to anyone right then, so he stared out the window.

  “Who do you think that ‘Great White Chef’ the priest told us about was?” asked Mariah. It would be hard to make her go away, determined as she always was.