“That isn’t the way it has to be!” Guster shouted. “I could do this! It could be different. I am the Harbinger of Peace.”
“And even if you did, even if you somehow were different, would everyone respect the peace you had made? Would everyone allow it?” asked Archedentus. “Whose version of peace will it be Guster? Palatus’? Mine? Guster Johnsonville’s?”
Archedentus’ face fell. “I too, had the hopes you did.”
For a moment, the gray head of the mountain overlooking the plains flashed into Guster’s view again. He watched in horror. This time, instead of Palatus, Archedentus stood triumphant, a pile of ramekins at his feet, as he overlooked the plains and the fields burned.
Then it flashed again, this time Mom stood on the gray mountain, rolling pin in hand, the world below her neat and tidy, every last human starting his chores and minding his manners.
Then another flash, and Zeke stood on top, the plains below covered in hot rod cars and rock and roll.
Then there was another, and Felicity stood there, a perfectly manicured, embroidered landscape of art and craft spread below her.
The visions melted away. Guster was trembling.
Finally, he understood. It all made sense now, though he did not want it to. “So that’s why you walked away,” he said.
Archedentus shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just a soufflé, not a casserole!” he said, forcing a chuckle.
Casserole, thought Guster. Like Mom used to make. The Farmhouse.
For the first time since tasting the soufflé, Guster’s thoughts turned back to the kitchen where Mom stood waiting, and the threat of Palatus lurked nearby. A new flavor unfolded at the back of his throat. It was more salty than sweet, but it was familiar. It tasted like home. It was something he had not yet perceived in the soufflé that day — ingredients touched by his mother’s hands. He wanted more of it.
“What should I do?” asked Guster. He felt hot tears pressing up against his eyes. If he did finish the soufflé, he knew what the outcome would be. Seeing Palatus on the mountaintop made that clear enough.
“My time has passed. That is for you to decide,” said Archedentus.
Guster’s throat suddenly felt heavy. He coughed back the tears, but they came anyway. There he was, with the wisest chef of all time, and now Archedentus was leaving the decision up to him? He searched for the slightest hint of what to do in Archedentus’ face. There was none.
Besides, Guster knew as soon as he’d stepped out of the safety of that secret passageway into the kitchen, this was a choice he was going to have to make alone, and no matter what that meant, he would do the right thing.
An insect buzzed from somewhere in the bushes. “Well?” said Archedentus, holding both hands, palms up, toward the soufflé.
Guster closed his eyes tight and shook his head. “Thank you, but no,” he said, and pushed the soufflé away from him. The ramekin ground across the stone, the spoon still sticking straight out of the dish, only one of so many succulent bites eaten. Guster turned his back to the remaining dessert.
Archedentus nodded, “You’ve made your choice then?” he said.
“Yes,” Guster forced the word from his lungs.
Though Archedentus’ frowned, Guster thought he saw the faintest trace of a smile in the old chef’s eyes. “Then my work here is done,” he said.
“Will I ever see you again?” asked Guster.
“I suppose that depends on what other choices you make.”
It was a strange statement, but so was most of the encounter.
“Look!” Archedentus pointed to the far side of the lake where the sun had dipped below the horizon and the first shades of evening approached.
“I don’t see anything,” said Guster, looking out over the horizon. When he turned back, the chef was gone.
Then there was a flash of light as something exploded where Archedentus had pointed. Guster whirled around. In the distance, cannons boomed and muskets fired. An army approached, marching around either side of the lake toward the lawn where the people sat.
“What’s that?” said the man in the pale yellow coat.
“Some fellows come to see things over here,” said a man lying on a stone bench. He barely raised his head.
“What do you suppose they want?” asked the first, as he shoved another spoonful of soufflé in his mouth.
“Oh, surely just to have a look,” said the man on the bench. Why don’t they run? thought Guster.
“Ah. Well that’s nice. That’s just nice,” he said, licking his spoon.
The scene erupted in a violent volley of musket fire, then faded from Guster’s view.
Gradually, he felt his hands gripping the countertop in the castle kitchen once more. Guster opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was his mother standing next to the wall, looking content.
Palatus stared across the counter at Guster, ready to pounce, his teeth bared like a tiger, his hands clawing the countertop. “Well?” he said.
Guster casually tossed the silver spoon onto the countertop, the remainder of his soufflé untouched. “Needs salt,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
Palatus drew himself up to his full height. “Impossible! I do not believe you! I can smell it myself!” he screamed.
Guster grimaced. “You can have it. I don’t want the rest,” he said, pushing the soufflé away from him.
Palatus roared. “You lie!” he said, tearing the mask from his mouth and nose. As soon as he did so, his eyes flashed red. He bore his teeth and drool foamed down his chin. Like a wolf, mad with the smell of blood, he dove onto the countertop, his arms outstretched, reaching for Guster’s unfinished soufflé.
Guster was quicker. He snatched the ramekin out from under Palatus’ fingers, and hurled it over the Chef-in-Red to the closed kitchen window, where it smashed through the glass.
Palatus watched it sail over his head. “You ’ave disgraced zee Gastronomy of Peace!” he hissed.
Moans of delight came from outside the shattered window as the potent smell of the kitchen rolled into the courtyard. “It’s here!” cried one voice.
“I want it!” said another.
“The rapture!”
“Parfait!”
“The ecstasy!”
Guster heard a striking sound, then a shriek of pain, followed by violent blows. “More!” shouted a chef. Suddenly what was left of the window shattered into tiny shards as dozens of bodies cloaked in red, their mouths open wide, burst into the kitchen, knocking over the Budless as they came.
For the first time, Guster saw fear on the wicked chef’s face. “What ’ave you done, boy?!” Palatus cried, and turned to look behind him.
In that instant, as the Gastronimatii streamed down upon him, Guster kicked down with the back of his heel, opening the oven door, and swept all six of the remaining soufflé dishes into the still-burning oven. The dishes spilled over, the six remaining soufflés dumping all over the molten metal rack and walls of the oven.
The Gastronimatii shoved and scrambled over each other, their faces bleeding from the broken glass, gouging each other’s eyes, elbowing each other in the face, fighting to be the first to reach the oven. Some stopped as they crossed the windowsill, hit by an invisible force, zombies transfixed by a tangible aroma.
A pair of them leapt onto the counter, treading across Palatus’ back with their feet.
“Scavenger!” cried Palatus at Guster as Palatus winced in pain, and more Gastronimatii trampled across him on their way to the oven.
To Guster’s horror, the first of the Gastronimatii did not stop when he reached the open oven, but shoved his head inside, licking what was left of the soufflé as it clung to the burning walls. He cried out in pain, recoiling, then tried to taste it again as another chef leapt over him and shoved his head inside as well.
Guster grabbed Mom’s and Felicity’s hands and pulled them toward the kitchen door. He side-stepped the Budless who were crawling on the floor, and led his Mother and
Felicity upstream, doing his best to dodge the swarm.
As they reached the kitchen door, more Gastronimatii streamed past them from the window to the oven. Guster heaved up against the heavy wooden beam that barred the door, trying to wrench it free. It stuck fast.
“Help me!” he cried to Mom. She looked like she was daydreaming. “Mom!” cried Guster.
“Oh! My!” she said, snapping from her hypnotic state. She set her shoulder below the wooden beam, and together with Guster, the two of them heaved it free. They pushed open the door and ran from the kitchen, leaving the brawl behind them.
They ran down the castle corridor, Felicity becoming more alert with every step, like she was waking up from a nap. “This way, to the dungeons,” she said. They turned right down a corridor and descended a steep, winding stairway. At the bottom, Felicity kicked open the door.
The dungeon was dark and damp, a row of barred cells lining either side of a long room. A single Gastronimatii stood guard near the open door. Felicity punched him hard in the face and he dropped to the ground.
“I think I’m in love,” said Zeke from behind the bars. Mariah was there too, with Henry Junior in her arms.
Mom grabbed a ring of rusty iron keys that hung on the wall and opened the cell, freeing her children. They rushed to her and hugged her.
Felicity took the keys and opened the other cells one by one, until there were more than twenty of her mercenaries free and standing at attention.
“Lieutenant, there’s a stash of weapons hidden on the second floor. Let’s re-secure the estate,” she said. The Lieutenant saluted her. He charged up the steps and out of the dungeon, the entire force marching behind him. Shouts and crashing followed.
Guster felt himself collapse on a bench next to one of the cells. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Suddenly, he realized just how very, very tired he was.
Chapter 24 — The Farmhouse
One half hour later, Guster woke as Mom gently shook him. He had fallen asleep on a soft couch next to a suit of armor in one of the sitting rooms in the castle. Zeke snored on the couch next to Guster, while Mariah sat dozing in a chair. Felicity had told them to wait there. Not long after, the Lieutenant returned.
He saluted Felicity. “The Gastronimatii are all in custody!” he reported. There was a rifle strapped to his back.
Guster opened his eyes. He was too tired to move, but wanted to hear what had happened.
“It was easy enough to overwhelm them in their frenzied state,” said the Lieutenant. “It wasn’t much of a scuffle at all. They had nearly destroyed themselves fighting over a chance to lick that oven.” Guster felt nauseas at the memory.
“We have them all locked away in the dungeon, and Interpol is on their way. Apparently they’ve been tracking the Cult of Gastronimatii for some time now.”
“And Palatus?” asked Felicity.
“Gone. If we’re lucky, he didn’t survive the trampling. There was nothing left but the shredded remains of his apron.”
Guster winced. He was glad he hadn’t been there to see it.
“By his own Cult —” said Felicity to herself. She shook her head. “Lieutenant, prepare the vehicles and have my jet waiting at the airport. Have the same done for the Johnsonvilles.” She sighed. “It’s time we headed home.”
The Lieutenant saluted, turned on his heel, and left the room.
Guster pushed himself slowly up from the couch and stretched his tired bones. Zeke had woken up and was hovering nearby like he’d been watching over Guster. Zeke bit his lip like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.
“Hey Zeke,” said Guster.
“Hey.” said Zeke. He hesitated. “So… are you cured?” he asked, scratching the back of his head.
Guster shook his head. He tried to fight back the tears. “I didn’t finish it,” he said, looking at his cowboy boots. He’d missed his chance.
“You’re awake,” said Felicity, turning to Guster.
Her stern tone had returned. The light-hearted Felicity from the kitchen was gone. “You threw it away,” she said. She did not seem pleased. Nor was she entirely angry. He couldn’t tell what she meant by that.
He knew that he’d made the right choice, but how was he going to explain that to the rest of humanity? A weight pressed down on his heart. He felt his face get hot.
“The soufflé to end all war,” she said. Her eyes were full of fire — and to a certain extent — understanding. “You saw the danger in that when no one else could.”
Guster remembered the look of sadness on Archedentus’ face. He knew they had both done the best they could.
“What did it taste like?” she asked. She looked pained, like a prisoner asking how freedom felt.
Guster thought for a moment. There was only one way to describe it in words. “Like a story,” he said. “A true one.”
Felicity smiled, longing behind her eyes. It lingered for a moment, then fled from her face. “We found your Aunt. She called a cab as soon as we set her free. She’s probably at the airport by now,” she said. “Better wake your siblings. It will be time to go soon.”
“Wait,” said Guster. “There’s one more thing I need to do.”
“You want to see the kitchen before you go, don’t you?” she said. He nodded. “I’ll take you there.”
Guster forced himself to stand. Felicity led him through the long castle hallway, past several suits of armor, and back to the heavy wooden door. It was still open, the beam that barred it tossed aside where Guster and Mom had heaved it.
Felicity stood back and let Guster enter alone. The kitchen was in ruins, like it had been torn apart by a tornado, then smashed to bits by a raging bull. The counter in the middle had been dented and smashed until the legs underneath it collapsed. The drawers and cupboard doors were ripped from the cabinets, and the floor was strewn with red shredded apron. Pots, pans, and utensils were thrown everywhere. The oven itself was dismantled, every last strip of metal and bolt torn apart and licked clean. Only a gaping hole and the bolts that had held it to the floor were left where it once stood.
Guster picked his way carefully through the wreckage. There, under a fallen cabinet door, he spotted the carved wooden handle of the eggbeater, right where Mom and Felicity had left it. Guster kicked aside the cabinet door and lifted it from the wreckage.
As he did, he looked up at the wall where the secret passage opened into the kitchen. Someone had closed the painting over the hole again, so that the passage was covered. Guster had not been able to see the face painted on the portrait before since his back had been turned to it. His heart flipped inside him.
On the canvas, framed in gold, was a tall, olive-skinned man with a sharp nose and a smooth face. He wore a white cap and a white jacket. A nearly imperceptible smile graced his lips. In the crook of one elbow he held a bundle of brown wheat. In the other, an olive branch.
No wonder Felicity had been addressing Archedentus while Guster was hiding in the passage. The man in the portrait was him — the very same chef Guster had seen and spoken with on the back porch of that old chateau. Just like the one he’d imagined while under the influence of the Gastronomy of Peace.
“Do you realize you’ve dismantled a centuries-old secret society?” said Felicity.
Guster shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t think he could take credit for that.
“They won’t be searching for the One Recipe again. They’ll be in jail soon, and if they ever did achieve their freedom, they would never be able to taste again anyway, not after what they’ve done to their tongues. They’d be lucky if they could tell the difference between a rotting pickle and cube of sugar.”
Guster tucked the eggbeater under his arm. Felicity looked at it longingly. Instinctively, Guster backed away.
She reached out for a split second, then dropped her hand. “You should probably keep it,” she said.
Guster relaxed. He did want to know where it was at all times; it may not matter so much anymore, but stil
l, it was his duty to protect it.
“Come, your mother and brothers and sister will be waiting outside. It will be a long journey back to Louisiana.”
Guster turned away from the kitchen and headed down the hall and out of the castle to where the limousine was waiting.
***
Dinner at the farmhouse was never the same for Guster Johnsonville after he’d decided the fate of humanity with the end of his spoon.
Henry Johnsonville Senior returned home from selling insurance the day after Guster and the family got back to the farmhouse. “Did I miss anything?” Henry Senior asked.
“Dessert,” said Mariah with a wry smile.
Guster laughed. It was good to have him back.
“Oh,” said Henry Senior. He looked confused. “You know, I was thinking, why don’t we plan a vacation to someplace far away and exotic next year, like California?”
Mom kissed Henry Senior on the cheek. “I love you, my dear,” she said. “We need to have a very long talk as soon as you unpack your things.”
After dinner Guster overheard him speaking excitedly to Mom in their bedroom. “And then he did what?” he said, followed by a “They were how big?” or “A jungle where?” He finished it all by saying, “All that for one little taste?” He was quiet for a long time after that.
When Henry Senior came out of the bedroom, he seemed astounded at the very sight of Guster. “Well, I’ll be —” he said, his hand on the back of his neck and his face full of admiration.
Guster didn’t know why anyone would make such a big deal about him, nor did he know what to say, so he just looked at the floor and tried to keep to himself for the rest of the evening.
The next afternoon, the phone rang. It was Aunt Priscilla. Guster picked up the receiver in the kitchen so he could eavesdrop on the other line.
Mom jabbered with her for a full minute, asking if she got home safely, if she was well after all that excitement, and on and on. Aunt Priscilla explained in turn how she was negotiating for a seat on the board of Casa Brand Industries because she felt that company needed a financial genius of her caliber to help turn it around and so forth. She told Mom how glad she was that Mom could get out, see the world, and finally get a little life experience. Mom listened politely, until Aunt Priscilla finally got around to asking her question. “Whatever happened to my plane?” she said.
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