The Ever Breath Read Online Free PDF Page A

this,” Truman said.
    “We’re not sumo wrestlers,” Camille added.
    “It’s not for eating. It’s for tasting.” Swelda, staggering under the platter’s weight, shuffled to the kitchen table, which held a curved row of teacups, all partially filled and sitting in saucers. She lowered the platter.
    “This is a vegetarian meal,” she said. “Once you’ve spoken with an animal, you can’t eat it.”
    “Have you spoken with animals?” Truman asked.
    “I think she’s speaking figuratively,” Camille said.
    Swelda sighed. “I forget sometimes that you two only know what little you know. Sit down!”
    Truman and Camille slid into the two chairs.
    “I’m not really all that hungry,” Truman said.
    “He’s hyperallergic and hyperpicky,” Camille translated.
    “That’s why I made so many kinds of food,” Swelda said. “So you can pick your way through them.” She whipped two cloth napkins off the table and plopped them onto the kids’laps. Handing them each a pair of tongs and a plate, she said, “While you taste, I will tell you a tale.”
    “A story, you mean?” Truman asked.
    “It’s called a tasting tale,” Swelda explained. “The kind that’s told to you while you eat.”
    “Is this an old family tradition?” Truman asked, thinking about his father’s childhood.
    “It is. Our people, especially us Cragmeals, have always told tasting tales so that people could link each part of the story with a certain food—hold the story on their tongue, and then swallow it piece by piece.”
    “What’s the story about?” Camille asked.
    “When the first sliver of food sits in your mouth, I’ll begin.”
    Camille dug her tongs in first—into mounds of strangely colored bobbles and bits from the various bowls and plates. Then she used the serving spoons to scoop the soupier items.
    Truman wasn’t sure what to pick first. He let his tongs hover. Everything looked too foreign—too gooey or too dry or too blackened or too wet. He winced and then picked up a shiny yellow ball and put it on his plate.
    “A little bit of everything,” Swelda goaded.
    “But—”
    “No buts. Just a little taste of everything.”
    He did as he was told and picked up one of each thing—a biscuit, a spoonful of whipped beets, a chowder chip—all of it. Camille had already started eating.
    “Mmm,” she said. “This is amazing!”
    Once Truman’s plate was full, he set it down in front of himself. He paused, plucked a teacup from the row, and set it in front of himself too, just in case he had to wash something downquickly. He then closed his eyes and let his fingers walk across the plate. They landed on something sticky and doughy and light. Without looking at it, he held it to his nose and sniffed.
    Truman held his breath and popped the thing into his mouth. It tasted like nothing he’d ever tried before. It was tangy and gummy and bittersweet, but also sharp. It tingled his nose the way soda sometimes did, but there weren’t any bubbles. He took another bite, and this time it was more sugary and brittle and warm. He didn’t feel itchy or tight in his throat. His nose didn’t start running. He didn’t have a headache. He felt good—maybe a little warm in his chest, but as if he’d come in from the cold and was starting to thaw out.
    He looked over at Camille and she looked dazed, as if she were daydreaming while she chewed.
    Swelda began to tell her tale:
    “Once upon a time, when the world was so new that the sky still showed its stitching—”
    “Oh, so this isn’t a true story,” Camille whispered, dreamily.
    “Another thing about the tasting tale, you can’t interrupt the teller, because it’s impolite to speak with your mouth full.”
    “Sorry,” Camille mumbled.
    “Once upon a time, there was only one world for all of us. All those magical creatures—the ones you see now only in dreams and stories—used to walk among us. But just as light was separated from darkness, for reasons we