Garden of the Hungry

Black Mouth

Dave stared at his reflection. He was in a large room with dark walls, where there was only an oval mirror with wavy contours made of wood. He wore a thick gray cloak, with a hood draping over his back, covering the woolen clothes, boots, and winter gloves. The man's eyes were barely blinking. A few drops of sweat trickled slowly down his forehead. His expression was more stern than usual, as if something had crossed his wall of humor.

Slowly, he slipped a bear mask over his head and closed the three clasps that held it tight to his skull; a face, whose muzzle protruded through a tangle of randomly glued fur, tribal paintings, and sloppy seams. The young man's hairless chin had a mouth contracting angrily.

"Grrrrrrauuuuuuurrrrrrr!" He grunted, advancing against his own reflected image, until he choked and fell into a hysterical laugh.

"Feeling good?" The redhead asked as she entered the room. The beautiful inquisitive-looking woman wore the same type of clothes as Dave. However, she seemed more comfortable with her cape and carried a crow mask in her hands.

"Yes, I'm fine," he said, catching his breath and ceasing his laughter. "That's so pathetic. Look at us."

"Dave," the woman shook her head. "I don't think you understand the importance of what we're doing." And then she stood beside him, staring at their images in the mirror.

"This is all bullshit!" He clenched his fist. "Why don't we just sit on a beach and hope all ends well?"

"This is the first time I see you pessimistic like this," the woman said, putting her hand over his. "You're scared, aren't you?"

"It's not fear," he snapped. "It is only a mild despair after analyzing the probable results of the event to come."

"The name of that is fear," she smiled, making Dave put a small curve to his lips.

"I know, but I must confess that the mystery of death is one of the few things that terrifies me, Amy." He closed his expression again.

"Well, if death comes to us," said the woman, standing in front of her friend, "may it pass like a quick, gentle breeze."

They hugged for a moment, until Dave broke the silence:

"Shouldn't your last sentence be a bit more motivational? After all, we're going on a mission."

"I know, but there's no point in covering a prickly path with silk," the woman said, frowning. "And one more thing: don't call me Amy. You don't have enough intimacy for that."

"You hugged me." Dave winked and walked slowly toward the exit. "Now let's get this over with!" He took a deep breath and opened the door with a kick.

"Lets go," Amiel agreed, putting on her crow mask and following.

They crossed an extensive corridor of fitted metal plates, in which some sort of pipe outlined the surface of the walls. The sound of her footsteps mixed with the hubbub of people talking in several languages. At the end of the tunnel, six women in black robes and cone-hats held small bells as they sang a rather melodious and sad song.

The exit led into an immense hall with bright lights, where hundreds of people squeezed: men, women, elderly and children, all wearing robes and animal masks. Owls, crows, felines, bears, fish, lizards and horrendous hybrids of plants with humans that seemed to come from different parts of the world.

Some peculiarities were very evident: there was a well-known appreciation of the owls for their white robes full of feathers, ornaments, and jewels. Their presumptuous look was almost a caricature. On the other hand, the bears indicated detachment from appearance. Busty men, most of them wore dark, shabby brown robes, and their masks were rather rudimentary. They seemed bored, talked loudly, and discussed subjects difficult to distinguish, since they all spoke almost at the same time.