So Foreign a Tongue by Micky Kath

I did not invite the Tongue Takers to dinner, but three extra chairs have found their way to my kitchen table.

They returned early this morning. News of their arrival oozed through town like a pox, spreading across the marketplace in a wave of moaning and wailing. The cleverest of us had fled inside, locked their front door, and refused to answer for anyone.

I suppose clever has never quite described me. When the knock came at half past six in the evening, I unwittingly opened the door to the trio of Tongue Takers. Against my better judgment, I’d invited them inside.

The room is whisper-quiet, save for the roil of the stove burner and the bubbling pot above it. The Tongue Takers regard me warily while I stir the measly meal. All three sets of their eyes move as one entity, tracking my every move as I finish heating our dinner.

“What have you made for us?” postures the first of the three.

His rigid spine curls in on itself, stiff enough to rival only his lips. Every vertebra of his backbone juts out sharply beneath his dark cloak. He has too many vertebrae. I’m certain of it.

I tap my wooden spoon on the edge of the pot and throw a tight smile over my shoulder.

“Soup,” I say, and no more. You have to speak carefully around the Tongue Takers.

The first Tongue Taker narrows his eyes. His gaze slashes across my cheeks; it’s a bloodletting of sorts. He’s evaluating something beneath my skin. Something he must cut out and examine under the light. My smile falters.

“Thank you for hosting us. It’s so generous of you. Truly. We know our reputation around these parts is hardly favorable,” the second Tongue Taker swans.

If the first one has too much spine, the second has too little. Her too-long arms drape over the tabletop, sprawling towards me. Those spindly fingers drum against the wood, right at the edge. They’re close enough that I can see the way her fish-belly-white skin pulls taut over her bony knuckles.

I switch the burner off.

“Of course.” I fight to keep my voice even. I don’t point out that they left me no choice but to receive them.

You don’t tell the Tongue Takers “No.” Even I know that, not-clever as I may be. The moment I opened the door to them, I could not shut them out.

“Do you know why we’re here?” demands the first.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

I portion the soup into three bowls. When I turn to my unwelcome guests, my traitorous hands shake. The bowls slosh as I set them on the table. A rogue drop splashes onto the tablecloth, staining the white macrame red. Ignoring it, I dutifully sit across from the Tongue Takers.

“Surely you have a guess? About why we might come to your home? It’s a lovely home, by the way. Very cozy. Very warm.” The second tosses me a smile. Her lips stretch around it awkwardly.

“I don’t know,” I repeat.

“You have!” protests the first.

“You simply must have!” preens the second.

And I tell them, “No.”

Silence swallows the kitchen. There’s no flickering stove burner or gurgling pot to fill it this time. The three soup bowls wait untouched.

The third Tongue Taker tuts. Shifting forward, he runs a finger around the rim of his bowl. Delicately lifting his spoon, he stirs absent circles into his soup.

“You’re a liar,” says the third. It’s not a question, so I don’t offer an answer. My hands curl into fists in my lap.

The third forgoes his spoon and dips his pinky into the soup. When his gray tongue prods out from between his lips to taste the soup on his finger, I can see the stitches that attach it to his mouth.

My breathing hitches.

The third lifts a spoonful of soup to his lips and blows on it. “Do you often lie?”

Again, I tell them, “No.”

The third swallows his spoonful and lets out a pleased hum. He winks at me. My stomach turns over.

“We heard tell of a Storyteller in this lovely town of yours,” says the third, “Rumor has it someone’s been sharing fantastical tales of magic and all manner of strange things. Have you heard of this Storyteller?”

Dread drips down my throat and coats my insides tar-black. I shake my head, but not a single word struggles past my lips.

“Go on,” the first barks.

“Tell us a story,” the second begs.

One final time, I tell them, “No.”

The third leans back and grins.

“A pity,” says he. “We hear you’re quite good at it. But alas, the rules.”

“The rules!” snaps the first.

“We mustn’t forget the rules!” singsongs the second.

I flinch.

“You know the rules.” The third rises to his feet. His companions gleefully follow suit. “Storytelling is a gift reserved for His Majesty’s court. It does not belong to people like you. That tongue of yours ought to go to a better owner, don’t you think? One who can use it properly.”

My chair clatters to the ground behind me. I backpedal until I collide with the cabinets.

The first reveals a shiny pair of shears from his cloak. The second claps and vaults the table. The third watches on, his stolen tongue clicking disapprovingly as I crumble, sobbing, to the ground.

The third says, “Do try not to scream, my dear. It makes the process so unbearably messy for everyone involved.”

The Tongue Takers leave town that very same afternoon.

I wail with a hollow mouth. Blood gushes down my chin until the floor around me floods with gore. It’s a brutal thing. A blood libation of sorts. Truthfully, I don’t count myself amongst the pitiable. After all, my poor neighbor is an artist, and the Eye Takers come to town next.