from TAXIDERMY By Emma Törzs   When he wakes up, he becomes aware of a feeling that something is missing. He sits very still, waiting for the answer to come to him, and realizes that the house has finally fallen silent - the rain has stopped completely. He looks out the window and finds that the sky is still pewter with rain clouds, but in the distance he thinks he can see a thin line of blue. He goes to the kitchen, where his mother is lining up seashells according to color, and says, "The rain stopped!" She looks up and cocks her head to the side, ear tilted towards the ceiling. "You're right!" she cries, "It's over! Get your sweater! Get your hat! Get them quickly!" Noah scrambles to his room, almost tripping over his own feet, and shoves a sweater over his head. He puts his left boot on his right foot and has to pause for a moment to re-adjust, then slams a hat over his hair. For good measure he sticks a pencil in his pocket. His mother is already standing by the door, wearing a purple windbreaker and rain boots. He thinks she looks beautiful, with her deep blue eyes and pulled-back hair. "Finally," she says as she pushes him out onto the front steps, "we can really breathe!" Once they are outside, the air smells so good and clean that Noah can't help himself; he says "Waaaaarrrrgh" and jumps around for a moment. His mother strides past him into the middle of the street and he has to hurry to catch up with her. "Are we going to the beach?" he asks. "I don't feel like mucking through all that water-soaked sand," she says, "what about you?" "I don't care," he replies, though in truth he would have liked to be on a beach completely wet with water from the sky instead of from the tide. "Let's just wander." she says. "The man at the store told me there are heron's nests up this way." "Herons?" "Ardea herodias herodias" "Huh?" "Big birds with long legs. You'll like them." "Okay." It is warm out and he shucks off his sweater as they walk. The street is quiet save for the pit-pat of raindrops falling from the branches hanging over the sidewalk. The houses are mostly one-story, simple constructions, built to withstand storms and heavy wind, and a few of them have windows already boarded up in preparation for winter. Noah tries to peer through the glass panes but he sees only his own reflection; there is no evidence to suggest that he and his mother are not the only living things on the sandy gray road. "Just imagine," his mother breathes, "hundreds of years ago this was all just salt grass and beach roses and Wampanoag farms - you know that the pilgrims never would have survived without the Wampanoag? And how were they repaid? Their land was ripped from them and used to build houses for rich, ignorant tourists." She waves her arm at the squat, battered homes that sequestered dolefully on the tough brown lawns. They don't look like any rich people's houses Noah has ever seen - to him they look like ships that have washed up on shore and sunk into the ground. Noah and his mother pause in front of a house with a mailbox made out of a buoy. "Would you look at that," his mother says. There is a life-size wooden moose peering down at them through the bushes. It is crudely carved but graceful, the head inclined slightly upward as if it were listening to something in the distance. To Noah, it looks just like the moose he once saw on a canoe trip with his parents in Maine. They had paddled around a bend in the muddy river, and there, wading in the shallows, was a massive brown figure and a smaller figure beside it. "Don't say a word," his father had said in a hushed voice. "Mama mooses are not very friendly." "Will it attack?" Noah had asked, hands tightening on the paddle. "Do they eat people?" "Sometimes," his father had answered. "But only Republicans." "Shut up, Allister," his mother had said, laughing, and turned to Noah. "Don't listen to your father, sweetheart. I promise you have nothing to worry about. Moose only eat saplings; baby trees. In fact, the word moose comes from the Algonquin Native American word, "moz," which means twig-eater." "I think it means flesh-eater." "Oh, stop." Noah had been inclined to believe his mother, but his father's words held a ring of truth that he couldn't ignore. He had suddenly wanted out of the canoe, off the river, and into a car that would take him away at a rapid pace. His heart had pounded up into his throat as his parents paddled very slowly forward past the two moose, oars raking through plants hidden by the surface of the water. Suddenly, the mother moose had, with surprising speed, lifted her shaggy head and turned towards the approaching humans. "Shit," his father had murmured. "We've been spotted. We're moose meat." Before Noah could panic, however, the moose had looked directly at him with the languid eyes of a cow, then lowered her head and continued crunching her sapling. "Out of danger," Noah's father had said, offering a high-five. "We are champion explorers." This wooden moose, its expression benevolent and inviting, has the same uncaring gaze as the moose from Maine, and Noah, despite his mother's constant warnings against trespassing, steps forward past the fence and into the yard and lays a hand on the moose's nose. It feels cool and smooth. "Noah," his mother says, "are you kidding me? Get back out here before I bite your arms off." "That's a little extreme," an unfamiliar male voice says. Noah's head snaps up so fast he almost gets a crick in his neck. Standing before them, mud on his knees - he must have been working in a garden hidden by the bushes - is a man in a red flannel shirt, early thirties, maybe just a few years older than Noah's parents. His shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a thick mat of gold hair that starts at the hollow of his throat. "Oh!" Noah's mother says. "You scared me half to death!" "I'm sorry," the man says. He has an easy smile that spreads slowly across his thin, bearded face and into his sharp blue eyes. "We were just admiring your moose," Noah's mother says, taking a step forward and laying one slim hand on the moose's nose. "Did you carve him yourself?" The man shakes his head, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "My brother, years ago." "Well, it's quite magnificent." "You should see the stuff he does now. Nature centers just eat it right up. Especially his wooden chipmunks - a big hit with the kids. Are you two from around here?" "No, we're just here for a few days. The sea breeze, the salt, you know." "You chose a pretty shitty - sorry - a pretty lousy time to come, weather-wise." "Don't we know it. But we've kept ourselves entertained, somewhat." She pulls Noah close to her and ruffles his hair; a possessive gesture that is also a motion of intended protection, his or hers he does not know. "I'm Emily," she says. "This is Noah." "I'm Eric. It's a pleasure." "Do you live here year-round, Eric?" "Yeah, I do. I'm originally from Wisconsin, actually, but I've been here for the past fifteen years. And you guys are from…" "Eastern Massachusetts. Only about a two and half hour drive, right Noah? Not too bad." Noah stares at his feet, feeling confined by his mother's arm and claustrophobic under the blue gaze of Eric. "What brings you out here?" his mother asks, tilting her head. "A wandering wind, a call to the ocean?" "Well - in a sense, I guess. My work is more inspired out here, you could say." He rubs his beard slowly. "Are you an artist?" Noah can hear the delight in his mother's voice. "You could say that." Noah sees Eric's eyes look his mother up and down very quickly. "Would you like to come inside and see what I do? I've got cookies." This last addressed to Noah. "How can we be certain you won't kidnap us?" his mother asks, lifting her chin. Noah stiffens. Eric laughs; a clear, warm sound of genuine amusement. Noah doesn't understand what's so funny. "I can't make any promises," he finally says. "But how can you not trust a guy with a moose on his front lawn?" "That's true," Noah's mother says. "And Noah does love cookies, don't you Noah?" "They're all right." He looks away. "Well, it's settled then. We'd love to see your work, Eric. We are ardent supporters of any artistic endeavors." "Opinions vary as to whether or not my work is artistic," he says mysteriously as he leads them up the walkway and to the door of the small yellow house. It's dark inside, and Noah is immediately hit by a strange, though not unpleasant smell, kind of like mothballs mixed with something deeper and warmer. Noah's mother starts to say something, then stops as Eric flicks the light on. "Voilá," he says. "My work." "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Noah's mother breathes. Stuffed, immaculately preserved wild animals are everywhere. To their right, next to a tall lamp, is a brown bear reared on its hind legs, mouth open in a roar, pink tongue poking out from creamy teeth. To the left of the elegant red couch, a deer lowers its head to nibble the rug, and directly in front of the humans, six dead squirrels play a hand of poker at a miniature card table. Glass eyes glint from every corner of the room. "You're a taxidermist?" Noah's mother asks incredulously. "Yes indeed. Though I feel the need to tell to you that those squirrels are more of a novelty item than a real piece of taxidermy; they were a commission piece." Noah is crouched next to a fox with a ptarmigan in its mouth. "Can I touch it?" he asks. "Go right ahead." "Did you kill it?" "No, a ranger friend of mine brought it in. Hit by a car, poor thing. I didn't kill any of these guys myself. Most of them are roadkill or they died of natural causes." "How marvelous," Noah's mother says, slowly stroking the deer. "Do you sell them?" "I do a pretty good business, actually. Museums, restaurants, hotels, rustic lodges, that kind of thing." "Well, I think they're just amazing." Eric and Noah's mother look at each other until Noah's mother looks down, smiling. Noah stands up. "Would you like to see my studio?" Eric suggests, ignoring Noah. "Bet you've never seen a freezer as big as mine before." "I've seen my fair share of big freezers," Noah's mother says, then giggles and shrugs her shoulders. "Where's your studio?" "The garage." "Noah?" his mother says. "I'm going to go look in Eric's garage for a minute, okay? Why don't you explore?" "There are Oreos on the table," Eric offers. "Double stuff." "Okay," Noah says. "We'll be right back here," Eric says, as they walk across the living room to a doorway set in the wall. Noah stands still until the door closes behind them, then he looks around the room. Stuffed animals are everywhere. He feels like the only living thing in the room, the breathing center, the king of the wild. All eyes are trained on him. "We're having a meeting," he whispers. "A forest meeting." The animals all nod. "We're talking about hunting," he says, his voice growing just a little bit louder. "There are too many hunters all killing the animals. We have to stop them." "Yes," says a baby deer under the mantle. "They killed my mother." "And my cousin," says a raccoon with an apple. "It's bad," Noah says. "We have to set traps for the hunters and take their guns." "I can dig good holes," proclaims a badger, "and we can booby-trap the forest." A beaver smacks his tail and says, "I can build prisons out of sticks." Noah crosses his arms and nods seriously. "But we can't hurt them because then we'd be as bad as they are. We have to feed them." "I can catch fish," says a tall bird with long legs. A heron. "Okay," Noah says. "You can be the fish-catcher and I'll pick blueberries for them. They can drink bear milk. But they can't hurt any animals. And we can't let them get lonely. So we'll put them together in one prison. We'll let them play cards and tell stories. We won't let them argue." "Absolutely not," a chipmunk says. "But what if they kill you?" asks the deer. "What if when you try to take their guns they shoot you dead?" "How do we know you aren't a hunter?" asks the bear. "You're a human; you humans always say one thing, and do another. Maybe we should just kill you." "No!" Noah says. "I'm a good guy!" "But how do we know?" persists the bear. "I say we kill him." "Let's kill him," agrees the fox. "Hear hear!" the animals cry. Noah looks around, suddenly terrified. Everywhere, on all sides, there are open mouths with sharp teeth, paws with scimitar claws, wicked-looking hooves poised for attack. He wants his mother; he doesn't want to be alone in this room of death any longer. He walks quickly, nervously across the living room to the garage door and opens it. For a moment, he doesn't see anything besides a big table, a huge freezer, and a deer skin pulled haphazardly over the exposed foam frame beneath, but then he senses movement in the corner of the room. Eric is holding his mother like he's seen his father hold her; one hand up to her face, the other at her waist. His hand is bunching her shirt up slightly, showing a slice of her skin, and they are kissing. Noah feels the air press down around him like his hands would press wet sand for the wall of a castle. He stands there, uncertain what to do, but finally edges back into the room filled with animals, closing the door as quietly as he can. He thinks he hears a low murmur of animal voices that ceases abruptly as he turns to face them once again. His body feels like it's filled with bees, and his face grows hot. He feels a sudden urge to stamp his feet, or break a glass, or scream and throw himself on the ground like he did when he was small and had temper tantrums. He stands, arms hanging at his sides, eyes darting around the room, breathing quickly. In a sudden impulse, he strides over to the heron and, kneeling, grasps its leg in both his hands and grapples with it for a furious, manic moment until it snaps in half and the bird topples over. Noah rises, holding the heron's foot to his chest like a trophy, and takes a deep breath. He looks at the foot in his hands, at its nails and fingers and scales, then looks to the heron on the ground. Its sightless eyes are filled with confusion. He swings around, waiting for the animals to say something, to yell at him, to eat him, but they are still and silent and watchful. What has he done? He is suddenly filled with terror. His eyes light on a dark space in the corner of the room, a gap between an armchair and an old, rangy desk. He shuffles over and, looking guiltily over his shoulder, shoves the foot deep into the shadows. Then, grunting a little from the effort, he hoists the heron up and props it against the coffee table it stands next to. He steps back and surveys his work. The missing leg is unnoticeable until you look closely. He walks over the red couch and sits down, folding his hands in his lap. He wants to cry but is uncertain why. He puts his head down between his knees and gives a low, frustrated wail that is muffled by his legs and lost in all the fur that surrounds him. Whatever will become of Noah? Find out in the completed anthology