The Child Eater (10 page)

“I have to get out of here,” Matyas whispered out loud. “Please.” But all he could think to do was keep walking.

At the end of the hall, a thin light came from a stone door that stood half open. It looked strange, this door, so crude compared to the marble floor, the smooth walls. The door was thick and rough, and stood only about a hand higher than Matyas. If he'd been as tall as Royja's father, or even Matyas' own, he would have to stoop low to walk through it. Matyas stood for a moment, looking at the door and the light. He didn't want to go to it, but when he turned around, he saw that the pale lamps had gone out behind him, so that only a few feet beyond where he now stood darkness swallowed the hallway. Almost against his will, or maybe with no will at all, like a marionette, he moved toward the door.

Now he could hear a voice, soft, a child, he thought, no words, just a sad cry or a moan.
I've been here before
, Matyas thought. But how could he . . . It was the dream, he realized, the one he'd had that night after the trees, and the Kallistocha, and the flying man.
Please
, he begged in his mind,
let me wake up
.

He didn't even realize he was standing just outside the door until it swung further open and Matyas saw
him
. Tall, in his elegant, close-fitting jacket and straight pants, with a gray shirt and some sort of red silk cloth tied under the collar. His face was softer than Matyas remembered from the dream, the bones less prominent, the skin pale but a little flushed, as if excited. His gray-black hair was cut short at the neck but thick on top, and brushed back to show his wide forehead. Incongruously, Matyas became aware of how skinny he himself was, how his bones stuck out, how rough his clothes looked.

The man appeared not to notice Matyas. He stood next to a stone table, doing something to a round object that lay on a silver tray. Suddenly Matyas remembered the dream, just an instant before he saw clearly what the object was. A human head. A boy, right around Matyas' age. That was the voice he'd heard, the wail, the head was
alive
, the man was cutting it, he had a stone knife, black and shiny and very, very old, and he was making tiny cuts along the cheeks, the forehead, all around the eyes and mouth.

Blood dripped into the boy's eyes but he managed to blink it away and stare at Matyas. “Help me,” he whispered. “Please, Master, help me.”

Matyas shook his head. He wanted to say, “I can't,” but didn't dare, for what if the man heard him, what if he came next for Matyas? He needed to turn and run, back to the darkness if there was nowhere else.

Too late. The boy must have alerted the gray-haired man, for he turned now and smiled at Matyas, his teeth bright, the knife held loosely in his hand. “What do you think?” he said. “Is it ready?”

Sounds came from Matyas' throat, but he had no idea what they were. The man laughed and shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “I would never eat
you
. We're too much alike.”

“No!” Matyas managed to say. “I'm nothing like you.” He looked around frantically, saw stone walls and a rough floor specked with ancient blood. And somewhere—far away, beyond the room, as if hidden deep in the wall—he saw the woman from the picture, the one he'd left face down on the floor. There she was, in her blue dress like clouds, her face the night sky filled with stars. But there was something different about her. Her hand! She was holding out her hand.

All he had to do was ask. Ask her to help.

The man appeared not to notice. He picked something up from the table, a piece of paper, Matyas saw, and then a second later realized what it was—the jagged head cut out of the Beautiful Boy. “There,” he said. “Now we're ready.”

No
, Matyas told himself.
Ask her!
The woman was his one chance to escape, he knew this. But he knew something else as well. He would have to say what he'd done. There was no way around that. She couldn't help him if he didn't—
No
, he thought. Never admit anything. That was the one thing he'd learned, the single most important thing he knew. For just an instant, his father's massive fists rose up before him, scarred and greasy. And then they vanished to reveal, once again, the stone knife, the boy's cut and bleeding head.
Never admit—

The Splendor came to him. The lights were faint now, half flickered out, but they were still there. Weeping, he nodded, and as if they'd been waiting for permission the lights entered his mouth and swarmed around his tongue.

The man placed the mutilated picture on the boy's forehead—

—and Matyas' voice cried out,
I'm sorry
. His voice, not the Splendor. They had come to help him but he was doing it himself—

—and the boy screamed as dark fire flashed from his forehead—

—
I stole them! Forgive me—

—And Veil had hold of Matyas' shoulders and a moment later had thrown him across the room, away from the red box and the cards scattered all around the floor. He hit a wall and books fell down into his lap, but he just stared at her, his mouth open, his body flooded with gratitude that he was already trying to deny.
Never admit—

“There,” Veil said. “It's not wise to look too long into the Tarot of Eternity. An old saying but still a true one.” Matyas could only watch as one by one she calmly picked up the cards and returned them to the box.

“It was you,” Matyas said. “You were the picture!”

“The picture?” she repeated. “Matyas, I'm right here. You looked upset, and had your arm out, so I took hold of you.”

“No,” Matyas tried to say, “that's not . . .” Exhaustion overcame him. His eyes closed, his head drooped . . .

He woke up in his bed, hours later it felt like, to see everything back in place, and Veil in her rocker with yet another of her ancient books. Every object in its assigned place but one, it appeared. The red box, and most likely all its pictures, were gone.

Simon Wisdom was six years old before he realized he was different from other children. Before then it had not occurred to him that other kids didn't know their grandma was about to call before the phone rang, or when Daddy needed help with something, or when you shouldn't watch television because something bad was going to happen in the world. Once, in kindergarten, he came home bruised where a girl named Susan had hit him on the arm. “It's okay,” he told his angry father, “she just needed to hit someone.” When his daddy asked why, Simon said, “Because her mommy's hurting her.” Simon knew his daddy was upset hearing this. He'd even known it would happen. He just didn't understand
why
. Didn't Daddy know what Simon was going to tell him? Didn't everyone know that Susan's mommy was hurting her? Daddy had said something about not knowing what to do, how he couldn't tell anyone because he couldn't explain how he knew. Simon couldn't understand that. Why couldn't Daddy just tell them?

It wasn't like Simon
always
knew what people were going to say. When Daddy asked him if he knew what people were thinking all the time, Simon rolled his eyes and said of course not, how could he know that? But when he did know he just assumed everyone else did.

Sometimes, like when he asked about Simon knowing what people were thinking, Daddy was angry at
him
for some reason, but again, Simon couldn't figure out why. Angry or maybe worried, because now and then Daddy paid extra attention to him, sitting and watching TV with Simon (even though Simon knew Daddy hated the show), going out for special weekend food on a Wednesday, giving him a toy for no reason. At those times, Simon could see his father was pretending he was happy when he really wanted to cry. Those were the moments when he really did know what his father was feeling, even sometimes what he thought, but even that seemed like a useless clue, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle all by itself, without the cover to show where it went.

One of those times came after the field trip to the petting zoo. Daddy acted very strange after that, super-nice but angry—Simon didn't think his father's anger was about him, but he wasn't sure—and all worried, even scared about something. Simon knew it had to do with the tree that had fallen in the road on the way to the zoo, and—really weird—Simon's mom, who'd died when Simon was just a baby. But that was all he could get when he looked at his father's face. Was Simon's mommy hidden in the fallen tree? Could they go and look for her? She was dead, of course, Simon understood that, but still—

At one point, Daddy seemed to want to talk about it, but he didn't really say anything. It was a Tuesday night after the field trip and Daddy had made Special Pancakes, Simon's favorite (chocolate chips and bacon, yay). Simon knew that as soon as he had eaten his food, Daddy would come and sit next to him and talk. But what he said made no sense. “You know, Sweetie, everyone has special talents. Some kids can climb trees really well, and some are really good at Xbox, and some at math. And usually . . . usually it's good to show people when you're good at something.”

“Uh-huh,” Simon said between bites, so Daddy would know he was listening.

“But sometimes—some talents—it's best not to show them.”

“Why not?” Simon poured himself some more orange juice. He liked it when Daddy made it fresh and let him have as much as he wanted.

“Because not everyone can do it.”

“So what?”

“Well, people don't like it when you tell them things before they happen.”

“But then they know.”
And
, he thought,
didn't they know anyway?

“It's just better if they don't, okay?”

“Okay,” Simon said, and ate a piece of bacon that had fallen out of the pancake.

Simon was a practical person. Since he couldn't figure out what Daddy meant, he just didn't think about it, and sure enough, after a week or so everything went back to normal.

That was in first grade, when Simon was six. It was a year and a half later when he found out that his “talent,” as Daddy called it, could get him in trouble. His teacher had sent him home with a perfect score on his subtraction test, with a note to his daddy saying how proud she was of Simon's progress.

Jack stared at the paper until Simon asked him, “Aren't you happy, Daddy? I got a hundred.”

Daddy said, “Nineteen take away seven.” When Simon didn't answer right away, his father sighed. “Simon,” he said, “you don't really know this, do you?”

“I got a hundred.”

“Yes, but you got it by reading the teacher's mind.”

“Reading . . . ?”

“Knowing what was in her head. You don't really know subtraction, you just knew what the right answer was.”

Simon moved back slightly. His father had spoken calmly but his body was vibrating with anger. Simon said, “But that's what you're supposed to do. Get the right answer.”

“From the question, Simon. Not from the teacher's mind. It's . . . it's a kind of
cheating
.” He said the word really hard, as if he wanted to slam his hand on the table.

“It is not!” Simon's own hands clenched into fists. “I'm not a cheater, I'm not.”

“If you read the teacher's mind, that's cheating.”

“No! I did what everybody does.”

“That's not true. Most people don't get the answers that way. They have to study for them.” He took a breath, controlling himself. “What you did, Simon—it's not fair.”

“Yes it is!” Simon yelled, and ran to his room. Even as he said it, however, he knew his father was right. He thought about things kids said
and the way they got scared of tests, and for the first time in his life he considered the terrible possibility that he might be very different from other kids. Maybe that was why his father was so angry.

His father left him alone in his room a long time, and when Simon came back downstairs his father was reading a book. It occurred to Simon that if he concentrated really hard he might know just what Daddy wanted him to say. But that too would be cheating, and suddenly it was really important to Simon that he not do that. So he just said, “I'm sorry, Daddy. I didn't know I was cheating. I won't do it again.”

Daddy put down his book. “Come here, Sweetie,” he said, and when Simon walked up, Daddy hugged him so hard Simon couldn't breathe.

When Daddy let go, Simon could see he was crying, and he said quickly, “I'm sorry.”

“No, no,” Daddy said. “I'm not angry at you. I was just . . . I was thinking about your mother. She would have been very proud of you.”

Simon was surprised. He knew his father thought about his mother sometimes (Was it wrong to know that? Was it another kind of cheating?) but he almost never spoke about her. And there was a kind of anger in Daddy's voice, and Simon didn't understand that at all. Wasn't it good that his mother would be proud of him? But then he thought, why would she be proud of him for cheating? He waited, but his father said nothing more, so he said again, “I promise I won't cheat. Ever.”

“I'm sure you won't,” Daddy said. “You're a good boy.”

Suddenly, Simon remembered the pancake talk last year. He said, “And I promise I won't say what's going to happen.”

His father looked down at the floor. He said nothing for a moment, then, “You're a good boy. I love you.”

Simon wondered if it was okay that he already knew that, but all he said was, “I love you too, Daddy.”

Simon wondered that night if he missed his mother. Could you miss someone you'd never known? Sometimes he dreamed of her. At least he thought it was her. In the dream he would see a woman far away, like the other side of the school parking lot, but when he tried to run to her, so many buses or something would block the way she'd be gone by the time he got there. Once, when he was four, he dreamed he was walking with his grandma in the city, and he saw, across the street, a woman bent over a table, playing cards with somebody. Simon was sure it was his mother and wanted to go and see, but Grandma refused to listen, saying they'd
be late for a party if they didn't hurry. In the dream he began to cry, and when he woke up he was gulping air and holding on tight to Mr. Axle, his favorite teddy bear, who was dressed in yellow overalls and carried a soft red wrench.

After Daddy explained about knowing the answers, Simon wondered if his mother didn't want to see him because he'd cheated. Or maybe because he wasn't like other kids. Could Daddy have told her? It was so unfair. He didn't know it was cheating. He'd thought everyone knew those things. But it was just him, his special talent, and nobody liked it. What good was a talent if everyone hated it? And what kind of world was it where you were the only one?

From then on, Simon did his best not to know things that other people didn't. Most of the time it was easy—you just didn't pay attention, or you thought about television or something. But other times, especially when his father, or someone Simon liked at school, was unhappy, Simon had to hold back from helping them by telling them what they needed to know. He reminded himself that it was cheating, and no one likes a cheater, but sometimes holding back made him feel kind of barfy, or feverish.

Early in third grade, a boy in Simon's class disappeared. His name was Eli, and he sat a couple of rows over from Simon but that day his seat was empty. Simon kept staring at it, even when the teacher told him twice to pay attention. As the day wore on, Simon started to squirm in his seat, for he felt like he could hear Eli's voice in his head, crying and crying. He tried to make it stop, for wasn't it a kind of cheating, even if it was just crying and not anything you could “read”? He tried, but he couldn't do it, it just got louder and louder. Now it felt like Eli was calling him, not with his name or any words at all, just with a great pain that begged and begged for help, for someone, anyone, for
Simon
, to find him and help him.

Simon could find him. All he had to do was follow the noise in his head. He could tell the teacher, and the teacher would call his daddy, and they would all go and get Eli so he could stop crying. Only, that was cheating, so Simon held his fists tight against his body and did whatever he could to ignore the sounds.

School let out early that day. Lots of parents came and picked their kids up instead of sending them on the school bus. Even Simon's daddy
came, and said that they were going right home instead of to after-school care. Simon hardly paid attention, the noise in his head was so loud and he didn't want Daddy to know it was happening. He hated Eli, he wished he could grab him and yell at him to shut up, to leave him alone.

The crying stopped a few minutes after dinner. One moment it filled Simon's body, it filled the whole room, and the next it was just gone. Simon cried out. He couldn't help it—the silence
hurt
, it was like someone had hit him really hard in the belly, a pain so sharp he let out a scream before he knew he was doing it. His daddy jumped up from his chair, said something that Simon didn't hear, and a moment later was helping Simon stand. Simon hadn't even realized that he'd fallen, or that he was on all fours and trembling, like a sick dog. His father led him to a chair.

“What is it?” Daddy said. “What's wrong?” Simon didn't answer. When his father went to call the doctor, he said, “I'm okay, Daddy. I just felt sick suddenly. But I'm okay now.” His father looked at him a moment, then put the phone down.

Two days later the police found Eli's body in a burned-out old house at the edge of town. Simon never really found out what happened, but everyone at school was talking about “scary things” that someone had done to Eli, and a couple of days later two state troopers, a man and woman in gray uniforms, came to assembly and warned all the kids against going away with anybody, even if he said their mothers or fathers had sent him. The grown-ups had their own assemblies as well. Twice that week his father went to a town meeting. He told the babysitter not to open the door for anyone, for any reason. Both times he came home upset.

A couple of weeks went by and everyone began to calm down. Kids went back on the school buses, the teachers didn't all hover in the playground at break, looking around nervously as if they were constantly counting to make sure no one was missing. Simon too began to feel better. For days all he'd been able to think of was Eli crying and crying and crying. He imagined his voice, very far away, saying, “Why didn't you help me? You were the only one who knew.” Finally the voice was fading and Simon could hear the world again.

Jack Wisdom was having trouble of his own those two weeks. Like all the parents, he worried about his son's safety with a monster loose in their town, and like the others he tried very hard not to imagine
those
things
being done to his own precious, beautiful child. Why would someone—? The police said it wasn't even sexual; it was just . . . He'd taken the
head
—No, no, no, Jack would shake his own head very hard, trying not to let those thoughts, those images, take hold in him.

In those ways, Jack was pretty sure he was just like all the others. But a memory came to him, no matter how hard he tried to block it, and he was pretty sure it wasn't something that invaded any of the other parents' minds. He didn't tell anyone, not the committee demanding that the police catch the monster, and not the police themselves. For what could he tell them? He wasn't even sure it had really happened. For years he'd half-believed he made it all up—that's what his father had believed, and certainly the cops back in his home town—and then, as he got older, he did his best not to think about it at all.

It was that day on the baseball field, of course. The day he'd hit a home run and it had felt so good he'd gone back that evening, just so he could look, and remember the shocked cheers, and trot once more around the bases. And then
he
was there. Just standing there, at home plate, tall and stiff in his dark suit, his face all tight and pale. Jack hadn't thought about him for years, but now he could see him again, his gaunt face, his gray hair combed straight back. He could hear that taunting voice—
Jack, Jack, don't go back. Let's just try to keep on track
—but most of all, Jack Wisdom remembered the way the man's hands had touched him.