The Child Eater (5 page)

He stayed that way for a few minutes until he suddenly sat up straight. “No,” he said out loud. “I'm Master Matyas and I'm going to fly.”

The first thing he needed to do was change the way he looked. On a small street of single-story houses, he saw a clothes line with freshly washed clothes. He grabbed a shirt and pants that looked the right size, then ran off to another street where he found a building with a cistern of rainwater behind it. Quickly he stripped naked, splashed water on himself and tried to rub the dirt away, then put on his fresh clothes.

He was still hungry and tired (and feeling like a fool for having listened to a head on a stick), but at least he had clean clothes if—when—he found the wizards. And then it struck him, didn't wizards study the stars? And if so, wouldn't they be on the highest hill? He found another house with outside steps to the roof. Instead of searching for a magical glow, he looked for hills and buildings that rose above the rest. There! He saw a stone wall on top of a hill, and behind the wall copper rooftops that looked like moss-covered stones on a riverbank. In the middle of them, a single tower rose into the sky. He recognized it immediately. He had seen it in his dreams.

Matyas walked most of the night. He might have tried to sleep except that he had moved into such rich neighborhoods, with buildings that looked more carved than built, and streets that looked polished by hand, that he feared they would set dogs on him just for daring to walk there, let alone trying to rest.
So wizards like money
, he thought and was not surprised.

At least he didn't have to go hungry. Smells of roast meat led him to porcelain urns behind the houses. Trash, he realized. The rich apparently threw away as much food as they ate.

At last he reached the wall. Could he be wrong? The buildings were made of ordinary stone and mortar, with iron gates, not gold, and no mysterious words or symbols, no explosions of multicolored fire, no talking heads stuck on poles. No wizards soared overhead. And yet there was that tower. He sat down by what he hoped was the main gate.

They got married the night before Jack was due to go home again. Jack could never remember if he'd asked her, or if it was the other way around. It didn't matter. Nor did it matter that she didn't want a fancy wedding, didn't want any family present. She was the only one left, she told him (Mr. Vale had died, it turned out, and Mrs. Vale as well), and there'd be plenty of time for her to meet
his
relatives later, when she'd come home with him.

When they were filling out the papers, Jack suddenly thought about names. “Do you want to, you know, keep your own? It's okay. I know lots of girls, women, are doing that these days.”

“Darling Jack,” she said, “do you really think I would pass up the chance to be named Mrs. Wisdom?”

When they arrived at Jack's house the first time, Rebecca told him how sweet it looked, “full of Jackness.” Inside, she moved from room to room like a child in a playhouse. Except—in the living room, she stopped and stared for several seconds at the fireplace.

“Honey,” Jack said, “is something wrong?” For a moment he thought he saw those sparkling lights again, inside the fireplace, but if so they quickly vanished up the chimney.

“It's nothing,” Rebecca said and began to talk about possible colors to paint the beige walls.

For two years they lived happily ever after. Jack's parents liked Rebecca immediately, and Rebecca was thrilled with her new family. Jack worried what people might think of his wife's profession or if odd people would be showing up at all hours. To his relief, Rebecca said she was happy to take a break from her work and just enjoy life. Every now and then she would see someone, mostly long-time clients who depended on her and didn't mind traveling for a consultation, but she promised to see them when Jack was at work and not to advertise. Jack never asked her about these people and she never spoke of them.

Once someone flew in from Japan, though he left before Jack could meet him. And once Mrs. Simmons, who lived across the street, told Jack how a pair of black cars drove up to his house and men in dark suits, some with old-fashioned walkie-talkies held up to their ears, went into the house and didn't come out for over an hour. Jack decided not to ask Rebecca about it. It was their agreement; he had said he didn't want to know, and he thought he should stick to it.

Sometimes Jack would come home to find Rebecca crying or tight-lipped and he wouldn't know what to do, how to help her. After a while she would sigh or rub her eyes, and then look at him with a soft smile, and everything would be fine again.

One night in early September, Jack woke at three a.m. to discover his wife gasping for breath, shaking. “Bec?” he said. “What is it? Do you need an ambulance?” He grabbed for the phone.

“It's okay,” she said. “It was just a dream. Go back to sleep.”

He thought how he hated dreams, but he wrapped his arms tightly around her, held on until she stopped shuddering. “It's okay,” he echoed her. “It was just a dream.” After a minute, she calmed down enough that he could let her go. She turned on her side, and Jack wondered, as he slid back into sleep, if she was still awake.

Five days later, terrorists attacked. Everyone Jack knew was weeping with frightened eyes, except Rebecca, who immediately began to organize local relief contributions. Jack never asked her about her dream.

He also never asked for any predictions about his work. Occasionally he would joke about “getting a reading” but never actually did it. However, sometimes at dinner he might tell her about a problem, or
a pending decision, and the next morning she might casually make a suggestion. He never told her how these suggestions worked out, and she never asked, but once at a company picnic, when she met Charlie Perkins, Jack's boss, Charlie told her, “Your husband's really something, you know? Any time we can't figure out what to do, we just tell Jack and he comes back the next day with the right answer. I guess they don't call him Mr. Wisdom for nothing.” Jack stared at the grass.

They were married for two years and seven days when Rebecca told Jack she was pregnant. He yelled and danced around and offered to go and get a case of nonalcoholic champagne. Rebecca said very little, only asked Jack to hold her. Jack hugged her for a long time, then said, “Sweetheart? Is this okay? I mean, the baby. I'm being a real jerk here, but I guess that's nothing new.”

She shook her head. “You're never a jerk. You're sweet and lovable.”

“I mean about the baby. I'm so excited I didn't even check how you're feeling about it. You okay? Because if not, and you want to, you know, do something, it's okay. Really.”

“No, no,” she said, then sighed. “Did you ever do something you knew would turn out, well, bad, just because you knew absolutely it was the right thing to do?”

He took her shoulders. “Sweetheart, nothing's going to turn out bad. I'll take care of you, and if there's any problems, we'll get the best doctors in the world.”

“I'm not worried about that,” she said.

“Then why are you so upset? You think I'll stop loving you 'cause there's a baby? I'll never stop loving you. Nothing can change that. I loved you the moment I saw you. I'll love you forever.”

She stared at him. “You promise, Jack? Do you promise you'll love me no matter what?”

“Absolutely.”

She closed her eyes. “Oh God,” she whispered.

He held her again. “It's okay,” he said. “You'll have a fine pregnancy and we'll have a wonderful boy or girl.”

“Boy,” she said, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

He let go slightly so he could look at her. “Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you get an ultrasound? I mean, it's okay, but I would have liked to have been there.”

She gave him that sweet smile of hers. “No medical tests,” she said.

“Then how can you—? Oh. Right.”

She said, “Can we go and get that champagne now?”

The pregnancy went easily. Rebecca insisted on a midwife, though she agreed to see a doctor as well. The midwife, Jennie, said she'd never seen a baby so eager to be born. They named him Simon, for Rebecca's grandfather, though she'd never mentioned him before. “Simon, Simon,” Rebecca half chanted, and held him so close Jack worried she might cut off his breath.

From his first moments, Simon looked at the world, and especially his mother, with curiosity and delight. Jack's cousin said, “He has your eyes.”

“Come on,” Jack said, “he looks like his mother. Lucky kid.”

“Oh, the shape of his eyes, yes. But that slightly bewildered look? Jack, that's you.”

It wasn't until a few days after the birth that Jack admitted to himself how scared he'd been that Rebecca would reject the baby. He didn't know why he'd thought that, but he was glad he was wrong. If anything, she went the other way, almost obsessed with spending every moment with her son. And yet, at the same time, Rebecca grew sadder and sadder. When she wasn't feeding or rocking Simon, she would stare out of the window, silently crying. Jack did everything he could to cheer her up. He brought her presents, he took her and the baby on weekend trips, he played with Simon with her, but none of it seemed to work. After four months he took her hands, and suggested, as gently as possible, that she see a psychiatrist. Postpartum depression, he said, was perfectly normal, it came from hormonal changes, and best of all, it was treatable.

Her smile was far sadder than tears. “Sweet Jack,” she said, and touched her fingertips to his cheek. “This has nothing to do with my hormones. I wish it did.”

It was late on a cold October night when the disaster happened. Curiously, Jack had been thinking of disaster when he went to sleep, for he'd been watching the late news, with reports of floods in Florida, earthquakes in California and Peru, and arsonists bringing down a library in Prague. When he woke up and smelled burning wood, he thought he was dreaming and was angry at himself for letting his
control slip. But no, it was part of the “awake-world,” as Rebecca sometimes called reality. “Honey?” he said sleepily, and turned over to discover she was gone.

From downstairs he could hear her voice. She was singing, or chanting or something.

Jack said, “What the hell?” and got out of bed. The first thing he saw when he came into the living room was the Tarot cards. They lay on the floor, fanned out in concentric half-circles of color and action. And then he saw his wife in the epicenter, crouched down in front of the fireplace, her back to him as she leaned toward the high flames. “Bec?” he said. “What are you doing?”

She turned, her face a mix of rage and despair. “Get away!” she yelled, then, “Please, Jack. Trust me.”

Only then did he see that she'd immersed her arms up to the elbow in the flames, and in her hands she held Simon, bathed in fire.

Jack screamed, leaped at her. With one hand she tried to push him away while the other held on to Simon. She was no match for him. He beat back her flailing hand and shook her away, then grabbed the baby from her. Clutching Simon against his chest he screamed, “You fucking lunatic!”

He thought she might try to fight him, or maybe run. Instead, she just stared at him. “Jack, Jack,” she said, “I wasn't hurting him.”

“Not hurting him? You were holding him in a goddamn
fire
.”

“Feel him. Feel his skin, his clothes. Is he even hot?”

Jack started to shout again, but stopped. It was true, he realized. Simon slept peacefully against him, his beautiful soft skin pleasantly cool. Stubbornly he said, “You were trying to kill him. I got to him in time.”

She shook her head. “I was trying to save him. But you're right. You got to him in time, and now it's too late.” She jumped up and ran from the room. Jack didn't try to stop her.

He heard her weeping as he went first to their bedroom and then the baby's room to pack a suitcase, the whole time holding on tight to Simon, as if Rebecca might swoop in and snatch their baby the moment Jack set him down. But Rebecca never appeared, and when he'd taken what he thought were the essentials, he grabbed his keys and the suitcase with his free hand, then ran from the house.

That was the last time Jack ever saw Rebecca alive.

Matyas sat by the iron gates half the morning before the big doors swung open and four men stepped into the sun. They were young—younger than Matyas' father, at least. They all wore striped robes over white pants and plain sandals. One of them carried a staff with a jewel on top, like the one the Master had at the Hungry Squirrel. This staff was fancier, carved into a spiral, the yellow stone on top as big as a fist.

Matyas couldn't hear what they were saying and didn't much care. It angered him that they didn't appear to notice him standing just a few feet away. “Please, sirs,” he said.

They all turned toward him. The tallest, a man with a high forehead and sandy hair and thin lips, said, “Who are you?”

“My name is Matyas. Sir.”

“What do you want, Matyas-sir?”

To knock you down and walk on you
. He said, “I want to go to your school.”

A couple of them laughed but the tallest one said, “Go inside our school? For what? Whatever you are selling we don't need.”

“I want to become a wizard.”

The man's mouth gaped, then he and his friends burst out laughing. One of the others said, “Go home, boy. We have enough wizards, I'm
afraid.” Another said, “Did Johannan send you? Fat man with a skinny beard? Told you to come here and say that to us?” The tall one added, “We do not appreciate beggars making fun of us.”

“I'm not making fun,” Matyas said.

“Then leave.”

“I want to learn how to fly.” They burst out laughing once again. Matyas wanted to tear off their elegant robes and knock them down in the dirt. Instead he called out, “Come around me! Right now.”

Lights appeared in the air, a scattering of fireflies that hovered around Matyas then vanished within seconds. The man with the spiral staff first looked startled when the lights appeared, but then he rested his stick in the crook of his elbow and clapped his hands in a large sweeping gesture. “Bravo. A true display of power.” And then, “I have no idea who sent you with whatever glamour to summon a flicker of the Splendor, but I suggest you run back and tell him his joke was not very funny.”

Matyas didn't know what to do. Beg? See if he could get inside the gate and hide? Tell them about the Kallistocha, the prophecy that he would fly? They probably would just laugh again. He was pretty sure he could get at least one of the men on the ground and kick him senseless before the others figured out how to pull him off. But suppose they conjured up a demon to eat him?

They had lost interest in him and were about to walk past—and Matyas was about to get down on his knees—when a dry, precise voice called down from above, “I will take him.”

In one motion, the four all turned and stared up at the top of the tower. Matyas could make out a small figure in the single window. The man with the staff said, “Veil?”

“Yes, Lukhanan. You have identified me correctly. Your studies are progressing. Now, if you can keep the boy entertained long enough for me to come and get him, he can begin to work for me.”

“But Mistress,” Lukhanan said, and he appeared genuinely confused, “he's filthy. He'll steal everything the moment you go to sleep.”

“Then I will have to stay awake. I will think of you, Lukhanan, and laughter will drive away drowsiness. Now hold him for me.”

Matyas' mind jammed with thoughts.
A woman. What could a woman teach him? He called her “Mistress.” That's like a Master. But maybe she's a demon
. When the gate swung open again, there was neither demon nor powerful sorceress, only a woman a little taller than Matyas
himself. Her face was sharp and finely lined, with a wide mouth and narrow nose, eyes that looked very alert inside wrinkles, and gray hair pulled tightly back and held with a silver clasp. She wore a long, straight dress, as severe as a shroud, brown with gold and silver threads.

She looked at Matyas for what felt like a very long time, while he squirmed but managed not to look away. Finally, she turned to Lukhanan and said, “There. You see?” as if she'd won some contest.

Lukhanan rolled his eyes. “Look at him. He can't even read.”

Veil turned back to Matyas. “What is your name?”

“Matyas.” He almost said “Master” but stopped himself.

“Can you read, Matyas?”

“No, ma'am. Mistress.”

“Wonderful. Then you will not need to unlearn anything. Or at least not as much.” She turned and walked back through the gate, with Matyas running after her.

When they started up the narrow stone steps, Matyas said, “I dreamed of this tower.”

“Did you? And does it look the same?”

“Well, I only saw it from the outside.”

“Oh, from outside all towers look the same.”

Matyas soon found it hard to keep up with her. After only one flight, he began to breathe heavily; after a second, his shoulders sagged and he had to pull himself up by the plain wooden banister; after a third, his legs wobbled and he didn't know if he could continue. Veil turned and looked at him as if to say, “Tired already? What use are you if you cannot even climb a few steps?” On the fourth flight, he thought for sure he would faint, and almost begged her to stop so he could catch his breath. No. He would not give her any excuse to send him away. Or laugh at him. With all his might, he managed to keep going. Finally they came to a low wooden door, unadorned, with a simple brass handle. Matyas almost wept when Veil opened it herself, for he had no strength left even to release a latch.

The moment they stepped inside, all Matyas' energy returned. He could stand again, and breathe easily. Curious now, he looked around. If he'd expected to see demons in cages, or angels trapped in circles of candles, or maybe eagle feathers as souvenirs from flights above mountains, he had to settle for a simple room with wood walls, two plain, unpainted chairs and a small white rocker, a rough wood table, a small fireplace and books, books, books, some on shelves, some piled on the floor.

Wedged in among the books were various objects, like small bells and thin gold sticks, along with various boxes and pouches, small statues of people and animals, and for some reason a lumpy black stone in a corner. A little, red wooden box, plain and faded, looking as old as Veil herself, sat all alone on a low wooden table. And that was all there was. No other furniture, and certainly no wondrous creatures. Two alcoves extended from the main room, one with a plain iron stove and rough pots, the other with a narrow bed and a lidded white porcelain chamber pot, with a blue curtain for privacy. Without thinking, Matyas blurted, “It's so ordinary.”

Veil smiled. “Is it now? Then tell me, young Matyas, why you found it so difficult to climb the stairs.”

Matyas stood up straight. “I didn't have any trouble.”

“Oh? You looked in pain.”

“I just told you, I was fine.”

She laughed now. “Matyas, there was no shame in your weakness. I needed to test your talent and you have shown it. Remarkably so. Few practiced magicians could have made it even halfway up those stairs, let alone to the top.”

Matyas squinted at her. Was she making fun of him? “It was just some stairs,” he said.

“Look out of the window.”

He peered out. “It's just the courtyard.”

“Look again.”

Shaking his head as if at a madwoman, Matyas took a step closer to the window. He saw blackness, deep night, though a moment earlier it had been sunny. As if from a vast distance swirls of gray emerged, shot through with sharp jewels of color. It all turned, arms spilled out, grew then dissipated like puffs of smoke, replaced immediately by fresh spirals. Matyas stared and stared. He could dive into it, swim in it—

Veil yanked on his arm. He growled at her, tried to fight her off, but she only held on tighter. He turned to tell her to leave him alone when suddenly he realized how off balance he was, that if she had let him go he would have plummeted right out through the window, down into—Now, when he looked again, there was only the courtyard below.

Veil said, “Stairs can be many things, sometimes even a genuine ladder, which is to say a passage to the higher realms. The first flight took you beyond the Moon, the second beyond Venus, the third past
Mercury, the fourth the Sun, and the fifth, well, the fifth flight, young Matyas, carried you past the birthplace of stars. Only the very wise or the very foolish can survive such a journey.”

“Don't call me a fool,” Matyas said.

Veil nodded. “I would not do that. But let me tell you a saying from an old friend of mine. It goes like this: The scholar hears of the Gate and tries to undo the lock. The student hears of the Gate and tries to squeeze between the bars. The fool hears of the Gate and laughs. Without laughter, the Gate would never open.”

“I'm not a fool,” Matyas said. He glanced nervously at the window.

“Oh, no need to worry,” Veil said. “While you stay here it will remain a dull tower leading to an old woman's crowded retreat. As I said, I wanted to test your talent. I am satisfied.”

“Then teach me to fly.”

“Fly? Who told you a wizard can fly?”

Matyas was about to tell her of the voice, the prophecy and the man he'd seen move across the sky, but something stopped him. So he only said, “It's why I came here.”

“Patience,” Veil said. “We will begin your lessons soon. Now I am tired and I would like my hair brushed.” She sat down facing away from him and held out a small brush of pig bristles set into polished horn. With her free hand, she removed the clasp and her hair tumbled down her back.

“I'm not . . .” he started to say, then watched his hand take the brush. It felt warm and almost weightless. He ran it through her hair in long strokes, first jerkily, with anger, but soon smooth and rhythmically. He had no idea how long he'd been doing it when Veil murmured, “Thank you, Matyas. You may rest now.”

He looked around, seeing hard floor everywhere, covered in books, statues and other odd objects. Where was he supposed to sleep? He'd have to twist himself like uncooked dough to find a spot. At least at the inn, his mother had given him a thin pallet and some torn sheets to set down in front of the stove.

He must have made some kind of noise, for Veil's head lifted and she turned to look at him. Matyas said, “I don't . . . I don't know . . .”

“Ah,” Veil said. A finger pointed to the alcove with its small wooden bed, white pillows and a quilt of alternating squares of roses and squiggly signs.

Matyas stared, mouth open but unable to make a noise. He had never slept in a bed. Once, when a guest had left early, he'd sneaked into the room and lain down on top of the scratchy blanket. He couldn't remember now what it felt like. All that stayed in his mind was what happened when his father walked in and caught him. For days he could hardly move to do his chores, and when he did, he had to check constantly for any drops of blood that might leave a stain on a sheet, the floor, a dish.

Now he walked over to stand just outside the alcove where he could stare at the bed. It looked so soft! But suppose it was a trick! Maybe if he dared to lie down he would burst into flames, or snakes would rear up to tie him so he couldn't get away, and fire demons would roast him. He said, “Mistress—”

“Veil,” she said, and when he looked confused she added, “There is no reason to call me Mistress. I prefer my name.” When he did not continue, Veil added, “I apologize for interrupting you. What were you going to say?”

“I can't lie there! That's your bed.”

“Ah,” she said. “I see the problem. Matyas, I am very old, and old women often prefer to sleep sitting up. This rocker suits me quite well. And since I am not using the bed, it's for you.”

Carefully, just in case it was indeed a trick, he lowered himself onto the bed where he lay on top of the quilt. A small sigh escaped him as he closed his eyes. He had never felt anything like it. For a moment he wanted to cry, something he had not done since before he could walk. But then that passed, and a moment later he was asleep.