The Child Eater Read online

  Jack didn’t remember later what he’d answered, or how he’d survived the rest of the evening, only that he somehow got home, smiled as he paid Jessie and listened to her report and stood by the window to watch her drive off in her mother’s Subaru.

  Quietly he stepped into his son’s room and watched Simon sleep. He stood there a long time, his mind jammed up, unable to think in any clear direction.

  Should he take Simon out of school? He could home-school him, maybe hire a tutor. His parents would probably help with the cost. But Simon was happy in school. He was smart, well-adjusted, everyone liked him—a natural leader. Isn’t that what everyone kept saying? Jack rubbed his forehead. He was being ridiculous, he knew. School wasn’t the issue.

  He went into his bedroom and picked up the framed photograph of Rebecca he still kept next to his bed. He’d taken it when they went back to the park where they’d first met. It was shortly after the wedding, when all the trees and sky looked filled with light.

  “Oh, Bec,” he said, “what have you done to our son? Is it true? Does he really have your eyes? That’s what people said when he was a baby, that he had your eyes. Your red hair, too. He’s turned out skinny like me, though. My nose, too, I’m afraid. Sorry.” He felt tears begin and shook his head, as if to fling them away.

  He said, “Is that what you did to him in that fire? Gave him your eyes? You said you weren’t hurting him. Not physically. And you were right, of course, he wasn’t even hot. But what about inside? What were you really burning into him? Jesus, Bec, if he’s like you—I mean, what kind of life can he have—?” He stopped, took a breath. “I’m sorry. I just want him to be happy. I want him to be normal. Is that so terrible? No squirrels, no Tarot cards, just a happy, normal little boy.”

  It struck him that she might have answered, “But Jack, he is normal. Let him be who he is.”

  He closed his eyes and pressed the cool glass against his face. “God, Rebecca,” he said. “I miss you so much.”

  Chapter Eleven

  MATYAS

  As he opened the red box, Matyas braced for a great rush of voices, maybe thunder and wind. But there was only silence. It was so quiet that Matyas felt a strangeness along his spine, and it took him a moment to realize that everything had gone silent, no wind outside the tower, no faint noises from the courtyard, no distant traces of the city. The world had lost its voice. Frightened he’d gone deaf, Matyas whispered, “Matyas, Matyas, Master Matyas,” and was thrilled he could hear his own voice. Somehow, he decided, he had entered another world, where he was all alone with the pictures. Alone with Eternity, he thought. It should have scared him, but all he felt was excitement.

  Reaching down to the stack of cards, he touched the top one with one fingertip, then immediately jerked it away. It was all right, the paper didn’t burn, if anything it felt a little cold, actually, and slippery, like glass left out in winter. He picked it up and looked at the picture, a girl or woman in a white nightdress, like a burial shroud, sitting up in bed and covering her face with her hands, as if she was weeping.

  He stared at it, aware that he didn’t like it but not sure why. It was just a picture. It struck him then that the girl in the drawing looked like Royja, Royja grown up and unhappy, even though it was something drawn a long time ago, maybe hundreds of years. He didn’t want to think about Royja, especially Royja weeping, so he set it face down on the table and looked at the next one, a man hanging upside down by one foot tied to a tree branch, with his hands apparently tied behind his back. A snake coiled around the branch, with its head descending toward the man’s heart. Light filled the man’s face, as if he could see some heavenly beauty at the foot of the tree.

  Matyas looked at this one a long time, the snake at the heart, the serene face. Why wasn’t he in pain? What was he seeing? Where did the light come from? Matyas remembered the Kallistocha from the grove of trees, and he wondered if this might be a picture of the High Prince. But this was a whole man, hanging upside down from a tree, and the Kallistocha Prince was just a head on a black stick. And as beautiful as the prince was, Matyas didn’t think he was very serene, not peaceful and joyous, the way the man in this picture looked. Why was he hanging there? What did he know?

  Finally, Matyas put it aside, for if he was going to discover the secret of flying, it certainly wouldn’t be from someone tied to a tree. Holding his breath, he reached into the box with both hands and lifted out the whole set. They were much heavier than he expected, and he almost dropped them, but he managed to hold on, and with his feet, he moved aside books and jars and carved animals from the messy floor until he’d made a space big enough to spread them out.

  He was about to put them down when he noticed there was one card left in the box, a picture of a woman sitting between two trees, a little like the two trees in the picture Veil had taken with her, except this one had jewels on the branches instead of leaves, white jewels on one, black on the other, but each one radiant. The woman sat on a stone bench mostly obscured by her long blue dress, which billowed out around her like clouds.

  Her face at first looked empty, just darkness, until Matyas saw small lights and realized it must be the night sky with stars. Her face was the sky, and if you stared long enough, you could disappear into her dark and shiny skin. Matyas felt a longing that made him want to drop all the other pictures and only pick up this one, to look at it forever and never let it go. She was mystery, and beauty, the wonders of existence. Matyas thought how he could sit at her feet, as if she was really there, and stare at her, not eating, or moving, until he simply died and she would take him into the stars.

  Suddenly angry, he slapped the picture face down on the floor. More tricks! Veil must have cast a spell on them. She knew if he learned to fly, he would escape her, he would be better than her, so she put spells all over the cards to distract him. Well, it wasn’t going to work. Crouched down, he kept the night woman safely hidden but spread the rest of the cards on the floor.

  So many! One on top of another, scene after scene—men, women, wolves, lions, lightning . . . He became light-headed, like the time he’d dropped a roast, right in front of the rich guests who’d ordered it so that his father had to throw it out, and then as punishment he wasn’t allowed to eat for three days. But this wasn’t a lack, it was too much. There—there was a picture of what it felt like, a man staring at seven gold beakers in the clouds, each one filled with something strange and wonderful, a dragon, a castle, a beautiful face that almost looked like the Kallistocha—

  Matyas knew he had to concentrate. Somewhere in these pictures was hidden the great secret. It had to be there, otherwise why would Veil have put so many spells around it? With quick motions he moved them around, searching for what he needed. He realized he knew in fact what he was looking for, the picture, the card, he’d seen with the old wizard, the one that showed a young man in rich colorful clothes, dancing at the edge of a cliff. The Beautiful Boy about to Fly.

  He found it finally, held it up with both hands before his face to scan it hungrily for secret messages. It was different somehow, or maybe he just hadn’t got a really good look at the one the wizard had in the Hungry Squirrel. The Boy still held out his arms, with the fabric of his green and gold tunic billowing out like wings, and he still stood on one foot, the other raised behind him like a dancer. But now the sky was filled with faint spirals of different colors competing with the Sun, and the ground looked harder, and sharper, as if it might cut his feet through his thin boots if he couldn’t learn to fly.

  Matyas stared and stared at it, as if he could will himself to lift off into the spiral sky. If he couldn’t do this, couldn’t find out the secret, what would happen to him? Stay a slave to Veil, cooking, and cleaning, and brushing her ancient hair until one of them died? Or maybe she’d come back and see what he’d done and turn him into a toad. Maybe he already was a toad, maybe the wizard in the Hungry Squirrel hadn’t really broken his spell, and everything that had happened since was some kind
of dream, and he was just a toad, cold and sick in a swamp somewhere.

  He focused his mind on the picture, the stiff paper, the bright, joyous colors. “Let me in,” he said. “Please.” Suddenly he remembered the strange words Veil had said, the spell in some harsh language that didn’t even sound human. That was what he needed. He trembled just at the memory of hearing it—what would it be like to speak it? And how could he? He didn’t even know what language it was, let alone the words.

  He closed his eyes. Maybe he could remember the sounds. He concentrated, made his mind like a room where he could close the door and window and keep everything out, everything but Veil’s voice. He made himself think of nothing but Veil’s sounds, the lips and tongue that would make those noises. It didn’t matter what they said, it was just sound. Let her voice become his voice, his throat, his teeth, his tongue. Veil’s lips were his lips . . .

  He did it. He made the sounds, and for a moment exultation washed through him, because he knew, with certainty, that none of the apprentices could do this, none of the Masters could do this. Just him and Veil. And Veil had studied it. So he was better—

  Pain. It started as a slash on his tongue, then spread to his lips, his teeth, his cheeks, then his throat, his chest, wherever those sounds had touched he was cut open, as if someone had attacked him with a stone knife. Help me! he thought.

  And then he was there. The pain was gone and he was there, right on the edge of that cliff, under a spiral sky. And because he was inside, he could see beyond the drawing, over the edge of the cliff to a deep valley hidden in clouds, and beyond that to icy mountains. He was alone, and he didn’t know if he’d somehow replaced the Boy, or the Boy had already left, to soar beyond the spirals. It didn’t matter. Matyas stretched out his arms, he opened them like great wings even though there were no folds of cloth to catch the wind. He was Master Matyas! Arms out as far as he could reach, he raised his foot and tilted back his head to the radiant sky.

  And fell.

  He fell through wind, his body tumbling in all directions as he gasped for air that went by too fast for him to grab it in his lungs. He fell through terror like a flood, through darkness and fire. He fell through shame, because if he could fly he wouldn’t have fallen. The cards flashed around him, sometimes flat pictures but sometimes alive, as if he looked through a window. There was the Weeping Woman, and just as with the card, he turned his face from her, this time to see a man walking up a hill while a sad Moon covered the Sun. He saw a woman sitting against a tree and writing in a large book, and as she did so, flowers sprang up around her while impossible colors flooded the air. And he saw an old man, worn out and sick, slumped hopelessly against the wall of an inn as snow piled up around him.

  He saw the Hanging Man, but now the light had gone from his face and he looked gray and cold. And he saw a wizard in a red robe, with a living snake around his waist for a belt, and a face that shone brighter and brighter. He saw this man several times, alone, or with demons chained to a block of stone, or with other people, whole crowds of people, beggars and wizards who walked alongside him, or sat around him, staring at the fire in his face that grew brighter and brighter until it dimmed the Sun. Even in his terror, Matyas understood that this man, this Master, had stolen the light from the Man Hanging on the Tree. He’d stolen the light but not the peace, for he was hungry, always hungry, and when he opened his mouth, and Matyas saw his stone teeth, he knew suddenly that this falling was only the smallest part of fear.

  He searched and searched for the Beautiful Boy, for if Matyas couldn’t fly free, maybe the Boy could save him. But all he ever saw was a wretched man in rags that looked as if they might once have been the Boy’s bright clothes. It was just a glimpse, just a moment, as a pair of dogs bit the man and drove him away, but in that instant, sadness overwhelmed terror, and Matyas wondered if Veil was right after all, that “no man can fly.” Then his fear swept back and banished everything else.

  Just before he crashed, Matyas saw two things, almost lost in the wind and darkness. One was a card, the only one he’d set aside, the woman with the billowing robe whose face was the night sky. The other was in fact not a picture but a person. Or part of one, for it was the High Prince of the Kallistochoi. Both the card and the golden head were calling to him, singing, or shouting, but he couldn’t make it out because—

  He didn’t even know he’d hit something until a different kind of pain roared through his side, and he cried out, and the sound of his voice made him realize the wind had stopped, he was no longer falling. Before he even looked around or tried to guess where he was, he felt himself for blood, for broken bones, the way he’d learned to do when his father had finished with him. Safe. He was unhurt.

  Now he looked around him, felt the ground—no, the floor, for he was in some kind of building, which made no sense—had he fallen through a roof? When he looked up it was too dark at first to see anything. He felt the floor again. It was smooth, almost slippery, like the polished marble steps outside the wizards’ library.

  Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet, bruised but able to stand. The room had grown lighter, or his eyes had adjusted, because he could see around him now. The floor did indeed look like marble, a swirl of red and black, with the walls—quite far away on each side—a paler red. The room—or rather hallway, for it stretched out indefinitely—was lit, he saw now, by round lamps of some kind, about the size of half-melons, pressed high against the walls every ten feet or so. There were no candles inside, or any magical wizard torches; the lamps just gave off a cold, steady light.

  Looking at all this, Matyas felt a sudden sickness that was stronger and harsher than the fear of falling through nothing, or the pain of hitting the floor. I know this place, Matyas thought, I’ve been here before. And, before he could even ask himself where those thoughts came from, I don’t want to be here. He looked up at the ceiling, but turned away almost immediately. There was a painting that ran all the way down the long hallway, at least as far as he could make out. In the picture, angels with razor wings slashed at children who tried to cover their blood-soaked faces.

  Matyas got on his knees and threw up, over and over, though nothing really came out, until finally his stomach stopped its convulsions and he could stand again. Please, he thought. Let me out. I’m sorry. There was no answer, no sound of any kind. When he began to walk, with no idea of where he was going, only the certainty he could not stay where he was, his sandals made a loud slapping sound against the floor.

  He had gone a short distance when he saw papers, cards, scattered on the floor. For a moment he thought he was back in Veil’s tower and relief almost brought him to his knees. But an instant later he saw he was still in the long hallway. He moved forward, though, because if the cards were the Tarot of Eternity, maybe he could use them to break whatever spell was holding him.

  When he got closer he saw they were all the same picture, and it was the one he wanted, the Beautiful Boy about to Fly. Matyas rushed forward, excited that they might help him escape, and he’d already bent down to pick up the first one when he jerked back his hand. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong even before he saw what it was. They were all wrong. Someone had cut out all the faces, taken a dagger, or some other sharp blade, and hacked out the entire head, so that every card had a jagged hole above the shoulders.

  “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 darkn
ess 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.