The Child Eater Read online

  Not all his chores were a burden. Or maybe it was better to say that some were burdens mixed with pleasure. Veil wanted everything kept clean of dirt, even dust, and that was a lot of work, but the things he cleaned, the statues, the jars, the endless books, these were a constant fascination. And a frustration, too, for he wanted to know everything, he wanted to read all the books, but every time he asked Veil to teach him she refused, or didn’t even answer.

  On Tuesdays and Fridays, Matyas went out through the Academy gates and walked down the hill to a street market a mile long, where vendors stood behind wooden tables piled high with cheeses and fish and cured meats, and green vegetables and berries in summer and root vegetables and apples in winter. There were bolts of cloth, including bright shimmering silks, and thick wools with strands of color woven in, and soft linens. There were spices and teas from across the waters and casks of wine and beer.

  The first time Matyas came here, he stared and stared until he realized people were laughing at him and calling out things like, “Over here, country boy. I’ve got something really special for you.” After that, he did his best to appear casual, but he still looked from side to side, not wanting to miss anything. He imagined how much Royja would have loved this, how if she was with him, he would blindfold her and lead her right into the center of the market, let her breathe the smells of the fish and spices, listen to the din of haggling. Then he would fling away the blindfold and watch her eyes blink in amazement. Someday, he promised himself. When he became a real Master and could send a coach drawn by horses made of moonlight.

  At first the market people appeared to take him for a kitchen boy. They would say things like how much his “mistress” would love some special cheese or cake. Even worse, they looked at the simple things he bought, and his tattered clothes, and assumed the kitchen he worked in must be a very poor one. Sometimes they pretended to offer him exotic wines, or silver table ornaments, then laugh as he pretended not to hear them.

  It didn’t take long for Matyas’ love of market days to turn to dread. He would try to look busy, cutting vegetables very small, or rearranging books so that she would not disturb him by sending him to the stalls. Finally she stared at him one Friday morning, her head tilted back slightly as if to see him from a different angle, while he pretended not to notice as he rubbed a soft cloth over a small stone statue of a woman holding a pair of snakes. “Matyas?” Veil said. “Is something wrong?”

  Answers crowded his head. I’m not your slave! And I didn’t come here to buy cheese, I came to fly! And Everyone laughs at me. Teach me a spell to make them stop. But all he said was, “I want different clothes.” He felt himself turn red and couldn’t look at her. Why did he say that? He didn’t care about how he looked; he wanted magic and books. He wanted to learn to read all these great works he dusted every day. He wanted to study their secrets, not clean them.

  To his surprise, Veil did not ridicule him, or threaten to turn him into a horned toad, but instead nodded, as if he’d said something very wise. “Forgive me,” she told him. “Old women forget about such things. You are young, and need clothes that are fresh and clean, and proper to your station.”

  “Station?” he said. Did she mean servant? Slave?

  “Yes, of course. You are, after all, an apprentice in the Academy of Wizards.” His breath stopped for a moment, but Veil appeared not to notice. “Lukhanan would never forgive me if I allowed you to misrepresent our students to the world.” She got up from her chair in that slightly stiff way she had, then walked over to a plain wooden box that stood on the floor with smaller, more ornate boxes piled on top of it. Carefully she removed everything, then lifted the dark brown lid to reveal what looked like blankets, and sheets painted with circles and diagrams of some kind. Matyas had not been in Veil’s tower very long, but he had begun to suspect that nothing was ever quite what it seemed.

  He wondered what she would produce for him. A great thick robe like the ones the Masters wore? A coat of many colors, maybe, and a hat with a red plume. In the end, it was simply a shirt of white linen with red ties across the front, undyed wool pants and a long sleeveless leather coat. “Here,” Veil said as she held them out across her arms. “Your sandals should do for now. We’ll see to proper boots when winter comes.”

  It took a moment for Matyas to reach out and take them, as if she might yank them away and tell him it was a joke. “Can I put them on?” he said once he had them safe in his hands.

  Veil laughed. “Of course. I was saving them just for you, after all. I’m sorry I forgot. That seems to happen more and more, I’m afraid.” Later, Matyas would think of the strangeness of what she’d said, for what did she mean by saving them? She’d only met him a few weeks before. But right then he just ran into his alcove, closed the curtain—he’d already grown used to the strange idea of privacy, something he’d never known sleeping alongside the stove in the Hungry Squirrel—and put on the new clothes. They fitted perfectly. After all, he thought later, hadn’t she been saving them for him? The idea made him a little dizzy but he didn’t care.

  When he held up his old clothes he realized how filthy they were, how they stank, and the thought that he’d walked around in them for weeks filled him for a moment with shame, and then anger. And that too was odd, for during his whole life in his parents’ inn he’d stunk of grease and soot and slop and never thought about it. But right then all he said was, “What should I do with these?”

  “Do you want them?”

  “No!”

  Veil laughed, a sound so much fresher and younger than her old bent body. “Good. Then let the birds have them.”

  “Birds?”

  She walked to the small window and beckoned him to follow. “Yes,” she said. “What are rags to us are treasures to our friends.” Slightly nervous at what he might see, Matyas bent forward to look out of the window. At first he noticed—relieved—the courtyard and the stone buildings of the Academy. Then he saw, high above them, birds floating on the warm air, outlined against light clouds. “Are you ready?” Veil said. Matyas nodded but held on tightly to his old clothes. Quietly Veil said, “Now, Matyas.”

  Matyas thrust the clothes out through the window with such force he nearly lost his balance and fell head first, but then he steadied himself on the window frame—or maybe Veil caught him, he was never sure—and he stood back to watch. For a moment the rags fluttered in place, held up by the same breezes that sustained the birds. And then it looked as if beams of light broke through the clouds and stabbed the fabric so that all of a sudden the clothes broke apart into tatters that blew away from each other. The birds swooped down, not one kind but many, hawks, an owl with a gray body and a white face, crows, herons, an eagle the biggest and a hummingbird the smallest. For a moment it looked as if they would fight each other but then each one appeared to get what it wanted, for they all spun away and took off into the sky, higher and further until at last the light and the clouds swallowed them.

  Matyas watched them for a long time, watched the space where they’d been. His throat hurt in a way that made it impossible to think, and so he didn’t try, he just watched. After a long time, he looked down at the courtyard, where the wizards and their students walked around, oblivious to the sky. He stepped back into the dimmer light of the room and looked at his arms in their clean white sleeves, as if he’d brought the clouds down to wrap them around his body.

  Veil said quietly, “The market, Matyas. It’s time for you to go and buy what we need.”

  At the foot of the stairs, Matyas stood a moment in the dark tower, one hand on the thick iron latch. What would he do if the apprentices, or the wizards themselves, gawked at his new clothes, made jokes, pointed and laughed? He wished he had the power to strike them all down, turn them into toads and rats. But then he remembered the owl, just the owl, as it took a shred of what had been his arm or his leg, he couldn’t say which, and lifted up into the clouds. And he discovered he didn’t care what anyone thought, or what jo
kes they might make.

  Outside in the courtyard there were indeed some shouts and some laughter, though they died away quickly. Maybe it was because Matyas paid no attention, only looked up at the sky.

  In the market, no one appeared to regard him differently at all. Oh, they joked, the usual offers to show him something special, and a couple indeed said how he must have got a promotion, or else done something truly special for his mistress—or master—but mostly it seemed they just didn’t care who bought their cheese and fish and cabbage, so long as the coins were good.

  No, it wasn’t the clothes that changed the way the market people regarded him. It was something that happened a week later. Usually, Veil told him what she wanted and where to go for it and how much to pay, and gave him the correct amount of coins. The first couple of times she made him repeat it back, until he told her, “I’m not stupid,” to which she apologized, and then only told him once. One day, however, she gave him a piece of paper with nine words written in a vertical column, the letters small and needle-sharp. Though he had no idea what the words said, Matyas had stared long enough at the books in the tower to observe that Veil formed her letters with a kind of flowing precision, free of the flourishes and ornamental style of most of the manuscripts. Matyas said, “If you’d teach me to write I could do this for you.” He had no idea what this might be, and didn’t care.

  Veil ignored him. She said, “Take this to the very end of the market. You will see a table all by itself, and a man with a bald head and tattoos of birds on his arms. Give the paper to him, along with this.” She passed Matyas a leather bag with what felt like twice the number of coins she usually gave him for everything they needed. “His name is Johannan,” Veil said. “He will know what to do.”

  Matyas made his way through the usual jeers and fake offers and promises, but as he kept going, past the vegetables, the fish, the cloth, not stopping for the usual cheese or turnips, as it became clear he wasn’t going to stop at all until he reached the end, a strange silence settled around him. He became aware suddenly that everyone was watching him and pretending not to.

  It was easy to spot Johannan. His stall was indeed at the end, with an empty space between him and all the rest. The table appeared to be made from the same rough wood as the others, but was piled with boxes and jars of various sizes. On the ground beneath it stood three small chests of different metals, one iron, one bronze, the other silver. The day was cool, an early autumn chill, so that most of the vendors had jackets or shawls over their aprons, but Johannan wore only a thin yellow linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, as if he could not bear to hide the bright plumage that adorned his thick arms. For he was tattooed, magnificently, an elaborate bird covering each arm. Years later, Matyas would see such birds and realize they were called parrots, but now all he could do was stare at the sharp detail of the multicolored feathers, and think, just like those first couple of times at the market, how much Royja would love to see this.

  “Are you Johannan?” Matyas said.

  “I believe so,” the burly man said.

  Matyas hesitated at the odd remark, then said, “I’m supposed to give this to you,” as he passed the paper to a thickly calloused hand.

  Johannan studied the list, nodding once or twice. “And the money?” he said.

  Matyas showed him the bag but held tightly to it. “After you give me what I came for.”

  Johannan nodded again. “A man of caution. Very wise. But tell me, how would you know if I cheated you?” Matyas’ face grew hot as he realized his ignorance was displayed all over him. Johannan laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve never cheated Veil yet, and I’m certainly not about to start now. If I ever visit other worlds, I would prefer the choice of where and when to be left to me.”

  Matyas watched intently, as if his eyes alone could absorb the knowledge of all the powders and leaves and oils that Johannan assembled so quickly it was hard to follow his hands. Smells swirled around him, some sweet, some bitter, and one so sharp it seemed to cut Matyas in half. That was when Johannan opened a jar containing a thick black paste and spooned a tiny amount of it into a little silver vial. Matyas gasped and sweat covered his face but he managed not to fall down or even make any noise. At the nearby stalls, owners and customers alike were coughing and retching, though no one yelled out for Johannan to put it away, or to do his business somewhere else. Johannan himself pretended not to notice.

  When all the powders were in little envelopes and the oils and pastes in vials, Johannan wrapped everything in paper covered with large letters and solemnly handed it to Matyas. Then he held his palm out. “The money,” he said. “Or do you want to check first that I did everything correctly?”

  “No,” Matyas said, with as much dignity as he could manage. “If Veil trusts you, then so do I.”

  Johannan smiled. “I’m honored.”

  Walking back through the market, Matyas pretended not to notice all the stares, the whispers of, “Veil! He works for Veil,” and, “Not works, he’s her apprentice. Veil must have disguised him to test us.”

  It was only when he had left the market noise and smells behind and was making his way up the hill to the Academy that it struck him. A test! Of course, but not the market people. Him. Veil was testing his loyalty, or his courage, or something, and now she was going to teach him to fly! That must be what all these disgusting powders and filthy oils were for. He tried to remember if the man he’d seen flying that night by the dark woods had any strong smells to him. He couldn’t recall anything, but it didn’t matter. Matyas was going to fly.

  When he returned he ignored whoever might be in the courtyard and ran up the winding steps to the top of the tower. Veil was reading from a large black book with pages of stiff parchment and ornate oversized letters that even Matyas could see belonged to some other alphabet than the usual. The letters looked somehow watery in the way they flowed in curlicues from one to the other. Usually Matyas would stare at any open page, as if, if he just looked at them long enough, with enough concentration, they would have to reveal their secrets. This time he only glanced at the book then excitedly held out the small leather sack containing all the powders, leaves and oils.

  Veil nodded as she took the sack, then set it down on a wooden table next to her, alongside a glass bowl full of colored stones and what looked like an ancient dried lizard. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I got everything.”

  “I’m sure you did.” He stood there until she looked up at him and said, “I believe you have work to do.”

  Matyas blurted out, “But what about my flying ointment?”

  “Flying ointment?” She saw him look down at the sack, then back at her face. “Oh, I see. You thought all this was for you. I have other concerns than you, Matyas.”

  He felt his face turn red but refused to look away. “If you’d teach me, like you said you would, I wouldn’t have to wait. I could do it myself.”

  “Do what yourself? Make a flying ointment?”

  “Yes!”

  “And then what? Leave me? Fly out through the window and not even say goodbye?”

  “So you admit it!”

  “Admit what?”

  Veil was smiling, ever so slightly, but Matyas ignored it. “You want to keep me a slave. That’s why you won’t teach me. Or make me a flying ointment.”

  “Oh, Matyas, I have no need of a slave. Believe me, I’ve lived for a long time without you, and managed quite well.”

  “Then why won’t you make me an ointment? So I can fly?”

  “No such ointment exists. I’ve told you this. How can I teach you anything if you don’t listen to what I say?”

  Matyas’ hands clenched and unclenched. The old woman was just playing with him, as if he was some small animal in a cage. He remembered how he’d gone to the courtyard one day and seen several apprentices practicing a spell on a frightened squirrel in a cramped wooden cage. Matyas couldn’t tell what they were trying to do, but whatever
it was, it must have been painful, for the poor animal would spasm, then shriek, while the boys all laughed.

  Was that what Veil wanted him for, something to torture? If so, she was going to get a big surprise. When he learned to fly he would grab her—by the feet—and fly all around the courtyard, maybe over the whole city, until she screamed and begged him to set her down.

  He must have been grinning at this idea, for Veil glanced at him and said, “I’m glad I can amuse you, Matyas. Now it’s time for you to prepare our supper.”

  The whole time he was working, then eating, then cleaning, Matyas kept an eye on the sack. What would she do with it? If it wasn’t for a flying ointment, what was it for? After he’d finished his chores and brushed Veil’s hair—the usual signal for the end of the day—Matyas arranged himself in his narrow bed so that he could look out at the leather sack through a gap he’d left between the curtain and the wall. He’d have to pretend to be asleep, or Veil might not do anything. Luckily, he was good at that. Faking sleep was one way to avoid his father’s drunken fists. It didn’t always work, but at least he had a chance. So now he looked out through his own slitted eyelids, just as he used to do in the kitchen so he would know when to roll away from a sudden kick to the stomach.

  Matyas had no idea when he fell asleep. He didn’t even remember being drowsy. One moment he was watching the sack on the table, the next he had woken up to see Veil working a mortar and pestle made of green stone. He just stared, unable to move or even think clearly.

  Whatever she was grinding in the bowl must have been very hard because she had to work the pestle so much her shoulders moved with the motion, and her long silver hair, still loose and flowing from the brush, swayed behind her like a thin curtain. Matyas tried to recall if any of the things he’d bought from Johannan had looked very hard. Weren’t there a couple of brown nuts of some kind? Round, with a scratchy surface. He shook his head to try to remember. Why was it so hard to think?