The Child Eater Page 9

  If Veil’s body strained at her task, her face showed nothing. There was only the light of a single stubby candle to reveal what she was doing, but he could see her expression clearly, as blank as the stone mask she kept on the wall next to the window.

  After several minutes, Veil abruptly finished. One moment she was pressing the pestle down with all her might, the next she’d set the mortar on the table and straightened up to take a deep breath. Matyas shrank down under the blanket, but she took no notice of him. Twice more she sucked in air and let it out so slowly and completely Matyas unconsciously gasped for breath.

  And then she was rubbing the paste she’d made all over her hands, and anger flooded Matyas. Flying ointment! She’d made it after all, just as he’d begged her to, but not for him! She’d stolen it from him. Lied, and taken it all for herself. He wanted to get up and knock her down, wipe it off her hands and onto his own. But he didn’t move. He was suddenly so tired again that it took all his effort just to keep his eyes open. She was going to get away, jump out of the window and never return. Leave him with all her old books, piles and piles of them, and she’d never taught him to read.

  Veil went nowhere near the window, only stepped over to a narrow wooden stand hardly noticeable among the stacks of books. At first Matyas thought the stand was empty, but then he saw it did contain one object, a red wooden box, unadorned but very smooth, about the length and width of Matyas’ hand. Now he remembered he’d seen it before—that first day, actually. And he must have wiped the dust off it a dozen times since then, but it felt now like the first time he was looking at it. With all the statues, and elaborate books, and ornate bowls and sticks, the box was so easy to overlook.

  Veil said something, and even though it was too low for Matyas to make it out, he could feel it, tiny sharp jabs all up and down his spine. Was it demon language? He was pretty sure it wasn’t human talk. Something else she was hiding from him. He remembered how he’d thought the Masters had summoned demons to build their grand library and dining hall, but maybe it was Veil and the tower? Was he in a demon tower right that moment? Were the bricks made of dirt and demon spit—or worse?

  He realized his mind was drifting away from the red box. It seemed to take a great effort to keep his mind on it. A spell. She must have cast a spell on the box. Or on Matyas himself. To make him forget. He forced himself to focus all his attention on the box and on Veil as she lifted the lid.

  Voices. A murmur of voices, a whole crowd of them. Was this where she kept her demon slaves, imprisoned in the red box? Any moment now they would roar out, swarm all through the tower, screaming, biting. This was why Veil had taken him when Lukhanan and the others were about to throw him out—not as a student, not even a servant, just something to feed to her captive monsters. Maybe if he shrank down in his bed, closed his eyes tight, as he should have done all along, Veil would spare him. Please, please, he thought. She could send her demons out through the window to find some homeless beggar, maybe some old man too weak to stand up, who wasn’t going to live long anyway.

  No! he told himself. This was just Veil’s spell, for hadn’t the voices—the real voices, he decided—called him Master Matyas? Didn’t they promise he would fly? Protection. He needed to protect himself. “Come around me,” he whispered as softly as he could, and there they were, for the first time in weeks, tiny lights all around his face. The Splendor. “Stay close to me,” he told them. “Don’t let her see you.” The lights moved almost against his skin.

  If Matyas had been scared that even the Splendor would not be strong enough against Veil’s demons, he was able to let go of his fear, just a little, when no monsters surged from the box. Instead, the voices died down, softer than a breeze, as Veil reached in and lifted out . . . not a hideous creature, not a dragon, not a jewel of captured starlight, but only a stack of thick papers.

  At first Matyas nearly groaned out loud in disappointment. More paper! Something else he couldn’t read. It always came back to reading. But then he realized, he knew what these papers—these cards were. He’d seen the old wizard looking at them that night in the Hungry Squirrel. “Tarot cards” he’d called them. What was the name? Tarot of Eternity. If you had the original, he said, you could change the world. Or something like that. And that other thing, the one that made no sense—“Whosoever touches the Tarot of Eternity, he shall be healed of all his crimes.” Only, the original was lost, hidden away by the great sorcerer who’d made them . . . Joachim, that was the name.

  So had Veil found it? Maybe Joachim didn’t hide the pictures, maybe Veil had stolen them. Was that it? Was she holding eternity in her paste-covered hands? What crimes would they heal her of? Refusing to teach Matyas to fly? If she could see all of time, she didn’t show it, for she just held the whole stack between her hands, one below the pile, one above, as if to squeeze them together. She took three deep breaths, and each time the tower itself seemed to shudder, as if battered by wind. “Stay around me,” Matyas whispered to the lights. “I need you.”

  Now Veil shifted her hands so that she could slide the pictures—the cards—in and out of each other. The effect of this simple action was dizzying, as if the room, maybe the world itself, was constantly forming and breaking, too fast to actually see anything change, only feel it. Finally she stopped, and Matyas had to hold in a sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure that even the Splendor could protect him if he made a noise.

  If Veil knew he was awake and watching, she certainly didn’t show it. Instead, she held the stack in her left hand and lifted the top card with her right. A flash of light blinded Matyas for a moment, but still he didn’t move or make a sound. When he could see again, Veil was holding the picture before her face, high enough for Matyas to see it over her shoulder.

  The painting showed a naked boy and girl holding hands in an orchard where half the trees were bright with leaves and half looked dead and withered. The boy had golden hair in curls down to his neck, and his face and hands shone with light. The girl’s pale skin glistened, and her long straight hair shone with silvery light. It gave Matyas a strange feeling to look at them, a kind of longing all mixed up with fear. He missed Royja all of a sudden, but forced himself to concentrate, to watch Veil. And as he watched, the old woman put all the cards but the one she held back in the box and closed the lid. A shock went through Matyas, and he thought of standing outside a beautiful palace and having someone suddenly slam the door. For a second he hated Veil and wanted to leap at her and knock her down for everything she was hiding from him, everything she denied him. So it was just as well that Veil, holding the picture of the boy and girl against her bony chest, simply walked to the door and left the tower.

  Matyas could hardly believe it. She’d gone out and there was the box. He wanted to jump but it appeared he’d lain motionless for so long he couldn’t move. “Give me strength,” he said, and the Splendor moved all around him until his skin began to tingle, and then a moment later, he leaped up and dashed to the box.

  No, first he needed the ointment. When he looked in the mortar there wasn’t much left, but he managed to rub a thin residue on his palms and fingertips. He felt a slight tingling, pleasant when it started, exciting as proof that he was working magic. But then it became warmer and warmer, until suddenly it felt as if his hands were on fire. Frantically he shook them in the air, then rubbed and scraped them to try and get the poison off. It was all a trap. Veil had slipped some kind of fire poison into the residue. He ran and plunged his hands into the water bucket and felt a blessed coolness. But then they heated up again, even worse, and he realized she must have poisoned the water as well.

  No, he thought. It wasn’t poison, it was magic. Power, real wizard power, wasn’t soft and gentle, it burned. He forced himself to stand there, with his hands in front of his face, the fingers spread wide, and steady his panicky breaths. The trick, he thought, was not to mind the burn. And as he did that, just breathed and watched his hands, the Splendor came around him, swirled all around
his palms and in and out of his fingers, an ancient dance, until slowly the pain subsided and Matyas knew he was ready.

  He turned to the box now, gently touched the fingertips of his right hand to the smooth wood.

  He held his breath and opened the lid.

  Chapter Ten

  SIMON/JACK

  Simon excelled in kindergarten, and then first grade, in all the ways a father wanted. His first-grade teacher, Mrs. Griswold, was amazed he could read whole chapter books. Hearing her praise, Jack nodded and smiled, proud of the hours he’d spent reading to Simon or tracing the letters with him, showing him how to sound out the words. He thought also of how carefully he’d chosen the stories, the ones he would read aloud to his son, and then the ones Simon would read for himself. Stories about boys—and sometimes girls, Jack wanted to make sure Simon didn’t pick up the idea that girls were weak or frightened—who were brave and kind, and filled with wonder at the world. The real world, that is. Jack continued to screen out fairy tales, or stories of children with magical powers. He might choose a book about a child fascinated by the colors of butterflies, to help Simon develop a love of nature, or maybe a story of a girl who saves an injured horse from the vet’s bullet, then nurses him back to health to win a race. That sort of book.

  Just so long as the girl and the horse never talked to each other. Oh, the girl could talk. “Good horse, Shadow. You’re going to get all better. I promise.” Before he would buy such a book, however, Jack would read the whole thing, just to make sure Shadow never turned around and told Alice some secret about her cranky grandfather.

  Over time, Jack’s fears began to ease. Simon liked animals, same as most kids, but didn’t try to strike up any conversations with them. He got along with the other kids, who seemed to like him, even follow him. It had been like that in day care, Jack remembered, and allowed himself a brief swell of pride, quickly followed by nervousness that he somehow might let his guard down, about what he wasn’t sure. At home Simon did what any kid did. He played video games, screened by Jack for too much violence, and especially too much fantasy, and he watched a little more TV than Jack liked, but would turn it off to do his homework when Jack put on his Stern Daddy voice. He had friends in the neighborhood, and sometimes play dates with stable families, where Jack would occasionally go along and discuss business or lawns with the father. The mother might say how sad it was the first time she learned Simon’s mom had died when he was just a baby, then usually let it go.

  One Saturday, as he watched from the house while Simon and a boy named Marty laughed and threw snowballs at each other, Jack let out a long sigh. It was only then that he realized he’d been holding his breath for six years. It’s okay, he told himself. Simon was okay. He was safe. Jack’s beautiful child didn’t even suffer from bad dreams. Well, no more than any normal kid. Suddenly, Jack laughed, loud enough that Simon must have heard it outside, for he turned around for just a moment, then went back to his game as a snowball hit him. “Not fair!” Jack heard him yell. “I wasn’t looking.”

  Still grinning, Jack remembered how he’d made such a fool of himself with Mrs. Beech that first day in day care, how he’d told her Simon was afraid of squirrels, and then made sure the poor confused woman didn’t keep any Tarot cards lying around. God, what must she have thought of him? It didn’t matter, for hadn’t Simon, beautiful strong Simon, achieved that elusive dream the Wisdom family had sought for generations? Simon Wisdom—more normal than normal.

  For a moment Jack felt a strong stab of guilt, as if he’d betrayed his wife in some way. “No, Bec,” he said out loud, softly. “This is good. It may not be what you wanted for him, but it’s what he needs. Our little boy is normal.”

  But he was wrong.

  One day Simon came home with a letter from the school. The second grade was about to go on the children’s first ever field trip in a couple of weeks, and the school needed permission from one parent for each child. The destination was a place called “Animal World Petting Zoo.” Jack wanted to tear the paper in pieces, but instead he kept reading as the letter gave the address and website, the bus arrangements (it was all during school hours), how many teachers and volunteer parents would be going along, money required for tickets and lunch—in short, everything a parent needed to know to feel safe and secure. Except, maybe, guarantees that the animals would not suddenly start talking to his son.

  Simon must have seen his father’s face, for he quickly said, “Please, Dad, can I go? It’s gonna be so cool. Everyone’s going.”

  Jack thought maybe he should sign on as a chaperone. But they didn’t appear to need anyone else, and things had become busy at work, with a tight deadline approaching. And besides, he was being ridiculous, wasn’t he? How normal would his son feel if he was the only kid not allowed to go on a field trip? Jack signed the paper, then took Simon out for ice cream.

  On the day of the field trip, Jack was certain he’d made a terrible mistake. How could he ever have thought of letting his son—Rebecca’s son—get close to a bunch of cuddly friendly animals? Should he just tell Simon he’d changed his mind and Simon couldn’t go? He looked at him, and the poor little guy was so excited, talking nonstop even as he ate all his eggs and toast without any need for a prod. No, there was no way Jack could deny his son this, certainly not without some actual reason. Otherwise it would be as if . . . as if he was punishing Simon for his mother’s craziness. And wasn’t it just normal for a kid to want to go to a petting zoo?

  Maybe he could cancel his meeting, Jack thought, to go along on the field trip. He was pretty sure they’d be happy to have another parent. But if he went, he would probably just drive everyone nuts by hovering around his son all the time, ready to grab him and run off with him at the first sign of any unauthorized animal conversations. He had to smile as he stood by the stove and sipped his coffee. He was being ridiculous, he knew. What would he tell his boss? “Sorry, Charlie, that presentation we’ve been working up to for six months? I’ve gotta blow it off. I have to protect my son from talkative sheep.”

  Jack walked Simon out to meet the bus. He gave his son a hug (not too long, he hoped), double-checked Simon had put his money for lunch and treats in a safe place, then watched as Simon ran up to where his friend Jason had saved him a seat. Jack gave Mrs. Coleman, Simon’s teacher, his card with his cell phone number—just in case she’d lost the list with all the parents’ numbers. He’d already checked that her number was safely programmed into his phone. The teacher smiled. “It’s all right to be nervous, Mr. Wisdom. Every parent is the first time their child goes on a field trip. It’s normal, really. I promise you, we’ll take very good care of him.”

  Jack stood in the road and waved one last time at the bus as it turned the corner.

  Somehow he got through the day. He even managed to do a decent enough presentation that his boss and the clients looked pretty happy as he turned off his PowerPoint and closed his laptop. Then he went home early to make sure he’d be there when Simon returned.

  The bus was a few minutes late, a few maddening minutes with Jack at the edge of the picture window, where he could watch for it without being too obvious. Finally, he saw it, no black smoke bursting from the exhaust, no tires blown out. He forced himself not to run as he went outside to meet it. A moment later, Simon clambered down the steps. “Dad! It was so cool,” he said. “All the animals, you could go right up and touch them. And they gave you these little bags of corn you could feed them. Did you know that baby goats are called kids? Isn’t that cool? Oh, and they had these little pigs that were smaller than Mr. Harvin’s yappy dog.”

  Jack listened happily as he took his son into the kitchen for a snack. “Oh, and some of the kids,” Simon said, “I mean the real kids, not the goats, were kind of scared so they just kind of threw the corn at the animals and backed off, but I held it out and they came and ate it right out of my hand. It tickled and it was kind of slobbery, but it was really cool. Oh, and then Tommy Harmon slipped and fell in
to some poop!” He laughed happily as he ate his jam sandwich (he didn’t like peanut butter).

  Jack just smiled, and nodded, and contributed a few, “That’s really great!” lines while he secretly waited for, “Oh, and Dad? This one little lamb came right up and talked to me.” But nothing like that poured out of Simon’s mouth, and after a few minutes, when Simon ran to the living room to watch TV, Jack leaned back against the sink, closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank you.” He wasn’t sure whom he was talking to.

  The hammer fell on Jack Wisdom two weeks later. It was parent-teacher night at Mathers Elementary School, an event that Jack thought took place much more often than when he was a kid. The first couple of times, back when Simon was in kindergarten, he’d felt a little uncomfortable, the only single father among all the mothers and couples. By now, however, he’d grown used to it, even smiled at some of the admiring looks from the women whose husbands either had refused to come or fiddled with their phones when the teacher was talking.

  Jack felt good on this spring night. Jessie, his favorite babysitter, was taking care of Simon, who actually listened to her, and Jack was pretty sure Mrs. Coleman would have some nice things to say about Jack’s precious boy.

  And so she did. She talked about Simon’s reading skills, his curiosity, his politeness. And then she went on about what a natural leader he was. “It’s amazing,” she told Jack. “The kids all seem to look to him to tell them what to do.” She laughed and added, “To be honest, I think I’m feeling that way a little myself.” Jack felt his stomach clench, though he had no idea why. Mrs. Coleman went on, “Remember that field trip a couple of weeks ago? To the petting zoo? Well, we came to a certain corner, with the bus, you know, and Simon suddenly said, ‘We have to turn here.’ Well, of course I told him the driver knows where to go, and he was quite good about it, he just went back to playing some video game with Jason. But guess what? Two blocks later, we saw that a tree had fallen across the road. Can you believe it? We had to backtrack to the corner where Simon had said to turn! It was like he knew or something.”