The Child Eater

by Rachel Pollack

  She said, “You have to go, you know. You have to break the chain.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Simon said.

  “You do, you do,” the woman told him. “There’s so many. Thousands. Over and over.”

  Simon began to cry. “I don’t want to go. Please. Please don’t make me.” He ran downstairs and threw himself in bed with the covers held high. He lay there a long time, then went to wake his father.

  “What is it?” Jack said immediately.

  Simon told his father what had happened, then said, “I don’t want to go, Daddy. I don’t like Doctor Reina. I’m scared.”

  His father sighed, said, “Simon, it was just a dream.”

  “No! It was real.”

  Daddy looked away, and Simon didn’t have to cheat to know his father was trying not to cry. A moment later, his father got out of bed. “Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.” They went to the end of the hall where a small door opened to the unfinished crawl space that was too low for an attic and only served to store old computers and other things Simon’s dad intended to sell or recycle. “You see?” Daddy said. “No fancy attic, no old woman. It was just a dream, Simon. That’s all it was.” When Simon looked away, Daddy gently turned his face so Simon had to look at him. He said, “This is why you have to go to Doctor Reina’s institute. So you can stop being scared of your dreams. Don’t you see, Sweetie? You have to get better.” Simon pulled away and ran back to his room where he slammed the door.

  On the second night before he had to leave, Simon found a factory of dead children. He was lying in bed, tired, but scared to fall asleep, when he heard that awful cry of agonized children. It was the sound from his dreams but he knew he was awake. “Go away,” he whispered. “Leave me alone.” The sound grew louder until Simon knew it would not stop until he went to look for it. He put on his bathrobe and slippers and went out through the back door.

  There were no pieces of bodies to leave a trail, like in his dreams, but somehow he knew where to go. He walked for a long time, shivering in a chilly wind, until finally he came to a large brick building, very old, with chipped paint and broken windows. The sound of weeping children filled the sky. Run, Simon thought, but instead he found a metal door that creaked open when he pulled with both hands.

  Inside he saw a giant room, very long and wide with a high ceiling and steel-beamed walls. Dust and a smell of grease filled the air. It was hard to see in the dim light from the doorway, but after some time he could make out two long rows of metal tables, and on each one—each one—heads! They were filled with children’s heads! Like products waiting to be picked up and delivered to customers!

  Simon gagged. He thought he would throw up or faint. He had to feel his way back to the doorway, for the awful sight filled his mind as if the heads could float up in the air and blind him. Just as he found the way out, the heads all spoke, fifty or a hundred voices. “Go!” they cried. “Break the spell!”

  Simon ran all the way home. This time he went straight to his father.

  “Simon,” Daddy said, “it was a dream.”

  “No!” Simon screamed. He showed his father the dirt on his slippers and bathrobe.

  “Oh, Sweetie, you must have been sleepwalking.” He shook his head. “That’s . . . that’s a new one.”

  “I wasn’t sleepwalking. I saw it.” He got down on his knees and clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. “Please, please, please,” he said. “Don’t make me go.”

  Daddy began to cry. He pulled Simon’s hands apart, gently lifted him off his knees. “I’m sorry. We have to do this. You’ve got to get help. I don’t want to send you away, please believe me. You’re my boy, I love you. But I don’t have any choice. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Then don’t do anything!”

  “I can’t, I can’t. I can’t just watch you suffer so much and do nothing.”

  On his last night at home, Simon Wisdom met a woman made of light. He had fallen asleep after an hour reading a book while his father sat on a chair alongside the bed. When Simon woke up, his father had gone and there was a soft light in the chair, as if the full moon had taken his father’s place. Simon smiled at this funny idea, and was about to go back asleep when he heard a soft voice from downstairs, reciting a poem:

  Simon, Simon,

  Rhymin’ Simon,

  Take the time an’

  Stop the crime an’

  Set the children free.

  Simon tiptoed past his father’s room and on downstairs to the living room. A woman sat in Grandma’s angelback chair (it was really called a wingback but Simon used to think Grandma looked like a queen of angels and the sides of the chair were the tips of her wings). The chair was pink with blue threads, and the woman wore a blue dress, soft and long, like an angel’s robe. Tiny lights sparkled all around her and for a moment Simon thought she actually was made of different colored lights, like on July Fourth, when they would make a flag or even someone’s face out of fireworks.

  He felt calm as he sat down across from her. She was so pretty, and she looked at him so kindly. He wanted to go and hug her or even sit in her lap. But if she was really made of light, she might disappear if he tried to touch her. So he just sat politely and said, “Why did you call me that? Rhyming Simon.”

  “Oh,” she said, “because you’re such a perfect poem.”

  Simon didn’t know what to reply to that, so he just said, “I’m Simon Wisdom.”

  The woman nodded. “I know. I’m Rebecca.”

  Simon’s throat made a noise. He said, “That was my mother’s name.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes.”

  Now Simon did jump up, but the woman—his mother—raised her hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wish, I wish I could hold you, but it’s not allowed.” Then Simon knew it was true, that she wasn’t really there, and he began to cry. “It’s all right,” his mother said. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “My dad wants to send me away. Can you tell him not to do it? Please. He won’t listen to me.”

  “Oh, darling, I can’t. I’ve tried, believe me, but your father doesn’t know how to hear me. I tried to leave him a message a long time ago, but it got lost. Please don’t be angry at him.”

  “I . . . I met some other people. They said I had to go. To break something.” His mother didn’t answer. “But I’m scared,” Simon said. “I don’t like Doctor Reina.”

  The lights in her face dimmed a moment, then grew bright again, only it was the kind of cheerfulness that grown-ups put on when they want to pretend everything is fine. “I’m going to tell you something important,” she said. “If you do what I say you’ll be safe.” Simon nodded. “When you go with Doctor Reina, you need to do two things. First, pay attention.”

  “Pay attention to what?”

  “Everything. Things will not be as they appear. Look carefully, and listen, especially at night. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. I’m very proud of you. And now the second thing. Make sure you do not eat or drink anything. Anything at all, not even a drop of water.”

  “What if I get hungry?”

  “Don’t give in. It will go away. If he watches you, wait until he’s distracted, then get rid of some of the food so he will think you ate it.”

  “What if he doesn’t get distracted?”

  She smiled, and it was such a happy sight. “The squirrels will take care of that.”

  “Oh wow,” Simon said. “You know about the squirrels?”

  “Oh yes. They’re old friends of mine.”

  “I had a dream about them once.”

  She smiled again. “Did you?”

  “Uh-huh. In my dream, they weren’t really squirrels, they were really kids, a boy and a girl.”

  She nodded. “Yes, they changed a very long time ago.”

  He thought for a moment. “So it wasn’t a dream?”

  “No, Simon. It wasn’t a d
ream.”

  “Can they change back?”

  “Maybe they will, darling Simon. Maybe you can help them.”

  “Wow,” Simon said again.

  It would be dawn soon. The morning light began to dim his mother’s face. She told Simon to close his eyes, and when he did, he felt warm arms hold him against a soft, full body that smelled of flowers, as if she lived in a garden. I thought she wasn’t allowed, Simon said to himself. Maybe he just had to keep his eyes closed. He didn’t open them until several seconds after the arms let go. When he finally looked around he discovered, just as he’d expected, that he was alone. He thought he should feel bad, but somehow it was okay. He went back to bed where he fell into a peaceful sleep until his father came to wake him.

  To Jack Wisdom’s surprise, Simon woke up in a good mood. And hungry. He asked for pancakes and eggs and then a grilled cheese sandwich, and he drank three glasses of milk. Jack thought maybe his boy was okay, maybe he could keep him at home. As if the very thought threw some kind of switch in him, he found himself furious and wondered if Simon was playing a trick on him. Was he forcing himself to eat and act cheerful so Jack wouldn’t send him away? Was he reading his mind to know what to do? Maybe he was planting stuff in Jack’s head, controlling his thoughts.

  Jack made himself go into the living room and sit down. Why am I feeling this way? What the fuck is wrong with me? He felt completely out of control, as if someone had cast a spell on him or something.

  With great effort he calmed himself. He didn’t want the last time he saw his son to be filled with anger.

  Dr. Reina arrived at 9:30, strong and positive in an off-white suit and a maroon tie. His greying hair was brushed back, his face shone with warmth, confidence, compassion. He smiled at Simon, who stared at the floor, and shook hands with Jack. “Everything packed?” he said. Jack nodded. To Simon, Dr. Reina said, “Well, young man, it looks like we are going on a trip. I hope you like sitting up high in a big car because that is what we are going to do.” He sounded so cheerful and positive, Jack was sure he had made the right choice. And yet there was a panic in him that he had to fight to suppress.

  He held Simon for a long time before he finally let Dr. Reina lead him out to the white Mercedes. He could still change his mind, he thought, as the door closed, as the engine started, as the thick wheels began to carry his son away from him. Instead, he just waved goodbye, even though Simon sat very still in the front seat and didn’t look back. “I love you!” he yelled after the car. “I love you, Simon!”

  Just as the car turned the corner, Jack saw a strange sight. Two squirrels ran down the road, side by side, for all the world like dogs chasing a car. Jack thought he should be angry, go and chase them or something. Wasn’t that the very last thing he wanted to see? But the part of him that was in full panic somehow calmed, just a little. He walked back to the house and sat down and closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure why, but for the first time in many weeks, Jack Wisdom felt a stir of hope.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  MATYAS

  He could have gone by coach. They would have taken one of his ten florins and given him a few ducats back, but somehow he didn’t want to arrive that way. So he used the Unwilled Stride, a way to let the Earth move your feet at great speed and with little effort. In the midst of his journey, with trees and stones a blur, he remembered how he and Royja had seen tracks outside the inn the night Medun had come, a dog or a wolf, and imagined he’d turned himself into a beast.

  If he could fly, he thought, he wouldn’t have to move across the Earth at all. But then, if he could fly, there would be no reason to go, not there, at least. Even without flying, he arrived in less time than it had taken him to make the journey out, when he’d hidden behind a grille in a rickety coach.

  He stopped a good distance from the building, among a small stand of trees, where he could cast his Cloak of Concealment spell and just watch. It was evening, the sky a dull purple that looked just right for the dusty road, the sparse trees, the unpainted stables and the rickety inn itself. Was it always that small? That shabby? The foolish sign, a crudely painted squirrel holding a giant acorn, creaked slightly in the occasional breeze. He remembered hearing his mother tell a guest once that the previous owner had seen the name, or maybe just the picture, in a dream.

  Candles flickered in the narrow windows. That had been one of his jobs, to keep the candles fresh in their filthy glass holders. He remembered how he’d let one burn out once so that someone’s dinner went dark for a minute or so before Matyas could rush up with a new candle. That night his father kicked him so hard he coughed up blood and then had to scrub the floor so it wouldn’t leave a stain. He was five at the time.

  He stared at the door, its red paint now faded to a dull brown. If he concentrated just a little he could hear voices, a good crowd, it appeared. Then he remembered it was Thursday, coach day. There’d be people resting on their way to the city.

  He could leave. He hadn’t come for them, after all. He could go and see the person he needed to see and then take off again and no one would know. Instead, he went up to the door where he reached out twice for the handle, only to surprise himself by knocking.

  His mother opened it. Matyas braced himself, thinking he could still run before she began to scream at him, or whatever she was going to do. Dressed as she always was, in a black dress and a plain white apron with her gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, she stared at him, her eyes running from his face to his robe and back again. And then—just as she’d done that other time—she crossed her arms over her chest and bowed and said, “Master. You honor us deeply. Please enter.”

  Matyas followed her, dazed. Did she really not know? Maybe if she actually looked at him, he thought, for in fact she kept her eyes down, and if she had to glance his way she didn’t raise them higher than the tree of signs painted on his chest. But hadn’t she seen his face in the doorway?

  As they walked through the room, people hunched over their beer or looked away, some making signs of protection. “Wizards,” one man said in disgust, only to have his friends frantically whisper him quiet.

  His mother took him to that room, of course. Maybe from now on they would proudly name it “the room of the Masters.”

  “This is our best room,” she said. “Reserved . . . reserved for our most important guests.”

  “Yes,” he said, and wondered if his voice would give him away.

  If so, he couldn’t tell, for she just asked, “May I bring you anything?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  She bowed her head and shuffled awkwardly from the room as if frightened to turn her back on him.

  Alone, Matyas turned around and just looked at everything. There was the high-backed wooden chair with the badly carved lions’ heads at the ends of the arms, the cheap oval rug with its off-center designs, the absurd bed with its droopy canopy. He thought of the room Malchior had given him in the Masters’ Residency, the tapestries, the huge bed, the jade tiger, and how he’d told them to remove everything. He shook his head, his mouth open. When he looked at the chair again he could almost see Medun, the stocky body in his brown and gold robe, the white skullcap, the red beard like an unruly flower bed. And the hands, thin and strong as they slid the pictures in and out of each other, the copy of a copy of a copy, searching . . . for what? Something to break the spell? Wandering Exile, forced never to spend two nights in the same place. It had sounded so trivial when Veil described it to him, but now Matyas could hardly imagine it.

  There was a knock at the door, quiet, hesitant. Matyas almost ignored it but then he stepped across the room, opened it—and there he was. Bent over slightly (unless he was just trying to bow and not very good at it), mostly bald, his face above the beard stubble (he never did have the patience to shave properly) all scratched for some reason, the thick shoulders in his ill-fitting shirt. And the hands—those hands!—callused, with enlarged knuckles, they held a small tray with a stemless wine glass and a sm
all carafe of wine. Like his wife, he kept his eyes low, didn’t look up as he said, “Master. We would like to offer you our best wine. Blackberry. We make it ourselves. If you want . . . if you wish something to eat, we will be happy to serve you. Anything you like. My wife is a very fine cook.”

  His voice hoarse, Matyas said, “The wine is enough. Just set it down on the table.”

  “Yes, Master, of course.” He did as he was told and quickly left.

  How could he not know? There was a mirror on the wall opposite the bed, chipped glass in a heavy wooden frame. Matyas stared at himself. He was taller, his shoulders straighter, his whole body more muscular. And he had the robe, of course, no torn shirt and pants but a cosmos of signs and wonders flowing across his body. And there was something else. He was clean. No grease, no mud, no ashes. No blood.

  Oh God, he thought. He turned away from the mirror, thinking to sit down, but instead just stood there, unable to move. There was so much he could do. Tighten the throat so he couldn’t breathe. No, let him breathe but make it too narrow to eat, so he would slowly starve to death over days, maybe weeks. Or heat the blood, slowly, hotter and hotter until he burned to death from the inside. Or set his feet and hands on fire. Or freeze them so they broke off and he couldn’t walk or feed himself.

  Or change him. Change him into a toad—no, a mouse, and let someone’s boot crush him in the kitchen. Or some small, helpless creature that Matyas could set outside for an owl, or a hawk, to tear him to pieces. He heard the inn’s sign creak in a gust of wind. A squirrel! He could change his father into a squirrel!

  He sat down on the bed now, squeezed shut his eyes and tightened his fists against the laughter that would never stop. There was a spell that could do that. He could make his father laugh and laugh and laugh until he convulsed into death.

  Get out of the room, Matyas told himself, the room, the building, now.