The Child Eater

by Rachel Pollack

  He opened the door just enough to see that neither of them was in the main room, then he cast his shielding spell around himself and hurried down the stairs and out through the door. A man sitting alone turned his head as if he felt Matyas go by, then shrugged and returned to his ale.

  Once outside, Matyas realized he’d been holding his breath and made himself calm down. Everything is good, he told himself. All he had to do was go where he needed to go and then he could leave. (“Wizards,” he imagined his father saying. “They show up all high and mighty and then they just sneak off when you’re not looking. Good riddance to the bastards, if you ask me.”)

  And maybe he would have done just that and not thought any more about it if his path had not taken him alongside the stable and if he hadn’t seen her there, feeding the coach horses. Still, she had her back to him and he could have just walked on. Instead, he stood and watched, not even using his shield, until she finished her task and turned around.

  In that moment before she faced him, he discovered himself terrified that she too might not know him—terror and hope, for she was the last, and if she couldn’t see it was him he was free. But she turned and stopped and dropped her wooden feed bucket, and he knew that he was caught. They stood there for a while, about twenty feet apart, and when he took a step toward her she moved back, so he stopped and waited.

  And looked. Was she always that short? Was her hair always so greasy, and cut as if she’d just slashed at it? Were her clothes always so thin and worn and too small? She’d grown fat. Her belly pushed against her dull brown dress. No. Not fat.

  She looked him up and down. “So,” she said. “You got what you wanted.”

  “I . . . I came back. I told you I would.”

  She laughed, and he grimaced. Stupid, he scolded himself. When did she acquire the power to make him feel stupid?

  “You look . . . dazzling. Can you . . . can you do things?”

  He glanced around, saw a stray piece of wood that must have fallen from someone’s arms on the way from the woodpile to the fireplace (one of his jobs). With a gesture he shot it up to eye-level, spun it around so fast it almost vanished, then let it fall back to the dirt.

  “Ha!” she cried, and clapped her hands, and for just a moment it was her again, them again. And then she shook her head, and he could see her squeezing back tears.

  “You could come with me,” he said, and became terrified she’d rush to say yes.

  She made a noise, looked away for a minute, then down at her swollen belly. “Even if you wanted me . . .” she said.

  “Who is it?” he asked. “I mean . . .”

  “I know what you mean. His name is Kark. Your parents hired him after . . . after you ran away.”

  Somewhere in the ancient archives there was a story, The Man Who Was Replaced. It told of a brutal king whose subjects begged a wizard for help. Rather than execute the king, or even imprison him, the Master simply created a benign substitute and caused everyone—the courtiers, the advisers, even the queen—to think this replacement was real. No one knew what happened to the original. Matyas said, “This Kark. Do my parents—?”

  “Beat him?” She shrugged.

  “Then why does he—?”

  “Stay?” She looked around. “I suppose it’s better than starving.”

  Matyas nodded toward her belly. “Is that your first?”

  She laughed. “Third. A boy, a girl and now whatever this is.” When she saw alarm flash in his face, she said, “Matyas, the oldest is four.”

  “Oh.” He’d been gone nearly six years. “You could still come with me,” he said.

  “Stop it!”

  He stepped back, and as if she couldn’t help herself, she moved forward, keeping the same distance between them. “Matyas,” she said, and had to stop, take a breath. “It’s all right. You did what you had to do. To get out. My father never . . . It wasn’t the same for me.” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Go. Do—Whatever it is you came for, do it, and then—just go.”

  He hesitated, then nodded and turned. He was only a few steps away when she called out, “Matyas!” He spun around. “Is it true?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she said, “Does the palace float in the air? Are the mansions made out of flowers? Are the royal family descended from swans? Are there streets that turn around and around and no one ever gets out?”

  He smiled and said, “Yes. It’s all true.”

  Royja laughed, and clapped her hands. “I knew it,” she said. “Thank you, Matyas. Thank you.”

  “Royja—” he said, but she held up a hand.

  “No. You have to—” She ran into the stables. He heard a horse neigh, and beneath that the sound of weeping.

  Like everything else, the dark grove looked smaller than Matyas remembered it: still dense, twisted, caught up in a kind of cloud of hate, just not very large. Matyas could walk around it in less time than it would take the Sun to pass over it from one end to the other. He wondered how it had looked to the Flying Man as he came down from the sky.

  He stared at the trees, so tightly woven, impossible to enter without some kind of help. What had happened here? He did not doubt that the Heavenly Victors had placed the High Prince in as harsh a place as possible, part of his punishment for not taking sides in the Great War of Darkness and Light. But what made this place the worst they could find? What happened here? He tried to probe the trees with magic but it proved as useless as sight.

  He shrugged. Not his concern. Was this the right place, the right person? That was all that mattered.

  “Come around me,” he said. When nothing happened he invoked the Voice of Command, an amplification spell that could cause rivers to run uphill. Still nothing. For the first time it struck him that he might not get inside. Without help . . . But wasn’t he stronger than a knot of trees? His hands clenched and unclenched, his whole body tensed in preparation for an all-out attack.

  And then the lights came. The Splendor. Stronger than any time since he’d first seen them, they swarmed all over his body. “Open the way,” he said, and just as those other times, for the Flying Man and then for Matyas himself, the lights briefly blocked his view of the trees, and when the lights vanished there was a pathway. The black branches arched over it, straining to close the gap, but couldn’t do it. Matyas took a breath and walked inside.

  It didn’t take very long to reach the center, to reach the prisoner. A golden head perched on an ebony stick of polished darkness. Beauty beyond male or female, beyond even the Sun and Moon, the High Prince of the Kallistochoi was a remnant of an age before the world hardened into the dullness of wood and metal, water and stone. Eyes closed. The skin smooth and motionless. Sleeping? Dreaming?

  Matyas found himself overwhelmed by a desire that could blot out everything—to dream like a Kallistocha. Angrily, he pushed it aside. “Wake up!” he commanded. Matyas had learned the Kallistochoi Phases, the term used for the Seven Primary Tongues, and now he spoke in the tones sometimes called First Palace.

  The eyes stayed closed but the lips widened ever so slightly, the suggestion of a smile. “You’ve been studying,” the Voice said. “You honor me.” Matyas was so caught up in the music it took him a moment to realize the Prince had used the Child Phase, as if Matyas was acting like his father.

  Embarrassed, Matyas switched dialects to the Inner Chamber. “Wretched head of the once mighty and beautiful!” he sang out. A text in the library had given this as the Proper Formula of Recognition, but as soon as he’d said it, Matyas was uncertain.

  The eyes opened like great swans lifting into a sunrise. “No, no,” the Voice said. “You were doing so well as my mother. Or is that father? Those sorts of distinctions become lost after a time.” He cast his eyes downward, where once there had been a body.

  Feeling less and less in control, Matyas switched to the Flatlands Parade, the Phase the books called the simplest for humans to emulate. “Thank you for receiving me,” he said.

  The Prince
smiled, and Matyas thought he might have seen the slightest grace of kindness. The Kallistocha murmured, “I could not exactly run away.” His eyes scanned the wide path the lights had opened and the way the trees leaned in as if they yearned to snatch Matyas and tear him apart. The Voice said, “The Splendor appear to favor you. Have you ever wondered why?”

  “No,” Matyas said without thinking.

  “Perhaps you are useful to them.”

  “Useful? What do you mean?” The eyes closed and the head tilted slightly, as if the Prince was drifting back into its vast sleep. “How about you?” Matyas asked. “Are you useful? Were you useful to Joachim? It was you, wasn’t it? Who gave him the Tarot of Eternity?”

  The eyes opened again, summer returning to a frozen world. “Ah, Joachim,” the Kallistocha said. “Joachim the Brilliant. Joachim the Blessed. The Bountiful. The Bewildered.” He had switched to Matyas’ own language, a move that frightened Matyas, though he was not sure why.

  As if to lure him back, Matyas stayed with the Flatlands. “You taught him?”

  “Yes.” The Prince had returned to Inner Chamber, and Matyas felt safe again.

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps, as you suggested, I was being useful.”

  “Useful how? For what?” No answer, and Matyas felt as if once again he’d taken a wrong turn. He should just ask what really mattered but he could not seem to help himself. He said, “Did you know about the Spell of Extension?”

  Again the slightest smile, though Matyas had no idea why. “Yes.”

  “Then why did you give Joachim Eternity? The spell couldn’t work without it—you need that one picture.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why?”

  “Would you banish magic, Matyas? Would you give up everything because of a single flaw? After all, the Creator persisted, so why not Her lesser beings?” His eyes moved across Matyas’ robe in a way that made Matyas want to cover himself with something dull and ugly. “You wear the Tree of Ascendancy, the Tree of Signs and Snakes. Would you tear it from your body that you might burn it and scorch all the knowledge from your mind? I might offer to do it for you, as you appear to think I should have done for Joachim, but as you see . . .” The eyes drifted upward. “Perhaps the branches would help.”

  Matyas too looked up, and saw that the trees were leaning closer. Not much time left. He remembered when he’d come here before and had to run before the branches could get hold of him. Now, he told himself, you have to ask now.

  “Tell me the secret!” he blurted out, not even sure what language he was speaking.

  “Haven’t we been doing that? What secrets do you wish now?”

  “Flying! Tell me how to fly. Tell me how to find a True Ladder.”

  The High Prince laughed so loudly the trees shrank back before leaning in again. “Flying? You would ask a Kallistocha how to leave the Earth?”

  Matyas stumbled back as if a hand had shoved him. Are you an angel? he’d asked that first time, and the head had answered, Do I look like a wing-slashing beast? “Oh God,” Matyas whispered, “this is the wrong place!”

  The Prince’s laughter chased him from the woods. When he was safely outside, and the trees had closed again, he sat down on a wide rock, ignoring the rough surface. So sure. He’d been so convinced, and all he’d done was rush from one wrong place to another.

  He stood up, took a breath. The night had grown chill, and he realized he was shaking. Beyond the hills he could see the glow of the inn. Should he go back? He could warm himself, sleep and leave before anyone saw him. Or he could say goodbye to Royja. It would be easy enough to cast sleep over her children, and this Kark, whoever he was.

  No. There was no time. If Florian said he was looking in the wrong place, there had to be a right one. There were other Academies, after all, other scholars. Hermits, wise men, keepers of secrets. He knew of one such place, in fact, the College of Trees. With the Unwilled Stride, he could reach it in just three or four days.

  He began to run.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  SIMON

  Simon wasn’t sure how long the journey lasted. His dad had told him they were going to Michigan—“the Great Lakes” Simon had said, and his father had nodded, proud and a little surprised that Simon remembered something from Social Studies—and it would take two or three days. And yes, he remembered big hotels with nothing much around them, and very clean rooms, with large beds, and Dr. Reina saying, “I’ll be right next door, Simon. Please remember to knock on the connecting door if you need anything. And especially if you have a bad dream, yes?”

  Simon hadn’t answered, and after Dr. Reina had gone, Simon locked the connecting door, but when morning came he woke early and opened it, because after all, what could he do? He had no idea where he was and he didn’t want to disappoint his dad, and besides, his mom had said it was going to be okay. He opened the door because he didn’t think it was a good idea to make the doctor angry.

  He remembered as if it was all one time (though he knew it had to be two or three), sitting on the too-large bed, with piles of too-soft pillows propped up behind him and watching cop shows. Somehow it was always cop shows—silent, unstoppable men and tough-talking women, and people chasing people, and children locked up in dirty warehouses, and bad people with scars and tattooed arms and very short hair being shot dead, and the tough woman cop holding the screaming child and saying, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

  Simon remembered the trip but it was all detached, like something in a video game or another cop show. “Did you sleep well?” Dr. Reina asked him each morning and Simon said, “I guess,” and Dr. Reina said, “No bad dreams?” and Simon said, “No,” and Dr. Reina said, “You see? Already you are getting better.” And then they would get back in the car and continue.

  The only thing Simon could say for sure was that he didn’t eat anything. No food, no water, that was what his mother had said. He tried to tell Dr. Reina he wasn’t hungry and just wanted to stay in his room, but the doctor insisted Simon go with him to the hotel restaurants, which were always very clean and bright, with cloth napkins and large shiny silverware. “Have whatever you like,” Dr. Reina said, “my treat. You can have steak, or hamburgers and French fries, if you like. Pizza, ice cream—you choose.” But when Simon said he didn’t want anything, Dr. Reina didn’t appear to mind.

  The second night (at least, Simon thought it was the second), Dr. Reina told Simon, “You need to eat to get well,” and suggested Simon order something from room service. “Ah, you will like this,” he said, as if Simon didn’t know what room service was. “They come all the way from the kitchen to bring whatever you want on a covered tray. Just for you.” With the doctor standing over him, Simon ordered a bacon cheeseburger, fries and a large Coke. “Very good,” Dr. Reina said. “Now we are moving in the right direction.”

  Simon feared that Dr. Reina would wait for the food to come, but the good thing about room service, he knew, was that it took a really long time, so he just turned on the TV and waited, and sure enough, after a while Dr. Reina went to his own room. When the food came, Simon tried to remember if his mother had said he mustn’t touch it, but he was pretty sure she’d only said not to eat or drink anything. He cut up about half the burger and about a third of the fries—too much might look suspicious—and flushed them down the toilet. Let the alligators have them, he thought, remembering some kid who’d claimed that hotels all had giant gators in their sewers from tourists who bought them as babies in theme parks and then flushed them down the toilet. Simon poured about half the Coke down the bathroom sink. In the morning, Dr. Reina checked the room service tray and smiled happily. “Very good,” he said, just like the night before. “Now we are on the right track.”

  Everywhere they went, people appeared to like Dr. Reina. They smiled at him, and said nice things, like, “You folks have a wonderful trip, okay?” Sometimes they even gave Simon little presents, like a toy truck or a chocolate bar. Simon
wondered if it was okay to eat something that someone other than Dr. Reina had given him, but he decided it was best to be safe, so he threw away the candy bar, and the truck, too, as soon as he could.

  At a gas station somewhere off the interstate, Dr. Reina talked with a woman filling her SUV. When the doctor went inside for something, the woman walked over to where Simon sat slumped in his seat. Through the open window she said, “I just think it’s great that you and your granddad are taking a trip together.”

  Simon slumped lower. “He’s not my granddad,” he muttered.

  “Oh,” the woman said, “I’m sorry. Your dad?” Simon shook his head, and wondered if she’d try “uncle” or “cousin.” Instead, she looked over at the store, where Dr. Reina was talking to the Arabic man at the cash register. Simon sat up slightly as he saw alarm flicker in her face. When she said, “Do your parents know you’re with him?” he wondered, if he said no, would she call the police? Would they send him home?

  He was trying to think of what to say when Dr. Reina came walking back to the car, smiling. “Ah,” he said, “I see Simon has made a new friend.”

  The woman looked confused, struggling as she tried to hold on to a worry that appeared to be melting away. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” she said, “and not think me horribly rude—you hear such stories, I’m sure you understand.” Dr. Reina nodded as if to reward her concern. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you know this boy?”

  “Of course, of course,” Dr. Reina said, with another warm smile. “I am, in fact, his doctor.” He took out a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. “Here, I show you. A letter from Simon’s dad, with a photo of the two of them, you see, and a photo of his dad’s driver’s license. Just for the proper identification.”

  The woman looked at it so quickly Simon couldn’t imagine she had time to read anything. And—it was hard to see—but he wasn’t sure there was actually anything on the paper. If so, the woman did not appear to notice. “Oh my God,” she said, “you must think . . . I’m so sorry!”