The Child Eater

by Rachel Pollack

  Eyes closed, Matyas began to sway in time with the strokes of the brush. Light streamed over him, light and images, as if the cards had lifted from her lap to be caught up in her hair. Sweet aromas filled him, bouquets of flowers mixed with a distant smell of the sea. Sounds drifted to him from very far away, voices, wind in mountains, a bell as pure and clear as the sky, a cry of delight.

  He dropped the brush and opened his eyes. Veil was gone. Only the chair remained, and the table, and the books, and the bed in the alcove where he’d slept for what now felt like a few precious nights. And Eternity, quiet now, wrapped in its cloth the color of the sky.

  With both hands, he picked up the blue package and held it against his chest. He bowed his head a moment, then went to the window. Below the tower, the tops of the buildings shone faintly in the dawn. Matyas stood there a long time, watching the stones change color with the sunrise. From below, in the courtyard, he heard voices, sounds of amusement, anger, pride. Finally, he stepped out onto the narrow window ledge, took a deep breath and lifted into the sky.

  He came down at the edge of a small group of houses near a lake. The houses looked odd, large and neat and clean, and all very alike, as if one person had been put under a spell, compelled to build the same house over and over. There were trees by the lake, and impossibly even grass.

  Matyas paid little attention to these things. Instead, he set down the blue package by the water and stared at it. Finally, he held his breath and undid the cloth. The pictures glowed, but not so brightly he couldn’t look at them, and for that he said a prayer of deep gratitude.

  He made his right hand into a fist, stared at it for a while, then extended his index finger. One by one, on each card, his finger traced a word. The same word, over and over, seventy-eight times. Federaynak. Federaynak. Federaynak.

  When he had finished, he wrapped them up again and set them in the hollow of an ancient tree. “For the thousandth child!” he said. Then he closed his eyes and tilted back his head and rose once more into the air.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  SIMON/JACK

  Simon didn’t know why his dad wasn’t coming to him. He could see Daddy try, but something pushed him back. And he didn’t understand why he couldn’t get away from Dr. Reina. He was running as hard as he could and Dr. Reina was walking so slowly, yet Simon remained as far away from his father as ever, and Dr. Reina kept getting closer.

  Then Simon saw his dad throw something. He couldn’t see what it was, but he knew it was important, Daddy wouldn’t have done it otherwise. It looked as if it was about to fly right over his head, but he jumped up, just like when they played catch and Daddy threw wild, and he grabbed it.

  Even before he looked at it, he knew what it was. He could feel the blue cloth. The cards. Somehow Daddy had brought him the Tarot cards. On his knees now, he fumbled at the wrapper.

  Only some twenty yards away, Dr. Reina laughed. “Simon, please,” he said. “Tarot cards? What will you do? Tell my future?” Suddenly his voice shook the ground. “I am the future! I am Frederick of the Other Side. You have eaten me, body and blood. Three times, and now my mouth is open. I am the teeth of death, Simon Wisdom. You are my food. I will eat you and live forever.”

  Simon fell down in terror. At the same time, he thought, He doesn’t know. He thinks I ate the food. He had a chance, but what should he do? What?

  Run, he thought, then, No, the cards. He fumbled through them, dropped half, fell over as he tried to pick them up.

  From just ten yards away, Dr. Reina laughed. “Simon, Simon,” he chided. “Are you going to read your cards? What do you think they will tell you?”

  Open-mouthed, Simon stared at him. Simon, Simon. He remembered now! What his mother had said that night in the living room.

  Simon, Simon,

  Rhymin’ Simon,

  Take the time an’

  Stop the crime an’

  Set the children free.

  He had to take the time, not try to run. But what would that do? How would taking time stop the crime? Simon, Simon. What else did his mother say? “You’re my perfect poem.” A poem! He’d thought she was being nice but she was telling him he had to make up a poem. Rhymin’ Simon. A magic poem could stop the crime.

  Dr. Reina was only a few yards away now, his smile as sharp as his knife. Simon could hear his dad yelling at him to get away but he couldn’t listen. He closed his eyes and wished he could close his ears as well. “Tarot, Tarot,” he whispered, then a little louder, “long and narrow.”

  Dr. Reina laughed—so close now. He said, “Verse? For your last breath? Do you hear your father? He wants you to say goodbye to him.” Simon opened his eyes. Dr. Reina had stopped just a few feet away. Simon could see the bloodstains up and down the stone blade, he could hear the crying children, all the ones Dr. Reina had killed. Caroline was there, and nearly a thousand more. “Set the children free,” his mother had said.

  As strong as he could make it, Simon called out:

  Tarot, Tarot,

  Long and narrow,

  Be like knives—

  Dr. Reina’s laughter choked off Simon’s voice so that he couldn’t finish his poem. “A spell?” the doctor said. “How clever. But you’re missing something. Do you know what it is?”

  What? What was he missing? Simon stared again at the cards. There was something written on them, faintly, but there it was, on every card, the same strange letters. A name. Simon was sure of it. That’s what was missing, the thing to make the spell work—Dr. Reina’s real name!

  But how was he supposed to read it? The letters were in some funny language. How could he—? And then he laughed. He was Simon Wisdom. He didn’t need to read letters. He could read minds. He held up the cards, half of them in each hand, fanned open to act like shields.

  The doctor stared at them. “No,” he said. “No, it can’t be. He sent them out of the world! I was there. I saw it.”

  In that moment of fear, Simon found his way inside, past the dark cloud, the terrified screams, feeling his way, searching. And there it was, small and hidden, covered with centuries of blood. Simon didn’t have to read it, or hear it, he just knew.

  “Federaynak!” he cried. Stunned, the monster stared at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  Simon called out:

  Federaynak, Federaynak.

  The time has come to take our souls back.

  And then:

  Tarot, Tarot,

  Long and narrow,

  Be like knives

  To save our lives!

  With all his terrified might, Simon Wisdom threw the cards at the Child Eater.

  The cards separated as they sliced through the air. Simon could see each one before it hit, and so could Federaynak, for he stared at them, unable to move, head shaking slightly, as if he was trying to say, “No, no, this is wrong.” The first card to hit was the Fool, the Beautiful Boy about to Fly. It cut right through his throat, sending forth a jet of blood so thick and dark it looked like oil. The Child Eater held his hands up in front of his face, only to have the next group of cards cut off his fingers. More cards attacked his legs, his arms, his chest. Parts of him fell on the ground where they turned into black crystal, clothes and all, then broke into small, sharp pieces that sank into the grass.

  The very last card to hit him was the man hanging upside down by one foot with light all around his face. It hit the eyes and light exploded from it. For a moment, Simon could see the faces of children, layer upon layer, neither happy nor sad but quiet, eyes closed, lips slightly open in a long collective sigh. At the very last, he saw Caroline. The eyes looked at Simon, then closed in gratitude. Finally they were gone.

  Simon could never remember exactly when it all disappeared. One moment he was looking at the pieces on the scorched grass and the cards scattered on the ground. Something must have hurt his eyes, for he squeezed them shut, and when he opened them again everything had vanished—the black crystals, the cards, even
the Institute itself and the wide lawn. Instead, he saw his own backyard. There was Mr. Carlys’ house with the covered-up swimming pool, and there were the two pine trees that Grandma called “the gateway to happiness.” Amazed, Simon turned around. There was his father. Simon wasn’t making it up. Daddy really was there.

  On either side of his father stood the boy and girl, their gold and silver hair sparkly in the sun. Simon was happy to see them, and at the same time he thought, They’re not supposed to be here.

  As if they could hear him—could read his mind—they smiled and nodded. They took a step back. At that moment, as if someone had hit the play button on a DVD, Simon’s dad called out, “Simon? Are you really there? Oh God, Simon!”

  They ran at each other so hard they bounced off and fell down. Daddy grabbed him, held him so long he couldn’t breathe. “Oh, Simon,” Daddy said, “my beautiful boy. My precious boy.” Finally they stood up and Daddy took his hand as they walked to the house.

  They were almost at the door when they heard singing: glorious liquid joy, sounds beyond anything they could imagine. All across the world, voices hidden for centuries were calling out, rediscovering each other. In dark woods and busy streets, on glaciers, in rainforests, in the mud and gore of battlefields, in the secret corners of schools and hospitals and cemeteries, in lonely houses and noisy sweat shops, the Great Abandoned Ones, the Kallistochoi, had found their brothers and sisters.

  Simon and his father had no idea how long it lasted. Even when it seemed to stop, when they could no longer hear it, they knew it hadn’t really ended. And never would.

  Jack Wisdom kept hold of his son’s hand as he led him into the living room. There he picked up the picture of his wife. Faint lights sparkled around it. “It was your mother,” he said to his son. “She told me what I had to do.”

  “Me too,” Simon said. “She told me I had to make up a poem, so that’s what I did.”

  Jack smiled. “Your mother is a very smart woman, Simon. She loves us both very, very much. And I love her. I love you more than anything in the world, but I love your mother, too.”

  Simon said, “I know, Daddy.”

  Jack looked startled for a moment, then laughed. “Of course you do,” he said. “Of course you do.” He laughed again and hugged his son. Later, he knew, they would sit down and talk about it, maybe try to understand what had happened. But right now they were together, and safe, and that was all that mattered.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe a great debt of gratitude to Karen Mahoney and Alex Ukolov of Magic Realist Press for publishing the original collection, The Tarot of Perfection, and to Chris Priest, for always being there. And to Alisa, Darrah and Carol, the best writers’ group there is, and to Paula Scardamalia, superb editor and writing coach. Without them, this book might never have come to life.

  The original draft of this book was written by hand, using antique fountain pens, in particular a 90-year-old Wahl pen, gold, and inscribed on the side with the name of its owner: M. Matyas.

  Rachel Pollack

  Hudson Valley, 2012