The Pain Eater

by Beth Goobie

  Chapter Twelve

  “Maddy, what the hell is going on?”

  In the middle of chopping celery for a supper salad, Maddy turned to see Leanne standing in the back door. Beside Maddy, at the stove, Ms. Malone stopped stirring the spaghetti sauce. “What’s the matter?” she asked her older daughter.

  “I was just in the tree house,” Leanne burst out. “The mural Maddy drew last summer – the scene of us having a picnic and the sunflowers – all of it’s gone. Now it’s a black mess – just a bunch of ugly black stuff.”

  Ian Malone came into the kitchen from the living room and stood leaning against the doorframe. As three pairs of eyes focused in on her, Maddy turned her back, thinking she would return to chopping celery. But a tsunami of panic kept washing through her, making her arms go limp. She set down the knife.

  “Maddy?” her father asked softly.

  Maddy stared at a closed cupboard door inches from her face. These people loved her. They loved every breath that went into her, and every breath that came out again. They would do anything in their power to keep her from harm, to help her in any way they could. Until half a year ago, they had thought they knew her. Until half a year ago, Maddy had thought she knew herself.

  “It’s just something I’m doing,” she said. “It’s a kind of experiment.”

  “It’s creepy,” Leanne said flatly. “Psycho.”

  “I’m not crazy!” cried Maddy, whirling to face her sister. Suddenly and entirely without warning, her blood was pounding, her fists clenched. Eyes widening, Leanne stepped back.

  “I didn’t say crazy,” she blustered.

  “You said psycho,” said Maddy.

  “Sorry,” said Leanne.

  No one moved, the silence dense, loaded.

  “How ’bout I go take a look at it,” Ian Malone suggested finally.

  “No!” cried Maddy, taking a step toward the back door as if to block it. Again, silence took over the room, a breath sucked in.

  “It’s just…” Maddy faltered. “Please.” She put both hands over her face. “It’s just something I have to do. I’m looking for something, I think this will help me find it. It’s not drugs or drinking, it’s nothing illegal. Just please leave me alone and let me do this on my own.”

  “Oh, Maddy,” said her mother. “Maddy, we love you.”

  “I know,” Maddy whispered.

  Her father cleared his throat. “Well, can we see it when it’s done?” he asked.

  Maddy hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You don’t know?” asked her mother. “But you’ve always shown us your artwork. We’re so proud of you. We’ve always supported—”

  “It’s just something I have to do,” Maddy repeated, lowering her hands. “It’s hard. I don’t know where it’s going. All I know is it’s helping.”

  “It is helping?” asked her father, his voice quiet but steady. “You’re sure? You promise us that?”

  “Yes,” said Maddy, her eyes downcast, but her voice going out to meet her father’s. “Yes, I promise.”

  The tension relaxed somewhat. “Maddy, sweetie,” whispered her mother. “We just want you back.”

  “I’m here,” said Maddy. “I’m still me.”

  A look passed between her parents. Maddy didn’t see it but she felt it – encyclopedic with all they weren’t saying. Again, her father cleared his throat.

  “So you want to work on this project on your own, without any of us looking at it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Maddy.

  “On one condition,” said her father.

  Maddy’s heart clenched.

  “Look at me, Maddikins,” said her father.

  With a deep breath, Maddy forced her eyes up to meet his.

  “Promise you’ll tell us if it gets to be too much?” he asked.

  The fear clenching Maddy’s heart let go. Breath came back. “Yes,” she said quickly. “I promise.”

  Her father’s eyes held onto her face, searching. “Okay, then,” he said. “That’s enough for me. Delores?”

  Delores Malone sighed. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, okay.”

  “Leanne?” asked Mr. Malone.

  Leanne blew out a mini-cyclone of air. “I guess,” she muttered.

  For a moment no one spoke, the silence this time gentle, patting things back into place. “I’m about to start the crossword puzzle,” said Mr. Malone. “Lend me your brain, Leanne?”

  “Sure,” said Leanne, and they headed into the living room. Side by side, Maddy and her mother returned to Monday supper prep.

  “You will tell us, Maddy,” her mother said, her voice sing-songy with anxiety. “For sure?”

  Maddy leaned her forehead against the cupboard door and let its coolness enter her flushed face. She thought of Nikki, and everything Nikki probably hadn’t told her parents.

  “Yes,” she said steadily. “When I can, I’ll tell you everything.”

  . . .

  Tuesday afternoon Ms. Mousumi was back, though still sniffling. As Maddy sank into her seat, Lilian Pickersgill got up from her desk near the center of the first row and approached the teacher’s desk. Over the class chatter, Maddy heard Lilian explain that she was next in line to read a chapter of The Pain Eater. Ms. Mousumi thanked her for the information and Lilian returned to her seat. Lilian was a top student, the kind who read ahead in textbooks out of curiosity. Silently, Maddy heaped blessings upon the other girl’s head.

  It was the last day for group work, and they were finishing up a series of questions regarding Jeannette Armstrong’s short story “Blue Against White.” Vince and August sat down with characteristic abandon; David slid carefully into place. Without hesitation, August took over, leading the discussion. Vince and David chipped in the odd response; Maddy sat digging her right thumbnail into her left hand. It still helped; it still gave her something to focus on that kept the internal craziness at bay. Directly in front of her, grinning up from her binder cover, was the mask decal. Maddy’s gaze lifted from her hands to the decal. Then it flicked across to David, who was busy writing something down. She glanced back at her hands. The thing was, she realized, today she wasn’t feeling the usual craziness for some reason, the sick swell of fear that told her the memories were close, they were about to take shape. Today, she didn’t feel caught between two worlds, the inner and the outer. No, today, she felt as if she was in one place – this classroom – and it was okay. She was here, sitting three feet away from David Janklow, whom she was now certain had never had any intention of hurting her, and she was managing.

  Her right thumbnail lifted out of the welt it had just imprinted in her left hand. As if it had a mind of its own, its own tiny, separate brain, it rose from her lap and settled onto the cover of her binder, where it began to wedge itself under the edge of the mask decal. To her surprise, the decal lifted easily, peeling off the plastic surface in one piece. Without hesitation, she crumpled it into a tiny wad.

  When she looked up, David was watching her. His gaze was riveted, as if he were observing something cataclysmic, like the birth of Frankenstein. Maddy’s voice came out cool and even, as if it had been waiting for this moment, as if it had been intending it. “Do you want this?” she asked, holding the wad out to him. David shook his head. Getting to her feet, Maddy walked to the garbage pail beside Ms. Mousumi’s desk and deposited the crumpled decal. Then she returned to her seat.

  “You got anything to say about this story?” August asked her, one eyebrow raised.

  “Not really,” said Maddy, her gaze flicking away.

  With a sigh, August moved on, poking and prodding contributions out of Vince and David. Unrepentant, Maddy sat staring at her binder cover. It was gone. The leering, sneering reminder of her fear and humiliation had been destroyed. And it had been destroyed by her. She breathed in slowly, feeling t
he air travel in through her nose and deep into her lungs, as if some kind of invisible barrier had been removed.

  Maddy smiled slightly; it was her own smile – not a mask.

  . . .

  Lilian Pickersgill rose from her seat and walked to the front of the class. Chubby, with glasses, she was involved in everything from the Science Club to Student Council. Hers was the kind of mind that operated like an origami project, taking what seemed to be flat and nondescript and folding it into the unexpected. As she halted beside Ms. Mousumi’s desk and turned on her tablet, the class straightened in their desks.

  “The high priestess sat in her office, playing with the soul stones,” began Lilian. “A crescent moon was in the sky. The high priestess was doing her usual hexing, but she was bored. Things were going okay in the tribe. Everyone was afraid of her, even Farang. Everyone was obeying her and toeing the line. Like Emeka said, Farang had to die sometime soon, but not quite yet. Still, the high priestess needed to stir things up. She was just that kind of gal.

  “She picked up Farang’s soul stone and held it to her forehead. She closed her eyes and concentrated. She thought of every bit of Farang’s face and body – the way she moved and talked. Then the high priestess shapeshifted into an exact double of Farang, even down to her clothes, which were tattered.

  “Once she thought she looked exactly like Farang, the high priestess went to a bronze mirror to check herself out. Perfect! she thought, staring at herself. No one, not even Farang, could tell the difference between them. So she had to be careful, but not too careful. Everyone except her was asleep, or was supposed to be. So she could get away with everything she planned to do.

  “The high priestess crept out of the temple and into the village. Then she snuck in and out of people’s huts, wrecking and stealing things. Each time, after she was finished, she stood over the bed of someone sleeping in the hut and sort of woke them up. Not all the way – just partway, so they saw her looking down at them but were so sleepy they fell right back to sleep. In the morning, when they woke and found things broken and stolen, they remembered Farang and got mad at her.

  “Of course, the villagers weren’t allowed to talk to Farang. So they couldn’t ask her why she was in their huts, or about the wrecked stuff. But they could yell and throw things at her. They could follow her around, and even kick and hit her. Which is what they did. Things got really ugly for Farang. She wasn’t safe anywhere, except deep in the forest all alone. The temple priestesses fed her every day, but she couldn’t get near that food anymore, because that was where the villagers waited to get at her. So she began to get very thin and weak.

  “The high priestess watched all this with glee. It made her evil heart rejoice. She did this every night for over a week – she shapeshifted into Farang and wrecked the village. The villagers started to post guards, but still the high priestess got past them because she could shapeshift into a bug and crawl past them in the dark. Then she shapeshifted to Farang inside a hut, and did the usual.

  “Farang had no idea what the high priestess was doing. She was just always running for her life.

  “Then one night, the high priestess shapeshifted into Farang again. She got into the chief’s hut, and into the jewelry of his wives. In Faraway, there was a special stone they called the ‘kulumulu.’ It was like a diamond – clear and glittering, but it could change colors, almost as if it was alive. If it changed color while you held it in your hand, it had you in its power until it changed color again. And that’s what happened to the high priestess. She touched one of the chief’s kulumulus, and it changed color – from yellow to azure. And what this did – it trapped the high priestess into Farang’s shape. The high priestess knew as soon as it happened, and she knew she was in big trouble.

  “She knew her only chance was to keep the kulumulu and try to get it to shapeshift her back. She could still hex and throw spells, so she cast a sleeping spell on the guy guarding the hut and got past him. But after that, she couldn’t go back to the temple. None of the other priestesses had ever seen her shapeshift at all. So they’d never believe her if she told them she wasn’t Farang, she was the high priestess. No, she had to hide out in the forest just like Farang, until she could get the kulumulu to change color again. Or who knows – when it came to Farang’s time to die, the tribe might kill the high priestess by mistake. That’s what you get for playing with fire. Or other people’s souls.”

  With an impish grin, Lilian shut off her tablet. “That’s it,” she said, turning to Ms. Mousumi. Ms. Mousumi gave her an impish grin back.

  “Interesting plot twist,” said the teacher. “You’ve certainly set things up for our next writer, who is…let me see.”

  She reached for her class list, but two seats over from Maddy, Theresa Pronk raised her hand. “I’m next,” she said. “I had something planned, but this totally screws it up.”

  Lilian arched a pleased eyebrow and headed for her seat. Impressed, the class watched her sit down. “Any comments?” asked Ms. Mousumi.

  Silence replied. The class was in deep thought. Then Paul’s hand went up.

  “Can we kill her off?” he asked, his face intense. The class erupted into laughter. Paul flushed sheepishly.

  “The high priestess or Farang?” asked Harvir, grinning at him.

  “The high priestess!” replied Paul, looking shocked.

  Harvir nodded without speaking. Glancing at Dana, Julie grimaced.

  “That will be up to Theresa,” said Ms. Mousumi. She consulted her attendance sheet. “Or, after Thanksgiving – Amy Rupp and Ken Soong.”

  At the mention of Ken’s name, Maddy jerked, and her eyes darted to Ken, who was sitting leaned back, his gaze on Ms. Mousumi. Beside him, David continued to sit visibly tilted away. Returning to her desk, Maddy’s eyes settled onto her binder, its clean green surface. The mask decal had been gone for one day. So far, there had been no response from Ken, so it appeared David hadn’t told him. Gently, tentatively, Maddy’s hand crept across the binder cover. Green had always been her favorite color – she used to see it and happiness would open wide within her. If happiness wasn’t opening wide now, still she could feel a glimmer of it – a memory of how she used to feel, and the hope she would someday feel that way again. It was the beginning of something new, or of something known and beloved coming back to her. Either way, she wasn’t going to let go of it. For the life of her, no goddamn mask decal was getting anywhere near her person or her belongings again. When Maddy glanced at Ken this time, she felt angry. With a deep breath, she placed both palms flat on her binder. The back of her left hand was completely free of thumbnail welts.

  . . .

  The tree house mural was taking discernible form. Seven trees now rose out of the turbulent, shifting ground, their branches startled, even terrified-looking. Earlier that afternoon, Maddy had altered her usual route home from school and walked past the actual copse, where she’d counted the aspens. There were sixteen. In the October afternoon light, they had loomed over her, wind-stripped, the odd remaining leaf rustling a warning in the breeze. She’d felt jumpy, standing alone there – her heart thudding painfully – but she’d held herself in place like a live grasshopper in a closed hand, and made herself look around. There, between those two trees – that was where they’d pushed her down. She could see the tree root that had wedged itself into the middle of her back, and the open area between two other trees to which David had retreated. Until he’d read his chapter of The Pain Eater, she’d assumed he was standing lookout. Now, it seemed, he’d been shocked, afraid, and simply hadn’t known what to do – then or now.

  Neither did Maddy. Other than what she was doing here in the tree house, that is. To her right stood a kerosene lamp her father had given her to use, now that the evenings had grown dark. To either side of it, she’d propped a large flashlight. Sixteen trees, she decided, were too many. Seven would have to do. Getting to her feet,
she started to sketch in the glow of a streetlight, the one that had hovered over David’s head as he’d stood at the edge of the copse. It was smaller than the first cream-gold sphere that she’d drawn high up on the wall, above the trees and the half moon that now sat caught in an aspen’s branches. Maddy could not have said what that original glowing sphere was; she knew only that it had been part of the mural’s beginning, and everything that followed was connected to it. Compared to that sphere, the streetlights were dim and useless – they began and ended nothing. They hadn’t saved, or even helped, her.

  But they had been there. And Maddy wanted to record everything that had been present, down to the last, terrifying detail – to know all of it, to be able to point to it and say, Here. And, This. And then, This here.

  Sometimes, as she drew, her heart knuckle-punched and kicked. The mural felt like a bruise under her hand, the chalk like sticks of pain. But it was pain leaving her, flowing out of herself and onto the wall.

  She shifted position, and began to work on another streetlight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Theresa Pronk was a tall, plump girl who’d had several poems published in the student newspaper. She played flute in the school band, and had helped Maddy paint sets for last spring’s production of Our Town. Deceptively docile-looking, she fit well into any background, where she muttered nonstop comments that kept anyone nearby in stitches. As she made her way to the front of Friday’s class, Maddy watched with interest.

  “It was hunger that did it,” Theresa began. “Farang’s name meant ‘hunger,’ and now she couldn’t get the food she needed from the temple because the villagers kept attacking her. It was summer, so cold wasn’t a problem, but still she grew weak and ill. She stopped going into the village, and ate roots and berries, and hung out at her secret altar. As she grew weaker, she crossed over in her mind. She started to have visions of The Beautiful Land without needing to eat the allura poison.