The Child Eater (11 page)

Just his head. They moved all over his face, the bony fingers covered his mouth, the rough skin scratched his cheek, pressed his closed eyes. Most of all, Jack remembered the way he couldn't move, couldn't stop the hands, until suddenly the man just slapped him and said, “You're not the one. You're not ripe enough.” Somehow that had freed Jack and he ran home to his parents.
Not ripe
.

His dad had called the police, of course. That's what Jack would do if Simon ever . . . The police had looked, and found nothing, and somehow it had all become another joke on the family name.

Was Eli “ripe enough”? Was that what had happened? Had the gray-haired man come back and found what he wanted?

Ridiculous
, Jack told himself. That was thirty years ago, and two hundred miles away. But what if it was true?
And what if Eli wasn't enough?

As troubled as those thoughts were, they were not the only things that plagued Jack Wisdom during that awful two weeks after the police found Eli's headless body. Two, three times, Jack seemed to get
lost driving home from work in this town where he'd lived for over ten years. He would find himself on streets with old wooden and even stone houses, most in bad condition, as if the banks had foreclosed on all the mortgages and then couldn't sell them at auction so just left them to rot.
The bad part of town
, Jack would think as he drove those streets he didn't know, and he would make a mental note to tell Simon not to come here, wherever here actually was.

It wasn't just the buildings that bothered him. He'd see kids, homeless and helpless by the look of them, slouched against boarded-up doorways, crouched together on corners, as if to share secrets, except they all just stared at the filthy sidewalk and didn't even look at each other.
Broken
, Jack thought. Broken children, thrown out like old household tools and gadgets that were once all shiny until they stopped working and it was easier to junk them than to try and get them fixed. Vaguely, Jack promised himself that this would never happen to Simon, his son would never end up like this. But then, unable to stop himself, he thought,
What about Eli?
Who'd been there to protect Eli?

Two weeks after Eli's disappearance, twelve days after the police found his body, Jack Wisdom drove down one of those broken streets and swore at himself for getting lost again and was about to turn around when he saw fire flash between two brick apartment buildings with broken windows. Something in Jack told him to run, told him,
You've been here before and you didn't like it, remember?
But Jack was a good citizen, he wanted Simon to become the kind of man who wouldn't ignore a civic duty, so he pulled over to look, cell phone ready even if he wasn't sure he could tell the police where actually he was.

He put the phone back in his pocket when he saw there was no out-of-control blaze, just a group of five or six homeless kids hunched over a weak fire made from bits of wood and trash. He should do something, Jack thought, get them some help, it wasn't right for kids to have to live like this. And all the while, some part of his mind screamed,
Run! You don't want to see this
.

He moved as close to the entrance of the lane between the two buildings as he dared and called out, “You kids need some help?” They couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen, he thought.

They all turned their heads simultaneously, and it was then that Jack saw there was something wrong with their faces. Cuts. Every child had
a series of small cuts all over their faces. Scars and dried blood covered them like chaotic maps.
Run
, his mind screamed,
you forgot this before, you can forget it again
. Some of the kids had thick red lines that ran all around their necks, as if someone had cut the entire head off—
Eli
—then finished with them, or maybe just decided they were useless and stuck them back again.

Unable to turn around somehow, Jack began to back away. Even as he hoped he might make it to his car and escape, he knew what came next, for he remembered now, remembered how they would put it all on him, as if somehow he could save them all, could have saved Eli. “Jack, Jack,” they would tell him as he tried to leave, “don't go back. Stay and heal the broken crack.”

And sure enough, they turned, and they looked at him, and he wanted to say they had the wrong man, he had no idea what to do. But instead of challenging him, they said something far worse. It was another chant that Jack Wisdom had heard before, seven years ago, by another fire, this one in his own living room as his wife held their baby boy in the open flames.

“No!” Jack cried out. “You can't ask that of him. It's not fair, he's only a little boy. He's no good to you, okay? I . . . I stopped it. It's my fault. Whatever she was trying to do to him, I stopped it, so he can't help you. Leave us alone!” The children said nothing, only stared at him.

He ran for his car now, and thanked God he hadn't locked it, but he did lock the doors as soon as he was inside and started the engine, as if the kids would come and pound on the windows like zombies in some horror movie. None of them moved, however. As he drove away, he could see them around their makeshift fire, hunched over, helpless.

Jack drove the empty street until it ended at a T-junction, then turned right and kept going until he found himself in a part of town he recognized and could head home. “It's not fair,” he said to the car. “He's only a kid, he can't do anything.”

It took two weeks for Simon to stop hearing any traces at all of Eli, no more whispers, no more rustles of pain in the back of his mind. On that same day, Simon Wisdom's father looked strange when he picked Simon up from after-school care. Usually Daddy would ask him about school, or tell him what they were going to have for dinner (he wasn't really a very good cook, but Simon would do his best to sound excited), but now he just drove. He seemed to have trouble breathing. The fact is, Daddy had been acting kind of funny for a while, ever since the police found Eli. Simon didn't know what was bothering him, and didn't want to know, so he'd done his best not to notice.

And not to cheat. That was the most important thing, not to look inside Daddy and find out what was bothering him.

When they got home, Daddy pulled into the driveway too fast and had to hit the brakes to avoid crashing into the garage door. He said a bad word, then took a deep breath. “Simon,” he said, then fell silent. Simon held himself really tight inside to stop from reaching out to touch what Daddy wanted to say. After a moment, his father said, “That little boy—Eli. Did you know . . . did you know anything about him? Where he was?” He stopped, then said, “Or what was happening to him?”

Simon shook his head. “No!” he said loudly. “I'm not a cheater.”

“I didn't say that!” his father half yelled, as if they were in a noise contest. His face twitched. “I just meant . . . if you could have done something—”

“I'm not a cheater!”

“I didn't say you were.”

“You said it was cheating to read people's minds.”

“Well, yes. Yes, I said that. But—”

“I don't know anything. Okay? I don't know anything about Eli. He wasn't even my friend.”

His father stared at him, then breathed deeply, as if he was trying to control himself. He said, “Sometimes in extreme circumstances, it's all right to do something that otherwise—”

“I told you, I don't know anything. Why can't you listen to me?” Simon began to cry, then rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to push the tears back inside.

“Stop that,” his father said, and grabbed his arms to pull his hands away from his face.

“I'm not a cheater, I'm not.” He pushed hard against his father's grip.

Daddy wrapped Simon in a tight hug and held on until Simon stopped fighting him. “No, of course you're not,” he said. “You're a good boy. I'm very, very proud of you.”

Jack Wisdom held his son close, so Simon wouldn't see the tears flowing down his father's face.

“Where is it?” Matyas demanded. He felt cold and stiff, as if he'd been sleeping out in the scrub hills beyond the Hungry Squirrel, but he made himself jump up to stand over her. A glimpse out of the tower's small, square window showed the gray and pink of early dawn. All night! He'd been asleep all night; she could have hidden them anywhere. Something inside him felt a deep gratitude to her, and with it the absurd desire to kneel in front of her and put his head in her lap, but he pushed it aside. He could have saved himself, he was sure of it. It was just . . . just dreams.
Never admit anything
. To Veil's impassive face, he said, “What did you do with it?”

He half expected her to ask, “Do with what?” and make him say, “The red box,” but instead she answered, “I've put that away. It was wrong of me to leave it out where you might get lost inside it.”

“Inside it?” he said, trying to sound scornful. “What do you mean?” Veil said nothing, and Matyas felt his face heat up. He hated it that she always appeared to know so much about him and he knew nothing about her. He said, “Was that the original?”

“The original? No, of course not. That was only a copy of a copy.” Matyas remembered the old wizard at his father's inn—
a copy of a copy of a copy
, he'd called his pictures. Veil went on, “The original has been hidden away for hundreds of years.”

“Why?”

She looked at him standing over her before she answered. Matyas realized that he was leaning over her with his hands clenched, and he suddenly felt ashamed. She looked so small in her plain wooden rocker surrounded by piles of books. She wore a long, red-brown dress, as shapeless as all her clothes, the material old and worn. Matyas wondered suddenly if she was poor. Most of the Masters wore such glorious robes, and Matyas knew they had patrons for whom they cast spells or something. He'd seen the great carriages come up at night, their coats of arms glimpsed under the black bunting meant to hide them, and the elegantly masked men and women who hurried in and out of the wizards' private quarters. No grand visitors ever came to Veil. Was she as poor as she was old and frail?

She said, “Why hide anything?”

“Because it's precious and you don't want anyone else to have it.”

Veil nodded. “Yes, that is certainly a reason to hide something. Sometimes, however, people conceal things because they are dangerous. Remember what I told you, Matyas. It is not wise to look too long in Eternity.”

“Why not?”

She smiled, an action which hardened the network of trace-lines in her face. Matyas braced himself for something like, “Well, you should know
that
. I had to rescue you, didn't I?” But instead she just said, “You sound like a child.”

“I am not a child!”

“Of course not.” The smile vanished and she said gravely, “I apologize.”

“Why isn't it wise?”

“Because you can get lost. And there are things hidden inside Eternity that are best not seen.”

For a moment, Matyas saw again, as if he was back inside, the man with the stone knife and the boy's head covered in cuts. He had to force himself not to shake, so she wouldn't see his fear.

He said, “Who made them? The originals.”

She smiled slightly, so quick he would have missed it if he hadn't been watching her so closely. “Would you mind sitting down, Matyas? It hurts my neck, I'm afraid, to tilt my head like this.” Matyas didn't bother to get a chair, just toppled a pile of books and sat on the smooth wood floor. Veil sighed. “His name was Joachim. Joachim the Brilliant. Also called Joachim the Blessed, and occasionally Joachim the Beloved.”

“What about Joachim the Baffled?”

Veil laughed, a surprisingly strong sound from someone so old. “No doubt,” she said. “We all get confused at times.”

“Did he make it so he could fly?”

“Matyas, haven't I told you—?”

“Yes, yes, no man can fly. Did Joachim make it so he could fly?”

“He made it so he could see Eternity.”

“Then why are you hiding it, if it won't teach me to fly?”

She grasped the arms of the rocker and pushed herself to her feet. Matyas got up as well and stood in front of her, as if she might try to escape. But all she said was, “Enough. It is time for you to cook our breakfast. We can talk more about this later.” She turned and bent down to choose a book from the stack Matyas had knocked over.

Matyas stomped to the small cooking area. Cooking! Chores! That's all she wanted him for. He was almost overcome by the desire to go back and knock the book from her hand, and see the shock on her face that he had refused her order. He might have done it, too, except he was never sure of what Veil could—or would—do if he really got her angry. At least, he saw, she'd made a small fire in the iron stove. He was about to pour water in the pot to make their porridge when he remembered that he'd soaked his hands in the water to cool the poison ointment she'd left in the mortar. Was the water safe? What would she do if he told her what had happened? He stared at the water, unable to see any oil or herb flakes. But that didn't mean—

“Matyas,” Veil said, without looking up from her book, “the water is fresh. I brought it up from the well myself this morning, while you slept.”

He didn't answer, only banged the ladle against the side of the pot as he spooned water into it.
Good for her
, he told himself.
Let her do some of the work for once
. The problem with her was that she was
lazy
. And then, against his will, he wondered, did she save him? Was it more than just a dream? He discovered he couldn't breathe, even had to hold on to the table to keep from falling. He stood up straight a moment later and took a deep breath. Did she notice? He glanced quickly behind him to find she had not looked up from her book.

Books. Something else she kept from him. If she'd just teach him to read, he wouldn't need her help for anything. She hid everything from him, reading, ointments, and now the pictures with all their precious
secrets. As he returned to stirring the porridge, Matyas imagined finding the original Tarot of Eternity in some dark cave, or maybe a palace with slippery gold floors (he'd first have to kill some ancient dragon, or a horde of headless warriors), and when he had it, the palace/cave would dissolve and he would fly through the air, all around Veil's cold, dark tower.

He made a face at the gray, lumpy mush in the pot. Cooking! Carrying! When he found the original “cards,” he would cast a spell on Veil and force
her
to do it all.

They were sitting at the rough oak table, where there was never anything but their bowls and spoons and a funny little stone figure of a pregnant woman holding her belly and sticking her tongue out, when Veil said, “Matyas, how did you know there was an original?”

His hand stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. A thick drop fell on the table before he could put the spoon back in his bowl. “I don't know,” he said. “I just thought maybe . . . it seemed so powerful.”

Veil sat back and clasped her hands in her lap, a quiet gesture, but somehow it made Matyas want to run. She said, “Don't worry, I won't change you into a dog or a monkey. Well, actually, a dog might be a pleasant addition.” She saw him look at his hands, as if they might have thickened into paws. “Matyas,” she said, “that was a joke.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me how you knew there was an original.”

“I . . . I met a wizard once. He came to the Hungry Squirrel. That was—”

“Your parents' inn, yes.”

“He was all by himself. He had one of those sticks.”

“A staff, yes. Some find them useful to focus power. I believe Lukhanan has one he's quite fond of.”

Matyas thought of the way Lukhanan marched around the courtyard, occasionally holding up his staff as if about to measure the sky. He said, “I wouldn't need one if you'd just teach me.”

“The Tarot, Matyas. He had it with him?”

“Yes. He said they were a copy of a copy of a copy. Like yours.” She didn't correct him and he went on, “And he said if you had the original, you could see everything all at once.” And, he remembered,
Whosoever touches the Tarot of Eternity, he shall be healed of all his crimes
.

“Yes, and perhaps that is why Master Joachim hid it from the world. Or perhaps he had other reasons. At least he was good enough to allow
a few copies to survive. It was said that if you placed the original and one of the first copies side by side you would have to turn yourself into an insect with a hundred eyes to see the differences.”

When Matyas didn't respond, Veil sighed again and said, “This man you met, the wizard. I knew him, Matyas. His name was Medun. He was a great scholar, a true Master.”

“Was he part of the Academy?”

“Yes. Until he was forced to leave.”

“Why? What happened?”

“There was another Master, one who used his power in, well, an unfortunate way. He brought in poor young girls, beggars really, and told them he would transmit power and wisdom directly from his body into theirs. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I think so.”

“Yes, you are not as young as you look. Of course, there was no transfer, except from them to him, their youth and their innocence.”

“And Medun did that?”

“No! Medun found out about it. He went to the Council of Governance, who run this Academy.”

“Are you on it?”

“No, Matyas, I'm afraid I have different concerns. The other wizard, however, had friends on the council. They promised Medun they would investigate his charges.”

“Was Lukhanan on the council?”

“Yes, I believe he was. Still is, in fact.”

“And did they? Investigate?”

She smiled, for just a moment. “No.”

“So what did Medun do?”

She was silent for a little while, then said, “He summoned something called a ‘Singular Storm'—lightning and hail at a specific location.”

“The other wizard's house.”

“Yes. The man survived, but crippled, and with most of his power gone. He left the Academy.”

Matyas asked, “What was his name?”

Veil shook her head. “No. There is a power in remembering names and there is a power in forgetting them. I prefer not to say his name in my home. Do you object?”

“I guess not.” Matyas tried to remember if she'd ever asked his permission for anything. He felt somehow both proud and angry at the same time. He said, “What happened to your friend? Medun.”

“Medun was called before the council. Some wanted to banish him from thought and memory, a truly terrible spell. The victim of it forgets everything, even his own name. If they had done that to Medun, his power would have remained but he would never have remembered it, and thus he would have stumbled through the world as helpless as an orphan.”

Matyas stared at her. “That's horrible. It's all wrong. Medun was just trying to help those girls.”

“Yes. Power and justice do not always march together. In the end, the council cast a spell that sent him into what is called a ‘Wandering Exile.' He must travel from place to place, never able to remain in one location for more than a single night.”

Matyas remembered when he came to the wizard's room in the morning and found only a bag of coins. He said, “That's still unfair. He was the one who was right.”

“Yes, but poor Medun never understood the importance of having the right friends.”

“Why didn't you stop them? Could you have stopped them?”

“Maybe. I didn't try, so I cannot say.”

Matyas nearly upset the table as he jumped to his feet. “Why? Why didn't you try?”

Veil didn't move or unclasp her hands. She said, “Sometimes things must happen just as they happen. Even a terrible injustice may serve some unknown purpose. Perhaps Medun needed to go somewhere,
be
somewhere at a particular moment, and that could not have happened if he'd stayed in his study.”

Matyas frowned, trying to follow flashes of thought that seemed to beckon him. He said finally, “I might not have come here if I hadn't met him.” He remembered the Kallistocha telling him to go to the Academy, but it was Medun, an actual wizard, who made it feel possible. Suddenly he wanted to end this conversation, wanted not to think about it anymore. He almost knocked over the pot so he would have to clean it up, but he knew if he didn't ask he would still think it, over and over. He said finally, his voice tight, “Could I be the reason Medun had to leave? Did all those things happen to him—to those girls, and the wizard—so
I
would meet him?”

Veil looked at him for a long time and then smiled, so quickly Matyas was not sure he saw it. It was as if . . . as if she was
proud
of him. For what? Figuring it out? Matyas shook his head. He didn't feel proud at all. This was something terrible, something he didn't want to know. He thought of those girls, hurt by that wizard, and then of Medun, forced to wander the world for doing something right. Was it all so Matyas would come to the Academy? How could that be?

And what of the evil wizard? If the things he did were part of some great plan, did that mean he
had
to do them? Was he as innocent as the girls he hurt? If it was all about Matyas, was it all his fault? He whispered, as if afraid to speak too loudly, “Please tell me. Am I the reason?”

Slowly, as if she was picking her words with care, Veil said, “Everyone chooses their own actions. And yet, sometimes people's individual choices weave together, so that what each one does, whether for good or bad, allows others to be in a certain place at a certain time. This is how patterns form.”

“Why am
I
so important?”