The Child Eater (12 page)

“Maybe you're not. Maybe you also have a purpose. A place in that larger plan.”

“It would have to be a really large plan to pull in so many of us.”

“That is not for us to judge.”

“What is it?” Matyas demanded. “What's this great plan?”

“Matyas, do you think I am God that I can see how everything fits together?” Matyas started to answer before he realized he had no idea what to say. With a slight nod, Veil said, “If you have finished your porridge, perhaps you can clean up, then go and bring up some more wood for this evening's fire. And if you don't mind, I would like to return to my studies.”

That night, as Matyas lay on his bed, he saw the Splendor, bright specks that darted all around his sleep alcove. Tracks, Medun had said. The lights were just their tracks, like wolf prints in the snow. If Matyas could see them in their full form they would crack open the tower, cover the sky. “What do you want?” he whispered. “Why do you come to me?” He had always thought it was because he was someone special, someone important. They came to honor him, and to help him fly. Now he wondered if it was because they wanted something from him. Would they force him to harm innocent girls? He thought of Royja and how horrible it would be if someone did to her what that wizard had done. Or would they end up banishing him, like Medun?

He remembered the voices, whispering at him, like insects in his ear, that great promise, that he would fly, that he would be better than everyone.

But now, as he longed to hear that promise again, it was the second half that stuck in his mind, no matter how hard he tried not to remember.

Simon began to have bad dreams. There were people who changed into wild dogs when moonlight touched their skin. There were trees where men with burning faces hung upside down. Sometimes he dreamed of a stone tower in some old city. There were magnificent buildings all around it, with grand columns and statues of winged lions, but the tower looked lumpy and crude even as it stood over them. And yet, at the beginning of the dream at least, Simon liked to look at it, he felt both excited and peaceful at the same time. There was just something about it—it clearly was just dull stone, but somehow it seemed made out of stories, stories hidden all up and down the walls. In the dream, he would look at it for a long time, wishing he could go there and hide.

He'd be safe there. He couldn't cheat and read people's thoughts when he didn't want to if there was no one around but himself. Except—what about all those stories hidden in the stone? What if he started to read the building itself and couldn't stop? And then in the dream, the tower would explode, as if lightning had struck it, or just the pressure of all those stories was too much for it to contain. As it blew apart, Simon would discover it hadn't been empty after all, for a boy and an old woman fell screaming from the window.

As disturbing as the tower dream was, worst of all were the pieces of children. Sometimes Simon would dream that he was walking somewhere—in the schoolyard, in the town where his grandparents lived, in the street behind the old day-care house from when he was little—and at first everything would be fine, he'd be on his way to the drugstore to get candy, or on the baseball field at school. Then slowly he would discover he was lost, stuck in some place he'd never seen before. It would be late, with shadows that covered the bottom half of his body so he couldn't see his feet.

He would begin to get scared and look for markers of some kind, signs of safety or the way home. At first he would appear to get help: a branch would point along the trail; a candy wrapper would contain some message, even if he couldn't figure it out. Then the objects would change, become fragments of clothing covered in blood and grease, a basketball shoe that looked as if a dog had ripped it with its teeth. Soon he would begin to see actual pieces of children, a finger, bent as if to beckon to him, a leg with a scarred knee. Most terrifying of all were the tongues that twisted around like agitated snakes.

There were never any faces or mouths but the tongues still made a noise, a wailing sound, like children lost for a hundred years. Often Simon would wake up at this point, for he would imitate the sound while asleep, and then his daddy would rush in to save him.

“It's okay,” Daddy would say each time, “it's all right,” though it so obviously wasn't. “It's just a dream.” Simon could still feel the cut-up pieces of children all around him, even if he could no longer see them. And he knew that Daddy was lying, that he didn't really believe what he said. Simon didn't have to cheat to know that—he could feel it in his father's stiff back, the way the muscles trembled even as Daddy tried to hold them steady. It wasn't okay. Nothing was okay.

Over the next year, Simon became more and more what his father and the doctor called “troubled.” He began to fail tests and have problems at school, sometimes for not paying attention, sometimes for talking back or fighting. It seemed like he got in fights a lot. He lost most of his friends. Kids who used to run up to him in break now walked away when they saw him.

It was so unfair
, he thought,
wasn't he trying so very hard not to cheat? They were just stupid
, he decided.
They couldn't read anybody even if they wanted to.

Why would he want friends who never had to stop themselves from knowing what was going to happen, or what other people were thinking? Maybe Simon was a cheater but he wasn't dumb. He didn't need those dumb kids, he didn't need anybody.

His father took him to lots of doctors. There was Howard Porter, who'd been Simon's doctor his whole life. Dr. Howard, as Simon called him, was always kind, though sometimes he looked confused, or scared. Like Daddy. Then there were other doctors, ones Simon had never met before. Some talked to him, or asked him to draw things, or play games, or tell them about the dreams. Others attached funny wires to his head with gooey stuff, or made him lie very still inside a big noisy machine they said was like a spaceship, except that was really dumb because it didn't go anywhere. He called these “wire doctors,” because of the things they stuck on him. He liked them better than the play doctors. The tests were weird, but he didn't have to do or say anything.

With the play doctors, Simon had to answer lots of questions, and that meant making sure he didn't cheat and know the right answer. One of them, Dr. Joan, asked him about his mother. Dr. Joan was pretty, with short blond hair and brightly colored dresses, but she never looked very happy. She would lean forward and smile a lot, but she also rubbed her hands as if trying to clean them or tangle and untangle her fingers. Simon knew it was not polite to stare, but he wished she would keep them still.

Most of all, he didn't know how to answer her questions. Was he angry at his mother? Did he hate his mother? Simon had never known his mother. She died such a long time ago, so how could he hate her? Did he hate his father? Why would he hate his father? Did he love his father? Did he know his father loved him?

When Dr. Joan asked things like that, Simon just shrugged. He could find out what she wanted him to say, of course. It would be so easy. And in fact, not doing it was hard, so that he usually left her office feeling tired and angry, and when his father offered to take him for pizza, Simon just wanted to go home. At least, he would think, he hadn't cheated.

Other doctors gave him medicines. They said the drugs would stop the dreams, make him less “angry,” help him pay attention at school. The problem was, they also made him sick. It didn't matter which one it was, he would throw up and get a fever. They tried different colored pills (one of the doctors called them “magic beans,” whatever that meant),
they tried shots, but it was all the same, until finally his father cried and hugged him and promised not to give him any more.

His grandmother took him to churches where the priests sprinkled water on his head and said what sounded like magic words, but Grandma later said was just church talk. One priest held the sides of his head so tightly Simon worried the priest's fingers would leave marks, then flung his hands away and yelled, “Be gone!” None of it made any sense. None of it made any difference.

Throughout this time, the only kid who stayed his friend was “Popcorn Jimmy.” His real name was Jimmy Aken, but everyone called him “Popcorn” because his mom always packed a bag of popcorn in his lunch. He and Simon had been friends since early in day care, and even though Simon was just as mean to Jimmy as to anyone else, Jimmy still hung around with him. “Weird and Weirder” was what some of the kids called them.

One day at break, Simon was off by himself, kicking pebbles, when he heard a whimper. Surprised, he looked around and saw that no one was there. He heard it again, and knew somehow it came from the other side of the school. At first he was horrified that he had left a crack in the wall he tried to keep up against cheating. He put his hands over his ears but that only made it louder, as if he was holding it inside his head.
Get out
, he silently ordered it,
get away from me.

Then he realized the voice was Jimmy. For just a moment more he resisted, thinking,
Let him take care of himself
, thinking Jimmy would call him a cheater. And the crying, the fear, they were not that bad, really. Not like Eli . . . He thought of Jimmy screaming in his head, days long, the way Eli had done, and then just stopping . . .

Simon ran as fast as he could, nearly knocking over a girl playing kickball. When he got to the other side of the school, he saw Allen and Allen, two older kids who were gang types, shoving Jimmy between them and laughing. Jimmy's bag of popcorn lay scattered on the ground.
It's okay
, Simon thought,
it's just kids.

“Leave him alone!” Simon yelled, and ran full force into the taller boy. Both he and Allen fell, but Simon got up first and threw a handful of dirt into the other Allen's face before he could take over the fight from his namesake on the ground.

Allen on the ground got up and stood beside his friend, fists clenched. Simon looked around, saw that Jimmy was hanging back and probably would run if the Allens attacked. Suddenly, Simon thought how unfair
it all was. He tried so hard to be good, he tried and tried, all the time. And now—

Now he discovered, in one great sharp thrill, that he didn't care. With a huge rush, a cloud of sickness flew out of his body and Simon just stood there, grinning, his eyes electric as he stared at first one of the bullies, then the other. It was so easy!

Jesus
, the bigger one was thinking,
what's he looking at?

“Jesus,” Simon said, “what's he looking at?”

Hey!

“Hey!”

How did you—? What the fuck—? What—?

“How did you—? What the fuck—? What—?”

Ah! My head. He's in my head. Get out!

“Ah! My head. He's in my head. Get out!”

Simon switched to the other Allen, who was looking from his friend to Simon.
What's going on?

“What's going on?” Simon said.

Huh? Fuck!

“Huh? Fuck!”

Stop it, stop it.

“Stop it, stop it.”

Oh, Jesus, don't think, hands, Mr. Blake, hands, no, stop, stop, stop!

“Oh, Jesus, don't think, hands, Mr. Blake, hands, no, stop, stop, stop!”

The two boys screamed together and scrambled backward, falling down and then jumping up as quickly as they could, afraid to take their eyes off Simon as if he might get inside them for good and never leave. Simon leaned forward, his body tight and at an impossible angle, as if a rod attached to the Allens held him upright. When they got to twenty feet, however, the rod snapped and Simon would have fallen face down if Jimmy hadn't grabbed him.

The Allens appeared to feel it too because they stopped their scramble to get away and looked around to see if anyone had been watching. When they saw no one was there, they stood up straight and hardened their faces. “Fucking weirdo!” one of them yelled, and the other repeated, “Weirdo!” Allen shook his fist and said, “Better watch out, weirdo,” and Allen added, “Yeah! Watch your fuckin' back. Both of you, you sick little fucks.” They tried to stroll off, hands in their pockets, but it was half a run.

Shaking, Simon stared at their backs, their heads, the angle of their shoulders and elbows, the jerkiness in their legs. Beside him, Jimmy said, “Wow, that was weird. I mean, it was
cool
. Just—you know.”

Simon jerked around to stare at Jimmy, who looked suddenly like a drawing, a kind of cartoon version of something extremely complicated. Simon made a noise, then left his mouth open, and in that moment the sickness rushed back into him so hard he really did fall down now, seat first, onto a patch of dry grass. He wanted to get right back on his feet but knew if he did, he would just throw up, right on Jimmy, who nervously put out his hand to help, then pulled it back when Simon didn't take it.

“Hey,” Jimmy said, “you okay?” Simon just stared at him, afraid to test himself at the same time that he knew he had to do it. He focused on the cartoon Jimmy, the outside, and discovered, as if he'd been given a great gift, that it held. “That was great,” Jimmy said. “I mean—you know—cool. Thanks.”

Simon nodded. It was okay to stand now. For a second he was scared that Jimmy would try to help him again, but when his friend held back, Simon realized, with both immense relief and a stab of sorrow, that he had no idea what Jimmy would do. Simon stood and felt the damp weight of the cloud inside his body.

Jimmy looked around. “Hey, you want to go and sit on the tree?” He nodded toward a tree that had fallen some weeks ago on the edge of the playground.

“Okay,” Simon said. He didn't really want to sit. He wanted to run away. But he followed Jimmy and sat alongside him. They both stared at the ground.

“Hey,” Jimmy said. “How did you know—you know, what those jerks were doing?”

“I didn't cheat!” Simon said. He remembered the thrill of tracking every flicker in the Allens' heads.

“Hey, man, I didn't say anything.” Jimmy started to stare at Simon, then turned away. He laughed suddenly. “Look at that,” he said, and pointed to where a pair of squirrels, one red, one gray, were eating the spilled popcorn. Jimmy laughed. “That's cool,” he said, clearly relieved there was something else he could talk about.

Simon stared at the squirrels, his hands all sweaty. He knew his father hated squirrels or was scared of them or something because he shouted
and chased them away whenever they came anywhere close. Simon himself never thought much about them. Now he just stared at them as they gnawed at the popcorn, almost the way he'd stared at the Allens. But that was nuts, they were just squirrels. He kept on looking.

“Hey,” Jimmy said, “you okay?”

But Simon paid no attention for the squirrels had lifted their heads, together, and it looked just like they were staring back at him. For a moment he became scared that he was dreaming again, and any moment now the popcorn in the squirrels' mouths would change to kid fingers, or tongues, and he would hear that terrible noise of all the sad children.

But instead of the popcorn or squirrels changing into dead children, Simon saw lights dart about the squirrels' heads. It was hard to see at first in the sunshine, but they were all zipping in the air like fireflies, only they weren't, they were just lights. Simon stared at them, for they reminded him of something. Now he remembered—he used to see them sometimes when he was little, before he found out he was bad and had to control himself. What would Daddy do to him if he found out what Simon had done? What if the Allens told on him?