The Child Eater (33 page)

He might have died there, against that wall, with snow all around him, and inside, the sounds of people laughing, warm, safe. Vaguely he thought of entering and asking for help, but what good would that do him? He was a beggar. His whole life he'd been beaten, kicked, thrown out, and now he would die where he belonged. He was ready, he told himself. He'd tried to fight back and he couldn't do it. He'd never had a chance, he was just a child, a helpless boy. It made sense he couldn't remember his name, or anything else about his life. He was nothing. He'd always been nothing. He sat down against the wall, arms wrapped tight around his cold, hurt body.

And yes, he might have died there, alone and broken, except . . . he heard a noise. Weeping. Somewhere nearby someone was crying, a sound so piteous the boy could not seem to shut it out. So he pushed himself to his feet and as best as he could he followed the sound, moving along the wall, around the corner. There he saw a man on the ground, his head in his hands. The man looked old or sick. He might have been burly once, but now his skin sagged, and the muscles along his arms shook like strings as he rocked back and forth. He'd had red hair, apparently, and a thick beard, but now most of his hair had fallen out and his beard had grown irregularly and both looked the color of rust on old metal.

Despite the man's withered shape, he wore a heavy robe and some kind of moth-eaten animal skin thrown over his shoulders. And boots. Warm, fur-lined boots. The boy stared at them, the boots, the cloak. He could just take them and run. The weeping man looked too weak to put up a fight.

Instead, he knelt down and said, “What's wrong? What happened to you?”

The man shook his head. “I can't do it anymore,” he said. “I'm finished. I can't do it.”

“Do what?” No answer. The boy said, “Maybe you need some rest. Maybe if you go inside they can give you a room.” The old man cried out as if in pain, but the boy had no idea why. Awkwardly he put his arm around the man and tried to lift him to his feet.

“No!” the man said, and twisted away.

“It's all right,” the boy said.

“You don't understand,” the man said. “I slept there last night.”

“And what, you made them angry?” The boy thought how he was starting to get pretty angry himself, but he just said, “It doesn't matter. When they see how much you need to be inside they'll have to take you.” And what about himself? When did anyone ever take
him
in?

“No, no,” the man said. “It's the curse. The spell.”

Spell
, the boy thought. Was this man some kind of wizard? He scrambled backward, frightened at what the man might do to him. Could wizards read people's minds? Would he know that the boy had wanted to rob him? He looked around, nervous that the man whose wallet he'd tried to steal might come up and denounce him. There was no one there, but he noticed something odd in the snow near the old man. A broken stick lay there, or the remains of one, for it was just a splintered shaft around two feet long. It looked like there had been some kind of red stone attached to the top, but it too was broken now, just a jagged, dull red shard at the end of the wood.

The boy stared at it, then again at the boots, the fur. Maybe he could sell the stone. Keep the boots and the fur. He might even get the robe off and sell that, too. But he looked at the man, slumped over and helpless, and the thought of hurting him, even just leaving him there, made the boy feel sick. He didn't know why. What had this man, this
wizard
, ever done for him? All the great wizards in the world, and none of them had ever protected him.

And yet, he bent down and reached out carefully to touch the man's shoulder. When no lightning bolt of magic knocked him backward he laid his arm more firmly over the ragged fur. “It's all right. I'll take you inside and you'll be safe.”

“No! You ignorant, stupid . . . Get out of here. Let me die.”

Rage shook the boy. They were all the same, wizards, innkeepers, old women . . . He looked around for a weapon, something to give the old man what he deserved. He saw the broken stick with the jagged stone and grabbed it. A stabbing pain went through him, but only for an instant. The stone seemed to brighten, casting a glow over his hand. Or did the effect come from the swarm of small lights that suddenly had appeared in the air, darting every which way all around him? What a strange sight. If it hadn't been winter, he might have thought they were fireflies.

The man stared, open-mouthed, at the boy, the lights, the boy. In a rough whisper, he said, “How . . . what are you . . . how can you—?” He stopped, only to say a moment later, more loudly, “My God.
It's you
.”

The boy ignored him. He wanted to ask what the man meant—could he possibly know who the boy was?—but he knew he had to go ahead and do whatever he was supposed to be doing. Even though he had no idea what was going on, he felt sure this was his only chance to help the old man. He raised the stick in his left hand with the jewel pointed at the night sky, then reached out to place his right palm on the old man. He tried the forehead first but that felt wrong, and he moved his hand to lay it over the man's heart.

“No,” the man said, “you don't know what you're doing. No one can help me. You'll just hurt yourself.”

The boy thought he should jerk his hand away, but he didn't move. Instead, he looked at the swarm of lights and whispered, “Please. Help us.”

Heat ran through his body, hotter and hotter, and he kept telling himself to drop the stick and run. He didn't move. Suddenly the stone broke, shattered into dust, and in that same instant something heavy and dark lifted from the old man's chest. It hung in the air for less than a second then blew away.

The boy dropped the stick and pitched forward onto his hands and knees. When he'd caught his breath and could look at the old man again, he saw him slumped against the wall and for a moment he was terrified
that instead of helping the man he'd killed him. But no, his chest was rising and falling—he was just asleep.

Exhausted, the boy almost lay down next to him, but then all his effort would have been wasted. So he shook the old man awake and said, “Get up. It's time to go inside.” The man looked about to object again but all he did was nod and allow the boy to raise him to his feet then lead him to the door.

Inside, the inn was bright with oil lamps, and crowded with travelers and drinkers. They were laughing, arguing, whispering. Over in a corner, a group of men were playing cards, with small stacks of money in front of them, and something about that made the boy—the young man—uneasy, but he ignored the feeling. More important was how people might look at him. Some did glance at the old man held up by the ragged young beggar, but they soon returned to their sausages and beer. The only one to pay any real attention to them was the landlord, a bald, skinny man in a stained apron. “Well,” he said to the man, “so you've changed your mind and will stay another night with us after all. Good, good. And you've brought a friend?” He smirked at the young man, taking in his wretched condition but not looking particularly worried. The old man must have money.

The boy—the young man—looked longingly at the plates of food, the fireplace with its eager flames. He turned to the old man, hoping to be invited to stay, but instead the man took his hands and said, “Bless you. May the Creator and all the Guardians bless you forever.”

Guilt, like a shock of pain, made the young man pull his hands away.
Guardians
. He'd done something—something terrible . . . The memory slid away from him but it made no difference. The truth remained. He did not deserve a warm fire or food or even the hope to sit quietly among people. He ran outside, back to the snow. Behind him, the old man called, “Wait!” and the innkeeper laughed. He paid no attention.

Now he knew it would be a race for what would kill him first: hunger or cold, or maybe even blood loss, for he was still injured from the beating he'd taken when he tried to steal the wallet. He collapsed into a deep snow bank, hoping he would fall asleep and miss the actual slide into death.

If he'd been hoping for a soft bed, he didn't find it. There was something hard in the snow, just where his head lay. Something small and rectangular, with sharp corners. Groaning, he pushed himself up and stared
at it. It looked like a package wrapped in blue cloth, about the width of his hand and not quite as long.

And then he began to shake, and it was not from blood or hunger or cold. He shook as if the world itself was breaking apart. Memory was returning to him, wave upon wave. He knew who he was. Knew what he'd done. He knew why he did not deserve to live. But most of all, he knew what
this
was. He knew it even before he fumbled off the blue wrapping. Before he saw the stack of painted cards. Before he looked at the first picture, a joyous man hanging upside down by one foot over an abyss of light.

He knew who he was. Matyas, the most undeserving of men. And he knew what these cards were. A miracle.

For this was the Tarot of Eternity: the original, painted by Joachim the Blessed thousands of years before Matyas' birth, and hidden from the world for nearly as long.

Matyas clutched the cards against his chest and wept. He wept with all his might and all his heart and all his soul. His blood became tears, the snow became tears, the fires of the city became a river of tears.

There was a saying about these cards, from Joachim himself. Medun had told it to him, long ago, but he'd forgotten it, just as he had forgotten everything important. But now it had come back.
Whosoever touches the Tarot of Eternity, he shall be healed of all his crimes
.

Strength was returning to him now. He knew that no one would harm him and he should rest. It was what the cards wanted, he could feel it. He clutched them tightly against his chest and fell asleep.

He woke to sighs of sorrow. He looked around, only to discover he was sitting at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac of dirt houses. He understood then that it was the Earth's pain he was hearing. This was what Veil heard, he realized. All those times she sat in her chair, hands in her lap, eyes on nothing, she was listening to the world's sadness. He shook his head. How could he not have known that?

He reached into Eternity and pulled out a card. It showed a woman sitting up in bed weeping with her hands over her face. The night sky was behind her, black with pinpoints of stars, and suspended in the air were nine swords, all horizontal and one above the other, like the steps of a ladder. The bottom sword was dark and heavy, a weapon of stone, and then each one became successively lighter, until the last was not a sword at all but a blaze of brightness stroked across the night.

Who is she?
he wondered, as if somehow he should know her. It was just a drawing, wasn't it? How could it—? He cried aloud. Of course! It was Florian! All those years he'd studied her works, thought of himself as her greatest disciple, he hadn't understood anything. Her doctrines, her discoveries, all her achievements, they weren't driven by glory, or even just a yearning for wisdom. They came from her deep understanding of the world's pain. What was it she'd put over the Gate of Light leading into the Academy? “Beg the aid of the Masters, for they alone shall help you.”

Matyas stared and stared until the bed vanished, and the woman, and only the swords remained, huge before him, a ladder to the sky. A True Ladder, for what was truer than sorrow for the world's suffering? He wrapped up the cards and put them in his waistband, then slowly began to climb, clumsy at first, then with determination, even grace, until he reached the final rung, the beam of light, and stepped off.

He was soaring over the city, wind in his face, trouser legs flapping like flags in a storm before he even realized he was doing it. Flying! He was doing it. At last, after all these years. Down below, the lights and stones of the city ran together, and in the midst of the wind, he could hear human voices, and the chatter of birds. He laughed and his body vaulted upward, he inclined his head and tilted back toward the ground. When he closed his eyes, the air swirled all around him and he could almost believe that he himself did nothing and the world was simply turning beneath him.
So this is it
, he thought. It was never a trick, or a spell, or anything a teacher or a power could give you. It was simply a way of being.

Hovering in the air, he laughed suddenly. Florian had told him he was looking in the wrong place and he'd run across the world searching for the right one. But what she'd meant was any place but inside himself. And the other thing? The one he didn't hear? The wrong time. It could only happen when he was ready.

He laughed again and spun joyously in the air.

Jack stared, afraid to move or speak. Rebecca was right there, in the room. She wore the purple dress she'd had on when he'd first met her. Her hair shone brightly as it flowed over her shoulders. And it wasn't just her hair—there were lights all around her, her clothes, her face. No, he realized suddenly, she
was
light. A thousand tiny lights, like butterflies, had taken the shape of his beloved Rebecca. “It's just another dream,” he whispered, sad now, for that meant he was about to wake up. He'd read that somewhere, when you're dreaming and you realize it you wake up.

“No,” Rebecca said, as if she'd heard his thoughts (but that was what she did, wasn't it? She and Simon?). “This is not my body but I am here. The Splendor have given me this gift so that I can talk to you.”

“The Splendor?”

“The name for the lights you see. Jack, you must listen to me.”

He sat up now. He wanted so much to lie to her, to tell her everything was all right. Instead, he said, “Bec, I've killed him. I killed Simon.”

“No! Simon is alive but he needs your help. He is trying to escape Reina right now, but he can't do it without you.”

Jack jumped up. “What do I do?”

“He needs the cards and you're the only one who can take them to him.”

“You mean the Tarot cards? Oh my God, Bec, I got rid of them.”

She shook her head. “No, no, no. The Tarot of Eternity can never be destroyed. Didn't I tell you that?”

“I tore them up. I burned them.”

“Please, Jack, you have to listen to me. Whatever you or I did doesn't matter. Only right now matters. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then go around the back of the house. You will see the cards there, wrapped in blue cloth. As soon as you pick them up, you will see Simon. You won't be able to hand him the cards, but you can throw them to him. That is all you have to do. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“Good. I love you, Jack Wisdom. I love you forever.”

“I love you, too,” Jack shouted. He was already running for the door.

Outside, it was evening but the sky was bright and red. Had the Sun just set? He couldn't remember what time it was. Jack pushed any such thoughts away as he searched the backyard. There it was, a small blue package lying in the grass. To his amazement, the squirrels were there, standing on either side, like guards.

For a moment, Jack's old fears stopped him. Something in him tried to say, “This is insane,” or even, “It's a trick, she's trying to hurt you.”
No
, he told himself, the trick was Reina's. He made Jack doubt himself. Doubt Rebecca. Doubt
Simon
. It was as if Reina was whispering in his ear, telling him lies. He'd done it all Jack's life, ever since that day on the baseball field. It was Reina, Frederick Reina, who'd felt all over his head only to say, “You're not ready,” and sent him home. Jack had thought he was safe but Reina had never left him. He'd been there all Jack's life, whispering to him, making him doubt.

Instead of freeing Jack, this knowledge just weighed him down. All the terrible mistakes he'd made—turning against Rebecca, giving Simon to the monster—they'd all come about because of Reina. How could Jack hope to beat him?

And then something rose up in Jack. This wasn't about him anymore, it was about Simon. That's what Reina had meant when he'd said Jack wasn't ready. He was waiting for Simon.

“You son of a bitch!” he shouted. “You can't have him!”

Jack Wisdom picked up the cards and the sky caught fire.

He screamed and jumped back. A wall of flame had appeared in front of him but he was okay, he wasn't hurt.

He squinted into the blaze. He could see shapes on the other side . . . Simon was there! His precious boy was running right toward him. Only . . . Simon was running with all his might but he couldn't seem to get any closer. Behind Simon, Dr. Frederick Reina walked slowly forward, gaining on the boy with every step. Reina was smiling, and in his right hand he held a stone knife.

Through the fire, Jack called, “Simon!”

“Daddy,” Simon cried, “help me!”

Jack didn't know what to do. He tried again to get through the fire but the heat pushed him back. If he tried to throw Simon the cards, would flames burn them up?
Trust Rebecca
, he told himself.
The Tarot of Eternity can never be destroyed
. He hurled the package toward his son.