Free The Child Eater by Rachel Pollack Page A

main room, one with a plain iron stove and rough pots, the other with a narrow bed and a lidded white porcelain chamber pot, with a blue curtain for privacy. Without thinking, Matyas blurted, “It’s so ordinary.”
    Veil smiled. “Is it now? Then tell me, young Matyas, why you found it so difficult to climb the stairs.”
    Matyas stood up straight. “I didn’t have any trouble.”
    “Oh? You looked in pain.”
    “I just told you, I was fine.”
    She laughed now. “Matyas, there was no shame in your weakness. I needed to test your talent and you have shown it. Remarkably so. Few practiced magicians could have made it even halfway up those stairs, let alone to the top.”
    Matyas squinted at her. Was she making fun of him? “It was just some stairs,” he said.
    “Look out of the window.”
    He peered out. “It’s just the courtyard.”
    “Look again.”
    Shaking his head as if at a madwoman, Matyas took a step closer to the window. He saw blackness, deep night, though a moment earlier it had been sunny. As if from a vast distance swirls of gray emerged, shot through with sharp jewels of color. It all turned, arms spilled out, grew then dissipated like puffs of smoke, replaced immediately by fresh spirals. Matyas stared and stared. He could dive into it, swim in it—
    Veil yanked on his arm. He growled at her, tried to fight her off, but she only held on tighter. He turned to tell her to leave him alone when suddenly he realized how off balance he was, that if she had let him go he would have plummeted right out through the window, down into—Now, when he looked again, there was only the courtyard below.
    Veil said, “Stairs can be many things, sometimes even a genuine ladder, which is to say a passage to the higher realms. The first flight took you beyond the Moon, the second beyond Venus, the third pastMercury, the fourth the Sun, and the fifth, well, the fifth flight, young Matyas, carried you past the birthplace of stars. Only the very wise or the very foolish can survive such a journey.”
    “Don’t call me a fool,” Matyas said.
    Veil nodded. “I would not do that. But let me tell you a saying from an old friend of mine. It goes like this: The scholar hears of the Gate and tries to undo the lock. The student hears of the Gate and tries to squeeze between the bars. The fool hears of the Gate and laughs. Without laughter, the Gate would never open.”
    “I’m not a fool,” Matyas said. He glanced nervously at the window.
    “Oh, no need to worry,” Veil said. “While you stay here it will remain a dull tower leading to an old woman’s crowded retreat. As I said, I wanted to test your talent. I am satisfied.”
    “Then teach me to fly.”
    “Fly? Who told you a wizard can fly?”
    Matyas was about to tell her of the voice, the prophecy and the man he’d seen move across the sky, but something stopped him. So he only said, “It’s why I came here.”
    “Patience,” Veil said. “We will begin your lessons soon. Now I am tired and I would like my hair brushed.” She sat down facing away from him and held out a small brush of pig bristles set into polished horn. With her free hand, she removed the clasp and her hair tumbled down her back.
    “I’m not . . .” he started to say, then watched his hand take the brush. It felt warm and almost weightless. He ran it through her hair in long strokes, first jerkily, with anger, but soon smooth and rhythmically. He had no idea how long he’d been doing it when Veil murmured, “Thank you, Matyas. You may rest now.”
    He looked around, seeing hard floor everywhere, covered in books, statues and other odd objects. Where was he supposed to sleep? He’d have to twist himself like uncooked dough to find a spot. At least at the inn, his mother had given him a thin pallet and some torn sheets to set down in front of the stove.
    He must have made some kind of noise, for Veil’s head lifted and she turned to look at him. Matyas said, “I