Hunger stood upon the cliff. Hundreds of feet below him a river surged. He knew its name-the Lion. He knew many names now, all of them taken from the villager named Barg. And more would grow in him over the next few days as he finished digesting the soul of this man. But he wanted no more.
At first, each name had been a delight and thrill. Each had added to a building ecstasy, but then it all changed horribly. The image of the girl he’d killed in the village of Plum-the sons, the pretty wife-they rose in him again. Those images swelled a tide of grief, and he floundered in it like one drowning because it was not the girl, the sons, the wife, but his girl, his sons, his lovely, precious wife.
Somehow, in some wicked way, he was the villager Barg, twisted beyond all reckoning.
It made no sense. But new words tumbled into him every hour. New ideas. In some inexplicable way he’d mixed with the villager like copper and tin mixed to make bronze. He was Hunger and Barg and all the small things he had eaten: a rat, two lazy dogs, a multitude of insects, a horse.
After devouring Barg, he had reached out and, with his own rough hands, wrenched the life from his daughter. He’d separated her, taking her Fire and soul and casting her body aside. He’d swallowed her whole, but he hadn’t eaten her like he had Barg. He’d swallowed her into the place the Mother had told him to.
But he could have chosen not to. He could have run.
The image of his wife’s back breaking, of her folding over like a stick of wood, took his vision away.
Lords, he could have spared her, his son, and little Rose. Oh, sweet little Rose. His grief stretched wide and he roared at the confusion and pain. But Hunger had no tears. No way to purge the pain. And he could not escape. The souls of his family struggled within him, imprisoned inside that place the Mother had made. They would not get out. Even he didn’t know how to release them. That was the power of the Mother. So he could not open his stomach, but perhaps it was possible to break this body and, thereby, set them free.
He looked down at his legs and arms. Earth and grass… it was not right. It was not his body. He could feel worms burrowing through his limbs. This morning he’d pulled away chunks of the grass growing on his legs and stomach and dug in. He was nothing more than dirt and sticks and stone.
There was a name for what he was, but it floated away from him. But name or not, he knew he must die.
The river surged at the bottom of the gorge below him. If he broke himself upon the rocks below perhaps he could undo the horror. It would not bring him back as father or husband. But perhaps it would release their souls, and they could find a way to continue in the world of the dead.
The Lion was a treacherous river and had drowned many men. He spotted a run of thick rapids and marked it as his target. He would break upon the rocks there and sink to the bottom. In time the rushing waters would carry his body out to sea.
Stop. It was the Mother, reaching out to him. This will do you no good. Have you not learned yet to trust me? I told you not to eat the humans. But you disobeyed.
He felt her pull. Felt the pain only she could give him. But maybe she could ease the grief. Maybe she could ease his yearning and emptiness. Hunger looked at the waters below and hesitated.
She would hurt him. She would be furious. I only ate one. Only one. And he didn’t have any stink. You said not to taste the ones with stink.
That is what I said, you’re right. And you did cease your frenzy when you’d consumed one. Come back to me.
Maybe she wouldn’t punish him. But even this one, he said, even this one hurts.
Of course. Don’t you see? she said. It’s the man you ate that’s riding you, filling your mind with these thoughts. The filthy man. You’ve given him power over you.
The man wasn’t filthy. He was… Hunger. Himself.
I am an… he paused, then the word came to him, tumbled in with the weight of a massive stone. I am an abomination, he said. Let me go.
Come to me, she said. I will give you rest. I will show you how to eat these men and not suffer.
Her pull was not overwhelming here, not like in her cave, but he could feel the ease only she could give him. He almost turned then. Almost returned to her. But Hunger now knew the name for what he was, and that thing was not meant for this world.
No, he said. You made me. Not the man. You are a river of darkness. But I choose one of light.
Then he stepped back, and before he could change his mind, before she could say another word, he charged the chasm and, with a mighty leap, flung himself into the yawning gorge.
A satisfaction washed over him, for at least this deed was right. He plummeted in silence. He knew he should feel a giddiness, a rising thrill or panic. A man would feel that. And that’s what he had been. But all he felt was the black hunger of his heart.
Then the surging river rushed up at him and he crashed violently into the rocks. Part of his body slipped away. He thought it would continue: he’d dissolve and disperse like sediment.
But the water pushed him off the rocks, and he did not die.
He did not die!
The rushing current carried him along.
Dirt! Cursed, rotten dirt! He should have known-how could you kill dirt? He hadn’t even felt the pain of impact.
He sunk into the river’s depths, scraping, rolling, bumping along the bottom as the water ran its turbulent path.
Maybe the river would carry him out to sea. He might walk in the depths there, might even be eaten by a leviathan. Surely such a beast could kill him. Or maybe it would avoid him altogether, for what creature of the sea ate dirt?
The force of the water soon lessened and he found himself in a deep eddy, deposited in the shadow of an overhanging rock. He lay in a bed of sand at the bottom of this calm nook of the river. A school of large trout eyed him in the dark green and blue depths. Far above them, the sun shone like a pale dot. Maybe he could lie here forever, let the river cover him up with sand and mud.
Lie here. But his family would lie here with him, imprisoned in his gut.
He needed help. And of the seven Creators, there was only one he thought might answer.
Regret, he prayed in his mind. Deliver me. Destroy this creation, dissolve me forever.
But it was not Regret who answered him.
If you will not learn obedience through pleasure, said the Mother, then you will learn it through pain.
Hunger braced himself. He did not know what magical bond she held him with. But she could always find him. And she could deliver a white-hot flame that burned all thought from his mind.
Come to me, she said.
Then she did something. She pushed at him, and Hunger found himself rolling over to get his footing.
The trout darted out to the bright water then into shadows farther away. But he stopped himself. No, he said. Never again.
You can fight me, she said. But in the end, you will obey. It is your nature.
She pushed again, and Hunger found himself looking for a path up out of the riverbed. He took two steps and stopped.
She pushed again.
Another few steps.
It will cost you, Hunger said. I will fight you every bit of the way.
There was a pause and he felt the first trickle of the pain. A trickle that grew into a raging fire. It hurt. It seared. It rose in him and consumed him in a soundless scream.
When Hunger regained his senses, he found himself still under the water, lying on a stretch of river stones. This was a different part of the river. It took all his might, but he pushed himself up.
Hu, he said. Do you see? I can withstand your pain. Perhaps you will always beat me, but it will cost your attention and time. I will take that from you. I will force you to always think of me so you can think of nothing else.
There was a pause.
He felt her push.
He took a step, and then another. He tried to fight her.
But she flooded him with ease. He could trust her. She was good. And if he asked very carefully, with much obedience, she would release those he had so horribly imprisoned.
Hunger turned and climbed up the steep, slippery rocks of the bank of the riverbed, up out of the water and into the sunshine. When his strength returned, he began to run along the banks, leaping between massive boulders, back toward the Mother and her caves.
Hunger could smell the Mother here in the darkness. The warrens were full of her. She smelled of rock and sweet, clean magic.
She was smaller than he was, but quick and strong. He’d felt her sharp teeth and powerful hands. He’d seen her. She rarely left the caves, but she’d ventured forth with him a time or two, walking abroad in the night. He’d also seen her in the smallest of light that found its way into the depths from the mouth of the cave. She was pale. Pale as a mushroom. Pale as the moon.
He didn’t know what she was. She had two arms, two legs. A head. She had a muzzle, which the villagers did not. Her skin was covered with a fur. Smooth and soft as the small things he had eaten: the mice and squirrels, the rat.
His ease grew the deeper he went in the inky tunnels. Her powers were always stronger when he was close.
He felt along the walls as he walked, smelled the scent of rock and water, of the sulfur springs, and of the strange beasts that lived in the bowels of this mountain. When he came to the carving that marked the hole leading to the lower chambers, he climbed down. Then it was up a small slope, over the bridge that spanned the cold waters of the underground river.
He found her in the warm room, surrounded by her light. But now he considered that light as if for the first time. It wasn’t just light. It was-the word was “ribbons”-it was ribbons of light, ribbons flowing around her, circling her limbs. Living ribbons of light wriggling like the snake he’d eaten. And then he saw that her appearance was changed.
She no longer had a muzzle. Nor was she covered in soft fur.
The Mother was human. And beautiful. So stunning it took his breath away.
He wondered and marveled at the change. He looked closer at her. She looked like…
She looked like his wife. He was confused. “Lovely?” he asked.
“Come here,” she said.
The ribbons of light reached out to him and circled his arm, caressed his neck, wreathed his head. A continual shimmer.
“What do you want?” she asked.
He only wanted to be here with her. But no, that wasn’t right. Deep in his mind he knew there was something else. And then the nightmare of his family struggled past the feel of her beauty and stared him in the face.
He was going to tell her to free the souls inside, but he knew she must not know they meant anything to him.
“Freedom,” he said.
She laughed.
“You need a servant,” he said. “But you don’t need me. I will find you another, and you will give me this boon: you will dissolve this body and let me go.”
“And the souls inside you?” she asked.
Her face flickered like smoke. Alarm shot through him. He took a step back, but she grabbed him by the arm, and such was the power of her ease that his panic lost its grip. He knew he should run, but could not.
She thrust her other hand into his sodden chest. She reached deep into him with that powerful hand and grasped the part of him that held his family.
He wanted to struggle, but could not.
With a yank she broke them free-his bright daughter, his handsome sons, his admirable wife-and withdrew his monster’s heart.
Hunger fought her ease with all his might and managed to grasp her hand. He felt what she held. It was then he realized she hadn’t grasped his heart, if he even had one.
No, what she’d taken from his chest was a stomach.
It was a weave of willows. He’d been there when she’d made them; he himself had fetched the thin flexible willow branches she used for such weaving. They smelled of her magic. His body was packed with stomachs. Empty stomachs waiting to be filled. But this one was not empty. In this one Hunger could feel the souls of his family caught like moths in a wicker web.
The Mother pushed at him and yanked her hand away. “You stupid thing,” she said. “I will devour them.”
“No,” he begged. “Please.”
“Then help me prepare for the harvest. Bring me the ones that stink, all those that could fight against me. Bring me the young male that would be their leader. This is your duty. And when you have fulfilled that duty you will receive the boon you seek.”
The pull of her dazzling beauty and the desires for his family tugged against each other. He wanted to obey her. But he also knew she was lying. She would not keep her promise to free his loved ones.
Then something she’d just said sparked an idea in his mind. She had spoken of a harvest before, but he had not known then what the word meant. “What do you want to harvest? I am strong. I can serve you as the harvest master and you can let these go.”
Her anger seemed to flow away at this offer and her countenance smiled upon him. “It has been too long since any in my family have handled humans. So facile.”
This made no sense to Hunger and he could not tell if she had been talking to him or herself.
“You do not understand,” she said. “This herd of humans is mine. Mine by right. It was my mother’s mother’s before me and will produce for my daughters. But humans rebel against the natural order of things. It has ever been so. And if they would rebel against me, then think what they’d do if one such as yourself was set to watch over and harvest them. No, humans do best when one of their own sits at their head. Your part is to cull the herd. Nothing more.”
A part of Hunger recoiled at this information. Harvesting humans? Then he thought of how she taught him to unravel things, and he knew what she wanted to harvest.
A wave of her ease washed over him. What did it matter what she wanted. Or if she lied. She was so beautiful. So kind.
His alarm faded away.
“They are hidden, the ones that stink. Hidden so even the Mother who stole this herd from my ancestors could not find them. But you have been created to root them out.”
Hunger thought. A word came to him for the ones that stink-Sleth. That was their name. And he immediately knew where the men had taken one of them. He’d learned this not from following any scent trail, for the scent had ended in the fires. No, that knowledge had been one of the first things that had tumbled into him from Barg. Purity the Sleth was going to be held in a stone cage in Whitecliff. He could take her. Sleth would do anything to keep their secrets. They would go so far as to hunt and kill captured members of their nests, which meant if he did take her, he could then use her as bait to find the others.
“You will spare these?” he asked.
“Your kind is so weak. How you ever overpowered the Mothers I will never know.”
“Will you spare them?”
“You have two nights,” she said. She held up the stomach that contained his family. “If you fail, know that I and my daughters are hungry, and these firstlings will be prepared for our feast.”