Part 14 (1/2)

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.

He took 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 somewhere down 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 river bed, up out of the water and into the suns.h.i.+ne. When his strength returned, he began to run along the banks, leaping between ma.s.sive boulders, back toward the Mother and her caves.

Hunger entered the warrens and smelled the Mother 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 as he traveled deeper into the inky depths. Her powers were always stronger when she was close.

He felt along the walls as he walked, smelled the scent of rock and water and 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 over a small slope and across a 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. ”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 s.h.i.+mmer.

”What do you want?” she asked.

He only wanted to be here with her. But deep in his mind he knew there was something else. And then the nightmare of his family struggled past her overwhelming beauty and stared him in the face. She'd asked him what he wanted.

”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.

”Freedom,” he said. Freedom for his children. For his wife.

Her face flickered like smoke and he saw her intent. Alarm shot through him. ”No,” he said and 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. In the back of his mind, he knew he should run, but he could not.

She thrust her other hand into his sodden chest, reaching deep into him with that powerful hand, and grasped the part of him that held his family. With a yank she broke them free-his bright daughter, his handsome son, his admirable wife-and withdrew his monster's heart.

With all his might, Hunger fought her ease and succeeded in grasping her hand. She held his heart and stomach all in one. It was a weave of willows that smelled of magic. He'd been there when she'd made these weaves; 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 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 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 place is to cull the herd. Nothing more.”

A part of Hunger recoiled at this information. Harvesting humans? But not for flesh. No. She'd 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.