Part 21 (2/2)

”They will all serve me, one way or the other. I will find my human to lead the harvest. And those that rebel will be put to another purpose.”

”They will die here in the dark.”

”Not before we use them to quicken the children.”

”Children?”

Hunger tried to probe her mind to find out what she was talking about, for there were no children here.

”Come,” she said and led him down a pa.s.sageway he did not know to a large room.

The Mother sang and suddenly the ribbons of light that wove their way about her ranged out into the room and illuminated it. Half-a-dozen bodies lay slumbering in the dirt. They were not human or animal. And they were not small, not the bodies of children. They were bodies like his, made of earth, but they weren't exact matches-one had multiple arms, another had a vicious snout and head, another was tall and thin. One had a head shaped like an onion.

”These,” said the Mother, ”are your brethren.”

Hunger knew she'd formed these bodies just as she'd formed his. And he knew when they were ready, she'd call them forth just as she had called him.

”There will be more. We shall quicken them, you and I. And the master of the harvest shall lead them.”

”You're going to make war on us?”

”War?” she said. ”You weren't listening.”

But then what were these for?

”War is the last thing I want. This land and people have been neglected. Koram is ours. It always has been, even far-flung fields like this one. We could not stop the Mother of Mokad from taking them before, but we have recovered some of the old ways. The Mother of Mokad is failing. Soon all her human herds will be mine, and I shall make them fruitful. They will become the envy of the earth and yield a rich harvest for many, many years to come. And these”-she gestured at the children-”will be the first of those that will protect them.”

Hunger stared at the Mother. Memories tumbled in, stories of time when there were many minor beings with power. The old G.o.ds-this one ruling a valley, that one a small village, this one living on her own in the woods, that one farming with his people. Some protected and blessed. Some, like the Goat King, did not. ”You're one of the old G.o.ds,” he said, ”aren't you?”

The Mother shook her head. ”What you call the old G.o.ds were humans and, sometimes, other creatures who knew the lore. They were like wild animals. They fought us, but in the end, we tamed them and put them to the use intended by the Creators.”

Hunger looked at the children. He knew the powers the Mother had taught him: how to separate Fire from body, how to shuck a soul. He'd known what she ate. But he'd never seen the implications, probably because until he'd eaten Barg he'd never had the mind of a man to grasp them.

He was stunned. Horrified.

The Mother smiled. ”You need not worry about facing the wrath of the Creators,” she said. ”Did they not make us? And is it not the nature of creation for one thing to master and devour another? Humans feed on cattle, cattle on gra.s.s, gra.s.s on the earth. It is only natural that something should feed on humans.”

It was natural, Hunger realized. And there were creatures that did so-bears, lions, sharks. But something about her logic was wrong. It took him a moment. ”It's natural to devour a body maybe. But not a soul.”

”That's not true,” she said. ”There are all manner of creatures that feed on the soul.”

”I don't believe you,” said Hunger. But he knew about the perilous journey after this life. She spoke the truth. ”There may be predators,” he said, ”but the prey sometimes turns and fights.”

”Your cattle and chickens do not fight you, do they? They do not flee, but come to you, depend on you. And that's what humans have been doing for ages-they've been depending on us. And just as it's easier for you to manage your cattle, it's easier to manage humans when they don't know they're mastered.”

Hunger thought on her words. Thought of the many things he'd eaten. Thought of how delicious humans were compared to other creatures. She would eat his family. She had never planned on doing anything different.

”I've made you a promise, and I keep my promises. An obedient servant deserves a reward. That is the best way. Do you not sometimes pa.s.s over a favorite cow or goat when it's time for slaughter and instead let it die from old age? This is no different. Fulfill your duty. I will let them free, and you, not your family, will be the first fruits of the harvest. Now make me a weave to bind the woman you've brought to me.”

Hunger turned to take the woman and bind her, but the woman scrambled back, and before he could reach her, she rose and, with what only could have been multiplied might and speed, ran headlong at the wall of the chamber, cras.h.i.+ng into a rock.

The woman fell to the floor.

”You careless fool,” the Mother said. She delivered a blow of pain that sent Hunger to his knees.

The Mother turned back to the woman. She bent to her and began singing the odd music of hers, pressing herself into the world of men. Soon the scent of her clean magic filled the room, but the woman did not move.

”She's dead,” said Hunger.

”Quiet,” commanded the Mother.

He didn't deserve the reproach. He hadn't been careless. It was the woman, the wily woman. How could Hunger know she would try to break her head like a squash? He did not know how the woman could survive such a blow. But then the Mother placed her hands upon the woman, and a moment later the woman moved her head.

”No,” she said.

”It is time,” said the Mother.

”Nightmare,” said the woman, slurring the word. ”Depart.”

”Your son,” said the Mother. ”Where has he gone?”

”Dead,” she said.

”No,” said the Mother. ”I can feel him through the weave. He is not dead.”

”He is dead,” said the woman. ”My son is mingled with a stork.”

The Mother paused, agitated. ”Do not try to deceive me.” Then she did something and the woman groaned. ”Where is the one with the weave?”

”Sparrow!” the woman called. ”Sparrow!”

”The weave,” the Mother demanded.

The woman tried to roll over and get up, but she was unsteady, dizzy, and slumped back down.

A flat ribbon thin eel emerged from the mother's wrist and burrowed a bit into the woman. Hunger had felt those parts of the Mother bite into him. He hated them.

The woman cried out in pain and dismay.

”Where?” the Mother said.

”With horse,” the woman said.

”Where did he go with the horse?”

”You can't have him. You will not sacrifice him for his Fire.”

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