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