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