The Age-Eater

A Fantasy Tale by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
Art by Dizzy

Supposedly quite rare, I am, a Face-Changer, though whenever I used to ponder the conundrum of how to count those who can instantly change their appearance, an ability for obvious reasons generally best kept secret, I inevitably concluded there might well be many like me.

Or I might be the only one left.

Forty turns and a summer since my birth, I was living my life well, having recently settled in as an officer of the court of the most benevolent of keepers, my own Master Malcolm, a gentle soul whose felicity was bound in the contentment of his small but loyal clan.  I thoroughly delighted in surreptitiously employing my distinctive talents to benefit the Master and our people, it being so easy for me to assume any visage of my choosing, the better to move inconspicuously about the countryside to seek advantage in trade, to gather important political information, and to quell yon potential conflicts before they came hither.  The sole scion of a long line of Face-Changers, I have never managed to explain such a magical skill, a form of “wizardry” to some who have discovered my secret, a godly anointment to others.  However one might characterize this blessing, I was especially grateful for how it facilitated the most challenging of missions my master ever set for me, a quest to scour the high regions and bring back to our modest keep the very embodiment of a true legend.

“Aye,” said Master Malcolm that fateful night, “our elderly are deserving of some relief from their pains, and there’s only one soul who can give it.  I bid you to find and bring us . . .  The Age-Eater!”

I had heard of him, but never truly believed such a magical being could exist, just as I never believed the tales of occasional woodsmen who claimed to have shared a fire with the Star-Maker, a grizzled old soul who drinks fermented juices until he sneezes sparkles that float skyward and fill the night with ever more twinkling stars.

The Age-Eater usually appears as a child, so the stories tell, most often a boy who might be coaxed to spend some days and nights in a welcoming keep, graciously accepting hospitality while carefully determining if any of the elderly are deserving of his skills.  What comes next, they say, by whatever magic he and only he commands, is known to be very difficult for this child, a hardship to his very soul, one borne of the purest love for others, an acceptance of service to those in need:

He makes them younger by eating some of the years off their age.

I know, it stretches the imagination to believe such an unlikely tale, but it seems equally unlikely, I dare say, to think that I can even now tell you this story while assuming any appearance of my choosing, from the image of a pretty little Plyth-girl with round red eyes and curled blue nose, to a fat-jowled tessininker swine with his puss a mat of yellow downy fuzz.

The way the Age-Eater’s feats are explained is that he consumes the years in a way that brings them upon himself, then departs to continue his travels, taking the weight of those years with him so that others might enjoy one last taste of the youth they had left so long behind.  What he does with those years before he is able to appear again at another village or keep, his youth restored, is left to the realm of pure speculation, but surely, some say, he must pay a very harsh price to the gods for so fantastic a miracle.

“Just a legend, I dare guess,” said the boy who graciously accepted me at his fire nearly five fortnights into my quest.  He studied me with round emerald eyes, reflections of flame dancing in their depths, then ran fingers through his generous flow of yellow-brown hair before looking away.  I would have guessed him to have passed no more than twelve or thirteen turns, tall and slender for his age.

“Is the very notion of a Face-Changer relegated to the realm of legends, as well?” I asked, having presented myself as a man of forty turns, a courtier weary from travel, a lone soul seeking company in lieu of building my own lonesome fire.

He looked at me again, his appraisal casually masked, a wariness expected of any child traveling without guard when the forests teem with dangerous beasts, the worst often walking on two legs.  He smiled and looked away again.  “Yes, another legend.”

“Were it true,” came the voice of a dark-skinned Kadoug woman whose face I suddenly wore, “ye boy would ’ardly see at what y’be seeing at right this very now!”

His head snapped around, those emerald eyes wide, the bottom row of his ivory whites showing because he’d dropped his jaw nearly to his lap.  I tried to hold character, but the boy’s reaction made me laugh, and by the time I again assumed my normal appearance of forty-turn courtier with alabaster skin, the tears flowed and my gut ached from spasms of hearty guffaws.  The lad joined me in my mirth, proving I had won a new friend, my gamble at earning his trust paying handsomely.

“It is quite risky,” he said, barely having regained his composure, “and therefore quite rare that one such as you would dare reveal his secret.”

“But not,” I countered, “in revealing it to one whose own secret is greater.”

“Oh, were that so,” he said, though a twinkle in his eye betrayed resignation to having been found out, except that he might still choose, even if only of habit, to parry a while longer.

“I have trailed you for more than fifty nights,” I admitted, “and I was present in another form at your celebration in the stronghold of the Stockbridgin Clan.”

“I suspected a false face,” he said matter-of-factly, now lying back and propping himself on elbows, his nearly outgrown hose stretched tight, his green felt tunic freshly washed.  “Followed often, I am,” he admitted, “sometimes by those who mean to take that which I would not readily give, but I always succeed in evasion.  How is it I failed with you?”

“Perhaps it is because my intentions are pure, the request I convey from my master entirely beneficent.  We are kindred souls, you and I, making use of our talents for the good of others, asking nothing substantial in return.  How could the gods not want us to meet?”

“Perhaps,” he said, not convinced.  “Or maybe in my own old age I have simply grown careless.”  He tried to smile, but failed miserably in the attempt.

After toying with truth until we both grew weary of the game, my young friend agreed to join me on the morrow for a day’s ride to my master’s keep, my steed non-plussed by the modest addition of a child’s weight and his travel-pack strapped to an overlong walking stick.  Of course, my people welcomed him as they would any traveler of benign intent, their only quarrels being over who might enjoy the privilege of hosting his next meal or providing him with a warm bed near a modest home’s hearth.

He dwelled for a fortnight among us, the secret of his true nature carefully guarded, by which time he had come to know all of our people, even as he had taken special interest in spending time with the most elderly among us.  He confided to me that leaving the embrace of so loving a community would prove, as it often had, to be the greatest burden borne of a mission to help others enjoy their remaining lifetimes.

His selections made, he asked me to accompany him as he visited the families of eight elders.  There in the privacy of their homes, he revealed his true skills, offering his greatest gift: “You will plan a celebration for all to attend, a farewell party for my last night among you, during which I will invite each of the chosen elders to share with me a simple dance, even as your bones ache and your legs protest such unreasonable demands, and together we will achieve a moment of grace, an instant of pure joy during which I will consume ten years of your age and all the infirmities that came with them.  Then as the hour grows late and the Star-Maker sneezes to fill the sky, I will be an old man who slips into the darkness.  I will leave you a measure of restored youth as my gift, gratitude for your hospitality, a blessing to squander or cherish.”

In every instance, the families wept with joy, the elder loved ones reaching out with tentative hands to embrace him, their fingers gnarled, skin like translucent parchment, eyes a-sparkle with hints of youthful anticipation.

Later my young friend and I sat before my own hearth’s fire enjoying hearty tankards of sharp cider.  “How is it you chose certain elders, but not others?” I asked.

He gazed sadly into the flames.  “I cannot help those who want to be old,” he explained.  “They have rushed eagerly into their dotage and demanded that it define their very existence.  I cannot eat what is not graciously given, nor will I risk angering those unwilling to accept my gift.  I seek those whose hearts strive to be young, even as their bodies betray them, and I know they will earn the currency of youth only if they surround themselves with friends and family eager to help them spend it.”

I poured him more cider, even as I wondered whence comes such wisdom to a mere child.  Surely the time he had spent suffering the pain of others’ eaten years brought to him some measure of learning, a renewed appreciation for what he gives; but an even greater mystery vied for my attention: “Tell me, my friend, where does the age go when you have finished with it?”

He swirled his tankard and cast his gaze into its honeyed depths, then sighed as he considered his words.  Finally, in the soft high pitch of a mere boy, he said, “You have proven yourself my only true friend in this world, which will make it even more difficult to move on, as I inevitably must.”

I wanted to withdraw the question, to respect his secrets even as the purest act of friendship, to accept that I will never understand this talent that I coveted but would never possess, but he interrupted my thoughts as if to show that the fire of friendship is most assuredly kindled with trust.

“Lies always find words to live among, but truths sometimes dwell beyond that which can be said aloud.  Truly, I fear that my every attempt to answer your question might diminish my very ability to serve others, so I pray you remember that my heart is pure, and when you find yourself traveling some country road or tarrying for a moment in the most unlikely of places, you will discover that I have passed that way.  You will note simple changes only the sharpest eye might divine, a sapling grown surprisingly fast into majestic tree, wildflowers blooming early and strong even before winter wanes, baby schmeling kits grown surprisingly old and fat though they yet be yearlings, and maybe that rare night when the sun sets early so the Star-Maker can express his newfound youth by filling the sky with more sparkles than any man has ever witnessed.”

He looked up and smiled, then stroked his whiskerless chin and wrinkled his nose mischievously, and for an instant I thought maybe I understood whence comes so great a power, but then I made the mistake of trying to analyze the construct of my rickety reasoning, finding myself left to smile blithely along with him, my notions for deciphering the universe fallen to shambles at my feet.

So Master Malcolm declared a night of starlit celebration in the keep’s square.  Roasted meats and hot breads and great steaming mounds of produce from the fields spilled lavishly across wide tables.  The Music-Makers sang and played their pluck-plucks with glee.  Every soul attended, young and old alike, dancing and laughing even as they tasted the joys of freedom and haven in a land of bounty looked after by our beloved master.  As the crowd grew giddy with delight, rumors of an Age-Eater whispered about, even as all knew that lo in this era of legends nothing matters more than sharing time with a departing friend.

Then as the party grew most raucous, the Age-Eater approached his selected elders one by one, reaching out to touch them, helping them to their feet and leading them to the center of the square.  He would hold them tightly, then carefully sway with the music, helping them find their own tempos, the meter of their very souls, for each the rhythm of a lost youth.  Some say they witnessed a nimbus swirling around the pair, and I think that maybe once or twice I witnessed it, too, but there is one thing of which I can always be sure: it worked.

One by one, they grew younger.

Yes, their appearances changed, a few wrinkles smoothing, a hint of rosy glow returning, but youth also showed its glorious face in the depths of their eyes, in the way they danced and laughed and reached out to hold their own loved ones.  People who had grown so weary of pain and stiff joints that they rarely, if ever, left their beds now kicked up their heels and shook their tail feathers like Kasee-birds delighting in an after-rain gorge of fat worms.

But I also watched my young friend grow old, aging a bit more after each dance, his face puffing for a time with the excess of middling age, his cheeks eventually growing sallow as deep lines traced the contours of a visage that has witnessed sorrows amid joys.  His hair thinned to expose a mottled pate, an old body now stooped over and protesting every move with pain and stiff joints.

And for this I loved my friend.

I loved him for his sacrifice, his willingness to endure this burden at an age so soon before his own, for the pureness of his heart even as I finally understood that this task must inevitably bring with it a pervading fear wrought by the betrayal of one’s own body.  And though in that moment I discovered the undreamed of heights to which true friendship soars, it was I who most betrayed him that very night.

We slipped out undetected, leaving the celebrants to their enchantment, my heart breaking at the sight of him leaning on the overlong walking stick and struggling with every step; and all he asked of me was to ride him to some point several hours distant and leave him be, to turn away and not look back, to let him go with the cherished memories of what we shared leading to this most magical of nights.

I did do all that for him, but I failed in the most important part, for I could no more leave this gentle old man alone in the dangerous wilderness than I could leave him as the mere boy he would eventually become.  I tried to ride away, but I turned back, walking the final distance, my stealth self-serving and deceitful even as I pretended I merely wanted to ensure his safety.

As I crept toward his fire, I heard the voice of that old man behind me, and it startled me with its frankness.  “I expected that you would return.”

“I am sorry,” I said without turning, my gaze cast to the ground, “even as I am not sorry.  You called me your one true friend, and this I know verily, so in that I will never rest if I cannot know I have offered my every measure to ensure your well-being.”

He hesitated before speaking again, his voice quavering but true, his words this time from the mouth of a child.  “I—I hoped you would come back.”

And when I turned to look, there in the faint firelit glow against a backdrop of Star-Maker sky stood the boy I had first met, his emerald eyes glistening.

“But how—?”  I knew the question, but my words died in a tangle of thoughts.

“You deserve the truth,” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears.  “There is no such thing as an Age-Eater.”

I stepped closer, but he stood his ground, all remaining hints of deception between us drifting away on the fire’s wisps of smoke.  “I have trusted you, my friend,” I said tenderly.  “Will you now trust me?”

He nodded slowly, the tears spilling down his whiskerless cheeks.  “I am an orphan of Audell,” he said, referring to the harsh and cruel region beyond the hills.  “I escaped the beatings and fled to wander the hills, always living by my wits until the night I met an old man, the Age-Eater of legend, whom I found suffering his last days at the mouth of a cave where he had taken refuge from a storm.”

“But you said there is no such thing as an Age-Eater.”

My young friend offered just a hint of smile, no doubt recalling a fateful instant of complicity.  “He had intended to die with his secret, but then he recognized two things in me: that in the pureness of my heart I would delay my travels to offer comfort to a dying man I might just as easily rob . . .”  Then!  Suddenly behind a matching face came the voice of a dark-skinned Kadoug woman: “He saw in me, he did, the skills of a Face-Changer, the proof bein’ ye would ’ardly see at what y’be seeing at now.”

So of course we laughed heartily, and we laughed some more even as we had on our first night, at least until I managed to put my dropped jaw right.

“But how—” I finally had to ask, “how do you eat their age?”

He sighed and led me to his fire, sitting close as friends do when they’re watching the darkness to keep each other safe.  “All I eat is the hospitality of wonderful families.  I simply help them believe, and they make the years fall away on their own.”  He leaned closer and wrinkled his nose, mischief in his eyes.  “They find the youth they’d lost within themselves.”

I laughed again, then reached out to clasp the shoulder of my young friend, just as I’ve clasped his shoulder a thousand times and more in all these many turns since.

You see, as a traveling pair of Age-Eaters, we have enjoyed our lot, meeting wonderful people, graciously accepting the bounty of their tables and the warmth of their fires, always leaving them happier for having known us, countless souls who found in themselves that which we all too easily lose.  Alas, I am so old now that I no longer can pretend to eat more than a few years from one or two, my face as young as I want but my bones protesting every dance, yet I do go on knowing in my heart that friendship is what has given me these many more turns than any man has a right.

And still I call him my young friend, though even he is showing lines in his true face.

But today is an especially good day, even though at the fire last night, as we talked of how long the legend of the Age-Eater had been passing from one generation to the next, we wondered if it might yet endure beyond our own times.  For just moments ago we spotted him, a lad of barely ten or so, a street waif offering his labors for bits of food, his pink brow topped by a shock of flaming red hair . . .

Until a caravan of dark-skinned Kadougans passed by and the most remarkable change came over the boy’s face.

I think we have found a new friend, and I wonder if we will need to teach him how to dance.

*      *      *

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