Women stopped giving birth in the hospital. Not long after the war had started, men in black fatigues began to stand quietly at the entrances and exits, in the waiting rooms, and in the corridors.
“The babies are important,” they all said. “We must keep them safe.”
And the babies were important, but not in the way mothers typically thought. So while the men certainly cared that the babies were safe, that no danger would come to them at the hospital, that no paramilitary forces might storm the gates and harm the precious babies, what they really wanted was the babies themself.
It began in small number. A mother and father, damp and tired, wrung out by the drama of their new baby’s emergence, would find themselves visited by a man in uniform, flanked by more men in uniform.
“Your baby is so special. Your country needs your baby.”
It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a demand. It was a bit of light bookkeeping. The baby was already theirs.
Mothers and fathers would yell. Fathers would lunge and be struck upon the head, kicked enough times to ensure that they would not get back up, not for a time at least. The nurses could do nothing. The doctors even less.
Another man came later. A smiling man who praised the mother’s strength and the father’s good genes.
“What a blessing. What a blessing. Because of you, surely we’ll win. Surely this war is nearly over.”
He would give them vouchers. Their hospital stay was paid. Two weeks paid vacation. If he could do more he would.
He shook their hands, perhaps only the mother’s if the father was still on the floor, holding his bleeding face. He might take a picture.
“Smile. You’re true patriots.”
The vouchers needed signatures, and the signatures included language that forbade the parents from saying anything about their former baby.
“For the good and safety of the nation.”
But word still spread. How could it not?
Months later, the maternity ward was empty. They didn’t take every child, but they took enough. And besides, a rumor had begun to spread:
“It’s just random. The babies aren’t special. They aren’t magik. They just take as many as they think they can get away with.”
For parents with children who’d been taken there was no reason to believe this.
“Of course he was special. Of course he’s still alive. Of course he’s saving our country.”
But if you hadn’t lost a child yet, it was all a little too hard to swallow.
So they birthed their children in secret. Networks were born. Midwives cloaked in darkness carrying small pistols for protection. Pregnant mothers hid themselves to avoid detection. Many women gained weight and wore baggy clothing in solidarity.
Testing stations were installed at airports and train terminals. Women and men both were given pregnancy tests before being allowed to depart. Positive tests were quarantined from their families and spouses.
“For their safety,” the armed men would say. “For the baby.”
They were fighting a war and they needed our babies.
No one ever said why.
“My child is special.”
But special how?
“My child will save us all.”
But how? But how?
They controlled us, their own people, with the normal sort of weapons. Gun. Batons. Gas. Electric wands. But that wasn’t how they fought the war.
Guns had no place in the war.
Instead it was the mages who fought, both for and against. Wizards and witches, young and old. They cast spells and raised barriers. They called on ancient spirits and split the night sky with white beams of energy that shrieked as they flew, echoing across miles upon impact.
I think some of us believed that the babies they took were magik themselves. That they had a spark of something that the government would kindle and nurture.
I knew a woman in those days whose baby was taken. And when the night was filled with screaming, hot lighting, she would tear up.
“Maybe it’s her,” she would say to anyone listening. “Maybe it’s Joey.”
Dreams of warrior children, casting spells, mingling with spirits, and defending their homeland. It was something to be proud of. It was the only kind of comfort some of them could muster.
One day the war ended.
We waited to hear more. Had we won? Had we lost? Were those babies coming home?
But no one said. They preached patience. They asked for understanding.
“It’s all so complicated,” they said. “But it’s over now. It’s over.”
Never anything else. Never anything more.
We went to our jobs. The jobs we’d never stopped doing. We bought our groceries and watched television and wrote posts on the Internet.
“What about the babies?”
No one said. So we stopped asking.
An unnamed woman published an article on an online forum. It was titled “Wartime Magik”.
She claimed to be a mage. A former mage. She talked about the war. About her life as a soldier mage. She talked about the abrupt decision to end the war.
“No one was going to win. No one was going to lose. The end would never come. They knew this from the beginning.”
Apparently the ending had been pre-determined, like a pro-wrestling match. Five years. They would play it out for five years. That was long enough for both sides to save face. That was long enough that no one would question the decision.
It was maddening, but not surprising. It’s the sort of thing you secretly suspect, isn’t it?
There was more, though. In the article, the author finally answered the question we’d all wondered for so long: “What about the babies?”
“Babies are the fuel of magik,” the author explained. “Magik is, after all, simply life’s full potential honed to a fine point.”
Fuel? That word stuck with people. Fuel.
“What does that mean?”
“Where are the babies?”
“What is magik, really?”
It seemed obvious if you were willing to engage with grim reality. The article had made it all very clear.
“Those great beams in the sky. The volleys back and forth. Those were them.”
Them?
“The babies.”
Of course, if you didn’t want to see it, it could never become clear. And perhaps that was a blessing for those who could not endure the truth. But I saw. It was very clear.
No one liked what had happened. And no one liked that there were no answers. But nothing happened. Time moved forward. New babies were born. We stopped talking about the ones we’d lost.
And then one day I happened to meet a mage while traveling for work. He was a kindly old man, and dressed no different than anyone else. I suppose he could have been lying about once being a mage, but I can’t imagine why.
We chatted for a time. I asked him about magework and magik. He spoke in wistful tones of his former life. He’d been a mage before the war and he continued to be a mage for a brief time after, but the only time he had truly felt like a mage was during that terrible war.
His eyes sparkled as he spoke of his time on the front line. He spoke in great detail about conversing with spirits and summoning great power from the nether. He was proud of his works. Perhaps he even missed the war.
I wasn’t sure if I should ask, given how pleasant the conversation had been to that point, but I knew it would bother me greatly if I left without saying, “And what happened to the babies?”
“The fuel of magik,” he replied. “I thought that was common knowledge.”
“I suppose, but…what exactly happened to them? Where are they?”
He furrowed his brow. I thought it likely that I had offended him, but instead he was thinking intently.
“They were only bones, of course, at the end. And I believe they ground the bones for some agricultural use, I think.”
“Only bones?”
The old mage cocked his head and clapped his hands gently. “Oh, you meant how were they used? Well, I can tell you they had it all down to a science. Very efficient.”
He leaned forward and drew a line with his finger. “Imagine a conveyor belt. Babes dropped at one end. Machine tapes their mouth and eyes. Zip zip. On they go. Sprayed down with disinfectant, right, to keep the facilities clean. Hot steam to open up the pores.”
The old mage smiled as he drew the route from memory. “High speed suction. Pulls everything out. Almost at once. They hardly feel it. At least I think.”
“Suction?”
The old mage nodded. “Life is energy. And magik is that energy given form. Babies have the most life potential, so it’s most efficient to use babies. I mean, I couldn’t explain the mechanics of it, but it’s an incredible thing to see. Everything sucked out, all at once. Spirit. Breath. Skin. Blood. Organs. Everything but the bones. Sucked out. Strained. Filtered. Incredibly efficient.”
“And you…how do you…?”
“I preferred injections. Some took it like a…what are they called? Protein shake? Just…” The old mage made a slurping sound. I remember that sound so distinctly. I hear that sound so often it drives me despair. I can’t eat in restaurants anymore because of that sound.
“Incredible stuff,” he said with a sigh. “Always thought it might start up again before I got too old, but…”
“The war, you mean?”
The old mage nodded. And then the trip was over and we parted ways.
I have often wondered about magik. What else can it do? Surely war is not it's only use?
No, I think. Very likely it has many uses. Many better uses. But the cost is still the same. And war is the only time they’re willing to pay that price. But not for freedom, and not for the safety of its people. Only to save face. Only to play their part in a monstrous piece of cinema.
There are new children now. The hospitals are unguarded. No one tests you at the airport.
But we know what we are capable of.
The old mage slurps an imaginary broth made of real babies.
I try to imagine what that tastes like, but I cannot fathom it at all.
Photo credit: Annie Spratt
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