The Child Thief (7 page)

The old woman stared at Peter’s mother in horror. “No, child, don’t speak of it. Never speak of it.” She shook her daughter. “It is not yours. Do you understand me? It’s a changeling.” The old woman glared at Peter.
“ASGER, GET IT OUT OF HERE BEFORE IT HEXES US ALL!”

One of the men pulled the long meat fork from out of the ham, the oldest boy grabbed the broom, and together they moved toward Peter.

Through a blur of tears Peter saw them coming for him; the man that he’d thought of as
papa
jabbed the fork while the boy circled around him.

Peter took a step back.

“CATCH IT!”
the old woman howled. “Don’t let it get away!”

The broom slapped Peter from behind, knocking him to the gritty dirt floor. The boy pressed the broom onto Peter to hold him, the sharp twigs digging and poking into Peter’s soft skin.

“Don’t spill its blood in the house!” the old woman yelled. “Or there will be sickness upon us all. Take it into the forest. Leave it for the beasts.”

Hard, rough hands held him as the man corded prickly twine about his limbs, the twine bit into his skin, binding his arms to his body and his legs together.

As the man and boy donned boots and furs, the old woman brought Peter’s basket and blanket. “Take anything that it has soiled. I will get the grease.” She poured warm grease from the ham into a pot and brought it over.

The door was pulled open and a biting winter wind blew in. They took Peter outside into the night. Peter got one last look at his mother. She was on the floor, sobbing, her two sisters kneeling beside her, holding her.

“Mama,” Peter cried. She didn’t look up. The door shut.

The old woman poured the warm grease all over Peter. It stung his eyes, soaked into the blanket and quickly congealed into a cold paste on his skin. “It will make things go quicker,” the old woman told them. “Now take the creature far into the woods and leave it.”

The old woman gave the man a wad of wool. “Put this in your ears. No matter what it says, remember, that wicked thing is not of your loins.”

Both the man and boy held a torch. They threaded the broom through the handle of the basket and each carried an end. They marched off down the icy trail, the old woman watching them go from the door stoop.

The cold bit at the infant’s tiny nose. “Papa,” Peter called. “Papa, please. I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be good. Papa? Please, Papa. Papa?” But no matter how Peter pleaded, the man wouldn’t look at him.

The man and the boy marched steadily, their mouths set tight, neither spoke as they tracked deeper and deeper into the dark, frigid forest.

Peter had no real idea how much time passed, but when they finally stopped, the moon was peeking down at him from high in the cloudy sky. They set him in a clearing surrounded by high shrub and an outcropping of crumbling rocks, then left in a hurry without a single look back.

Peter watched the tree limbs waving to the moon. Thick clouds tumbled in and the shadows wove together. He struggled to free himself, but the bindings were too tight. His fingers and toes grew numb and the cold became unbearable. Peter shook all over. “Mama,” he called. “Mama.” Over and over he called her name. His mother never came but something else did. Peter heard a loud sniffing and fell quiet.

A large shadow emerged from the bush. Its shape reminded him of the hounds back at the house. The dim moonlight glinted off the beast’s black eyes as it sniffed the air. Peter sensed the beast’s hunger. He tried not to make any sounds, but couldn’t help whimpering as the wolf slowly circled in on him.

The wolf bit one end of the blanket and tugged, tipping the basket over and spilling the infant out onto the frozen ground. Now fully exposed to the winter air, Peter began to wail. The wolf licked away the grease from the blanket, then moved to Peter.

It shoved its snout into his face, licking the grease from his cheeks, neck, and along his belly, then clamped its jaws on Peter’s leg and began to drag him into the bush. Peter yowled, but the wolf only clamped down tighter. There came a clatter from the rocks. The wolf let go of Peter and jerked its head up, ears alert.

“A-yuk,” came a gruff, gravelly voice.

There, on the flat outcropping of stone, stood a man. Only it wasn’t a man, really, as he couldn’t have stood much higher than the wolf’s shoulder. He was short in the legs, long in the arms, and solid through the chest and shoulders. His head was large, out of proportion, and grew straight from his shoulders. His skin was gray and gritty like the earth itself. He wore a patchwork of mangy animal furs, covered in dirt and alive with moss. His eyes were no more than black specks set deep beneath his protrusive brow. He saw Peter and grinned, exposing black gums and a sharp underbite of twisted teeth.

The wolf’s fur bristled, and a mean growl rumbled up from deep within its throat.

The moss man hopped off the rock and into the clearing.
“GO!”
he yelled and clapped his hands together.

The wolf dropped its head, peeled back its lips, displaying an arsenal of long, dangerous teeth, and snarled. The moss man let loose a snarl of his own and before Peter could blink, charged and leaped upon the wolf. He wrestled a hold about the beast’s mane, then bit into its ear, snarling and jerking his head side to side until he tore the wolf’s ear completely off.

The wolf howled, kicked, and spun.

The moss man let go and sent the animal yelping away into the bushes with a solid kick to the hindquarters. He spat the ear onto the ground and stared at Peter while licking the blood from his lips. “A baby,” he said, then picked up a twig and poked Peter. “Make good stew. A-yuk.” His speech came out slow and staggered, like words were unnatural for him.

“Please don’t eat me,” Peter pleaded. “Please. I’ll be good.”

The moss man’s brow rose with surprise then drew together suspiciously. “Baby can talk?” He crouched down, stuck his wide, flat nose into the crook of Peter’s neck, and sniffed deeply. Up close Peter could see all manner of bugs and worms crawling around in the man’s hair. The moss man looked puzzled. He wiped his finger through the bloody bite marks on Peter’s leg and dabbed the blood to the tip of his tongue. The moss man’s beady eyes grew round and he spat into the dirt. “Faerie blood!” he sneered. “Faerie blood is bad. Very bad!” His shoulders slumped, his face grew glum. “Can’t eat baby.”

The moss man bent and picked up the wolf’s ear, stuck the bloody end in his mouth, and started away.

For a second, Peter was relieved to see him go, then the bite of the cold reminded him that he was tied up, naked, and there was a hungry wolf nearby.
“WAIT!”
he cried. “Don’t leave me here!”

The moss man kept walking.

“PLEASE!”
Peter screamed.
“PLEASE STOP! PLEASE!”
Peter’s screams turned to sobs. “Please don’t go.”

The moss man turned around. He looked at Peter and scratched his chin. Finally, after a long minute, he asked, “Can you catch spiders?”

“What?” Peter asked.

“Can you catch spiders? Lot of spiders in cave. Hate spiders. A-yuk.”

Peter didn’t want to go near any spiders, but he certainly didn’t want to be left in the woods either. He nodded. “Yes. I can catch spiders.”

The moss man considered while Peter shivered. Finally, he grunted, shuffled back, and untied the infant. “No more crying. Hate crying. You follow. Keep up or wolf get you.”

Peter crawled to his feet. He could barely stand, his feet were so numb. The moss man took off at a hearty pace and Peter tried to follow but fell after only a few steps. The frozen ground bit into his knees and hands and he let out a cry. He got up and tried again, but the ice cut into the bottom of his tender feet. After only a dozen steps he fell again. He tried crawling, but the pain was too much. He stopped. He could no longer see the moss man. It was dark, it was cold, he was lost, his knees were bleeding, he was naked and freezing to death, and there was a wolf somewhere nearby. Peter began to cry.

The moss man reappeared, glaring at Peter with his small, dark eyes. His nose wrinkled up in disgust. “No crying. Hate crying.”

Peter tried to stop, but couldn’t. Instead he began to bawl openly and loudly.

The man put his hands over his ears. “Stop that,” he groaned and started away. He made about six strides then stopped. He looked back at Peter, brows drawn together. Finally he let out a great sigh and strolled back to the infant. “Okay. Okay. I not leave. Now stop crying.”

Peter continued to wail.

The moss man pointed to the hill behind him. “Goll’s hill.” He thumbed his chest. “Goll.”

Peter wiped his nose with the back of his arm and fought back the tears. “I’m Peter,” he said between big, hitching breaths.

Goll hunkered down. “Come, Peter. Climb up.”

Peter climbed onto the man’s back, got a firm hold on the man’s hair, and clung tight as the moss man got to his feet.

Goll handed Peter the wolf’s ear. “Here, for you.” He wrapped Peter’s feet in his large, warm hands and away they went, following the icy trail up the hill while Peter chewed on the wolf’s ear.

They came to a dark hollow dug into a ledge; to Peter it looked like little more than a hole. Dirty straw, tuffs of greasy fur, and gnawed bones littered the worn earthen entrance. Shoes hung across the entranceway, sandals and boots, about a dozen all together: small shoes—children’s shoes.

Goll set Peter down and grinned. “Goll’s home. Very warm. Very nice.”

“JUST WHERE THE
fuck you been?”

Recalled to the present, the child thief started. He glanced over his shoulder into the apartment. There was a light on now and through the thin, sagging curtain he saw a grotesquely large woman standing in her bra and panties, hands on hips. She was addressing the man leaning against the open front door.

It was raining, a light drizzle that turned the gray public housing to the color of mud.

“I asked you a question,” the woman continued, her voice rising. “I said, just where da fuck has your ass been all night?”

The man shrugged. He didn’t come in.

“How come your shirt’s inside out, Germaine? Huh? How come?”

Germaine looked down at his shirt, then back up at the woman and shrugged again.

“You been with that bitch again. Ain’t you?”

The man didn’t answer.

“Don’t give me that look,” she shrieked. “You know who I’m talking about!” The woman snatched a bottle off a TV tray and pointed it at the man.

“Woman,” the man said, his speech slurred. “You need to calm down. It ain’t like—”

“Goddamn you, Germaine!
GODDAMN YOU!
” She threw the bottle. It exploded against the door right next to the man’s head. Then she was slapping him.

The man shoved her away. “You need to back off, bitch! You need to just back—”

She came at him again and this time he punched her hard in the stomach, hard enough to knock her into the living room and onto the floor. The woman lay there, making a dreadful sound, like someone choking to death.

“CRAZY BITCH!”
the man shouted.
“CRAZY FUCKING BITCH!”
He slammed the door and was gone.

The woman didn’t get up. She just lay there clutching her stomach and bawling.

Peter had had enough. He hopped down from the balcony; keeping his head low, he walked the buildings, his golden eyes peeping out from beneath his hood, scanning the courtyards, the playgrounds. His thoughts kept returning to the Captain, the barrels. Time was running out; he had to find a child today.

L
ight droplets of warm rain sprinkled down onto Nick’s face. He could feel the wetness running into his eyes, his mouth, his hair, pulling him out from the depths of sleep. Nick wiped his face, forced himself awake, and blinked up into the faint, misty morning glow.

Three tiny blue people, no bigger than mice, were peeing on him.

“What the fuck,” Nick cried. He sat up fast and rammed his head against the top of his cage.
Cage?
He spat repeatedly, trying to rid his mouth of the salty-sour taste. What the hell was he doing in a cage? He shook his head and wiped the pee out of his eyes, then spat some more.

There were at least two dozen of them staring down at him, some no bigger than grasshoppers, others closer to the size of rats—thin, spindly, humanlike creatures with silky insect wings and sharp whip tails. They were nude, their skin a deep sapphire blue, with wild manes of black or blue hair running down their backs.

Peter had said something about faeries, and pixies, and goblins. Of course Peter had said a lot of nutty things. Were these pixies? It really didn’t matter to Nick at the moment; he was more concerned with the way these creatures were looking at him, like he’d be good to eat.

“Shoo,” he whispered.

They continued to stare at him with their cruel, unblinking eyes.

“Shoo,” he said louder, waving his hand at them.

They hissed and bared needle-sharp teeth.

“Skat!” Nick said and swatted at the top of the cage.

They leaped up as one, the air suddenly alive with the humming of wings. Hovering, they shrieked at him like feral cats.

Nick slid as far away from them as he could get. He grabbed a handful of straw from the bottom of his cage and threw it at them. Startled, a small brown mouse darted out from beneath his cage, bounding across the stone floor.

The pixies were at it in a flash. The mouse let out a skin-crawling squeal as they pounced. Fur, flesh, and blood spattered the stones, a dog pile of snarling frenzied blue bodies as they fought viciously over the choicest bits.

“Christ,” Nick whispered, clutching his hands to his chest. “I gotta get out of here.” He glanced about the gloom and noticed there were at least a dozen kid-sized cages stacked against one wall. Like his, they were built from branches and twine. Many were covered in raggedy tarps looking for all the world like rotting corpses of beasts. A cluster of spears leaned against one another, teepee-style, and in their center—Nick swallowed—a human skull.

A sharp clack came from somewhere behind him.

The pixies stopped fighting and stood up, their faces alert, heads flicking about as they searched the darkness.

A soft thud followed by a long, low growl slid out of the shadows and the pixies zipped up and away, leaving Nick alone. Nick found himself wishing they’d stayed, anything but to be alone in a cage, in the gloom, with whatever had made that noise.

Another creak; this one closer. Pushing his face against the bars, Nick strained to see into the shadows. He made out a twisting pillar of roots that disappeared into the darkness above. Nick noted a shadow hunched next to the roots, and the shadow—it was
moving
! It rocked back and forth then darted away.

“Oh, crap.”
What was that?

The room grew brighter and the fog began to thin. He could now make out objects hanging from the walls. Nick blinked. Knives with wicked curved blades hung in rows. Alongside were spiked clubs and an assortment of jagged-edged hatchets. Instruments designed to rend and maim, and they all looked well used. Hanging above the weapons were three skulls tied together in a pyramid. Their leathery, wormholed flesh stretched across silent screams. A pair of leg bones set in a cross hung below, forming a triptych of Jolly Rogers.

Gotta get out of here now
! He pushed on the cage; it didn’t open. He noticed the front was tied with leather straps. He frantically tugged at the ties. A low hiss came from Nick’s left. He jerked about in time to see
something
skittered by on all fours. Nick gave up on the ties, no longer wanting out, only hoping the bars would keep him safe from whatever was out there.

“God, get me out of here,” he whimpered.

The fog continued to lift and he could now see all manner of spears and swords hanging from the walls. He noticed a huge fireplace, easily big enough for three grown men to stand in. Several cooking pots—
kid-size
cooking pots—hung from greasy black chains. Then he saw the
bodies
. He could just make out their limp, lifeless forms hanging on the far side of the chamber. How many were there? Four? Five maybe? They looked to be children.

Oh good God
, Nick’s mind screamed at him.
Just what kind of place is this?

Low howls issued from the shadows all around him. Something grunted, like a pig, then snorted, then snickered. Giggles broke out. They sounded like children, strange and wicked. Nick knew he would lose it if they didn’t stop.

A clump of shadows crept into the light and all the air left Nick’s lungs.

They were human, but barely, their bodies gangly and spidery. Childlike in their proportions, but a bit off, as though they’d been stretched. Large, round spots and long streaks of body paint ran along their legs and arms. Their muscles gleamed in the dim light, lean and wiry. Some wore hides, matted and mangy, festooned with bones, tusks and twigs, their ankles and wrists layered in bracelets of leather and twine. Their faces were hidden beneath devilish masks of hide and hair, feathers and antlers.

They closed in on him, dancing about with quick epileptic movements. They surrounded the cage and peered in with wild, crazy golden eyes, eyes just like Peter’s. Nick now understood that Peter had indeed played him. The pointy-eared boy had tricked him so that these things could…could
what?
Nick glanced at the long knives, at their hungry eyes.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
Nick shouted, his voice quivering.

They answered by rolling their eyes around, like victims of delirium, by grinning wide, toothy grins and clacking their teeth together, clacking and clacking and clacking; the sound was deafening in the silence of the room.

No, no, no
, Nick thought.
No more, please.

Nick withdrew within himself then, just like in the mist. He had no desire to watch his own death, but if he had to, he wanted to be in the very back row with his hands over his eyes.

They untied his cage and dragged him out, strong, cruel fingers pinching into his flesh. Someone put a necklace made of bone and teeth, fingers and ears—
human fingers and ears
—around his neck. They pulled him over to the pillar and began to dance around him in circles, wrapping him in twine, all the while giggling and flicking their tongues at him, rolling their eyes and clacking their teeth. He wanted them to go ahead and kill him, anything to stop that awful clacking.

There came a clang from somewhere far off. The demon spawn, the monster children, or whatever they were, stopped in their tracks. They fell silent.

The mist was all but gone now and morning light filtered in from several angular windows. The extent of the circular chamber gradually materialized out of the gloom. The walls were a mix of rough-hewn stone and natural cave formation. Nick could clearly see a red door surrounded by giant roots, roots as thick as barrels. Nick couldn’t imagine what size tree could have roots that big. He tried to see the top but it disappeared into the roof of the chamber.

The demon spawn were all staring at the red door. One of them spoke, his voice hushed. “The Devil Beast comes.”

“Comes to break bones and chew marrow,” said another.

Several answered in anxious whispers: “We shall all eat soon.”

They spread out, forming a wide circle, and began to smack their closed fists into their open palms.

Fear sharpened Nick’s senses and he became acutely aware that the air smelled of stale sweat, boiled meat, wet leaves, and beetles. He studied the red door. Could there really be something coming to cook and eat him? He didn’t want to believe it. Yet he found his eyes straying to the knives and hatchets, the dark stains saturating the dirt, the child-size pots hanging in the fireplace. He couldn’t get the thought of the hanging bodies out of his head.
I don’t want to die
, he thought and realized he was crying.

Bells jangled behind the red door, louder and louder. Then it stopped. There came the clack of a bolt being thrown and the door swung slowly inward.

A monster stood in the doorway, a head taller than the other creatures, draped in hides and wearing a mask of bone and fur. A pair of goat horns twisted out from either side of its head and a tangle of coarse hair was captured in a thick braid that ran down the length of its back. And all of it, skin, mask, fur, horns, was covered in cracking red paint. It carried a short club with one long jagged hook protruding from its end.

It locked its eyes on Nick, raised the club, and let loose a loud snort.

“Oh no!” Nick cried.
“No! No! No!”
He jerked wildly at his bindings, tugging and pulling until he freed his arms. He yanked down the twine around his waist and legs, stumbled to the ground as he tore his feet free. Nick rolled to his feet, glanced back, saw the Devil Beast coming for him, and ran. He tried to break out of the ring of creatures, to barrel right through them, but they grabbed him and shoved him back.

The Devil Beast caught Nick across his face with an open palm. Pain exploded in Nick’s head and he went sprawling to the stones. He crumpled into a ball and lay there clutching his head.
It’s over
, Nick thought.
I’m dead
.

The Devil came for him, driving a hard kick into Nick’s upper thigh. Nick screamed, saw a foot coming for his face, and managed to move. The kick caught his shoulder and sent him tumbling.

“STOP IT!”
Nick screamed.

The Devil tromped after him, raising the club with its wicked hook above his head. Nick sprung out of the way. The club hit the stones, getting knocked loose from the Devil Beast’s grasp and bouncing across the floor to the middle of the ring. Nick jumped up, limping away, trying to keep some distance between himself and his tormentor.

The Devil leaped forward, catching Nick by the arm, spun him around, and backhanded him across the face.

Searing pain and white-hot light sent Nick reeling, fighting to keep his feet. And still the Devil came.

Nick tasted blood, touched his lip, and was shocked by the amount of blood on his hand.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
Nick screamed, as though he didn’t know, as though he expected anything other than being brutally beaten to death.

The Devil just continued to track him around and around, giving no answers, a predator intent on its prey.

“WHAT?”
Nick screamed.
“WHAT?”
Nick spotted the hooked club lying in the center of the ring. His eyes shot back and forth between the hook and the Devil.

The Devil stopped and stared at him.

Nick dove for it, snatching the hook up off the stones. The weight of it surprised him and he almost dropped it. He held it in both hands and pointed the wicked hook at the Devil.
“C’MON!”
Nick cried, blood and spit flying from his lips.
“C’MON YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

The Devil just stood there.

“C’MON!”
Nick screamed, the club shaking as his arms quivered.

The creatures around him began to chant, “Blood, blood, blood,” on and on until Nick thought he would go mad.

“Enough!”
He let out a howl and rushed the Devil, bringing the hook around in a wide overhand swing, intent on sinking it deep into the Devil’s skull.

At the last possible second, the Devil caught Nick’s arm at the wrist and wrung the club away. The weapon bounced off the stones with a loud clank and the chamber fell silent.

“Good,” the Devil said and pushed his mask back.

Nick found himself looking not at a beast, but a boy.

The boy smiled at Nick. “You did good.” He clasped Nick’s hand in his own and raised it up.
“NEW BLOOD FOR DEVILTREE!”
he shouted, then threw his head back and howled.

The creatures joined in, howling and beating the floor; the entire chamber rung with their fervor. They slid off their masks and now Nick could plainly see that beneath the wild hair and body paint, they were just a bunch of stupid-ass kids.

He caught sight of the blue pixies leaping up and down among the rafters, mimicking the boys like little blue monkeys, adding their feral shrieks to the cacophony. The whole chamber rung with hooting, braying, and cackling. The world seemed a spinning kaleidoscope of insanity, and Nick knew that he’d gone stark raving mad.