The Child Thief (15 page)

Peter caught sight of small, colorful fish chasing one another just below the surface—on second look, he noticed that they had the upper bodies of men and women. The winged wee folk skated across the surface as they zipped about snatching bugs out of the air.

The Lady unhooked the clasp on her shoulder, letting her gown drop. She waded out into the pool until her fingertips touched the water. The sunlight glittered off the surface and danced along her gleaming white skin. She closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun, basking in its warmth.

She spoke a few words that Peter didn’t understand and sank beneath the water.

The elves spread out, perching among the surrounding rocks, and watching the woods.

Peter waited for the Lady to surface. He waited a long time. No one could hold their breath that long. He glanced around at the elves, but none of them appeared concerned. He walked up to the bank, caught a flash beneath the water, and saw her, a silvery shape swimming like a fish around the pool. She bobbed up before him and gestured for him to come in.

Peter took off his wolf pelt and tested the water with his foot. It was cool but not cold and felt good on such a warm day. He waded in to his waist and felt something tickling his ankles. The fish people were flittering around his feet, feeding on the silt.

The Lady took his hand and pulled him into the deeper water, until his tiptoes could just touch the bottom. She drifted behind him, draping her arms over his shoulders. Peter stiffened.

“Let go of your fear, Peter,” she whispered.

Peter took a deep breath and she took him under, pulling him down to where the water was dark and cold. Peter could just make out the blurry rays of the sun dancing on the surface far above him. His lungs began to tighten and he felt a twinge of panic.

Her arms squeezed about him and he thought of her sharp teeth. Did she mean to drown him?

Her voice drifted to him, a muffled song resonating through the depths. The water began to warm around him. He felt a steady thumping, like a heartbeat, could hear the swish of blood through his own veins and arteries and it was as though he was back in his mother’s womb. His pulse began to slow, matching the rhythm, two hearts beating as one. His lungs no longer ached for air. He felt part of her, of the pool, the water itself his lifeblood. Her voice the faintest tickle in his ear,
I am your forest, your earth, your eternity. I am your life. I am your death. I am all things forever and always. Love me. Love me. Forever love me
. He curled into a ball, a floating fetus with the pond his womb.
Yes
, he answered.
Forever
. The womb began to glow, growing brighter, then brighter. His head broke the surface.

Peter spat out a mouthful of water and sucked in a deep lungful of air. He blinked against the sunlight. Where was he? Then he saw the Lady and nothing else mattered. She was the most perfect creature he could imagine, and he couldn’t understand how he ever thought otherwise. His heart fairly strummed with her vision, all he wanted to do was gaze upon her forever.

The Lady examined him. “The poison is gone,” she said, looking satisfied. “The wounds will heal with time.”

Reluctantly, Peter tore his eyes from her and glanced down at his chest. There was only the slightest pink trace of the bite mark left. The slashes in his side were closed and the hundreds of insect stings had vanished.

They got dressed and lay out upon a wide, flat stone to warm themselves in the sun.

Peter was watching a heron drift by overhead when a host of hoots and howls burst from the trees. He sat up. A crew of long-armed creatures came swinging into the clearing. They were a bit larger than raccoons, black manes sprouting around their necks. Their small, dark eyes were close-set and their snouts were long, reminding Peter a bit of wolfhounds. They scampered up to the far bank on short legs and knuckles, slurping noisily as they drank from the pond.

“What are those?”

“Barghest,” the Lady said. “Be careful, they can be nasty if given the chance. They’ll certainly rob you of anything they can get their hands on.”

The creatures hooted and barked as they drank.

Peter cupped his hands to his mouth and mimicked their hooting.

The barghest fell silent, all of them staring at Peter. Peter jumped up and let loose several more hoots. The creatures erupted into a volley of irritated barking, the lot of them leaping away into the trees and disappearing into the woods.

The Lady laughed heartily and the sound was music to Peter’s ears.

“That’s good, Peter. How’d you learn to do that?”

Peter shrugged, then began to mimic the whistles, hoots, chirps, and calls of the other animals. Soon all the creatures around the pond were cocking their heads quizzically at him.

The Lady laughed long and deep, and even the elves couldn’t help but smile.

A strange cry caught their attention. Peter saw a large bird with fiery red plumage glide across the pond and alight in a nearby tree. It surveyed the pond, its brilliant orange eyes standing out in stark contrast to a crown of black feathers.

The Lady let out a soft gasp and leaped to her feet. “Peter,” she whispered. “The Sunbird.”

It lifted its head and began to sing, and all the creatures in the forest fell silent. This wasn’t just a call, but a song made up of whistles and chirps, like nothing Peter had ever heard before.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered.

Peter nodded and glanced at the Lady. She held her fingertips to her lips, her eyes captivated.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the bird took flight and left them.

“Oh, don’t go,” she said, and sighed. “I’ve not seen it since I was a girl. That sweet song takes me back to happier times.” She was quiet then, her eyes distant.

Peter caught a flash in the sun and something landed on the sandy bank. He leaped up, raced over, and picked it up. It was a brilliant red feather. He brought it back and held it up for the Lady to see. The sunlight shimmered off the fine filaments, and when he twirled it, it sparkled and glowed as though aflame.

The sparkles glittered across the Lady’s face. “Oh, Peter. It’s beautiful!”

He handed it to her. “It’s for you.”

“For me? Peter, no, you can’t. It is too wonderful a treasure.”

“Yes I can.”

She took the feather and began to twirl it. A smile of unabashed joy lit up her whole face, and in that moment she looked like a little girl.

Peter cupped his hands over his mouth, and began to whistle and chirp, trying to mimic the Sunbird’s song. He didn’t get it right, but after a few more tries, he had it and whistled the song all the way through.

The Lady stared at him in utter amazement, then grabbed his hand and clasped it in both of hers. “That’s wonderful! You must be part bird.”

“Yes, I am,” Peter said proudly. “Why, I’m a Peterbird.”

“Well Peterbird, you must come visit my court and sing for me. Is it agreed?”

Peter gave a big nod.

“Good.” She looked at him, looked at him intently for a long time. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“One more thing.” She reached behind her neck and undid the gold chain. She held it out so Peter could see the eight-point star. He noticed it was actually fine threads of tarnished gold spun around a dark stone. “This belonged to another little boy, a very special little boy. He is lost to me. I would like for you to wear it for now. Would you do that for me?”

Again, Peter nodded.

She slipped it around Peter’s neck and kissed him atop his head. “My little Mabon,” she whispered, so quietly he almost missed it

As Peter held the star, it began to glow slightly.

The Lady saw it too and her eyes began to tear. She reached for Peter and pulled him tight, hugged him for a long time. She smelled of pollen and the sweetness of cool water.

Peter heard her again in his head, or heart maybe, like in the pond.
You are mine. Mine forever
.

Yes
, he answered.
Forever
.

“HEY,” NATHAN CALLED
. “Wait up.”

The child thief realized he’d let his mind drift, let the kid fall behind. He knew better, knew that the Mist, given the chance, would get in his head and play games.
Stupid
, he thought.
Careless and stupid
. And now the boy was actually shouting in the Mist.

Peter waited, searching the shimmering wall of silvery light, listening. Had the Sluagh heard? Were they on their way?

“I don’t like this,” Nathan said. “Just where are we?”

Peter put his fingers to his lips. “Shhh!” Peter whispered. “You have to keep quiet or they’ll hear. Now let’s go.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Peter didn’t answer; now wasn’t the time for talk. He turned, searching for the Path. It was there, just ahead, the thin golden thread sliding and shifting, drifting away as though blown by a hidden wind. You had to stay with the Path or it would leave you behind.

Peter headed for the Path, then realized Nathan wasn’t following; the boy was staring at the ground.

“Look!” Nathan said, pointing.

Peter didn’t need to look. He knew what it was.

“Those are bones! That’s somebody’s goddamn head!” Nathan squinted warily at Peter. “What the hell kinda place is this?”

Peter jabbed his finger to his lips. The kid had to be quiet.
Had to!

“Don’t tell me to
shhh
,” Nathan said, raising his voice. “I asked you a question. What the fuck kinda place is this?”

Peter gritted his teeth, tried to control his temper, but this kid was going to get them both killed. He glanced at the Path, it was drifting away. He didn’t dare lose sight of it, but they needed the kid. Peter stepped toward him.

Nathan stumbled back, jerked a gun out, and pointed it at Peter. Peter halted.

“
STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!
” the kid yelled.

Peter heard the distant sound of children’s laughter. His blood went cold. The laughter grew louder, joined by wails and moans, the cackling cries of old women. The Mist began to stir.

The kid snapped his head about. “What’s that? Huh? What the
fuck
is that?”

The Path drifted farther away, another moment and it would be lost. “Listen, Nathan,” Peter said as calmly as he could. “You have one chance. Follow me, right now. Move, or you’ll never leave the Mist.”

But Nathan wasn’t paying Peter any attention. He spun around, left then right, holding the gun out in front of him, his eyes wide and terrified.
“STAY AWAY FROM ME!”
he screamed.

The Sluagh came, first the disembodied heads, flying around, circling the boy, followed by the naked craggy women, holding hands and skipping merrily about, then the beasts, all shapes and sizes, their barks and howls, screams and growls rumbling back and forth across the ghostly wasteland.

“NATHAN!”
Peter cried.
“COME! NOW!”

“OH MY GOD!”
Nathan screamed and pulled the trigger over and over. But there was only a dry click as the hammer fell on the dead shells. The kid’s face twisted into a mask of confusion and terror. Peter could’ve told him the gunpowder wouldn’t work, not here in the Mist. It never does. And even if the bullets had fired, they wouldn’t have done a bit of good.

The spirits, one and all, laughed, the sound booming about the Mist like thunder. The flying heads swarmed the boy, pecking at his hair. He ran screaming, swinging the gun wildly, trying to fend them off as they chased him into the swirling wall of gray mist.

Peter didn’t shout to the boy again. It would do no good. Peter found the Path and walked, his face tight, his eyes hard. He watched one foot after the other pound into the soft, powdery ground and did his damndest not to hear the distant echoes of Nathan’s screams.

PETER STUMBLED ASHORE
and collapsed on the beach. He punched the sand again and again, until his knuckles were raw, until he could no longer hear the boy’s cries inside his head. He dug his fingers into the beach, came away with two handfuls of sand, turned and glared at the Mist.
“WHY?”
he screamed and slung the sand into its swirling mass. “Why,” he screamed again, knowing the night would hear, the were-beasts and, worse, the Flesh-eaters. He didn’t care.

“Flesh-eaters,” he spat. “Fucking Flesh-eaters. This is all because of them.” He bared his teeth at the Mist. The glint of madness sparkled in his eye. “Someone,” he whispered, “needs to remind them to be afraid of the night.”

Instead of heading into the swamps and back toward Deviltree, Peter turned and followed the coastline, making his way over the driftwood and rocks beneath the silvery glow of the low-hanging clouds, and it was not long before he heard the soft tread of something trailing him.

Peter slid out his long knife and turned, shouting a challenge, daring the thing to show itself. Nothing did or dared, his madness too plain, and Peter continued on alone until he saw the jagged timber walls of the fort lit up from within by a smoldering watch fire.

He looked out toward the lagoon, to where the skeletons of the great galleons lay half-drowned, leaning off-keel and rotting. Their frames silhouetted against the silver glow of the Mist like the ghostly bones of a sea dragon.

He walked up to the fort wall, mesmerized by the dance of firelight between the jagged timber beams. Atop each of the gate posts sat a boy’s head, their mouths frozen forever in the silent screams of the dead, their hair blowing in the brisk wind, the dark hollows of their eyes staring back at him, mocking him, accusing him.

He counted twenty-four of them. “Jimmy, Mark, Davis…Bob. No. Bill? Which was it?” He started over again, then again, but no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t remember all their names. As his frustration grew so did his volume, until he was shouting their names, knowing the Flesh-eaters would hear and not caring.