The Stolen Child(10)

whispered together in a conspiracy of penguins, then nodded in unison as they crossed themselves.

The actual trick-or-treating left much to be desired. My father drove me into town at dusk and

waited for me as I walked the row of houses along Main Street, spying here and there another child in

pathetic costume. No hobgoblin appeared, although a black cat did try to cross my path. I hissed at the

creature in perfect cat, and it turned tail, running away in panic to hide beneath a hon-eysuckle bush. An

evil grin crossed my face. It was good to know I had not yet lost all my tricks.

• C H A P T E R 4 •

In the gloaming, the crows flew in to gather for the night in a stand of bare oaks. Bird by bird, they

soared to the rookery, black shadows against the fading light. My kidnapping, still fresh in my mind, left

me timid and battered, not trusting a soul in the woods. I missed my family, yet days and weeks passed,

marked by the routine appearance of the birds. Their arrival and departure provided reas-suring

continuity. By the time the trees lost their leaves and their naked limbs stretched to the sky, the crows no

longer frightened me. I came to look for-ward to their graceful arrival, silhouetted against the wintry sky,

a natural part of my new life.

The faeries welcomed me as their own and taught me the ways of the woods, and I grew fond of

them all. In addition to Speck, Igel, Béka and On-ions, there were seven others. The three girls were

inseparable—Kivi and Blomma, blonde and freckled, quiet and assured, and their tagalong, Chavisory, a

chatterbox who looked no more than five years old. When she grinned, her baby teeth shone like a string

of pearls, and when she laughed, her thin shoulders shook and twitched. If she found something truly

funny or exciting, she took off like a skittering bat, dancing in circles and figure eights across the clearing.

Apart from the leader Igel and the loner Béka, the boys formed two pairs. Ragno and Zanzara, as I

remember them, reminded me of the two sons of the Italian grocers in town. Thin and olive-skinned

boys, each had a thatch of dark curls on his head and was quick to anger and quicker to forgive. The

other set, Smaolach and Luchóg, behaved as brothers, though they could not be more dissimilar.

Towering over everyone but Béka, Smaolach concentrated on the task at hand, as oblivious and earnest

as a robin tugging up an earth-worm. His good friend Luchóg, smallest of us all, was forever pushing

back an untamable lock of night-black hair that curled across his forehead like the tail of a mouse. His

eyes, blue as the summer sky, gave away his fierce devotion to his friends, even when he tried to feign

nonchalance.

Igel, the eldest and leader of the band, took pains to explain the ways of the forest. He showed me

how to gig for frogs and fish, how to find water collected overnight in the hollow of fallen leaves, to

distinguish edible mush-rooms from deadly toadstools, and dozens of other survival tricks. But even the

best guide is no match for experience, and for most of my early time, I was coddled. They kept me

under constant watch by at least two others, and I was forced to stay around camp, with dire warnings

to hide away at any hint of other people.

"If they catch you, they will think you a devil," Igel told me. "And lock you away, or worse, they

will test to see if they are right by throwing you in a fire."

"And you will burn up like kindling," said Ragno.

"And be nothing more than a puff of smoke," said Zanzara, and Chavisory demonstrated by

dancing around the campfire, circling away to the edge of darkness.

When the first hard frost hit, a small party was sent away for an overnight excursion, and they came

back with armloads of sweaters, jackets, and shoes. Those of us who had stayed behind were shivering

beneath deerskins.

"Since you are the youngest," Igel told me, "you have first choice of the clothes and boots."

Smaolach, who stood over the pile of shoes, beckoned me. I noticed that his own feet were bare. I

poked through the assortment of children's saddle shoes, square-toed brogues, canvas tennis shoes, and

the odd unmated boot, choosing at last a pair of brand new black-and-white wingtips that seemed to be

my size.

"Those'll cut your ankles off."

"How about these?" I asked, holding up the tennis shoes. "I might be able to squeeze into these."

My feet felt damp and chilled on the cold ground.

Smaolach rooted around and picked out the ugliest brown shoes I had ever seen. The leather

creaked when he flexed the soles, and the laces looked like coiled snakes. Each toe was tipped with a

small steel plate. "Trust me, these will keep you warm and toasty all winter long, and a long time in the