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The Stolen Child(11)

By:Keith Donohue


wearing."

"But they're too small."

"Don't you know you've been shrinking yourself?" With a sly grin, he reached into his trousers

pocket and pulled out a pair of thick woolen socks. "And I found these especially for you."

The whole crowd gasped in appreciation. They gave me a cableknit sweater and an oilskin jacket,

which kept me dry on the wettest days.

As the nights lengthened and grew colder, we exchanged our grass mats and solitary beds for a

heap of animal skins and stolen blankets. The twelve of us slept together in a tangled clump. I rather

enjoyed the comfort of the situ-ation, although most of my friends had foul breath or fetid odors about

them. Part of the reason must be the change in diet, from the bounty of summer to the decay of late fall

and the deprivation of winter. Several of the poor crea-tures had been in the woods for so long that they

had given up all hope of human society. Indeed, a handful had no such desire at all, so they lived like

animals, rarely taking a bath or cleaning their teeth with a twig. Even a fox will lick its hindquarters, but

some of the faeries were the dirtiest beasts.

That first winter, I yearned to go with the hunter-gatherers on their morning forage for food and

other supplies. Like the crows that convened at dusk and dawn, those thieves enjoyed freedom away

from the roost. While I was left behind, I had to suffer babysitters like that toad Béka and his companion

Onions, or old Zanzara and Ragno, who squabbled all day and threw nutshells and stones at the birds

and squirrels poking around our hidden hoard. I was bored and cold and lonesome for adventure.

On a gray morning, Igel himself chose to stay behind to watch over me, and as luck would have it,

my friend Smaolach kept him company. They brewed a pot of tea from dried bark and peppermint, and

as we watched a cold rain fall, I pressed my case.

"Why won't you let me go with all the others?"

"My great fear is that you'll run away and try to return whence you came, but you cannot, Aniday.

You are one of us now." Igel sipped his tea and stared at a point far off. After a decent interval, letting

his wisdom sink into my mind, he continued. "On the other hand, you have proved yourself a valu-able

member of our clan. You gather the kindling, husk the acorns, and dig a new privy hole when asked.

You are learning true obedience and deference. I have watched you, Aniday, and you are a good

student of our ways."

Smaolach stared into the dying fire and said something in a secret lan-guage, all vowels and hard

consonants full of phlegm. Igel pondered over that secret sentence, then chewed on his own thoughts

before spitting them out. Then, as now, I was eternally puzzled over how people think, by what process

they solve life's riddles. Their consultation over, Igel resumed his study of the horizon.

"You're to come with Luchóg and me this afternoon," Smaolach in-formed me with a conspiratorial

wink. "We'll show you the lay of the land around these parts as soon as the rest of them get back."

"You better dress warmly," Igel advised. "This rain will changeover soon."

On cue, the first snowflakes started mixing with the raindrops, and within minutes, a heavy snow

began to fall. We were still sitting in our places when the faery troop meandered back to the camp,

chased home by the sud-den inclemency. Winter sometimes came early to our part of the country, but

usually we did not get a snowfall until after Christmas. As the squall blew in, I wondered for the first time

whether Christmas had passed altogether, or perhaps at least Thanksgiving had slipped by, and most

certainly Halloween was gone. I thought of my family, still looking for me every day in the woods.

Perhaps they thought me dead, which made me feel sorry and wish that word could be sent concerning

my welfare.

At home, Mom would be unpacking boxes of decorations, putting out the stable and the manger,

running garland up the stair rail. The past Christ-mas, my father took me out to chop down a small fir

tree for the house, and I wondered if he was sad now, without me to help him choose the right one. I

even missed my little sisters. Were they walking and talking and dreaming of Santa Claus, wondering

what had become of me?

"What day is it?" I asked Luchóg as he changed into warmer clothes.

He licked his finger and held it into the wind. "Tuesday?"

"No, I mean what day of the year? What day of the month?"

"I have no idea. Judging by the signs, could be late November, early December. But memory is a

tricky thing and unreliable when it comes to time or weather."

Christmas had not passed after all. I resolved to watch the days from then on and to celebrate the