The Stolen Child(115)

over the likely areas, dividing the wilderness into manageable plats. For two days, despite my loathing

for the forest and my aversion to nature, I explored a few of those squares, looking for their lair. The

woods were emptier than when I lived there—the occasional hammering of a woodpecker, skinks

sunning themselves on rocks, the raised white flag of one deer running away, and the lonesome hum of

greenbottle flies. Not much life, but plenty of junk—a swollen copy of Playboy; a four-of-hearts playing

card; a tattered white sweater; a small mound of empty cigarette packages; a canteen; a tortoiseshell

necklace on a pile of stones; a stopped watch; and a book stamped Property Of County Library.

Aside from the dirt on its cover and the slight musty odor to its pages, the book was intact.

Through the mildewed pages, the story revolved around a religious fanatic named Tarwater or

Tearwater. I gave up reading novels in childhood, for their artificial worlds mask rather than reveal the

truth. Novel-ists construct elaborate lies to throw off readers from discovering the meaning behind the

words and symbols, as if it could be known. But the book I found might be just the thing for a

fourteen-year-old hellion or some religious misfit, so I took it back to the library. Virtually nobody was

there on that midsummer day, except for a cute girl behind the counter.

"I found this in the woods. It belongs to you."

She looked at the novel as if it were a lost treasure, brushed off the grime, and opened the back

cover. "Just a minute." She leafed through a stack of stamped cards. "Thank you, but this has not been

checked out at all. Did you forget?"

"No," I explained. "I found it, and wanted to return it to the rightful owners. I was looking for

something else."

"Maybe I can help you?" Her smile reminded me of so many other li-brarians, and a small twinge of

guilt poked me in the ribs.

I leaned close and smiled at her. "Do you have any books on hobgob-lins?"

She skipped a beat. "Hobgoblins?"

"Or fairies. Imps, trolls, sprites, changelings, that sort of thing?"

The girl looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. "You shouldn't lean on the desk like

that. There's a card catalog right over there. Alphabetical by subject, title, or author."

Rather than providing shortcuts to useful information, one search begat another, and the curiouser

and curiouser I got, the more rabbit holes popped open. My search for fairies resulted in forty-two titles,

of which a dozen or so might be useful, but that search branched off into goblins and hobgoblins, which

in turn branched off to abnormal psychology, child prodigies, and au-tism. Lunchtime had come and

gone, and I felt lightheaded and in need of some air. At a nearby convenience store I bought a sandwich

and a bottle of pop, and I sat on a bench by the empty playground, contemplating the task before me.

There was so much to know, so much already forgotten. In the relentless sunshine I fell asleep, waking

up three hours later with a nasty sun-burn on one arm and the left side of my face. From the library's

bathroom mirror stared a person divided in two, half of my face pale, the other half crimson. Exiting past

the young librarian, I tried to keep my profile two-dimensional.

My dream returned in full detail that night. Tess and I spoke quietly on the deck of a local pool. A

few other people milled about in the background, sunning themselves or diving into the cool water. As

wallflowers: Jimmy Cummings, Oscar Love, Uncle Charlie, Brian Ungerland. All the librarians in bikinis.

"How have you been, my love?" she teased. "Still chased by monsters?"

"Tess, it's not funny."

"I'm sorry, but no one else can see them, sweetheart. Only you."

"But they're as real as you and me. What if they come for Edward?"

"They don't want Eddie. They want you." She stood up, tugged at the bottom of her suit, and

jumped in the pool. I plunged in after her, shocked by how cold the water felt, and frog-kicked my way

to the middle. Tess swam to me, her body becoming more streamlined and graceful, and when the top of

her head broke the surface, her hair was plastered against her scalp. As she stopped and stood, the film

of water ran off her face, parting like a curtain to reveal not her face at all, but a hobgoblin's face, horrid

and frightening. I blanched and hollered involuntarily; then she changed right back again to her familiar

self. "What's the matter, love? Don't you know I know who you are? Tell me."

I went back to the library, hunted for a few of my titles, and sat down at a corner table. The

research, especially on hobgoblins, was wrong in virtually every particular and no better than myth or