The Stolen Child(122)

at the church was scheduled for two days hence, and I was struck by not only the tide but, underneath it,

a small wood-cut engraving of two figures in flight and pursuit.

"Which one is the faery, and which is the child?"

Smaolach considered the artwork. "No matter what you think, you're just as likely to be right as

wrong. But you'll stay for the symphony? Com-posed by Henry Day, and him playing the organ as well."

"You can't miss that," Luchóg argued. "Another day or two, and the journey is just as long."

We footed our way through the dark forest, a last bit of mischief to-gether, taking bold delight in

coming close yet not being seen. On the night of the concert we hid in the graveyard as the people filed

into the church, and the opening notes of the symphony soared through the windows and echoed among

the stones. The prelude announced his grand themes, ending in a long solo on the organ. He played

beautifully, I'll admit, and we were drawn closer, rising one by one from behind the gravestones to stand

next to the church windows. Béka wrapped his arms around Onions, and whispered in her ear. When

she began to laugh at his joke, he clamped a hand against her mouth till she sputtered for breath and then

kept still. Chavisory mimed the role of conductor, her hands tracing arcs and waves in the sky. My old

cronies, Luchóg and Smaolach, leaned against the church wall and smoked, staring at the night stars.

Cinching my bag across my shoulders—I carried my book in it every-where now—I made my way

around to a rear window and dared look in. Henry had his back to the audience and rocked as he

played the organ, fierce concentration written on his face. When he closed his eyes and moved in time

with the rise and fall of the notes, he was lost. The strings alone took up the next measures, and he saw

me through the window, but the peaceful look never left his face. Henry was transformed, younger than

before, more like a man than a monster. I would think on him no longer and soon be gone, but whether

or not he realized I intended to leave, I can never know.

The crowd in the pews was transfixed by the small orchestra, and I am quite sure that had anyone

spotted me looking through the window, they would have rushed past the altar and out into the

churchyard. So I had the rare chance to study their faces from afar, recognizing at once Henry's wife and

son, Edward, in the front row. Thank goodness I had convinced Béka and Onions to leave that child

alone. Most of the other people were strangers to me. I kept hoping to see my sisters, but, of course,

they are still ageless children in my memory. An older woman, holding her fingers against her lips as she

listened, seemed to glance my way once or twice, and when she did so, she reminded me of my mother,

the last I shall see of her. Some part of me desired to crawl through the opening and run to her, to feel

her hand against my cheek, to be held, to be known by her, but my place is not among them. Goodbye,

my dear, I whispered to her, sure that she could not hear, but hoping that somehow she understood.

Henry kept smiling and playing, and like a book the music told a story that seemed, in part, a

gift—as if, in our only common language, he was ex-pressing what beat in his heart. Some sorrow,

perhaps, some remorse. It was enough for me. The music carried us in two directions, as if above and

below; and in the interludes, the spaces between the notes, I thought he, too, was try-ing to say

goodbye, goodbye to the double life. The organ breathed and laid sound upon sound, and then exhaled

into silence. "Aniday," Luchóg hissed, and I shrank from the window to the ground. A beat or two, and

the crowd burst like a thunderstorm. One by one, we faeries rose and disappeared into the falling

darkness, gliding past the gravestones and back into the forest, as if we had never been among the

people.

Having made amends with Henry Day, I am ready to leave come tomorrow. This version of my

story has not taken nearly as long to re-create. I have not been concerned with putting down all the

facts, nor a detailed explanation of the magic, as far as I understand such things, of the people who lived

in secret and below. Our kind are few, and no longer deemed necessary. Far greater troubles exist for

children in the modern world, and I shudder to think of real and lurking dangers. Like so many myths,

our stories will one day no longer be told or believed. Reaching the end, I lament all those lost souls and

those dear friends left behind. Onions, Béka, Chavisory, and my old pals Smaolach and Luchóg are

content to remain as they are, indifferent children of the earth. They will be fine without me. We all go

away one day.

Should by chance any of you see my mother, tell her I cherish her every kindness and miss her still.