The Stolen Child(3)

the ravell'd sleeve of care.'"

He pulled shut the door and left me in the darkness. My fellow changelings and I had been spying

on the boy for months, so I knew the contours of my new home at the edge of the forest. Henry's view

of their few acres and the world beyond was magical. Outside, the stars shone through the window

above a jagged row of firs. Through the open windows, a breeze blew across the top of the sheets, and

moths beat their wings in retreat from their perches on the window screen. The nearly full moon reflected

enough light into the space to reveal the dim pattern on the wallpaper, the crucifix above my head, pages

torn from magazines and newspapers tacked along the wall. A baseball mitt and ball rested on top of the

bureau, and on the washstand a pitcher and bowl glowed as white as phosphorous. A short stack of

books lay propped against the bowl, and I could barely contain my excitement at the prospect of reading

come morning.

The twins began bawling at the break of day. I padded down the hallway, past my new parents'

room, following the sound. The babies hushed the mo-ment they saw me, and I am sure that had they the

gifts of reason and speech, Mary and Elizabeth would have said "You're not Henry" the moment I

walked into the room. But they were mere tots, with more teeth than sentences, and could not articulate

the mysteries of their young minds. With their clear wide eyes, they regarded my every move with quiet

attentiveness. I tried smiling, but no smiles were returned. I tried making funny faces, tickling them under

their fat chins, dancing like a puppet, and whistling like a mockingbird, but they simply watched, passive

and inert as two dumb toads. Racking my brain to find a way to get through to them, I recalled other

occasions when I had encountered something in the forest as helpless and dangerous as these two human

children. Walking along in a lonesome glen, I had come across a bear cub separated from its mother.

The frightened animal let out such a godforsaken scream that I half expected to be surrounded by every

bear in the mountains. Despite my powers with animals, there was nothing to be done with a monster

that could have ripped me open with a single swat. By croon-ing to the beast, I soothed it, and

remembering this, I did so with my new-found sisters. They were enchanted by the sound of my voice

and began at once to coo and clap their chubby hands while long strings of drool ran down their chins.

"Twinkle, Twinkle" and "Bye, Baby Bunting" reassured or con-vinced them that I was close enough to

be their brother, or preferable to their brother, but who knows for certain what thoughts flitted through

their simple minds. They gurgled, and they gooed. In between songs, for counterpoint, I would talk to

them in Henry's voice, and gradually they came to believe—or abandon their sense of disbelief.

Mrs. Day bustled into the babies' room, humming and tra-la-la-ing. Her general girth and amplitude

amazed me; I had seen her many times before, but not quite at such close quarters. From the safety of

the woods, she had seemed more or less the same as all adult humans, but in person, she assumed a

singu-lar tenderness, though she smelled faintly sour, a perfume of milk and yeast. She danced across the

floor, throwing open curtains, dazzling the room with golden morning, and the girls, brightened by her

presence, pulled themselves up by the slats of their cribs. I smiled at her, too. It was all I could do to

keep from bursting into joyous laughter. She smiled back at me as if I were her only son.

"Help me with your sisters, would you, Henry?"

I picked up the nearest girl and announced very pointedly to my new mother, "I'll take Elizabeth."

She was as heavy as a badger. It is a curious feel-ing to hold an infant one is not planning to steal; the

very young convey a pleasant softness.

The girls' mother stopped and stared at me, and for a beat, she looked puzzled and uncertain.

"How did you know that was Elizabeth? You've never been able to tell them apart."

"That's easy, Mom. Elizabeth has two dimples when she smiles and her name's longer, and Mary

has just one."

"Aren't you the clever one?" She picked up Mary and headed off down-stairs.

Elizabeth hid her face against my shoulder as we followed our mother. The kitchen table groaned

with a huge feast—hotcakes and bacon, a jug of warm maple syrup, a gleaming pitcher of milk, and

china bowls filled with sliced bananas. After a long life in the forest eating what-you-can-find, this simple

fare appeared a smorgasbord of exotic delicacies, rich and ripe, the promise of fullness.

"Look, Henry, I made all your favorites."

I could have kissed her right on the spot. If she was pleased with herself for taking the trouble to fix