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The Stolen Child(31)

By:Keith Donohue


and caught me one night, red-handed so to speak, although I was completely under cover. He rolled his

eyes toward the ceiling.

"Henry, what are you doing?"

I stopped. There was an innocent explanation, which I could not re-veal.

"Don't think I don't know."

Know what? I wanted to ask.

"You will go blind if you keep at it."

I blinked my eyes.

He left the room and I rolled over, pressing my face against the cool pil-low. My powers were

diminishing over time. Farsightedness, distance hearing, speed of foot—all had virtually disappeared, and

my ability to manipulate my appearance had deteriorated. More and more, I was becoming the human I

had wanted to be, but instead of rejoicing in the situation, I sagged into the mattress, hid beneath the

sheets. I punched my pillow and tortured the coven in a vain effort to get comfortable. Any hopes for

pleasure subsided along with my erection. In pleasure's place, a ragged loneliness ebbed. I felt stuck in a

never-ending childhood, doomed to living under their control, a dozen suspi-cious scowls each day from

my false parents. In the forest, I had to mark time and take my turn as a changeling, but the years had

seemed like days. In the anxiety of adolescence, the days were like years. And nights could be endless.

Several hours later, I woke in a sweat and threw off the covers. Going to the window to let in the



fresh air, I spotted out on the lawn, in the dead of night, the red ash of a cigarette, and picked out the

dark figure of my father, staring into the dark wood, as if waiting for something to spring out from the

shadows between trees. When he turned to come back inside, Dad looked up at my room and saw me

framed in the windowpanes, watching him, but he never said a word about it.

• C H A P T E R 1 0 •

The full moon created a halo behind Igel's head and evoked the memory of saints and icons in the

church I could barely remember. By his side stood Luchóg. Both were dressed for travel in jackets and

shoes to ward off the frost.

"Aniday, get up and get dressed. You're coming with us this morning."

"Morning?" I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "It's the middle of the night."

"The sun'll be up in no time. You'd best be quick," Luchóg advised.

We stole along the hidden trails through the forest, leaping like rabbits, scrambling through

brambles, covering ground with great speed and no pause. Clouds passed beneath the moon, first hiding

and then revealing the landscape. The trail led across empty roads, our feet sounding on the pavement.

We darted through open spaces, through a field of cornstalks that rustled and hummed as we rolled

between rows, past a barn big against the dark sky and a farmhouse yellow in the skittish moonlight. In

her stall, a cow lowed at our fleeting pres-ence. A dog barked once. Past the farm, another patch of

trees, another road, and then we were crossing a stream from the dizzying height of a bridge. On the far

side, Igel led us into a ditch that paralleled the road, and we crouched low in its cover. The sky began to

lighten to a deep violet. An engine coughed and soon a milk truck passed by on the road above.

"We started too late," Igel said. "He'll have to be more careful now. Aniday, this morning we will

test how far you've come to being one of us."

Looking down the road, I spied the milk truck stopping at a dreary bun-galow on the outskirts of

town. Next door stood a small general store with a single gasoline pump out front. The milkman, all in

white, descended from his perch and carried his basket to the side door, returning briskly with two glass

empties that clinked against the wire. Caught up in the scene, I nearly forgot to follow my comrades as

they slithered ahead. I reached them in a culvert not ten yards from the gas station, and they were

whispering and pointing in dire conspiracy. The object of desire began to take shape in the gathering

light. Atop the pump, a coffee mug shone like a white beacon.

"Go get that cup," Igel ordered. "Don't be seen."

The rising sun pushed away the deeper hues of the night, and any hesi-tation on my part risked

discovery. It was a simple task to sprint across the grass and pavement, grab the cup, and dash back to

our hiding place. Fear held me back.

"Take off your shoes," Igel advised. "They'll never hear you."

I slipped off my brogans and ran to the pump, its red-winged horse vaulting toward the heavens,

and I grasped the mug and turned to go, when an unexpected noise froze me to the spot. Glass on glass.

I imagined the sta-tion owner reaching into the milk box, detecting a peculiar motion at the gas pump,

and hollering to stop me. But no such thing happened. A screen door whined and closed with a bang. I