light, as if a borderland to cross carefully, in fear of be-ing exposed. Upon reaching the wilderness, I felt
safe and hidden in the dark, dark wood, and as I walked on, stillness nestled in the spaces among the
trees. The birds had stopped singing, and the insects were at rest. Tired of the blaz-ing heat, a tree
groaned as if shifting in its rooted position. The green roof of leaves above sighed at every rare and
passing breeze. As the sun dipped below the treeline, I came across an imposing chestnut with a hollow
at its base big enough for me to crawl inside to hide and wait, to listen for the seekers. And when they
came close enough to beckon, I would not move. The grown-ups kept shouting "Hen-ry" in the fading
afternoon, in the half-light of dusk, in the cool and starry night. I refused to answer. Beams from the
flashlights bounced crazily among the trees, and the search party crashed through the undergrowth,
stumbling over stumps and fallen logs, passing me by. Soon their calls receded into the distance, faded to
echoes, to whispers, to silence. I was determined not to be found.
I burrowed deeper into my den, pressing my face against the inner ribs of the tree, inhaling its sweet
rot and dankness, the grain of the wood rough against my skin. A low rustle sounded faraway and
gathered to a hum. As it drew near, the murmur intensified and quickened. Twigs snapped and leaves
crackled as it galloped toward the hollow tree and stopped short of my hiding place. A panting breath, a
whisper, and footfall. I curled up tight as something scrambled partway into the hole and bumped into my
feet. Cold fingers wrapped around my bare ankle and pulled.
They ripped me from the hole and pinned me to the ground. I shouted once before a small hand
clamped shut my mouth and then another pair of hands inserted a gag. In the darkness their features
remained obscure, but their size and shape were the same as my own. They quickly stripped me of my
clothes and bound me like a mummy in a gossamer web. Little children, ex-ceptionally strong boys and
girls, had kidnapped me.
They held me aloft and ran. Racing through the forest at breakneck speed on my back, I was held
up by several pairs of hands and bony shoulders. The stars above broke through the canopy, streaming
by like a meteor shower, and the world spun away swiftly from me in darkness. The athletic creatures
moved about with ease, despite their burden, navigating the invisible terrain and obsta-cles of trees
without a hitch or stumble. Gliding like an owl through the night forest, I was exhilarated and afraid. As
they carried me, they spoke to one an-other in a gibberish that sounded like the bark of a squirrel or the
rough cough of a deer. A hoarse voice whispered something that sounded like "Come away" or "Henry
Day." Most fell silent, although now and then one would start huffing like a wolf. The group, as if on
signal, slowed to a canter along what I later dis-cerned to be well-established deer trails that served the
denizens of the woods.
Mosquitos lit upon the exposed skin on my face, hands, and feet, biting me at will and drinking their
fil of my blood. I began to itch and desperately wanted to scratch. Above the noise of the crickets,
cicadas, and peeping frogs, water babbled and gurgled nearby. The little devils chanted in unison until the
company came to a sudden halt. I could hear the river run. And thus bound, I was thrown into the water.
Drowning is a terrible way to go. It wasn't the flight through the air that alarmed me, or the actual
impact with the river, but the sound of my body knifing through the surface. The wrenching juxtaposition
of warm air and cool water shocked me most. The gag did not come out of my mouth; my hands were
not loosed. Submerged, I could no longer see, and I tried for a moment to hold my breath, but then felt
the painful pressure in my chest and sinuses as my lungs quickly filled. My life did not flash before my
eyes—I was only seven—and I did not call out for my mother or father or to God. My last thoughts
were not of dying, but of being dead. The waters encompassed me, even to my soul, the depths closed
round about, and weeds were wrapped about my head.
Many years later, when the story of my conversion and purification evolved into legend, it was said
that when they resuscitated me, out shot a stream of water a-swim with tadpoles and tiny fishes. My first
memory is of awakening in a makeshift bed, dried snot caked in my nose and mouth, under a blanket of
reeds. Seated above on rocks and stumps and surrounding me were the faeries, as they called
themselves, quietly talking together as if I were not even there. I counted them, and, including me, we
were an even dozen. One by one, they noticed me awake and alive. I kept still, as much out of fear as