The Stolen Child(5)

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