sat in front on his usual stool, and we ate our scrambled eggs and drank our coffee black. At that hour
the room looked worn and pitiful, and McInnes's eyes tired and vacant, the way my father had appeared
the last time we met.
He put on his hat and shrugged into his coat. An awkward pause between us let me know that he
would not be coming back. The night had been too raw and strange for the old professor. "Good-bye,
and good luck."
As his hand turned the knob, I called out for him to wait. "What was my name," I asked, "in this
so-called former life of mine?"
He did not bother to turn around. "You know, I never thought to ask."
• C H A P T E R 1 6 •
When a gun goes off on a cold winter's day, the retort echoes through the forest for miles around
and every living creature stops to look and listen. The first gunshot of hunting season startled and put the
faeries on alert. Scouts fanned out along the ridge, searching for orange or camouflage vests or hats,
listening for the trudge of men seeking out deer, pheasant, turkey, grouse, rabbit, fox, or black bear.
Sometimes the hunters brought their dogs, dumb and beautiful— mottled pointers, feathery setters,
blueticks, black-and-tans, retrievers. The dogs could be more dangerous than their owners. Unless we
masked our scent along every path, the dogs could smell us out.
My great fear in setting out alone is the chance of meeting up with a stray or worse. Years later,
when we were fewer in number, a pack of hunting dogs picked up our trail and surprised us at rest in a
shady grove. They raced our way, a stream of flashing sharp teeth and howling menace, and we moved
as one by instinct, scrambling toward the safety of a bramble thicket. With each stride we took in retreat,
the dogs gained two in pursuit. They were an army with knives drawn, hollering a primal battle cry, and
we escaped only by sacrificing our bare skin to the tangle of thorns. We were lucky when they stopped
at the edge of the thicket, confused and whimpering.
But on this winter day, the dogs were far away. All we heard was the yelp, the random shot, the
muttered curse, or the kill. I once saw a duck fall out of the sky, instantly changing from a
stretched-forward silhouette to a pinwheel of feathers that landed with a clap on the water. Poaching had
disappeared from these hills and valleys by the middle of the decade, so we had to worry only during the
hunting season, which corresponded roughly with the late fall and winter holidays. The brightness of trees
gave way to bareness, then to bitter cold, and we began to listen for humans in the glens and the crack of
the gun. Two or three of us went out while the other faeries hunkered down, buried beneath blankets
under a coat of fallen leaves, or in holes, or hid in hollow trees. We did our best to become unseeable,
as if we did not exist. The early arrival of night or dripping-wet days were our only respite from the tense
boredom of hiding. The odor of our constant fear mingled with the rot of November.
Back to back to back in a triangle, Igel, Smaolach, and I sat watch upon the ridge, the morning sun
buffered by low dense clouds, the air pregnant with snow. Ordinarily, Igel wanted nothing to do with me,
not since that day years before when I nearly betrayed the clan by trying to speak with the man. Two
sets of footsteps approached from the south; one heavy, crashing through the brush, the other soft. The
humans stepped into a meadow. An air of im-patience hung about the man, and the boy, about seven or
eight years old, looked anxious to please. The father carried his shotgun, ready to fire. The son's gun was
broken apart and awkward to carry as he struggled out of the brush. They wore matching plaid jackets
and billed caps with the earflaps down against the chill. We leaned forward to listen to their conversation
in the stillness. With practice and concentration over the years, I was now able to decipher their speech.
"I'm cold," said the boy.
"It'll toughen you up. Besides, we haven't found what we came for."
"We haven't even seen one all day."
"They're out here, Osk."
"I've only seen them in pictures."
"When you see the real thing," said the man, "aim for the little bugger's heart." He motioned for the
boy to follow, and they headed east into the shadows.
"Let's go," said Igel, and we began to trail them, keeping ourselves hidden at a distance. When they
paused, we paused, and at our second such stop, I tugged on Smaolach's sleeve.
"What are we doing?"
"Igel thinks he may have found one."
We moved on, resting again when the quarry paused.
"One what?" I asked.
"A child."
They led us on a circuitous route along empty pathways. No prey appeared, they never fired their