The Stolen Child(57)

bumped and rattled along a firebreak cut through the timberline, and we ground to a stop in a cloud of

dust. The search and rescue team had parked in a glen about a mile due west from my house, about as

far into the forest as they could manage to drive the township's sole fire engine. The captain of the fire

department leaned against the big rig. He pulled on a bottle of cola in enormous gulps, his face like an

alarm against his starched white shirt. Our party got out of the pickup, and I was overwhelmed by the

sweet smell of honeysuckle nearby. Bees patrolled among the flowers, and as we walked toward the

captain, they lazily inspected us. Grasshoppers, panicked by our footfall, whirred ahead in the tall grass.

Along the edge of the clearing, a tangle of wild raspberries and poison ivy reminded me of the

double-edged nature of the forest. I followed the boys down a makeshift path, looking over my shoulder

at the captain and his red truck until they van-ished from sight.

A bloodhound bayed in the distance, taking up a scent. We trudged along single file for several

hundred yards, and the dark shade cast by the canopy gave the appearance of dusk in the shank of the

afternoon. Every few moments, someone would call out for the boy, and his name hung in the air before

dissipating in the warm half-light. We were chasing shadows where no shadows could be seen. The

group halted when we reached the top of a small rise.

"This is getting us nowhere," Oscar said. "Why don't we spread out?"

Though I loathed the idea of being alone in the forest, I could not counter his logic without seeming

a coward.

"Let's meet back here at nine." With an air of determined sobriety, Oscar studied the face of his

watch, following the sweep of the second hand, count-ing off moments to himself. We waited and

watched our own time go by.

"Four thirty," he said at last.

"I've got four thirty-five," said George.

And almost simultaneously, I said, "Twenty after."

"Twenty-five of five," said Jimmy.

Lewis shook his wrist, removed his watch, and held the timepiece to his ear. "That's funny—my

watch has stopped." He stared at its face. "Seven thirty. That's right around when I saw him last."

Each of us looked at the others for the way out of this temporal confu-sion. Oscar resumed his

clock watching.

"Okay, okay, on my signal, set your watches. It is now four thirty-five."

We fiddled with the stems and dials. I wondered if the time was such an issue after all.

"Here's the plan. Lewis and I will go this way. Henry, you go in the op-posite direction. George

and Jimmy, you head off opposite to each other." He indicated by means of hand signals the four points

of the compass. "Mark your trail to find your way back. Every couple hundred feet, break a branch on

the name side of your path, and let's meet back here at nine. It'll be getting dark by then. Of course, if

you find him before that, go back to the fire truck."

We went our separate ways, and the sound of my friends tramping through the brush receded. I

had not dared enter the woods since changing lives with Henry Day. The tall trees hemmed in the

pathway, and the humid air felt like a blanket that smelled of rot and decay. With each step I took,

cracking twigs and crunching leaves, my sound reinforced my solitude. When I stopped, the noise

ceased. I'd call for the boy, but halfheartedly, not expecting a reply. The stillness brought back a

forgotten sensation, the memory of my wildness, and with it the ache of being trapped, timeless, in this

perilous world. Twenty minutes into my search, I sat down on the fallen trunk of a scrub pine. My shirt,

damp with perspiration, clung to my skin, and I took out a handker-chief to mop my brow. Far away, a

woodpecker hammered on a tree, and nuthatches scrabbled down tree trunks, pipping their staccato

signals. Along one limb of the dead pine, a file of ants raced back and forth, carrying a mys-terious cargo

in one direction as others headed back to the food source. Amid the litter of fallen leaves, small red

flowers poked their pin-size heads from clusters of silvery moss. I lifted a log, and a rotting wetness lay

beneath it, pill bugs curled into balls and long-legged spiders maddened at the sudden dis-ruption of their

lives. Fat, glistening worms burrowed into holes on the bot-tom of the log, and I tried to imagine what

hidden chambers existed in the decay, what life was going on unbeknownst to me. I lost track of the

time. A glance at my watch startled me, for nearly two hours had wasted away. I stood up, called out

the boy's name once, and, hearing no reply, resumed my hunt. Moving deeper into the darkness, I was

entranced by the random arrange-ment of trunks and limbs, green leaves as plentiful as raindrops. My