The Stolen Child(59)

minor, in the series of misfortunes and errors that led to his death. I am even more sorry about the

changes wrought by those two days in June, which consequences confounded us for years. That none of

us intended any harm matters not at all. We are responsible for our actions, even when accidents occur,

if only for the steps we omitted or neglected. In retrospect, perhaps we overplanned. They could have

sneaked into the Loves' house, snatched Oscar while he slept, and innocently tucked Igel under the

covers. The boy always was left alone to play for hours at a time. We could have grabbed him in broad

daylight and sent in a changed Igel for dinner. Or we could have skipped the purification by water. Who

still believes in that old myth? It did not have to end in such a heartbreaking way.

Oscar Love came out to play on a June evening, dressed in blue shorts and a shirt with writing

across the chest. He wore sandals, dirt caked between his toes, and kicked a ball back and forth across

the lawn. Luchóg and I had climbed a sycamore and sat in the branches for what felt like hours, watching

his mindless game and trying to attract him into the woods. We broadcast a menagerie of sounds: a

puppy, a mewing kitten, birds in distress, a wise old owl, a cow, a horse, a pig, a chicken, a duck. But

he took scant notice of our imitations. Luchóg cried like a baby; I threw my voice, disguised as a girl's,

then a boy's. Oscar was deaf to all that, hearing instead the music in his mind. We called out his name,

promised him a surprise, pretended to be Santa Claus. Stumped, we descended, and Luchóg had the

bright idea to sing, and the boy immediately followed the melody into the forest. As long as the song

contin-ued, he sought its source, dazed by curiosity. In my heart, I knew that this is not the way fairytales

should be, bound for an unhappy ending.

Hidden behind trees by a creek, the gang lay in ambush, and Luchóg lured the boy deeper into the

woods. Oscar stood on the bank considering the water and the stones, and when the music stopped he

realized how lost he was, for he began to blink his eyelids, fighting back the urge to weep.

"Look at him, Aniday," Luchóg said from our hideaway. "He reminds me of the last one of us to

become a changeling. Something wrong with him."

"What do you mean, 'wrong'?"

"Look in his eyes. It's as if he's not really all there."

I studied the boy's face, and indeed he seemed detached from his situa-tion. He stood motionless,

head bowed to the water, as if stunned by his own reflection. A whistle signaled the others, and they

rushed from the bushes. Birds, alarmed by the sudden violence, cried out and took wing. Hidden among

the ferns, a rabbit panicked and bounded away, cottontail flashing. But Oscar stood impassive and

entranced and did not react until the faeries were nearly upon him. He brought his hand up to his mouth

to cover his scream, and they pounced on him, tackling him to the ground with swift ferocity. He all but

disappeared in the swirl of flailing limbs, wild eyes, and bared teeth. Had the capture not been explained

beforehand, I would have thought they were killing him. Igel, in particular, relished the assault, pinning the

boy to the ground with his knees and cramming a cloth in his mouth to muffle his cries. With a vine, he

cinched the boy around the middle, pinning his arms to his sides. Pulling Oscar down the trail, Igel led us

all back to camp.

Years later, Chavisory explained to me how out of the ordinary Igel's behavior had been. The

changeling was supposed to model his own body and features to match the child before the kidnapping.

But Igel let the boy see him as he was. Rather than making the switch immediately, he taunted the child.

Zanzera tied Oscar to a tree and removed the gag from the boy's mouth. Per-haps the shock silenced

him, for all Oscar could do was watch in dumb amaze-ment the happening before him, his dark eyes

moist yet fixed on his tormentors. Igel tortured his own face into a replica. I could not bear the painful

grimaces, could not stomach the cracking cartilage, the wrenching bone. I vomited behind a tree and

stayed away until Igel had finished molding himself into a copy of the boy.

"Do you understand, Oscar?" Igel taunted him, standing nose-to-nose. "I am you and will take your

place, and you will stay here with them."

The child stared at him, as if looking in the mirror yet not recognizing his own reflection. I fought

back the urge to go to Oscar, to offer kindness and reassurance. Speck sidled up to me and spat out,

"This is cruel."

Stepping away from his victim, Igel addressed us: "Boys and girls. I have been with you for too

long and now take my leave. My time in this hell is done, and you may have it. Your paradise is