The Stolen Child(67)

"The way I see it"—Smaolach pointed to the right side of the map— "there is what's known and

what's unknown. To the east is the city. And I can only guess that the smell of the air means the city is

heading our way. East is out. The question is: Do we cross the river to the south? If so, we cut ourselves

off from the town." He pointed with the stick to the set of squares.

"If we go south, we would have to cross the river again and again for supplies and clothes and

shoes. The river is a dangerous place."

"Tell that," Chavisory said, "to Oscar Love."

Luchóg offered an alternative. "But we don't know that another town might be somewhere over the

other side. No one has ever looked. I say we scout for a place on the other side of the river."

"We need to be near the water," I volunteered, and put my finger on the wavy lines.

"But not in the water," Speck argued. "I say north and west, stick to the creek or follow the river

till it bends up." She took the stick from his hand and drew where the river curved to the north.

"How do you know it bends?" Chavisory asked.

"I've been that far."

We looked at Speck with awe, as if she had seen the edge of the world. She stared back, defying

anyone's challenge or disbelief. "Two days from here. Or we should find a place near the creek. It dries

up in August and September some years, but we could build a cistern."

Thinking of our hideaway beneath the library, I spoke up. "I vote for the creek. We follow it from

the hills into town whenever we need supplies or anything. If we go too far away—"

"He's right, you know," said Luchóg, patting his chest a»d the empty pouch beneath his shirt. "We

need things from town. Let's tell Béka we want to stay by the creek. Agreed?"

He lay there snoring, slack-jawed, his arm flung over Onions at his side. She heard our approach,

popped open her eyes, smiled, and put a finger to her lips to whisper hush. Had we taken her advice,

perhaps we would have caught him at a better time, in a more generous mood, but Speck, for one, never

had any patience. She kicked his foot and roused him from his slumber.

"What do you want now?" he roared through a yawn. Since his ascen-sion to leadership, Béka

attempted to appear bigger than he was. He was try-ing to imply a threat by rising to his feet.

"We are tired of this life," said Speck.

"Of never having two nights in one bed," said Chavisory.

Luchóg added, "I haven't had a smoke since that man nearly shot off my head."

Béka raked his face with his palm, considering our demands in the haze of half-sleep. He began to

pace before us, two steps to the left, pivot, two steps to the right. When he stopped and folded his arms

behind his back, he showed that he would prefer not to have this conversation, but we did not listen to

such silent refusals. A breeze rattled the upper branches of the trees.

Smaolach stepped up to him. "First of all, nobody respects and admires your leadership more than

me. You have kept us from harm and led us out of darkness, but we need a new camp, not this

wandering aimlessly. Water nearby and a way back to civilization. We decided—"

Béka struck like a snake, choking off the rest of the sentence. Wrapping his fingers around

Smaolach's throat, he squeezed until my friend dropped to his knees. "I decide. You decide to listen and

follow. That's all."

Chavisory rushed to Smaolach's defense but was smacked away by a single backhanded slap

across her face. When Béka relaxed his grip, Smaolach fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

Addressing the three of us still standing, Béka pointed a finger to the sky and said, "I will find us a home.

Not you." liking Onions by the hand, he strode off into the night. I looked to Speck for reassurance, but

her eyes were fixed upon the violent spot, as if she were burn-ing revenge into her memory.

• C H A P T E R 2 1 •

I am the only person who truly knows what happened in the forest. Jimmy's story explained for me

the mystery of the drowned Oscar Love and his miraculous reappearance several days later. Of course,

it was the changelings, and all the evidence confirmed my suspicion of a failed attempt to steal the child.

The dead body was that of a changeling, an old friend of mine. I could picture the face of the next in line

but had erased their names. My life there had been spent imagining the day when I would begin my life in

the upper world. As the decades passed, the cast of characters had shifted as, one by one, each became

a changeling, found a child, and took its place. In time, I had come to resent every one of them and to