The Stolen Child(88)

dreams.

"I know you said he was here in 1859, but sometimes the past is a mys-tery. But I think 1851 is

right for Herr Ungerland, not 1859," said Father Hlinka. "History fades over time."

For a moment, the six came alive. Of course I did not remember Eger or Cheb. I was a baby, not

yet one year old, when we came to America. There was a house, a parlor, a piano. I was taken from

there and not from this place.

"No records in the churches, but I thought we should try emigration archives, no? Won't Mrs. Day

be thrilled? I cannot wait to see her face."

I folded the paper and stuck it in my pocket. "Of course, Father, yes, you should be the one to tell

her. We should celebrate ... tonight if you like."

The pleasure of his smile almost made me regret lying to him, and I was equally heartbroken to

leave the magnificent organ behind. But I hurried from St. Nicholas's, the history in my pocket against my

heart. When I found Tess, I made up a story about the police sniffing around the church for two

Americans, and we slipped away, retracing our steps to the border.

When we reached the forest near the river crossing, I was shocked to see a young boy, perhaps as

old as seven, standing by himself beside a large tree. He did not take notice of us, but remained quite

still, as if hiding from someone. I could only imagine what might be in pursuit, and part of me wanted to

rescue him. We were nearly upon him before he flinched, and putting a finger to his lips, the child begged

us to be quiet.

"Do you speak German?" Tess whispered in that language.

"Yes, quiet please. They are after me."

I looked from tree to tree, anticipating a rush of changelings.

"Who is after you?"

"Versteckspiel," he hissed, and hearing him, a young girl burst from the green background to

chase and tag him on the shoulder. When the other chil-dren emerged from their hideaways, I realized

they were playing a simple game of hide-and-seek. But as I looked from boy to girl, from face to face, I

could not help but remember how easily they could alter their appearance. Tess thought them cute and

wanted to linger awhile, but I hurried her onward. At the river, I hopped from stone to stone, fording the

water as quickly as I could. Tess was taking her time, frustrated and annoyed that I had not waited for

her.

"Henry, Henry, what are you running from?"

"Hurry, Tess. They're after us."

She labored to jump to the next rock. "Who?"

"Them," I said, and went back to pull her from the other side.

After our honeymoon trip, life rapidly grew too complicated to continue my research on the

Ungerlands or to find another pipe organ. We had one last busy semester of school, and as graduation

drew near, our conversations turned to new possibilities. Tess lay in the bathtub, tendrils of steam curling

up from the hot water. I leaned on the edge of the hamper, ostensibly reading a draft of a new score, but

actually for the sheer pleasure of watching her soak.

"Henry, I've good news. The job with the county looks like it will come through."

"That's great," I said, and turned the page and hummed a few bars. "What is it, exactly, that you'll

be doing?"

"Casework at first. People come in with their troubles, I take them down, and then we make all the

right referrals."

"Well. I have an interview at that new middle school." I put down the composition and stared at her

half-submerged naked form. "They're looking for a band director and music teacher for seventh and

eighth grades. It's a pretty good gig and will leave me time to compose."

"Things are working out for us, baby."

She was right, and that was the moment I decided. My life was coming together. Against all odds

and despite the interruption caused by my father s death, I would finish school, and a new career was

about to start. A beautiful young woman lounged in my bathtub.

"What are you smiling about, Henry?"

I started unbuttoning my shirt. "Move over, Tess, I've got something to whisper in your ear."

• C H A P T E R 2 8 •

The most merciless thing in the world is love. When love flees, all that remains is memory to

compensate. Our friends were either going or gone, their ghosts the best our poor minds could conjure

to fill love's absence. I am haunted to this day by all those who are missing. Losing Kivi, Blomma,

Ragno, and Zanzara proved heartbreaking for Speck, too. She went about her tasks grim and

determined, as if by staying busy she could keep phantoms at bay.

After the disaster in the mine, we deposed Béka with his consent, and the diminished clan elected

Smaolach our new leader. We lived above ground for the first time in years, bound to one small clearing