The Stolen Child(91)

to have existed in this space for ages. It made one doubt one's own story.

"That man back there," I said, "the sleeping one. He reminded me of someone."

"They all look alike to me," Luchóg said. "Someone I know. Or knew."

"Could it be your long-lost brother?"

"I haven't one."

"Perhaps a man who wrote a book you read in the library?"

"I do not know what they look like."

"Perhaps the man who wrote that book you carry from place to place?"

"No, not McInnes. I do not know McInnes."

"A man from a magazine? A photograph in the newspaper?"

"Someone I knew."

"Could it be the fireman? The man you saw at the creek?" He puffed on his cigarette and blew

smoke like an old steam engine.

"I thought it might be my father, but that can't be right. There was that strange woman and her child

in the blue suit."

"What year is it, little treasure?" Luchóg asked.

It could have been 1972, although in truth, I was no longer sure.

"By now, you must be a young man near the end of thirty years. And how old was the man in the

picture window?"

"I'd guess about the same."

"And how old would his father be?"

"Twice that," I said, and smiled like an idiot.

"Your father would be an old man by now, almost as old as I am."

I sat down on the cold ground. So much time had passed since I had last seen my parents; their

real age was a revealed mystery.

Luchóg sat down beside me. "After awhile, everyone forgets. I cannot paint you a picture of my

dear youth. The old memories are not real—just figures in a fairytale. My mammy could walk right up to

me this very minute and say, 'Sonny-boy,' and I would have to say, 'Sorry, I don't know you, lady.' My

father may as well be a myth. So, you see, in a way, you have no father or mother, or if you did, you

wouldn't know them any longer, nor they you, mores the pity."

"But the fellow falling asleep in the armchair? If I try hard, I can recall my father's face."

"Might as well be anyone. Or no one at all."

"And the baby?"

"They're all one to me. A bother with no teeth but all the time hungry. Can't walk, can't talk, can't

share a smoke. You can have them. Some say a changeling's best bet is a baby—there's less to

learn—but that's moving back-ward across time. You should be going forward. And heaven help us if

we ever had a baby to look after for a whole century."

"I do not want to steal any child. I just wonder whose baby that is. What happened to my father?

Where is my mother?"

To make it through the cold season, we nicked ten blankets and a half-dozen children's coats from

the Salvation Army store, and we ate small meals, subsist-ing mainly on weak teas brewed from bark

and twigs. In the dull light of January and February, we often did not stir at all, but sat alone or in clumps

of two or three, dripping wet or stone cold, waiting for the sun and the resumption of our lives.

Chavisory grew stronger by and by, and when the wild on-ions and first daffodils appeared, she could

take a few steps with bracing assistance. Each day, Speck pushed her one painful pace forward. When

she was well enough for us to move, we fled that miserable dungheap of memories. Despite the risks, we

found a more suitable hidden home near water, a mile or so north of the new houses. On windy nights,

the noises from the families carried as far as our new camp, and while not as secluded, it afforded us

adequate protection. As we dug in that first day, restlessness swept over me. Smaolach sat down beside

me and draped an arm across my shoulders. The sun was falling from the sky.

"Ní mar a síltear a bítear," he said.

"Smaolach, if I live to be a thousand years, I'll never understand your old language. Speak English

to me."

"Are you thinking of our friends, late and lamented? They're better off where they are and not

suffering this eternal waiting. Or is there something else on your mind, little treasure?"

"Have you ever been in love, Smaolach?"

"Once and only once, thank goodness. We were close, like every mother and son."

"Luchóg said my mother and father are gone."

"I don't remember much of her. The smell of wool, maybe, and a harsh soap. Mint on the breath. A

huge bosom upon which I laid my ... No, that's not right. She was a rake of a woman, all skin and

bones. I don't re-call."

"Every place we leave, part of me disappears."

"Now ... my father, there was a strapping fellow with a big black mous-tache curled up at the ends,

or maybe it was my grandfather, come to think of it. Was a long time ago, and I'm not really sure where