The Child Thief

by Brom

  They closed in on him, dancing about with quick epileptic movements. They surrounded the cage and peered in with wild, crazy golden eyes, eyes just like Peter’s. Nick now understood that Peter had indeed played him. The pointy-eared boy had tricked him so that these things could…could what? Nick glanced at the long knives, at their hungry eyes.

  “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Nick shouted, his voice quivering.

  They answered by rolling their eyes around, like victims of delirium, by grinning wide, toothy grins and clacking their teeth together, clacking and clacking and clacking; the sound was deafening in the silence of the room.

  No, no, no, Nick thought. No more, please.

  Nick withdrew within himself then, just like in the mist. He had no desire to watch his own death, but if he had to, he wanted to be in the very back row with his hands over his eyes.

  They untied his cage and dragged him out, strong, cruel fingers pinching into his flesh. Someone put a necklace made of bone and teeth, fingers and ears—human fingers and ears—around his neck. They pulled him over to the pillar and began to dance around him in circles, wrapping him in twine, all the while giggling and flicking their tongues at him, rolling their eyes and clacking their teeth. He wanted them to go ahead and kill him, anything to stop that awful clacking.

  There came a clang from somewhere far off. The demon spawn, the monster children, or whatever they were, stopped in their tracks. They fell silent.

  The mist was all but gone now and morning light filtered in from several angular windows. The extent of the circular chamber gradually materialized out of the gloom. The walls were a mix of rough-hewn stone and natural cave formation. Nick could clearly see a red door surrounded by giant roots, roots as thick as barrels. Nick couldn’t imagine what size tree could have roots that big. He tried to see the top but it disappeared into the roof of the chamber.

  The demon spawn were all staring at the red door. One of them spoke, his voice hushed. “The Devil Beast comes.”

  “Comes to break bones and chew marrow,” said another.

  Several answered in anxious whispers: “We shall all eat soon.”

  They spread out, forming a wide circle, and began to smack their closed fists into their open palms.

  Fear sharpened Nick’s senses and he became acutely aware that the air smelled of stale sweat, boiled meat, wet leaves, and beetles. He studied the red door. Could there really be something coming to cook and eat him? He didn’t want to believe it. Yet he found his eyes straying to the knives and hatchets, the dark stains saturating the dirt, the child-size pots hanging in the fireplace. He couldn’t get the thought of the hanging bodies out of his head. I don’t want to die, he thought and realized he was crying.

  Bells jangled behind the red door, louder and louder. Then it stopped. There came the clack of a bolt being thrown and the door swung slowly inward.

  A monster stood in the doorway, a head taller than the other creatures, draped in hides and wearing a mask of bone and fur. A pair of goat horns twisted out from either side of its head and a tangle of coarse hair was captured in a thick braid that ran down the length of its back. And all of it, skin, mask, fur, horns, was covered in cracking red paint. It carried a short club with one long jagged hook protruding from its end.

  It locked its eyes on Nick, raised the club, and let loose a loud snort.

  “Oh no!” Nick cried. “No! No! No!” He jerked wildly at his bindings, tugging and pulling until he freed his arms. He yanked down the twine around his waist and legs, stumbled to the ground as he tore his feet free. Nick rolled to his feet, glanced back, saw the Devil Beast coming for him, and ran. He tried to break out of the ring of creatures, to barrel right through them, but they grabbed him and shoved him back.

  The Devil Beast caught Nick across his face with an open palm. Pain exploded in Nick’s head and he went sprawling to the stones. He crumpled into a ball and lay there clutching his head. It’s over, Nick thought. I’m dead.

  The Devil came for him, driving a hard kick into Nick’s upper thigh. Nick screamed, saw a foot coming for his face, and managed to move. The kick caught his shoulder and sent him tumbling.

  “STOP IT!” Nick screamed.

  The Devil tromped after him, raising the club with its wicked hook above his head. Nick sprung out of the way. The club hit the stones, getting knocked loose from the Devil Beast’s grasp and bouncing across the floor to the middle of the ring. Nick jumped up, limping away, trying to keep some distance between himself and his tormentor.

  The Devil leaped forward, catching Nick by the arm, spun him around, and backhanded him across the face.

  Searing pain and white-hot light sent Nick reeling, fighting to keep his feet. And still the Devil came.

  Nick tasted blood, touched his lip, and was shocked by the amount of blood on his hand. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Nick screamed, as though he didn’t know, as though he expected anything other than being brutally beaten to death.

  The Devil just continued to track him around and around, giving no answers, a predator intent on its prey.

  “WHAT?” Nick screamed. “WHAT?” Nick spotted the hooked club lying in the center of the ring. His eyes shot back and forth between the hook and the Devil.

  The Devil stopped and stared at him.

  Nick dove for it, snatching the hook up off the stones. The weight of it surprised him and he almost dropped it. He held it in both hands and pointed the wicked hook at the Devil. “C’MON!” Nick cried, blood and spit flying from his lips. “C’MON YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

  The Devil just stood there.

  “C’MON!” Nick screamed, the club shaking as his arms quivered.

  The creatures around him began to chant, “Blood, blood, blood,” on and on until Nick thought he would go mad.

  “Enough!” He let out a howl and rushed the Devil, bringing the hook around in a wide overhand swing, intent on sinking it deep into the Devil’s skull.

  At the last possible second, the Devil caught Nick’s arm at the wrist and wrung the club away. The weapon bounced off the stones with a loud clank and the chamber fell silent.

  “Good,” the Devil said and pushed his mask back.

  Nick found himself looking not at a beast, but a boy.

  The boy smiled at Nick. “You did good.” He clasped Nick’s hand in his own and raised it up. “NEW BLOOD FOR DEVILTREE!” he shouted, then threw his head back and howled.

  The creatures joined in, howling and beating the floor; the entire chamber rung with their fervor. They slid off their masks and now Nick could plainly see that beneath the wild hair and body paint, they were just a bunch of stupid-ass kids.

  He caught sight of the blue pixies leaping up and down among the rafters, mimicking the boys like little blue monkeys, adding their feral shrieks to the cacophony. The whole chamber rung with hooting, braying, and cackling. The world seemed a spinning kaleidoscope of insanity, and Nick knew that he’d gone stark raving mad.

  Chapter Six

  Wolf

  The child thief sat on a bench near the playground. Buildings loomed over him on all five sides of the large courtyard. As morning pushed into noon, the beehive of apartments began to wake up. He scanned the balconies, alert for any sign of wayward youth, but mostly found himself confronted with the same tired, hungover faces of the adults. They congregated in small clusters, lounging listlessly about the balconies, often with their apartment doors propped open and stereos blasting out into the courtyard. There was laughter here and there, but for the most part it sounded mean. Many of the people just stared blankly, their eyes glazed over, reminding Peter of the dead in the Mist.

  A gleeful squeal caught Peter’s ear, followed by a burst of spirited laughter that drew him like candy.

  A few younger kids had braved the drizzle to slip down the slide and climb the monkey bars. They formed teams and began an energetic game of tag.

  The child thief watched them, smiling. Here, among so much drudgery—oblivious to the profane gra
ffiti marring every available surface—these children could find joy. They can always find joy, he thought, because they still have their magic.

  Peter found himself wanting nothing more than to run and play with them, the same deep desire he had when he first came across children all those long years ago. Only things hadn’t gone so well then. His smile faded. No, that had been a day of hard lessons.

  HE WAS SIX years old by then, slipping silently through the woods in his raccoon pelt. It flapped out behind him like a cape, the long striped tail bouncing in rhythm with his stride. He wore the head pulled over his face, like a hood, and his gold-flecked eyes peered out from the raccoon mask, scanning the woods, searching for game. It was spring, so he wore only a loincloth and rawhide boots beneath his coon skin. He carried a spear in each hand and a flint knife tucked into his belt. His body was painted with berry juice and mud to disguise his scent. Goll had taught him that, as well as the importance of always carrying two spears: a light one for game and a stouter one for protection against the larger beasts in the forest.

  Peter placed a handful of walnuts in the center of a clearing, then ducked beneath a tall cluster of bushes. When he spied two brown squirrels in a nearby tree, he cupped his hands and mimicked a turkey foraging. Goll had taught him this trick too, that it was better to mimic an animal other than the one you were hunting, because rarely could you fool an animal with its own call, and nothing brought game quicker than the sound of other animals feeding.

  Sure enough, both squirrels scurried his way. Peter slowly set the larger spear down and hoisted the light spear to his shoulder. The squirrels saw the nuts, saw each other, and raced for the prize.

  Peter stood and threw. The spear hit its mark, leaving one squirrel behind as the other raced away, chattering angrily at Peter.

  Peter whooped and leaped up. No spider soup for me, he thought. Tonight I get squirrel stew.

  A wolf trotted into the clearing and stood between Peter and his prize. The wolf had only one ear.

  Peter froze.

  The beast locked its dark eyes on Peter. Its lips peeled back as though it were actually grinning.

  Peter snatched up his heavy spear and thrust it out before him. “No,” Peter said. “Not this time.”

  A low growl rumbled from the wolf’s throat.

  Peter held his ground. The wolf had plagued him relentlessly over the last several months. Every time Peter made a kill, the wolf showed up and stole his meal. Peter was tired of spider soup. Today he would keep his prize.

  The wolf’s eyes laughed at Peter, taunting the boy, daring him, as though it would like nothing better than to tear his throat open.

  Peter swallowed loudly, his mouth suddenly dry. Goll had told him there was only one way to master the wolf: to attack it head-on. “Wolf is hunter,” he’d said. “When you hunt wolf, wolf get mixed up. No know what to do. Then you beat wolf. You will see. Show fear,” Goll had laughed. “Then wolf will eat you. A-yuk.”

  Now, Peter told himself. Rush in. Stab it through the heart.

  The wolf lowered its head and began to slowly circle the boy. Peter knew what the wolf was up to, they’d played out this dance many times. The wolf was trying to cut off his retreat, trying to get between him and the nearest tree. Peter knew if he took his eyes off the wolf, even for a second, it would attack.

  The wolf let loose a loud snarl.

  Peter glanced toward the tree.

  The wolf charged.

  Peter yelped, dropped his spear, and ran. Fortunately, even at six, Peter was as fleet and agile as a squirrel. He dashed across the clearing and leaped for the tree, catching a low branch, then swung up. There came a loud clack of teeth and a sharp tug that almost pulled him from the branch. Peter scampered up a few more limbs before daring a glance below.

  There, looking up at him, was the wolf, the raccoon tail dangling from its jaws.

  The wolf circled the tree a few times, then trotted over to the dead squirrel.

  Peter watched from his small, uncomfortable perch as the wolf devoured his dinner.

  When the wolf was finished, it curled up beneath the tree and went to sleep.

  As the long day slowly passed, Peter did his best to keep his legs from falling asleep and himself from falling out of the tree. By dusk, his whole body was numb and he had resigned himself to a miserable night.

  “Well, look there,” called a gritty voice. “A Peterbird.”

  Both Peter and the wolf looked up. Goll appeared above them on a short ledge.

  Goll glanced at the wolf, what was left of the squirrel, then back up at Peter. He grinned. “You feed old one-ear again? A-yuk.”

  Peter’s face colored and he looked away.

  Goll laughed.

  Goll leaped down from the stones and strolled through the underbrush toward the clearing. The wolf, knowing the routine, simply gave Goll a disdainful look and loped off.

  Peter dropped from the tree, retrieved his spears, and slunk over to Goll.

  Goll held up a large rabbit. “Goll will eat good tonight.” He nudged the remains of the squirrel with his toe. “Look like Peter get spider soup again. A-yuk.”

  Peter’s shoulders slumped. “Ah, Goll. C’mon.”

  “You want to eat good. You must hunt good.”

  Peter kicked at the scraps of squirrel fur and followed Goll glumly back to the cave.

  PETER DIPPED HIS spoon into the bowlful of dark, soupy muck. He raised it to eye level and looked from the clot of soggy spider legs over to the half-eaten rabbit in Goll’s hand. The aroma of the roasted meat filled the entire cave. Goll licked the grease off his fingers, smacking loudly as he grumbled contentedly.

  “Please?” Peter asked.

  Goll shook his head.

  “Just a few bites?”

  “You know rule. You eat what you kill. You want rabbit, you kill own rabbit. A-yuk.”

  “How am I supposed to do that with that stupid wolf following me?”

  “You need kill wolf.”

  Peter was quiet for a long time. “Goll, will you kill the wolf? Please?”

  Goll shook his head. “Not hunting me.”

  Peter let out a sigh and sat his bowl down. He stood up, walked to the cave entrance, and looked out into the night. He could see the stars twinkling through the spring leaves. He thought of his mother; sometimes he could close his eyes and actually smell her hair. He wondered what they were eating back in the great house, wondered why they’d left him for the beasts. He slapped one of the boots hanging across the entranceway, watched it swing, and wondered what the child had been like who had worn it, if that child had been left in the woods by its family.

  “Goll?”

  “A-yuk.”

  “Whose shoes are these?”

  “Little boys. Little girls.”

  “Why do you have their shoes?”

  “Must take them off before you can eat them.”

  “Eat them?” Then he understood. “The children?”

  “A-yuk.”

  “You eat children?”

  “Only when I can catch them.”

  Peter stared silently at the shoes. “I don’t think I would like to eat children.”

  “You would like. Very tender. Very juicy. Much better than spider soup.”

  “Where do children come from?”

  “From village.”

  “Where’s the village?”

  “NO! No speak of village. You never go near village. Men are there. Men very bad. Very dangerous.”

  “More dangerous than the wolf?”

  “Yes. Very more dangerous.”

  Peter tapped the shoe again. It would be nice to have another kid around. “Goll, if you catch another one, can I keep it? We could build a cage for it. Okay?”

  Goll cocked his head at Peter. “Peter, you very strange. You stay away from village.”

  Peter came and sat back down next to the fire.

  He looked at the hind leg of the rabbit in Goll’s bowl, then up a
t Goll, and smacked his lips.

  “No begging. Hate begging.”

  Peter stuck out his lower lip.

  Goll rolled his eyes and frowned. “Here,” he grunted. “Take it.” Goll slid the bowl over to Peter, watched the boy devour the rabbit leg. After a bit, a smile pricked at the corners of the moss-man’s mouth. He shook his head, then crawled beneath his furs and went to sleep.

  Peter finished the rabbit, lay back, enjoying the warmth of the meat in his belly. His eyes grew heavy. Sure would be nice to have another kid to play with, he thought. I could teach it to hunt and—Another thought came to Peter. Why, together we could kill that mean old wolf. Peter found he was now wide awake. I bet I could catch one. Why, I know I could.

  PETER WATCHED THE men through a knot of berry bushes. He’d set off before daybreak in search of the village, venturing far south of Goll’s hill, farther than he had ever dared before, and had come across a road, and not long thereafter heard horses. He’d trailed them most of the morning and they now stood drinking at a stream. Four men stretched their legs beside the horses, stout figures with thick braided mustaches and full growths of beard, brass rings in their ears, wearing leather breeches and woolspun tunics. Three of them had great long swords strapped to broad, bronze-studded belts. The fourth man wore hides and carried a double-bladed ax. After living with Goll so long, he thought these men to be fearsome and giant. Peter understood why Goll was so afraid of them.

  There was also a wide-faced, solid woman with flaxen hair that ran down her chest in thick braids. She wore a long dress and, atop her broad hips, a wide belt adorned with swirling brass hoops. But it was the children that captivated Peter. He pushed the hood of his raccoon pelt back to get a better look. There were three of them: two boys about his age and a girl who looked a couple years younger. The boys wore only britches and sandals, the girl a bright red dress. Peter watched mesmerized as they chased each other round and round, leaping over logs and skipping through the stream.