The Child Thief

by Brom

  One boy would tag the other and the chase would start anew. The little girl chased both of them, shouting for them to let her play until they finally got after her, their faces twisted up and their hands clutching the air like claws. The girl went screaming to her mother, leaving the two boys falling over themselves with laughter. Peter caught himself laughing along with them, and had to cover his mouth. It looked like fun. They could play that game at Goll’s hill, Peter thought, and now, more than ever, he wanted to catch one.

  He eyed the men, wondering how to grab a child with them so near, decided he needed to be closer, and slipped up from tree to tree.

  One of the boys came bounding into the woods, sprang over a bush, ducked around the tree, and came face to face with Peter. Both boys were so surprised that neither knew what to do.

  The boy cocked his head to the side and gave Peter a queer look. “Are you a wood elf?”

  “No. I’m a Peter.”

  “Well then I’m a Edwin. Want to play?”

  Oh, yes indeed, Peter thought, nodded, and gave the boy a broad grin. He started to grab the boy when the girl rounded the tree. She saw Peter’s raccoon cape, the red and purple body paint, let out an ear-piercing shriek, and took off.

  “Edwin,” bellowed one of the men. “Come back here.”

  Peter heard heavy boots tromping his way and ducked back into the woods.

  The man came around the tree and glared at the boy. “I told you to stay close.” The man scanned the trees. “There are wild things in these hills. Nasty boogies that live in holes. They steal little boys like you. And do you know what they do with them?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “They make stew out of their livers and shoes out of their hides. Now come along. We’ve much ground to cover by dark.”

  PETER ARRIVED AT the village well after dark. His feet and legs ached, his stomach growled. But he ignored his body’s grumblings, there was only one thing on his mind—the boy.

  He waited in the trees until the men finished putting away the beasts, until there was no one moving in the night but him. There were a dozen roundhouses similar to the one he’d been born in, plus a sprawling stable. These were built around a large square. Pigs grunted, and chickens clucked in a pen somewhere.

  Peter slipped silently in among the structures, feeling exposed out among the buildings, sure he was being watched, that the huge, brutish men were waiting for him around every corner. He pulled out his flint knife and ducked from shadow to shadow, sniffing, alert to the slightest sound. He wrinkled his nose; the village stank of beasts, sour sweat, and human waste. Peter wondered why anyone would want to live here instead of in the woods.

  He pushed up against the boy’s house, sliding his back along the rough stone and sod wall, creeping up to a small, round window. Dogs began barking from inside and Peter’s heart drummed in his chest. A deep, gruff voice quieted the dogs. Peter tried to peek in the window, but the heavy shutters were closed and locked tight. He plucked at the mud between the slats with his knife until a thin beam of light appeared. Peter peered in.

  The room looked for all the world as his home had when he was an infant: the large hearth, the kettles and pots, the spruce hanging from the rafters. The whole family was seated around the table, passing bowls of potatoes and cabbage, the boys giggling and carrying on.

  Peter inhaled, and the rich smell of smoked meat and baked bread brought memories of his own family flooding vividly back to him. An overwhelming longing hit him so hard that his legs gave way and he slid down the wall and sat in the dirt. He hugged his legs as his eyes welled up. He shut them tight and hot tears rolled down his cheeks. “Mama,” he whispered. Her laugh, her broad smile, her sweet smell, all of it felt so close, as though he could just walk into this house and she’d be there—would call him to her, would crush him against her warm bosom and sing him lullabies. Peter ground his teeth together and wiped angrily at his tears. He knew very well what would happen if he knocked on this door.

  A gale of laughter escaped through the window, not just the boys’, but the whole family, all of them laughing together. Peter glared into the night. The laughter continued, pricking at him. He jabbed his knife into the dirt. “Who cares?” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Who wants to be stuck in a stupid stinky house, with mean stupid grown-ups anyhow?”

  His stomach growled and he stood up. He made his way toward the stable, seeking out the henhouse. Maybe I’ll burn their house down. Then they’ll know how it is to be out in the cold.

  He found the henhouse, silently slid over the latch, and slipped in. A few hens raised their heads, clucked, and eyed him suspiciously. Peter waited for them to settle, then helped himself to all the eggs he could find. He spied several burlap sacks heaped in the corner, picked one up, and measured it against himself. About right. He left the coup, prowled the stable until he found some rope and a bludgeon. He held the short, stout piece of wood out, tested its weight. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, but brought it along anyway, just in case, because he’d never stolen a child before and thought a good, stout stick might just be in order.

  He hid the stash behind a giant oak tree that stood on the edge of a field. He climbed up into the oak to sleep, but sleep didn’t come easy. Tomorrow, he thought. Going to catch me a Edwin.

  PETER AWOKE TO the rooster’s crow. He sat up, inhaled the brisk morning air, and wondered if the boy was about yet. He hopped down from the tree. The sun was just peeping over the rise, and a fine mist covered the freshly turned earth in the nearby fields. He relieved himself, then crouched next to the oak, watching, waiting. He didn’t have a plan, not yet, not beyond getting Edwin to come behind the tree so that he could put him in that sack.

  Men, women, and older children came out and began to go about their day. Soon the air was alive with the clank of the smith’s hammer, livestock being fed, the calls and grunts of men at field work, but still no sign of the boy.

  Peter began to fidget. He didn’t like being so close to the village, too aware of the many men about. Finally he heard spirited shouts and caught sight of Edwin and the other boy. Peter watched them head across the square and into the stables. They reappeared a moment later carrying a bucket in each hand, then disappeared into a line of trees at the bottom of a slope. Peter checked for any nearby men, then dashed from haystack to haystack, crossing the field to the trees.

  He found them filling their buckets in a small brook. He slid behind a thicket of blackberry bushes. The boys climbed carefully up the slope, watching their step as they lugged the pails of water. Peter waited until they were almost upon him, then leaped out. “Hi!”

  The boys screamed, turned to run, and crashed into each other. Both boys, their pails, and the water spilled back down the slope.

  Peter fell to his knees, laughing so hard he had to clutch his belly.

  The two boys exchanged terrified looks. Then Edwin’s face broke into a grin. “Hey, it’s him!” he cried.

  The other boy looked perplexed.

  “It’s him,” Edwin repeated. “The wood elf! See, Otho. I told you.” Edwin punched the other boy on the shoulder. “Now who’s the idjit?”

  Otho squinted at Peter. “Are you really a wood elf?”

  “His name’s Peter,” Edwin said. “Show him your ears, Peter.”

  Peter pushed back his raccoon mask.

  “See!”

  “Well damn,” Otho said. “A wood elf. A real wood elf.” He reached out and touched Peter, as though making sure he was real. “What are you doing here?”

  “Let’s play,” Peter said.

  “Play?” Otho responded. “We can’t. We got all sorts of stupid chores to do.”

  “Not every day you get to play with a wood elf,” Edwin said.

  “Well, yeah. That’s true,” Otho agreed. “But if we don’t get the hogs watered, Papa will whip us.”

  “I know lots of wood-elf games,” Peter said. “They’re a lot more fun than carrying buckets of water
about.” A sly grin lit up his face. “We could play for a little while. Over behind the haystacks, near that big tree. Where no one can see us.”

  The boys returned Peter’s sly grin, because Peter’s grin was a most contagious thing.

  Edwin nudged Otho. “Wood-elf games. I’ve never played wood-elf games.”

  “Well,” Otho said. “Maybe for just a little while.”

  “Great!” Peter said. “Follow me. And remember, we can’t be seen.” He took off in a crouch. The two boys followed him up the path, mimicking his every move.

  They reached the haystacks, stopped. Peter peered around, making sure the way was clear.

  “Hey, Peter,” Edwin called. “Watch this.” The boy scrambled to the top of the haystack. Peter started to warn him to get down before someone saw him, when the boy leaped across to another haystack. Edwin poked his head back over the stack. “Bet you can’t do that.”

  Peter frowned. “Bet I can,” he said and leaped from one haystack to the next. And for the next hour, they jumped haystacks, raced, played tag and hide-and-seek. Peter forgot about the sack, the rope and bludgeon, even about the men, he was having too much fun. Soon, they’d lost their shirts—Peter only in his loincloth—their torsos glistening in the hot morning sun, covered from head to toe in mud, leaves, straw, and big, fat grins.

  They were mighty berserkers now, and a particularly tall haystack behind the stable was a terrible dragon. In a ferocious attack, Peter leaped upon the haystack and tried to climb to its summit. The stack tilted, Peter yelped, and the whole heap toppled over, pinning him beneath a blanket of soggy hay.

  The boys ran up and began to dig Peter out. When they uncovered his face, Peter spat out a mouthful of straw, began to cough, then laughed. He choked, spat out more straw, then laughed some more. Soon they were all laughing so hard that they rolled on their backs, helpless.

  “Hey,” Peter hollered, between bouts of giggling. “Hey…get…me…out of here.”

  “THERE YOU ARE!” came a woman’s sharp, angry shout.

  The laughter died. Peter’s heart leaped into his throat as he suddenly remembered just where he was.

  “What nonsense is this? I’ve been—” She stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth agape. “Who…? What…?” She let out a scream.

  Peter twisted around to look at her and she pointed at him with one fat, trembling finger and screamed again. “GOBLIN! GOBLIN!”

  An older bald man and a wiry pockmarked youth stuck their heads out from the stable. They saw Peter and came in at a run. The youth carried a pitchfork.

  Peter yanked his arms out from the hay and dug frantically to free his legs.

  The two boys looked from their mother to Peter. “No, Mama,” Edwin cried. “He’s not a goblin. He’s a—”

  Peter jerked one leg free and kicked and twisted to free the other.

  “GET AWAY FROM IT!” the woman screeched. “EDWIN! OTHO! HEAR ME, GET AWAY FROM IT NOW!” When the boys didn’t move, she ran up and snatched them back.

  The pockmarked youth raced up, raised the pitchfork, and drove it right for Peter’s face.

  Peter jerked his head away, but not fast enough. One of the prongs sliced down the side of his scalp. He felt a red-hot slash of pain and let out a howl. In a wide-eyed fit of panic, he kicked his remaining leg free and scrambled up. He almost made his feet when someone grabbed his arm and jerked him off the ground. The bald man slammed a huge fist into the side of Peter’s face. Peter’s head exploded with white light and pain. His legs buckled, but before he could fall the man punched him again, a hard jab in the ribs, sending the boy tumbling backward. Peter hit the ground in a heap and everything went blurry.

  “KILL IT!” the woman shouted.

  Peter tried to suck in a breath but his mouth was full of something wet and warm. He coughed violently, spraying the ground with his own blood. The side of his face had gone numb. Through tears and blood he saw a blurry figure moving toward him.

  “NOW, KILL IT! QUICK!”

  “I got it!” the youth cried.

  Peter cleared his eyes in time to see the youth coming at him with the pitchfork. Dizzy, and slow, Peter made it to his feet.

  The youth jabbed him. Peter tried to twist out of the way, but the prongs raked across his side, leaving behind three flesh-deep gashes.

  The bald man made a grab. Peter ducked and ran, stumbling at first, but once he got his feet under him, ran, ran like the wind into the forest.

  Once within the trees, he collapsed to his knees, clutching his side, his face clenched tight with pain. He let out a loud, hitching sob, then spat repeatedly, trying to clear his mouth of blood.

  They were yelling and pointing at him from the field. Several more men and women had come around the stable. They weren’t following him, just standing and pointing excitedly into the woods. He could see their faces, could see the revulsion, the fear…the hatred.

  Other men came up then. Men with thick, braided beards carrying great, long swords. Peter ran.

  PETER’S LUNGS BURNED. He’d been running most of the day and still he dared not stop. He glanced back, eyes wide with terror. He could hear them, their dogs, and the hard clumps of the horses’ hooves. They were closing in.

  Peter spotted Goll’s hill far ahead through a break in the trees, and the horrible realization that there was no safety there, that there was no safety anywhere, hit him. Goll couldn’t stop these huge men with their terrible swords and axes. The men would kill Goll. Peter cut down a new path, headed toward the cliffs, leading the men away from Goll’s hill, hoping the horses at least wouldn’t be able to follow him up the steep ledges.

  Peter made the cliffs and stopped, listening for the men as he tried to catch his breath. He didn’t hear them. A touch of hope lifted Peter’s spirits. Maybe they’d given up. Maybe he wouldn’t die today after all. Then he saw the smoke and his chest tightened. “Goll,” he whispered.

  Peter ran, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, the throbbing in his head as he sprinted as fast as he could back to Goll’s hill. He topped the rise and froze.

  Smoke billowed out from Goll’s burrow and there, dangling from the great oak, hung Goll. The rope was strapped about his chest, pinning his arms to his side, his feet twitched only inches above the ground. The huge men surrounded him, some on horses, some on foot, all with swords and axes in hand.

  The moss man was charred and smoke drifted from his red, raw skin. He had no less than a dozen arrows in him, and yet still he kicked and spat. The dogs bit at him, tearing open the flesh on his legs as the men brayed with laughter.

  Peter’s knees gave way and he stumbled against a fallen tree, his fingers digging into the rotting bark as he slid to the ground. He wanted to stop them, do anything to stop them, but couldn’t move, couldn’t do more than stare on in utter horror.

  A huge fellow with a thick black beard and long knife walked up to Goll.

  Goll stared at the blade with wide, terrified eyes.

  The bearded man grabbed Goll by the hair and jerked his head back. He first cut off Goll’s left ear, then the right. As the moss man struggled, the men laughed and the dogs ran around in tight circles, howling.

  The man jabbed the blade into the moss man’s stomach. Goll screamed and twitched spastically as the man sawed his gullet open. The man slid the blade into a loop of intestine and pulled it partially out of the wound, then whistled to the dogs. The dogs snatched the loop and pulled Goll’s intestines out onto the dirt in wet, rolling coils, tugging and fighting over them as the moss man wailed.

  Peter watched, stone-faced, unable to move or cry, to hardly even blink. He watched. He missed nothing.

  After too long, much too long, Goll stopped wailing, his head sagged forward, and he was still.

  WHEN THE MEN left, Peter stood and walked down the hill. He didn’t cry, he didn’t feel the cuts in his side, the gash across his head, not even the ground beneath his feet. He did not feel. He moved slowly, methodically.

&nb
sp; He found Goll’s bone-handled knife and cut the moss man down. To Peter’s surprise, Goll opened his eyes.

  “Be brave, Peterbird,” Goll rasped. “Kill the wolf.” And that was it. The moss man’s eyes glazed over.

  Peter slipped Goll’s knife into his belt, gathered up his spears, and headed north, away from the village. He had no clear thought of where he

  was going, only that he was going away from the village, away from the men.

  It wasn’t long before Peter heard the wolf trailing him. Peter stopped in a clearing, turned, and waited. The one-eared wolf appeared. Its lips curled up like it was laughing at the boy, like it knew it had him.

  Peter didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. He dropped the light spear and hefted the stout one to shoulder level. He slipped the bone-handled knife into his other hand, locked eyes with the wolf, and came at the beast in a dead run.

  The wolf looked confused.

  Peter’s eyes flared and he let loose a terrible howl.

  The wolf fell back.

  Peter threw the spear.

  The wolf hunkered to avoid the spear, and when it did, Peter leaped forward and drove Goll’s knife deep into its side.

  The wolf let out a yelp and took off, but after only a few strides it began to weave and stagger, its hindquarters collapsing, its breath coming out in a harsh, wet wheeze.

  Peter snatched up his spear and followed the wolf.

  The wolf stopped, unable to do anything but stand and watch the boy coming to kill it, panting as blood dripped from its lips.

  Peter’s eyes were hard, without hate nor pity, the eyes of a predator. He thrust the spear into the wolf’s heart. The wolf thrashed, twitched, then lay still.

  Peter stared at the wolf for a long time. His eyes began to well. A single tear ran down his bruised, swollen cheek, then another, and another. Peter fell to his knees before the wolf and began to sob. The tears were for Goll, but they were also for himself, a six-year-old boy without a mother, or a friend, scared, hated, and with nowhere to go.