The Child Thief

by Brom

  Their guard, a short, one-armed man with a sour face and a festering of warts along his brow, whacked Peter on the shin with the butt of his spear. Peter stumbled but somehow managed to keep from falling. “Stop dragging your feet, you ugly cunny. Move it.”

  The man caught Nick looking at him and shoved his face into Nick’s; his breath smelled like rotten meat. “He be a demon, y’know. That one.” He whacked Peter with the blunt end of his spear. “Tell me you can see it?”

  Nick didn’t answer.

  “Little fool,” the guard spat. “How can you be so blind? Do you not see his pointy ears? He be Lucifer’s own son, that one.”

  Nick turned away from the man.

  “You see this,” the guard pressed his scarred stump right into Nick’s cheek. “It were him that done this.” The guard took the blunt end of his spear and whacked Peter in the ribs. Peter let out a grunt and the guard laughed, then whacked Peter again.

  “Beasley, enough,” came a rough, weary voice. The voice came from the tall man with a thin mustache and goatee, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, what Nick thought of as a pirate’s hat.

  “Aye, Captain,” the one-armed man sneered, then gave Peter a shove for good measure.

  CAPTAIN SAMUEL CARVER pulled at his goatee and scanned the line of captives. They’d captured five boys alive and had the heads of close to a dozen more to decorate the fort walls with. Though they looked like children, the Captain knew better and had made doubly sure their hands were tightly bound and their necks strapped to the pole before beginning the long march back to the fort.

  The Captain studied the red-headed boy in the lead, a clot of blood drying on his scalp. The Captain resented that this demon child should have red blood. It wasn’t right, not when his own pure English blood had turned black. Of course, what was right anymore? It’s him—the pointy ears leave no doubt. This had to be the one they called Peter, the leader of this pack of heathens. How many times had this demon taunted them? Now, they not only had him, they had him alive. The Captain still couldn’t believe it, would never have guessed it could be so easy.

  The demons had come early, right on the heels of yesterday’s success. The Captain had guessed that one right and marshaled every able-bodied man in preparation, intending to catch the demons by surprise. His plan was to hide his main body among the trees and draw Peter into an ambush with a smaller force. But no such plan had been needed. The demon children came straight to them, as though God had handed them over. The Captain almost felt disappointed, cheated. He’d come to expect more from this devilish creature. He moved up alongside Peter. “Tell me something, boy,” the Captain asked in a deep, rough voice. “Did you give up? Is that it? Just tired of the game? Tell me, son. So I can put my mind to rest.”

  The red-headed boy met his eyes and held them. Even beaten and tied, the creature managed a sneer.

  Captain shook his head. “Well, it’s over now, at least for you.”

  One of the boys stumbled. The kid had a wild mop of hair with a red bone tied into it, a long scar that ran across his eye, and a nasty-looking wound in his side. The rope strangled him as he struggled to regain his feet. The Captain knew he had a right to hate them all, but found it hard to feel anything other than pity. Beneath the scars, the paint, the savage sneers, they were just children, or at least had been once. He knew a bit about Peter, how he stole these poor lads from the outside, bewitched them to do his bidding, turned them into savages. But no matter how savage they appeared, they all cried for their mothers once the Reverend started in on them.

  Three of them looked to be fresh recruits; they had no scars, none of the tattoos and other wicked markings. The Captain dared to hold out a little hope. With these, there might be a chance. Maybe he’d be able to win them over, get them to talk, to help.

  He’d rescued children before, and they’d all died badly, with their secrets undivulged, all except Billy. Billy had been fresh, like these boys. A little kindness and putting the fear of the Reverend in him, and the boy had come around. It’d been from Billy that he’d learned about Peter, about the Lady and the legend of her precious apple tree. But Billy hadn’t known where the Lady and her tree were hidden.

  It pained the Captain to think of Billy—he had been a sweet-natured child. But then the change took Billy, and it had driven him mad. The Captain had had to cut the boy down and it still grieved his heart.

  The wounded boy continued to struggle for his feet, continued to strangle. The Captain sighed and pulled the boy back up. The boy gasped for air, all but snarling as he glared at the Captain. The Captain shook his head and wondered why he even bothered, why they’d even brought this one along. There’d be no hope for the likes of him. It would be an act of mercy to kill him now and spare him the suffering to come.

  A BRISK WIND chased a devil duster through a field of beaten-down cornstalks. Just beyond the withered crop, the fort rose from the sooty earth. The tall, spiked timbers of the outer wall were the same dull gray as the land and leaned against each other as though in need of support.

  The procession clomped across a dilapidated log bridge spanning a small brook. The sound of gurgling water tortured Nick. He tried to wet his lips but his tongue was still too dry. Crosses lined either side of the road, made from bleached wood and bones, some jutting out of the ground at odd angles, others had fallen over, lying broken and half-buried in the parched dirt. Graves, Nick realized, hundreds of them, all the way to the fort.

  Nick heard a moan escape Peter. At first, he thought the guard had hit him again, but then he saw and gasped. Abraham’s head sat atop the wall of the fort. Nick looked away, but not before seeing Abraham’s dead eyes, not before seeing the other skulls, dozens of them lining the post. How many? he thought. How many boys have died for this island?

  A shout came from a tower near the gate and the gates swung outward. They were led into the compound and Nick got his first look at the village. The cabins were little more than huts, composed of straw roofs and crumbling sod and log walls. There were a few gardens here and there, sparsely populated with withered vegetables. He saw dried fish hanging from a line, then looked again: there, hanging among the fish, were several pixies, gutted and splayed. Everywhere Nick looked, crosses: big, small, made of twigs, made of thorns, made of bones, painted white, red, or black, some with hair, lace, shells, skulls, tied or nailed to them. They stuck up from the ground, hung along the roofs, along the walls, and from every doorway.

  Most of the men were dismissed and drifted away. A handful of guards remained and steered them toward the center of the compound.

  A woman peered out at Nick from within a dusky doorway. When their eyes met, she raised her crucifix, crossed herself, and withdrew into the shadows. She waited until they’d passed, then followed. Soon there were several women following them, creeping along but keeping their distance. These shriveled black-skinned women all looked the same to Nick, wearing faded, tattered, long-sleeved, ankle-length dresses, their stringy hair stuffed under bonnets, their red eyes wide and ominous.

  The Captain brought them to a halt in front of a building with a cross set atop a leaning steeple. This building had been whitewashed at one time but now the boards were faded and as gray and grimy as the rest of the fort. The Captain left them in the yard with the guards and entered the building.

  As they waited, a crowd gathered, surrounding them, glaring, pointing, and murmuring among themselves. They kept their distance, their eyes full of hate and fear, until a woman pushed her way to the front. She wore about her neck dozens of small crosses made of twigs. Unlike the other women’s, her hair was loose and hung down in her face. She pointed a long, bent finger at Peter. “It be he!” she cried, in a frayed voice. She walked up to Peter and spat in his face.

  When this woman didn’t spontaneously burst into flames, the crowd became bolder, and their taunts grew louder and more lively. Someone chucked a clump of dirt at Peter, hitting him in the face. Soon dirt flew at them from all quarters. A
woman pushed past the guards and managed to rake her nails across Peter’s cheek before they could knock her away. Nick felt hard fingers bite into his arm and found himself looking into the single angry eye of a hunched man. “Demon!” he spat. “You all be demons.” A guard no sooner knocked the man away than a woman pushed in and grabbed Peter by the hair, yanking his head back and forth. “You took me John! You shall pay! By the Lord’s own hand, you shall pay!” It took two guards to pull her off.

  The crowd surged forward and several scuffles broke out with the guards. The guards couldn’t contain them and Nick realized he was about to be beaten to death.

  A sharp voice, like the crack of a rifle, cut through the rumblings. “ENOUGH! All of you. NOW!”

  Heads turned and the crowd wavered.

  “Move aside,” the voice commanded.

  The crowd grumbled but fell back. Nick saw the tops of black hats pushing up. The crowd parted and three men followed by the Captain strode purposely forward and stood before them. Two of the men were dressed in capes and long coats. They wore tall, wide-brimmed felt hats, what Nick thought of as pilgrims’ hats, and both wore black wooden crosses around their necks. The third towered at least a head above anyone, a giant, square-jawed, bald man. He wore an armored collar and steel armbands over a studded leather doublet.

  One of the caped men stepped forward and looked Peter up and down. One side of his face was dead, like that of a victim of a stroke, the dead eye milky and unblinking, that side of his mouth turned down into a perpetual frown. He carried a black staff capped with a simple gold cross. “It is truly he,” the man exclaimed and pointed the staff at Peter. “The son of Lucifer himself.”

  A low gasp escaped the crowd and as one they fell back.

  The crooked-faced man cocked his head to glare at Peter with his good eye. “God has brought you here to be punished. Has set this task in my hands. I do not intend to let our Lord down.”

  The man then moved on to Danny, Leroy, and finally Nick. He spied the blue rabbit’s foot around Nick’s neck and snatched it away with a hard yank. “Satan’s toys,” he spat and threw it to the dirt, grinding it into the mud as though snuffing out a cigarette butt. He grasped Nick’s jaw in his hard hands and held his face to his own. “Tell me child. Do you remember the name of your father?”

  Nick didn’t trust himself to speak; he just nodded.

  “We’ll see,” the crooked-faced man said. “Take them to the Captain’s quarters.”

  CAPTAIN SAMUEL CARVER picked up the pitcher. He held it high and poured the cool water into his cup. He watched them, four filthy, miserable children sitting on the dirt floor of the cabin. They stared at the cup. Nothing makes a man thirstier than the stress of combat, and these boys hadn’t had a drink since this morning, probably before. He brought the cup slowly to his lips and drank deeply, loudly, letting the water dribble down his chin and puddle onto the table. He finished the cup, smacked his lips, then poured another one. He pushed the pitcher across the table in their direction.

  “Would any of you lads care for a drink?” he asked. “Just pulled from the well. Cool and sweet. One thing you have to give this godforsaken island. The water’s very sweet.”

  Of course, none of them answered, but their eyes spoke, saying, “Yes, yes we would. Why, we’d gladly trade our left legs for a cup thank you very much.” The Captain didn’t want their left legs, and—he glanced at the two Reverends seated beside him at the table—he sure as hell didn’t care a damn about saving their souls. No, all Captain Carver wanted, wanted more than the whole world, was to know where the Lady and her goddamned apple tree were hidden so that they could get the hell off this accursed island.

  The Captain stood, strolled in front of the table, and pulled at his chin hairs. He looked down at the boys. What were their stories? It’d been a long time since he’d managed to capture one of these wild children, and longer since he’d actually gotten one to talk. He’d not heard word of the outside world since Billy. How much time had passed since then? Billy had claimed that not only had the colonies broken away from England, had formed a country of their own called the United States, but that these so-called united states were now at war with each other—over slavery, of all things. Were they still at war? The Captain didn’t think so, but he wanted to know the answer to that and so much more. But there’d be time for that later, he consoled himself. For now, he had to convince at least one of them that it would be in their best interest to assist him.

  “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” he said and meant it. These boys, even the savage one with the wild hair and scars, had all been ordinary children before that demon got a hold of them. It was only bad luck that’d put them in the path of that golden-eyed spawn of Satan. The Captain took another sip from his cup and smacked his lips. “I’d like to share my water. But I only invite friends to my table. Who among you will be my friend? Will come have a drink with me?”

  None of them moved nor spoke, but they all eyed the cup.

  “Loyalty is an honorable trait. But loyalty based on lies is loyalty misplaced. You’ve heard only half a truth, I warrant, from this Peter. Would you be so inclined to allow me to fill you in on the whole truth?” The Captain raised his eyebrows and glanced from face to face. “No objections? Good, we’re off to a fine start then.

  “A long time ago, I agreed to bring these good people,” the Captain swept his arm toward the two Reverends, “the Saints, to the New World. A group of pilgrims that wanted nothing more than to escape religious persecution and find a place of peace to practice their beliefs.” The Captain made a slight bow to the two humorless, stoned-faced men, and for the millionth time wondered what brazen act of blasphemy, what horrendous carnal sin he’d committed that could possibly have been so bad as for God to condemn him to spend not one lifetime but several with these fanatics. Was it the time he hired those four wenches in Portugal to share their delights, three being sisters and the last their mother? Was it the time he stole a casket of communion wine from the monastery, or maybe taking the good Lord’s name in vain as many times as there were stars in the sky? He couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t think of any sin so great as to merit being marooned with this lot. It must have been something he’d done in a past life. He pushed the thoughts aside and continued: “Two storms sent us far off course, our supplies were dangerously low. Sickness had already claimed the lives of many. We were sea-weary and down to the last rations of rainwater when these shores showed themselves. I got down on my hands and knees and kissed these beaches that day. Ne’er had I been so relieved to have land back beneath my feet.

  “The Saints were intent on making Jamestown before the weather turned. So we set camp, planning to stay only long enough to gather fresh water and replenish our stocks. Then the demons came.

  “Several women came running into camp, terror-stricken and screaming of demon men. I’d heard of the native peoples of the Americas and their wild ways and thought it was just the womanly hysteria, but what I saw chilled me to the bone—not Indian tribesmen but demons indeed. Abominations with horns and tails, pointed ears and golden eyes, half-beasts and half-men, creatures that could’ve only crawled from the pits of Hell itself and they were coming for us. We shouted at them to leave yet still they persisted. We’d no idea what manner of sorcery they possessed: hexes, poxes, plague? When they wouldn’t turn I shot the lead creature and almost wept to see that they were indeed mortal. We drove them off that day.

  “We realized that these lands were bewitched and we made to leave right away. But even as we were bringing down the tents, the fog came. Like nothing I’d ever seen in twenty years on the seas, fog so thick it felt palpable. And this fog was alive. It swam with the faces of the dead, with horrible things that I could never describe with mere words. It rolled out of the forest and surrounded the ships. You couldn’t see from bow to stern. To have tried to sail in that soup, with all the rocks and reefs, would’ve been to throw your life to the sea. And it was
then that I began to suspect that we might’ve sailed into purgatory itself.

  “The drums started, day and night, relentless. I saw brave men, men who’d gone toe to toe with pirates without batting an eye, fall down to their knees and beg God to show us a way out. But there was no way out. Not in that fog. So we hid the women and children aboard the vessels, dug trenches, prepared our defenses, and tried to make peace with our souls.

  “They came for us in the earliest hours of dawn, a horde of demons. I fought to remain steady as they burst from the tree line, but in my heart I wanted to run into the sea, almost preferring to drown than face such monsters. The very ground trembled as they charged, filling the air with their awful screams and howls. I would stand against any man, but these weren’t men. These were Satan’s own children. My legs trembled so bad I could hardly keep my musket fixed. I saw many a man openly weeping. But God spared us that day. Why? I know not. I cannot say it were a mercy. All I know is we fought off the demon horde and that is all that matters.”

  The Captain cleared his throat and took a swig from the cup.

  “Some would argue it would’ve been better to have died that day. I believe many would’ve laid down their muskets and surrendered if they’d any idea what horrors lay in store.” The Captain paused to consider how many times he’d contemplated letting the blood out of his veins in those early days. It was only the fear for his immortal soul and the hope that he might see his sons at least one more time before he died that stayed his hand.