We started watching him again and found a troubled man. He carried on conversations with himself, his lips mouthing a violent argument. Ages ago, he’d had a number of other friends as well, but as his strangeness increased, they vanished from the story. Henry spent most of his time locked away in a room, reading books or playing a booming organ, scrawling notes on lined paper. His wife lived in the margins, working on her home, every day driving away and returning hours later. Onions thought that a telltale unhappiness weighed heavily on the woman’s mind, for when she was alone, she often stared into the distance, as if to extract from the air the answer to her unuttered questions. The boy, Edward, was ideal for the change, alone and distanced from the rise and fall of life, caught up in his own thoughts, and wandering through his parents’ house as if looking for a friend.
Waking in the middle of a full-moon night, I overheard Béka and Onions whispering about the boy. Cozy in their den, they expected a degree of privacy, but their conspiracy hummed along the ground like the faraway sound of an approaching train.
“Do you think we’d be able to, ourselves alone?” Onions asked.
“If we can catch him at the right moment. Perhaps when the father is distracted or drowning out every known sound on that infernal organ.”
“But if you change with Edward Day, what will happen to me?” Onions said, never more plaintive. I coughed to alert them to my presence and walked over to where they huddled, feigning sleep, innocent as two newborn kits. They might be brazen enough to try, and I resolved to keep closer watch and crack any plots before one might hatch.
In the past, the faeries refused to spy on one who had quit the tribe. The changeling was left alone, forgotten, and given a chance to live out his human life. The danger of being exposed by such a person is great, for after they make the change, they grow to resent their time among us and fear that other humans will discover their dark secret. But such concerns, once great, became less important to us. We were disappearing. Our number had diminished from a dozen to a mere six. We decided to make our own rules.
I asked them to find my mother and sisters, and at Christmas they were discovered at last. While the rest of us dozed, Chavisory and Luchóg stole away to town, which glowed with blinking lights as carolers sang in the streets. As a gift to me, they decided to explore my boyhood home, hoping to find missing clues that might give my past more meaning. The old house stood in the clearing, not as solitary as it had once been. Nearby farms had been sold off one by one, and the skeletons of new houses rose in all directions. A handful of cars parked in the drive led them to believe that a celebration was taking place at my former house, so they crept to the windows to see the assembled crowd. Henry Day, his wife, and their son were there. And Mary and Elizabeth. At the center of the festivities, a gray-haired woman sat in an easy chair by a sparkling fir tree. Her mannerisms reminded Luchóg of my mother, upon whom he had spied many years ago. He climbed a nearby oak and leapt from its outstretched limbs to the rooftop, scrambling over to the chimney, its bricks still warm to the touch. The fire below had gone out, making it easier for him to eavesdrop. My mother, he said, was singing to the children in the old style, without instrumentation. How I would have loved to hear her again.
“Give us a song, Henry,” she said when they were through, “like you used to do.”
“Christmas is a busman’s holiday if you play the piano,” he said. “What’ll it be, Mom? ‘Christmas in Killarney’ or some other blather?”
“Henry, you shouldn’t make fun,” said one of the daughters.
“ ‘Angels We Have Heard on High,’ ” said an unfamiliar, older man who rested his hand on her shoulder.
Henry played the song, began another. When Luchóg had heard enough, he jumped back to the oak and climbed down to rejoin Chavisory. They stole one last look at the party, studied the characters and scene for me, then returned home. When they told the story the next day, I was deeply pleased to hear about my mother, as puzzling as the details might be. Who was this old man? Who were all these other children? Even the tiniest scrap of news brought back that past. I hid in a hollow tree. She was angry with me, and I would run away and never come back. Where are your sisters? Where are my babies? I remembered that I had sat in the V made by her legs, listening to the story of the wanderings of Oisín in Tír na nÓg. It is not fair to have to miss someone for so many years.
But this is a double life. I sat down to work on the true story of my world and the world of Henry Day. The words flowed slowly, painfully, sometimes letter by letter. Whole mornings escaped without a single sentence worth saving. I crumpled and threw away so many pages that I was forever popping up into the library to steal more paper, and the pile of trash in the corner threatened to consume the whole room. In assembling my tale, I found myself tiring easily, early in the day, so that if I could string together five hundred words, writing had triumphed over uncertainty and procrastination.
At times I questioned my reasons for written proof of my own existence. When I was a boy, stories were as real as any other part of life. I’d hear Jack climb the beanstalk, and later wonder how to climb the tall poplars outside my window. Hansel and Gretel were brave heroes, and I shuddered at the thought of the witch in her oven. In my daydreams, I fought dragons and rescued the girl trapped in her tower. When I could not sleep for the wild doings and extravagant deeds of my own imagination, I’d wake my father, who would invariably say, “It’s only a story.” As if such words made it less real. But I did not believe him even then, for stories were written down, and the words on the page were proof enough. Fixed and permanent in time, the words, if anything, made the people and places more real than the ever-changing world. My life with the faeries is more real to me than my life as Henry Day. And I wrote it down to show that we are more than a myth, a tale for children, a nightmare or daydream. Just as we need their stories to exist, so do the humans need us to give shape to their lives. I wrote it to create meaning for my change, for what happened with Speck. By saying this instead of that, I could control what mattered. And show the truth that lies below the surface life.
I finally decided to meet the man face-to-face. I had seen Henry Day years before, but I now knew that he had once been a changeling who had kidnapped me when I was a boy of seven. We had uncovered him, followed him everywhere, and learned the outlines of his daily routine. The faeries had been to his house, taken a random score of the music he wrote, and left him with a sign of their mischief. But I wanted to confront him, if only to say goodbye, through him, to my mother and sisters.
I was on my way to the library to finish my story. A man stepped out of a car and marched through the front door of the building. He looked old and tired, worn by care. Nothing like me, or how I imagined I would be. He walked with his head down, eyes on the ground, a slight stoop to his shoulders, as if the simplest things gravely distracted him. He dropped an armful of papers and, bending down to gather them, muttered a stream of curses. I considered pouncing out of the woods, but he looked too fragile to spook that night, so instead I squeezed through the crevice to go about my craft.
He had begun frequenting the library that summer, showing up several days in a row, humming snatches of the symphony we had stolen from him. On hot and humid afternoons, when sensible people were swimming or lying in bed with the shades drawn, Henry was often reading alone at a sun-splashed table. I could sense his presence above, separated only by the thin ceiling, and when the library closed for the night, I climbed through the trapdoor and investigated. He had been working in a quiet spot in the back corner. Upon a desk, a stack of books lay undisturbed, with neat slips of paper sticking out like tongues between the leaves. I sat where he had sat and looked at the mishmash of titles on everything from imps and demons to a thick book on “idiots savants.” Nothing connected these titles, but he had scribbled diminutive notes to himself on bookmarks:
Not fairy but hobgoblin.
Gustav—savant?
Ruined my life.
Find Henry Day.
The phrases were discarded pieces to different puzzles, and I pocketed the notes. In the morning, the sounds of his dismay penetrated the floor. Henry muttered about the missing bookmarks, and I felt a guilty pleasure at having nipped them. He ranted at the librarians, but eventually he collected himself and went about his work. I welcomed the peace, which gave me the time to finish writing my book in the quiet hours. Soon I would be free of Henry Day. That evening, I packed the sheets in a cardboard box, placing a few old drawings on top of the manuscript, and then folded Speck’s letter carefully and tucked the pages in my pocket. After a quick trip home, I planned on returning one last time to collect my belongings and say my final goodbyes to the dear old space. In my haste, I neglected to think of the time. The last hour of daylight held sway when I pushed out into the open. Considering the risk, I should not have chanced it, but I stepped away from the back staircase and began to walk home.
Henry Day stood not a dozen feet ahead, looking directly at me and the crack beneath the library. Like a cornered hare, I reacted instinctively, running straight at him and then veering off sharply into the street. He moved not a single step. His dulled reflexes failed him. I ran through town with complete disregard for any people, crossed lawns with sprinklers spritzing the dry grass, leapt chainlink fences, tore in front of a moving car or two. I did not stop until deep in the woods, then collapsed on the ground, panting, laughing until tears fell. The look of surprise, anger, and fear on his face. He had no idea who I was. All I had to do was go back later for the book, and that would be the end of the story.
• CHAPTER 35 •
The monster never breathes,” the composer Berlioz supposedly said about the organ, but I found the opposite to be true. When I played, I felt alive and at one with the machine, as if exhaling the music. Tess and Edward visited the studio to hear the lengthening shape of my composition, and at the end of the performance my son said, “You were moving the same as I was breathing.” Over the course of a year, I worked on the symphony during what hours I could steal, regenerating it constantly from the desire to confess, seeking to craft a texture that would allow me to explain. I felt that if she could but hear my story in the music, Tess would surely understand and forgive. In my studio, I could take refuge at the keyboard. Lock the door and draw the curtains to feel safe and whole again. Lose myself, find myself, in the music.
By the springtime, I had secured a small orchestra—a wind ensemble from Duquesne, timpani from Carnegie-Mellon, a few local musicians—to perform the piece when it was completed. After Edward had finished first grade in June, Tess took him for a two-week visit to her cousin Penny’s to give me time alone in the house to finish my symphony—a work about a child trapped in his silence, how the sounds could never get out of his own imagination, living in two worlds, the internal life locked to all communication with outside reality.
After struggling for years to find the music for that stolen child, I finally finished. The score lay spread out across the organ, the scrawled notes on the staves a marvel of mathematical beauty and precision. Two stories told at the same time—the inner life and the outer world in counterpoint. My method was not to juxtapose each chord with its double, for that is not reality. Sometimes our thoughts and dreams are more real than the rest of our experience, and at other moments that which happens to us overshadows anything we might imagine. I had not been able to write fast enough to capture the sounds in my head, notes that flowed from deep within, as if half of me had been composing, and the other half acting as amanuensis. I had yet to fully transcribe the musical shorthand and to assign all of the instrumentation—tasks that might take months of rehearsal to perfect—but the initial process of setting down the bones of the symphony had made me giddy and exhausted, as if in a waking dream. Its relentless logic, strange to the ordinary rules of language, seemed to me what I had been hoping to write all along.
At five o’clock that afternoon, hot and wrung-out, I went to the kitchen for a bottle of beer, and drank it on the way upstairs. My plan was a shower, another beer with dinner, and then back to work. In the bedroom closet, the empty spaces where her clothes had been reminded me of Tess, and I wished she had been there to share the sudden burst of creativity and accomplishment. Moments after stepping into the hot shower, I heard a loud crash downstairs. Without turning off the water, I stepped out, wrapped a towel around my waist, and hurried to investigate. One of the windows in the living room had been broken, and glass lay all over the rug. A breeze flapped the curtains. Half naked and dripping wet, I stood there puzzled, until a sudden discordant hammering of the piano keys frightened me, as if a cat had walked across it, but the studio was empty and silent. I took a long look around.
The score was gone—not on the table where I had left it, not fallen to the floor, not anywhere. The window gaped open, and I ran to look at the lawn. A solitary page fluttered across the grass, pushed along by a thin breeze, but there was nothing else to see. Howling with anger and pacing the room, I stubbed my toe on the piano leg and began hopping up and down across the rug, nearly impaling my foot on a piece of glass, when another crash sounded upstairs. Foot throbbing, I climbed the steps to the landing, afraid of what might be in my house, worried about my manuscript. My bedroom was empty. In our son’s room another window had been broken, but no glass littered the floor. Shards on the roof meant the window had been shattered from the inside out. To clear my head, I sat for a moment on the edge of his bed. His room looked the same as the day he’d left for the vacation, and thoughts of Edward and Tess filled me with sudden sorrow. How would I explain the missing symphony? Without it, how could I confess my true nature? I pulled at my wet hair till my scalp ached. In my mind, my wife, my son, and my music were wound together in a braided chain that now threatened to unravel.
In the bathroom, the shower ran and ran. A cloud of steam billowed out into the hallway, and I stumbled through the fog to shut off the water. On the cabinet mirror, someone had fingered words on the fogged surface: We No Your Secret. Copied above, note for note, was the first measure of my score.
“You little fuckers,” I said to myself as the message vanished from the mirror.
After a restless and lonesome night, I drove to my mother’s house as a new day began. When she did not immediately answer my knock, I thought she might still be asleep, and went over to the window to look in. From the kitchen, she saw me standing there, smiled, and waved me to her.
“Door’s never locked,” she said. “What brings you here in the middle of the week?”
“Good morning. Can’t a guy come and see his best girl?”
“Oh, you’re such an awful liar. Would you like a cup of coffee? How about I fry you a couple of eggs?” She busied herself at the stove, and I sat at the kitchen table, its surface pocked with marks left from dropped pots and pans, nicked by knives, and lined with faint impressions of letters written there. The morning light stirred memories of our first breakfast together.
“Sorry I was so long in answering the door,” she said above the sizzle. “I was on the phone with Charlie. He’s off in Philadelphia, tying up loose ends. Is everything all right with you?”
I was tempted to tell her everything, beginning with the night we took away her son, going back further to a little German boy snatched away by changelings, and ending with the tale of the stolen score. But she looked too careworn for such confessions. Tess might be able to handle it, but the story would break my mother’s heart. Nonetheless, I needed to tell someone, at least provisionally, of my past errors and the sins I was about to commit.
“I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. Seeing things, not truly myself. Like I’m being followed by a bad dream.”
“Followed by troubles is the sign of a guilty conscience.”
“Haunted. And I’ve got to sort it out.”
“When you were a baby, you were the answer to my prayers. And when you were a little boy, remember, I used to sing you to
sleep every night. You were the sweetest thing, trying to sing along with me, but you could never carry a tune. That certainly changed. And so did you. As if something happened to you that night you ran away.”
“It is like the devils are watching me.”
“Don’t believe in fairy tales. The trouble is inside, Henry, with you. Living in your own head.” She patted my hand. “A mother knows her own son.”
“Have I been a good son, Mom?”
“Henry.” She rested her palm against my cheek, a gesture from my childhood days, and the grief over losing my score abated. “You are who you are, for good or ill, and no use torturing yourself with your own creations. Little devils.” She smiled as if a fresh thought had entered her mind. “Have you ever thought whether you’re real to them? Put those nightmares out of your head.”
I stood to go, then bent and kissed her good-bye. She had treated me kindly over the years, as if I had been her own son.
“I’ve known all along, Henry,” she said.
I left the house without asking.
I resolved to confront them and find out why they were tormenting me. To flush out those monsters, I would go back into the woods. The Forest Service provided topographical maps of the region, the areas in green indicating woodland, the roads drawn in meticulous detail, and I laid a grid over the likely areas, dividing the wilderness into manageable plats. For two days, despite my loathing for the forest and my aversion to nature, I explored a few of those squares, looking for their lair. The woods were emptier than when I lived there—the occasional hammering of a woodpecker, skinks sunning themselves on rocks, the raised white flag of one deer running away, and the lonesome hum of greenbottle flies. Not much life, but plenty of junk—a swollen copy of Playboy; a four-of-hearts playing card; a tattered white sweater; a small mound of empty cigarette packages; a canteen; a tortoiseshell necklace on a pile of stones; a stopped watch; and a book stamped Property of County Library.
The Stolen Child Page 29