The Child Thief

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