The Child Thief

“Get the fuck away from me,” Nick hissed, and grinned.

The barghest cocked its head from side to side, then scampered away.

“Dig your beady little eyes out with my thumbs,” Nick said under his breath. The heat in his stomach began to burn, to climb up his throat, the pressure behind his eyes to throb. “Tear your flesh from your bones.” Yes, the Other in him said. Do it! Do it now! All the pain will go away. Just do it. Do it. Do it now. And at that moment, Nick believed that Other, truly felt that killing the barghest would make the pain go away, felt it in his very core.

The troop pushed around a bend and Nick was confronted by dozens of tall, thin waterfalls, their silvery waters cascading down a mountain face of pure white stone. Nick tilted back his head but couldn’t find the top of the falls. The water appeared to be falling from the low-lying clouds themselves. The mist was cool, soothing, and smelled like spring. Nick inhaled deeply and felt a reprieve from that Other, from that deeper self. For a moment, he stood there and just lost himself in the spectacle of the beautiful falling water.

The elf led them to a smaller fall, the one farthest back. An inconspicuous path ran along a small ledge and disappeared directly into the falls. The water crashed down with such force it was obvious they could go no farther, but the old elf walked directly into the falls and vanished from view.

Peter hesitated a moment, then followed. One by one, each of the party entered until it was Nick’s turn. Nick could see it wasn’t a trick, there was just enough space behind the falls to slip past, but it was still unnerving to blindly walk into the misty shadows. Nick took a deep breath, stepped through, and found himself in a short tunnel, the walls shimmering with an emerald light the color of the sea.

The tunnel led into a large cavern that opened to the sky. Jagged cliffs leaned in on all sides. Thick, glowing bands of gold veined the white stone, bathing the cavern in a soft golden light. Before him, a magnificent Eden spread out from ledge to ledge, at least the width and length of a soccer field.

The Devils, barghest, even the elves, all stared in wide-eyed wonder.

“The Haven,” Tanngnost said.

“I see bunnies,” said one of the witch’s daughters.

“My, my. Lots of bunnies,” said the second.

“Yummy for your tummy,” added the third.

NICK’S BREATH ESCAPED him. Before him lay a circular pond, delicate ripples crisscrossing its mirrorlike surface as tiny sprites, barely larger than bees, danced along its banks. An apple tree with white bark and leaves stood upon a tiny island in the middle of the pond, the centerpiece of the whole garden. Vibrant red apples hung from its delicate limbs and its leaves shimmered.

“Avallach’s Tree,” Peter whispered.

“Yes,” Tanngnost said, and even his voice was awed. “The very heart of Avalon.”

A birdcall drew Nick’s attention away from the Tree and he took in the rest of the garden. Dozens of brooks fed into the pond, their sparkling waters bubbling over smooth, crystal-clear stones. Grass and clover of deep greens and blues, as rich as though it were painted, rolled across the glade, while lush ivy and muscadine vines dripped down from the delicate trellises and along the ledges and cliffs that walled the sanctuary. Wildflowers spilled across the grounds like waves in an ocean, splashing along the edge of every stone and tree. Massive, moss-covered standing stones leaned heavily, their ancient pitted surfaces covered in runes and carvings of brooding faces. Brightly painted birds flew above, along with all manner of sprites, pixies, and tiny faeries. Wee folk of every sort peeked out from behind stones and giant toadstools. And on and on, there were so many sights, smells, and strange creatures about that Nick found it impossible to focus on any one thing for more than a second.

“My Lady,” Peter called softly, his voice reverent.

Nick followed Peter’s eyes to a tapestry of brilliant white vines, flowers, and leaves nestled together upon a throne of leaning stones on the far side of the pond. The overall effect was that of an elegant woman in a long gown. Nick realized that many of the leaves were actually white butterflies, some slowly opening and closing their wings, while others fluttered to and fro, giving the illusion that the tapestry was moving.

“She’s in the pond,” Dash said, and all the Devils pressed forward, trying to see her.

“I see her,” said Redbone.

“Where—oh!” said Cricket.

Nick searched the murky water, he didn’t see her, but he did see small winged fish with the upper torsos of boys and girls darting back and forth, chasing one another just beneath the surface. Then he understood, and he saw her, saw her well. In the reflection, all the white flowers, leaves, and butterflies came together to form the Lady. And, just like any illusion, once he saw her, it was impossible to not see her.

He glanced back up and there she sat on the throne, unmoving like a marble statue, staring with heavy, unblinking eyes at the Tree. Her head nestled among the flowers, the vines and leaves spilled around her, cradling her. Her skin was so white as almost to glow, her neck long and graceful, her lips full but pale, her cheekbones high, her eyes set wide apart, almost too wide, giving her a slight animal countenance. And when Nick looked at those eyes, those dull, glassy eyes, he could see just how fragile, how very vulnerable she really was. And as the heat bloomed in his gut, as it turned to fire, as his blood turned black and pumped through his veins like venom, he thought, It will do me such good to kill her.

“LADY MODRON.” THE name escaped Peter’s lips in a weak breath. She’s too thin, he thought and couldn’t push away the fear that she might be dead. He looked into her eyes, those ceaselessly staring eyes, and found no sign of life, nothing.

He walked softly up to her and laid Sekeu down upon the spongy moss at her feet. He cleared his throat. “My Lady,” he said gently.

She continued to stare past him, through him—not so much as a blink.

Peter followed her gaze to the Tree, still amazed to be in its presence. He noticed that many of the leaves were wilted, that some of the limbs were bare and looked to be dying. He wondered how much longer Avalon had.

He fell to one knee, reached out, and laid his hand on the Lady’s, gently, as though his touch might break her. Her hand felt cold. “My Lady,” he whispered. “Lady Modron. It’s me. Peter.”

Her face never changed.

“Lady,” he said again, then again.

Peter felt a hand on his shoulder, heard Tanngnost’s deep sigh. “I’m sorry, Peter. I was afraid of this. She still lives, but is gone from us, withdrawn deep within. Keeping the Mist alive, but little more.”

“I cannot remember the last time she spoke,” Drael said. “Maybe to Ulfger. I don’t know. For he forbade any of us to come near.”

“Peter,” Tanngnost said softly. “I fear she’s beyond us.”

Peter continued to hold the Lady’s hand, to stare into her eyes—to hope. He felt a warmth against his chest—the eight-point star. He pulled the necklace over his head and examined it. The faintest glow pulsed from the star’s center. “No, she’s still with us.” He reached for the Lady’s hand, carefully turning it upward, and laid the star in her palm. The star brightened.

“Lady,” he called. “My Lady.”

The Lady’s eyes closed, then slowly reopened. She looked at the star. Her lips moved; no sound came out, but Peter had no problem reading her lips. “Mabon,” she’d tried to say. Her hand closed around the star. “Mabon,” she repeated, her words little more than air. Her eyes became distant again, then slowly closed, and she was still.

Peter waited, but the Lady showed no more signs of life.

“My Lady. It’s Peter.”

Still, there came no response.

Peter stood, cleared his throat, and began to hum softly, then sing, slowly building up the song as his voice cleared. He found the old tune, the song of the Sunbird. And as he sung, as his rich voice echoed off the tall cliffs, the birds and the faeries lent him their voice and soon the tune drifted throughout the garden.

Peter watched a lone tear roll down the Lady’s face. She opened her eyes. This time she saw him. “Peter,” she whispered and reached out, touching his cheek. “My little Peterbird? You flew back to me.”