The Child Thief

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