The Child Thief

lowered his sword and stared around the garden. The men spilled in, but they too fell silent, coming to a halt behind him.

No horde of demons awaited, only the winged folk in all their variety, hovering or perched upon delicate flowering vines and bushes, along with dozens of docile animals: rabbits, deer, squirrels, colorful monkeys, and birds of every species, all silently watching them. The serenity, the complete peace and tranquility, so far from the hellish, demonic den they’d all expected, seemed to make the men forget why they were here.

But the Captain didn’t forget. There was no sign of the Lady, but he had no problem finding her apple tree. It was the centerpiece of the sanctuary, seeming to float in the middle of the pond.

“At last,” the Captain said and took the ax from his sergeant. He waded out into the pond, swimming the last few yards, and forded the small island.

Here it is, he thought, after all these years. Here it is. He hefted the ax and it was then that he saw her, on the far bank, the Lady. She was seated upon a throne of white stones. He realized she’d been there the entire time, that he’d mistaken her for butterflies and flowers.

The Lady stood, and when she did, the Captain saw that indeed, she was composed of butterflies, thousands of tiny white butterflies. Her thin, graceful form drifted onto the pond and stood there atop its surface, leaving only the lightest ripples beneath her. He met her eyes, her deep, cerulean eyes, and realized his mistake as they pierced into his soul. Everything seemed to become far away, as though he were watching himself in a dream. Captain, she called, her voice a sweet chorus in his head. Come with me. Let me take you home. A siren’s song, he thought. A death song. But it had him, and all he wanted to do was to follow her into the pond. Yes. My home is at the bottom of the pond. My wife and children are all waiting for me there. He felt the ax slipping from his grip.

From somewhere impossibly far away, he heard the Reverend ranting and screeching his scriptures to the heavens, commanding the men to burn the demon’s den, to destroy all of Satan’s children. The Lady’s hold on him wavered. “NO,” she hissed, and turned onto the men. Her shape grew in stature until she towered before them at nearly twice their height. The multitude of butterflies making up her body turned from white to red to black. She spread her arms. The golden stones faded and the garden darkened. The pond itself began to glow, an eerie green mist rose from its waters. The Captain felt his skin prickle as wicked shapes boiled up along the surface and began to slither and crawl toward the men, things with thousands of teeth and long, bony fingers, things that wailed and moaned.

“Away,” the Lady cried at the men, her voice booming off the towering cliffs. “Lest you wish my children take you into the Mist. Lest you wish to wander for an eternity with your lost brethren.”

The men stopped, unsure, some looking to turn and run.

“Hold your place,” the Reverend commanded. “It’s not but smoke and bluster. She has no power over God’s children!” And to prove this, he ran toward the Lady, through the mist, leaving its flailing tendrils swirling in his wake. He swung his staff and the Lady broke apart into a thousand black butterflies.

The Captain felt himself released. He swung the ax at the apple tree, a heavy, solid blow. The blade sank into the fleshy bark and a gush of blood spurted from the wound. The Lady screamed as though he’d cut into her own flesh. He swung the ax again, biting deep into the trunk. Again the Lady wailed, not a cry of pain but one of sorrow, and the black butterflies fell from the air, dropping dead upon the surface of the pond.

The men fanned out across the garden and began slaying the animals, crushing the little folk beneath their boots.

The water bubbled around the small island and the Captain caught sight of a silvery shape spiraling up from the depths. The Lady broke the surface—no spectral illusion this time—he could plainly see she was of flesh and blood, a fine-boned woman with ghostly white skin and deep animal eyes. She touched him with those eyes, those dazzlingly blue eyes, held him. She extended her arms and her voice crawled back into his head. Captain, please come home with me. Your children call for you. And suddenly he could hear them, his boys, calling his name, calling him home.

“No,” the Captain whispered and tore his eyes from the Lady, set his foot against the tree, and tugged the ax free. He hefted it high and chopped, again, and then again. The white leaves falling down around him like snow. With each stroke the Lady’s voice weakened, was reduced to little more than pleading. He felt a hand on his boot. She was there, clinging to the bank, clawing at his boot, but she was frail, too weak to do more than shake him.

The air filled with smoke and the crackling of fire as the men set the trellises to flame. The pond turned red as the life blood of the tree flowed into its waters. With a final blow, the tree surrendered to gravity, toppling into the pond as though in slow motion.

The pond lost its glow, the mist died away. The Lady floated to the tree, curled herself among its branches, clutching it like a mother would a baby.

“Her spell is broken!” the Reverend shouted triumphantly. “Bring her to me.”

Four men swam out. They threw a net about her and pulled her from the pond, dragged her across the mud and before the Reverend.

The Reverend spied the small star hanging about her neck. He tore it away and stomped it into the mud. He ripped off the golden clasps that held her gown, dashed them against a stone. “See to it she hides no other witchery,” he commanded.

The men stripped her of her gown, then kicked her into the mud.

The Lady raised her head, her wild animal eyes wide and haunted. She stared at the flame devouring the flowers and bushes, at the mutilated animals, sprites, pixies, and nymphs—and, finally, the Tree. A long, anguished howl escaped her throat. The men took a step back. She climbed to her feet, naked, covered in mud, soot, and blood. She raised her hands outward, threw back her head, and wailed, and wailed; the sound echoing off the ceiling and reverberating along every wall and ledge. The pond rippled. The ground trembled beneath the Captain’s feet, several stones dislodged from the walls and tumbled down into the garden.

“DEMON!” the Reverend cried, and struck the Lady across her forehead with his staff. She collapsed to her knees, swaying drunkenly as blood streamed down her face. The men seized her. They lashed a rope around her neck and dragged her away, past the dead and burning carnage and out of the sanctuary.

It was only then that the screaming of the maimed and wounded truly reached the Captain, that he became acutely aware of the acrid smell of burning flesh. He coughed and looked again at the apple tree. “Done. It is done!” The leaves of the tree began to wilt and turn gray before his eyes, the grass too. Bushes, vines, flowers, fruit, everywhere he looked it was the same: the plants were shriveling and withering away.

As the leaves dried out, the fire spread, and the men rushed to escape. The ground rumbled again and the ledges began to crumble, a large boulder crashed down and tumbled into the pond, sending a red wave overflowing its banks. The Captain leaped off the small island and splashed his way to shore. A flaming tree crashed down beside him, showering him in a storm of fire and ash. He made the shore and clambered his way over the bludgeoned carcasses and through the sparks and smoke to the cavern. He took a last glance back at the garden, now truly a vision of Hell. At last, he thought as he pushed out through the falls. It is done at last.

Chapter Twenty-Four Ferry

I have them, Ulfger thought.