The Child Thief (27 page)

“You spoke of a plan—a
wicked
plan I believe?”

Peter frowned. “Oh that.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m still working on that.” He stood and began to pace back and forth. “Picking them off one at a time is no longer an option. We will never drive them back that way. There’re just too many of them, too few of us, and too little time. We need a new strategy.”

“What do you propose?”

Peter nodded to himself, as though trying to convince himself of something. He crossed his arms over his chest. “An all-out assault.”

Tanngnost raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Peter, you know they’re too many to—”

“We’re out of time. If they break through Whisperwood all will fall. What other option is there? Tell me?”

Tanngnost could think of nothing.

Peter looked at Tanngnost with grim, determined eyes. “It is the end, old friend. One way or another, it’s the end.”

Nick awoke with a start, drenched in sweat, his stomach burning. This time the nightmares didn’t fade. They’d been all too real, too vivid. He could almost still taste them.

Nick didn’t want to go back to sleep, afraid the dreams would return. He wondered why he was the only one that seemed to be having nightmares. He looked at Danny. The boy was sleeping like a baby. Danny had come in only a day or two before him.

Nick unlatched his cage and got up. The first light of dawn was creeping through the windows, setting the thin mist aglow. None of the others were awake yet. He saw a few pixies flittering about here and there, scrounging around searching for crumbs. They kept a wary eye on him.
They’re scared of me
, he thought. This should’ve been good, but it made Nick feel as though something was wrong with him, like he had a disease, something contagious, something horrible.

Nick stretched, surprised that his muscles weren’t sore from all the hiking yesterday. If anything, he felt spry. He clenched his fist. He felt strong. He assumed it was the gruel. It really
was
doing something to him. And again, Nick had to ask himself just what that might be.

He walked to the privy; the night chill still hung in the air and the cool stones felt good beneath his bare feet. He entered, heard hissing, and saw the two pixies nesting just above him in the rafters keeping a wary eye on him. Nick ignored them, dousing his head under the pump, and drank deeply, slowly washing away the fire in his stomach, the horrible taste from his mouth, then came back out into the chamber. He sat at the end of the long table and watched the morning light gradually fill the great hall. He stared at the straw men hanging in the shadows. They still reminded him of dead children.

He found his thoughts returning again and again to his mother. In those last few years he’d come to almost hate her. How? Why? Where had that hostility come from? Why was he always pushing her away, always making things so difficult? So many of their fights seemed so stupid now, so trivial.

Absently, he stroked the soft fur of the blue rabbit’s foot and recalled the days after his dad’s funeral. He’d been ten then. Each night that week, a couple of NCO wives would drop off a few dishes for dinner. Sometimes they would bring along their children as well. Each bestowing their condolences, wishing his mother the best in the coming months, making his mother promise if she needed anything, anything at all, to please just call. They could never stay long though, they had kids to take to soccer or to swim team, or groceries to pick up. They’d leave their Styrofoam takeout trays and head back to their homes, their lives, their
husbands
, leaving Nick and his mother alone in a room full of wilting flowers and sappy sympathy cards.

It was then that it truly sank in that his father wouldn’t be coming home. Would never again walk through the door, plop down on the stairs, and gripe about his day while unlacing his boots. Would never again grab a beer out of the fridge, swat his wife on the butt, and ask what the heck was for supper. Never again jab Nick in the gut and ask him if he’d beaten up any little girls at school. From now on, it would be just Nick and Mom.

Those first nights his mother had held him, rocking him gently as he cried himself to sleep. But now, while sitting in this gloomy chamber of stone and roots, he wondered just who had held
her
, who’d rocked her, wiped away
her
tears, told
her
everything would be all right? What had that been like for
her
, suddenly facing life as a single mom? With no one to turn to but an ailing mother in Brooklyn.

And there were other matters, things grieving widows should never have to deal with. They could no longer stay on base, so she needed to find a place for them to live. And to add to that, the accident that had killed his father was under investigation, the Army claiming negligence on his father’s part. Nick understood little of the details, only that it had something to do with their benefits and meant his mother was suddenly desperate to find a job.

And how had I helped?
Nick asked himself.
What did I do to make things easier? I argued, I complained, and I fought with her about everything. And worst of all I blamed her for it all
. He could hear his own whiny voice griping about his school, his room, his shoes, his stupid fucking
shoes
. God, how he hated the sound of it in his head.

What had been wrong with him? Did he really believe he was the only one suffering? The only one hurting? Had he truly been that blind? Nick rubbed his forehead. Somehow everything had gotten jumbled up, twisted, that’s all. The loss, the hurt, the anger, all of it. Now it seemed so clear. So goddamn painfully clear.

“I’m gonna come back, Mom,” he whispered. “Gonna make up for it. I promise. Just hang on. Please hang on.”

Nick pressed his hands into his face and tried to rub away the strain, the grief and regret. He heard a creak and looked up. Peter, Sekeu, and the troll were coming down the stairs from the loft. All three of them were staring at him. Nick had the feeling that he was being scrutinized, almost examined.

A smile lit Peter’s face. “Hey Nick. You doing okay?”

Nick stood up. “Peter, we need to talk.”

Peter walked over and placed a hand on Nick’s back. “And we will, Nick. Most certainly. But not now. Too many things afoot.” Peter’s golden eyes gleamed wickedly. “There’s blood to be spilled and throats to slit.” Peter threw his head back and crowed like a rooster, crowed until everyone in the chamber was on their feet.

KIDS LINED UP
in front of the privy. Fires were set, torches lit, porridge put to boil; you could feel the excitement as the Devils rushed about getting the day going. Nick got his bowl and took a seat next to Cricket and Danny.

Danny looked in his bowl and frowned. “That’s all we get? There’s hardly enough to fill the bottom of my bowl.”

“What are you complaining for?” Cricket asked. “I thought you hated this gunk.”

“Wow, would you look at that!” Danny said. He was holding his glasses away from his face, pulling them off and on, and squinting. He looked straight up.

Cricket and Nick looked up too.

“Danny?” Cricket asked. “What the hell are you doing?”

“How…about…that,” Danny said. “I can see better
without
my glasses now. This magic porridge might taste like bark, but man, is it
goood
for you.” He stood up, turned sideways, and pulled his shirt up. “Check this out.” He patted his stomach. “My gut’s almost gone.”

“You’re sucking in,” Cricket said.

“Am not. I’m turning into a lean mean killing machine.”

“Puh—lease!” Cricket said, slapping the table and letting out a laugh.

“Y’know,” Danny continued, “if we could figure out the ingredients to this slop, we could make like a couple million bucks back home.”

“We’re not ever going back home,” Cricket said, and as the profoundness of her words hit them, they all fell quiet.

“I am,” Nick said. “I’m getting out of here.”

Cricket and Danny stared at him.

“What do you mean?” Cricket asked.

“I mean, I’m going home.” He paused. “I have to get back to my mom. One way or another, I have to.”

“How you gonna do that?” Danny asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

A sad smile crossed Cricket’s lips. She reached out and clasped Nick’s hand. “I’m sure there’s a way.”

“DEVILS,”
Peter called. “Gather round. There is a tale to tell!”

PETER TOOK A
deep breath. The Devils clustered about him in a semicircle, sitting on the stone floor, atop their cages, or leaning against tree roots, goading and picking at one another. He looked from face to face: Cutter, who’d walked through the Mist without so much as a word; Huck, who’d actually laughed at it; Dirk and Dash, who were always fighting with each other but were never apart; Ivy, with her beautiful curly hair and one lazy eye from where her mother had kicked her for wearing makeup; Amos, the Amish boy who was banished for being too profane. How similar they were to the Devils from the first age, before the great battle, to those boys and girls who’d died so valiantly.

Peter leaned over to Tanngnost. “They’re ready, as ready as they’ll ever be. Are you?”

The old troll huffed and pushed himself to his feet. “No, but I’ll do my best.” He walked in front of the Devils, drew himself up to his full height, and stamped his staff once, hard, the sound reverberating about the chamber. The chattering died down.

“This is not an easy tale to tell,” Tanngnost began, his deep baritone filling the chamber. “Maybe if the words had been passed down to me from another. But this isn’t some ancient dusty legend, this is a real-life tragedy, and I was there to witness it. I saw the carnage, heard the screams, smelled the blood, and have no desire to relive the horror once again. I’ve done that enough in all the nightmares that’ve plagued me since. But you are being asked to put your lives on the line for Avalon. You deserve to know the truth, to know what you’re fighting for. So it is time to tell the tale once more.”

The troll cleared his throat. “We’ve New Blood among us. For those of you to whom this story is new, it should enlighten you and hopefully inspire you. For those who’ve heard it not once but many times, it should serve as a reminder of who we are and why we carry on. For me, it’s important to pass down the events of that terrible day so that the deeds of those who died are not forgotten. This is a tale of evil, of death, and of heroism. It is my tale. It is your tale. This is the tale of the Flesh-eaters.”

The hall fell quiet; all the kids leaned forward.

“Before forever ago, the very earth itself was alive, a place of mystery, nature, and magic. It was the time of the first races, when gods still walked among us and we rejoiced in their miracles and wonderment. Men-kind shared this world for but a blink, then, sadly, they became
enlightened,
found science and religion. The new world of men left little room for magic or the magical creatures of old. Earth’s first children were driven into the shadows by flame and cold iron, by man’s insatiable need of conquest.

“Those who could escape men-kind’s persecution gathered around the Lady of the Lakes, Lady Modron, daughter of the Great Avallach. She released the Mist to hide and guard Avalon, and the isle became a refuge, a sanctuary from the human world.

“There is a sacred spot within Avalon—the Haven. At its center lies Avallach’s Tree. Its roots bind all of Avalon together. It is said that Avallach’s blood courses through its roots. The Tree is the heart, Avalon is the body, the inhabitants the soul, all three woven together, one living entity. One cannot be without the other. You are all part of this union.”

Tanngnost looked out past the kids. His eyes focused beyond the hall.

“It was some time after the betrayal of King Arthur and his round table of villains that Avalon began to drift away from human civilization. The isle left the Britains, drifting for an age along the frozen coasts of the Atlantic, until finally finding a home in the land now known as the Americas. This was a golden time for Avalon, for we were far away from men-kind’s intolerant god. This new land was still wild and full of magic, much like the early ages of earth. The native people of the Americas were one with nature, both revering and fearing its magic.

“So, as time passed, we came to trust the peace, believe we were safe from the evils of human civilization. The Lady called the Mist back into the lakes and once again the magical people had the stars and moon to dance under at night and the sun to bask in during the day. The native people came and paid reverence to the Lady. We shared our magic with their shamans and traded crafts, harvests, and wild game, just as we had with the druids of old.

“Then the ships came.”

Tanngnost paused, took in a deep breath.

“One day I looked out toward the horizon and there, in Merrow’s Cove, three tall galleons lay at anchor. Three ships full of men, women, children, dogs, pigs, fowl, goats, disease, and vermin. Their stench reached deep into the forest.

“I watched them wade ashore in droves, boatload after boatload. Close to three hundred men and women landed, fouling our streams with their filth. Their priests planted a cold iron cross on the beach and tainted our land with their blessings. We’d fled to the farthest corner of the world to escape their tyranny and yet somehow, here they were on the very shores of our sacred Avalon.

“All the magical creatures took flight at the sight of them. We hid far into the woods and watched from the hills. We hoped they’d take what they needed and leave. But instead they began to set up camp, and soon another ship came and then another. Five ships sat in our harbor. How many more were on their way? We had no way of telling.