Brom - The Child Thief

“PLEASE!” Peter screamed. “PLEASE STOP! PLEASE!” Peter’s screams turned to sobs. “Please don’t go.”

The moss man turned around. He looked at Peter and scratched his chin. Finally, after a long minute, he asked, “Can you catch spiders?”

“What?” Peter asked.

“Can you catch spiders? Lot of spiders in cave. Hate spiders. A-yuk.”

Peter didn’t want to go near any spiders, but he certainly didn’t want to be left in the woods either. He nodded. “Yes. I can catch spiders.”

The moss man considered while Peter shivered. Finally, he grunted, shuffled back, and untied the infant. “No more crying. Hate crying. You follow. Keep up or wolf get you.”

Peter crawled to his feet. He could barely stand, his feet were so numb. The moss man took off at a hearty pace and Peter tried to follow but fell after only a few steps. The frozen ground bit into his knees and hands and he let out a cry. He got up and tried again, but the ice cut into the bottom of his tender feet. After only a dozen steps he fell again. He tried crawling, but the pain was too much. He stopped. He could no longer see the moss man. It was dark, it was cold, he was lost, his knees were bleeding, he was naked and freezing to death, and there was a wolf somewhere nearby. Peter began to cry.

The moss man reappeared, glaring at Peter with his small, dark eyes. His nose wrinkled up in disgust. “No crying. Hate crying.”

Peter tried to stop, but couldn’t. Instead he began to bawl openly and loudly.

The man put his hands over his ears. “Stop that,” he groaned and started away. He made about six strides then stopped. He looked back at Peter, brows drawn together. Finally he let out a great sigh and strolled back to the infant. “Okay. Okay. I not leave. Now stop crying.”

Peter continued to wail.

The moss man pointed to the hill behind him. “Goll’s hill.” He thumbed his chest. “Goll.”

Peter wiped his nose with the back of his arm and fought back the tears. “I’m Peter,” he said between big, hitching breaths.

Goll hunkered down. “Come, Peter. Climb up.”

Peter climbed onto the man’s back, got a firm hold on the man’s hair, and clung tight as the moss man got to his feet.

Goll handed Peter the wolf’s ear. “Here, for you.” He wrapped Peter’s feet in his large, warm hands and away they went, following the icy trail up the hill while Peter chewed on the wolf’s ear.

They came to a dark hollow dug into a ledge; to Peter it looked like little more than a hole. Dirty straw, tuffs of greasy fur, and gnawed bones littered the worn earthen entrance. Shoes hung across the entranceway, sandals and boots, about a dozen all together: small shoes—children’s shoes.

Goll set Peter down and grinned. “Goll’s home. Very warm. Very nice.”

“JUST WHERE THEfuck you been?”

Recalled to the present, the child thief started. He glanced over his shoulder into the apartment. There was a light on now and through the thin, sagging curtain he saw a grotesquely large woman standing in her bra and panties, hands on hips. She was addressing the man leaning against the open front door.

It was raining, a light drizzle that turned the gray public housing to the color of mud.

“I asked you a question,” the woman continued, her voice rising. “I said, just where da fuck has your ass been all night?”

The man shrugged. He didn’t come in.

“How come your shirt’s inside out, Germaine? Huh? How come?”

Germaine looked down at his shirt, then back up at the woman and shrugged again.

“You been with that bitch again. Ain’t you?”

The man didn’t answer.

“Don’t give me that look,” she shrieked. “You know who I’m talking about!” The woman snatched a bottle off a TV tray and pointed it at the man.

“Woman,” the man said, his speech slurred. “You need to calm down. It ain’t like—”

“Goddamn you, Germaine! GODDAMN YOU! ” She threw the bottle. It exploded against the door right next to the man’s head. Then she was slapping him.

The man shoved her away. “You need to back off, bitch! You need to just back—”

She came at him again and this time he punched her hard in the stomach, hard enough to knock her into the living room and onto the floor. The woman lay there, making a dreadful sound, like someone choking to death.

“CRAZY BITCH!” the man shouted. “CRAZY FUCKING BITCH!” He slammed the door and was gone.

The woman didn’t get up. She just lay there clutching her stomach and bawling.

Peter had had enough. He hopped down from the balcony; keeping his head low, he walked the buildings, his golden eyes peeping out from beneath his hood, scanning the courtyards, the playgrounds. His thoughts kept returning to the Captain, the barrels. Time was running out; he had to find a child today.

Light droplets of warm rain sprinkled down onto Nick’s face. He could feel the wetness running into his eyes, his mouth, his hair, pulling him out from the depths of sleep. Nick wiped his face, forced himself awake, and blinked up into the faint, misty morning glow.

Three tiny blue people, no bigger than mice, were peeing on him.

“What the fuck,” Nick cried. He sat up fast and rammed his head against the top of his cage. Cage? He spat repeatedly, trying to rid his mouth of the salty-sour taste. What the hell was he doing in a cage? He shook his head and wiped the pee out of his eyes, then spat some more.

There were at least two dozen of them staring down at him, some no bigger than grasshoppers, others closer to the size of rats—thin, spindly, humanlike creatures with silky insect wings and sharp whip tails. They were nude, their skin a deep sapphire blue, with wild manes of black or blue hair running down their backs.

Peter had said something about faeries, and pixies, and goblins. Of course Peter had said a lot of nutty things. Were these pixies? It really didn’t matter to Nick at the moment; he was more concerned with the way these creatures were looking at him, like he’d be good to eat.

“Shoo,” he whispered.

They continued to stare at him with their cruel, unblinking eyes.

“Shoo,” he said louder, waving his hand at them.

They hissed and bared needle-sharp teeth.

“Skat!” Nick said and swatted at the top of the cage.

They leaped up as one, the air suddenly alive with the humming of wings. Hovering, they shrieked at him like feral cats.

Nick slid as far away from them as he could get. He grabbed a handful of straw from the bottom of his cage and threw it at them. Startled, a small brown mouse darted out from beneath his cage, bounding across the stone floor.

The pixies were at it in a flash. The mouse let out a skin-crawling squeal as they pounced. Fur, flesh, and blood spattered the stones, a dog pile of snarling frenzied blue bodies as they fought viciously over the choicest bits.

“Christ,” Nick whispered, clutching his hands to his chest. “I gotta get out of here.” He glanced about the gloom and noticed there were at least a dozen kid-sized cages stacked against one wall. Like his, they were built from branches and twine. Many were covered in raggedy tarps looking for all the world like rotting corpses of beasts. A cluster of spears leaned against one another, teepee-style, and in their center—Nick swallowed—a human skull.

A sharp clack came from somewhere behind him.

The pixies stopped fighting and stood up, their faces alert, heads flicking about as they searched the darkness.