Dan Smith - The Child Thief

Reaching the far side of the hill, I came to the edge of the trees and looked up at the crest of it. There were rocks here too, but the drifts were deeper on this side so they weren’t much more than just black tips like islands in the vast sea of snow.

I used the scope of my rifle to inspect the hilltop, but saw nothing that gave me any reason not to move on.

There was no cover, so I marched straight up, exposed to anyone who may have been watching, but I almost didn’t care any more. I was cold and hungry and tired. My feet were sore and my shoulders hurt. The muscles in my thighs were burning from the strained walking, lifting my knees high or dragging them through the snow. My eyes stung from the harsh white of the snow.

And still I kept on. Head down, shoulders slumped, I kept on and I waited for the impact. As I climbed the incline, my body anticipated the penetrating bullet; my ears listened for the crack of a rifle shot. But my mind was hardly aware of that expectation.

My mind worked only to drive my legs, to push me on towards the cluster of trees and the hut within them.

As much as I could, I kept the rocks between me and the hut, trying to break any line of sight. From time to time I stopped to take a breath and look up, but now the hut was hidden, obscured by the closeness of the coppice trees growing thick and multi-trunked.

I rested when I reached the first tree, a single heavy stump with several ancient and gnarled stems thrown up and out from it like the fingers of a witch’s hand. I sank to my knees – my legs already too numb to feel the cold – and took shelter in those fissured knuckles, breathing heavily, wishing I was younger and fitter.

The hut was just a short distance ahead; I could see glimpses of it through the trees. I sniffed hard and looked around, taking the revolver from my pocket. I double-checked it was loaded, ensured the cylinder revolved when I cocked the hammer, then I stood and propped myself against the tree for a few seconds, taking a few last moments to regain my strength before I went on.

Movement was easier here. The trees were dense and they had protected the ground from the heaviest of the snow. And now I was rested, I felt a renewed sense of urgency, a greater need for caution.

I kept my movements quiet, sliding my feet to avoid crunching the ice crust. I looked for tracks but saw none. And when I was closer, I stopped and took stock of what lay ahead.

A rudimentary fence had been constructed from branches of similar size, stripped of leaves. The wood was dusted with snow and ice, and was faded and grey as if it had been here for a long time. At the front there was a gap where there may have once been a gate.

The hut itself was small and in bad repair. It looked to have been built from trees like the one I was standing beside, the trunks cut, stripped and laid on their sides. In places I could see gaps in the walls where the crooked trunks didn’t quite come together. There was one window facing me, just a hole in the side of the building with nothing to protect it.

There was no sign of life, nor was there anything to suggest there had been any life here in the recent past. If there had been tracks, the recent snowfall had covered them. It was as if no one had been here for years.

I stayed back, inspecting the area, looking for the best way into the hut, but could see nothing other than the open window on this side. I considered where I would be if I were the child thief. The open window was the most obvious place. The building was poorly built but it would be warmer inside, and a sharpshooter can lie in wait for a long time, so it would help to be warm. But the roof would also be a good spot. From there he would have an excellent view all around him.

I looked for any sign of movement, any disturbance in the snow around the edge of the roof, but there was nothing so I swallowed hard and took my first steps towards the fence.

Nothing.

I crept closer, keeping alert, watching the woods but always returning my gaze to inspect that open window, glance up at the roof.

No movement.

I reached the fence and crouched low, waiting again. I scanned the forest, tried to look into the darkness inside the hut. I was close enough to the building now that any attack from the roof was unlikely.

After a few moments I tested the fence with my weight and, thinking it strong enough, put my foot on the bottom rail and swung my leg over. But I had miscalculated, and the crosspiece snapped under me. My legs were either side when the dry wood gave with a loud crack.

I dropped onto the top rail, my full weight and momentum breaking that one too, bringing down a whole section of the fence. I collapsed and fell to one side, dropping my rifle and revolver into the snow, my legs tangled in the broken wood. I didn’t have time to lie and recover my breath; I didn’t have time for anything. If the child thief was here, he would know I was here too. All the care I’d taken in my approach was for nothing now.

I rolled to one side, pushed the remnants of the fence away from my legs and scrambled to a pile of cut logs. There I got to my feet and went to the shack, pressing myself against the wall.

I concentrated on bringing my breathing under control, trying to stop the thudding of my heart. All I could hear was the blood in my ears, the rhythm of my body, but I needed all my senses. I stayed low, my head turning, waiting, but nothing came.

No figure rose in the woods. No dark shadow came round the corner. No sounds other than my own. No shots.

I waited a long time, crouched in that corner between the wall and the logs, listening for the child thief. I stayed until my joints began to freeze and my teeth began to chatter. I remained motionless, part of the cabin, part of the woods themselves, and yet I felt exposed. I had no weapon, no means of defence. I stared at the place where my weapons had sunk beneath the snow by the broken fence and, when I finally moved, muscles screaming, my first thought was to retrieve the revolver.

I edged towards the broken fence, allowing myself only the briefest look at the place where I had fallen before I scanned the surroundings once again, my eyes moving constantly as I put a hand to the ground and searched.

I ignored the rifle and satchel and closed my cold fingers around the grip of the revolver before I scuttled back to the place by the cabin wall to check the weapon was still good.

Satisfied it would still work and feeling more secure now I was armed again, I stood and edged behind the pile of logs, pressing my back to the cabin wall as I approached the open window.

I raised the revolver so it was out in front of me, and from that angle I could see a tiny dark slice of the inside of the hut. Just a shadow. And I knew that to see anything more I would have to put my head close to the window – a perfect moment for the child thief to strike. But I saw no other option. If I tried the door, my enemy might be waiting for me just the same as he might be watching the window.

I prepared myself for the worst. I froze everything from my thoughts except for this moment, this second . I visualised what I was going to do. I was going to move quickly, turn and point the revolver into the cabin. I was going to shoot at anything that might be a man. If there was anything other than a child inside that cabin, I was going to kill it. I saw it in my mind. It was as good as done.

I took a deep breath and moved, standing, turning, pointing the revolver through the window.

A shard of sunlight cut through the trees, falling directly into the room. It slipped across the floor as an illuminated marker, pointing to the figure lying there. A dark shape, too big and bulky to be a child. And in that tiny slice of time I wondered if the child thief had grown tired of waiting; if he had fallen asleep at his post.