The Child Thief

PETER ARRIVED AT the village well after dark. His feet and legs ached,
his stomach growled. But he ignored his body’s grumblings, there was only
one thing on his mind—the boy.
He waited in the trees until the men finished putting away the beasts,
until there was no one moving in the night but him. There were a dozen
roundhouses similar to the one he’d been born in, plus a sprawling stable.
These were built around a large square. Pigs grunted, and chickens clucked
in a pen somewhere.
Peter slipped silently in among the structures, feeling exposed out
among the buildings, sure he was being watched, that the huge, brutish men
were waiting for him around every corner. He pulled out his flint knife and
ducked from shadow to shadow, sniffing, alert to the slightest sound. He
wrinkled his nose; the village stank of beasts, sour sweat, and human waste.
Peter wondered why anyone would want to live here instead of in the
woods.
He pushed up against the boy’s house, sliding his back along the rough
stone and sod wall, creeping up to a small, round window. Dogs began
barking from inside and Peter’s heart drummed in his chest. A deep, gruff
voice quieted the dogs. Peter tried to peek in the window, but the heavy
shutters were closed and locked tight. He plucked at the mud between the
slats with his knife until a thin beam of light appeared. Peter peered in.
The room looked for all the world as his home had when he was an
infant: the large hearth, the kettles and pots, the spruce hanging from the
rafters. The whole family was seated around the table, passing bowls of
potatoes and cabbage, the boys giggling and carrying on.
Peter inhaled, and the rich smell of smoked meat and baked bread
brought memories of his own family flooding vividly back to him. An

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overwhelming longing hit him so hard that his legs gave way and he slid
down the wall and sat in the dirt. He hugged his legs as his eyes welled up.
He shut them tight and hot tears rolled down his cheeks. “Mama,” he
whispered. Her laugh, her broad smile, her sweet smell, all of it felt so
close, as though he could just walk into this house and she’d be there—
would call him to her, would crush him against her warm bosom and sing
him lullabies. Peter ground his teeth together and wiped angrily at his tears.
He knew very well what would happen if he knocked on this door.
A gale of laughter escaped through the window, not just the boys’, but
the whole family, all of them laughing together. Peter glared into the night.
The laughter continued, pricking at him. He jabbed his knife into the dirt.
“Who cares?” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Who wants to be
stuck in a stupid stinky house, with mean stupid grown-ups anyhow?”
His stomach growled and he stood up. He made his way toward the
stable, seeking out the henhouse. Maybe I’ll burn their house down. Then
they’ll know how it is to be out in the cold.
He found the henhouse, silently slid over the latch, and slipped in. A
few hens raised their heads, clucked, and eyed him suspiciously. Peter
waited for them to settle, then helped himself to all the eggs he could find.
He spied several burlap sacks heaped in the corner, picked one up, and
measured it against himself. About right. He left the coup, prowled the
stable until he found some rope and a bludgeon. He held the short, stout
piece of wood out, tested its weight. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, but
brought it along anyway, just in case, because he’d never stolen a child
before and thought a good, stout stick might just be in order.
He hid the stash behind a giant oak tree that stood on the edge of a field.
He climbed up into the oak to sleep, but sleep didn’t come easy. Tomorrow,
he thought. Going to catch me a Edwin.