The Child Thief

they look more alarmed than before—angry even. His smile faltered and all
at once he needed his mother, needed her badly, needed the reassurance that
only her soft bosom and warm arms could provide. He put his arms out and
took a step toward her. “Mama,” he called.
His mother stood up, knocking her chair over, her hands clutched at her
mouth.
Peter stopped. “Mama?”
Fear—it was on all their faces. But there was more than fear on his
mother’s face. Her eyes glared at him, as though accusing him of some
horrible deed. What did I do? Peter wondered. What did I do?
The old lady leaped up, brandishing a large wooden spoon.
“CHANGELING!” she cried. “GET IT OUT OF HERE!”
“NO!” his mother cried. She shook her head. “He’s no changeling! It’s
HIS baby. The one from the woods.” She looked around at them, her eyes
wild and desperate. “Now, do you see? Now do you believe?”
No one was listening to her; all their eyes were on Peter.
“KEEP IT AWAY FROM THE CHILDREN!” the old woman cried.
The old man herded the younger children away from the table, pushing
them to the back of the room as far away from Peter as he could.
Peter’s mother grabbed the old woman’s sleeve. “Stop it! Stop it!
Peter’s no changeling, Mama. I wasn’t lying. He took me—the forest
spirit.” She pointed at Peter. “The forest spirit gave me that child.”
The old woman stared at Peter’s mother in horror. “No, child, don’t
speak of it. Never speak of it.” She shook her daughter. “It is not yours. Do

---

you understand me? It’s a changeling.” The old woman glared at Peter.
“ASGER, GET IT OUT OF HERE BEFORE IT HEXES US ALL!”
One of the men pulled the long meat fork from out of the ham, the
oldest boy grabbed the broom, and together they moved toward Peter.
Through a blur of tears Peter saw them coming for him; the man that
he’d thought of as papa jabbed the fork while the boy circled around him.
Peter took a step back.
“CATCH IT!” the old woman howled. “Don’t let it get away!”
The broom slapped Peter from behind, knocking him to the gritty dirt
floor. The boy pressed the broom onto Peter to hold him, the sharp twigs
digging and poking into Peter’s soft skin.
“Don’t spill its blood in the house!” the old woman yelled. “Or there
will be sickness upon us all. Take it into the forest. Leave it for the beasts.”
Hard, rough hands held him as the man corded prickly twine about his
limbs, the twine bit into his skin, binding his arms to his body and his legs
together.
As the man and boy donned boots and furs, the old woman brought
Peter’s basket and blanket. “Take anything that it has soiled. I will get the
grease.” She poured warm grease from the ham into a pot and brought it
over.
The door was pulled open and a biting winter wind blew in. They took
Peter outside into the night. Peter got one last look at his mother. She was
on the floor, sobbing, her two sisters kneeling beside her, holding her.
“Mama,” Peter cried. She didn’t look up. The door shut.
The old woman poured the warm grease all over Peter. It stung his eyes,
soaked into the blanket and quickly congealed into a cold paste on his skin.
“It will make things go quicker,” the old woman told them. “Now take the
creature far into the woods and leave it.”
The old woman gave the man a wad of wool. “Put this in your ears. No
matter what it says, remember, that wicked thing is not of your loins.”
Both the man and boy held a torch. They threaded the broom through
the handle of the basket and each carried an end. They marched off down
the icy trail, the old woman watching them go from the door stoop.
The cold bit at the infant’s tiny nose. “Papa,” Peter called. “Papa,
please. I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be good. Papa? Please, Papa. Papa?” But
no matter how Peter pleaded, the man wouldn’t look at him.

---

The man and the boy marched steadily, their mouths set tight, neither
spoke as they tracked deeper and deeper into the dark, frigid forest.
Peter had no real idea how much time passed, but when they finally
stopped, the moon was peeking down at him from high in the cloudy sky.
They set him in a clearing surrounded by high shrub and an outcropping of
crumbling rocks, then left in a hurry without a single look back.
Peter watched the tree limbs waving to the moon. Thick clouds tumbled
in and the shadows wove together. He struggled to free himself, but the
bindings were too tight. His fingers and toes grew numb and the cold
became unbearable. Peter shook all over. “Mama,” he called. “Mama.”
Over and over he called her name. His mother never came but something
else did. Peter heard a loud sniffing and fell quiet.
A large shadow emerged from the bush. Its shape reminded him of the
hounds back at the house. The dim moonlight glinted off the beast’s black
eyes as it sniffed the air. Peter sensed the beast’s hunger. He tried not to
make any sounds, but couldn’t help whimpering as the wolf slowly circled
in on him.
The wolf bit one end of the blanket and tugged, tipping the basket over
and spilling the infant out onto the frozen ground. Now fully exposed to the
winter air, Peter began to wail. The wolf licked away the grease from the
blanket, then moved to Peter.
It shoved its snout into his face, licking the grease from his cheeks,
neck, and along his belly, then clamped its jaws on Peter’s leg and began to
drag him into the bush. Peter yowled, but the wolf only clamped down
tighter. There came a clatter from the rocks. The wolf let go of Peter and
jerked its head up, ears alert.
“A-yuk,” came a gruff, gravelly voice.
There, on the flat outcropping of stone, stood a man. Only it wasn’t a
man, really, as he couldn’t have stood much higher than the wolf’s shoulder.
He was short in the legs, long in the arms, and solid through the chest and
shoulders. His head was large, out of proportion, and grew straight from his
shoulders. His skin was gray and gritty like the earth itself. He wore a
patchwork of mangy animal furs, covered in dirt and alive with moss. His
eyes were no more than black specks set deep beneath his protrusive brow.
He saw Peter and grinned, exposing black gums and a sharp underbite of
twisted teeth.

---

The wolf’s fur bristled, and a mean growl rumbled up from deep within
its throat.
The moss man hopped off the rock and into the clearing. “GO!” he
yelled and clapped his hands together.
The wolf dropped its head, peeled back its lips, displaying an arsenal of
long, dangerous teeth, and snarled. The moss man let loose a snarl of his
own and before Peter could blink, charged and leaped upon the wolf. He
wrestled a hold about the beast’s mane, then bit into its ear, snarling and
jerking his head side to side until he tore the wolf’s ear completely off.
The wolf howled, kicked, and spun.
The moss man let go and sent the animal yelping away into the bushes
with a solid kick to the hindquarters. He spat the ear onto the ground and
stared at Peter while licking the blood from his lips. “A baby,” he said, then
picked up a twig and poked Peter. “Make good stew. A-yuk.” His speech
came out slow and staggered, like words were unnatural for him.
“Please don’t eat me,” Peter pleaded. “Please. I’ll be good.”
The moss man’s brow rose with surprise then drew together
suspiciously. “Baby can talk?” He crouched down, stuck his wide, flat nose
into the crook of Peter’s neck, and sniffed deeply. Up close Peter could see
all manner of bugs and worms crawling around in the man’s hair. The moss
man looked puzzled. He wiped his finger through the bloody bite marks on
Peter’s leg and dabbed the blood to the tip of his tongue. The moss man’s
beady eyes grew round and he spat into the dirt. “Faerie blood!” he sneered.
“Faerie blood is bad. Very bad!” His shoulders slumped, his face grew
glum. “Can’t eat baby.”
The moss man bent and picked up the wolf’s ear, stuck the bloody end
in his mouth, and started away.
For a second, Peter was relieved to see him go, then the bite of the cold
reminded him that he was tied up, naked, and there was a hungry wolf
nearby. “WAIT!” he cried. “Don’t leave me here!”
The moss man kept walking.