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.”

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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,

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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.”