The Child Thief

Chapter Six

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Wolf
The child thief sat on a bench near the playground.
Buildings loomed over him on all five sides of the large courtyard. As
morning pushed into noon, the beehive of apartments began to wake up. He
scanned the balconies, alert for any sign of wayward youth, but mostly
found himself confronted with the same tired, hungover faces of the adults.
They congregated in small clusters, lounging listlessly about the balconies,
often with their apartment doors propped open and stereos blasting out into
the courtyard. There was laughter here and there, but for the most part it
sounded mean. Many of the people just stared blankly, their eyes glazed
over, reminding Peter of the dead in the Mist.
A gleeful squeal caught Peter’s ear, followed by a burst of spirited
laughter that drew him like candy.
A few younger kids had braved the drizzle to slip down the slide and
climb the monkey bars. They formed teams and began an energetic game of
tag.
The child thief watched them, smiling. Here, among so much drudgery
—oblivious to the profane graffiti marring every available surface—these
children could find joy. They can always find joy, he thought, because they
still have their magic.
Peter found himself wanting nothing more than to run and play with
them, the same deep desire he had when he first came across children all
those long years ago. Only things hadn’t gone so well then. His smile faded.
No, that had been a day of hard lessons.
HE WAS SIX years old by then, slipping silently through the woods in his
raccoon pelt. It flapped out behind him like a cape, the long striped tail
bouncing in rhythm with his stride. He wore the head pulled over his face,
like a hood, and his gold-flecked eyes peered out from the raccoon mask,
scanning the woods, searching for game. It was spring, so he wore only a
loincloth and rawhide boots beneath his coon skin. He carried a spear in
each hand and a flint knife tucked into his belt. His body was painted with

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berry juice and mud to disguise his scent. Goll had taught him that, as well
as the importance of always carrying two spears: a light one for game and a
stouter one for protection against the larger beasts in the forest.
Peter placed a handful of walnuts in the center of a clearing, then
ducked beneath a tall cluster of bushes. When he spied two brown squirrels
in a nearby tree, he cupped his hands and mimicked a turkey foraging. Goll
had taught him this trick too, that it was better to mimic an animal other
than the one you were hunting, because rarely could you fool an animal
with its own call, and nothing brought game quicker than the sound of other
animals feeding.
Sure enough, both squirrels scurried his way. Peter slowly set the larger
spear down and hoisted the light spear to his shoulder. The squirrels saw the
nuts, saw each other, and raced for the prize.
Peter stood and threw. The spear hit its mark, leaving one squirrel
behind as the other raced away, chattering angrily at Peter.
Peter whooped and leaped up. No spider soup for me, he thought.
Tonight I get squirrel stew.
A wolf trotted into the clearing and stood between Peter and his prize.
The wolf had only one ear.
Peter froze.
The beast locked its dark eyes on Peter. Its lips peeled back as though it
were actually grinning.
Peter snatched up his heavy spear and thrust it out before him. “No,”
Peter said. “Not this time.”
A low growl rumbled from the wolf’s throat.
Peter held his ground. The wolf had plagued him relentlessly over the
last several months. Every time Peter made a kill, the wolf showed up and
stole his meal. Peter was tired of spider soup. Today he would keep his
prize.
The wolf’s eyes laughed at Peter, taunting the boy, daring him, as
though it would like nothing better than to tear his throat open.
Peter swallowed loudly, his mouth suddenly dry. Goll had told him there
was only one way to master the wolf: to attack it head-on. “Wolf is hunter,”
he’d said. “When you hunt wolf, wolf get mixed up. No know what to do.
Then you beat wolf. You will see. Show fear,” Goll had laughed. “Then
wolf will eat you. A-yuk.”
Now, Peter told himself. Rush in. Stab it through the heart.

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The wolf lowered its head and began to slowly circle the boy. Peter
knew what the wolf was up to, they’d played out this dance many times.
The wolf was trying to cut off his retreat, trying to get between him and the
nearest tree. Peter knew if he took his eyes off the wolf, even for a second,
it would attack.
The wolf let loose a loud snarl.
Peter glanced toward the tree.
The wolf charged.
Peter yelped, dropped his spear, and ran. Fortunately, even at six, Peter
was as fleet and agile as a squirrel. He dashed across the clearing and
leaped for the tree, catching a low branch, then swung up. There came a
loud clack of teeth and a sharp tug that almost pulled him from the branch.
Peter scampered up a few more limbs before daring a glance below.
There, looking up at him, was the wolf, the raccoon tail dangling from
its jaws.
The wolf circled the tree a few times, then trotted over to the dead
squirrel.
Peter watched from his small, uncomfortable perch as the wolf
devoured his dinner.
When the wolf was finished, it curled up beneath the tree and went to
sleep.
As the long day slowly passed, Peter did his best to keep his legs from
falling asleep and himself from falling out of the tree. By dusk, his whole
body was numb and he had resigned himself to a miserable night.
“Well, look there,” called a gritty voice. “A Peterbird.”
Both Peter and the wolf looked up. Goll appeared above them on a short
ledge.
Goll glanced at the wolf, what was left of the squirrel, then back up at
Peter. He grinned. “You feed old one-ear again? A-yuk.”
Peter’s face colored and he looked away.
Goll laughed.
Goll leaped down from the stones and strolled through the underbrush
toward the clearing. The wolf, knowing the routine, simply gave Goll a
disdainful look and loped off.
Peter dropped from the tree, retrieved his spears, and slunk over to Goll.
Goll held up a large rabbit. “Goll will eat good tonight.” He nudged the
remains of the squirrel with his toe. “Look like Peter get spider soup again.

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A-yuk.”
Peter’s shoulders slumped. “Ah, Goll. C’mon.”
“You want to eat good. You must hunt good.”
Peter kicked at the scraps of squirrel fur and followed Goll glumly back
to the cave.