The Child Thief

PETER AWOKE TO the rooster’s crow. He sat up, inhaled the brisk
morning air, and wondered if the boy was about yet. He hopped down from
the tree. The sun was just peeping over the rise, and a fine mist covered the
freshly turned earth in the nearby fields. He relieved himself, then crouched
next to the oak, watching, waiting. He didn’t have a plan, not yet, not
beyond getting Edwin to come behind the tree so that he could put him in
that sack.

---

Men, women, and older children came out and began to go about their
day. Soon the air was alive with the clank of the smith’s hammer, livestock
being fed, the calls and grunts of men at field work, but still no sign of the
boy.
Peter began to fidget. He didn’t like being so close to the village, too
aware of the many men about. Finally he heard spirited shouts and caught
sight of Edwin and the other boy. Peter watched them head across the
square and into the stables. They reappeared a moment later carrying a
bucket in each hand, then disappeared into a line of trees at the bottom of a
slope. Peter checked for any nearby men, then dashed from haystack to
haystack, crossing the field to the trees.
He found them filling their buckets in a small brook. He slid behind a
thicket of blackberry bushes. The boys climbed carefully up the slope,
watching their step as they lugged the pails of water. Peter waited until they
were almost upon him, then leaped out. “Hi!”
The boys screamed, turned to run, and crashed into each other. Both
boys, their pails, and the water spilled back down the slope.
Peter fell to his knees, laughing so hard he had to clutch his belly.
The two boys exchanged terrified looks. Then Edwin’s face broke into a
grin. “Hey, it’s him!” he cried.
The other boy looked perplexed.
“It’s him,” Edwin repeated. “The wood elf! See, Otho. I told you.”
Edwin punched the other boy on the shoulder. “Now who’s the idjit?”
Otho squinted at Peter. “Are you really a wood elf?”
“His name’s Peter,” Edwin said. “Show him your ears, Peter.”
Peter pushed back his raccoon mask.
“See!”
“Well damn,” Otho said. “A wood elf. A real wood elf.” He reached out
and touched Peter, as though making sure he was real. “What are you doing
here?”
“Let’s play,” Peter said.
“Play?” Otho responded. “We can’t. We got all sorts of stupid chores to
do.”
“Not every day you get to play with a wood elf,” Edwin said.
“Well, yeah. That’s true,” Otho agreed. “But if we don’t get the hogs
watered, Papa will whip us.”

---

“I know lots of wood-elf games,” Peter said. “They’re a lot more fun
than carrying buckets of water about.” A sly grin lit up his face. “We could
play for a little while. Over behind the haystacks, near that big tree. Where
no one can see us.”
The boys returned Peter’s sly grin, because Peter’s grin was a most
contagious thing.
Edwin nudged Otho. “Wood-elf games. I’ve never played wood-elf
games.”
“Well,” Otho said. “Maybe for just a little while.”
“Great!” Peter said. “Follow me. And remember, we can’t be seen.” He
took off in a crouch. The two boys followed him up the path, mimicking his
every move.
They reached the haystacks, stopped. Peter peered around, making sure
the way was clear.
“Hey, Peter,” Edwin called. “Watch this.” The boy scrambled to the top
of the haystack. Peter started to warn him to get down before someone saw
him, when the boy leaped across to another haystack. Edwin poked his head
back over the stack. “Bet you can’t do that.”
Peter frowned. “Bet I can,” he said and leaped from one haystack to the
next. And for the next hour, they jumped haystacks, raced, played tag and
hide-and-seek. Peter forgot about the sack, the rope and bludgeon, even
about the men, he was having too much fun. Soon, they’d lost their shirts—
Peter only in his loincloth—their torsos glistening in the hot morning sun,
covered from head to toe in mud, leaves, straw, and big, fat grins.
They were mighty berserkers now, and a particularly tall haystack
behind the stable was a terrible dragon. In a ferocious attack, Peter leaped
upon the haystack and tried to climb to its summit. The stack tilted, Peter
yelped, and the whole heap toppled over, pinning him beneath a blanket of
soggy hay.
The boys ran up and began to dig Peter out. When they uncovered his
face, Peter spat out a mouthful of straw, began to cough, then laughed. He
choked, spat out more straw, then laughed some more. Soon they were all
laughing so hard that they rolled on their backs, helpless.
“Hey,” Peter hollered, between bouts of giggling. “Hey…get…me…out
of here.”
“THERE YOU ARE!” came a woman’s sharp, angry shout.

---

The laughter died. Peter’s heart leaped into his throat as he suddenly
remembered just where he was.
“What nonsense is this? I’ve been—” She stopped in mid-sentence, her
mouth agape. “Who…? What…?” She let out a scream.
Peter twisted around to look at her and she pointed at him with one fat,
trembling finger and screamed again. “GOBLIN! GOBLIN!”
An older bald man and a wiry pockmarked youth stuck their heads out
from the stable. They saw Peter and came in at a run. The youth carried a
pitchfork.
Peter yanked his arms out from the hay and dug frantically to free his
legs.
The two boys looked from their mother to Peter. “No, Mama,” Edwin
cried. “He’s not a goblin. He’s a—”
Peter jerked one leg free and kicked and twisted to free the other.
“GET AWAY FROM IT!” the woman screeched. “EDWIN! OTHO!
HEAR ME, GET AWAY FROM IT NOW!” When the boys didn’t move, she
ran up and snatched them back.
The pockmarked youth raced up, raised the pitchfork, and drove it right
for Peter’s face.
Peter jerked his head away, but not fast enough. One of the prongs
sliced down the side of his scalp. He felt a red-hot slash of pain and let out a
howl. In a wide-eyed fit of panic, he kicked his remaining leg free and
scrambled up. He almost made his feet when someone grabbed his arm and
jerked him off the ground. The bald man slammed a huge fist into the side
of Peter’s face. Peter’s head exploded with white light and pain. His legs
buckled, but before he could fall the man punched him again, a hard jab in
the ribs, sending the boy tumbling backward. Peter hit the ground in a heap
and everything went blurry.
“KILL IT!” the woman shouted.
Peter tried to suck in a breath but his mouth was full of something wet
and warm. He coughed violently, spraying the ground with his own blood.
The side of his face had gone numb. Through tears and blood he saw a
blurry figure moving toward him.
“NOW, KILL IT! QUICK!”
“I got it!” the youth cried.
Peter cleared his eyes in time to see the youth coming at him with the
pitchfork. Dizzy, and slow, Peter made it to his feet.

---

The youth jabbed him. Peter tried to twist out of the way, but the prongs
raked across his side, leaving behind three flesh-deep gashes.
The bald man made a grab. Peter ducked and ran, stumbling at first, but
once he got his feet under him, ran, ran like the wind into the forest.
Once within the trees, he collapsed to his knees, clutching his side, his
face clenched tight with pain. He let out a loud, hitching sob, then spat
repeatedly, trying to clear his mouth of blood.
They were yelling and pointing at him from the field. Several more men
and women had come around the stable. They weren’t following him, just
standing and pointing excitedly into the woods. He could see their faces,
could see the revulsion, the fear…the hatred.
Other men came up then. Men with thick, braided beards carrying great,
long swords. Peter ran.