The Child Thief

Chapter Ten

---

Ginny Greenteeth
Nathan sat on the curb, his face in his hands. He’d been
sitting like that for close to an hour.
They were at the docks; the housing projects, the drug dealers, the
gangs, all left far behind. The Mist was brewing, swirling up from the bay
in front of them, waiting.
Peter wanted to get moving, anxious to get back, but knew better than to
pressure or rush the kid. The next step was delicate. The boy had to truly
want to follow him or he would never survive.
“I meant it when I said you could come home with me.”
The boy didn’t seem to hear him. Once out of the housing project, the
kid had only talked about his brother.
“It’s a really cool fort. You’ll like it. I’m sure.”
The boy wiped his nose, but didn’t look up. “Yeah, that sounds fine,” he
mumbled. “I got no place else, y’know. With Tony gone I got no one.”
“You’ll have lots of friends soon. We need to hurry though, before the
Mist leaves.”
“Okay, man. Just give me another sec.” The kid wiped his eyes on the
front of his shirt and got to his feet. He saw the mist and frowned. “That’s
kinda creepy. You sure we wanna go that way?”
“The Mist will take us to Avalon, a magical place where you never have
to grow up and no grown-ups are allowed.”
Nathan gave Peter a quizzical look. “You’re a strange dude. You know
that?”
“Do you want to go?” Peter asked.
“Sure, why not.”
“Do you go willingly?”
“Sure.”
“Well then, you have to say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say, ‘I go willingly.’”
“Man, you’re too much. Okay, I go willingly.”

---

THE CHILD THIEF led, Nathan followed, and the Mist swirled around
them. Peter’s mouth filled with the chalky taste of the ghostly vapor. It
made him think of ground-up bones and fish scales. It hadn’t always been
that way; he remembered the first time—all those years ago.
After killing the wolf, Peter had continued his trek deeper and deeper
into the forest, determined to get as far away from the world of men as he
could. The worn raccoon skin was gone, in its place the thick silver pelt of
the one-eared wolf. The wolf’s head was pulled over his face like a mask.
Hard, intense eyes peered out from the dark sockets, alert, scanning the
woods for prey and predator alike, but beneath those hard eyes was a six-
year-old boy alone in the deep wild woods.
His days were spent following deer trails and creeks, hunting small
game. Not knowing where he was going, only knowing what he was getting
away from. Near dusk of each day he would seek out a hollow tree or a
stone crevasse to curl up within, to try and get some sleep while the larger
animals prowled the night.
On the fourth day he felt eyes on him. The forest had begun to change,
the trees tightening around him, almost as though herding him this way or
that. He heard unfamiliar bird calls, and the whining cries and chirps of
insects that sounded all too close to speech.
Other than a few handfuls of nuts and wild berries, Peter hadn’t eaten
for two days. He found signs of game, heard them, but never saw them. He
felt he was going in circles, his uncanny sense of direction somehow thrown
off. He tried to think of Goll’s voice telling him to be strong and brave, but
when he came upon the standing stone, the same one he’d passed several
hours before, he collapsed exhausted. He sat against the stone, cradling his
legs to his chest, and fought to keep away the tears.
Laughter brought him to his feet. A girl, not much older than himself,
stood looking down at him from atop a short rise. She had long white hair
and wore a short white gown of such a lightweight fabric that it almost
floated around her. She flashed him a mischievous smile, then darted away.
Peter stood frozen, unsure what to do, then heard her laugh again. There
was something unsettling about that laugh, something that made him feel it
wouldn’t be such a good idea to follow her, but curiosity got the better of
him and he sprinted up the path after her.

---

When he crested the rise, she was nowhere to be seen. He heard giggles.
There across the way, beside a crumbling ledge, two girls in white gowns
were holding hands. They looked like twins. One of them spoke into the
other’s ear. They glanced at him and burst into fresh giggling. He started
toward them and they skipped away behind the ledge.
As Peter ran to catch them, he realized the trees and underbrush were
becoming thicker, a maze of bushes and briars, of creepers and vines. He
wondered how he would ever find his way back to the trail. He rounded the
ledge and caught sight of their white gowns far down the embankment.
He caught up with them in a wide clearing. There were three of them
now, identical in every detail. They stood huddled together before a circle
of leaning stones. The stones appeared much older than the surrounding
rocks. No mold or moss grew on their surface, and all manner of strange
symbols ran up and down their sides, and among the stones—bones—all
sorts of bones.
The girls regarded him through slanted, silvery eyes. Peter could see the
tips of their pointed ears poking out from their hair. Their feet were bare
and dirty, their flesh so white as to almost be translucent. He could see the
spider-webbing of blue veins just beneath their skin. They smiled shyly at
him.
Now that Peter had caught up to them, he didn’t know what to do and
shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. Finally he raised his hand. “Hi.”
The girls burst out in giggles again and Peter flushed.
One of the girls slipped over to Peter. She traced a finger along his arm.
“What manner of creature are you?” she asked.
“I’m a Peter,” he said.
“What’s a Peter? Is it like a boy?”
“Of course, stupid,” the other one answered. “Can’t you see? He’s a
boy.”
“A boy,” the third one chimed in. “A little boy all alone in the forest?”
“What’s a little boy doing all alone in the forest?”
“I’m…well, I’m,” Peter started to say he was lost, but didn’t want to be
laughed at again. “I’m looking for friends to play with.”
The girls exchanged quick, knowing looks.
“So are we!” said one.
“Can’t believe the luck,” said another, laying a hand on Peter’s
shoulder.

---

“We can be playmates,” said the third as she slipped behind him,
sniffing lightly at his neck and hair.
“What sort of games do you like to play?” asked the first.
Peter shrugged. “All sorts.”
“So do we!” said the second.
“Come with us,” added the third.
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
Peter hesitated. “Are there grown-ups?”
“Grown-ups?” They looked puzzled.
“Oh, you mean men-kind,” said the first. “Blood bells no, boy. Not
where we’re going. Just fun and games.”
“Yes,” added the second. “Lots of wonderful games.”
“Come along,” said the third, and gestured for him to follow as the three
of them strolled in among the circle of stones.
Peter followed, then stopped. All the hair along his arms stood up, his
scalp felt prickly, and a strange tingling tickled his feet and hands. He
thought he heard chimes and singing—a lullaby maybe. The sound echoed
faintly about the stones.
“Oh, he doesn’t want to come,” said the first.
“Doesn’t want to play with us,” said the second.
“So sad,” added the third.
“Yes, I do,” said Peter.
“He’s afraid.”
“Am not.”
“Not just anyone can come, little Peter boy,” said the first.
“Only those who really wish to,” said the second.
“Wish it, Peter. Wish it and you can come and play with us,” called the
third.
The girls slipped into the very center of the ring of stones, to where a
flat round stone lay flush with the grass. Their bodies began to sparkle and
then, slowly, they faded away, leaving behind a glittering rain of golden
dust.
Peter jumped back, staring at the melting flakes of gold.
“Come, let’s play,” called the girls and laughed; their voices sounded far
away as though from the bottom of a well.

---

Peter glanced about; it was getting dark and cold. He heard the distant
call of a wolf, then several answering howls. He didn’t want to sleep in a
tree again, not tonight. He looked at the stones. Where else did he have to
go? He took a deep breath, bit his lip, and walked into the circle.
Nothing happened.
Peter closed his eyes. “I wish to follow them.”
Still nothing. He opened his eyes.
“I wish to follow,” he said, and this time he wished it with all his heart.
Golden sparkles flashed before his eyes, a silvery mist spun up around
his feet, and the forest and stones faded away. For a second he was falling.
His stomach lurched and Peter felt sure he would plummet to his death, but
instead the mist thickened, became buoyant, and he was swimming through
it, almost as though he could fly. He felt wind blowing across his face, and
the air was warm and sweet.
The stones reappeared, taking Peter by surprise. He tumbled across a
bed of moss, landing with his legs above his head against one of the
standing stones.
He was greeted with a burst of girlish laughter.
Peter righted himself and the world around him righted itself as well,
only right wasn’t the word that came to mind. Peter shook his head. The
stones were the same as before but the forest—oh my, the forest.
There was so much to see he didn’t know where to look first. Broad,
knobby tree trunks twisted their way upward into a canopy of vivid,
colorful leaves, their branches—dripping with vines, flowers, and fruit—
reached out, intertwining with one another. Warm, glowing rays of sunlight
pushed through the treetops, setting the thin ground mist aglow. Chunky,
gnarled roots crawled through the tangled undergrowth, and giant
mushrooms poked their speckled heads up from the lush moss and grass.
Wild flowers of every shape and variety dotted the trees, vines, and bushes,
each seemed to be trying to outdo the next in color and brilliance. But the
foliage wasn’t what held him spellbound, it was the little people, dozens
upon dozens of them. Some barely the size of bees, others as large as cats.
Most had wings: bird wings, insect wings, butterfly wings, bat wings.
Naked creatures of every imaginable color, some spotted or striped. They
buzzed and hummed, giggled and chirped. A thousand little songs forming
a gleeful symphony as they chased one another about the small clearing and
danced in and out of the beams of sunlight.

---

The girls were waiting for him along a thin, winding trail. He stepped
out of the circle and was struck by the smells; a thousand fragrances
perfumed the air. He inhaled deeply, letting the sweet air fill his lungs.
A host of the wee folk flew past his head, then began to circle him,
fluffing his hair, plucking at his wolf pelt, the soft humming of their wings
tickling him. Peter began to giggle. “Cut it out,” he laughed, and tried to
shoo them away.
Someone swatted him on the shoulder.
Peter turned around.
“You’re it!” cried one of the girls, and all three of them skipped away
down the path in a gale of laughter.
Peter grinned, couldn’t stop grinning. He gave chase, the swarm of little
people fluttering along after him.
The trail wove its way down a gradual slope and the forest began to
change. The ground beneath his feet became damp, then marshy. Peter
splashed across a muddy creek, then skirted around several weedy bogs.
Squat, twisted trees grew up from murky, misty pools, their bark slick,
black, and oily, thick moss dripping from their branches. The dim light
filtering through their brown, yellowy leaves cast everything in a shadowy
amber glow. The delicate scents of flowers and berries were replaced by the
sweet, spicy smell of fluff-mud, and the playful birdcalls with croaks and
deep bellows.
Peter stopped. He’d lost any sign of the girls. He noticed the little flying
people were no longer following him and realized he was alone. Something
splashed nearby and Peter jumped. He decided he must’ve gone the wrong
way and started to retrace his steps.
There they were—the three girls, as though they’d materialized out of
the musky air. They stood in front of the cascading leaves of a huge
weeping willow, just staring at him, their faces somber.
“Where’d you go—” he began, then caught movement behind them.
Someone was with them.
The shadowy shape of a woman slipped out from the curtain of leaves.
Peter stepped back, his hand dropping to the hilt of his knife. “A
grownup!” he hissed.
She was stout but curvy, wide through the hips and thighs. The light
danced across her face, revealing smoky, heavy eyelids and luminous,
swamp-green eyes.

---

Peter started to run when she called his name, her voice throaty, barely
more than a whisper. Yet he heard her well, as though she were beside him.
He hesitated.
“You’re most welcome here, sweet boy.” Her deep, rich voice blanketed
him, comforting, soothing, chasing away his fears.
She stepped forward into a soft ray of sunlight, the light glittering off
her dark, oily skin. Peter looked closer. Her skin was actually green, the
deep dark emerald of evergreen leaves. Her hair was green as well, a darker
shade, almost black. It flowed from beneath a skull cap drawn forward into
a widow’s peak across her forehead. The twisting weaves of hair snaked
down almost to her knees and draped across her face like a hood, keeping
all but her large eyes in shadow. Her thin, smoky robe clung to her like a
spider web, dripping from her in ropy strings, doing little to cover her full
breasts and the shadowy tuft between her legs. Bronze bracelets jangled
from her wrists and ankles, and a necklace of bone and claws hung about
her neck.
She smiled at Peter, strolled over to him, and slid an arm around his
shoulders. Her breath was hot, it smelled of honey, and when he inhaled, he
felt a drowsy warmth take him.
“Won’t you come in?” She gestured to a round hole dug into an
embankment beneath a thick overhang of straw and matted moss. Large,
pitted stones circled the entrance, each with the face of a brooding beast
carved into its surface. Dozens of dried gourds hung around the opening,
painted red, with bird-size holes cut into them. Small black bat-winged,
men-shaped creatures with long scorpion tails were perched or zipping in
and out of them.
It didn’t look like any place Peter wanted to go. He shook his head.
“I have fresh-baked gingerbread. All little boys like gingerbread. Don’t
they?”
The three girls nodded. “Most certainly they do, Mother.”
The woman put her full, wet lips to his ear, whispered to him. The
words were all gibberish to Peter, a strange song of curt, cutting sounds, but
the smell of baking bread and honey suddenly came alive. Peter’s stomach
growled and his mouth moistened. He licked his lips. He would really like
some gingerbread—whatever that was.
“Come along,” she murmured and ducked into the hole.

---

Peter didn’t think it would be a good idea to follow the woman into that
hole, didn’t think it would be a good idea to follow her anywhere, but his
mind felt syrupy and slow, and when the three girls took his hands and
pulled him along, he followed.
He stooped to avoid bumping the roots and glowing mushrooms as he
stumbled drunkenly down the long burrow. The tunnel opened up into a
small cavern of black rock and twisting roots. Amber stones burned beneath
a stack of branches in a wide earthen fireplace, bathing the cavern in their
soft caramel glow.
Peter’s foot caught on a hide and he fell sprawling atop a pile of plush
furs.
Bones, feathers, beads, dried flowers, and a variety of animal skulls
were strung together and dangled from the ceiling on long cords. Fat black
toads, great oily beetles, and colorful birds hung upside down from hooks,
staring at him with dead, glassy eyes. Scrolls and clay pots lay scattered
about on low-lying tables.
Peter caught movement among the crags and crevasses of the cavern,
thought he saw shapes crawling within the shadows. Then he spied the pile
of little cakes stacked in a clay bowl and could think of little else.
She crawled across the furs, carrying the bowl, sidling up next to him.
She slid a bare leg over him and put a cake to his lips. Peter took a bite.
It was sweet and warm, but oddly gooey in the middle. He ate it
anyway, then another, wanted more, but was having trouble chewing,
having trouble keeping his head up. The room was growing fuzzy, wobbling
somehow, like ripples across a pond. One moment he saw dozens of shiny
candles flickering down at him, then he’d blink and in their stead would be
eyes, hundreds of slanted yellow eyes.
She straddled him, leaning forward, letting her hair drape across his
face. She placed a warm hand on his stomach, running her fingers up his
chest, pushing the wolf pelt aside. She bent over and sniffed his hair, her
breasts sliding along his bare chest as she sniffed his face, down his neck,
then pressed her cheek against his chest. He felt the hot wetness of her
mouth on his nipple.
Peter felt his loins stir. He saw the three sisters behind the woman,
watching, their eyes wide, feverous, drool running shamelessly down their
chins.
“My, he is a firm one,” whispered the first.

---

“Rigid as a tent post,” chimed in the second.
“We will feed a long time on this one,” added the third and all three
giggled.
No, Peter tried to shout, but managed only a weak moan. He felt a sharp
sting then a burning at his nipple.
“Blood for the children. Blood for all,” the sisters said as one.
Peter caught movement above him—eyes, the yellow slanted eyes
slithering out from the shadows. Hundreds of them, twisted, deformed
creatures, some no bigger than newts, others the size of raccoons. Blotchy
gray skin rolled along their bony, cadaverous bodies as they slithered and
shimmied toward him, all grinning with long, needle-thin teeth.
He caught sight of the bowl of gingerbread cakes, only they weren’t
cakes at all, but fat, grubby larvae with little black heads. Again, Peter tried
to shout.
The woman convulsed, coughed violently, and sat up. Blood was
smeared all around her lips and mouth.
“Mother, what is it?” the sisters asked as one.
She coughed again, a retching cough. She clutched her throat, gagged,
and spat up, dousing Peter with a mouthful of bile and blood.
She howled, the horrible sound filling the small chamber.
The creatures froze in place; their eyes terrified.
She stared at Peter while a long string of red drool slid from her lips. “It
can’t be?” She shook her head. “How?”
She coughed again, spattered Peter’s face with more blood.
“Mother, what is it?” the sisters pleaded. “Tell us!”
The woman pushed the wolf cap back from Peter’s head. She stared at
his ears. “Not a boy,” she said, her eyes wide with confusion and fear before
they turned hard. “Not a child of the Sidhe either. An abomination,” she
hissed.
Peter felt himself waking up fast, the room coming into sharp focus.
Her hand shot out like a viper, clutching his neck between her rigid
fingers, her sharp nails biting into his flesh. “Where did you come from?
Did Modron send you? Is this one of her games?”
Peter slid his hand down to his knife, but found the sheath empty.
“Is this her vexings?” she cried, her emerald eyes swimming with
malice. “Answer me lest I bite off your boyhood and feed you to the
leeches!”

---

Peter’s hand flailed about, hit the clay bowl. He snatched a hold of it
and struck her, breaking the bowl on the side of her head, knocking her
over. Peter kicked away and almost made it to his feet when her fingers bit
into his ankle, tripping him, sending him barreling into the hearth.
She came after him, claws out, lips peeled back, exposing rows of long,
green, blood-stained teeth. Her eyes shriveled to tiny pinpricks of glowing
green set deep within dark sockets. She snatched a hold of his arm, her
sharp claws puncturing deep into his muscle tissue. She raked her other
hand across his ribs, tearing into his flesh.
Peter let out a shrill cry and snatched a shard of timber from the fire,
cried out again from the heat of it, but held tight as he rammed the burning
end into her eye.
She shrieked, a sound so loud that he had to clap his hands over his
ears. She flew away from him, crashing across the room, the burning shard
stuck deep in her socket, sizzling flames leaping up between her fingers as
she clutched at it.
Peter didn’t wait around to see what happened next; he dove into the
tunnel, scrambling up the shaft as fast as a mole rat.
“Get him!” she wailed. “Get him! GET HIM!” she bellowed, and her
voice shot up the tunnel, sending leaves, dirt, and bugs rocketing past him
in a hot blast.
Every slithering, crawling, and flying thing, the very cavern itself
seemed to howl then. And they came for him, all of them, the roots too,
grabbing at his arms and legs. The tunnel shrank around him, like the
convulsing throat of some giant monstrosity. Things leaped off the walls
onto him: bugs, spiders. He felt their stings and bites. He reached the
surface and the bat-winged creatures came for him like a swarm of hornets,
stinging him with their tails, sending him howling away into the thickets.
Peter ran then, ran faster than he’d ever run. He had no idea where he was
going, intent only on getting as far away as he could from that woman, that
creature, and all the biting, stinging things.
He heard howls and dared a glance back. The three girls were coming
for him, running on all fours, great, loping strides, their feet seemed not to
even touch the ground, long, pointed tongues lolling out from between
sharp canine teeth as they rapidly closed the distance.
Peter broke out of the thicket onto a small path and dashed up the trail.
He climbed steadily upward, the bog falling behind as the ground became

---

firm underfoot.
A figure stepped in front of him. A man? Peter crashed headlong into
him, both of them tumbling into a small grassy clearing. Peter hopped up,
started to flee, and saw more men, five, no, six of them. They pointed long,
thin swords at his chest. Peter glanced around, frantically searching for an
avenue of escape.
“Whoa. Hold,” said the first man, the one Peter had knocked over.
“What nonsense is going on here?”
On second look, Peter realized that these were not men, not of the sorts
he’d known, anyway. In fact, they were elves, but Peter knew nothing about
elves at the time. These elves were much shorter than men, boyish in size,
little over a head taller than himself. Long in limb, thin of face, almost
feminine with small, golden eyes, mere slits, slanted and set high and wide
above sharp cheekbones. They had pointed ears and skin as white as chalk.
Their hair hung down their backs in long braids. They wore tight-fitting
garments that looked to be made of woven leaves and bark.
“Give him back,” came a little girl’s voice. The three sisters were
standing at the edge of the clearing not ten yards away.
The elves shifted the points of their swords to the girls.
“We brought him through,” the girls spoke. “He’s ours.”
“I think not,” said the elf, the one Peter had run into. Peter could see he
looked older than the others. His hair was pure white, and there were strong
lines about his eyes. The elf got to his feet, drew his sword, and stepped in
front of Peter.
The sisters hissed, all three of them raking the air with their claws, as
though they couldn’t wait to rend Peter’s flesh.
“He belongs to me,” came a deep, guttural voice from behind the girls.
The elves exchanged looks.
The woman strolled into the clearing, one hand clasped over her eye.
“He owes me something.” She dropped her hand, exposing the raw, bloody
wound of her eyeless socket.
Several of the elves gasped, but held their ground.
“You’re trespassing, all of you. Give me one of the boy’s eyes and I will
allow you to leave unharmed.”
“Nonsense,” countered a voice from behind Peter.
Another woman entered the clearing. She was a bit taller than the
swamp woman, thin-boned and slender through the body, almost frail, her

---

smooth skin so white as to be blue. Her long white hair was tied back and
crowned with a ring of holly leaves. She was draped in shimmering white
and gold and wore a bronze star attached around her neck by a simple gold
chain.
“This is Myrkvior forest,” she said. “You’ve no dominion here. Go back
to your hole and rut with your filthy beasts.”
The swamp woman smirked. “What do you know of rutting? You with
your cold dead cunt.”
The white-haired woman’s eyes flashed, brilliant cerulean.
The swamp woman laughed. “A barren fertility goddess. No wonder
you can no longer hear Father’s voice.”
A low growl rumbled from the white-haired woman’s throat, a sound
that made the hair stand up on Peter’s arms. She stepped forward, her lips
peeled back exposing long canine fangs, appearing more animal than
human at that moment.
“Oh, stop your pissing, Modron,” the swamp woman said. “If you wish
this creature, take him.” The swamp woman’s face changed then. Peter
wasn’t sure if he saw sympathy or pity—maybe both. “How many?” she
asked. “How many will it take to fill that hole in your heart? You can have
all the children in our world and in theirs, but it will never bring your little
boy back to you.”
Pain, deep pain, fell across the white-haired lady’s face.
The swamp woman started away, then stopped. She looked at Peter. “Be
careful, little boy. I only want your eye. But she—she’ll take your soul.”
The swamp woman spun away and seemed to evaporate into the woods.
The three sisters backed slowly away, not taking their eyes off Peter.
Before the last sister left, she pointed at Peter, then at her eye, and jabbed at
the air with a hook claw.
THE CERULEAN-EYED WOMAN stared at Peter. They all did. Peter
glanced about, looking for an escape.
“Don’t be frightened, boy,” said the older elf as he dusted off his
leggings. “Anyone that stole the witch’s very eye has nothing to fear from
the likes of us.” He gave Peter a wry smile of admiration.
The other elves nodded in agreement and put away their swords.
The old elf extended his hand. “Sergeant Drael of the Lady’s First
Guard, at your service.” His face broke into a broad grin.

---

Peter liked the elf’s smile. He shook his hand and smiled back. “I’m
Peter.”
“This,” the elf extended a hand toward the woman, “is the Lady
Modron, daughter of Avallach. The Lady of the Lake and the Queen of all
Avalon.”
A queen? Peter wasn’t sure what a queen was, but judging by the way
the elves treated her, it must be something important. He took a closer look.
She appeared a bit frail to him, with her fine bones and long, thin neck, yet
he sensed strength from her. Maybe it was the confidence in her stride, the
way she glided through the forest, the way she looked at all things as
though they belonged to her. She was elegant and graceful, but Peter
thought her eyes a bit too far apart, her face too long, making her appear
animalish, spooky even.
“So, Peter,” Drael said. “How did a boy end up in the clutches of Ginny
Greenteeth?”
“Who?” Peter asked.
“The witch.”
“He’s not a boy,” the Lady said, appraising Peter. “See his ears. He has
faerie in him.”
“What is he then?” Drael asked.
The Lady gave Peter another long look. “He’s a mystery. A most
intriguing mystery.” She looked at Peter’s chest. “He’s been marked.”
Peter looked down at himself. He was covered in mud and blood. The
cuts in his side were bleeding steadily, the bug stings were red and swelling,
and the bite around his nipple was turning black. He’d been so intent on
escape he’d not even noticed, but now the wounds began to hurt, the one on
his chest burning. His hand did, too. He held out his palm; it was an angry
red and dotted with white blisters.
The Lady bent down and lightly touched the edge of the bite wound.
Peter flinched and sucked in a breath.
“Come,” she said. “We need to take care of that or the poison will
spread.” She held out her hand.
Peter hesitated.
“It’s okay,” she said.
Peter took her hand and she led him up the trail. The elves fell in, three
in front and three behind. Peter looked up at her as they walked. She smiled

---

at him. Peter decided he liked holding hands with a queen, liked it very
much.
The trail led into a lush glade; at its center sat a circular pond
surrounded by large, flat, white boulders. A gentle stream cascaded over the
stones, sending a soft ripple across the pond’s surface. The water was
crystal-clear.
Peter caught sight of small, colorful fish chasing one another just below
the surface—on second look, he noticed that they had the upper bodies of
men and women. The winged wee folk skated across the surface as they
zipped about snatching bugs out of the air.
The Lady unhooked the clasp on her shoulder, letting her gown drop.
She waded out into the pool until her fingertips touched the water. The
sunlight glittered off the surface and danced along her gleaming white skin.
She closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun, basking in its warmth.
She spoke a few words that Peter didn’t understand and sank beneath
the water.
The elves spread out, perching among the surrounding rocks, and
watching the woods.
Peter waited for the Lady to surface. He waited a long time. No one
could hold their breath that long. He glanced around at the elves, but none
of them appeared concerned. He walked up to the bank, caught a flash
beneath the water, and saw her, a silvery shape swimming like a fish around
the pool. She bobbed up before him and gestured for him to come in.
Peter took off his wolf pelt and tested the water with his foot. It was
cool but not cold and felt good on such a warm day. He waded in to his
waist and felt something tickling his ankles. The fish people were flittering
around his feet, feeding on the silt.
The Lady took his hand and pulled him into the deeper water, until his
tiptoes could just touch the bottom. She drifted behind him, draping her
arms over his shoulders. Peter stiffened.
“Let go of your fear, Peter,” she whispered.
Peter took a deep breath and she took him under, pulling him down to
where the water was dark and cold. Peter could just make out the blurry
rays of the sun dancing on the surface far above him. His lungs began to
tighten and he felt a twinge of panic.
Her arms squeezed about him and he thought of her sharp teeth. Did she
mean to drown him?

---

Her voice drifted to him, a muffled song resonating through the depths.
The water began to warm around him. He felt a steady thumping, like a
heartbeat, could hear the swish of blood through his own veins and arteries
and it was as though he was back in his mother’s womb. His pulse began to
slow, matching the rhythm, two hearts beating as one. His lungs no longer
ached for air. He felt part of her, of the pool, the water itself his lifeblood.
Her voice the faintest tickle in his ear, I am your forest, your earth, your