I don’t know how long I was delirious with fever. Overnight, a day or two, a week, a year? Or longer? When I awakened under a damp steely sky, I felt snug and safe, although my arms and legs throbbed with stiffness and my insides felt scraped raw and hollow. Attending me, Ragno and Zanzara played cards, using my belly as a table. Their game defied logic, for they had not managed to swipe a full deck. Mixing remnants from many different packs, they ended up with nearly a hundred cards. Each of them held a fistful, and the remainder sat in a jumble on my stomach.
“Do you have any cinque?” Ragno asked.
Zanzara scratched his head.
Holding up five fingers, Ragno shouted at him, “Cinque, cinque.”
“Go fish.”
And fish he would, turning over card after card until he found a match, which he would then hold up triumphantly before ceding his turn to Zanzara.
“You are a cheater, Ragno.”
“And you are a bloodsucker.”
I coughed, making my consciousness known.
“Hey look, kid, he’s awake.”
Zanzara put his clammy hand against my forehead. “Let me get you something to eat. A cup of tea, maybe?”
“You been asleeping a long time, kid. That’s what you get for going out with those boys. Those Irish boys, they’re no good.”
I looked around the camp for my friends, but as usual at midday, everyone else was gone.
“What day is it?” I asked.
Zanzara flicked out his tongue, tasting the air. “I’d say Tuesday.”
“No, I mean what day of the month.”
“Kid, I’m not even sure what month it is.”
Ragno interrupted. “Must be getting toward spring. The days are growing longer, inch by inch.”
“Did I miss Christmas?” I felt homesick for the first time in ages.
The boys shrugged their shoulders.
“Did I miss Santa Claus?”
“Who he?”
“How do I get out of here?”
Ragno pointed to a path obscured by two evergreens.
“How do I go home?”
Their eyes glazed over, and, holding hands, they turned around and skipped away. I felt like crying, but the tears would not come. A fierce gale blew in from the west, pushing dark clouds across the sky. Huddled under my blankets, I observed the changing day, alone with my troubles, until the others came skittering home on the wind. They took no more notice of me than any other lump on the ground one passes every day. Igel started a small fire by striking a flint until a spark caught the kindling. Two of the girls, Kivi and Blomma, uncovered the nearly depleted pantry and dug out our meager fare, neatly skinning a partially frozen squirrel with a few deft strokes of a very sharp knife. Speck crumbled dried herbs into our old teapot and filled it with water drawn from a cistern. Chavisory toasted pine nuts on a flat griddle. The boys who were not engaged in cooking took off their wet shoes and boots, exchanging them for yesterday’s gear, now dry and hard. All of this domestic routine proceeded without fuss and with scant conversation; they had made a science of preparing for the night. As the squirrel cooked on a spit, Smaolach came over to check on me, and was surprised to discover me awake and alert.
“Aniday, you’ve come back from the dead.”
He reached for my hand, pulling me to my feet. We embraced, but he squeezed me so hard that my sides ached. Arm around my shoulder, he led me to the fire, where some of the faeries greeted me with expressions of wonder and relief. Béka gave me an apathetic sneer, and Igel shrugged at my hello and continued waiting to be served, arms crossed at his chest. We set to the squirrel and nuts, the meal barely curbing the growling appetite of all assembled. After the first stringy bites, I pushed away my tin plate. The firelight made everyone’s face glow, and the grease on their lips made their smiles shine.
After supper, Luchóg motioned for me to come closer, and he whispered in my ear that he had stashed away a surprise for me. We walked away from camp, the last rays of pink sunlight illuminating the way. Clamped between two large stones were four small envelopes.
“Take them,” he grunted, the top stone heavy in his arms, and I whisked out the letters before he dropped the cap with a thud. Reaching inside his shirt to his private pouch, Luchóg extracted but the nub of a sharp pencil, which he presented with becoming modesty. “Merry Christmas, little treasure. Something to get you started.”
“So it is Christmas today?”