We would snitch a few books to take home with us for the satisfaction of lying abed on a chilled winter’s morning under weak sunshine and slipping out a slim volume to read at leisure. Between the covers, a book can be a sin. I have spent many hours in such a waking dream, and once having learned how to read, I could not imagine my life otherwise. The indifferent children around me did not share my enthusiasm for the written word. Some might sit for a good story well told, but if a book had no pictures, they showed scant interest.
When a raiding party went to town, they often came back with a collection of magazines—Time or Life or Look—and then we would huddle together under the shade of an old oak to look at the photographs. I remember summer days, a mass of knees and feet, elbows and shoulders, jockeying for a choice viewing position, their bare skin damp against mine. We stuck together like the slick pages clumped and wrinkled in the humidity. News and celebrity did not appeal to them. Castro or Khrushchev, Monroe or Mantle, none meant anything more than a passing fancy, an interesting face; but they were profoundly intrigued by images of children, particularly in fanciful or humorous situations, and any photographs of the natural world, particularly exotic animals from a zoo or circus or in the wild reaches of a faraway land. A boy on top of an elephant caused a sensation, but a boy with a baby elephant was talked about for days. Most beloved of all were shots of parents and children together.
“Aniday,” Onions would plead, “tell us the story about the daddy and his baby.”
A bright-eyed baby girl peeps up from a bassinet to stare at her delighted, grinning father. I read the caption to them. “ ‘Little bundle of joy: Senator Kennedy admires his new baby daughter, Caroline, in their Georgetown home.’ ”
When I tried to turn the page, Blomma stuck her palm on the photograph. “Wait. I want to see the baby again.”
Chavisory chimed in: “I want to see the man.”
They were intensely curious about the other world, especially at the distance photography allows, the place where people grew up, fell in love, had children, became old, and the cycle continued, unlike our relentless timelessness. Their ever-changing lives fascinated us. Despite our many chores, a persistent boredom hung around the camp. For long stretches, we did nothing but allow time to pass.
Kivi and Blomma could spend a day braiding each other’s hair, unraveling the plaits and starting all over again. Or they played with the dolls they had stolen or made from sticks and scraps of cloth. Kivi, in particular, became a little mother, holding a rag doll to her breast, tucking her toy baby in a cradle fashioned from a forgotten picnic basket. One baby was composed of the lost or broken limbs of four other dolls. As Kivi and Blomma bathed their dolls at the creek’s edge one humid morning, I joined them on the bank and helped to rinse the nylon hair till it lay plastered against the dolls’ plastic scalps.
“Why do you like playing with your babies so much?”
Kivi did not look up from her task, but I could sense that she was crying.
“We are practicing,” said Blomma, “for when our turn comes along to be changelings. We are practicing to be mothers someday.”
“Why are you sad, Kivi?”
She looked at me, the brightness now drained from her eyes. “Because it takes so long.”
Indeed it did. For while we all grew older, we did not change physically. We did not grow up. Those who had been in the forest for decades suffered most. The truly mischievous fought the monotony by creating trouble, solving imaginary problems, or by pursuing an enterprise that, on the surface, appeared worthless. Igel had spent the past decade in camp digging an elaborate system of tunnels and underground warrens for our protection. Béka, the next in line, was on a constant prowl to catch any unsuspecting female and drag her into the bushes.
Ragno and Zanzara attempted to cultivate grapes nearly every spring in hope of replacing our fermented mash with a homegrown wine. Of course, the soil resisted every enrichment, the days lacked sufficient sun, mites and spiders and insects invaded, and my friends had no luck. A vine or two would sprout, twist and meander along the trellis Ragno had built, but never a grape in all those years. Come September, they cursed their luck and tore down the remnants, only to begin again when March teased such dreams. The seventh time I saw them breaking the hard ground, I asked Zanzara why they persisted in the face of continued failures. He stopped digging and leaned against the cracked and ancient spade.
“When we were boys, every night we had a glass of wine at supper. I’d like to taste it again.”
“But surely you could steal a bottle or two from town.”
“My papa grew grapes and his before him and back and back and back.” He wiped his brow with an earth-caked hand. “One day we’ll get the grapes. You learn to be patient here.”