Andrew (not his real name) reeled off an elaborate story of a hobgoblin subculture that, he claimed, lived in a nearby wooded area, preying on the children of the town for over a century. He asserted also that he had once been a human child named Gustav Ungerland, who had arrived in the area as the son of German immigrants in the mid-nineteenth century. More incredibly, Andrew claims to have been a musical prodigy in his other life, a skill restored to him when he changed back in the late 1940s. His elaborate tale, sadly, indicates deep pathological developmental problems, possibly covering some early childhood abuse, trauma, or neglect.
I had to read the last sentence several times before it became clear. I wanted to howl, to track him down and cram his words into his mouth. I ripped the pages from the journal and threw the ruined magazine into the trash. “Liar, faker, thief,” I muttered over and over as I paced back and forth among the stacks. Thankfully I encountered no one, for who knows how I might have vented my rage. Failure to thrive. Pathological problems. Abandoned children. He gave us changelings no credit at all and had the whole story backward. We went and snatched them from their beds. We were as real as nightmares.
The ping of the elevator chimes sounded like a gunshot, and through the open door appeared the librarian, a slight woman in cats-eye glasses, hair drawn back in a bun. She froze when she saw me, rather savagely disheveled, but she tamed me when she spoke. “We’re closing,” she called out. “You’ll have to go.”
I ducked behind a row of books and folded McInnes’s pages into eighths, stuffing the packet in my denim jacket. She began walking toward me, heels clicking on the linoleum, and I attempted to alter my appearance, but the old magic was gone. The best I could do was run my fingers through my hair, stand up, and brush the wrinkles from my clothes.
“Didn’t you hear me?” She stood directly in front of me, an unbending reed. “You have to go.” She watched me depart. I turned at the elevator to wave good-bye, and she was leaning against a column, staring as if she knew my whole story.
A cool rain was falling, and I was late to meet Tess. Her class had ended hours before, and we should have been on our way back home. As I rushed down the stairs, I wondered if she would be furious with me, but such anxi-eties were nothing compared to my anger toward McInnes. Beneath the streetlight on the corner stood Tess, huddling under an umbrella against the rain. She walked to me, gathered me under its cover, and latched on to my arm.
“Henry, are you all right? You’re shaking, baby. Are you cold? Henry, Henry?”
She pulled me closer, warmed us and kept us dry. She pressed her warm hands against my face, and I knew that cold, wet night was my best chance to confess. Beneath the umbrella, I told her I loved her. That was all I could say.
? CHAPTER 24 ?
We lived in the dark hole, and the abandoned mine on the hillside proved to be a very bad home indeed. That first winter, I went into a deeper hibernation than ever before, waking only every few days to eat or drink a few mouthfuls, then back to bed. Most of the others dwelt in the narcoleptic state, a haze that lasted from December through March. The darkness enfolded us in its moist embrace, and for many weeks not a peep of sun reached us. Snowfalls almost sealed us in, but the porous entrance allowed the cold to penetrate. The walls wept and froze into slick crusts that shattered under pressure.
In the springtime we slipped into the green world, hungry and thin. In the unfamiliar territory, looking for food became a daily preoccupation. The hillside itself was all slag and shale, and even in high season, only the hardiest grasses and moss clung to a tenuous hold. No animals bothered to forage there. Béka cautioned us not to roam too far, so we made do with what we could scavenge nearby—grasshoppers and grubs, tea made out of bark, robin’s breast, a roast skunk. We imagined all we missed by not visiting town.
“I would give my eyetooth for a taste of ice cream,” Smaolach said at the conclusion to a mean supper. “Or a nice yellow banana.”
“Raspberry jam,” said Speck, “on warm, crunchy toast.”
Onions chimed in: “Sauerkraut and pigs’ feet.”
“Spaghetti,” Zanzara began, and Ragno finished, “with Parmesan.”
“A Coke and a smoke.” Luchóg patted his empty pouch.
“Why don’t you let us go?” asked Chavisory. “It’s been so long, Béka.”