Free The Child Thief by Brom Page B

mouth.
    Peter stopped. “Mama?”
    Fear—it was on all their faces. But there was more than fear on his mother’s face. Her eyes glared at him, as though accusing him of some horrible deed. What did I do? Peter wondered. What did I do?
    The old lady leaped up, brandishing a large wooden spoon. “CHANGELING!” she cried. “GET IT OUT OF HERE!”
    “NO!” his mother cried. She shook her head. “He’s no changeling! It’s HIS baby. The one from the woods.” She looked around at them, her eyes wild and desperate. “Now, do you see? Now do you believe?”
    No one was listening to her; all their eyes were on Peter.
    “KEEP IT AWAY FROM THE CHILDREN!” the old woman cried.
    The old man herded the younger children away from the table, pushing them to the back of the room as far away from Peter as he could.
    Peter’s mother grabbed the old woman’s sleeve. “Stop it! Stop it! Peter’s no changeling, Mama. I wasn’t lying. He took me—the forest spirit.” She pointed at Peter. “The forest spirit gave me that child.”
    The old woman stared at Peter’s mother in horror. “No, child, don’t speak of it. Never speak of it.” She shook her daughter. “It is not yours. Do you understand me? It’s a changeling.” The old woman glared at Peter. “ASGER, GET IT OUT OF HERE BEFORE IT HEXES US ALL!”
    One of the men pulled the long meat fork from out of the ham, the oldest boy grabbed the broom, and together they moved toward Peter.
    Through a blur of tears Peter saw them coming for him; the man that he’d thought of as papa jabbed the fork while the boy circled around him.
    Peter took a step back.
    “CATCH IT!” the old woman howled. “Don’t let it get away!”
    The broom slapped Peter from behind, knocking him to the gritty dirt floor. The boy pressed the broom onto Peter to hold him, the sharp twigs digging and poking into Peter’s soft skin.
    “Don’t spill its blood in the house!” the old woman yelled. “Or there will be sickness upon us all. Take it into the forest. Leave it for the beasts.”
    Hard, rough hands held him as the man corded prickly twine about his limbs, the twine bit into his skin, binding his arms to his body and his legs together.
    As the man and boy donned boots and furs, the old woman brought Peter’s basket and blanket. “Take anything that it has soiled. I will get the grease.” She poured warm grease from the ham into a pot and brought it over.
    The door was pulled open and a biting winter wind blew in. They took Peter outside into the night. Peter got one last look at his mother. She was on the floor, sobbing, her two sisters kneeling beside her, holding her.
    “Mama,” Peter cried. She didn’t look up. The door shut.
    The old woman poured the warm grease all over Peter. It stung his eyes, soaked into the blanket and quickly congealed into a cold paste on his skin. “It will make things go quicker,” the old woman told them. “Now take the creature far into the woods and leave it.”
    The old woman gave the man a wad of wool. “Put this in your ears. No matter what it says, remember, that wicked thing is not of your loins.”
    Both the man and boy held a torch. They threaded the broom through the handle of the basket and each carried an end. They marched off down the icy trail, the old woman watching them go from the door stoop.
    The cold bit at the infant’s tiny nose. “Papa,” Peter called. “Papa, please. I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be good. Papa? Please, Papa. Papa?” But no matter how Peter pleaded, the man wouldn’t look at him.
    The man and the boy marched steadily, their mouths set tight, neither spoke as they tracked deeper and deeper into the dark, frigid forest.
    Peter had no real idea how much time passed, but when they finally stopped, the moon was peeking down at him from high in the cloudy sky. They set him in a clearing surrounded by high shrub and an outcropping of crumbling rocks, then left in a hurry without a single look