Henry kept smiling and playing, and like a book the music told a story that seemed, in part, a gift—as if, in our only common language, he was expressing what beat in his heart. Some sorrow, perhaps, some remorse. It was enough for me. The music carried us in two directions, as if above and below; and in the interludes, the spaces between the notes, I thought he, too, was trying to say goodbye, goodbye to the double life. The organ breathed and laid sound upon sound, and then exhaled into silence. "Aniday," Luchóg hissed, and I shrank from the window to the ground. A beat or two, and the crowd burst like a thunderstorm. One by one, we faeries rose and disappeared into the falling darkness, gliding past the gravestones and back into the forest, as if we had never been among the people.
Having made amends with Henry Day, I am ready to leave come tomorrow. This version of my story has not taken nearly as long to re-create. I have not been concerned with putting down all the facts, nor a detailed explanation of the magic, as far as I understand such things, of the people who lived in secret and below. Our kind are few, and no longer deemed necessary. Far greater troubles exist for children in the modern world, and I shudder to think of real and lurking dangers. Like so many myths, our stories will one day no longer be told or believed. Reaching the end, I lament all those lost souls and those dear friends left behind. Onions, Béka, Chavisory, and my old pals Smaolach and Luchóg are content to remain as they are, indifferent children of the earth. They will be fine without me. We all go away one day.
Should by chance any of you see my mother, tell her I cherish her every kindness and miss her still. Say hello to my baby sisters. Kill their chubby cheeks for me. And know that I will carry you all with me when I leave in the morning. Heading west as far as the waters to look for her. More beats than blood in the heart. A name, love, hope. I am leaving this behind for you, Speck, in case you return and we somehow miss each other. Should that be so, this book is for you.
I am gone and am not coming back, but I remember everything.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Peter Steinberg and Coates Bateman. I am also happily indebted to Nan Talese, Luke Epplin, and everyone at Doubleday, to Joe Regal and the redoubtable Bess Reed. To Melanie for her insightful reading and suggestions and for years of encouragement. To all my children.
For their advice and inspiration, Sam Hazo, David Low, Cliff Becker, Amy Stolls, Ellen Bryson, Gigi Bradford, Allison Bawden, Laura Becker, and Sharon Kangas. And for the swift kick at Whale Rock, thank you to Jane Alexander and Ed Sherin.
Sarah Blaffer Hrdy's Mother Nature: A History of Mothers, Infants, and Natural Selection inspired the journal article on the anthropological roots of the changeling myth.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Keith Donohue lives in Maryland, near Washington, D.C. For many years, he was a speechwriter at the National Endowment for the Arts, and now works at another federal agency. The Stolen Child is his first novel.
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