Stolen
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
- W. B. Yeats, The Stolen Child
“You’ve always been my favorite,” he said.
Dried blood colored the white whiskers surrounding his lips. His teeth wore a buttery film and dark circles called attention to the liver-spotted skin pulled taut over his cheekbones.
“Rest, father.” I pushed him gently back down onto the bed.
He turned his head and moaned, squinting at the straw-packed wall of the hut.
“Was he talking to you or to me?”
I looked at my young brother and shrugged. “Probably neither.”
* * *
Thin clouds filtered the blurry light of the half-moon. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour, but we had to set off now.
Dhonu and I s
