In the gloaming, the crows flew in to gather for the night in a stand of bare oaks. Bird by bird, they soared to the rookery, black shadows against the fading light. My kidnapping, still fresh in my mind, left me timid and battered, not trusting a soul in the woods. I missed my family, yet days and weeks passed, marked by the routine appearance of the birds. Their arrival and departure provided reassuring continuity. By the time the trees lost their leaves and their naked limbs stretched to the sky, the crows no longer frightened me. I came to look forward to their graceful arrival, silhouetted against the wintry sky, a natural part of my new life.
　　The faeries welcomed me as their own and taught me the ways of the woods, and I grew fond of them all. In addition to Speck, Igel, Béka and Onions, there were seven others. The three girls were inseparable—Kivi and Blomma, blonde and freckled, quiet and assured, and their tagalong, Chavisory, a chatterbox who looked no more than five years old. When she grinned, her baby teeth shone like a string of pearls, and when she laughed, her thin shoulders shook and twitched. If she found something truly funny or exciting, she took off like a skittering bat, dancing in circles and figure eights across the clearing.
　　Apart from the leader Igel and the loner Béka, the boys formed two pairs. Ragno and Zanzara, as I remember them, reminded me of the two sons of the Italian grocers in town. Thin and olive-skinned boys, each had a thatch of dark curls on his head and was quick to anger and quicker to forgive. The other set, Smaolach and Luchóg, behaved as brothers, though they could not be more dissimilar. Towering over everyone but Béka, Smaolach concentrated on the task at hand, as oblivious and earnest as a robin tugging up an earthworm. His good friend Luchóg, smallest of us all, was forever pushing back an untamable lock of night-black hair that curled across his forehead like the tail of a mouse. His eyes, blue as the summer sky, gave away his fierce devotion to his friends, even when he tried to feign nonchalance.
　　Igel, the eldest and leader of the band, took pains to explain the ways of the forest. He showed me how to gig for frogs and fish, how to find water collected overnight in the hollow of fallen leaves, to distinguish edible mushrooms from deadly toadstools, and dozens of other survival tricks. But even the best guide is no match for experience, and for most of my early time, I was coddled. They kept me under constant watch by at least two others, and I was forced to stay around camp, with dire warnings to hide away at any hint of other people.
　　"If they catch you, they will think you a devil," Igel told me. "And lock you away, or worse, they will test to see if they are right by throwing you in a fire."
　　"And you will burn up like kindling," said Ragno.
　　"And be nothing more than a puff of smoke," said Zanzara, and Chavisory demonstrated by dancing around the campfire, circling away to the edge of darkness.
　　When the first hard frost hit, a small party was sent away for an overnight excursion, and they came back with armloads of sweaters, jackets, and shoes. Those of us who had stayed behind were shivering beneath deerskins.
　　"Since you are the youngest," Igel told me, "you have first choice of the clothes and boots."
　　Smaolach, who stood over the pile of shoes, beckoned me. I noticed that his own feet were bare. I poked through the assortment of children's saddle shoes, square-toed brogues, canvas tennis shoes, and the odd unmated boot, choosing at last a pair of brand new black-and-white wingtips that seemed to be my size.
　　"Those'll cut your ankles off."
　　"How about these?" I asked, holding up the tennis shoes. "I might be able to squeeze into these." My feet felt damp and chilled on the cold ground.
　　Smaolach rooted around and picked out the ugliest brown shoes I had ever seen. The leather creaked when he flexed the soles, and the laces looked like coiled snakes. Each toe was tipped with a small steel plate. "Trust me, these will keep you warm and toasty all winter long, and a long time in the wearing."
　　"But they're too small."
　　"Don't you know you've been shrinking yourself?" With a sly grin, he reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a pair of thick woolen socks. "And I found these especially for you."
　　The whole crowd gasped in appreciation. They gave me a cableknit sweater and an oilskin jacket, which kept me dry on the wettest days.
　　As the nights lengthened and grew colder, we exchanged our grass mats and solitary beds for a heap of animal skins and stolen blankets. The twelve of us slept together in a tangled clump. I rather enjoyed the comfort of the situation, although most of my friends had foul breath or fetid odors about them. Part of the reason must be the change in diet, from the bounty of summer to the decay of late fall and the deprivation of winter. Several of the poor creatures had been in the woods for so long that they had given up all hope of human society. Indeed, a handful had no such desire at all, so they lived like animals, rarely taking a bath or cleaning their teeth with a twig. Even a fox will lick its hindquarters, but some of the faeries were the dirtiest beasts.
　　That first winter, I yearned to go with the hunter-gatherers on their morning forage for food and other supplies. Like the crows that convened at dusk and dawn, those thieves enjoyed freedom away from the roost. While I was left behind, I had to suffer babysitters like that toad Béka and his companion Onions, or old Zanzara and Ragno, who squabbled all day and threw nutshells and stones at the birds and squirrels poking around our hidden hoard. I was bored and cold and lonesome for adventure.
　　On a gray morning, Igel himself chose to stay behind to watch over me, and as luck would have it, my friend Smaolach kept him company. They brewed a pot of tea from dried bark and peppermint, and as we watched a cold rain fall, I pressed my case.
　　"Why won't you let me go with all the others?"
　　"My great fear is that you'll run away and try to return whence you came, but you cannot, Aniday. You are one of us now." Igel sipped his tea and stared at a point far off. After a decent interval, letting his wisdom sink into my mind, he continued. "On the other hand, you have proved yourself a valuable member of our clan. You gather the kindling, husk the acorns, and dig a new privy hole when asked. You are learning true obedience and deference. I have watched you, Aniday, and you are a good student of our ways."
　　Smaolach stared into the dying fire and said something in a secret language, all vowels and hard consonants full of phlegm. Igel pondered over that secret sentence, then chewed on his own thoughts before spitting them out. Then, as now, I was eternally puzzled over how people think, by what process they solve life's riddles. Their consultation over, Igel resumed his study of the horizon.
　　"You're to come with Luchóg and me this afternoon," Smaolach informed me with a conspiratorial wink. "We'll show you the lay of the land around these parts as soon as the rest of them get back."
　　"You better dress warmly," Igel advised. "This rain will changeover soon."
　　On cue, the first snowflakes started mixing with the raindrops, and within minutes, a heavy snow began to fall. We were still sitting in our places when the faery troop meandered back to the camp, chased home by the sudden inclemency. Winter sometimes came early to our part of the country, but usually we did not get a snowfall until after Christmas. As the squall blew in, I wondered for the first time whether Christmas had passed altogether, or perhaps at least Thanksgiving had slipped by, and most certainly Halloween was gone. I thought of my family, still looking for me every day in the woods. Perhaps they thought me dead, which made me feel sorry and wish that word could be sent concerning my welfare.
　　At home, Mom would be unpacking boxes of decorations, putting out the stable and the manger, running garland up the stair rail. The past Christmas, my father took me out to chop down a small fir tree for the house, and I wondered if he was sad now, without me to help him choose the right one. I even missed my little sisters. Were they walking and talking and dreaming of Santa Claus, wondering what had become of me?
　　"What day is it?" I asked Luchóg as he changed into warmer clothes.
　　He licked his finger and held it into the wind. "Tuesday?"
　　"No, I mean what day of the year? What day of the month?"
　　"I have no idea. Judging by the signs, could be late November, early December. But memory is a tricky thing and unreliable when it comes to time or weather."
　　Christmas had not passed after all. I resolved to watch the days from then on and to celebrate the season in an appropriate fashion, even if the rest of them did not care about holidays and such things.
　　"Do you know where I can get a paper and a pencil?"
　　He struggled into his boots. "Now, what would you want them things for?"
　　"I want to make a calendar."
　　"A calendar? Why, you would need a store of paper and any number of pencils to keep a calendar out here. I'll teach you how to watch the sun in the sky and take notice of the living things. You'll know time enough by them."
　　"But what if I want to draw a picture or write someone a note?"
　　Luchóg zipped up his jacket. "Write? To whom? Most of us have forgot-ten how to write entirely, and those that haven't, didn't learn in the first place. It is better to have your say and not be putting down in more or less a permanent way what you're thinking or feeling. That way lies danger, little treasure."
　　"But I do like to draw pictures."
　　We started across the ring, where Smaolach and Igel stood like two tall trees, conferring. Because Luchóg was the smallest of us all, he had trouble keeping up with me. Bouncing along at my side, he continued his dissertation.
　　"So, you're an artist, are ye? No pencil and paper? Do you know that the artists of old made their own paper and pens? Out of animal skin and bird feathers. And ink from soot and spit. They did, and further back still, they scratched on stones. I'll teach you how to leave your mark, and get you that paper if you want, but in due time."
　　When we reached the leader, Igel clapped me on the shoulder and said, "You've earned my trust, Aniday. Listen and heed these two."
　　Luchóg, Smaolach, and I set off into the woods, and I looked back to wave goodbye. The other faeries sat together in bunches, huddled against the cold, and let the snow coat them, mad and exposed stoics.
　　I was thrilled at being out of that camp, but my companions did their best to control my curiosity. They let me stumble about on the trails for a time before my clumsiness flushed a covey of doves from their rest. The birds exploded into the air, all pipes and feathers. Smaolach put a finger to his lips, and I took the hint. Copying their movements, I became nearly as graceful, and we walked so quietly that I could hear the snowfall over the sound of our footsteps. Silence has its own allure and grace, heightening all the senses, especially hearing. A twig would snap in the distance and instantly Smaolach and Luchóg would cock their heads in the direction of the sound and identify its cause. They showed me the hidden things silence revealed: a pheasant craning its neck to spy on us from a thicket, a crow hopping from branch to branch, a raccoon snoring in its den. Before the daylight completely faded, we tramped through the wet grounds to the mucky bank of the river. Along the water's edge ice crystals grew, and listening closely, we heard the crack of freezing. A single duck paddled further down the river, and each snowflake hissed as it hit the water's surface. The sunlight faded like a whisper and vanished.
　　"Listen"—Smaolach held his breath—"to this."
　　At once, the snow changed over to sleet, which ticked against the fallen leaves and rocks and dripping branches, a miniature symphony of the natural world. We walked away from the river and took cover in a grove of evergreens. Ice encased each of the needles in a clear jacket. Luchóg pulled out a leather pouch hanging from a cord around his neck, first producing a tiny paper and then a fat pinch of dried and brown grasslike fibers that looked like tobacco. With deft fingers and a quick lick, he rolled a thin cigarette. From another section of the pouch, he extracted several wooden matches, counted them in his palm, and returned all but one to the waterproof compartment. His thumbnail struck the match, causing it to burst into flame, which Luchóg applied to the end of the cigarette. Smaolach had dug a hole deep enough to reach a layer of dry needles and cones. Carefully taking the burning match from his friend's fingertips, he set it in the bowl, and in short order we had a fire to toast our palms and fingertips. Luchóg passed the cigarette to Smaolach, who took a deep drag and held the smoke inside his mouth for a long time. When he exhaled at last, the effect was as sudden and percussive as the punch-line to a joke.
　　"Give the boy a puff," Smaolach suggested.
　　"I don't know how to smoke."
　　"Do what I do," said Luchóg through clenched teeth. "But whatever you do, don't tell Igel about this. Don't tell anyone at all."
　　I took a drag on the glowing cigarette and began coughing and sputtering from the smoke. They giggled and kept on laughing well after the last scrap had been inhaled. The air beneath the evergreen boughs was thick with a strange perfume, which made me feel dizzy, light-headed, and slightly nauseous. Luchóg and Smaolach fell under the same spell, but they merely seemed content, simultaneously alert and peaceful. The sleet began to taper off, and silence returned like a lost friend.
　　"Did you hear that?"
　　"What is it?" I asked.
　　Luchóg shushed me. "First, listen to see if you hear it." A moment later, the sound came to me, and though familiar, its substance and origin mystified me.
　　Luchóg sprang to his feet and rousted his friend. "It's a car, little treasure. Have you ever chased an automobile?"
　　I shook my head, thinking he must have me confused with a dog. Both of my companions took hold of my hands and off we went, running faster than I had ever imagined possible. The world whirred by, patches and blurs of darkness where trees once stood. Mud and snow kicked up, mottling our trousers as we sped on at an insanely giddy pace. When the brush grew thicker, they let go of my hands and we raced down the trail one behind the other. Branches slapped me in the face, and I stumbled and fell into the muck. Scrambling to my feet, cold and wet and dirty, I realized I was alone for the first time in months. Fear took hold, and I opened my eyes and ears to the world, desperate to find my friends. Fierce pains of concentration shot across my forehead, but I bore down and heard them running through the snow in the distance. I felt a new and powerful magic in my senses, for I could see them clearly, while realizing that they should be too far ahead and out of sight. By visualizing my way, I gave chase, and the trees and branches that had confused me before now seemed no obstacle. I whipped through the woods the way a sparrow flies through the openings in a fence, without a thought, folding up its wings at the right moment, gliding through.
　　When I caught up, I found they were standing behind the rough pines short of the forest edge. Before us lay a road and on that road a car had stopped, its headlights streaking through the misty darkness, broken pieces of the metal grille glistening on the asphalt. Through the open driver's door, a small light shone in the empty cab. The anomaly of the car pulled me toward it, but the strong arms of my friends held me back. A figure emerged from the darkness and stepped into the light, a thin young woman in a bright red coat. She held one hand to her forehead, and bending slowly, she reached out with her free arm, nearly touching a dark mass lying in the road.
　　"She hit a deer," Luchóg said, a note of sadness in his voice. She agonized over its prostrate form, pulling her hair back from her face, her other hand pressed against her lips.
　　"Is it dead?" I asked.
　　"The trick," said Smaolach in a quiet voice, "is to breathe into its mouth. It's not dead at all, but in shock."
　　Luchóg whispered to me. "We'll wait until she's gone, and you can inspire it."
　　"Me?"
　　"Don't you know? You're a faery now, same as us, and can do anything we can do."
　　The notion overwhelmed me. A faery? I wanted to know right away if it was true; I wanted to test my own powers. So I broke away from my friends, approaching the deer from the shadows. The woman stood in the middle of that lonesome road, scanning in both directions for another car. She did not notice me until I was already there, crouching over the animal, my hand upon its warm flank, its pulse racing alongside my own. I cupped the deer's muzzle in my hand and breathed into its hot mouth. Almost immediately, the beast lifted its head, shouldered me out of the way, and rocked itself up into a standing position. For an instant, it stared at me; then, like a white ensign, its tail shot up a warning, and the deer bounded into the night. To say that we—the animal, the woman, myself—were surprised by this turn of events would be the most severe understatement. She looked bewildered, so I smiled at her. At that moment, my comrades started calling to me in loud whispers.
　　"Who are you?" She wrapped herself tighter in that red coat. Or at least I thought those were her words, but her voice sounded alien, as if she were speaking through water. I stared at the ground, realizing that I did not know the true answer. Her face drew close enough for me to detect the beginning of a smile on her lips and the pale bluegreen of her irises behind her glasses. Her eyes were splendid.
　　"We must go." From the darkness, a hand grasped my shoulder, and Smaolach dragged me away into the bushes, leaving me to wonder if it had all been a dream. We hid in a tangle while she searched for us, and at last she gave up, got in her car and drove off. I did not know it at the time, but she was the last human person I was to encounter for more than a dozen years. The tail-lights zigzagged over the hills and through the trees until there was no more to see.
　　We retreated back to camp in a cross silence. Halfway home, Luchóg advised, "You mustn't tell anyone about what happened tonight. Stay away from people and be content with who you are." On the journey, we created a necessary fiction to explain our long absence, invented a narrative of the waters and the wild, and once told, our story endured. But I never forgot that secret of the redcoated woman, and later, when I began to doubt the world above, the memory of that bright and lonely meeting reminded me that it was no myth.