In setting down these recollections of my early years so far removed from their unfolding, I am fooled, as all are, by time itself. My parents, long gone from my world, live again. The redcoated woman, met only once, abides more persistently in mind than what I did yesterday or whether I had thistles and honey or elderberries for breakfast. My sisters, now grown into their middle years, are ever infants to me, two matching cherubs, ringlets of curls, chubby and helpless as cubs. Memory, which so confounds our waking life with anticipation and regret, may well be our one true earthly consolation when time slips out of joint.
　　My first nighttime foray into the woods left me exhausted. I burrowed beneath a heap of coats and blankets and furs, and by next midday, a fever burned. Zanzara brought me a cup of hot tea and a bowl of nasty broth, ordering me to "drink, drink, sip it." But I could not stomach a single swallow. No matter how many layers they heaped upon me, I could not get warm. By nightfall, I shook uncontrollably with chills. My teeth rattled and my bones ached.
　　Sleep brought strange, horrible nightmares where everything seemed to happen at once. My family invaded my dreams. Hands joined, they stand in a half circle around a hole in the ground, silent as stones. My father grabs me around the ankle and pulls me from the hollow tree where I lie hidden and sets me on the ground. Then he reaches in again and yanks each twin by the ankles and holds them aloft, the girls giggling in fear and pleasure. And my mother admonishes him: "Don't be so hard on the boy. Where have you been, where have you been?"
　　Then I am on the road, in the arclight streaming from an old Ford, the deer supine on the pavement, its breathing shallow, and I synchronize my respiration with its rhythms and the redcoated woman with the pale green eyes says: "Who are you?" And she bends to my face, taking my chin in her hands, to kiss me on the lips, and I am a boy again. Me. But I cannot remember my name.
　　Aniday. A wild child like myself, a girl named Speck, leans over to kiss my forehead, and her lips cool my hot skin. Behind her, the oak leaves turn into a thousand crows that take off in unison, flying away in a great twisting, singing tornado of wings. Silence returns after the drumming flock escapes to the horizon and morning breaks through. I give chase to the birds, running so fast and so hard that my skin splits a seam on both sides and my heart drums against my ribs until halted by the deathly appearance of a roiling black river. Concentrating with my entire mind, I see to the other side, and there on the bank, holding hands around a hole in the ground, are my father and mother, the woman in the red coat, my two sisters, and the boy who is not me. They stand like stones, like trees, staring into the clearing. If I summon courage to jump into the water, I may reach them. Blackwater once carried me away, so I stand on the bank, calling out in a voice that cannot be heard, with words no one can understand.
　　
　　
　　I don't know how long I was delirious with fever. Overnight, a day or two, a week, a year? Or longer? When I awakened under a damp steely sky, I felt snug and safe, although my arms and legs throbbed with stiffness and my insides felt scraped raw and hollow. Attending me, Ragno and Zanzara played cards, using my belly as a table. Their game defied logic, for they had not managed to swipe a full deck. Mixing remnants from many different packs, they ended up with nearly a hundred cards. Each of them held a fistful, and the remainder sat in a jumble on my stomach.
　　"Do you have any cinque?" Ragno asked.
　　Zanzara scratched his head.
　　Holding up five fingers, Ragno shouted at him, "Cinque, cinque."
　　"Go fish."
　　And fish he would, turning over card after card until he found a match, which he would then hold up triumphantly before ceding his turn to Zanzara.
　　"You are a cheater, Ragno."
　　"And you are a bloodsucker."
　　I coughed, making my consciousness known.
　　"Hey look, kid, he's awake."
　　Zanzara put his clammy hand against my forehead. "Let me get you something to eat. A cup of tea, maybe?"
　　"You been asleeping a long time, kid. That's what you get for going out with those boys. Those Irish boys, they're no good."
　　I looked around the camp for my friends, but as usual at midday, everyone else was gone.
　　"What day is it?" I asked.
　　Zanzara flicked out his tongue, tasting the air. "I'd say Tuesday."
　　"No, I mean what day of the month."
　　"Kid, I'm not even sure what month it is."
　　Ragno interrupted. "Must be getting toward spring. The days are growing longer, inch by inch."
　　"Did I miss Christmas?" I felt homesick for the first time in ages.
　　The boys shrugged their shoulders.
　　"Did I miss Santa Claus?"
　　"Who he?"
　　"How do I get out of here?"
　　Ragno pointed to a path obscured by two evergreens.
　　"How do I go home?"
　　Their eyes glazed over, and, holding hands, they turned around and skipped away. I felt like crying, but the tears would not come. A fierce gale blew in from the west, pushing dark clouds across the sky. Huddled under my blankets, I observed the changing day, alone with my troubles, until the others came skittering home on the wind. They took no more notice of me than any other lump on the ground one passes every day. Igel started a small fire by striking a flint until a spark caught the kindling. Two of the girls, Kivi and Blomma, uncovered the nearly depleted pantry and dug out our meager fare, neatly skinning a partially frozen squirrel with a few deft strokes of a very sharp knife. Speck crumbled dried herbs into our old teapot and filled it with water drawn from a cistern. Chavisory toasted pine nuts on a flat griddle. The boys who were not engaged in cooking took off their wet shoes and boots, exchanging them for yesterday's gear, now dry and hard. All of this domestic routine proceeded without fuss and with scant conversation; they had made a science of preparing for the night. As the squirrel cooked on a spit, Smaolach came over to check on me, and was surprised to discover me awake and alert.
　　"Aniday, you've come back from the dead."
　　He reached for my hand, pulling me to my feet. We embraced, but he squeezed me so hard that my sides ached. Arm around my shoulder, he led me to the fire, where some of the faeries greeted me with expressions of wonder and relief. Béka gave me an apathetic sneer, and Igel shrugged at my hello and continued waiting to be served, arms crossed at his chest. We set to the squirrel and nuts, the meal barely curbing the growling appetite of all assembled. After the first stringy bites, I pushed away my tin plate. The firelight made everyone's face glow, and the grease on their lips made their smiles shine.
　　After supper, Luchóg motioned for me to come closer, and he whispered in my ear that he had stashed away a surprise for me. We walked away from camp, the last rays of pink sunlight illuminating the way. Clamped between two large stones were four small envelopes.
　　"Take them," he grunted, the top stone heavy in his arms, and I whisked out the letters before he dropped the cap with a thud. Reaching inside his shirt to his private pouch, Luchóg extracted but the nub of a sharp pencil, which he presented with becoming modesty. "Merry Christmas, little treasure. Something to get you started."
　　"So it is Christmas today?"
　　Luchóg looked around to see if anyone was listening. "You did not miss it."
　　"Merry Christmas," I said. And I tore open my gifts, ruining the precious envelopes. Over the years, I have lost two of the four letters, but they were not so valuable in and of themselves. One was a mortgage stub with payment enclosed, and at his entreaty, Luchóg received the check to use as rolling paper for his cigarettes. The other lost piece of correspondence was a rabid letter to the editor of the local newspaper, denouncing Harry Truman. Covered both front and back with crabbed handwriting that scuttled from margin to margin, that paper proved useless. The other two had much more white space, and with one, the lines were so far apart, I was able to write between them.
　　
　　Feb. 2, 1950
Dearest,
The other night ment so much to me that I can't understand why you have not phoned or written since that night. I am confused. You told me that you loved me and I love you too, but still you have not answered my last three letters and nobody answers the telephone at your home or even your work. I am not in the habit of doing what we did in the car, but because you told me that you loved me and you were in such pain and agony as you kept saying. I wanted to let you know that I am not that kind of girl.
　I am that kind of girl who loves you and that kind of girl who also expects a Gentleman to behave like a Gentleman.
　Please write back to me or better yet call me on the phone. I am not angry so much as just confused, but I will be mad if I do not here from you.
　I love you, do you know that?
Love,
Martha
　　
　　At the time, I considered this letter to be the truest expression of real love that I had ever known. It was difficult to read, for Martha wrote in cursive, but thankfully in big letters that resembled printing. The second letter baffled me more than the first, but it, too, used only three-quarters of the front side of the page.
　　2/3/50
Dear Mother and Father,
Words cannot begin to express the sorrow and sympathy I send to you at the loss of dear Nana. She was a good woman, and a kind one, and she is now in a better place. I am sorry that I cannot come home, but I've not enough money for the trip. So, all my heartfelt grief must be shared by this most insufficient letter.
　Winter draws to a cold and unhappy close. Life is not fair, since you have lost Nana, and I, near everything.
Your Son
　　
　　When they learned of the two messages, the girls in camp insisted they be shared aloud. They were curious not only about their substance but about my professed literacy, for almost no one in camp bothered to read or write any longer. Some had not learned, and others had chosen to forget. We sat in a ring around the fire, and I read them as best I could, not fully comprehending all of the words or understanding their meanings. "What do you think of Dearest?" Speck asked the group after I had finished.
　　"He is a cad; he is a rotter," Onions said.
　　Kivi pushed back her blonde curls and sighed, her face bright in the firelight. "I do not understand why Dearest will not write back to Martha, but that is nothing compared to the problems of Your Son."
　　"Yes," Chavisory jumped in, "perhaps Your Son and Martha should get married, and then they will both live happily ever after."
　　"Well, I hope Mother and Father find Nana," added Blomma.
　　Into the night the bewildering conversation flowed. They fabricated poetical fictions about the other world. The mysteries of their sympathies, concerns, and sorrows perplexed me, yet the girls had a wellspring of empathy for matters outside our knowing. I was anxious, however, to have them go away, so that I might practice my writing. But the girls lingered until the fire collapsed into embers; then they nestled under the covers together, where they continued their discussion, pondering the fate of the writers, their subjects, and their intended readers. I would have to wait to use the pages. The night became bitterly cold, and soon all twelve of us were huddled together in a tangle of limbs. When the last of us wiggled under the mat, I suddenly remembered the day. "Merry Christmas!" I said, but my greetings brought only derision: "Shuddup!" and "Go to sleep." During the long hours before dawn, a foot hit me on the chin, an elbow knacked me in the groin, and a knee banged against my sore ribs. In a dark corner of the pack, a girl groaned when Béka climbed upon her. Enduring their fitfulness, I waited for morning, the letters pinned against my chest.
　　The rising sun reflected against a blanket of high cirrus clouds, coloring them in a spectrum that began in brightness on the eastern edge and fanned out in soft pastels. Branches of the trees broke the sky into fragments, like a kaleidoscope. When the red sun rose, the pattern shifted hues until it all dissipated into blue and white. Up and out of bed, I savored the light growing strong enough for drawing and writing. I took out my papers and pencil, put a cold flat stone in my lap, and folded the mortgage statement into quarters. I drew a cross along the folds and made panels for four drawings. The pencil was at once odd and familiar in my grasp. In the first panel, I created from memory my mother and father, my two baby sisters, and myself, full-body portraits lined up in a straight row. When I considered my work, they looked crude and uneven, and I was disappointed in myself. In the next panel, I drew the road through the forest with the deer, the woman, the car, Smaolach and Luchóg in the same perspective. Light, for example, was indicated by two straight lines emanating from a circle on the car and extending outward to opposite corners of the frame. The deer looked more like a dog, and I dearly wished for an eraser on the yellow pencil. In the third panel: a flattened Christmas tree, lavishly decorated, a pile of gifts spread out on the floor. In the final panel, I drew a picture of a boy drowning. Bound in spirals, he sinks be-low the wavy line.
　　When I showed my paper to Smaolach later that afternoon, he took me by the hand and made me run with him to hide behind a wild riot of holly. He looked around in all directions to make sure we were alone; then he carefully folded the paper into quarters and handed it back to me.
　　"You must be more careful with what you draw in them pictures."
　　"What's the matter?"
　　"If Igel finds out, then you'll know what's the matter. You have to realize, Aniday, that he doesn't accept any contact with the other side, and that woman ..."
　　"The one in the red coat?"
　　"He's a-scared of being found out." Smaolach grabbed the paper and tucked it into my coat pocket. "Some things are better kept to yourself," he said, then winked at me and walked away, whistling.
　　Writing proved more painful than drawing. Certain letters—B, G, R, W—caused my hand to cramp. In those early writings, sometimes my K bent backward, S went astray, an F accidentally became an E, and other errors that are amusing to me now as I look back on my early years, but at the time, my handwriting caused me much shame and embarrassment. Worse than the alphabet, however, were the words themselves. I could not spell for beans and lacked all punctuation. My vocabulary annoyed me, not to mention style, diction, sentence structure, variety, adjectives and adverbs, and other such matters. The physical act of writing took forever. Sentences had to be assembled nail by nail, and once complete, they stood no better than a crude approximation of what I felt or wanted to say, a woebegone fence across a white field. Yet I persisted through that morning, writing down all I could remember in whatever words I had at my command. By midday, both blank sides of the paper contained the story of my abduction and the adventures as well as the vaguest memories of life before this place. I had already forgotten more than I remembered—my own name and the names of my sisters, my dear bed, my school, my books, any notion of what I wanted to be when I grew up. All that would be given back to me in due course, but without Luchóg's letters, I would have been lost forever. When I had squeezed the final word in the last available space, I went to look for him. Out of paper, my mission was to find more.