Read The Stolen Child for Free Online Page A

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 punchline 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