A Smile In Your Heart
Noschyre, Province of Rethira, Irthiron
March 17th, 1287 AU/2477 LC
The Irthironians were among the most emotionally stilted people in the world. A proper man or woman had no time for flights of fancy, no fairytale ideals, no elves at the bottom of the garden. There were the stories in the Attestation, of course, but they were just that–stories. Parables. Explanations of good behaviour, with reference only to things that might happen. There was no time for Nonsense.
There was no patience for Fantasy.
And imaginary friends Did Not Exist.
Which is why it so disturbed Mister Cenric Fernburn, 24 Market Lane, to see a small boy, ten and timeless, creep into the bedroom window of his children from out of thin air in the early evening.
Because such things did not happen.
Children were not taken away by flying boys. Children were taken away in the middle of the night by monsters of a much more conventional kind. Rapists. Slavers from the barbarian lands to the far east. Drug addicts. Travelling sorcerers. This was what he'd been told, all these years, and this was what he believed.
And it was with all the speed a father could muster that he tore open his front door, pushed past Cook and Aeda, and bounded up the steps three at a time, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Leave them alone you bastard I'll kill you I'll kill you keep your hands off my children–"
But he was too late. The room was empty. That bay window was open wide, and that big room, with the blue walls and the three four-post beds and the old rocking horse in the corner, was silent and lifeless.
All except for the child.
It smiled at Cenric, like a doll. An expression of mirth painted on his cherubic face like a factory toy, golden curls tousled about his head, eyes as pale and cold as stars, dressed in leaves. Oak leaves, like the ones in the park, the only trees his children really spent any time with.
"I came to see you for myself," it said. Cora's voice.
No. Not Cora's voice. When Cora told the story of Girrah-Goorrah, the flying boy, to her brothers, she gave him a voice full of victory and daring. A voice like a hero.
This was that voice, coming from this mockery of a boy. An illusion.
"Where are my children?"
"You're not even afraid of me," said Girrah-Goorrah, and there was a hint of anger in his voice now. Anger like the Children's Mother had had, at the world, at everyone. Hateful anger. "You're supposed to be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid," whispered Cenric. "Not of you. You're not real. You can't be. You're a monster, and you stole my children, and you have the gall to wear the face of my daughter's imaginary friend."
"Oh, so you know about me?" said the boy. He rose into the air, sitting cross-legged at head height. "You actually listened to your children, then? All those nights spent sitting on the steps outside the nursery?"
"How would a kidnapper know about that?" snarled Cenric.
There. The shape flickered, just for a minute. Again.
"I'm no kidnapper!" shouted the timeless child. "I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!"
"And now you're mocking my Warraen. That's what he does when he says something I don't believe. You're no child. You're copying my children. You stole them from me, and God knows I can't think of what you want to do with them without vomiting, but you're not Girrah-Goorrah. You're a sick, disgusting person who stole my children from me."
There it was again! A shabby old man, in a raggedy coat, with a leering face. Whatever it was scrunched up its face tight, like it was in pain, and the boy was back.
"Stop! Please!"
"And now that's my Persi when he and Warraen fight," said Cenric, moving forward. "You took my children, I don't know where you've hidden them, but I will find them."
And the ageless child laughed, and this time it wasn't the laugh of his children, or his wife-of-late. It was like the barking of a dog. The family dog. Bryne. And she'd been dead for years.
How long had this creature been watching his family?
"I wanted to see you," said the boy, "because I was afraid you'd forgotten me. So many people do, these days. Because you're all so clever, now. You don't watch out for us, you make it so we don't exist. You tell us you don't believe, and every time you do one of us disappears." He floated closer. Cenric backed away, but came up against the wall. And the creature reached out, touched him with a hand not much larger than a baby's.
And when he reached out to grab the hand, it stayed that size.
And suddenly it was Warraen's hand, the first time he'd ever reached out to Cora and wrapped his little fingers around hers–
He tried to pull himself together.
"Where are they?" he asked, real fear in the pit of his stomach. "How do I make you give them back?"
"You can't," said the boy. The stars in his eyes pierced Cenric like ice.
"They're not yours," said Cenric, in a low voice. "I don't care who you are, who you are to them, they're not yours. You can't have them for yourself."
"She let me in. She gave me a body, a voice. Her brothers' bodies, her voice. These are such precious gifts, Papa."
"Don't call me that–" he cried in despair, but the voice went on, "But you don't want me to be here, to have those gifts. Nobody on this island wants that, anymore. Except the children. You haven't taken them yet. Their minds are still open. And they will believe anything."
And now there were other forms, mixed in with the baby and the kidnapper. A hundred creatures, of all shapes and sizes, some of them innocent and some of them demonic, but all with that painted expression on their face. Like they didn't know how to move their muscles properly.
"So," whispered the boy, "I'll make you a deal, Cenric. You like deals, don't you, you grown-ups? You know where your children are. You know, if you've listened to your children's stories. You'll have to stop being a grown-up, and let yourself believe in us again. And if you can find them, you can have them back. It's a little game. If not, they'll stay with me, and eat pretend food and feel full, and fight pirates and listen to the elephants talk, and will never grow up. It's your choice."
"What do I have to–"
"You already know."
He patted Cenric's cheek again, and Cenric flinched, because that was what Cora used to do when she was all of eleven months old and everyone was happy.
And Girrah-Goorrah was gone.
And the room was empty, but for him. And but for a shadow on the window-frame, outlined in the light of the street-lamps, of a child, watching curiously.
Waiting for him to jump.
