Hidden

SIR Greyson and his men move at first light. They comb through the forest, which is not so sinister in the light of day, though it has grown colder in recent days, and the sun does not shine as it did before, when Fairendale still wore vibrant colors rather than muted ones.

And though they feel eyes watching them (the eyes of sprites? Fairies said to lure men to a place where children rule the land? Goblins? Dragons?), they do their work, as the king commanded. Sir Greyson joins them, unwilling to let his men risk their lives, if that is what they are doing, without him.

He knows, this captain, that he and his men cannot hope to possibly catch all of the animals of the forest, though it is, perhaps, what the king expects. And if they were able to catch all the animals in the forest, how would they know which ones were children under a spell of magic?

Sir Greyson strides through the forest. He looks for unusual signs—tracks, a lost scrap of clothing, perhaps, or, better yet, children who have grown tired of hiding. He could never have lasted this long in hiding when he was a child. He admires the children, though they have made his job more difficult. Though they are the reason he has not seen his mother and does not even know whether she lives. Sir Greyson is not a man to hold grudges. And if he were, what justification would there be in holding a grudge against innocent children who merely want to save their own lives? Sir Greyson understands, you see. He knows why they hide. He urges them to hide, in fact, though he would not speak such words aloud to his men or to the king. He does not, in truth, want the children found, for there is a feeling in the pit of his stomach that says it would be nothing but disaster.

Stay hidden, he whispers into the air. Stay hidden, whatever you do.

***

THE children, of course, cannot hear our captain, for they hide, still, beneath the ground, cut off from the forest, protected by a tiny shoe. They can feel the vibrations of horses, the walking of men, the springing of traps, though they do not know them for what they are.

Maude looks at Arthur. “Movement,” Arthur says. “Someone is out there.”

The children are growing hungry. They have not yet had their breakfast, but they need wood from the forest. Arthur cannot make his daily gathering voyage until the movement ceases. So they wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, finally, finally the ground grows silent. And still they wait.

“Father?” Hazel says. She looks at Arthur, her blue eyes growing large. “Why must we continue waiting?”

Arthur stares at the ceiling. “To make sure,” he says. He looks at Maude. Maude nods her head. “Alright, children. I will gather our supplies for the day.”

“Let me go with you,” Mercy says. She pushes through the crowd to stand before Arthur.

“Do not be foolish, child,” Arthur says. “I am not a child. I am not important to the kingdom.”

Maude lets out a sound much like a sob, and the children turn their heads to her, but Arthur pulls her into his arms and hides her face from their eyes. He whispers in her ear. He turns back to the children. “I will return shortly,” he says. “Stay here.” He pulls away from Maude. She has, it seems, composed herself. He holds her elbows and shakes her gently. “If I do not return,” he says. He looks at the children and then back at Maude. “Remain here. Remain hidden.”

Maude gives one nod of her head, and then Arthur steps through the portal and is gone.

The children wait. It seems that all they ever do anymore is wait.

And when the waiting grows too long, Mercy jumps from the fold, shouts, “I shall go after him,” and disappears through the portal, her staff gripped tightly in her hand.

Maude stares at the place where the girl had been.