Part 7

When I had journeyed half of our life's way,

I found myself within a shadowed forest,

for I had lost the path that does not stray."

~ Dante's Inferno

Nearly sundown – the children had spent the afternoon and evening at neighbor houses with various playmates. Eleanor had seen them from the studio window as they ran up and down the sidewalk, intent in their games. They pulled the red wagon around to the front of the house and lined it with Jack’s blanket, then took turns pushing each other. More than thirty minutes had past and she considered going outside to look for them when she saw them come around the curve in the sidewalk, walking with a girl Cailyn’s age. The girl continued on as Cailyn and Jack moved up the driveway. Jack sat in the wagon with his blanket while his sister pulled. Cailyn waved at the departing girl, who was out of sight in a moment and Eleanor heard the front door open.

Their voices were low. Jack sounded breathless and tremulous, as if he’d been crying.

“I’ll just leave it on the front porch,” she heard Cailyn say.

“But what if someone takes it?” asked Jack.

“We know everyone here,” said Cailyn. “Who would take it?” There was a wheezy sort of silence, and Eleanor knew without having to see that Jack was gulping back tears. Cailyn continued, “I’ll pull it around after we tell Mother, okay? Just sit down here, she’s probably upstairs….”

He must have nodded, because Cailyn’s voice was calling, “Mama?”

Eleanor looked around in mild surprise when she realized she was sitting in the dark and had been for some time. Harvest stood in the corner behind the easel, silent and still.

Cailyn called. “Mama?”

Eleanor ran a hand through her hair and blinked slowly. Cailyn flipped the light switch and peeked into the room. “Mama?” she said. “Can you come downstairs? Jack got hurt.”

Eleanor nodded briefly. Cailyn held out her hand and she took it, following the girl through the hall and down the stairs. Harvest trailed behind. Cailyn led her to the boy where he sat on the couch in the front room. Jack’s tear-streaked face gleamed in the light from the entryway.

“What happened?” Eleanor asked him.

“It hurts,” he hiccuped. He held up his right index finger.

Eleanor leaned down to pick him up. He was lighter than she expected, but then, he always seemed that way. It was no effort at all to carry him into the kitchen. Cailyn turned on the light and pulled open the pantry door for the first-aid kit as Eleanor sat him on the kitchen island. Harvest stood in the doorway.

“What happened?” Eleanor asked again.

“I got bit.”

“By what? An ant?” There were hives of fire-ants in these parts that could be fairly dangerous, especially to a curious boy who enjoyed poking the piles with sticks. She held his hand with both of hers and pulled it closer to her face so that she could see.

Harvest chuckled.

“A faery,” said Cailyn, who lay supplies out on the counter.

Eleanor’s face grew concerned. She could see the bite now, the skin around it already turning green. Baz, who had been sitting in the dark space under the sink, now opened the cabinet door and stuck his head out, drawn by the noise. Pitchtongue came in walking on all fours and climbed up onto the island to crouch behind the boy. The twins were probably hiding under the stairs.

“How?” Eleanor asked Jack, reaching for a bottle of brown liquid.

“We saw it in the garden at Wren’s house,” answered Cailyn for him.

“I was eating tomatoes,” he told her.

“Yuck,” commented Baz.

“I told him not to touch it,” Cailyn said. “But you know how he is.”

The finger was starting to swell. Eleanor shook her head. “I’m going to have to lance it.”

Jack grimaced, his face anxious. “What does that mean?”

“Cut it open,” Cailyn told him. He started violently and tried to pull his hand back, but Eleanor held it fast. She reached into the first-aid box with her other hand and pulled out a sterile razor blade, still wrapped in paper.

“Cailyn,” she said, “go get his blanket.” Cailyn ran into the front room.

“Nonononono,” Jack protested in a shrill voice. “Don’t cut me, don’t cut me!” Cailyn was back in an instant, pushing the blanket onto his lap. He clutched it. “No, no, Mommy, please….”

“Jack,” her voice was calm. “It will only hurt for a moment. I have to get the poison out.”

“Why are you lying to him?” asked Harvest.

Jack shook his head. “Leave the poison in there, it will go out by itself.”

Still holding Jack’s hand, Eleanor gave the razor to Cailyn who unwrapped it carefully, not touching the blade. “It won’t,” she told him. “Faery bites are dangerous.”

“What will happen to the finger if she doesn’t fix it?” Baz said to Pitchtongue.

“It will swell to four times its normal size and sprout a thick layer of blue fur,” answered Pitchtongue. Baz hooted with laughter. “Either that,” continued Pitchtongue lazily, “or it will shrivel like a prune and fall off.”

She held the razor delicately, squeezing his finger from the knuckle. Jack screamed. Cailyn jumped. Harvest laughed.

“Look at Cailyn,” she told the boy. “Look at Cailyn and listen to her say the alphabet.” He was still wailing, but nodded obediently and turned the whites of his eyes to Cailyn, who began to recite the alphabet in a loud sing-song. Eleanor cut quickly into his finger, squeezing out the thick yellow pus and milky green venom along with a good deal of blood. Jack shrieked and kicked and tried again to pull his hand away, but he watched Cailyn’s singing mouth, tears pouring down his face.

Pitchtongue sang along with the girl, out of tune and out of order, “Q, H, M, F, B, K, Ooooo…”

Eleanor threw the razor into the sink. Baz climbed out of his cabinet and picked it up, his tongue flicking over the stained and shining blade. Eleanor squeezed a little of the brown liquid out of the small, white bottle onto the wounded fingertip and then wrapped it in a diminutive bandage. Cailyn’s voice trailed off. Jack stuck the thumb of his other hand into his mouth and looked down at his hand curiously, his small chest moving up and down very rapidly. His shoulders shook.. Cailyn leaned against the counter, looking exhausted.

Eleanor lifted Jack into her arms and carried him beck to the couch as Harvest said to Pitchtongue, “Well, that was fun.”

Cailyn followed and sat on the couch next to her. Eleanor held Jack on her lap and stroked his hair, waiting for the shuddering to subside. At last it did, and he lay quietly against her chest, sucking his thumb, holding the soft edge of his blanket under his nose. Cailyn also rested against her, and though they were only two very small children, their combined weight seemed very great. They sat in the dark room. It was very quiet.

“Did you eat dinner?” she asked Cailyn.

Cailyn nodded. “We had pizza at Michael’s house.” She looked at Jack, then back up at her mother. “He’s asleep.”

Cailyn followed her as Eleanor carried the little boy up the stairs. The girl went on to her own bedroom as Eleanor stopped to tuck him among his covers and smoothe his hair away from his forehead. He stirred and said without opening his eyes, “It was just so pretty, Mom….”

“I know,” she told him. “Sometimes pretty things can hurt us.”

But he was asleep.