Page 36 of Outside the Veil
So you’ve never had children?
(A long silence on the tape while Thistle leaves the room and returns somewhat flushed and agitated.)
“I’m not certain.”
But you may have?
“Perhaps. It’s a time-honored tradition for country girls to blame the local pooka when they are with child and wish to protect a human lover. If every girl who claimed me as their child’s father spoke truly, I would have an ocean full of half-blooded progeny. But most of them I never laid with. Or did so when they were out of season. There was once, though…”
Yes?
“I have a particular weakness. Ach, you’ll laugh. It’s catnip.”
(I’m ashamed to say I do laugh.)
“Fine, fine. All too amusing. But it has the same effect on me that a cask of wine would on you. I came across this great, green patch of it one day and fully intended just a sniff. Mayhap, a bit of a roll. But it was late spring and the sun was warm and once I had my nose in the stuff, I lost all track of my feet.
“So there I lay, head floating, feeling pleasantly numb, when a small herd of beautiful young maidens happened by. At least I believe they were beautiful. It may have been a catnip view of things.”
While you were lying there stark naked?
“Well, now, what do you think, boyo? It’s not as if I usually carry clothes with me for such occasions. Yes, in my natural state, stretched out helpless on the ground. They took a liking to me, cooed and fussed over me, but when they realized I was intoxicated rather than ill, they started to…”
(I’ve edited out much of what follows to avoid censorship issues.)
“…so a few months later I spotted them at the river again and all five of them were carrying, what was I to think?”
Did you ever see any of the children? Did they look like yours?
“One girl-child, perhaps. Raven-haired, a fey, wild thing. She lived well over a century.”
But you never told her?
“No. Should I have? I don’t know what good it would have done her.” (Thistle lays his head on his arms—another long pause on the tape.) “Is there ice cream? I think I’d like some about now.”
“Diego? Are we going out today? The rain has all but ceased.”
He looked up to find Finn leaning in the doorway in his favorite black jeans. They were the only concession he was willing to make clothing-wise, in case they ran into other hikers.
“Give me a minute to finish up. And let me find my boots.”
Finn held up the hiking boots in his left hand and the camera in his right.
“All right, I’m coming!” Diego surrendered with a laugh.
Mist curtained the woods that afternoon, creating phantom shapes in the distance and making Diego uncertain of the way, especially since Finn kept dashing off ahead. He returned every time, excited by each new find—a rabbit’s warren, a tree frog, a handful of blackberries—but Diego couldn’t shake the feeling that each time he raced off into the swirling silver-gray fog, he would never come back.
Would that be a bad thing? This is where he belongs, not with me.
He trudged on another few steps, listening for the light rustle of Finn’s feet skimming over the leaves.But I’d miss him, damn it.
A sudden tightening in his chest overwhelmed him, and he sat down hard on a fallen tree trunk. A hand cupped his cheek. Finn had come back without a sound.
“You’re ill today? Diego, you should have said so.”
“I’m fine. I am.” He grabbed Finn’s hand and pulled him down on the log. “Just sit still a second, could you? I can’t keep up.”
“You don’t need to, my hero. I will always know where you are.” Finn hooked an arm around his shoulders and hugged him tight, shivers running through his long frame.
