Sprite

“What are you supposed to be?” a lanky man with growths on his neck asked sourly. “Getting into the whole ‘forest creature’ thing, are you? Well, it doesn’t work for all of us.” He indicated the disfiguring bumps that were clearly visible on the uncovered portions of his skinny body. He wasn’t old, none of the mutants who survived were, but he had lived a hard life and it showed.

“I’m Neistah.” With a thump, Neistah dropped the deer carcass he had caught for this group. Not all of the mutants were grateful for the help, but Neistah wasn’t looking for praise. He wasn’t about to apologize for what he was, either. “What you see is what you get.”

“Right.” The man glanced down disinterestedly at the deer, and turned his head away, making no move to help with the animal, so Neistah picked the carcass back up, surprisingly strong for his slender build. “Hey!” the man called in protest.

Neistah continued walking away.

“Hey, I’m sorry. Don’t go, we could really use the meat.” The man hurried after Neistah, and gave a sharp whistle. Slowly, people came out from the camp, curious to see what was going on. Neistah let himself be led back to the center of the encampment and slid the deer carcass off his shoulders.

“Neistah!” A group of children ran up to them. “I knew you’d come!” One, a boy with a tail, shot an accusing glare at the rest of the children. “See, I told you he was real!”

Neistah tousled the boy’s head. “I brought you meat,” he said. “Have you been well?”

“Oh, yes!” cried the boy. “Everyone here has been so nice.”

Neistah’s eyes cut back to the lanky man who had not exactly been ‘nice.’ “I’m glad to hear it.” He meant to slip right back into the forest, never quite comfortable among these human changelings, but his young friend insisted he stay for supper. He caught the older man staring hard at him, reassessing what he saw.

“Are you the one they call the Sprite?” the man asked.

Neistah scowled. “I’m called Neistah,” he said again. This legend of the Sprite was getting out of hand. The older humans had dubbed him that because of his attributes, never really believing it might be true. But the children had adopted the name and were far more likely to believe it.

The thin man was looking at him apprehensively now, and edging away from the group of children who tugged on Neistah’s hands, urging him to follow them. The deer lay forgotten once again on the ground.

Neistah sighed and extricated his hands from the smaller ones that held them, eliciting a squeal from the little girl on his left. “They are webbed!” she cried out delightedly. Her own mutation, a mottling of skin that gave the appearance of scales, stopped short of fusing her fingers together, but thick bands of skin grew between them, almost like webbing. She gazed up at Neistah in adoration.

“Can he do magic?” Neistah heard another boy ask the tailed one, who nodded gravely. Neistah almost regretted saving him all those years ago. Whatever magic he had used was limited to being faster and smarter than the stupid hunters who had been chasing them.

“I’ve got to go,” Neistah said. It was easier when the humans thought of him as just another mutant, like them. The alternative was—uncomfortable.

He noticed the thin man whispering urgently with several of the older mutants in the camp, and felt their uneasy stares. If it weren’t for the little ones, he’d leave them to fend for themselves. He glided over to the group, and whispered menacingly, putting a little compulsion in their heads at the same time. “Forget about me. You didn’t see me. He—“ Neistah indicated the thin man, “—caught the deer.” He glided away, laughing silently as the others stared incredulously at the thin man who usually did little around the camp except complain. Neistah let the children alone. Nobody would believe their stories anyway.

Suddenly drained, he headed deeper into the woods, hoping to find a lake, or at least some hunters he could bedevil.

He found Valin instead, next to a small grouping of stones. His father was dressed like a human again, and Neistah grimaced in distaste. “What is it this time?” he asked wearily. “I thought you hated this place.”

“I do.” The red-haired sprite handed Neistah a silk-wrapped package. “This was found on our side of the gate,” he said quietly.

Neistah laid bare the silk wrapping and raised an eyebrow. “You can touch it?”

“As can you. It’s not pleasant, but it can be done.”

“Something you learned, no doubt, when you lived among humans as their captive long ago.” Neistah’s eyes drifted over his father’s scarred face.

“No doubt,” Valin agreed dryly. “The point is, a gate has been breached, and the iron taint has spread to our lands.”

“Not much iron,” Neistah said, eyeing the knife. “Or neither one of us would be standing here chatting so casually.” His voice held an edge to it. Valin preferred vocal speech to thoughts, and Neistah could only assume he meant it as an insult. “Was that all you found?”

“If you mean did I find a human on our side of the gate, no, I did not. It may have been that a hole was formed between our worlds and the human wandered into it before it completely faded. Did you shed blood here?”

Neistah was insulted. “No.” ’No,’ he repeated, mind to mind. ’It wasn’t me.’

They both knew what that meant. Another of their kind had passed through to the human world. There was no law against it, and Neistah wasn’t the only being who felt drawn to this world.

’They are aware of the danger,’ Valin sent, finally speaking mind to mind with Neistah. ’No one has admitted to it.’

‘Are you blaming me?’ Neistah sent angrily. He would not be responsible for what others of his kind chose to do or not do. His mistakes were his own.

’No, I only wanted to make you aware of what has happened. Be careful, Neistah. Capture for us is worse than a death sentence. We could condemn our whole world to contamination by these mortal fools.’

They glared at each other. Neistah took the square of silk and re-wrapped the offending knife. It might not even have belonged to a hunter. It could have been a changeling’s knife, some lost child out here in these woods looking for salvation. The human would never have been accepted in Neistah’s world; the poor mutated humans weren’t really changelings, however much they might wish it. His kind were just as guilty of judging as the hunters were, perhaps more so. He hoped the child, if child it was, had made it out of faerie lands safely.

“Where did you find it?” he asked, slipping back into speech. “And why do you insist on wearing those ridiculous clothes?”

His father glanced at him wryly, shook his head, and pointed to the east. “Follow the line of stones for a day and a night. You’ll find a red flower to mark the spot. It’s closed now, to any except our kind.”

“And on the other side?”

“Nothing but tangled wilderness, a little dulled now because of the iron.”

Neistah felt a chill at his father’s words. There was a good reason mortals were not allowed into faerie. Their very essence drained the vitality out of that place, trying to turn it into a copy of this desolate world. The mortals had iron in their very blood.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised.

Valin nodded. “You might try wearing the clothes of this world. It will make your work here easier if mortals see you as one of them.”

“My work here?” Neistah grinned, showing sharp teeth. “I do no work here. I play.”

Valin nodded again and turned a half-turn, fading away before Neistah’s eyes. Neistah felt the pull of the gate, which cut off abruptly as soon as his father passed through. He felt a sharp pang of homesickness. He understood, now, why his father did not like to speak mind to mind. If Valin had, then he would have seen the lie in Neistah’s words. Neistah wondered if perhaps he had seen it even so.