Prologue

 

 

          The woman exited the door in the tree and entered the woods at just past eight o’clock in the evening, Outworld time. It was early winter, and the air was cold but not yet bitter, the moon and stars hidden behind a thick and dull-colored blanket of clouds. A faint scent of smoke was in the air, probably from fireplaces in the nearby town. Not that anyone here really needed an open fire to stay warm. This was the Outworld after all, where comfort was commonplace.

          It was a thin wood, mainly birches, and some old oaks, twisted with age. There was little in the way of ground cover—a few scattered leaves and twigs—and the earth was winter-hard, so that her steps were almost silent as she made her way toward the lights of the town.

          The tree line ran up to the main road, and she followed it, moving from dirt to concrete without breaking her stride. She walked quickly along the sidewalk, avoiding the harsh glare of the lampposts and keeping as much as possible to the shadow of the buildings. Not that she would have been easy to see, even in the light. She was covered in a long purple cloak with the hood pulled over her head, although in the dimness it might as well have been black. In her right hand was a large basket of woven reeds; a gift from a friendly Nymph.

          She reached the town square and paused at a statue erected in the center. At its base was a bronze plaque, proudly proclaiming that she was in the town of Beckett Groves, so named after its founder, a one-eyed traveling preacher whose name was Emmanuel Beckett and his pack mule whose name apparently, was not known. At some point in the recent past, someone had climbed the statue and painted in a second eye. The mule had been maligned as well.

          Beckett Groves. The name meant nothing to her, but then this place wasn’t chosen for any particular quality of the town itself. It was chosen for only one reason: it was near a door, a door for which there was a key. That in itself was a rarity these days. It might be years before that same door returned to its present location or it might never return, but that too didn’t matter. There was little chance anyone would need to come this way again.

          The woman continued across the square, finally stopping in front of a drab, two-story stone building. Above the doorway, three large letters had been engraved into the granite: DFS. Most of the windows were dark except for a single light in one of the first floor offices. She hesitated. It shouldn’t have to be this way, she thought. But there was nothing to be done for it. Rousing herself, she walked up the steps and rang the bell.

          Several minutes passed before a voice called out through the door. A female voice. “Can I help you?”

          “Is this the agency charged with the care and protection of human children?” the woman asked.

          A pause. “Did you say, human children?”

          “I did indeed.”

          “This is the Division of Family Services.” There was a hint of wariness in the voice. “But you’ll have to come back tomorrow. The building is closed.”

          “If you open the door, it won’t be.”

          The voice became flustered. “I mean the service is closed. We’re open from eight to five, Monday through Friday. Please come back then.”

          “But I don’t need assistance between eight and five. I need assistance now,” she said.

          “I’ve already told you, there’s no one here.”

          “You are here.”

          There was a groan of exasperation and the sound of a lock turning. The door opened just a crack, the security chain still in place. Warmth and light radiated from the room beyond. The small head of an older woman appeared in the space, her glasses magnifying the size of her eyes several times.

          “I’m just finishing up some bookkeeping. I’m not one of the social workers.”

          “Perhaps not, but you’re a grubber, aren’t you?”

          “A what?” the woman asked.

          “Do you have a name?”

          “Mildred; Mildred Hornblower, and as I said…”

          “Mildred Hornblower. Yes, a fine Outworld name. Now then, Mildred, I am leaving you this female child. Please keep her safe. Good day.”           She set the basket on the stoop and turned away.

          There was the sound of mad scrambling as Mildred unlashed the chain and threw open the door. She stepped out onto the stoop and glanced inside the basket. Wrapped snuggly in a blanket was a sleeping infant. She appeared to be only a few weeks old yet had a full head of dark hair.

          “What are you doing?” she shrieked. “You can’t leave a child on the doorstep. That isn’t how it works. There are papers to sign and forms to fill out and—wait, come back here!”

          The woman stopped at the sidewalk and looked back. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for papers and forms, the door will not wait.”

          “Well, you had better make time or…I’ll call the police. Yes, that’s just what I’ll do; I’ll call the police.”

          The woman raised her hand and drew back her hood. “And how will that help us?”

          Mildred’s expression went through several emotions before freezing in place somewhere between fear and wonder. The figure before her was obviously a woman or at least female. But her long hair was white as milk, and her eyes were so blue they seemed to glow. It was her skin, however, that made the older woman stop and stammer. It was the color of polished silver.

          “What… what are you?” Mildred gasped.

          “My, what a gracious question. What am I? Right now I am tired and burdened with sorrow, but mostly what I am, Mildred is running out of time.”

          “No, no. You know what I mean. Where did you come from?”

          “Neverworld.”

          “I’ve never heard of it.”

          “Which probably accounts for its name, don’t you think?” The silver woman sighed. “But it wasn’t always so. There was a time all the Outworld knew of us, but you’ve forgotten.” She looked around at the gray, colorless buildings. “You’ve all forgotten. Then again, that’s what grubbers do best, isn’t it? They forget.” She turned again to leave.

          “Wait, the baby—is she…?”

          “Is she what? Human? Yes. Well, more or less. Now, I really must go.”

          “But you can’t just abandon her here.”

           “Nonsense. I’m not abandoning the child, I’m leaving her in your care, and you know all you need to care for her properly.” She lifted the hood back over her head, peering from beneath the shadows with bright blue eyes at the older woman. “And please see that she is cared for, Mildred. She deserved far better than this.” Turning swiftly, she disappeared into the night.

***

 

          To Mildred’s credit, she waited until after she called the police and the child was safely in the arms of the proper officials before she allowed herself to faint.

          Following Mildred’s recovery (assisted by the application of smelling salts, supplied by a hastily contacted doctor), she related the extraordinary circumstances surrounding the girl’s arrival on her doorstep. The initial reaction of the authorities was cool, to say the least. In spite of their obvious disbelief, Mildred clung to her story through several hours of interrogation and more than one outburst of tears.

          In the end, it was decided that the moonless night, combined with the shadows thrown from the street lamps and Mildred’s poor sight had conspired to create the illusion of a silver-skinned woman. Mildred of course vehemently denied anything of the sort, threatening to go to the newspapers with her story. At that point, the doctor, who had been brought in to revive her, now gave her a sedative and the poor woman was bustled out of town before dawn to a distant hospital specializing in the treatment of nervous conditions.

          So it came to pass that the town of Beckett Groves awoke the next day to the startling news that an unknown woman—obviously from out of state, and almost certainly some sort of hippy—had abandoned her child at the doorstep of the DFS and fled.

Mildred’s original statements were transcribed, analyzed, sanitized, editorialized and finally buried so deep in the basement files of the DFS, that they were never again seen by human eyes. As far as everyone involved with the incident was concerned, the case was closed.