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He'd done it again, only two streets east of us this time. Although no one had yet been hurt, the thought of a strange man in the house - and particularly in Benjamin's room - had creased lines of tension at the corners of my wife's mouth. Her arms were perpetually crossed, hands clutching at opposite elbows as she struggled to ignore the television droning on in the background as we argued. A newscaster was speculating on why only children's rooms were broken into.
"He's five years old," I protested. "We don't need to keep feeding him fairy tales."
The words 'molestation feared' drifted over from the TV, casting our argument into an insignificant light.
"He's expecting it, honey." There was a flat edge to my wife's voice, like slate that is on the verge of crumbling but repels attacks until that point. "Please, don't argue with me right now."
We weren't fighting over the break-ins; I had long since checked and rechecked the locks and even put the baby monitor back in Ben's room so we could listen for him. There was a good chance he'd end up sleeping with us. Still, worry polluted the air and made our current debate, on whether Ben was old enough to know the tooth fairy wasn't real, more sensitive than it should have been. Meanwhile, Ben slept soundly in the happy expectation of discovering money under his pillow in the morning.
"All right, fine," I said, sounding harsher than I intended. "I'm tired, too. This week has felt like one long day broken by short naps... but I'll do the swap tonight, and we can talk about it more tomorrow. Okay?"
She nodded, her arms finally unfolding to embrace me.
"There are no eye-witnesses as of yet, but police officials urge families to use extra safety measures as the hunt continues." The TV continued recycling the same information in different packages as I headed upstairs.
I remembered my father creeping into my room when he thought I was asleep - watching him through my lashes, eyelids barely parted, as he eased the pillow up just enough to grab my baby tooth. I always made sure to put my head directly over it and enjoyed watching him struggle, his quiet grunts loud in my ears, but he seemed to take pleasure from it as well - there was always such a look of satisfaction when he'd slid the shiny quarter into its place. It seemed to reaffirm his paternity as he stood, chest heaving lightly in a quick release of breath, and I always smiled as he left, my hand snaking up to close around the cool metal and clutch it until morning.
My hand closed on the doorknob, the warmth of my palm fogging the brass, and I turned it in cautious increments before cracking the door. The straining wood creaked as the door opened, and my heart pumped adrenaline in fear that my son would wake. Then it abruptly stopped, like a drummer shot between beats - for a man was hunched over my son's bed. As my mouth opened he turned to face me.
He was ancient, the mark of centuries inked on his brow and carved in his face, but even in the dim light his eyes shone with something... a power, a holiness, that filled the room so thickly that I fought conflicting impulses to strike him, to cry out, or to drop to my knees in reverence. The fullness of his presence threatened to overwhelm me and sent my thoughts reeling, but as my breath came home to fevered lungs he put his finger to his lips, and there was nothing to do but watch him.
Benjamin slept on, the sheets twisted around him and one hand flung up to rest beside his cheek. The man held no weapons but was dangerously near my son. The intruder lowered his finger and smiled, and in it I saw the depths of fear and wonder... a hungry black hole, empty of teeth, but not the wilted pink atrophy of old age, or the bloody, violated injuries of a young jaw - simply a void, nothing; it went on and inward. His gaze met mine and I felt a benediction, Eucharistic and potent, flood over me like a blessing. The mournful scent of forgotten earth filled my nostrils, as if its rich virility had gone too long un-watered until blowing dust had settled over all. His hand, twisted and gnarled like the barked joints of tree roots protruding from the water, touched the clean cotton beside my child's face, and I did not move.
His gray robes were unadorned but tattered with rips and tears that formed a pattern I could not quite see. A necklace of faded yellow bones stretched across the ashen pallor of his throat, and cloth strips of myriad colors dangled from his belt. Two leather pouches, water-stained and trailing strings of fraying rawhide, hung there as well, and into one of these he reached to withdraw something shiny and round.
His hand slid easily under the pillow and I caught but a glimpse of the
tiny, stained tooth he held between wrinkled fingertips before dropping it into the second
pouch. As he turned to leave, he brushed back stringy white hair, done up with unraveling braids, broken cobwebs, and disintegrating insect wings like those left pinned too long in a display case. He affected a smile as he drifted to the window, but there was such weariness - exhaustion, holy and wholly, plaguing the marrow of his every motion - that I nearly looked away in pity. He reached the window, but rather than moving to open it, he merely leaned a worn shoulder into it and the glass gave way. It did not break but shimmered, rippled, stretched and slid, as he passed through to the other side. He did not gauge the space quite right and his robe became entangled - the glass showed spiderweb cracks, and for a moment he struggled - and then he was outside, and gone, and it was several seconds before the pane finally broke.
Benjamin started violently at the sound, but then he saw me and smiled. "I knew it was you," he murmured as he nestled back into the covers.
I stood in the living room and stared out the window. The night was bright enough to read by, but I saw no motion on the hushed street beyond. I heard the television yammering on and felt sudden, inexplicable anger as I snatched up the remote and clicked it off. Silence dropped awkwardly, and I uncomfortably wondered how many senses that old man might have lost. Perhaps his clumsiness would be overcome, and he would fare better in another house... but it seemed careless, leaving broken windows across the city. He must be wearing down, each night siphoning away a bit more, until he's either apathetic or incapable of performing his rite - perhaps from not enough children believing in him. The thought startled me, but somehow did not seem unreasonable. Not when I looked out the window again, upon the crisp frost on the lawn and the distant pinpricks of the stars.
Maybe he is growing disillusioned as well. Or maybe the magic is simply no longer alive; perhaps we killed it along with all the shamans and the natives with their worship of Sun Chief and the Long Ago People; perhaps we killed it with our subjection of fancy to reason; perhaps... perhaps I have simply gone too long without sleep.
I ran my tongue over my teeth, each a testimony to the silent trade of awe for maturity, and wondered if somewhere their predecessors still had the power of good medicine, of wonder and spirit, or if in the exchange for the cold, hard reality of growing up, their magic was entirely lost.
I pulled down the shade, dismissing the thoughts and intent on sleep, but caught one last glimpse of the full moon riding high upon the clouds, myth and mother, huge and silver in the night.
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