Chapter 02

My inclusion in the tale began much earlier than I suspected, although still very late in the telling. It would be years before I would grasp the significance of my earliest memory, or how it would shape my future.

I was the second child, if only by minutes, to a loving set of parents that were undeserving of what was to befall them: my father, Elliot, an American businessman that had fallen desperately in love with a young Irish woman; and my mother, Imogen, a bright and brilliant girl that might have been anything in these modern times of ours, and yet in her time, was whole and content to be teacher, wife, and mother.

Of my brother, I can tell you little. He was my twin, our souls identical from head to toe, save for the shades of our parts. The first born, baring argent eyes that reflected the endless skies above, was given the name of Robin, as was befitting one born with a lock of scarlet hair so very much like our mother's. Myself, born dark of hair and eye, was given the name Lonán, but my mother would forever call me her little Blackbird.

We were born in November of 1841, in my mother's hometown of Derry. Our first home was a simple place, although we did not stay there long enough for me to recall it. Years later I would return to Derry, once I understood the nature of my past, to look upon the place where it all began. But as for my earliest years, I recalled nothing, save for the explosion of gilded colour that would change all of our lives for the worse.

It was upon the Hallows Eve just before our fourth birthday that we found ourselves attending a celebration. Fiery and jubilant as ever, it was my brother Robin that led me into the crowd. It took nothing but an inattentive moment, a kiss shared between two lovers, to offer us the opportunity to escape our parents' watchful eyes. We heard our mother call out after us, as well as our father's calm reassurances to her as he set out to retrieve us. But his aged legs, quite obviously suffering after a long twenty-eight years of use, were no match for our young and vigorous strides. Ducking and diving, we made our way through the forest of people, all of whom had gathered together to watch the fireworks.

Although my memory of Derry is a blur of bubbling kisses and unbridled affection, it is that dark night that I recall clearly. I dream of it sometimes, the recollection as clear as glass, as my brother Robin broke through the crowd and ran across the field. His laugh was as gay as his countenance, bopping and rolling through the meadow, beyond the barrier erected to keep the citizenry at bay.

When I dream of it, I imagine a moment where I pause, to wait for our father to catch me. To stop me from preceding on after Robin. To prevent everything before it began.

But no matter how desperately I cling to that moment, it must eventually pass. And then I am running after the scarlet-haired boy, moving closer to the water as we dance joyously beneath the explosions of colour overhead.

I do not know what caused the firework to fail as it did. Nor do I recall the moment before it landed a mere yard from me, exploding into a shower of golden sparks. The doctors and surgeons assured my parents that my memory loss was absolute; that I had no recollection of the trauma. But no matter their words, I remember the burst of light, the harsh, metallic odor of the burning materials as the explosive detonated.

I remember the pain, so acute, so widespread. The searing agony, as thousands upon thousands of fiery cinders scorched my skin and clothing. I remember wailing as I lay upon the ground, uncomprehending of what had transpired, only knowing that it hurt so very much. And I remember my brother reaching me first, his terrified cries joining mine so long before our father arrived.

He was there for me in that moment. I will never forget that. Not yet four, my brother rushed to my side, even as the explosive spat more furious embers beside me. He was fearless, my Robin. And for that, I could never blame him for leading me away. Even now, a lifetime gone, knowing everything that would befall us after that accursed night, I cannot blame him for his part.

I blame myself, for failing him. But that was later.

In that moment, I was sure my world had ended. But like so many of our childhood fears, the trauma would prove bearable; it is the things that go unseen, unnoticed until they've taken root deep inside, that haunt us through our lives.

By the morning, most of my pain had faded. My flesh remained pock-marked where the burning ashes had struck, although much of that would heal in time. By the dawn, I was healthy and whole, save for my eyes.

The doctors in Derry did what they could, but they could not lessen the burning sensation that lingered within the windows to my soul. At first I was blinded, my vision nothing more than blurs of dark gold. They warned that the affect might be permanent; that the finer materials in the explosive had lodged themselves too deep. Their tools were not so delicate as to remove the bits that smoldered within.

Our mother and father refused to accept such a fate for me. Desperate to prevent my sight from failing, they searched far and wide for anyone that would offer hope. In time, they came to learn of the surgeons at the royal chartered hospital in London. If any could help, it would be they.

And so it was that, in the early parts of 1846, my family departed Derry. I recall being ashamed at the thought that I had caused my parents to leave their home. Their assurances that I was not at fault were little comfort. Later it would seem a blessing, as we were some of the first to leave at the onset of the Great Hunger. When the others eventually fled Ireland, to relocate due to the Blight that spread across the land, we were already established in London, our parents having found work before the flood of immigrants arrived.

The surgeons in London could do little more than those in Derry. But as my vision slowly returned, my parents accepted it as a sign that they had done the right thing for me. By our fifth birthday, my sight was as it ever had been, if not better. Our mother believed me blessed, her little Blackbird that could see as well at night as he did during the day. Such was an exaggeration, as I could see but little in the dark. But my mother would claim to see the sparks in my eyes as we walked through Kensington Gardens at dusk.

In fact, there was some truth to that. After the incident, many would claim to see bright motes within my dark eyes. And while bewitching in nature, the doctors assured us that it was simply the remnants of the explosives, the small particles of which would always remain with me.

Alas, the truth is a fragile thing. And while the doctors were not entirely wrong in their diagnosis, they were not entirely correct.

Still, to my family, it was a joyous time. Spared the dark fate of the blind, I spent my next few years happy with my brother and our parents. While I could speak no ill of Derry, for I did not know it well enough to love it or loath it, I can say with some confidence that London was the jewel of the world in that time. And the four of us reveled in it, and all the wonders it contained.

It would be four years before it ended. Four years of squealing tickles and tinkling laughter, of exuberant singing and raucous play.

And then came the Pan.

A child of Ireland, our mother was no stranger to tales of the fantastic and the magical. She would whisper them to us each night before bed, and nearing our ninth birthday, my brother and I quite believed them. Everyone did in that time. The gardens were places of wonder, and the other children would tell us the stories of the faeries that lived in the flowering woods.

And yet, for all that my glittering eyes had seen, I had never seen a creature the likes of which they described. Now, years later, I doubt they had either. But they believed they had, and we believed them in turn. I perhaps less so than my brother, who was fervent in his desire to sight a dew drop fairy or flowering pixie. But if I was less enthused, it was only by the slimmest of margins.

And so it was, on that fateful night, that my brother was the first to awaken at the tapping at the window.

"Lonán!" came the excited whisper that pierced my last pleasant dreams. There was an urgency, a wonder to my brother's tone that brought me from a deep slumber in an instant. As I blinked away the dark and the drowsiness, I heard his voice gain in pitch, if not in volume. "Brother, he's here!"

In those first moments I confess that I did not recognize the urgency of the situation. My mind, so recently evicted from its slumber, was slow and doltish. Neither his words nor his tone were enough to jar my sleep-addled thoughts. They drifted carelessly, wondering at the hour, which was surely too late or too early, for the only light to see by was that of the moon shining in from our windows. That meager illumination shone upon the inner wall and door, the slotted pattern of the window panes leaning crookedly like the branches of a bowed tree.

But as I blinked away my dreary thoughts, the pale shine did shift, as a shadow drifted across the wall.

At once I was awake, my breath coming fast and high as the silhouette leaned first one way and then the next. It was a familiar shape, if somewhat vague and hard to place at first. As my wide eyes blinked away the night, I recognized it as the curving form of a human head, sitting atop a set of slim, narrow shoulders.

That my first inclination was to fear is completely understandable, given that our room was upon the second floor, a good number of feet from the cobbled street below. Surely I must be mistaken; the idea that someone could have climbed the outer wall, to light upon our windowsill, was as wild and absurd as any I could imagine.

And still, as I turned to look past my brother's bed and onward to the windows, my eyes grew wide and fearful. As impossible as it seemed, there was indeed a figure crouched there, its dark form lean and somehow wild as it perched upon the ledge.

A lancing terror did spread through me then, as I watched the figure's slim fingers stroke lovingly at the glass, its broken and jagged nails raking lightly across the pebbled surface. I was too far away to know then that its fingernails were worn and coarse, but I could hear the affect they had on the glass, as they did cause a harsh and echoing screech to sound across the room. It was the sound of bare branches stroking with the wind, and yet entirely too slow, and entirely too purposeful.

The sound did grate upon my nerves, the hairs across my body rising in piqued alarm as the sense of danger grew within me. I shivered beneath my sheets, as if a non-existent wind had blown across my skin — no, through the very pores of my flesh — to whisk across my bones like an arctic gale. I wondered at another sound, until I realized that it was that of my own teeth, chattering sharply as my body shook in near panic. A cold sweat had overcome me, as I watched the lean, crouching figure shift in the darkness, its features cast in shadow.

And as its fingers finally grew still, they slowly did tap, a smooth cadence made bleak by the cragged rasping of its nails. Thu-thum thu-thump. Thu-thum thu-thump.

"Brother!" my dear Robin did cry softly, his covers kicked back as he knelt upon his bed, looking in wonder at the creature at our window. "It is the Pan! The Pan of the Gardens!"

My mouth opened to reply, but my words were lost in my terror. The shadowed head did tilt, back and forth with abrupt and violent speed, as if looking upon the two of us with great and earnest interest, all while its body remained deathly still, save for the gentle scraping at the glass. I could not tear my gaze from it, the inescapable sense of peril growing within me as I felt its darkened eyes fix upon me.

With my limbs taut and trembling, I found I could do nothing as Robin stumbled gleefully out of his bed, his pale night clothes a blur in the moonlight as he scrambled for the window. The gaze of the thing shifted to him, its head swiveling like a bird's, as Robin came to a halt before it, mere inches and glass the only thing separating the two.

"He is beautiful, brother!" Robin exclaimed, his voice bubbling over with joy and merriment. It was as if it were Christmas morning, and he had stumbled down the stairs to find the hollow beneath a well-laden tree had been stuffed full of presents and toys. As if his every hope had been fulfilled, while new desires he'd never imagined were realized as quickly as they were brought forth from the depths of his dreams. "The stories were true! Oh, how beautiful he is, brother!"

Caught up in Robin's rapt attention, the creature did fix its gaze upon him, my own presence forgotten. I watched as it splayed its hand across the window, pressing firmly against the glass, as if it might be able to pass through the surface with nothing more than a thought.

My brother, seeing the motion, mirrored him, pressing his own hand to the glass. A gay giggle rippled up from his throat as the crouched form moved, shifting about, drawing Robin with it as he mirrored its actions. It was almost playful, and for just a second, I thought perhaps I was wrong about the nature of the creature. Perhaps it meant us no harm, and was nothing more than a fanciful and curious thing that wanted to look upon us for a moment, before continuing on with its nightly journey across the cityscape.

But no. My hope was lost as quickly as it came, as the the creature did gesture toward the latch, its long, nimble fingers probing at that which it could not reach.

My brother, caught in its spell, laughed merrily as he realized what the creature wanted. It was with joy that he did turn the small iron lock, the clasp snickering open with a saddened sigh.

And then there was nothing between them, as the dead wind did gust, pulling open the windows with a banging clatter.

How the creature remained on the ledge, I could not know. Surely the motion of the hinged panes, almost as tall as a boy, should have knocked him away as they surged open. I blinked at the sight of the shadowed form, rocking backwards in rhythm with the wind, as if it were as light as the air itself. And when the panes did clack and bang against the outside of the house, the creature was still there, still perched easily upon the windowsill.

"I found you," a voice whispered, and my head swooned at the sound of it. I did not realize I was smiling until I felt the tightness of my cheeks. Joy and happiness washed over me at that melodic voice, that beautiful croon that was at once both soft and strong, young and sure. "I have found you, my Twins."

"Oh, you have, you have!" Robin squealed, unable to look away. "You are the Pan, are you not? The one from Kensington Gardens?"

At that the crouching figure did blur into motion, the suddenness of its movement breaking the spell which its voice had woven in my mind. The fear returned as I saw it stand upright upon the sill, its slight weight braced by nothing more than the strength of its toes. The slim form thrust its breast out, its clenched hands falling to its sides as it struck a pose of infinite pride. "I am! I am at that!" it crowed loudly, proudly, although it could not have said it at anything more than a whisper.

The spell tugged at my heart a second time, the conflicting emotions of joy and fear warring within me. Just to hear it was magical. Its voice declared convincingly that it was no creature at all; it was a boy, like me and my brother, a magical boy that had called to our hearts with a sense of rightness that only the young could recognize.

Its voice was friendly and pleasant, but still my heart spasmed with fear. Perhaps it was a fear of the impossible, my worldly nine years assuring me that no-one could stand upon the ledge like this creature did, nor could they have crawled and climbed their way up the sheer wall face. Perhaps it was a fear of the unknown, a voice of reason telling me that the stories were just those; stories, nothing more than fictions to put our minds at rest in time for bed. There were no faeries, no pixies, no creatures of wonder drifting through the night.

Or perhaps its was the shadowed countenance, the shrouded features of his face and body. The moonlight was bright that evening, and I could make out every last freckle upon Robin's face as he stared at the creature in wonder. Even with its back to the moon, I should have been able to see something of the thing's face, some glimmer of its features.

But the shadows were thick, almost viscously so, and so the creature did remain dark to my eyes.

My brother Robin, however, had no difficulty in seeing the thing.

"Have you come to take us?" he cried, his body bobbing with excitement. "Are we to go on an adventure with you?" Because all of the stories we'd heard started thusly. An adventure started in moonlight, a journey of wonder that would linger in our memories throughout our lives, even if the details did fade with time.

"I have!" it replied wonderfully, filling my heart with hope again. "I must have my Twins! How can I play without them?!"

"Oh, brother!" Robin cried softly, turning for the first time to look away from the creature. "Can you believe it? The stories are true, we always knew it!"

"Yes," I replied, softly, weakly, my voice trembling with both cheer and angst. "Of course they are, dear brother. But come, we must tell our parents if we are to go."

At my words, the creature on the sill did move, a violent shock of motion that, for all its intensity, left it where it had started. As if it had wanted to come closer, and yet for some reason had not. But I could feel that its gaze had shifted, its attention turning toward me. I could feel it, its eyes boring down upon mine, a glint of something in the dark recesses of its face. "No," it said simply, commandingly.

"He's right," my brother said, of the creature and not I. "We will not tarry long; an adventure by moonlight, brother, that is all. Surely they need not know of such a thing. The adults never believe, after all."

"Mother believes," I reminded him, my voice somehow remaining calm as I pulled myself from beneath my covers. "Think of how disappointed she would be, if we were to go on such an adventure without telling her."

Again the figure spasmed, this time seemingly at the first word that broached my lips. "No," it hissed, some of its beauty fading as it grew displeased at my resistance to its charms. It was not an angry voice, so much as a reproachful one; this creature was not one used to defiance. "No mothers. Never a mother."

There was something to its voice, the way it spoke, when it said that certain word. I did not recognize it then, for I was young, and inexperienced. I had not yet heard of loathing, and could not yet imagine what it might sound like. If I had, I would have recognized it for what it was. "No, brother, we must tell her. Come with me. It will take but a minute, and then we will be on our way."

I held my hand out to Robin, who nodded as he grinned. "Yes, of course." He turned back to the creature, his hands clasping together in his excitement. "We will be just a moment, and then we can go!"

Once more the figure shifted, seeming furious as my brother ran to me, reaching for my extended arm. When his hand clasped mine, I knew that we would be alright. Together, we would be just fine. Together, we would see our parents, telling them of this visitor in the night, and we would hear what they had to say. I did not trust my mind in that moment, nor that of my brother. I could not say exactly what drove me to caution, trying to distance us from the thing on the ledge.

Nor could I explain the growing sense of fear as the creature crouched on the sill, longingly calling out after us, "Do not leave me," as we made our way to the door.

Nor could I explain resounding sense of dread that coursed through me as my brother replied carelessly, "Of course, come with us!"

My breath caught in my throat as a sensation washed over me. As if some great dam had broken, unleashing the dark tide it had held at bay. I did not, could not, understand the effect my brother's words had on the creature. And yet I knew, somehow, that it was entirely the wrong thing to say.