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A Strange Child

You find a little girl sleeping in your doorway one night. The night is cold and bitter, so despite your better judgement, you invite her in. The girl, black braids and dark skin, whose knobbly knees and wide dark eyes remind you of a baby deer, walks in.

She takes your hand, swings it. “Thank you,” she says quietly. Her voice is raspy.

“It’s no problem,” you say, as you lead her into the house. You sit her down on the kitchen table and give her bread and meat and cheese and water.

She eats her fill, and washes her hands afterward. “Thank you,” she says again.

“It’s no problem,” you repeat.

When she yawns, you give her the spare bed in your home and your warmest blankets, and let her sleep.

You go to bed soon after, and stir when you feel eyes on you. You turn your head, and oh. There she is, by your bedside, staring at you in the dark. “Hello,” you say slowly.

She blinks, and backs away. “Hi,” she whispers, then scampers off.

She dances around you the whole day, flighty as a feather in the wind and twice as quick. When you call for food she appears, helps clean up best she can, then when you turn to her, she’s gone. At night, she asks you shyly to read her a bedtime story, and you oblige.

The next day, you wake up with her eyes on you again. It takes three of such days to catch her name—Parisa, she says. You think it fits her, the little imp.

After she tells you her name, you settle into a form of routine, you and your odd child.

You still wake early to her staring at you in the dark, but she waits properly for you to rise, to ask you to style her hair. Her hair is like yours, kinky and coily and complex, so when it’s time for her braids to come out, you two make an event of it. You wash her hair and dry it, then make it for her, knotless braids instead of her old box braids, at her request. You dig out some decorative beads and use to adorn her braids, also at her request.

She stays still throughout the hours it takes, and grins up at you once you’re done. “Thank you,” she says.

“It’s no problem,” you say.

Your days are fairly peaceful. She picks up an affinity for reading, so she will read one of your books as you crochet, you two sitting there, enjoying each other’s presence in silence.

You’re remarkably glad that she already knows how to read; you aren’t quite sure how to go about teaching a child that.

You set her to work in your gardens; she’s a good worker and a hard worker, and delights in nature. Parisa doesn’t mind dirtying her pretty frock, but once you give her your old play-clothes, sturdy and practical, she goes at it with a renewed gusto. She coaxes good, sweet fruit from trees and urges big, fresh vegetables from the dirt. You’ve never had much of a green thumb, always doing alright but never amazing, so you’re glad for her. Your first harvest together is the best you’ve ever had.

One day, an adventurer comes a-knocking.

The adventurer pauses when you open the door, taking in the sight of you.

“It’s rude to stare,” you say, raising an eyebrow. You know you must look a sight. It’s baking day, as Parisa dubbed it, and the virtue of not making a mess isn’t one you’ve succeeded in teaching her.

The adventurer clears his throat hastily. “You harbor a monster,” he says bluntly. “She is capable of much evil.”

You crane your neck to look at little Parisa; she's mixing a bowl of cookie dough with a whisk and a single-minded focus. Her tongue is sticking out from a corner of her mouth and her braids are in two buns on her head. She must be around six, from how she acts, but she is rather small for a six-year-old.

“She does not act like a monster,” you say. “No more than any other child.” And if she did, does it matter? You were a monster when you were young as well. You will not treat her as you were treated.

“She is a monster,” The adventurer insists. And you wonder, does he not feel shame? Talking that way of a child that would not even reach his hip? Guilt? “Is she not odd? Strange?”

You pause, at that, and think. You still wake to her staring at you in the dark, even now. She disappears from plain sight when she wishes to, and you can never find her when you look. If you call her, she reappears seemingly out of thin air. She doesn’t lie, doesn’t so much as consider it, and instead elects to simply stay silent when she doesn't want to answer. She works hard and works well, but her hands remain soft. She plays a game, one with her dainty thank yous and your stubborn it's no problems. You have a feeling that if you say you’re welcome one of these days, you will not like the outcome.

Nature adores her, as your garden can attest. Unnaturally. Her teeth are too-sharp and her voice too-soft.

When it rains for days, and she cannot go out for your fear of her catching cold and her own distaste for being wet, she grows dimmer. Weaker, frailer. Eats sparsely and speaks even less. It worried you, when you couldn’t improve her mood, but the Sun came out and she was better again.

Sometimes, she converses with nothing you can see in a strange not-tongue that you can’t understand. You leave her to it when you do, as you don’t want to interrupt something so...different.

“Aren’t we all?” You ask the adventurer.

“She will ruin you,” He says with certainty. You believe him. “She will be the death of you.”

“I will die anyway,” you say, and shut the door in his face.

“Is all well?” Parisa asks as you walk back to her, and you nod. You know she heard—her ears are sharp.

“All is well,” you say, then lay your chin on her head to peer into the bowl. “But not with these cookies. Is that fruit?”

When you run out of supplies and must go to the market, the one in the town nearest to you but still several hours away, you take her with you, attached to your side. She’s occupied easily with her book and your journey to the center of the town, where the market is, is peaceful.

“Are you a parent?” An elderly woman taps on your shoulder to ask. She gestures to Parisa, who had hidden behind your leg at the lady’s attention, and the woman smiles at you. “Is she yours?”

You look down at Parisa in response. You’d never asked her about her parents, or guardians, and she’d never told you. “Are you mine?”

She frowns up at you. “I don’t have anyone else.”

You look back up at the elderly woman. “Then yes, she’s mine.”

The elderly woman nods approvingly. “That’s nice, dear. It’s always good to see young people stepping up.” She insists on giving you three more loaves of bread than you purchased, and that leads to her stall neighbor—a tall young man—leaning over and giving you a good bit of cheese, and then his stall neighbor gets involved, and by the end of the day, you’re laden down with items you hadn’t purchased.

“How will we eat all this before it gets bad?” You ask yourself.

“I’m a very good eater,” Parisa says nonetheless, gnawing on the honeycomb a kind teenager had given her when she got antsy from the crowds.

“This is your fault,” You inform her. “You and your chubby cheeks and sweet smile. I know it’s all an act, I’ve seen you throw monstrous fits. You may deceive them but you cannot deceive me.”

Parisa grins up at you and says nothing.

—

One night, you’re woken up when you feel a small body climb on you. You blink your eyes open blearily. “Wha-?”

“Zaza,” Parisa cries, and you go along with the parental term despite your exhaustion. A crying child, you can deal with.

“It’s okay,” You mutter, sitting up in bed, holding her close in your lap. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

She sniffles, cheeks wet with tears. “I didn’t mean to break it.”

“I know you didn’t,” you say tiredly, even as you’re not sure what she’s talking about. “I know you didn’t.”

She looks miserable. “Are you mad at me? Am I in trouble?”

“No,” you say, “you’re not in trouble. I should have put it away better.” Probably. “We can clean it up in the morning, okay?”

Parisa sniffs again. “Okay. Can I sleep here tonight?”

You lift up the blanket and she darts under with startling speed.

“Thank you,” she chirps, exponentially more cheerful.

“It’s no problem.” You yawn.

The next night, she trumps into your room like she belongs there, and burrows into your side.

You sigh as you tuck her close. At least you don't wake up to her watching you anymore.

And that’s how your days go, for a while. She never quite relocates to her bed, only a night or two here and there, and you never force her. You don’t much see the point.

She continues to be strange, and you continue to not hinder her. She says her thank yous and you say your it’s no problems. You do her hair and she tries—and fails, miserably—to do yours. Sometimes she tells you of the stories she reads, though you’re sure none of the books you have tell those stories.

Parisa, you notice, doesn’t grow. Later, you notice you don’t either.

And honestly, that’s your fault, isn’t it? You had been warned, and you had invited a strange child into your house anyway, even as you knew what she might have been. Inhuman, wrong, fae. You knew, and you took care of her, and she became your own.

Well, you reflect, there are stranger ways to gain a child, most definitely. You heard of someone a few towns north who let in a child and had themselves killed within the week. This is hardly the worst. Parisa behaves, most of the time. She doesn’t exhibit any murderous urges that you’ve taken notice of. She’s good.

Even if she wasn’t—must children be good to be loved? To be cared for?

One morning, Parisa tells you frankly, “I’m not human.”

“I couldn’t have guessed,” you say flatly, then remember neither of you are good with sarcasm, and correct, “I know.”

“Oh,” she says. “You don’t…care?”

“Parisa,” You say firmly, kneeling so you can get down to her height. “I didn’t care when I caught you eating dirt, even though I was worried you’d catch ill. I didn’t care when you cried at the spider you killed, but insisted it must die for its ‘crimes’. I didn’t care when you started biting people that didn’t leave you alone. I didn’t care when you threw horrible fits over there not being anything you wanted to eat. Why would this be what makes me stop loving you?”

“Oh,” she says again. “The Queen was wrong about you, then.”

“The Queen?” You ask. In your country, the monarchy was abolished before you were even born.

“The faerie queen,” Parisa says matter-of-factly. “She cast me out because I was bad.”

That’s. Hm. “Remind me, Parisa, next time we go to market, we must pick up some books on faerie culture.”

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