But Andrew has been with me for as long as I can recall. My parents bought him for me so I’d have a companion. But I have never treated Andrew as anything other than a friend.”
“Bought him? He was a slave? But that has not happened in . . .”
“Yes, many, many centuries. Andrew and I are long-lived.”
“One of your pooka attributes?”
Timothy nodded, then sat down on my bed. “Next question,” he said, smiling, as if we were merely chatting about normal stuff: the cat we were going to shop for, the paintings in the gallery, or our favorite foods and books.
“Your parents. Where they pookas, too?” I blurted out.
Timothy nodded. He looked pleased by the question. His eyes were sparkling like luminous bronze and golden glitter. As if he sensed the appearance of them, he blinked, and they once more took on a more normal hue, still attractive, but human.
“My father was a pooka. My mother wasn’t, but she’d been bitten, so she was with him a long time.”
“Bitten?” I broke in. “Like a werewolf’s bite? But doesn’t that make the person a . . .”
“No.” He shook his head, shifted almost nervously, then glanced outside as if he feared someone might be watching us. (Of course they weren’t. We were on the second floor.)
“I bit Andrew when I was just a child. That extended his life and gave him a couple of added benefits. He’s the only one I’ve ever bitten.
“My mother received long life from my father’s bite and, of course, the ability to bear his child — me. That’s necessary, you see.”
I stretched out my legs and wiggled a tiny bit to get more comfortable. My body parts had finally stopped shivering. Was I becoming accustomed to this strangeness? Had the alarms inside me faded?
“What happened to your parents if they both were supposed to have long lives?” I treaded on, filled with curiosity even if I didn’t believe this fantasy.
Timothy nodded, as if I’d asked a yes or no question. His eyes when he searched mine looked even sadder. I felt a flash of longing, a desire to run to him and wrap my arms about him. I knew he needed me to say that it was alright, that I accepted him. But I couldn’t do that yet. I needed more information. I needed to understand . . . and to believe.
“One day, a hunter’s arrow pierced my father’s heart. It was an accident. The hunter carried my father back to our house and laid him on the bed, but there was nothing that could be done for him. My father died that night.
“The hunter helped to bury my father. The man stayed with us for a few days after, but he had his own responsibilities and his own family to care for. When he left, my mother packed up everything she wanted and moved us to another village. I don’t know why. She only lingered there a few days, then crept away. Apparently she passed on, too, perhaps from a broken heart?
“The villagers cooed and soothed us two boys. We were told that we would be taken care of. They didn’t know our real age, of course. They thought we were little orphaned boys who needed tending.
“Andrew and I stayed in that village for several years. We were almost grown, twelve or thirteen, I think, by then, old enough in that time period to work for our keep. We learned to do many different jobs, which kept food in our mouths. The villagers even gave us a deserted hut that no one was using.
“But I knew what I was, as did Andrew. We left when we were probably around fifteen. To have stayed even another year . . . our secret would have caused us great grief. Villagers back then believed in demons and devil men. Any difference, like the failure to grow older, was an unbelievable evil.