have kids elsewhere, but they couldn't. A few women moved away too, but nothing came of that either. Everyone drifted back. We were all stuck here, glued together by our shameful secret. We didn't tell anyone. We just... couldn't bear the world looking at us.
It wasn't like Thalidomide or anything like that
- no one could see what was causing it. There were grumblings that it was the government, but all the people who came out here were ever so nice. So straightforward and honest and sad for us.
Some of the men here said it was the old airbase and marched on it - well, it was the 1980s. They went there, they broke down the fence, they marched around... but there was really very little there. Just a few old planes, a lighthouse and a lot of birds' mess.
No nuclear warheads or anything.
It was just a mystery. No one knew what was behind it. No one seemed to care. Then one day, we were called to a meeting in the town hall. The whole village. A man in an army greatcoat said that there was something they could do for us after all... He said, what with the mark hanging over the village, they couldn't let us adopt in case we passed it on to others, but they could... well, they were willing to give us what they called the Next Best Thing.
Something new.
And that's when these children started turning up. It's like they came in the night along with the milk. You just had to let them know that you wanted a child and you'd find one, sat cross-legged on the doorstep in the morning. Patient and kind They're called Scions. We were told they weren't quite like normal children. Not in a good way or a bad way - just in their way. They don't grow up.
They're just the same as when they turned up. Mine all look about 15, more or less, although I've had them a good few years apart. First Paul. Then Peter.
Jenny's not actually mine, but she hangs around here a lot. Her mother runs the shop - Mrs Meredith, nice lady but she and Jenny don't really see eye to eye. Jenny's one of the oldest Scions. Proof that they don't really change. They're so neat, and so kind and polite. Always. They never argue, or make any fuss, or cause trouble. They're just there.
The next best thing.
Rhys
'But what do you mean?' I asked.
Mrs Harries rested her hand on her teacup.
'They're well meaning. They're just a bit too perfect.
Sorry, my dears,' she said.
The three children stood over her. Patient, kind.
Placid. And suddenly just a bit unnerving. 'That's all right, mother,' said Peter.
'What are you?' gasped Gwen.
'We are Scions. That's all we know,' said Peter.
'We are here to be children,' said Jenny.
'Is there anything else we can help you with?'
asked the other.
'Are you... are you aliens?' I asked.
Jenny shrugged. 'We do not know. We only know that we are Scions. That we love our parents and must obey them.'
Whoa. Majorly creepy. Didn't help that she was considering me with her strangely empty porcelain doll stare. There was the tiny hint of something in her gaze - she was in on a joke that I wouldn't get.
Mrs Harries made to lay a hand on Gwen, but stopped as Gwen flinched. 'Sorry, my dear. It's your coming here... You see, there's never been a proper child here since that time. Sasha, Davydd and Nerys were the last births in the village. And, after that, well, we just stopped having outsiders around. The caravan park shut down. And those of us with family outside... somehow they knew we were tainted -
they didn't bring their children with them to stay, or invite us to visit. We were cursed. We can take a hint. We don't exactly seek out others. Only a couple of buses stop here. We're not on the way to anywhere. So we've been... isolated. But to see you, all of a sudden, the two of you, with a baby... it's had an odd effect on us all. Shaken us up a bit...
I had hoped it would be a good thing. It's certainly reminded me of what we've lost. I know that people here are seeing in you and Rhys... well, hoping that maybe one of you can solve
Jo Willow, Sharon Gurley-Headley