Harvest of Changelings (25 page)

Jeff and Russell stopped in the hall outside the cafeteria to examine the pictures hanging on the wall. They were looking at the fifth grade pictures, which made a long line from the cafeteria to the teacher's lounge, then all the way to the health room. They had found Russell's and they were looking for Jeff's. They were supposed to be on their way to Resource.

“Russ, I still think we need to ask Hazel about her headband. I am positive her ears are pointed, too,” Jeff said stubbornly.
Russ
,
you can be such a pain in the butt, you know that
?
Don't you see that three are stronger than two
?
Three have a better chance of finding the way to Faerie than two
? “She's not wearing it for decoration.”

They had been arguing about Hazel ever since she had gotten sick at school.

“I told ya, I don't care if she has two headbands and horns growing out of her head, like those faun guys. She's never been nice to me or to you before. Tell me one time—see, you can't think of one. Hazel Richards hasn't said good morning to me since I started coming to Nottingham Heights,” Russell said, his face darkening. “And another thing—”

Russell stood still for a moment and held his stomach, as if he had a sudden pain. Then all the pictures flapped up and down, as if a sudden warm wind had come and gone. A faint smell of heat lingered in the wind's aftermath. Behind them a tiny, white ball of light rolled down the hall and out the front door.

“Russ. We agreed not to show off at school,” Jeff grumbled and the pictures stopped flapping. “Do you think she meant
bad morn
-
ing
when she spoke to you? C'mon, Russ, give her a chance. She's trying. Before you got suspended, you picked on her all the time.”

Russell frowned and clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Nothing's the same anymore, Russ. You know that. You and me
—we've changed. You know what I heard Miss Dorman said to Miss Bigelow yesterday?”

Mrs. Markham had sent Jeff to the office to deliver the morning lunch count and to get a nine by twelve envelope from the secretary. While he waited for Mrs. Anderson to get off the phone, Jeff heard his name and Russell's. It was Miss Dorman, the new Resource teacher, in the principal's office. Miss Findlay had quit two days after the fire, telling everyone as loudly as possible that she had had enough. Miss Dorman stood just inside the door, her back to Jeff and the secretary. Miss Dorman waved her hand as she talked, as if she were drawing circles in the air.

“She said she couldn't believe how we had changed—she said she had read our files from cover to cover and we weren't the boys she had expected us to be. She thought maybe it was because we had became friends. You aren't getting into fights or talking back to your teachers and you've been coming to class looking happy. She went on and on at how talkative I've become—she had expected me to be practically a deaf-mute—can't talk, can't hear.”

“I knew what the deaf part was,” Russell muttered, looking down at the floor. “Maybe you're right about you and me. But, Jeff, you were like a ghost; nobody ever saw you or anything. Nobody ever told you how horrible you were and what a bad kid you were and that your mama left because you were bad and she took the good kid with her. Kids like Hazel and that buddy of hers, Malachi, tell me stuff like that all that time. Or they did. Why should I be nice to her? She's always ignored me. Kids like her are the worst. They laugh at me, call me names, tell me I'm dirty and stupid. And if I called them names, I'd get in trouble, not them. Why, Russell White,” he said in a falsetto, “do you think I'm going to believe you: little goody-goody started a fight? Hazel is one of them.”

“She's scared,” Jeff said. “Come on, let's go before Miss Dorman starts looking for us. Just think about what I said, okay?”

Russell grudgingly nodded as they went down the hall past the cafeteria to go outside to the brand-new Resource trailer.

But
I
do know
,
Russ
,
what it's like to be told that my mother is no good and if she had loved me and him
,
she wouldn't have left
.
And he wouldn't have to do what he did
.
I do know what it's like to feel dirty and bad and ashamed. I want to tell you
,
but I'm scared
,
too
. Jeff wanted to tell Russell all that, but telling Russell teachers had noticed his good behavior and Jeff being talky was one thing; finding the words needed for the other was another thing and just too hard.

A little, white ball of light dropped out of a hole in the hall ceiling. It bounced once, twice, and then winked out.

 

The lights went out halfway through their Resource time. Miss Dorman was sitting at her desk, working with another kid, Kwame, from Jeff's class, on his Young Writers Book. Kwame and his book had been picked to represent Mrs. Markham's class at the countywide conference. Jeff and Russell and the other kids were finishing up new versions of theirs—everybody's but Kwame's had burned up in the trailer fire, so Kwame was going to the Young Writers Conference. Miss Dorman whispered to Kwame, one hand on his book, the other fingering a cameo broach on her dress.

The lights overhead flickered and popped, quickly, as if popcorn had been trapped inside. Everybody stopped and looked up. The popping got louder and louder and then the lights got brighter and brighter and exploded into a shower of glass splinters and sparks and hundreds of little, white balls. Miss Dorman screamed as the balls rolled and rolled out of the light fixture, hitting the floor, desktops, bookshelves, to explode again, into tiny showers of stars. When a ball exploded on Kwame's head, he ran, batting the balls away, smashing them into stars, stars, and more stars.

“Kwame! Kids! Be calm, just be calm; nobody's hurt; everything will be all right. Get under your desks, I'll go get—” Miss Dorman fell to the floor when another shower of white balls fell on her, exploding on her head, her face, down her chest, her arms, her legs. Half the class bolted after Kwame, screaming and crying.

“Russ? Russ?” Jeff whispered under his desk. They were both lying on the floor, along with four other Resource kids—they were all too scared to run through the white balls.

“Russ, this is magic. Just like in the dreams. It's happening here—and neither one of us are doing it.”

“I know, I know—what do we do now?”

JeffRussitsokaycometotheLibrary!

“Jeff, you say something? C'mon, let's get outta here—I think the balls have stopped—whoa,” and Russ dived back under his desk as another shower of balls rolled out of the fixture.

“Boys? Come on, nobody's getting hurt, come on, get up. See? They explode and there's this dust, but nothing else,” Miss Dorman said. She stood, slowly, and brushed away the now-grey residue.

IknowyoubothhavePointedEarsIT'SOkayweareintheLibrary
.

“I thought you did—it was in our heads—”

“Don't whisper so loud, Jeff—”

“Boys. Let's go. Marty, Jeff, Russell. Thomas, you okay? Will? Jamey? Good, let's get out of here,” Miss Dorman took Marty's hand and the rest followed, picking their way through unexploded balls on the floor, stepping on them so they would explode like a puffball filled with white stars and sparks. Miss Dorman's orderly departure might have worked if there hadn't been another shower of white balls that this time, instead of falling, zoomed and cavorted in the air, zipping over and around and through bodies, hands, arms, cameo broaches. Everybody bolted, including Miss Dorman.

“Russ, come on, this way,” Jeff said and grabbed Russell's arm. “Not with them, this way, we have to follow the voice—he's in the school.” Jeff took off running then. The rest of the class ran after Miss Dorman out into the teachers' parking lot. Jeff didn't look back; he knew Russell was following him.

Inside the school bouncing, vibrating, exploding ping-pong balls of light zoomed and ricocheted, caromed off walls, zipped in and out of ceilings. The balls kept exploding as they ran, the white stars raining on them, soft, warm, and then a fine, grey dust. The fire alarm was on, but Jeff could barely hear it. He dodged kids and ignored teachers yelling for everyone to be calm, line up at the door, or just yelling.

“This way, Russ, this way.”

Jeff ran to the library. Once inside he stopped to catch his breath and wait for Russell, who was right behind him. When Russell closed the door, all the noise outside—the zipping balls of light, the running kids, the shouting teachers—stopped, as if a too-loud TV had finally been turned off. They stood and listened in the quiet, dark room and heard only the bubbling of the filter in the aquarium. Mrs. Perkins was gone. As they stood still a moment longer, they could hear each other's breathing beginning to slow down. The goldfish swam in their dreamy way, the biggest one close to the surface, delicately eating the last few flakes of food.

“Well, Jeff,” Russ whispered. “What do we do now?”

“Back over there,” Jeff said and pointed to the jumble behind Mrs. Perkins's glass-box office: the big laminator, a copier that was always breaking down, two VCR's, a 16-millimeter projector, the Chapter I reading teacher's desk. Jeff could not have explained to Russell how he knew the mental voice they had both heard was here in the library and specifically where he had just pointed. Here was the place.

“This way,” Jeff said and taking Russell's hand, led him past the encyclopedias, the carts with unprocessed new books and the record
bins, to a little space behind the laminator. Russell shook his head and let Jeff lead him, thinking he would have never let
anyone
, let alone another and smaller boy, lead him anywhere before.

Jeff dropped Russell's hand and pulled off his headband. Russell did the same. Sitting on the floor, with two small stacks of books on either side, were Hazel and Malachi. All four had pointed ears. All four had intensely glowing eyes. Malachi's eyes were a bronze-gold. Hazel's were a silvery grey-blue. Jeff's and Russell's burned green.

 

The Raleigh News and Observer
Friday
,
September
27, 1991

Carolina Power & Light officials are baffled by the bizarre electrical problem experienced at Nottingham Heights Elementary yesterday. A short circuit of some kind apparently generated a rare electrical phenomenon known as ball lightning in massive amounts. No students or staff were injured by the peculiar electrical malfunction
,
although several suffered minor cuts and bruises in the efforts to escape the building. The elementary school was closed by mid-day
...
Wake County School officials stated that only after all the wiring has been checked will the building be reopened
...
According to local meteorologists
ball lightning is extremely rare and especially so in such a small size
,
that of a ping pong ball
...

“Hilda? Hilda? Honey, can you hear me? It's me, Jack. Hilda?” Jack squeezed his wife's hand. No response. He looked up at all the medical machinery—the heart monitor, the respirator, the IV hookups—all the lights and numbers that said she was alive. Jack glanced at the clock on the wall. He squinted to see the numbers in the dim light: close to midnight, late Saturday. Hilda's heartbeat was too slow. Even with the drugs the doctors had given her, which were even now dripping into her, her heart was too slow. Or at least Jack thought so, watching the blips on the screen—shouldn't there be more of them? Shouldn't they be moving faster?

“We'll light a candle for Hilda tomorrow, Uncle Jack—one of the big two dollar ones. And ask Father Jamey to pray for her. He's the new priest.” Malachi had said that afternoon, sounding for all the world like your regular run-of-the-mill ten-year-old who was a little on the short side. With some very strangely colored eyes.

Jack checked all the machines for what he was sure was the millionth time. Nothing new, no difference, no change. Ben had told
him about all the other weird things that were making local, state, national, and now international news. Everybody was seeing UFO's; it was as if there was an invasion fleet scouting out the planet. And not a fleet of your usual flying saucers, but rather UFO's with huge, black batlike wings and breathing fire. Ancient rituals were being spontaneously revived and in broad daylight. Ping-pong balls of electricity had been flying around Malachi's school and now there were three more kids like the little golden-eyed boy. Well, almost: pointed ears and glowing eyes.

“At least he's not alone anymore, the only one like him. It all has to connect, Jack, you know—all of this is the same thing, I think. Malachi and his fairy magic and the light—” Ben started and stopped when the internist came back in Hilda's room.

“There's no discernable medical reason for this to be happening to your wife, Mr. Ruggles,” the internist had said, repeating himself as he reviewed his clipboard. “We just can't wake her up. I don't get it; I'm sorry.” Ben and Jack had looked at each other as the doctor left, shaking his head and thumping his clipboard on his hip. Of course there was no way to wake Hilda up. She was dying from magic.

That had been seven hours ago.

“My son—
my son—
killed her,” Jack said to the machines. “
My son
killed her.”

Jack squeezed Hilda's hand again and then put his open palm against her nose. He looked up at the heart monitor: the peaks were gone and a flat line traced itself across the screen.

The young woman's name had been Marnie and she was a med tech at Rex Hospital and Thomas had picked her up in Bennigan's, on Six Forks Road two days ago. Now, naked and drugged, bound to the coven's altar, the fire's tongue-shaped shadows flickering over her body, she had no name. Thomas had removed her name when he had removed her clothing. Everything that made her Marnie—the dark blue dress her mother had given her, the matching shoes, her purse with its motley collection of lipstick (coral, pinky peach, touch of mauve), powder-and-mirror, Kleenex, movie stubs, car keys, wallet, money, NC Driver's License—had been given to the fire. She was now the Sacrifice, the offering to the Great Goddess and her consort, the Horned God, the requisite gift to their servants, the Lords of The Shadow, the Fomorii. Thomas stood beside the altar,
with the high priestess at his right. The other coven members enclosed them in a hot, shifting naked circle. The cauldron, filled with a black liquid, bubbled and hissed above the fire.

Thomas looked at the high priestess, her long, black hair a mane down her back. Her nipples were hard, her body flushed from the fire. The same two days ago they had sat together at Bennigan's, drinking a beer. No one who would have seen her then would have guessed this woman beside Thomas was one and the same. No one in the bar would have even paid that much attention to the high priestess. She had not wanted them to see her, she had told Thomas, and a simple spell had done the trick, a small glamour of distraction, and their eyes strayed to the next person, the next thing. If she had wanted to be seen, she had added, she would have been seen and remembered.

After the beer and idle conversation, the priestess had given Thomas the shiny black belladonna berries and told him to mix them with blueberries, make a cobbler. But first he had to select the sacrifice.

“A woman, Thomas. The Goddess and the Horned God ask for it. You have taken the life of someone close to you, a family member—now take the life of a stranger—someone you pick up at this bar—any bar, for that matter. Complete the acquisition of power.”

After she left, Thomas had put the belladonna berries into his briefcase and then sipped his Cuba Libre. Bit weak on the rum, he thought, and scanned the room. Bankers, secretaries, state government workers, maybe a doctor or two from Rex, he guessed. Some he knew from the bank, but none really seemed right for this. He thought back to work, doing a mental run through the building. The tellers? No—wait. That woman there, by herself, three tables over—hadn't she been looking at him, checking him out? He smiled at her over his beer—yes, she was smiling back. This was going to be easy.

 

The sacrifice and Thomas had had dessert a few hours ago, Saturday evening. She must have said a thousand times, he thought, how she couldn't believe she was having dessert at a guy's house she had met just two days ago. But they had talked so long the first night and the second, and well, here she was. It didn't take long for the belladonna to shut her up. After all, Marnie had eaten almost all belladonna. Just a few blueberries. Thomas had used all but a few blueberries in the other tarts, including the one he was eating. Small individual
fruit tarts—the crusts from Harris Teeter—had been easier than a cobbler, and besides, this was his sacrifice, not the priestess's. Thomas finished his—not bad for a first time—and drained his coffee cup before he took her pulse: she was barely alive. There was no way out of her coma, even if Thomas had called 911 the minute she had fallen asleep. Eventually, no matter what happened, her heart would stop beating.

The high priestess began the sacrifice by touching Thomas with the blade of the athame: on his forehead, his chest, above his navel, his erect penis. Then she handed him the knife, black, carved handle first, and stepped back. Thomas inhaled deeply as he held the knife, drinking in the scents of the oil on his and all the other bodies: frankincense, cinnamon, bay, rosemary, and the almost overpowering musk. His skin glowed and tingled and as he looked at the hand that held the knife, he could see a subdermal luminescence shifting and turning, like a tiny, trapped ghost. Then Thomas listened: the cauldron, the fire, his own breathing, nothing else. The normal night sounds were gone; the forest was still. He was inside the magic now, in a time and space without minutes, without seconds and hours. And close, so close that Thomas knew he could touch it if he wanted: the others in the coven, the priestess, presences, pushing against his own.

Midnight.

“Now,” Thomas said, feeling power flowing into him, into his blood, stronger, harder, darker, permeating his cells like an enormous ink stain. Thomas presented the knife to the coven, to the high priestess, to the fire and the cauldron, to the night sky. Then, he cut out her heart and held it up, the blood streaking his arm.