Weald Fae 02 - The Changeling

by Christopher Shields

  The last time she’d been that direct was last year when she asked me about the Fae. The look in her eyes, the determination, was terrifying.

  “I have no idea what it is, but that’s what the doctors keep saying.”

  “Shouldn’t they have found the virus by now?”

  It was a pointed question, and not one I thought a seventeen-year-old girl would normally know to ask. Apparently she’d been investigating, but I didn’t know why.

  “Dad says the same thing every day. I think we’re all pretty frustrated, but what can you do?”

  Candace nodded and dropped the query, too easily. She was testing me just like she did last year about Rhonda’s accident—the line of questioning that captured Chalen’s attention and got her hurt. For the love of god, not this again. The next time I saw Billy, I’d have to talk to him about it.

  ***

  When I woke on Friday, March ninth, the sunlight streamed brilliantly through the diamond panes of my bedroom window. Like I’d done so many times last year, I stayed in bed watching the pastel shapes slowly crawl down the plaster wall of my room. It was ten days until my seventeenth birthday and I enjoyed a little me time.

  I’d just returned from Little Rock where I won State, once again setting new records in my three swimming events, and this time I’d qualified for Nationals in June. I would have been ecstatic except for everything going on in my life. Grandma and Grandpa had driven down to watch me, but Mom and Dad had stayed behind with Drevek at the hospital.

  Drifting back into the memories of last week, I closed my eyes and thought about the ride home with Grandma and Grandpa. In the backseat of the red Lincoln, I had blankly stared at the rolling green hills that framed I-40 and the much taller Ozark Mountains along I-540. I casually chatted with Grandma about college, but my mind had been on Mitch the entire time. When we got back to Fayetteville, rather than a celebration dinner at the Weald, we met Mom and Dad in the cafeteria of Washington Regional Medical Center. It was clearer to me at that moment, more than at any other, just how worried Mom and Dad were about Mitch. They tried to act excited about my win, and I knew they were happy for me, but they were terrified and it was devastating to see.

  I’d snuck up to the room alone and begged Drevek to wake up and talk to me. Any sign that he was still okay would be a sign that Mitch could be, too. Holding his hand and caressing his hair, Drevek didn’t stir when I cried at his bedside.

  It was all too depressing. I snapped out of the memory, wiped the tears away from my eyes and fought with the urge to pull the covers back over my head and stay in bed all day. It was colder than it had been the morning before, the temperature having dropped to about fifty-five degrees. Winter was in its death throes, but the blooms in the garden kept fighting for a place in the sun. They had a difficult time of it under the gloom of the day. Even though it was supposed to warm up to sixty-five degrees by noon, the sky grew grayer and more overcast with each moment, until the sun was hidden and the glowing pastel diamonds vanished from my wall, taking my desire to stay in bed with them. Time to get up.

  Just when I thought my ill mood would get the best of me, I felt the presence enter my room. It was much more palpable than it had ever been before—I could almost locate it.

  “Aunt May, I wish you could tell me what to do. My god, I miss you.”

  I shrieked when I heard her voice.

  “Maggie,” she said.

  It sounded like it was coming from far down a well, distant and weak. My jaw dropped and I struggled with breath, all the while trying to determine whether I actually heard her call my name. Honestly, I was in such a state I considered the very real possibility that it was a figment of my imagination—a desperate attempt by my subconscious to find peace where there was none.

  “Stop feelin’ sorry for yer’self, Girlie Girl.”

  There was no doubt—I’d actually heard it this time. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but she communicated with me the same way the Fae did when they didn’t want physical ears listening in.

  “Aunt May…how…”

  “Ain’t got time for that, just listen.”

  “Oh, my god, yes, of course, Aunt May, oh, my god!” I prattled.

  “Ya need ta get yer’self in the caretaker’s cottage, go upstairs, back bedroom.”

  “But Cassandra, she’s always there.”

  “Naw, she leaves ever’day—goes away for an hour or so. 9 am sharp, but don’t linger…she’s a bad one, Mag…”

  I paused for a moment waiting for her to finish. “Aunt May?” I was desperate for more information—I had so many questions.

  “Too tirin’, I’ll be ba…”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Missin’ journal…Pete…hat…”

  And then she was silent. I could still feel her presence in the room, but it was considerably weaker than it had been.

  “I’ll go, I promise.” My voice trailed off. The rational part of my mind told me that I’d imagined the whole encounter, but my gut told me it was real. I was stunned but incredibly happy to hear her voice, though the prospect of trying to get inside the cottage again made me cold. My shield was stronger, but still not strong enough to tangle with Cassandra. Aunt May’s presence stayed in the room for a few more minutes and then dissipated into nothing as it always did.

  ***

  Rachel and I met for lunch later in the day. She had said she needed to talk to me and that it was really important. To avoid another intervention meeting, I agreed. She picked around on her danish, nibbling on tiny pieces she’d pinched off, probably to make herself feel better about eating something not on her latest diet. I chose a salad with vinaigrette to make her feel better, even though I really wanted comfort food. She’d been unusually concerned about her weight recently.

  “What’s up with Doug?” she asked, putting a tiny piece of sugared pastry in her mouth and swallowing it without chewing.

  “What do you mean?”

  She appeared exasperated by my question. I wasn’t sure whether her reaction was due to my lack of a good answer or the fact that I truly didn’t know what she meant. Great, she’s in a mood.

  “Why is he so testy? Things with the two of you are all right, aren’t they?”

  “There isn’t any us, Rachel. I’ve told you a thousand times, we’re just friends.”

  She took her eyes off the Danish for just a second and concentrated on me. She looked a little frustrated. “Why not?”

  “You know why not,” I said pointedly. She’d always had a thing for Doug, and couldn’t comprehend why I hadn’t given up hope on Gavin and thrown myself in Doug’s arms at the first opportunity. She was still as enamored with him as ever.

  “Maggie, Gavin’s gone, Doug’s here. I can’t believe you’d just…”

  “Stop it, Rachel!” I snapped, trying to keep my emotions in check. “If this is what you wanted to talk to me about, then the conversation is over.”

  Her big blue eyes began to well up, and horror filled her face. “Oh no, Maggie…I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…”

  Perturbed as I was, I fought to keep the anger off my face. “Please, just let it go.”

  She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Mags, I didn’t mean…that isn’t what I wanted to talk about. I got carried away. I wanted to talk about something else.”

  “What?”

  “Who is Cassandra?”

  She fought to regain her composure, and I was dumbfounded. “What…how do you…?” I couldn’t form a complete sentence. Cassandra’s was the last name I expected her to mention, and it terrified me. “How do you know Cassandra?”

  “I met her,” she said. “Doug’s going to be so pissed at me…he’ll never forgive me.” Her eyes misted over again.

  “Rachel, what’s going on?”

  “Promise me you won’t mention this to Doug.”

  “I promise.”

  “Swear it! He made me promise…he’s going to be so pissed.”

&nbs
p; “Rachel, I swear, I won’t say a word. Now spill.”

  She studied my face, obviously engaged in some internal struggle. Her face contorted in pain. “A week ago, when I left your house, I saw Doug coming down the driveway. I stopped to be friendly—you know, to say hi. He didn’t want to see me. I asked him if he was coming to visit you.”

  “A week ago? That can’t be. He hasn’t been to the Weald in several weeks.”

  “I’m sure. It was last Sunday.” She was telling the truth—I knew by the look on her face.

  “He didn’t come to see me, not on Sunday. Maybe he changed his mind and left.”

  “No,” she said, “He wasn’t there to see you. I asked him about, well, that doesn’t matter…he didn’t want to answer me. I was going to leave when she, Cassandra, walked down that old path at the top of the driveway—the one we never take. I introduced myself…she’s a nasty person. Doug got so nasty…he told me to get away. He said I was a…” Rachel turned red—she was embarrassed, angry. “It doesn’t matter. He was a real asshole…she just laughed at me.”

  Oh, what the hell? I was afraid for both of them. “What did you do?”

  “He made me swear…I promised him I wouldn’t tell you that I saw him there, and I left.”

  “Did Doug leave?”

  “No, they were still there when I left.”

  Doug was at practice each day this week and he acted like he always did—way too interested in me—but there was nothing out of the ordinary. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “I felt like I needed to. Candace and Ronnie agreed.”

  Oh, crap, Rachel, you’ve got a big mouth. I fought the urge to scream at her, but managed instead to simply ask, “You told them?”

  “Well, yeah. I had to tell someone. But it’s okay, they promised not to say anything.”

  To avoid screaming at her, I choked down a huge bite of my salad. There was no saliva in my mouth. Is there any way to fix this? Billy, I need you!

  ***

  Two days passed while I made preparations to get into the Seoladán. I’d elicited the aid of Candace, Ronnie, and Rachel to help me with Doug. They didn’t know the real reason that I was going to sneak up to the caretaker’s cottage, but they were eager to help.

  The morning before, I had drawn energy from the steady wind blowing across the cottage garden and tracked Cassandra from the kitchen. She had left at nine o’clock just as Aunt May had said she would. In her Naeshura form, she darted to the southwest and I followed her with my mind until she moved out of my extended range. Then, just as Aunt May had said, Cassandra returned to the Seoladán sixty-three minutes later. The plan would work, it seemed.

  In the morning, I set the pieces in motion. Mom and Dad were going to take my grandparents to the hospital around 9 o’clock. Opting out of a trip to the hospital, I’d called Candace and Rachel to come over using the cover story of going out boating. Doug and Ronnie were supposed to meet us at the dock. I’d called each one knowing, hoping, Cassandra would be listening to our conversations. Doug was all too eager to spend more time with me, even with company along. He was going to be angry, but that didn’t matter—I had backup.

  Candace was perfectly happy to run interference with Doug. I was her safety blanket from Rhonda, who’d grown more hateful and distant, and she was mine from Doug. I think Candace considered it a fair trade, even if Doug was less than receptive to her being around all the time. Though she didn’t say it, I think after she learned how Doug had treated Rachel, Candace was ready to exact a pound of flesh.

  At 8:45, I heard Doug motoring down the cove toward the boat dock. Candace and Rachel were content to dawdle on the path, gossiping and laughing, so I joined them in an effort to stall our departure. The entire time, I concentrated on Cassandra, who was at the Seoladán above us.

  At 9 o’clock, I felt her leave, zipping almost directly overhead. It was time. I sat down on the dock and put my head between my legs.

  Almost on cue, Candace said, “What’s wrong, girl?”

  I replied as sheepishly as I could. “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Don’t give me that. Spill it. Are you feeling bad?”

  “No, Candace, I’m not sick or anything—I just feel guilty, I suppose.”

  “Why?” Doug asked testily.

  “It’s Mitch—my family is going to see him today and here I am planning to run around on the lake.”

  “It’ll be good for you,” he tried to encourage me.

  “I know. Maybe you’re right. It’s just that I didn’t go to see him yesterday. He’s so sick.”

  “Maggie,” Candace interrupted. “You go right back up the hill and catch your family.”

  Doug huffed and appeared agitated.

  “Shut the hell up, Douglas,” Candace snapped, as if waiting for an opening. “And get that pathetic look off your face—you’re not helping.”

  He shot Candace a dirty look and turned his back.

  “I wouldn’t want to ruin your day…I mean you came all the way out here.” I tried to sound genuine.

  Candace smiled, knowingly. “We can still go, if that’s all right with you, Doug.” She turned to stare at him. His expression was filled with contempt until he made eye contact with me.

  “It will make me feel better, Doug, if you all go enjoy yourselves. Please?” I smiled at him and he grinned.

  Ronnie, who had been leaning against the dock, found an opening to defuse the tension. “Douggie?”

  Doug looked at him and stifled a laugh when Ronnie lifted his t-shirt, grinning, and slowly ran his hand down the deep ravine between his muscular abs. “Yes?”

  “I know I’m not your type and all, but if you play your cards right, I’ll let you talk dirty to me.”

  Rachel began snorting, trying not to laugh, which made everyone else start laughing.

  “Can I touch your abs?” Candace asked.

  He lowered his sunglasses to the tip of his long, elegant nose. “Sure. Five dollars.”

  “Five dollars?” she protested.

  Ronnie nodded. “Nothing this pretty is free.”

  Doug shook his head, unable to keep from laughing. “Okay, okay, let’s go.”

  God, I love you, Ronnie.

  I waited until they were past the point before I began climbing up the hill toward the empty caretaker’s cottage. It was 9:20 when I got to the greenhouse. The entire garden was in full bloom, just like the one below. It was stunning, but as beautiful as it was, it didn’t assuage the fear that kept bubbling up in my chest.

  Drawing energy from the breeze again, I stretched my senses to their max: Cassandra was gone, Billy and Sara were gone, and there were only a handful of Fae in the Weald, most more than a mile away. The guards in the garden were unmoved, and I hoped they were ignoring me.

  I ran to the tiny cottage and used my mind to unlock the front door. Even before I reached the stoop, the door creaked open an inch, but I didn’t touch anything. Instead, I nudged the door with a tiny burst of Air. My invisible fingers were more dexterous than ever.

  Just as it swung open, I checked my watch: 9:23.

  The air inside was slightly warmer, but it smelled stale and musty. It reminded me of the antique shops in town, except more pungent. A worn and faded pink sofa with yellowed doilies on the arms sat in the middle of the darkened room. It was flanked by pale green wingback chairs and a dusty floor lamp. I closed the door without touching it, and the room grew even darker. Weak beams of sunlight filtered though the small grimy diamond paned windows on the east side of the room. The beams glowed in a large rectangle on the floor, highlighting the dust motes that floated in and out of the darkness. The room was smaller than my bedroom and the flowery wallpaper, neglected and stained, peeled at the seams. Small ornate side-tables with curved legs stood against the back wall, and were cluttered with old pictures and knicknacks.

  A ghostly black and white photo in a tarnished silver frame caught my attention. The woman in the picture, appearing to be in her twen
ties, donned a permanent smile. She had to be my Great, Great Aunt Vita—the resemblance to her sister, Lola, was unmistakable. The grim-faced man standing next to her, with his hair parted down the middle and slicked back, had to be Uncle Frank. It was odd seeing their things lying about in the cottage, untouched for the last fifty years. It was sad, too. They never had children, so their mementos had remained up here completely unappreciated for decades.

  A narrow hallway led from the back of the room, past a staircase, and into the dark chambers at the rear of the cottage. I began scanning the shelves and tables for Pete’s journal. An old clock here and a forgotten trinket there—I didn’t see a journal.

  The floorboards creaked under my weight as I checked the tiny kitchen at the back of the cottage. Plain cupboards, neatly arranged with dust covered dishes and cups, lined two walls on either side of an apron sink that hadn’t held water for half a century. I felt a tinge of sadness when I noticed a neatly folded dish cloth draped over the edge of the sink. A tiny clover print was visible on the side that hung down vertically, but the top was faded to yellow from exposure to countless sunsets. There wasn’t a journal in that room, either.

  I checked my watch: 9:36. I needed to hurry.

  There were two small rooms off the hall. The first one I checked was a sitting room. Were it not for years of neglect, it would have been quite comfortable. Four small armchairs and ottomans circling a petite coffee table were backed by a bureau on the north wall. Across the hall was a small dining room with an old breakfront that still contained several pieces of china, silver and crystal. An oil lamp hung from the middle of the plaster ceiling, which was stained by soot and laced with cobwebs.

  There was no book of any kind in the dining room, and the drawers on the breakfront contained delicate serviceware and utensils but nothing else. I moved quickly back across the hall to the sitting room and opened the doors to the Victorian, chestnut-colored wood bureau. Inside was a writing desk with dusty, old-fashioned stationery and several fountain pens. Above them on the wooden shelves were several books. I began scanning the spines: Poe, Thoreau, Dickens, Mitchell, Shakespeare, and Dumas. Then, the seventh book over was a brown leather journal with no name. I pulled it from the shelf and gently flipped the front cover open: