Shapechanger's Birth

by Laer Carroll

  "As for claws — you can see for yourself. No sign of claws at all." She stopped and stuck one bare foot out from under her dress. Its bareness was not unusual. Most Irish peasants went barefoot except for special occasions. She stuck a hand out palm down before him, where he could see rounded nails cut short.

  He examined her hand and its nails a little more studiously than she might have expected. But of course he could not see what she thought of as her witch hands. They were invisible and could be shaped and used to handle material things in very weak but subtle ways, dissolving, rearranging, and — when she made her witch fingers razor thin — cutting.

  "Of course," he said, "if you were a werecat you could grow claws."

  Mary nodded her head. "True. But knives are so much more convenient."

  He changed the subject as they continued walking, not pointing out that she was not carrying a knife. They chatted easily, a teacher and one of the most talented students in the orphanage, one respected enough to teach basic courses. No more mention was made of her extraordinary side and, when they neared the school, he told her to go on ahead so that they would not be seen arriving at the orphanage together .

  The next few days Mary wondered at Edward Timmons' actions. Splitting up before they arrived at the orphanage suggested he was going to be discreet. But she knew him to be a conscientious person. Wouldn't he see it his duty to tell the other missionaries about her un-ladylike behavior and nature?

  The week passed and another weekend came and went. Mary had begun to hope for Mr. Timmons' discretion when one of the young girls who often ran errands told her that Parson Simmons wanted her to come to his office.

  "I'll be right there," she said, dipping the soapy dish in the rinsing tub of the kitchen in the girl's dorm. The young girl dashed off with her reply.

  Mary carefully dried the dish with a towel. She knew this dish. It had an oddly shaped chip out of one edge. How many times had she washed it? This would be the last time.

  Slowly she set it in the drainer, dried her hands on her apron, and hung the apron on the peg proper to it. Her two years here had been good ones. She breathed deeply in then out.

  Leaving the dormitory she walked across the square courtyard around which the buildings of the orphanage clustered. Inside the building which housed Parson Simmons' office she presented herself at his open door, knocked and entered.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  "Yes. Sit down."

  The parson searched among the papers on his desk. Mary watched him. He was tall and a bit stooped when he stood. He had a balding head and a kind face and always wore grey. He found what he wanted and looked up.

  "You and Barbara are good friends, I know. We want to send her to Cork to a music school there. However, she refuses to go unless you go with her. Would you be willing to do that?"

  Mary was quite surprised to be talking about Barbara rather than discussing her unladylike behaviour.

  Beautiful blond Barbara had an extraordinarily lovely voice and much training in its use. She was also a minx of the first water, though in the two years of Mary's stay at the orphanage Mary's friendship and opinion had moderated Barbara's abrasiveness and willfulness a good bit .

  Go to Cork? The third largest city in Ireland, with all sorts of opportunities? He had to even ask her?

  Suppressing any visible reactions Mary nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "Barbara does need more training. But what would I do?"

  "There are several possibilities. Among them ... my wife tells me that you are a master laundress well able to start your own laundry. Mister Timmons says you would make an excellent tutor and governess, if you could get instruction we cannot give you here.

  "The first has the advantage that you would earn substantial money once you got well started — and we will help you get started in exchange for an interest in the business. The second has the advantage that you could make valuable connections to the quality. But of course it would be longer before you could derive an advantage from that. For one thing, you would need to get additional instruction first."

  He did not mention that tutors and governesses were despised by the quality who hired them.

  "Both are intriguing," Mary said. "What kind of instruction does Mr. Timmons — and you — think I need?"

  "Latin and Greek, at a minimum. Mr. Timmons tells me you already have a smattering of both. He says you have an aptitude for languages." Mary had spoken Irish as a child but the English overlords insisted everyone learn their language as well. And having picked up a second language it was much easier to pick up a third.

  Of course, Mary had an advantage no one else had. The magic that made her body extraordinarily efficient and healthy also worked on her brain.

  "You also have an extraordinary mathematical ability. Perhaps you could pursue that as well. But I will leave the exact course of study up to you with advice from Mr. Timmons.

  "So, what do you say? Would you be willing to relocate to Cork with Barbara?"

  "Of course. When?"

  It was several weeks before they could leave. During that time letters went back and forth between Kilrush and Cork to make various arrangements. Mary arranged to hand over the three beginning classes which she taught to newly enrolled orphans to other teachers. The Sunday before they left the noonday feast turned into a going-away party for Mary, Barbara, and the older girl Bridget, who was going partly as chaperon to the two younger girls, and partly as partner with Mary in starting a new laundry in Cork.

  Mary received several presents, one of them a smooth, polished, and whippy switch from Billy Gibbings, a hulking orphan who was now a stableman for one of the local gentry. Mary and Billy had had a memorable difference of opinion two years ago that had been resolved by her application of such a switch to his backside.

  Early the next morning a hired coach stopped by the orphanage to pick up the three girls. Quite a lot of baggage went with them, less than half of it theirs, plus a substantial sum of money that was the saved-up allowances and wages of the three girls and some cash being transferred to the Cork Society of Friends.

  Along with them went Mister Edward Timmons. He would not be staying in Cork, but had some mission-related business to do in Cork before returning to Kilrush. He was also escorting the girls and the money, which was probably why under his coat he had a big sheathed knife on his belt on one side and a revolver tucked under his belt on the other.

  Quakers were supposed to be pacifists. Apparently Mr. Timmons had his own ideas on that subject.

  The day was bright and golden with the new-risen sun as the coach lurched into motion. Barbara, her long curly blond hair blowing in the wind, leaned out the window and watched the orphanage falling further and further behind them until it disappeared around a corner.

  Mary sat staring unseeing out the window. She would not look back.

  Soon she and Bridget, who was unusually quiet for a time, roused themselves and began looking out the window with Barbara. Edward was reading a book. That soon palled. The green countryside though beautiful had little beyond sheep and cows and occasional farms to catch the eye.

  An hour later rain blew up and the coach stopped long enough for the driver and armed guard on the high driver's seat at the front to put on protection from the rain. A quarter of an hour later the sound of the wheels changed temporarily to a lower pitch as the coach rumbled over a small stone bridge over the River Doonbeg — really more of a wide stream than a river .

  Midmorning they stopped at the small village of Knockalough for a bathroom break. This was at an outhouse behind a small general store that was almost the only building in Knockalough. Still the town was big enough to warrant a Royal Post office — one long shelf in the general store.

  Another quarter hour and they crossed the Doonbeg again as it switched back to its beginning in a small lake on their left — really more of a large pond.

  After another hour and a half they made another bathroom break at Caherea, another town of
three or four buildings. Then at just past noon the coach rolled into Innis. It had taken six hours to travel the 27 miles from the orphanage in Kilrush.

  Innis was two or three times as large as Kilrush and was a major commercial center for western County Clare. By the time they arrived the rain was long past and the sun was out again, shining into windows in the right-side door.

  Mary was sitting in the rear seat on the right side so she had the first sighting of the city. Over some low trees reared a grey castle and the spire of a cathedral the same color. She pointed them out and immediately Barbara on her left was practically climbing over her to see.

  Laughing Mary fended off Barbara — who was putting on a growth spurt and seemed all elbows and knees lately — and slid left to let Barbara take her place. The blond girl stuck her head out the window and her golden curls streamed back in the breeze of the coach's passage. Barbara no more cared about the scandal of going bareheaded than did Mary, who wondered sometimes if this was because of Barbara's lack of respect for others, or it was because of Mary's bad example.

  Mary negotiated cramped floor space with Edward Timmons on the front seat and exchanged a smile with him. He had been watching Barbara and rolling his eyes at the girl's antics. Beside him Bridget was smiling as well, and she and Edward shared a glance. Mary thought to catch more than shared amusement between them.

  What was this? Was there a budding romance and she had somehow missed it? She, the supernaturally gifted cat lady? Silently Mary laughed at herself.

  In minutes buildings showed through the window on the left side and she and Edward were catching the sights there, while Bridget vied with Barbara for a view out the right side.

  The coach rumbled through the stony streets of Ennis, turned a corner and went a ways, turned another corner, and began going mostly south. Buildings of various heights and colors, beige and lime-green and reddish chocolate, passed by. A road sign labeled "Limeric" pointed in the direction they were going.

  At one point a heavy stench of urine overwhelmed Mary's senses before she snapped off her olfactory sense, then brought its sensitivity back up in degrees toward a normal level till she was sure the odor was past. Presumably they had passed a tannery.

  At the southern edge of Ennis the coach stopped at a large inn beside a Royal Post stable. While the passengers alighted the young driver disconnected the four horses and took them inside the stable for feeding and grooming. The horses would continue on with the coach to Cork, unlike horses of the Royal Post, who would have been quickly changed for a fresh set before the Post coach raced on.

  The driver, barely fifteen if that, still had time for a saucy remark to Barbara, who at fourteen was blossoming into a woman. Already she had hips and a period, to which Mary had helped her adjust when it started, and was beginning to grow a bosom — and a pimple on her chin.

  "Oh my God!" Barbara clapped a hand over her chin. "Did you see that? He must have seen my —"

  "Don't blaspheme, Barbara." This was Bridget, as grave and calm as the greatest lady. She was short and curvy and had red hair, just as Mary did. Bridget's hair, however, was a shiny curve of copper. Her skin was a smooth ivory that might never have sported a pimple and certainly had never evinced a freckle.

  They were escorted to a table, Barbara still moaning about being disfigured for life and never capturing a husband. Edward and the girls ordered stew, he asking for wine for himself and Bridget and allowing the two younger girls weak ale, spirits usually being safer than water.

  The stew was good, the meat only a touch rancid and the vegetables only a little too-long cooked, but still good. Mary savored the blend of sauce and food, cranking up her gustatory sensitivity a bit.

  Unfortunately Barbara's grouching, though it did not blunt Barbara's appetite, was distracting her from savoring the food .

  "Hush!" Mary said. "Here, I'll fix it." She took the table's one napkin and borrowed Bridget's wine glass. Spilling a few drops onto the edge of the napkin, she applied it vigorously to Barbara's pimple. That afflicted young lady bore her treatment with such great tragic resignation that Mary caught Edward Timmons suppressing a smile.

  "Now! Why did I do that?"

  Barbara answered, "The alcohol in wine fights disease."

  "And how does it do that?"

  "It kills bad microlife."

  Mary did not have words for germs and viruses. But with her witch sense she could see/taste/feel microscopic life forms and their malign influence as an invisible mist that filled the air and brought illness to flesh. She had invented the term microlife and tutored everyone at the orphanage in the nature of such danger and how to fight it.

  There had been skepticism at first, especially from the older-and-wiser-heads at the mission who were expert in the current theories of disease. But in the two years at the orphanage Mary had converted almost everyone.

  Part of this was the reputation Mary had for ferociously devouring books and ideas and partly because her theory worked, especially when used by her. Of course she cheated a bit. After all, she was likely the only person alive who could literally "kiss it and make it well."

  Mary let Barbara go back to eating and returned to her own food as well. But she was waiting for something.

  It soon came. Barbara lifted a hand to scratch at her pimple. Mary swatted it sharply.

  "Oww! You're mean!"

  "Yes, I am. I'm mean Granny McCarthy. Idiot! Beside mean-ness, why did I do that?"

  Barbara sighed dramatically. "Because there's microlife on my hands."

  "What should you do if you want to scratch?"

  "Don't. Or wash my hands with soap and water or alcohol."

  "That's right. Now you go ahead and scratch if you want."

  Mary let her voice go mock gleeful and gave an evil leer. "I'll just watch as your pimple gets worse, and spreads all over your face, and you become so ugly that little children will scream and run away from you!"

  Barbara giggled and re-attacked her food, tearing off big hunks of bread to supplement her stew. Occasionally she lifted a hand as if to scratch her chin but always caught herself. And the itch would soon go away. By tomorrow it would be totally healed. Mary had commanded Barbara's body to heal quickly as she was scrubbing the girl's pimple.

  The meal was soon finished and the quartet left the dark dining room for the bright street. Edward stayed close to the stagecoach — which he had kept in view from the dining room — and the locked strongbox firmly attached to the coach. It contained all their money and other valuables. The three girls walked down the street a bit to stretch their soon-to-be-cooped-up legs and sightsee.

  At the end of the hour the young driver showed up with the refreshed horses and hitched them up. He found time to flirt with Barbara. Mary quite approved of him. He reminded her of one of her sons, the one in America, when he was younger. The driver was scrawny though tall but moved well, had glossy brown ringlets, and a bouncy, happy approach to life.

  The guard also came out from wherever he had been and, when the coach was ready, climbed up onto the driver's seat. He carried a rifle and resembled the younger man. Perhaps he was an uncle.

  He would have been attractive to Mary, with his lean, athletic build, regular face, and hair as brown and glossy and curly as the driver's. But when he looked at Barbara, which he did a lot, it was with a mean, predatory look. It was the cruelty of that look, rather than the girl's age, that annoyed Mary. Nowadays the Irish married late, but when Mary had grown up it was not unusual for a girl Barbara's age to marry.

  The coach started up with a surge that nearly threw the passengers out of their seats and sped away from the inn at a gallop. The driver was showing off. Within a block, however, he slowed to the steady pace that had gotten them to Ennis.

  Shortly they came the town of Clarecastle. The River Fergus passed under their road there and widened out to their right to a hundred yards or more. Several rowboats, sailboats, and barges were docked at the Clarecastle quay and they coul
d see almost as much river traffic coming from and going to the miles-distant Shannon as they were accustomed to seeing at Kilrush .

  After that there was not much to see except a castle far off to the left and yet another river (or stream) crossing. They stopped briefly at little Newmarket-on-Fergus for a bathroom break and to stretch their legs. They were nearly drenched by a shower before they could get back inside the coach.

  Another hour or so later they took another break at Bunratty town. There the road, which had been curving more and more toward the east, became nearly easterly, never straying more than a mile from the banks of the Shannon. Sailboats traversed the river and twice they saw steamboats trailing black trails of smoke.

  Late in the afternoon the buildings of the city of Limerick began to show up, at first a few farmhouses, then occasional townlets containing little more than a general store. As twilight deepened toward night the stage entered Limerick proper and crossed over a long, high stone bridge over the Shannon.

  Beside the bridge was a huge fortress called King John's Castle, with high walls and big round towers at each corner. The passengers all gazed at it as the coach rumbled over the bridge. It was another ten minutes before they reached a Royal Post stable on the southern side of Limerick. Because of the city's size and location it was the hub of several Post circuits and the Post stables matched that, with dozens of horses and a huge barn, with a large and sprawling inn beside the Post.

  Their driver parked the coach in an area between the stable and the inn and unharnessed and led the horses inside the stable. The stage line for which he worked had a deal with the Royal Post establishment for feeding and boarding the horses overnight.

  Edward got down from the coach and made sure his coat was unbuttoned and coat tails loose enough to allow him easy access to his weapons. Mary guessed what he meant to do and so tagged along with him on the side opposite to his gun hand. From her reticule she took two smooth oval stones and began idly passing them from hand to hand.