The Changeling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Watcher!” he called, louder now, annoyed that she was not close. It was enough to keep himself safe, let alone having to worry about her.

  Owen wandered outside to soaring pine trees and others with white bark and small leaves turning from green to yellow. The whole countryside looked golden with these trees clumped in the midst of the pines. It was beautiful, but with Watcher missing, he couldn’t enjoy it.

  Owen lumbered down the path, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Finding the broken gourd, he called for Watcher again.

  She’s probably looking for another gourd. But we have to be going.

  Owen knelt by the stream and cupped a hand to the water. It was cool and refreshing. His hair and body felt dirty. For the moment, he was glad that Watcher was gone, because he peeled off his tunic and clothes and plunged in, coming up for air and shaking his hair like a dog. The cold water was invigorating, bringing to mind his life before in the Highlands, as these people called it. Would anyone in his world believe him if he returned and told them of this world? That animals could talk? That he plunged into a cold stream after spending the night in a cave? That his sword bore magical powers?

  Owen took one last dive before surfacing and wading to the bank. Clouds rolled in, engulfing the sun, and a mist covered the trees. He quickly dried and dressed and strapped on his sword, alert for any sign of Watcher.

  As he headed back to the cave via the path, the mist suddenly swallowed the landscape, and the world turned white. Squinting to avoid bumping into something, he gasped.

  A hooded specter appeared before him, enshrouded in the mist. “I’ve been waiting for you, Owen.”

  That voice. Could it be?

  “Oh, it’s me all right, young friend.” The hood came off, and Owen found himself looking into the face of his mentor.

  “Mordecai! How did you find us?”

  The man laughed. “It wasn’t easy; I can tell you. Where is Watcher?”

  Owen frowned. “Off looking for food, I suppose. Come wait in the cave with me.”

  Mordecai threw his arm around Owen. When they reached the cave, Owen rushed for the spit and tore off what was left of the jargid from the night before, handing it to Mordecai.

  Mordecai turned up his nose. “No, thank you. I’m queasy this morning.”

  “But you love jargid!”

  “Oh! I didn’t recognize it the way you cooked it.” Mordecai accepted the meat and ripped it with his teeth, chuckling. His face shone.

  Warmth washed over Owen. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. How did you get off the island?”

  “You underestimate me,” Mordecai said. “A little tree cutting and vine lashing, and I had a skiff. The question is not how I got here but how you escaped the Dragon.”

  “How did you hear about that?”

  Mordecai smiled, blackened jargid meat stuck between his teeth. “Tales of the Wormling are flooding the land. You are quite the celebrity, especially after defeating those demon vipers.” He touched Owen’s sword. “I don’t suppose you could have done it without this.”

  “No,” Owen said. “But the best weapon in the world would not have helped without your instruction.”

  Mordecai rolled his eyes, his thick beard glistening with jargid juice. His lips were like cherries, his eyebrows as bushy as ever. “I didn’t have to teach you much.”

  Owen’s heart sank. If Mordecai had heard what happened at the castle, he must have heard about the death of his own son, Qwamay. But it didn’t seem so.

  Owen moved near the entrance. “Watcher will be so excited to see you. We talk about you every day.”

  Mordecai tossed the jargid carcass on the coals. “You have a good friend in her, Wormling. I can’t wait to see her.”

  “Uh, Mordecai? There’s something I must tell you. Something terrible.”

  Mordecai furrowed his brow and sat, crossing his ankles. “You haven’t lost The Book of the King, have you?”

  Owen nodded. “I’m afraid the Dragon has it, but awful as that is, I have even worse news.”

  Mordecai stroked his beard. “I can’t imagine, but I’m listening.”

  “I got into a cell in the castle, believing I was releasing the King’s Son.”

  “You did? And . . .”

  “Mordecai, I’m so sorry. The prisoner turned out to be Qwamay.”

  Mordecai squinted, breathless. “He’s not the King’s Son! He’s my son! Where is he?”

  Owen told him the whole story, except for the fact that the young man had temporarily been in league with the Dragon.

  “We escaped with the help of friends, but Qwamay was shot by an archer. By the time we realized it, the wound was too far gone for even the magic of the sword. I’m so sorry, my friend. He died and we buried him.”

  The news didn’t seem to register with Mordecai, and he merely gazed into Owen’s eyes.

  Owen knelt before him and took one of Mordecai’s big hands in his own. “Your son loved you very much.”

  Finally Mordecai wailed, “My son!” He rose, threw his hands in the air, and pressed his face against the wall of the cave. His crying became a howl, and Owen was sure some demon flyer would hear.

  “Oh, Qwamay!” Mordecai moaned, weeping. “I should have come for you long ago.” He turned, chin quivering. “Tell me it was a peaceful death.”

  “It was a courageous death,” Owen said, but Mordecai rushed out. Owen followed, noticing that the mist had lifted. The man sat in a bed of brown pine needles, grabbed two handfuls of pinecones, and brought them to his face. Owen had never seen such a hopeless figure.

  Where was Watcher when he needed her?

  “Mordecai?” Owen said quietly, hands on the big man’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, but we’re not safe out here.”

  Mordecai rose slowly and followed Owen back inside, wiping his face and sobbing.

  “Can I get you anything?” Owen said gently.

  Mordecai shook his head. “It is enough to know that my son spent his last moments with you—that he knew the Wormling had come.” He patted Owen on the back. “I’m sure you and your friends were a comfort to him.”

  “We tried to be. You can be proud of him.”

  Mordecai took a deep breath. “I’m sure my life confused him.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Because I was loyal to the King and then betrayed him.” He lifted his eyes to Owen. “Sometimes I think it would have been better to make a truce with the Dragon than to have an all-out fight. No one wins.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Mordecai scanned the cave’s ceiling. “The book says something about the King knowing the end from the beginning, doesn’t it?”

  “It is unsearchable,” Owen said. “Inexhaustible. It never ends.”

  “And if the King knows everything, he knew I would fail to protect him and his family. He knew I would slip up, that his Son would be taken, and that all these years would pass before you came onto the scene.”

  “Which is why I believe the King still loves you and wants you to serve him.”

  Mordecai waved. “Not my point. My point is that there is so much pain and difficulty, and this cannot be what the King wants. Look what happened when Bardig went up against Dreadwart. He was killed needlessly.”

  “He gave his life for us.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better for his family if they could have old Bardig around? better to have him when the battle really counted?”

  “The Book of the King is clear,” Owen said. “We are to allow the Dragon no room to reign.”

  “Yes, but isn’t your main purpose to find the King’s Son and thereby unite the worlds and create peace? Wouldn’t it be best to live to see that happen?”

  “I believe it will happen, because I’ve read it in the book.”

  Follow me,” Mordecai said, leading Owen above the cave to a switchback path overlooking the countryside. They reached a ledge above the tops of the pines, and the entire valley stretched before them.
The stream looked like a pencil-thin line.

  Though Owen felt unprotected here, Mordecai’s step had lightened.

  “Look, Wormling. A beautiful world, isn’t it?”

  “Almost as beautiful as the island,” Owen said.

  Mordecai chuckled. “You know, you helped me understand something on the island. Life is worth living. I can’t simply cower in the shadows any longer. I have to get back in the fray. And I would hate to think of not being here for that, not being able to counsel you all the way as you face the forces of darkness.”

  Owen furrowed his brow. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Make a truce with the Dragon, call for peace, and make him swear he will not attack. Think what it could mean! Our people could live in harmony again. You would be worshipped, Wormling.”

  “It is not my desire to be worshipped, Mordecai.”

  “Did I say worship? I meant venerated. Lifted up. Praised—but only for your wisdom and insight, which, of course, comes from the King. After all, the book says that peace rules with wisdom.”

  Owen stared at Mordecai. Gone was the angry man he had known on the island, and in his place stood a man who spoke of peace. But at what price? A truce with his mortal enemy? “On the island, you said there could be no treaty with a prince of lies.”

  Mordecai shrugged. “Difficult, I’ll admit. But think of the advantages. Less death and destruction. More beings who can enjoy life. Makes perfect sense, does it not?”

  “Mordecai! The Dragon would never agree to a truce! He would send his demon flyers and—”

  “Oh, but he would agree,” Mordecai said. “He sees strength in you. He has to admire your courage and how far you will go in your quest for the Son. I would be glad to go ahead of you and negotiate this peace.”

  Owen was thrilled to again be in Mordecai’s company, but how could he have so drastically changed his position? Did he really believe a truce would bring peace in the land? Perhaps the loss of his son had clouded his vision. “What would I have to give up in such a truce?”

  “Nothing of consequence,” Mordecai said. “Just some show of good faith. Perhaps your sword, but nothing of real—”

  “My sword?! The Dragon already has The Book of the King!”

  “Something that shows you are being earnest.”

  Owen turned away. He loved Mordecai and trusted him, but the man was speaking nonsense. As he stared off, he noticed some sort of animal moving far below beside the stream.

  “Pay no attention to the things of the earth,” Mordecai said. “They will be here when other things have passed.”

  “ ‘Flowers wither and die and the grass disappears,’ ” Owen said. “ ‘The King’s words are the only things that last.’ ”

  “I suppose. Now, concerning the truce . . .”

  Owen suddenly realized the figure below was Watcher. He called out to her just as Mordecai bashed him with a rock, sending him reeling toward the edge. Owen grabbed the root of a tree, but Mordecai was on him, stomping on his hands.

  “Mordecai!”

  “I could have given you everything you asked for, Wormling! Lands. Power. Authority.”

  “Those are not yours to give! Nor the Dragon’s. Only the King can bestow such. You know that.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Mordecai said, imitating Owen’s voice. He bent and hefted an even larger rock. “The King is all-powerful. The King is all-knowing. Well, the King is dead. And so are you.”

  Mordecai held the stone over Owen’s head and let go.

  Owen snapped to reality as the stone dropped toward him. This was not Mordecai but an evil impostor!

  Owen struggled to pull himself up but had to let go of a tree root to elude the rock, and he began to slide over the side of the ledge, his body teetering. The cliff angled so steeply that he had to fight his way up or else fall to his death.

  “What have you done with Mordecai?” Owen raged, grabbing the root again.

  The being mocked him, repeating his words and laughing. “How should I know where he is? Probably back on that island eating the disgusting meat you fed me.” The impostor bent to pick up another rock as Owen fought to hang on.

  “The Dragon sent you?” Owen said.

  “Oh, you’re a genius, you are. Of course the Dragon sent me. I convinced him I could talk sense into you, but obviously Wormlings are more worm than brain.”

  Hundreds of feet below, Owen saw Watcher move into the open, struggling to free herself from constraints. He felt alone, as if the arm in the night, his unseen protector, had left him.

  With another gigantic rock hoisted over his head, the impostor smiled. “Enjoy the view while it lasts.”

  “A word, if you please,” Owen said. “You are good. You had me believing you were my friend.”

  “I do pride myself on my work. It pains me to have to resort to violence when a simple agreement would have saved so many lives. But you would not listen.” The impostor inched closer but not close enough so Owen could reach his leg.

  Owen was slipping, and strength ebbed from him as he hung there.

  “Sad,” the impostor said. “Anything you’d like to say before you smash what little brains you have on the rocks down there?”

  “Just one word.”

  “I can grant that.”

  “Sword!”

  The impostor smirked, clearly confused. “Whatever. Have a nice fall—and a wonderful spring. Good-bye, Wormling.”

  A silver object flew from the cave, turning golden and twinkling in the light. Before the impostor could drop the rock, Owen lurched, reached high to catch the sword, and in one motion swung it toward the impostor, catching him just above the ankle.

  The impostor yelped and fell back, the rock thudding behind him. His boot had been sliced through, and blood spurted.

  Owen stuck the sword in the earth and used it to pull himself up as the impostor writhed.

  “Think a little flesh wound will stop me?” the being yelled. He scooted backward, pushing with his good foot, and stopped against a wall of rock.

  Owen watched the impostor’s eyes roll back in his head, the beard and bushy eyebrows of Mordecai sink into his face, and the being change into a scaly, green gecko with a slithering tongue and his foot restored.

  As the impostor tried to skitter away, Owen plunged the sword through his tail, trapping him.

  The animal squealed. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You tried to kill me!” Owen said.

  “I wouldn’t have gone through with it. Besides, I was only following orders. Now release me.”

  Owen used his tunic to wrap the animal and carry it, squirming and wriggling, down the mountain. “Hold still or I’ll slice you in two,” Owen said.

  The gecko went suddenly rigid.

  As soon as Owen reached Watcher, he cut her gag and bindings.

  “He’s a Changeling,” she said, gasping. “Came to me in the form of Bardig.”

  “But I didn’t hurt you, did I?” the Changeling whined. “See, Wormling, I didn’t—”

  “Quiet,” Owen said with authority. He carried the Changeling to the cave and tied him up.

  “The demon flyers will be near,” Watcher said. “We should leave.”

  “Not until we find out what he knows,” Owen said.

  But the Changeling quickly turned into a snake and was crawling away when Owen again used his sword to pin him to the ground.

  “Return to your original form,” Owen said, “and I’ll remove my sword.”

  “And whom would you prefer?” the Changeling said, turning back into Bardig. “An old friend?” He rolled his eyes again. “Maybe a competitor?” Now he was Connor, Bardig’s son.

  “Stop it!” Owen said.

  The Changeling smiled. “Someone more regal?” With a nod, he was the Queen, shoulders back, wearing a dress with puffed sleeves. “I’m rather enjoying this, Wormling.”

  Watcher growled, and Owen raised his sword. “Be careful, Changeling.”

/>   But the creature had done it again. “Perhaps someone from your past.” And there stood Owen’s father. “So nice to see you again, Son.”

  Owen nearly dropped his sword. “How could you know about . . . ?”

  “I’m just getting started.” Next he was Gordan Kalb, the bully at Owen’s school. Then Clara Secrest, the pretty girl Owen had taken to a movie.

  Owen stared, dumbfounded. When the Changeling turned into his young friend Constance, Owen held up his sword. “Stop or I’ll have to hurt you.”

  The Changeling turned back into the gecko and crossed his stubby arms. “Satisfied?”

  “How do you know the people in my world?”

  The Changeling smiled. “Certain memories are stronger than others. I simply tap into yours.”

  “I need to know something. Does the Dragon know where the King’s Son is?”

  “And why should I tell you?”

  “Because my weapon is sharp.”

  “Good reason.” The Changeling crossed his gecko legs. “I hear he has escaped.”

  Watcher nudged Owen, but he shook her off. “Can you become the Son? Right now?”

  “I’ve never seen him, but . . .” He closed his eyes and turned into a dark-haired hunk, strong as an ox, face chiseled from stone.

  “Is that him?” Owen said.

  “It’s your perception, as I suppose you’ve never laid eyes on him either.” The Changeling leaned forward, hair changing to brown, nose growing bulbous, and shrinking several inches. “This is her perception.”

  “Really,” Owen said.

  Watcher made a face. “It’s just the way I thought he would look,” she said.

  Owen turned back to the Changeling. “Did the Dragon have a book?”

  The Changeling studied his fingernails. “The Book of the King. He was poring over it, unable to make sense of it as far as I could tell. Fire, brimstone, destruction, the end of the world, blah, blah, blah. Sounded dreadful. I have enough trouble with what is without worrying what might be.”

  “What else did he talk about?” Owen said.

  The Changeling looked around the cave.

  “Don’t worry,” Watcher said. “No invisibles here.”