The Changeling’s Journey
Copyright © Christine Spoors 2017
All rights reserved
Christine Spoors has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patients Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Leesha Hannigan
Cover design by Eight Little Pages
Interior design by Eight Little Pages
Title design by Lauren Cassidy
Map design by Liza Vasse
Printed by IngramSpark
FOR KAREN,
I’D TRAVEL THE FAIRY KINGDOMS WITH YOU.
I AM SO GLAD YOU WERE BORN.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I watched, vision blurring with tears, as Ailsa’s da and two brothers piled stones on top of her grave. There were less than a dozen graves here in this part of the burial site, the family having only moved to our village a few decades back.
I had never spoken to young Ailsa much, but I could fondly remember the way she would weave flowers into her hair and paint the stump of her left arm with war paint. There hasn’t been a call to war for years but paint could always be found at the market. Perhaps now that Ailsa was dead it would disappear.
Not that it really mattered. Ailsa was gone and that left me, the last changeling alive in the village.
My stomach churned with sadness at the death of a young girl of only ten years, but also with guilt.
It was horrifically unfair that every other changeling child died before reaching their teenage years, yet here I stood at the age of eighteen. Still alive, albeit usually gasping for breath as I clambered over the hills our village inhabits. Time and time again I found myself cursing the founders of this village for not settling on flat easy ground.
There was another boy who lived to be fifteen. He died before I was born but years ago I heard my ma and da talking about it when they thought I was asleep.
It was madness that I was still alive, and I could not help but wonder how much longer I would last. Over the years, we changelings weaken and die, no one knows why and no healer can stop it.
Glen once told me it was because changelings are made from magic and magic can’t exist for a long time south of the Fairy Hills. I wasn’t sure what I thought about that theory, there is magic all around us in Tirwood, despite it being a human kingdom.
I was jolted out of my thoughts by a gust of wind sending a spray of freezing water into my face. Shuddering, I pulled my cloak tighter around my body. Miserable weather for a miserable day.
A few weeks ago, Granny Athol had dramatically announced that spring was on its way. In my opinion, it couldn’t come fast enough. I couldn’t feel my toes and I wouldn’t have been surprised if my nose had frozen solid.
The fairies stole children from their beds and replaced them with changelings without rhyme or rhythm, but some believed that they also helped the Others to change the seasons and ensure the growth of crops. As I stared at the growing pile of stones in front of me my thoughts soured.
If the crops failed and we all died they would have no babies to steal, and nowhere to leave the changelings they create. Maybe that would be for the best. Maybe they should just leave us all to starve.
A warm hand on my back made me jump, at once feeling guilty about my thoughts. A few sickly changelings were not a good enough reason to wish death upon the whole village.
If I hadn’t been so cold I was sure my face would have been burning with embarrassment.
“Let’s get you home Morven,” da said, wrapping a strong arm around my shoulders, leading me away from the stones.
I was surprised to see that I was the last one, other than Ailsa’s family, left. I had been so caught up in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed anyone leaving, I hoped I hadn’t accidently ignored anyone who tried to talk to me.
The death of anyone in the village is heart-breaking. Our farming village is small, compared to the town, and so everyone mourns each loss. The death of a changeling is always worse, anger and resentment adding to our sadness making it all the more sickening.
Nothing can be done to stop our babies being stolen, they are put to bed healthy the night before and in the morning, they are gone. If you were lucky, in their place a near identical child would lay with sickly pale, cold skin.
If not, the changeling would be missing a finger or maybe even an arm or a leg. Like they were created in a rush and vital parts were simply missed out.
No one knew what happened to the children the fairies stole, some of the more cynical villagers thought perhaps they were taken and used as sacrifices, or eaten. Most of the villagers held onto the hope that our babies were cherished. Welcomed into fairy families as if they were their own children.
Why they needed human children, our children, we had no idea.
Da helped me scramble back down the hill that separated the village from the graves. Everyone marching up and down the hill had transformed the green grass into a brown muddy death trap. If da hadn’t been there to guide me down, I would have had to roll down instead, probably falling and breaking my neck.
Even with his help, I couldn’t stop my feet from slipping in the mud as I shrieked and clung to him for support. He couldn’t help but laugh at my struggle, but thankfully helped me reach the bottom without breaking any bones.
We hurried towards our family cottage, cloaks pulled tight around us against the freezing wind and rain. The smoke wafting out of the top of our cottage filled my heart with warmth. It may not be the fanciest or largest around, but our cottage had been in the family for generations. It was home and we all loved it.
The smell of ma’s stew hit me as soon as we entered, making my mouth water. She had left the burial not long after the family had said their speeches about Ailsa and wished her safe travel to the Otherworld. It always upset her the most when a changeling passed away, probably because it made her think too much about when my time would end.
I hung my cloak by the fire, thankful to finally be out of the dreary weather and into the warmth. I waved a
t ma as I passed and made my way to the largest room, from which I could hear screaming and laughter.
Malcolm, my older brother, was pinned to the floor wailing whilst his twin daughters tickled him, giggling hysterically.
I had always been content with the size of our little family; ma, da, my older brother Malcolm, my younger brother Munro and me. We were a perfect mix of personalities who rarely argued and loved each other more than anything. Then four years ago, Malcolm brought home his wife-to-be Bonnie and a year later the twins, Morag and Mildred, were born and my heart grew even bigger. Now I couldn’t imagine our family without them.
Munro and I had laughed and laughed, until we were sure we would pass out, when Malcolm told us that he was continuing the ridiculous tradition that da started, calling all his children names beginning with the same sound.
“Tradition is important,” he had shouted over Munro’s snorting and my wheezing gasps for breath.
Important maybe, though pointless is the word that springs to mind when I think of that tradition. Unlike storytelling, now that is a tradition I cherish.
Bonnie had lived in Cladanan when she was wee. Her family had immigrated from the isles across the southern sea, generations before she was born.
Malcolm met, and fell in love with her, when he went to work on the ships in the south for a few years. Bonnie quickly became one of my favourite storytellers and I loved to hear her wild tales of pirates and selkies. I couldn’t imagine the sea.
A river and a few streams passed by our village but it was impossible to imagine enough water to carry a whole ship full of people. It didn’t take more than a few weeks to travel south, but da and ma always had work to do on the farm, so I’d never had the chance.
The second most important tradition for our family is going on adventures. When da was younger, he climbed every mountain around Loch Fai and a few of the mountains in south with his brother. He claimed that he once saw a wulver in the south, a man with hair all over his body and a wolf’s head. That story is one of his personal favourites, but I am not sure I believe that he truly saw one and lived to tell the tale.
He decided that he wanted his children to go on adventures, and was eager to send Malcolm south when he asked. Ailsa’s funeral made me even more eager to go on an adventure. I didn’t want to die before I had a chance to see more of this land. I couldn’t let that happen.
“Finally, you were out so long we thought you’d decided to dig your own grave already,” Munro laughed until da smacked him, making me laugh.
“Don’t let your ma hear you talking like that today,” he said, frowning, although the amusement was clear in his eyes.
My mortality and likely imminent death had, over the years, become a source of jokes in our family. The only way to deal with the harsh reality that I could be gone any day was to laugh about it.
From ‘Morven you slept so long we thought you were dead’ from Malcolm or ‘I can’t sweep the floor... I’ve moved on to the Otherworld’ from me whenever I was feeling lazy.
We always joked and laughed about it, and somehow that made it less real and less frightening. Ma always joined in, threatening to steal my clothes when I was gone, but not today.
Not whilst our neighbours were still piling stones on their daughter’s grave. A grave, like the one I could be laid to rest inside any day now.
Ma’s call to dinner roused me from my depressing thoughts as I joined the scramble for the first bowl of stew. After a steaming bowl, I made my excuses and hurried to bed, eager to hide amongst my blankets away from the miserable weather and my miserable thoughts.
I threw myself down onto the damp grass, taking deep breaths of the crisp morning air. I could feel the cold dew seeping in through my skirts but I didn’t bother moving. Not after hiking up the steepest hill overlooking our village.
“Don’t go dying on me Morven,” Glen settled down beside me with a chuckle.
“You wish,” I groaned, pulling myself upright. “I swear that hill gets steeper every time we climb it.”
We sat in a comfortable silence for a while as I caught my breath. I loved it up here. From this high up we could look down on the village and watch people out in the farms, tending to their cows and sheep. We could see the small market in the centre, pillars of smoke billowing from the stalls roasting meat over their fires.
It was humbling to see our wee village spread out before us, a couple of dozen cottages and the market place, all circled by countless fields. Just beyond our village we could see the road.
It led off into the distance towards the town. Beyond that I could just make out the start of the Fairy Hills and the Fairy Forest to the west. Not the most exciting names but they were simply named because they were not ours.
No humans owned the land beyond the loch and the forest, there the fairies ruled.
I had never seen a fairy, although I had heard countless stories about them. As much as we hate them for stealing our children they are still our storytellers’ favourite topic.
Glen loved stories even more than my da. That was one of the reasons he first became my friend when we were children. He wanted to know a changeling and one day decided that we were best friends. I didn’t resist much.
According to Glen, the fairies are strong, beautiful and live much longer than humans. They live in grand castles and are gifted with more magic than any human could imagine. Then there are the fairies of the sky. No one has seen them down on the land, but sometimes at night we see bright lights in the sky seeping down from the north and know that they are fighting. Selkies, kelpies, wulver and the wee folk are all lesser types of fairy, according to self-proclaimed fairy expert Glen.
A few of them live down south here with us in the different kingdoms and look almost human, though they possess magic we could never dream of and unusual features. Like the wulver covered in hair, or the wee folk who are as small as an apple.
It’s exciting listening to his stories and imaging these grand magical beings, but I could never quite stop my thoughts being pulled down a darker path.
“I wish I knew why the fairies steal our children,” I sighed.
“Doesn’t everyone?” Glen replied, scratching at his beard absentmindedly.
When he’d first started to grow that ridiculous bushy ginger beard he’d been so proud of himself.
“It would be great to just go and demand the answers. There must be a fairy somewhere that would tell us. Aren’t they supposed to love humans?”
“Some say so, but then again, we all know the stories about human soup being their favourite dinner,” Glen laughed. “I wish we knew for your own peace of mind, but also because that story would be brilliant to tell.”
“It would make an amazing story. Morven and Glen crossing up over the Fairy Hills to demand answers from the fairies,” I exclaimed, gesturing wildly as if to an audience.
“Yes... yes it would.”
We turned to each other, our devious grins matching. What if we did just that? Went on an adventure north into the fairy kingdoms and found out what really happened to the children that were stolen. Maybe, just maybe, we could stop it from happening again.
“Your da would let you. He’s been waiting for you to announce an adventure for months,” Glen exclaimed as he jumped to his feet.
“And, your ma and da wouldn’t miss you too much, not with Dougal and Donal working on the farm. I’m sure they could spare you for one short adventure,” I allowed Glen to pull me to my feet.
“I’ll fight my way through any beastie or evil fairy we encounter and you can smile and charm your way into inns and make sure we find food to fill our bellies,” Glen grinned.
Almost at once I could imagine it, imagine the two of us travelling together trying to find answers. Perhaps even finding a way to stop any more babies being stolen and discovering a way to prevent changelings from dying so young. We could do it.
I grabbed his forearms growing serious. “Promise me we will do this,” I sai
d needing to hear him promise, needing to go on this journey and find the answers I had been longing for my whole life.
Glen took my face between his rough calloused hands.
“I promise.”
I t turned out that Granny Athol was right, winter was finally ending. Today was my eighteenth Winter’s End festival and the weather couldn’t have been more perfect.
We had woken to the wind howling down through the chimney and the rain battering off the roof and doors.
Glen loves to tell stories about the Queen, who’s name no one knows. It is said that she lives up beyond the fairy kingdoms in a land made of mountains, snow and ice. From there she controls the changing of our seasons.
It is said that awful weather at the Winter’s End festival means she has fallen asleep, and that winter and the dark nights are over. The festival has no specific day, it’s generally agreed that it’s best to wait until the worst weather for it. Just to be sure that the Queen is asleep.
“So, my love, what are you hiding from me?” Ma asked casually, whilst hacking her way through one of the last turnips left in our store.
I cursed under my breath, ma always seemed to know everything before I told her. She always knew when I was keeping secrets. I’d more than once thought there must be some magic in her blood.
“I wasn’t hiding anything,” I said stubbornly, “though Glen and I are planning an adventure.”
My ma’s head shot up at that and as she stared at me with an unreadable, and slightly terrifying expression, I felt myself blush furiously. Maybe we were hiding it from our parents, but we had planned to tell everyone at the festival.
We decided it would be good to mention it whilst everyone was excited about the season ahead, and whilst they were all drunk.
Just as I was seriously considering running out of our cottage and finding somewhere to hide she threw down her knife and gathered me up into her arms.
“My wee girl, off on an adventure!” She exclaimed happily, doing her best to crush my internal organs.
I sighed with relief and wrapped my arms around her to return the hug. Ma had been the one I was most worried about telling, though she was always happy to let me live my life and do what I wanted.
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