“We have to go now? Can we come back later?” Russell asked. He wanted one more leap in the air on a dolphin’s back so he could let go and drop, a naked cannonball, into the ocean.
“Yes, if you can find the way here without dreaming. There will be no more dreams,” Tasos said, his webbed hand resting lightly on Akeakamai’s head.
“How? Where do we look?”
“You are looking in the old stories, yes? That is all I know to tell you. I would tell you more if I could but I am too young to know those mysteries. Akeakamai and Puka know more but I don’t know how to translate what they know into words or even images you could understand. You have to go now. I will look for you again.” Tasos slapped each dolphin, and then slipped under the water and was gone.
Neither Russell or Jeff spoke as the dolphins slowly swam them back to shore. When they could see the sand below them, they slid off and started swimming. The dolphins bumped them one last time and Russell had one quick, bright picture to flash again: him, Jeff, the two dolphins in a faraway sea. Then the dolphins disappeared.
“We can touch bottom now,” Jeff said and turned to look again for the dolphins and the swimmers. There was only the sea. He paused again when they reached the beach, this time to look up at the night sky. “You know, I never really looked at the stars before. Not here or back there. Sometimes I hate the night back there.”
“There are so many more stars here,” Russell whispered. The smaller moon was directly over their heads. The larger moon was low and just above where sea and sky met. Russell thought a tidal wave might be able to slap it into the water. The two moons gave them two shadows, like ink stains on the sand. Both their bodies looked very pale, as if they were ghosts.
“C’mon, we gotta go,” Russell finally said and touched Jeff lightly on the arm. He looked away from Jeff then, at the sand, the surf. “Where are our clothes, anyway?” Part of him wanted to cover himself—he was certain now in the light of the two moons there would be no way Jeff could not see his scars. He felt as if they were all blinking red, like ribbons of Christmas lights under his skin. Maybe he won’t notice, or if he does, he won’t say anything. I wish I could peel them off, like sunburned skin.
“Over there, see,” Jeff said and turned away from the sky and ran up the beach, toward the rocks. Russell could see a small, white lump just past the tideline. Jeff turned back to wave his white undershirt like a flag. “They’re full of sand. Here’s yours.”
Russell sighed and walked over and picked up his clothes to shake them out. He wondered, as he dried himself with his T-shirt, that if he hadn’t, would he wake up naked and wet on Saturday morning? “I guess we should go back to the cliff, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess so—look, Russ, out there,” Jeff said and pointed to the ocean. Outlined in moonlight they could see one lone dolphin jumping high in the air. For a long moment, the dolphin seemed frozen, a gilded silhouette. Then there was only the sea.
“That was for us,” Jeff said.
“Yeah. It was Puka,” Russell said. There had been another bright flash of recognition. “Akeakamai’s below the water, but she’s not far away.” The first brightness had been followed by another, each one like a mallet striking a xylophone, one clear note, then another.
“Your ears are pointed now, Russ,” Jeff said as he bent over to pull his underwear on.
Hilda Ruggles
“Of course I will meet you for lunch, Thomas,” Hilda Ruggles had said early Saturday morning. “Where? The Art Museum? What a lovely idea. Twelve? See you there.” Hilda hung up the phone, feeling very satisfied. She hated Jack and his only son being estranged to the point of no contact: no phone calls, visits, nothing. If having lunch with Thomas could begin a reconciliation between father and son, and if she could bring it about—My gift to you, Jack, she thought.
She glanced at the clock. Eleven-thirty. By the time she drove from Garner to the museum it would be just about twelve. Hilda gathered her handbag from the bedroom and stopped one last time, in front of the bathroom mirror. Not bad for a forty-something woman, she thought. No grey, body in shape, minimum number of crow’s feet around the eyes. Hilda ran a brush through her light brown hair. She looked good in this simple green summer dress, sandals and bag to match. All this effort for a sulky stepson. But it would make Jack happy and making Jack happy made her happy. Good enough reason.
Hilda paused a second time on the way out. Should she call Jack? Let him know what she was up to? Jack had left early in the morning for his office at State, to grade papers, he had said. No, I want this to be a surprise. And if it doesn’t work, no false hopes.
Hilda Alice Palmer had met Jack Ruggles a year ago one July afternoon, in a bar on Hillsborough Street. Jack had been sitting on a stool at one corner of the bar counter, nursing a Michelob draft as he graded English 112 essays with a green felt-tip pen, totally oblivious to the world. Hilda had come by after work, hot and tired and bothered. She worked as a lab manager for State’s chemistry department. Hilda hated her job and hated her professor-boss. Hilda wasn’t too keen on academics in general, not after her first husband, a religion professor at Meredith, had traded her in for one of his nubile undergraduates. She longed to get a job in private industry; then she could tell all these PhD so-and-sos to go to hell.
When Hilda sat down two stools over from Jack and realized who he was, Jack Ruggles, English prof and the author of two rather obscure labyrinthine novels she couldn’t understand, Hilda had almost got up and walked out. What the hell and, hey, she had as much right to sit at the bar as anyone else, including Dr. Ruggles, thank you very much. And as much as she hated to admit it, Jack didn’t look half-bad. She sighed—was she hopelessly attracted to professors?
It was the sigh that got Jack’s attention. He looked up from an essay bleeding green and smiled.
“Bad day, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Hilda had said and took her beer and sat by Jack, thinking she must be crazy. But that hair—she wanted to run her fingers through it, smooth down the back cowlick.
She met Ben Tyson and his son, Malachi, on her fourth date with Jack, at what was evidently one of their haunts, the Kuntry Kitchen in Garner. It didn’t take Hilda much more than a few sips of sweet ice tea to realize that meeting Ben and his towheaded son with the curious golden-yellow-brown eyes, was meeting almost all of Jack’s family.
“Why didn’t you tell me Ben is The Friend, practically your brother, and that Malachi’s your godson, Jack?” Hilda said later that evening.
“I didn’t want you to feel like you were being inspected,” Jack said sheepishly.
“But I was, wasn’t I? Well, did I pass?”
“With flying colors. And tomorrow, I want you to meet my son, Thomas.”
Hilda and Jack had gotten married at Christmas, with blessings from Ben and Malachi, the NCSU English Department (the chair had sidled up to Hilda at the reception to whisper they were all counting on her to make Jack behave), and from Hilda’s two children.
Thomas had come late to the wedding; he didn’t stay for the reception.
I’m not going to give up getting that boy to like me, Hilda thought as she rode the glass elevator down to the lower level of the North Carolina Art Museum. Not yet, anyway. Get him and his father to make peace. At least that wasn’t her fault. Hilda thought of herself as good with children. Her own kids had turned out pretty well, despite their father’s predilection for sweet young things. And she got along well with Ben’s little boy, although she did wish Jack would go ahead and tell her what was wrong with the child. Why was he getting sick all the time and why did Ben look so worried and—well, afraid?
Well, he will tell me eventually, Hilda thought as she looked out through the walls of the glass elevator. She loved being able to see the green lawn spreading out from the Museum. True, the clear view of the state correctional center for juvenile delinquents, barbed wire fence and all, did take some away from the scene’s charm. Hilda smoothed
her hair one more time and then went in the Museum restaurant. There was Thomas at a table, with two glasses of tea, lemon slices in each.
“I thought you might be hot driving over here and all,” Thomas said smiling, and handed her a glass when she sat down. “It’s Red Zinger, with lemon and mint. One of your favorites, right?”
“Yes, Thomas, it is. How’d you know?” Hilda said and studied Thomas when the waiter came over to take their order. He looked very little like his father; Jack had said his son was practically a clone of his first wife. Black hair and dark, deep-set eyes, sallow skin. Too many hours at computer terminals for Central Carolina Bank, she thought as she sipped her tea. Just the way she liked it. And he’s nervous, too. But then Thomas had always seemed nervous, like a cat ready to run, ever since she met him.
“Well, Thomas,” Hilda said when the waiter had left. “Here I am. What do you—want—to—ta—a—a—” It was as if suddenly Hilda was trying to walk and talk underwater. She could barely get her mouth open, move her hand. “Tho—helll—”
Hilda tried to move her hand and knocked over her tea. Thomas was saying something, he was shouting, and other people were getting up, moving shadows, and the waiter, what was he doing? She tried to open her mouth again and fell across the table.
Thomas
It had been too easy. His plan had worked to perfection, even down to the last detail, when he had simply stepped into the crowd of people around Hilda and walked away. A simple masking spell—he didn’t become invisible, he just became unnoticed and unremembered. Someone would, eventually, call his father; he could handle the rest—just as Thomas wanted him to do. Talking to the doctors at the hospital, filling out the paperwork, sitting by her bed. Not that it would do any good, he thought as he pressed up on the elevator. After a week of a deep coma, Hilda Ruggles would simply die. The poison was slow but irreversibly fatal—and wouldn’t show up on any blood test. Thomas stepped into the elevator just as the paramedics came racing down the stairs. Her heart would beat slower and slower, with the rests in between longer and longer, until, finally, her heart would stop. And he, Thomas, an adept at the black arts, would have the power of her life-force in him, seeping in, as it seeped from her. And he would grow stronger and stronger and stronger, until one day he wouldn’t need poison anymore—he would be able to suck the life out himself, like a vampire.
He had to kill her. It had to be the deliberate and rehearsed murder of someone close and not close, of his family and not of his family. The life had to be stolen and done with malice and the stealing had to be slow and measured. The better to savor it, of course. Later, with more power, the sudden, quick feedings would be the way. And with each life, Thomas would receive power, pure, unadulterated power. Even now he could taste the hint of Hilda’s life, her energy a bittersweet, almost yellow flavor. Just the hint of what he would have when she finally died.
Thomas stopped at the Museum Shop to buy postcards and a kaleidoscope. Innocent things. He made small talk with the sales clerk and then waited as the paramedic, carrying a stretcher and Hilda, rushed past him and out in the waiting ambulance. He watched it race away, sirens first a moan, then a full wail, and then, a casual stroll to his car. Tonight, he thought, as he backed his car out, he would take control of the coven. They would all bend the knee to him, the High Priest of the Dark Ones, the soul-vampire of soul-vampires, the Witch King, the Herald of The Change. Taking the boy, when the time came, would be so easy. And with the boy under his control, the boy’s soul a conduit of energy, then Thomas could, well ...
From the journal of Ben Tyson, Late Saturday night, September 21, 1991
Jack called me from Rex this afternoon and told me about Hilda and Thomas. He was crying.
“Ben, it had to have been Thomas—some of his black witchcraft. The museum waiter described him perfectly. He just left her there, Ben, passed out on the table. My own son. And she won’t wake up. The doctors are running test after test and she won’t wake up—”
Jack ran out of words then; he was crying too hard.
“I’m coming,” I told him. “I’ll get Malachi and we’ll be right there.”
“My own son is evil. Just like those damn Fomorii. Thomas is a monster.”
I asked Malachi about Thomas on the way to Rex Hospital. Had he noticed anything?
“Dad, I don’t remember the Fomorii, not like you do. You saw them when I was a baby. But sometimes I think they are shadows in my dreams—the dreams where I see the three others—”
“You didn’t tell me you were dreaming about the Fomorii.”
“I didn’t want to worry you and I am not sure, Dad. Just sometimes when I dream of Faerie, there are shadows there, red-eyed shadows.”
“And Thomas?” I asked, quickly looking at Malachi. He looked as tired as he sounded. He had lost more weight and there were dark bruises on his arms and his skin seemed paler and more translucent. His hair was definitely paler, whiter. And his eyes. My son’s eyes weren’t golden-brown-yellow anymore. They are golden-bronze and luminous and they glow, even in the daytime.
People are starting to notice.
“He feels bad, Dad. Just being around him is like being inside a cold shadow.”
“When have you been around him? Has he been around the house lately? Mal, you’ve got to stop keeping all this stuff secret,” I blurted, my fear and anger and love twisting into one knot in my stomach. I am not going to let someone else I love die because of my stupidity and ignorance.
“No, no, not for some time. Just in the dreams.”
We stayed at the hospital with Jack most of the afternoon, until Hilda’s son arrived from Charlotte and her daughter from Wilmington . We sat in her room and watched her, the IV dripping into her arm, the monitors showing that somewhere in that deep, deep sleep Hilda was alive. Barely.
It was a long afternoon. I tried to talk to Jack, about what the doctors said and then about anything else I could think of His class, new books at the library, whether State could beat Carolina in basket - ball this fall. I gave up after a while; Jack just wasn’t talking anymore. He didn’t cry, not then. He looked beaten, empty, as if it was all he could do to sit there in that chair and hold Hilda’s hand.
Malachi slept for most of the time. But when Hilda’s son arrived, he woke up and just as we were about to leave, he touched her on the forehead. For an instant, his hand glowed against her skin. Then, just as quickly, a pulsing light shone around Hilda’s head, then it was gone.
I was the only one who noticed.
He told me in the elevator Hilda was going to die.
“Her aura is getting dimmer and colder. Dad, pretty soon it’s going to wink out and she’ll be gone.”
“Can you do anything?” I said, remembering when his mother had shown me my aura years ago and how far that light had extended from my body, shimmering and vibrating.
“I’m just a kid, Dad, and half-human,” Malachi said and took my hand.
I felt like an idiot. Yes, my half-human half-Daoine Sidhe son, my first-born, my only child, can fly and has psychokinetic powers. Telepathic, too, I guess. But he’s just ten; he won’t be eleven until March.
We drove straight from the hospital to St. Mary’s, for the Saturday evening vigil mass. Somehow I felt it was important for us to be there, to light another candle for Hilda, to make the sign of the cross and kneel and pray. To rise and sing when the priest came in, pray again, and sing the Gloria. Each part of the mass, in its right place and at its right time, felt so familiar and comforting. Outside the world seems to be unraveling, changing, metamorphosing. But inside I knew when to kneel and when to stand, when to sing and to pray, and when to listen.
The celebrant was Father Jamey Applewhite and this time he didn’t speak of the mystery. Rather he spoke of loving one another, and using love as an enabling force, a power, a strength.
Is love enough to combat the Fomorii who haunt me and my son? To stop Thomas, the evil son of my best friend? Is love enough to stop
the accelerating craziness? Is there anything else strong enough? Love hadn’t saved Emma twelve years ago. Love hadn’t saved Valeria ten years ago. And love won’t keep Hilda alive.
When we shook hands in front of the church, I told Father Jamey I might want to talk to him, if that would be okay, if he was going to be around St. Mary’s. I usually went to St. Anthony’s—well, I had been going, kind of—
“It’s okay,” he said, laughing. “Call me anytime. Nice to meet you, and you, too, Malachi.”
What will I say to this priest? That I am scared and desperate and haven’t yet found the nearest gate?
I don’t know.
Malachi had a nightmare. The Fomorii had cornered him and were getting closer and closer, their eyes on fire, their fangs and claws dripping blood. He screamed and I ran in there and shook him and held him. He was leaking light all over the place. He insisted I tell him the story again—
Malachi fell asleep before I finished. Now I am going to lie down beside my son and try to sleep.
IV
Mabon to Mich ae lmas: Becoming Magic Sunday, September 22 - Sunday, September 29, 1991
Russell and Jeff
JEFF WOKE EARLY SUNDAY MORNING FROM A BAD dream to still more rain drumming on the roof. Outside cars went by, tires hissing on the pavement. Jeff sighed. He loved rain, but he had planned to go and visit Russell in the afternoon, while the Clarks hunkered down in the living room to read the Sunday papers, do the crossword puzzles, and nap. But even with them distracted, it would be difficult to hide any wet clothes—and he had barely managed to get away with sneaking out Friday and back in on Saturday morning. He knew if he asked, they would have taken him over there—but then they would have to meet Russell’s parents, and Russell was afraid of what would happen if they did. Besides, Russell was still grounded. Jeff thought about praying to God to sort things out, but no. Jeff shook his head. His dad had made him go to church every Sunday and every Sunday Jeff had prayed for things to stop and everything to be as it was. It had taken God three years to answer the first part of his prayer and being with the Clarks wasn’t how things had been.
Harvest of Changelings Page 18
