“Case in point,” his dad said, watching Malachi’s nose smoke in the air. “Your mother could turn the light on and off. I wish I knew how to tell you to do it, too, son. Try concentrating on it, visualizing the light going off. You can do it—you were born to,” Ben said. “You glowed all over when you were a little baby. I wish I could take you to a doctor about being so tired.”
“I’ve never been to a doctor,” Malachi said. He raised one hand and the door opened in front of his father.
“You’ve never been sick before, either. Never caught anything like measles or mumps. But even if you weren’t leaking light, I couldn’t take you. Who knows what would show up on a blood test and your normal temp is 100. I arranged for all the paperwork the schools needed—but never mind that. I’ll be home for lunch. I love you, son,” his dad said and kissed Malachi on the forehead and went out the door.
“I love you, too, Dad,” Malachi called after him as he closed the door.
It was a long three days, even though Malachi spent most of them sleeping—deep, heavy sleep. His father had been right. Getting up for breakfast, eating, reading, doing whatever schoolwork Mrs. Collins had given his father took him to mid-morning. Then Malachi would be bone dead tired again, so tired he would fall asleep where he was, on the couch, in an armchair, at the kitchen table. By Tuesday night he began to feel stronger and the light discharges stopped. Malachi had wanted to be able to tell his father he had stopped them, but he couldn’t. They just stopped.
In the afternoons, after the morning nap, lunch, and another nap, Malachi practiced his levitation and psychokinesis. By Wednesday morning Malachi was able to keep a circle of balls moving over his head, like a revolving halo. He drifted about the house, from room to room, and walked up walls and on the ceiling. It was a relief to be able to practice magic and not have to hide it from his father. All his father had said when saw the balls in the air was to be careful and let no one else see what he was doing.
“Be sure you draw the drapes, son. And no going outside. I just have a funny feeling they aren’t far away.”
They were the Fomorii—the red-eyed ones who sometimes lurked in dark corners in his dreams. He knew the monsters terrified his father. Malachi was able to pick up enough of his father’s thoughts to know that. It wasn’t actual mind-reading or listening—rather it was as if the emotions that were part of his father’s thoughts —fear, worry over Malachi—were being projected. And even if he couldn’t pick up his father’s emotions, Malachi could tell his father was worried and afraid by the colors in his aura. The usual warm white-yellow of his father’s aura was streaked with dulling browns, black, and greys. He wanted his father to tell him about the Fomorii: who were they, really and did they come from Faerie, too, and what did they want so badly? Uncle Jack had been of no help.
“The Fomorii? Those red-eyed monsters, huh? No, Malachi, that story your dad has to tell you, not me,” Jack had said.
On Thursday morning, his father, grumbling that Malachi could have waited until Friday, drove Malachi to school. Malachi had wanted to ride the bus, but his father had been adamant. “Malachi, are you sure you’re up to this?” his father asked when they were stopped in front of the school.
“I’m fine, Dad, really,” Malachi said, one hand on the door handle.
“Well all right, but you be sure you tell the teacher to call me if you get tired,” his father and kissed Malachi on the forehead.
“I’ll be fine, Dad.” He wanted to ask his father right then about the Fomorii. The physical contact—lips on forehead—had been an instant download and this time not just emotions, but images. The Fomorii, their eyes, fire whips, in the middle of the night, and his father, afraid, afraid for his son, his wife—and deep, sharp grief. Then his dad had pulled away. “I’ll be okay, Dad; I have her charm, remember? See you at three.” You are going to have to tell me and soon. I need to know.
Malachi waited at the top of the school steps until his father’s car was out of sight. Then he turned and faced the school and took a deep breath. Malachi could just vaguely sense the other kids’ feelings, as if they were a distant thunderstorm. When a girl bumped him as he stood there, it was like having someone throw cold water on him in the shower. He pulled away, gasping. She was—her dad had—no, no—she hadn’t wanted him to—And she was gone. Malachi counted to ten and then, keeping himself as close to the wall as he could, went in. He wasn’t leaking light, and as long as he didn’t touch anyone, it would be safe.
That feeling of safety lasted until he got to his classroom. Hazel’s mind practically slapped Malachi in the face when he stepped through the door. She was sitting at her seat, reading and fiddling with her long, brown braid. Hazel was outlined in layers of light: a pale blue close, then rainbow colors, yellow, and more rainbow colors. What looked like small fires burned at the top of her head, her neck, and her heart. Hazel’s ears were pointed; her eyes glowed silver. Malachi blinked and she looked like she always did, except she wore a headband over her ears. Hazel looked up then and Malachi saw recognition in her face: he knew she had seen him in her dreams.
Two, Malachi thought, and went in the room, chatted with Mrs. Collins, and then sat down with the work sheet for morning work. I’ll talk to her at lunch, maybe PE. She’s scared, too, and kind of glad—
The air crackled and snapped and Malachi felt a sudden heat on his face and rain on his head. He looked up. Russell White stood in the doorway, talking with his buddy, Jeff, who was in Mrs. Markham’s room across the hall. Both of them had headbands wrapped around their ears. Malachi could see the layers of color in Russell’s aura all the way to the fine burning gold edge. Small fires burned on the top of Russell’s fiery red hair, his neck, his heart, the middle of his torso, his belly, his crotch. His eyes glowed green. Jeffs eyes were as green as Russell’s, but his aura was cool: white, blue, and green. A rose-colored vine of light grew out of each of their hearts, linking the two boys together.
Three and four. Russell, he thought, hadn’t been the same since his suspension two weeks ago. The usually cantankerous boy had come back quiet and subdued and suddenly best friends with a boy who was no longer quiet or subdued. And somehow Malachi was sure Russell’s new quiet wasn’t just because of the fire and the trailer and the new Resource teacher. Malachi quickly looked back at the work sheet on his desk as Russell walked past him to his desk, feeling like a faint brush across his back the boy’s dislike and distrust.
At least he doesn’t out and out hate me. And he and Jeff and Hazel are the other kids I have dreamed about. Now, what do I do? I know them and I don’t. I know they are becoming like me and we are sup - posed to be together, the four of us—
“Ow,” Malachi said out loud, for the moment forgetting the other three. He had brushed his bare arm against the steel desk support. There was a long, angry red welt where the metal had touched his skin and his arm hurt. He pressed his right hand against his mother’s charm and felt an answering surge and the welt faded. A ward, he thought; Dad had talked about her setting wards like force fields. And iron, how iron was poisonous to her—
“Malachi? Do you feel well? Did you hurt your arm?”
He looked up to see Mrs. Perry leaning over him.
“Just tired. I’ve finished my morning work. Here it is, and here’s what I did when I was home and ...”
Then Mrs. Collins began quizzing Russell about his headband.
“Is it some sort of club you and Jeff have, or something one of you saw on TV? Well, Russell?” she asked, tapping her pencil on her desk. Malachi looked up to see Mrs. Collins’s aura as well, a dull, rusty brown that kept flickering on and off, as if whatever batteries powering it were weak.
“We just wanted to wear them, that’s all. No club, no special reason. Besides, Hazel has one on, see?” Russell said. Mrs. Collins turned from Russell to look at Hazel and her mouth dropped open.
“Hazel? Why are you wearing a headband?”
“Uh, I, uh—”
&nb
sp; Malachi dropped all his books on the floor and everybody in the class jumped and looked away from Russell and Hazel. Jeff slipped out the door and Russell took his seat. Hazel buried herself in her spelling book. Malachi busily and loudly picked everything up.
Hazel
Hazel looked up from her spelling book when everyone had settled down. Russell, still scowling, looked intent on his morning work. Malachi had finally secured all his books beneath his desk and it looked like he was doing math. Hazel could tell by the red cover of his book. Was he the boy she had seen in her dreams in the country of the dragon and the white trees? She couldn’t be sure—not of that or anything else now.
The morning had been bad for Hazel. She had turned around from the water fountain to find Russell White standing directly behind her, glaring, with his arms folded across his chest. Jeff Gates stood a little behind him, tugging at Russell’s arm. Russell shrugged him off. Hazel took a step backward. Russell scared her. Hazel had looked frantically up and down the hall. Where were all the teachers? The teacher’s assistants?
“Why are you wearing a headband, Hazel? Huh? Are you trying to make fun of me and Jeff? Is that it, you little goody-goody teacher’s pet? Hazel, will you please take this to the office? Hazel, your story was sooo good I want you to read to the class. Take it off,” Russell ordered and reached out to jerk the headband off.
“No, Russell, don’t,” Hazel cried, stepping back even further until she was pressing against the water fountain. “I’m not making fun of you. I promise. Leave me alone. I didn’t even know y’all were going to wear them today. Leave me alone; I have to go to the bathroom.” The girls’ bathroom door was right behind Russell, a few feet away. He wouldn’t follow her in there, would he? Or maybe she should just make a break for the classroom. Mrs. Collins was probably there, or Mrs. Perry. She should have caught a ride with her grandfather, skipped the bus, gotten to school sooner.
“Russ, leave her alone. Hazel’s all right. C’mon,” Jeff had said and jerked Russell’s arm again. Hazel ran when Russell turned away from her, as fast as she could down the hall. She didn’t look back until she got to the door. Mrs. Hoban, a second grade teacher’s assistant, was talking to Russell. She could see Mrs. Hoban wagging her finger in Russell’s face.
Hazel looked away from Russell quickly, before she made eye contact and took out her math book. At least numbers were a constant; they didn’t change. Not like her ears had. And Russell, too, she had thought. He hadn’t been mean to her for over a week. When school started Russell had picked on her almost every day: her hair, her size, her glasses, being Mrs. Collins’s pet. Hazel had wanted to kill him. Then he had gotten into really big trouble and there had been the trailer fire and Miss Findlay; Russell had been suspended for a week. When he came back he seemed like a different boy. Until today.
Twenty-eight plus forty-four would always be seventy-two. She wrote the answer neatly on her paper. And today was computer lab day and for the first time ever she dreaded going. All her dreams of the other place began with the computer and the Worldmaker game and the Valley of the Alexzeli—but that was the computer at home. It would be different at school; it had to be.
Mrs. Perry started taking the class down the hall to the computer lab in the middle of the morning. She had everybody count off by fives and Hazel’s group, the ones, went first. She reached into her book bag to take out two new math games her grandfather had given her. She knew the class’s games would be boring and she also knew Mrs. Perry wouldn’t care.
“I like seeing a young girl stretch her mind,” Mrs. Perry had said when Hazel first asked if she could bring computer games from home. “I wish I had someone like your grandfather when I was coming along.”
What would Mrs. Perry say if Hazel told her that sometimes she wished her grandfather—and grandmother—were different? She did love the computer games, but still, they were only another way for her to be invisible.
Hazel got into line and sighed. There was Russell; three people up—how did he get to be a one? She liked it better when they went by math or reading groups. Maybe he had gone back to his new quiet self and would leave her alone. Anyway, she thought, Mrs. Perry could handle Russell and a lot better than Mrs. Collins could. Hazel could see the relief plain and visible on Mrs. Collins’s face as the students passed her going out.
Hazel chose the computer farthest away from everybody else, especially Russell. She didn’t want a partner. Besides, they wouldn’t get her grandfather’s games anyway. When she sat down in the hardbacked little chair, the computer blinked on. What? No, someone had to have left it on. Behind her she heard Mrs. Perry telling Russell how proud she was that he was behaving so well lately. She didn’t see him stop me at the water fountain, Hazel thought, and started to slide her diskette into the A drive. A claw snagged it and pulled it in with a quick pop.
Hazel froze, blinked, and then slowly looked around the room. Everybody was doing what they were supposed to be doing. She poked her finger into the A drive. No claw, but when she touched the little A drive slot again, the room became instantly silent. Whatever Russell said back to Mrs. Perry and whatever the two girls two computers away were arguing about was lost. Hazel couldn’t hear them, nor could she hear the hum of the computer in front of her. There was no mathematics game menu on the screen—and she heard a loud tearing noise. The screen, the pale green cinderblock walls, the school, was ripped away.
Hazel stood at the edge of the meadow, a few steps out of the forest of white glowing trees. The tall meadow grass brushed against her legs, as the wind made the meadow into a green sea. She could and did reach up to touch a low branch over her head, pull off a leaf, and press it to her cheek. And there, wings outstretched, gliding down over the trees to the grass, was a flying horse. Hazel watched and waited, her arms crossed, the leaf in one hand, as the horse landed a few yards in front of her. It pawed the grass and bent to take a mouthful. Then it lifted its head, folded down its wings, and came to her. Hazel kept very still until the horse was so close she could feel its warm breath. She touched its nose with the tips of her fingers and then let it eat the leaf out of her hand. Then the horse nuzzled, blowing more warm horsy air on her face until Hazel laughed.
“Put your hand in my mane and walk with me,” the horse said. “I want you to talk and walk with me—but I will do most of the talking.” Hazel nodded and wrapped part of the horse’s thick, silvery-grey mane around her hand.
The horse talked for a long time. It talked about dreams and gates and time and space being like a house with many rooms. Dreams removed the walls between the rooms and let one remember what was forgotten. Dreams let souls travel.
“I don’t understand what you mean—is this a dream or it is real? Where are we?” Hazel asked.
“Elfhome. Faerie. Tir Mar, the Great Land. Tir Na n’Og, the Summer Country—this place has many names. Think of your house at home—you have your room and your grandparents another and a room to eat in and to cook in, yes?”
“But I can just get up and walk into other rooms at home. And I was sitting in front of a computer at school—just, just a little while ago. And before, when I met the dragon, I was in my bedroom.”
“The machine is a dream-gate. The story you are telling yourself is the one I am telling you and the one the dragon told you.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Hazel, wake up; wake up, honey. Earth to Hazel, come in, Hazel, over,” Mrs. Perry said.
Hazel jumped. Her computer mouse fell and banged against the metal desk leg. Mrs. Perry was standing right behind her. Hazel looked up at the woman, feeling dazed and flushed. On the screen in front of her was the math game’s menu. The cursor blinked at Hazel, a tiny, amber eye at the bottom of the screen. The other kids giggled. Russell hee-hawed like a donkey.
“Russell, that’s enough. Y’all line behind Tommy and go on back to the room. Tommy, tell Mrs. Collins to send the next group in about ten minutes,” Mrs. Perry said and turned back to Hazel. �
�Hazel Richards, do you mean to tell me you have just been sitting here sleeping the entire time? Russell, go on, and mind your own business. Hazel-honey, do you feel all right?”
Right now she wanted to curl up in Mrs. Perry’s lap, snuggle up, inhale the sweet scent of the vanilla or lilac hand lotion, and tell her everything so Mrs. Perry would stroke her hair and tell her it was all going to be all right. She knew she could never do that with her grandmother. Hazel shrugged; Mrs. Perry would never believe her —and neither would her own grandmother, for that matter.
“Hazel? Are you not feeling well? It’s not like you to sleep in class.”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Perry, really I am. I’m just—really tired; I couldn’t sleep last night. I’ll be all right.” If Mrs. Perry wasn’t going to take Hazel into her lap, couldn’t she just go away? Hazel’s head felt thick and heavy, as if she had gotten a really bad head cold.
“Insomnia? That explains it, because you don’t look fine and you certainly aren’t acting fine. Go on to the health room and lie down for a minute. Maybe you’re coming down with something. I’ll be up in a minute and take your temp. Is your grandmother at home today? Never mind, now go on—don’t try and argue with me—go on. I’ll be there directly.”
Hazel nodded and got up. Maybe Mrs. Perry was right. Maybe she was sick. Hazel, you aren’t sick. That is what I am trying to tell you. You are not sick and you are not crazy. Dreams are real. Hazel stopped in the middle of the hall and looked around. Where had that voice, the winged horse’s voice, come from? She could hear Mrs. Perkins’s voice coming from the open library door. She was reading a story. The phone was ringing in the school office, just up the hall. Behind her Hazel could hear Mrs. Perry moving chairs in the computer lab. The horse’s voice seemed to have come right out of the wall beside her.
Harvest of Changelings Page 20
