Hazel?
Now Hazel could see the winged horse. And Mrs. Perkins holding her book and the kindergartners sitting on the floor in front of her. She saw the meadow and the white grass. The tall grasses stirred and rippled from the warm breeze. The white trees moved, their leaves whispering. The kindergarten teacher sat at a table, her head bent over papers. Hazel laid her hand on the nearest wall. It was made of solid, smooth, yellow cinder blocks. But when she pushed, she felt her hand go through the wall until she felt the hard, white wood of a tree. Hazel jerked her hand back and there, like a huge scar, was a glowing white streak. Beneath her feet, shifting and moving, as if reflections in water, were grass, earth, flowers, and the tiled floor.
Hazel?
“Hazel? Are you all right? I thought I told you to go to the health room. Hazel? Can you hear me?”
Mrs. Perry and the winged horse were standing in the same space and they were speaking at the same time. The horse’s wings rose and fell, and for a moment, Mrs. Perry looked winged, and did Hazel see the woman’s grey hair rise and fall in the wing-made breeze? The skin in the palm of her hand glowed even brighter. Hazel cried out and reached for the horse’s mane, for Mrs. Perry’s hand, and fell and fell and fell.
“She’s waking up now. Normal pulse and blood pressure and her heart sounds fine. How are you feeling, Hazel?”
Hazel opened her eyes and looked into the face of a strange woman. Hazel lay flat on her back and the dark-haired woman was leaning over her. The woman who was wearing a white coat, like a doctor—she was a doctor, Hazel realized—holding a stethoscope to Hazel’s chest. Hazel closed and reopened her eyes. She wasn’t in school—in the doctor’s office? A hospital, she decided. She was lying in a hospital bed, with long rails on either side. A crisp, white sheet covered her up to the waist.
“Grand-dad? Grandma?”
“We’re right here,” her grandmother said, moving into view. Her grandmother was wearing one of her work smocks, dusty with clay and spattered with paint and glaze. Brown clay made smudges on her forehead and cheeks. Behind her grandmother was her grandfather. He looked like he had been in his lab. He had on a white coat and his IBM ID dangled from one pocket.
“Mrs. Richards, Dr. Richards. If you could both step out with me for a moment,” the doctor said, and Hazel watched her grandparents follow the doctor out. The doctor was a loud talker. “She’s going to be all right, but I would like to keep her overnight. This afternoon we’ll run those tests I told you about. It’s really unusual for a healthy nine-year-old to pass out like this and stay out for so long. I’ll be right back with the forms for you to sign.”
“What was she talking about?” Hazel asked slowly after the doctor had left, and her grandparents had come back into the room. A long, yellow curtain hung from runners on the ceiling. One side of the bed was a little table with a pitcher of water and a small box of Kleenex. Beyond the table Hazel could see out a window into a parking lot. A TV looked down at her from the opposite wall. “How did I get here?”
“Haze,” her grandmother said, with a rare use of a diminutive for Hazel, as she reached down awkwardly to stroke her hair, “we’re in Wake County Hospital, not too far from your school. You came here on a field trip last year, remember? I was with you.”
“You felt sick at school—don’t you remember?” her grandfather said, walking around to stand on the opposite side of the bed. “You were in the computer lab and you fell asleep and—” He stopped and looked at her grandmother.
“Go ahead, Hawthorne, you tell her.”
“Haze, you may have had a seizure. Remember the boy in your class last year who was epileptic? The doctor wants to give you some medical tests to see if you really did have a seizure. You passed out again in the hall and you didn’t wake up until now.”
Hazel remembered the boy. Charlie Baggott had fallen out of his seat in the middle of science. His whole body started jerking and twitching and his eyes rolled back in his head. A lot of kids screamed and ran. An ambulance came, with a siren, and quick people shouting directions at each other. Everybody talked about it for days.
“It wasn’t a seizure, Grand-dad. It’s the game, Worldmaker. It’s not a game anymore; it’s real and—” Hazel stopped at the expression on both her grandparents’ faces.
“You were delirious in the hall and in the ambulance—a winged horse? That was a dream, Hazel-honey, you were dreaming, that’s all,” her grandmother said. “Just a very vivid dream.”
“But—never mind.” Hazel knew it was useless to argue. And maybe they were right. Maybe her game and her dreams had gotten mixed up and she really had been sick, with a fever or something. A virus, like the doctors always said. But she was positive she wasn’t sick the way Charlie had been. And the horse had told her and told her it wasn’t a dream.
“But what?” her grandfather asked.
“Nothing. I’m just tired.”
The doctor came back in then, with forms for her grandparents to sign. An electroencephalograph, blood work, some X-rays, a psych consult (just to be sure), the doctor said. Insurance forms.
“I don’t think there is anything to really worry about, but I just want to be sure there’s nothing I missed,” the doctor said as Dr. Richards signed each form. “We’ll get these started right after lunch and she should be able to go home tomorrow morning ...”
The tests took most of the afternoon. First the electroencephalograph and the X-rays, then some man took little tubes of blood from her finger. Another doctor examined her eyes and then asked her question after question: did she ever have headaches? Any other dizzy spells? Hear voices, have bad dreams? Either her grandmother or her grandfather stayed with her, until finally Hazel was back in the room with the yellow curtain. Her grandmother sent her grandfather home to get clothes for both Hazel and her and Hazel ate bland food from a plastic tray. Her grandmother was at her best at times like this. Hazel knew that when she was better, her grandmother’s attention would refocus downstairs on her pots and the wheel and the clay, and Hazel would be back on the edges. But, for now, Hazel’s grandmother’s attention was on her.
Her grandmother fell asleep first and it made Hazel feel better to watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling, wisps of hair floating up and down as she breathed. It was as if her grandmother’s breathing was a soft and very faint lullaby and Hazel felt herself slowly, slowly, falling down, down into sleep. As she turned over, stretching against the crisp hospital sheets, Hazel heard her name and the voice, low and dark, was a familiar one, one she had heard before. It caught her right between diving into a great warm pool of sleep, and being awake, listening to the hospital sounds, the voices outside, the distant metallic sounds. Hazel tried to wake up to answer the voice, but she couldn’t. She could brush the bright underside of wakefulness with the tips of her fingers.
I’m not there; I’m here.
Grandma? (and she knew she was asleep, as the words came without her mouth moving, with her tongue still)
No, over here.
It was the dragon in the meadow. Its yellow eyes were like two fires in the room’s darkness.
I know they told you were dreaming or hallucinating. They are wrong. Everything that happened was real, even though your body slept. You were in Faerie.
Where am I now? I can see you and the bed and Grandma and the curtain and behind you, the white trees.
Between. I am going to give you proof, proof that won’t go away. Here, take this.
Something small and shiny fell onto the white hospital bedspread.
And one last proof: open your right hand.
The white streak was still there, luminous in the darkened room. Then, the dragon leaned, shot out its forked tongue, and licked her hand.
“It burns—and the white—” The white winked out, leaving behind two glowing, thin blue streaks.
No one can see that unless they are like you and have been here and belong with you.
The dragon began to dissolve then, a
s if it were turning into its own smoke and when Hazel reached for it, it was gone.
Wait—I want to ask you—I need to know—
Hazel sat up in bed, breathing hard and fully awake and alone in the dark of the room. Her grandmother, a darker shadow in the chair, stirred and murmured something in her sleep.
Hazel opened and closed her right hand, dimming and brightening the streaks, like little lines of blue fire across her palm. She laid the luminous green scale against the blue. It was the size of a saucer and pliable; Hazel could bend it back and forth.
“Grandma?”
Her grandmother moved again, smacked her lips as if she had just eaten something pleasing in her dreams, and then was still. Hazel could hear her grandmother breathing. She lay back in the bed, pulling the spread up to her neck. She rolled over and opened her right hand on the pillow: two flashes of blue fire. She pulled the scale out from under the covers and laid it on the sheet: a soft glowing green.
It was true then, all of it.
The doctor let Hazel go the next afternoon.
“All her tests came out fine. She’s a perfectly healthy nine-year-old, who seems to be putting herself under a lot of stress. She needs to relax. Here is the name of a good child psychologist. You should call her if there is another episode—and you might want to call anyway,” the doctor said and handed Hazel’s grandfather a business card.
“Can she go back to school?” her grandfather asked, as he stuffed the card into his shirt pocket. Hazel said nothing.
“Let her have the rest of the week off. Relax. Stay home and play, watch TV, read a good book—”
“But I want to go to school tomorrow,” Hazel interrupted.
“Hazel, give yourself a break,” the doctor said, smiling. “Please call me if you need to.”
Hazel smiled back and stood when her grandparents did. It’s not school; it’s the magic. If I told you I’d be in trouble; you wouldn’t believe me, anyway. But I have a dragon scale in my pocket and two dragon tongue marks on my hand that glow blue in the dark. Hazel shook the doctor’s hand and then let her grandfather wheel her out of the hospital, her grandmother trailing behind.
Hazel wanted to see Alexander the minute she got home. Even before her grandfather had the car in the garage, she was out and calling the cat’s name. He wasn’t in the house. She grabbed a can of Pounce from the kitchen and ran outside to look for him, shaking the can and yelling Al-lex, Al-lexxxxx. Hazel ignored her grandmother’s protests to take it easy. She wished she could yell back she wasn’t sick and she had never been sick. It’s magic.
“She’s fine, Annie, just look at her. She’s fine,” her grandfather said. “Let her go. Remember what the doctor said ...” Her grandfather’s usually loud voice dropped into a whisper. It didn’t matter what they were saying, Hazel thought as she made her way through the bushes that separated the Richards’ backyard from the neighbors. It didn’t matter.
“Alex, there you are. Why didn’t you come when I called?” Hazel said. There was the cat, crouched by the neighbor’s goldfish pond. He stared intently into the dark green water. He looked poised to strike, one paw half-raised. Hazel quietly knelt down beside the cat.
“What do you see, Alex, a goldfish?”
The cat turned and looked at her, his dark blue eyes intent on her face, his head bent to one side, listening.
“Here, have a Pounce,” Hazel said. She couldn’t see any goldfish: just her face and Alex. Was he bigger than he was the day before? Maybe. But what Hazel could see without mistake was her ears. Pointed.
Alex touched her thigh with one paw. She sat back on her heels, and then lay down on the grass, her arms outstretched, her feet touching the edge of the walk outlining the pool.
“Hey, boy, do you see my ears? I bet you do,” Hazel whispered. “Here, have a Pounce. The cat leaned down to scarf up the tuna-flavored snack. Then he reached out with his paw again, this time to lick her hand, his rough tongue right on the two marks. In the shadow of the neighbor’s house they glowed. Then he sat back and meowed and, for a moment, looked as if he were trying to talk.
Alex
ShetasteswhatIsmellfeel
SheknowsmeIknowher
TongueIcantshapethesesoundsheadsounds
HazullmeIammynameAlexxxIknow
Iknowmyname
Alexxx
IknowmynameAlexxxIknowyourname: Hazull
Hearmyname
HearmynameIknowIam
Becoming Magic: Malachi and Hazel
Friday morning, the day Hazel went back to school over her grandparents’ protests, Mrs. Collins sent both Malachi and Hazel to the library on an errand. She gave them a long list of books to find for her. The library was empty when they got there, except for Mrs. Perkins. She sat at her desk in her glass box office, typing carefully. Malachi and Hazel went there first, and stood waiting until she finally looked up.
“Mrs. Perkins? Mrs. Collins wants us—”
“It’s okay, Malachi. Y’all go ahead; Mrs. Collins told me she was going to send the two of you up here this morning. If you need any help, let me know.”
“Here, Hazel,” Malachi said when they were standing in front of the 398’s, the fairy tale section. “You take the first half of the list, it starts here, I think, and I’ll take the other half—” He stopped and looked at Hazel’s open right hand. The blue streaks glowed.
“You can see them?” she asked, whispering even though Mrs. Perkins couldn’t possibly hear through the glass walls of her office. “The dragon said only those like me and who belong with me would be able to—only those who had been there, where the dragon is.”
“I’ve seen your face, reflected back at me, in water in the other place, with the white trees.” And your thoughts like a murmur in my head therecanyouhearME?
YesIcanhearYOUears&eyes?
Malachi pushed back his hair and smiled.
We’reNotaloneanymoreShowme.
Hazel pulled her headband down to her neck.
ThatfeelsbetterHURTSmyearsYoureyes are gold.
YoureyesaresilverAndYOURcat, too? “Hey, you don’t need the headband anymore, Hazel. Nobody but people like us can see our ears are pointed. Well, my dad can, and Uncle Jack. I think the priest at our church can, too. Glamour is what Dad calls it: a fairy magic to hide things in plain sight. What about your cat?”
“Yeah, my cat,” Hazel said, sounding infinitely relieved, “bigger and his eyes—well, it’s hard to tell if they are glowing, cats’ eyes look so funny in the dark anyway, but he’s smarter, too. Everything, all this, our ears, the cat—”
“It’s real. I’m still trying to figure it all out, but it’s all real. My mother—she was from there—the place in our dreams, where the dragons and the centaurs are. My dad told me she was Daoine Sidhe, a fairy. There are—two others—I think,” Malachi said softly, looking around the library. Mrs. Perkins had left her typewriter and was at her desk, buried in a catalog. There was nobody in the hall. The other nearest person was Mrs. Anderson, the school secretary. He could see her over Hazel’s shoulder, through the glass display case. Mrs. Anderson was on the phone. And the goldfish in the library aquarium, swishing their long tails in and out of dreamy green water ferns.
“We’d better start getting Mrs. Collins’s books before she sends somebody to look for us,” Haze said. “Who are the other two?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Most of these are in the 500’s,” Malachi said. “We can talk while we get the books—I’ll tell you who I think they are as we get these ones Mrs. Collins wants. Here is the first one,” Malachi said and pulled down a book on eagles and handed it to Hazel. When their hands touched there was a spark and a pop and for a moment, both their bodies glowed, a barely visible luminescence. Above them the lights flickered and one of the fluorescent tubes sputtered and went dead. Balls of light the size of a ping-pong ball shot out from the dead tube and ricocheted around the library, caroming off walls, bouncing off tables. The air glittered and sparkl
ed with trails of light.
“Malachi, stop it, Mrs. Perkins, she’ll see,” Hazel yelled and ducked as the ball zoomed over her head, to smash into the biographies, raining down glowing glitter that fizzed and popped and disappeared on the library’s green carpet.
“I can’t; I don’t know how,” Malachi said as he began crying, big glowing tears that left luminous trails down his face. One of the balls struck the glass wall of Mrs. Perkins’s office and bounced back straight at them. Trying to hide behind chairs or under a table did no good—the ball was like a guided missile: it paused and hovered and bounced again as Malachi and Hazel moved. Finally the ball shot forward and zipped through a chair and then through Malachi, from shoulder to shoulder, then in and out of Hazel. They both shook as sparks flew from their fingers, their toes, ears, eyes. Then, everything stopped. The dead fluorescent tube over their head hummed back to life. The tear-streaks on Malachi’s face grew pale and then winked out.
“What did you do, say abracadabra or shazam or something?” Hazel whispered. She wanted very much to run as fast and as far as she could. She forced herself to be still—running, no matter how far, wouldn’t change anything.
“No, Hazel. We aren’t becoming magicians or witches. They can work magic, make it do stuff. They know the words. Us, no, we are becoming—we are magical. You, me, the other two.”
“Here, let’s get the books together,” Hazel said and crawled out from under the table. “Who are the other two? And what do we do now?” Hazel stood and picked up half the books. How had all that happened without Mrs. Perkins seeing anything? Or maybe the lady had, Hazel thought, as she stared through the glass walls of the librarian’s office. Mrs. Perkins was at her desk, her glasses off, and her face in her hands. “Do you think she saw?”
“If she did, she will never admit it. Anyway, there have always been four of us in my dreams,” Malachi said as he picked up his half. “You, me, and Russell and Jeff.”
Harvest of Changelings Page 21
