What had possessed Charlotte to even suggest Ben was hurting his child? Had she become one of those born-again fundamentalist Baptists who believed all Catholics were papist idolaters bound for hell? Hallie shook her head: too crazy. And surely she would have noticed that if it had happened to Charlotte. Charlotte didn’t even go to church, Hallie remembered. Maybe the craziness that had infected the world had infected Charlotte Collins.
Hallie drained her coffee mug and glanced at her watch: 7:51. Nine more minutes. Her twelve days of grace were over. Nothing weird since the end of September. Until this morning. She had only been half-listening to the radio on her way into school when an excited reporter started describing what was happening between Norfolk and Elizabeth City. Monsters were crawling out of the Dismal Swamp. Godzilla-like monsters. Highway 64 in North Carolina and Highway 58 in Virginia were packed with people running scared, and heading west. She started pacing again, this time pausing to pick up and examine and put back down objects on her desk: the telephone, pencils, pens, a Blue Devil paperweight, the stapler, a Post-it packet identifying her as Boss Lady. Her grandmother had been right: there were unseen things in the world. Spirits and things that did go bump in the night. Never leave a candle to burn out, it brings bad luck. When Hallie had moved into her new house, a few months before her grandmother had died, the old woman had come over to give her a threshold blessing. Granny had hung three pinecones over the front door, and what had the inscription above them said? Who comes to me, I keep /Who goes from me, I free lYet against all I stand /Who do not carry my key.
Maybe it was time to hang that inscription back up. People with glowing eyes. People flying, disappearing into thin air. They had never really gone away, had they? We just didn’t see them for twelve days because we didn’t want to, or we couldn’t: shock overload. Just too much that couldn’t be explained. Every morning she and her next-door neighbor left for work at the same time. Every morning they would smile at each other and wave as they got into their cars. Today her neighbor’s eyes glowed green.
The governor was talking again about declaring martial law, by Saturday; the National Guard was placed on full alert, along with Fort Bragg and Pope Air Force Base and Seymour Johnson and Camp Lejeune. Not that tanks and guns could fight fairy tales. The whole northeast corner of the state was supposed to be in a total panic. The Navy had evacuated dependent families from Norfolk and evidently naval artillery and aircraft had been tried and failed. People were so on the edge, nerves frayed, that she was afraid they were going to fall off. The suicide rate had skyrocketed. So had physical assaults, random violence. Chaos within and without.
Hallie finally stopped pacing at her gift shelves, where she kept all the little things children had given her over the years. Ceramic apples, little school bells, Duke blue devils, dried flowers, clumsy clay handprint ashtrays. She glanced at her watch: 7:59. In a minute the parents of the gift-givers would start calling to tell her their kids were staying home.
There was a knock on the door. Hallie turned around to see the school secretary, Trudy Anderson, standing there, wearing a raincoat and carrying an umbrella.
“Good morning, Trudy. I didn’t hear the weather report this morning. Rain?”
“I didn’t, either, but the clouds are sure dark. Mr. Tyson’s here, Hallie, and so is Mrs. Collins. Both of them are out in the lobby, standing about as far apart as two people can get and still be in the same space. And you should take a look at Charlotte, Hallie. She looks really strange,” Trudy said in a low voice. Then the phone rang.
“You get the phone; I’ll ask them in,” Hallie said with a heavy sigh.
“Heard half the buses aren’t running, either. Good morning, Nottingham Heights Elementary, can I help you?”
Hallie, wishing she had had at least one more cup of coffee, stepped out into the lobby. “Ben, thanks for coming over this morning. I wish you were here under happier circumstances. But, as I told you over the phone, Charlotte has called some things to my attention that we need to discuss. Come on in and let’s sit down and talk. Yes, please, close the door, Charlotte. Thank you. Now, Ben, as I was saying—”
Charlotte did look really strange. What had she done with her hair—spilt a peroxide bottle on it? And her eyes—were they darker and redder?
“Hallie, this man is abusing his son. Call DSS; this little meeting of yours is a waste of time. Camille Bondurant told me the boy was too sick to be at school,” Charlotte Collins said, cutting Hallie off with one slash of her hand. Ben froze, his hands on the chair arm, his body poised above the seat. “That child has been out of school two or three times a week since school started—he’s already used up his quota to be able to pass the fifth grade. I am positive it’s Mr. Tyson’s neglect and maybe worse than that is keeping Malachi out of school—”
“Go ahead, Ben, sit down. Charlotte, stop. I talked to Camille, too. She also said that Malachi had felt better before he left home, persuaded his father he was okay, and then he felt worse,” Hallie said, making an even sharper gesture with her hand. “Let me talk.” What in the hell was going on? This wasn’t how this meeting was supposed to go. What was the matter with Charlotte? Was she crazy? The woman had ten years of teaching experience; she knew better. “Ben, Mrs. Collins is concerned because of Malachi’s high number of absences and his—well, deteriorating appearance. Just concerned, that’s all.”
“He’s not behind. He always makes up his work. He did feel better the day Mrs. Collins is talking about. Why is the school social worker interrogating my son? What is going on?” Ben said slowly, not looking at Charlotte, his hands tight around the chair arms.
He looked wary, on guard. My God, Hallie thought, maybe Charlotte hit a nerve. No, not Ben Tyson. He’s pissed off—with good reason—for being accused of hurting his boy. I’d be pissed, too.
“He has been having some health problems lately, but he’s under a doctor’s care, and the doctor assures me he is fine.”
“What doctor, Mr. Tyson?” Charlotte asked. “I checked the name on Malachi’s health forms—and while Dr. Todd Tilman does indeed practice right here in Raleigh, the receptionist told me there are no patient records for a Malachi Tyson in their files. I don’t believe that child has even seen any doctor; you’re just cooking up some perverted home remedy, some sort of bizarre ritual with your own son—”
“You are out of your mind and how dare you invade our privacy by calling the doctor’s office. I take good care of my son. He saw Dr. Tilman, who is one of the most respected pediatricians in the city. God only knows who you talked to in his office—if you talked to anybody, that is. The receptionist wouldn’t tell you that—you are lying. The person who is sick and perverted is you—”
Ben hesitated, just a little. Didn’t he?
“Hallie, Miss Bigelow, this man is lying. He’s not taking care of his son—you can look at the boy and tell that. The boy is ill and his father is guilty of criminal neglect and abuse. These medical records are fakes—I know that’s against the law. If you’d let me call DSS immediately instead of insisting on this innocent until proven guilty crap, Malachi would be safe now.”
“You will not take my son away from me.” Ben stood and stepped back and away from Charlotte Collins, toward the office door. “You’re working with the Fomorii, aren’t you? You smell like evil, like one who’s been to bed with evil. You’re not touching my boy. Either that or you’ve gone completely crazy like everybody else.”
“You are out of your fucking mind,” Charlotte hissed, after a pause that was just a little too long.
“Will you both shut up?” Hallie shouted. “Ben, I don’t know what the hell you are talking about, but wait, don’t leave. Please.” It will be all over school in a minute, she thought. “Can’t we discuss this like adults—no fairy tales, no threats? Please, sit down. Ben.” He stood by the door, one hand on the knob.
“Let him leave, Hallie,” Charlotte said, her voice now cold and measured. “The charge of criminal neglect
isn’t going away. Or any other charge. I think DSS will want to know why Russell White, Jeff Gates, and Hazel Richards were seen leaving Mr. Tyson’s house at odd hours of the night. And why Russell was wearing just a T-shirt and gym shorts. I don’t think they will think I am the crazy one.”
“What are you talking about? You are possessed—you are one of their lackeys, aren’t you? They own you, body and soul, don’t they? What was your price, Mrs. Collins? Remember what happens in the old stories to people who sell their souls?”
Charlotte flinched. Hallie was sure of it: Charlotte had flinched. Had she really sold her soul to the Devil? What am I thinking? And Ben—did he pause or did he not, before he answered her—are those kids coming to his house?
Maybe she was going crazy.
“Go back to hell,” Ben yelled, jerked the door open, and literally ran. Trudy stared in amazement, her hand frozen over the phone which was ringing and ringing and ringing.
“Charlotte, what the hell is going on? Trudy, get the damn phone. I thought we were going to discuss the child’s health and you are accusing Ben Tyson of being a child molester? Are you crazy?” Hallie shouted, knowing she was shouting, wishing she wasn’t shouting, and knowing she couldn’t stop shouting. The phone started ringing again—this time Trudy got it on the second ring.
“Hallie Bigelow, you will be going to jail along with Mr. Tyson. I am going to go into the health room, pick up the phone, and call DSS,” Charlotte said slowly and then, as slowly, she got up and walked out of the office and into the health room.
“Trudy: the health room line,” Hallie shouted.
“I got it—I got it—” Trudy shouted back.
Charlotte stepped into the doorway between Trudy’s office and the health room. Her eyes—they looked as if they were not just red; they looked like they were on fire.
“You can’t stop me,” she said and left.
“What just happened? Is everyone crazy?” Hallie said, shaking her head, as she watched Charlotte Collins walk down the hall to her classroom. “That was sure one hell of a waste of time.”
“Yes, everybody is going crazy,” Trudy said as she put the phone down. It started ringing again, almost instantly. “I have never seen anything like it. Nottingham Heights Elementary, please hold. Central Office called, by the way—this will really make your day—they’re thinking of closing all the schools for good, until the crazy things stop. Emergency meeting of the school board this morning. Sit down, Hallie honey; let me get you some more coffee. Thank you for holding, may I help you? Yes, Mr. Parker, I will tell Miss Murphy that Danny isn’t coming today, thank you. That makes—let me see, I’ve been keeping score—the fortieth call all about the same thing: why their kid isn’t coming or they are coming to pick them up. Give me your cup and don’t answer the phone.”
“What time is it?”
“8:17.”
All that had taken only seventeen minutes?
Hallie Bigelow stood very still by her desk, ignoring the ringing phone with its blinking lights. Forty kids and counting. If this kept up, the school would be closed regardless of what the school board did. Sighing, she picked up the phone.
Thomas
That afternoon, at four o’clock, the phone on Thomas Ruggles’s desk at the bank rang only once before he picked it up. He looked quickly around the room. None of the other data processors seemed to be even aware of his existence, let alone what he was doing.
Fools.
“Well, what happened? What’d they say? A social worker will be sent out for a home visit? When? Monday? Why so late? Too many caseloads and the current emergency. Damn, I hate having to wait that long for DSS to get its act together. Yes, I am sure he is the one, Charlotte. Yes. No, I have no doubts he is the one promised to us. If we have him, we can open the gates wide for the Dark Ones. Much more so than the last three children. Their feyness was latent—just barely manifesting. It’s all there in this one; Malachi is half-fairy. The other three—I discarded them. You don’t want to know how I found out that Malachi is half-fairy or how I discarded the others. Four of them—damn, he is forming a tetrad. It makes all four stronger as a unit. Who are the other three, tell me about them, who’s the weakest. Russell? Well, we will just go after him. If they have to defend Russell, the other three will get weaker. Malachi especially will get weaker and then we’ll snag him. Yes. Hold on, I’ve got another call on my line—okay, I’ll call you tonight. We may have to wait for DSS, but we can go ahead and call, say, Larry White? Exactly. Okay, bye. Central Carolina Bank, Thomas Ruggles speaking, how can I help you?”
Russell and Jeff
Russell reluctantly stepped off the bus Friday afternoon, and stood by the side of the road, watching until he could no longer see Jeff watching him back in the rear window. When Jeff waved, a blur through the yellow-dust-covered glass, Russell waved back. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to leave Jeff, even though Jeff was coming over in a few minutes. He didn’t want to be left alone at all. Even Jeanie, who was getting crankier and crankier the longer she was pregnant, would be okay company for a little while. Russell had overheard his dad say more than once that November 12 couldn’t come soon enough, just to shut her up. Jeanie’s back ached, her feet ached, her hands were swollen. She was so big she couldn’t get up out of a chair by herself. She couldn’t squeeze behind a steering wheel, so somebody had to drive her everywhere: to work, to the store, to the corner, everydamnwhere.
“And I’m carrying twin boys,” Jeanie had complained to her mother. “Mama, I don’t know if I can handle another White boy-child, let alone two, like Russell. I declare, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another....”
Russell had drifted out of earshot then. He knew just what she was going to complain about—not that he hadn’t changed. Russell hadn’t gotten into trouble at school since the fire. He had stayed, for the most part, out of his father’s way. He was being good. Of course, neither his father nor Jeanie noticed Russell’s new behavior any more than they noticed his green eyes were greener and glowed in the dark, his pointed ears, or that his red hair was redder and every now and then, had flames of light flickering in the red. But, then, nobody but Jeff or Malachi or Hazel or Malachi’s dad had noticed. Malachi had explained: the fairy glamour that hid things was an involuntary reaction, a protective camouflage that just turned on. Unless somebody was also changing, they wouldn’t notice.
Besides, being good didn’t stop the bad ones. The shadows, the red-eyed monsters, they weren’t just whispering to him in dreams anymore. The dark ones wanted Russell; the whispers promised him things: fuel for that hard, little knot of black anger which wouldn’t go away, no matter how much Russell changed, no matter how closer the changes brought him to the light. He had actually made a friend, Jeff, and now, maybe, another, no two: Hazel and Malachi.
But the anger remained. Russell couldn’t quite trust Hazel, yet. She was too much like the kids who picked on him for being too old in the fifth grade, for being too big, for wearing clothes bought at Kmart, for wearing dirty T-shirts. The goody-goodies, who always had everything done on time and without mistakes, looked down their noses at those who didn’t. Hazel was money and clean clothes and a nice house. So was Malachi; Russell had seen that when he met Malachi’s father last Thursday. And he was sure Malachi’s dad had looked at him and seen trailer trash, white trash, redneck.
Russell shook his head. He didn’t want to believe all that, but it was hard not to. And thinking like that only made the whispers come back. The sky rumbled again, this time louder and louder, and a few raindrops splattered on Russell’s head and his face. He started walking faster. At least, since they had gotten out of school early, he had the whole afternoon to himself. And maybe next week as well. From what the principal had said when she announced early dismissal, there might not be any school on Monday, either. Not with swamp monsters crawling across North Carolina. That had been what all the other kids talked about—that, and seeing people-less shadows.
Lightning forked over his house, and the rain began, big fat drops. Russell started running, holding his books over his head. No, this will just make Mrs. Collins mad. He stuffed the books under his shirt.
“Hey, Russ! What are you doing?”
Russell stopped and looked around, the rain beating on his head, soaking his shirt, his pants. The books were going to get wet, no matter what he did.
“Up here.”
Russell looked up to see Jeff hovering above him, completely dry, surrounded by a thin, barely visible envelope of white light.
“Forgotten how to do it? You can even dry everything off, too.”
I am so stupid. I can’t remember anything. “No, I haven’t forgotten how to do it. I just forgot I could. There.” He was no longer getting wet; his clothes and his books were dry. The rain, coming down harder, washed around and over him and off. Grinning, he slowly rose until he was at Jeff’s height.
“Better? I had to talk to Ellen—Mrs. Clark—for a while. She had to tell me something about my dad. Come on; let’s go to your house. Boy, it’s like night out here.”
They flew companionably down the driveway, almost drifting, in no hurry. From the Whites’ house to the road was a five-minute walk, a one-minute flight at top speed. Today, with the hard rain and not being in a hurry, Russell and Jeff took almost ten minutes, talking about Malachi and his father and Hazel. Rain came down in sheets around them.
Harvest of Changelings Page 25
