Harvest of Changelings

by Warren Rochelle

  There is nothing I can do to help my son and my best friend. Loving them isn’t enough.

  There doesn’t seem to be much I can do about anything. I can sit with Jack and Malachi, hold them, wipe their foreheads with cool washcloths, and none of it helps. Jack is at least awake, and I can talk to him, but Malachi is lost in some fever-dream. Even the other kids can’t get through anymore. They sense his dreams—and even, I think, take part in his dreams—but they can’t wake him.

  I know where we have to go tomorrow, what we have to do. Another mad ride in the van, down 86, straight through Chapel Hill, onto 15-501, over the Haw. (I wish I could show Malachi the big dam there—is it still there? Not split open by lightning?) Around the circle, around the courthouse in Pittsboro, until we hit 902. Across the Rocky River. Father J swears we will find a church somewhere around Bear Creek. And then we wait there until almost midnight—one last dash to the Devil’s Tramping Ground. Then counter-clockwise, nine times, at midnight and the gate will be open and we will cross over and my son and my best friend will be saved. These children will be able to be what they could never be here.

  What will I do there?

  The witches and the dark things and the Fomorii will be there, too. We will have to get past them to walk on the circle. There will be others like us, changelings trying to cross over. Well, like them—I’m not changing.

  Dear Lord, help us.

  Jeff

  Russell lay beside Jeff, on the quilt they had spread at the front of the sanctuary. He could unfold his arm and touch Russell, without sitting up, or stretching. Ben sat on the altar steps, candles on his left and right, writing. Hazel slept a body-length away, in the corner, by the door to the pastor’s office. In the other corner, in front of the organ, Father Jamey and Alex slept with Malachi and Jack. Jeff could hear Russell breathing, slow, sure, steady. He seemed to have fallen like a stone into sleep, a safe sleep. Everyone was asleep, except Jeff and Ben. Oh, no, don’t—but Ben blew out the candles and the darkness got closer. Jeff could hear and see Ben, as if he were a shadow, walking softly to the corner where Malachi was, checking on his son, then lying down.

  Now, only Jeff was awake and afraid to sleep. Or rather go back to sleep. He had been so tired when they had finally gotten everything out of the van, through the water downstairs, and up the stairs to here, that when he and Russell had lain down, he had dropped right off, a falling stone like Russell. But Jeff’s father had been waiting for him in his dreams: first, just hands, one on my forehead, smoothing my hair, down my cheek, as if these hands are bathing my face. And a voice, very low, against my ear, as the body settles into bed beside me. The voice tells me I am Daddy’s good little boy, that Daddy needs me, yes, Daddy needs me, as the hands slowly go down my shoulder and across my chest. I can’t move; I am frozen; I have to take this. The hands take off my shirt and they press harder against my bare chest and back and pull me against the voice, against Daddy’s hairy, bare chest. I can’t move; I am frozen; I have to take this—

  No.

  Jeff had woken with a start, breathing hard, and a shadow, was there another shadow, someone whispering—?

  That had been—Jeff didn’t know how long ago—before Ben had sat down to write. The candlelight had only marginally helped. I should tell Ben Daddy’s near. That he is outside. I feel him walking around, looking for a door that will let him in. But I am not supposed to tell. I told before and now Daddy hates me, and he is looking for me to love me, but he hates me, I made him do what he did, but I was being a good boy, he told me that, helping him out, it was her fault, if I told that meant I didn’t love him, didn’t I love him, didn’t I love my daddy, wasn’t I Daddy’s favorite best little boy? Come home with me, Jeff, come back home and everything will be like it was, just you and me.

  No, no, no. And there were extra shadows in the room, Jeff was sure of it. And sounds, footsteps, just like before, just like all the nights before.

  Daddy’s here. Come home.

  “No, no, NO, go away, GO AWAY, oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake up everybody, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  “Jeff? Are you okay, Jeff? Ben? Something’s the matter with Jeff,” Russell said, calling out, as he reached for Jeff, his hand on Jeffs shoulder a real, sure weight.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, but he’s out there, he’s right out there and he’s going to take me, he wants me—”

  Come home.

  “Jeff, what’s the matter?” Ben said, kneeling down besides Jeff, and pulling him into an easy embrace.

  Daddy wants his little boy to come home.

  “Daddy found me—I dreamed—and he’s out there; he wants me to come home,” Jeff said, crying, gasping out his words. He felt Russell move closer, his hand still on Jeff’s shoulder.

  “You’re safe here. You’re safe. I won’t let him get you, I promise.”

  “I won’t, either,” Russell said very softly.

  Ben relit the candles and found others and sat them all around Jeff and Russell’s quilt, making a circle inscribed inside a pentagram of light. And he held Jeff until he was still and breathing regularly, telling Jeff over and over he was safe, with Russell’s words a refrain and Hazel and Father J sleepy echoes.

  Finally Jeff lay back down and this time, he snuggled against Russell’s back and fell asleep inside Russell’s warmth.

  Malachi

  Jeff, Hazel, Russell, and the cat are like ghosts—paler, fainter, almost transparent. They want to hold his hands, but it is so hard for a ghost to grasp anything real and solid. Malachi’s hands are real—aren’t they? Or is he the ghost—paler, fainter, almost transparent? He can almost see through his hands, see the grass and the rocks through his bones. Where is he? Not at home in Garner, or in school in Raleigh. Not at the public library—but that is gone—a big fire. Malachi remembers the fire and how fast it burned, the books falling as flames spread, shooting trailers as if they were being tossed in a parade. That happened. Where he is now they are all safe, but only a wall and flickering light are between them and darkness and dark things and dark people.

  Malachi continued to dream.

  VIII

  Samhain Thursday, October 31, 1991

  A CHAPEL HILL HIGH SCHOOL TEACHER, A MEDIEVAL professor at Carolina, and a Franklin Street car dealer were among many whom disappeared on the night of Samhain, when the storms stopped. The silence, for many, was as terrifying as the storms. No one was lured out to test the quiet. A few ventured to their porch, or stood behind curtains, waiting and watching, but no further than that. The high school teacher’s husband was later found dead, from what look liked a wild animal attack. She had killed him with a sin - gle slash of her sharp claws, and then leaped through the window, glass raining behind her, shards falling from her now heavily furred body.

  A beast the size of a man, heavily furred, fanged, was later found at the wheel of a wrecked car on McCauley Street, behind the Carolina Inn. Other beasts were seen running south, down Columbia, over the bridge, down 15-501 toward the Chatham County line and Pittsboro.

  The medieval professor fled into the woods near Battle Park, howling, shredding his clothes, and looking for others he knew he would find there: a former mayor, a Baptist preacher, a state senator, a beautician, a computer programmer, a high school tennis star. The pack then headed south with the others, a dark river flowing down the high - way.

  The things in the air came down to fly just above the packs, shrieking, their great wings beating the air. Fomorii rode on the backs of the largest, their fire whips shedding sparks as they struck the things for greater speed.

  Some people went insane.

  Some simply closed down: their brains could not take in and process any more changes or newness or fear. Fairy tales and horror stories were not supposed to ever become real, yet no amount of rationalization from the voices and faces they had trusted on the radio and television could convince them the stories had not come true. Nor
could other voices and faces convince them the stories were true, and that they could handle this new reality. And now the radio and television were dead and the lights were gone and they huddled inside their dark houses, their dark minds.

  Lightning struck the university bell tower: one, two, three, four bolts. The bricks split, fell, and the tower spouted flame, became a single flame. Lightning smashed the Planetarium, caught the Carolina Inn on fire, and brought down the WCHL and WUNC radio towers. There were other fires as the darkness became more palpable, pressing closer, closing heavy fingers around first one house, then another. A burning house made an awfully bright light, especially when fed by books, chair legs, window shutters, desks, and bed frames.

  And the others, changelings, called to the gate, the circle where nothing grew in southwest Chatham, the Devil’s Tramping Ground: the time had come at last for all their dreams to become real. Some rode in vans, others pickup trucks, station wagons, jeeps. Still others came on horseback or in farmers’ wagons. Tonight, in the last hours, no one tried anymore to stop them on their journey. They no longer cared that their auras were so visible they glowed or that their ears were pointed or that their eyes were luminous. Some flew.

  No one tried to stop them on October 31. The day before was another story. Many died.

  The shrieking things and the werewolves and the Fomorii and the black witches gathered near the Devil’s Tramping Ground, by the small, gravel parking lot that marked the site and where a narrow path led back through the pines to the Tramping Ground.

  Jack

  I will do this. I will do this. I will do this. I will do this.

  Ben

  At eleven P.M., October 31, the rain stopped. There was no moon and no stars; the night was India ink black. The rain hadn’t gone away, just stopped—one look at the heavy, waterlogged clouds showed that. The air was charged as the bolts split and re-split the night sky, creating moments of sheer white light, freezing everyone and everything—as if the world turned into a long succession of black and white photographs.

  Jesus H. Christ what have I done? What am I going to do when we get there? Why haven’t I even thought about that until now? Last night was the first time.

  After writing in his journal, Ben had awakened Father Jamey, who had been curled up under a borrowed choir robe, his head on a pillow snatched from the nursery, in one corner of the sanctuary. Ben had hesitated for only a minute. Dammit, I need to talk.

  “Ben, what’s wrong, what’s happened?” Father Jamey said, turning over quickly after Ben shook him for the third or fourth time.

  “I need to talk. I have been so focused on getting Malachi to the gate so he won’t die, the other kids so they can really and truly live, that I haven’t even thought of what I would do if we did make it. What am I going to do in a universe where everybody is magic except for me? Find some library somewhere and apply for a job? Do they even have libraries? What am I going to do with Jack—he certainly can’t teach American lit over there—”

  “Why not? You could both get married again—”

  “I lost my first wife because of a stupid accident—Emma fell down the steps and banged her head. The Fomorii assassinated my second wife. Jack’s son kills his second wife. His first wife thought life in Raleigh as the wife of a NC State English professor was too boring for words, and she turned out to be psychotic enough to kill herself. Father J, our marital track record is pretty poor, if you ask me. And why marry a human if you can have a fairy?”

  “Ben, you are going to take Malachi, Jeff, Hazel and her cat, Russell, and Jack through that gate tomorrow night. And you’ll live—you’ll figure out how to live over there and you’ll do it. Russell is twelve, the other three, eleven and ten—they’ll need you and Jack to raise them.”

  “But, Father J—”

  “Go to sleep.”

  And he had, a few hours later. There were no other answers the priest could give him, nor could anyone else, for that matter. The morning ride from New Hope to Merony United Methodist Church had been almost as bad as the trip from Garner to New Hope. They had had to siphon gas out of the car of someone hiding in the church; that had taken longer than they thought. The glamour and the herbs had protected the van in the lull after dawn all the way through Chapel Hill—seemingly another ghost town, like Garner, like probably almost every town in North Carolina—and around the traffic circle and the Chatham County Courthouse in Pittsboro. The things had returned that morning once on 902. They had taken sanctuary at Merony. Now it was time to leave their last sanctuary.

  Ben picked up Malachi from where he slept in a pew in the sanctuary. The talisman was a silver fire on his son’s chest, the light flickering across his body and Ben’s as they went out to where the others waited, in the foyer, facing the road and the van.

  “You’re the last; everybody else is ready,” Father Jamey said.

  “How long can we drive before we meet with resistance? And where’s Jack?”

  “Right here, Ben. Are you afraid I’m going to make some sort of sacrifice on our last night on this Earth?” Jack asked. He was leaning against the wall, by the double doors into the sanctuary. He looked, Ben thought, a little stronger, a little better. If nothing else, he was strong enough to stand up.

  “Yeah, that’s just what I think,” Ben snapped, then turned back to the priest. “How long do you think?”

  “I think right until we get to the Devil’s Tramping Ground. We won’t be alone, though—I’ve felt others like us, heading this way. They are nearby, waiting like we are.”

  “Are y’all ready?” Ben said, turning to Jeff, Russell, and Hazel, who were standing beside Father Jamey. Alex was at Hazel’s side, pressing close into her—he was, Ben thought, the size of a panther. Somehow it seemed anticlimactic: to just walk out the front door of Merony Methodist Church, get back in the van, and drive to the Devil’s Tramping Ground.

  Lightning struck the church.

  One great bolt hit the steeple, blasting it off at the roof, heating the contorted metal white-hot as it fell onto the grass, scorching, burning, hissing. The next bolt forked and forked again and each new bolt struck a different part of the church’s roof, exploding into streamers of flames that raced up, down, across, over.

  “Look at the sanctuary,” Jack breathed, stepping back. Fire burned down the walls, sudden hot streams, licking the pews, exploding again on the floor.

  “Look? Are you crazy? C’mon, we’re getting outta here now,” Ben yelled, and holding Malachi against his shoulder with one hand, jerked Jack away from the sanctuary door as hard as he could. “Father J, get the kids to the van—”

  They ran out into the October night, the flames roaring behind them. The sudden coolness of the night air almost stunned them, with the heat so close. The lightning fire was a beast and it was consuming the white, wood-frame church. A strong wind came up as they scrambled into the van. Ben shoved Jack into the back, and then laid Malachi down beside him. Alex bounded into the van. The other kids grabbed blankets and pillows to pad the spaces around Malachi and Jack. The wind was so strong the van swayed and the back door almost snapped off. The fire’s heat quickly ate the coolness, spitting it out in gobs of flame and sweat.

  “You get the van started—I’ve got the door,” Ben yelled at the priest as he struggled with the door until it finally slammed shut. The wind dropped bits and pieces of the burning church all around him as he pushed against the wind to open the passenger door, get inside, and close the door.

  “The wind’s pushing us—away from the fire—out onto the road,” the priest yelled, waving his hand at the windshield. Could the wind finally be on their side—and not the bad guys? Ben didn’t know; he didn’t want to ask. He leaned back into the passenger seat and for a short moment, he closed his eyes, hoping to forestall the return of yesterday’s terror: the trip from Garner to New Hope. Something joggled his memory, from the science fiction he had to read for the library. From Dune. The Litany against Fear, he had memor
ized it: I must not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain. There. He took a deep breath as Father Jamey backed the van out.

  Hazel

  “Look—others, like us—flying,” Hazel said, looking at Russell and Jeff. They sat in the back of the van, as Father Jamey turned out of the church parking lot onto 902. The Devil’s Tramping Ground was just down the road—a right turn, two more miles, and they would be there. Midnight was less than an hour away. “I wish we could fly there.”

  “Malachi can’t,” Russell muttered. “You know that. And Jack—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Jack whispered, but nobody heard him.

  “I know,” she said. “But I can hear them now. Can’t you?”

  “Hear them?” Russell asked.

  “In my head. Can’t you guys feel them? Here, take my hand.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more voices,” Russell muttered, but took her hand and then Jeff’s. Jeff said nothing.

  “Listen.” For her, it was like entering a sub-current of unvocalized sounds, thoughts, intentions, wishes, and desires. Auras flared and flamed all around Hazel, Jeff, Russell, and Malachi, the cat, and Father Jamey. The van, she could tell, was no longer touching the ground—rather on this kind wind, and on this new coalescing strength of all the others in transit to the gate—it was skimming the earth.