The Changeling

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Staring up at the ruin, Martha imagined what it must have looked like once. A tall old-fashioned house with fancy carved trim and two or maybe three stories of high thin windows. Then without planning to, she started imagining it another way, with thin tongues of flame licking out of all the windows and springing up through the roof in huge red hands against the sky.

  Suddenly Ivy asked, “Do you know the story of what happened here?”

  “No,” Martha said. “I asked my mother about it, and she said it happened a long time ago. She said she’d heard something about it, but she couldn’t remember just what. Except that the same people own it who own the land around Bent Oaks. There’s an old man who won’t let anything be sold or changed.”

  Ivy was quiet again for a while longer, and then she said, “Well, I know about it now. It belonged to a beautiful lady named Annabelle and her husband. It was a long time ago, and they were very rich. Annabelle had been the most beautiful girl for miles and miles, and she married a very handsome man and he built this house for her and gave her all sorts of beautiful jewels and clothes and servants and everything she asked for. After a few years they had three beautiful children. But Annabelle wasn’t happy because she was used to going to dances and parties all the time, and now she had to stay home with the babies while her husband went away to work. One day there was going to be a very important party at the king’s palace—”

  “The king’s palace?” Martha said. “Here, in Rosewood Hills?”

  “Well, maybe it was at the mayor’s house. Anyway, Annabelle wanted to go, but her husband had to go away on business, and he said she shouldn’t go without him.”

  Martha interrupted again, “Who told you? Did your mother know about it?”

  “No,” Ivy said. “My mother didn’t tell me. I think I heard about it somewhere a long time ago and I just started remembering. It just sort of came to me. Don’t things just sort of come to you sometimes?”

  Martha considered. “Yes, I guess they do. I think it just came to me what happened next—to Annabelle, I mean.”

  “What?” Ivy said.

  “Well, Annabelle went off to the party without telling anyone, and in the night the fire started and—” she stopped, not quite sure she wanted to end it the way she was thinking.

  “—and then Annabelle came back and the children were all dead, and the next day her hair turned snow white, and the next day she died.”

  Martha nodded slowly, and they went on sitting there staring at the ruin for a long time. They came back, finally, through time and tragedy, to the sound of Josie’s chatter and the realization that the gray cold had reached almost to the center of their bones.

  Martha turned to Ivy, and they both said, “Let’s go home,” in perfect unison.

  But this time Josie didn’t want to go. She sat firmly on the ground with her chubby legs out in front of her, clutching the old fork and a bouquet of dead flowers. She scowled at them and refused to stand up. At last Ivy took the flowers and fork by force, and, grabbing her hands, Martha and Ivy pulled Josie to her feet and started down the hill. Josie wailed and struggled.

  “I want my pretty flowers,” Josie sobbed.

  Ivy sighed and looked back up the hill. “What do you want those old dead things for?” she asked.

  “They’re not your flowers,” Martha said, trying another tack. “They don’t belong to us.”

  “Yes they do, yes they do,” Josie said.

  “They belong here, to this house. They belong to a beautiful dead lady.”

  “No they don’t,” Josie said. “They belong to me. The lady gave them to me.”

  Martha looked at Ivy, and Ivy’s nod meant that she was wondering the same thing.

  “What lady, Josie?” Ivy asked.

  “The lady you said,” Josie said. “The beautiful dead lady.”

  “How do you know she was a dead lady?” Martha asked in a stiff voice that tightened into a gulp before she finished the sentence.

  “She said she was,” Josie said. “She said she was the beautiful dead lady.”

  “Did she have white hair?” Ivy asked.

  Josie thought a minute and then nodded. “White,” she said, putting her hand on top of her head.

  “What else did she say to you?”

  “She said she was the beautiful dead lady, and I could have some flowers,” Josie said.

  So Martha and Ivy went, very quickly and watchfully, back up the hill for the flowers; and then, all the way home, while Josie trudged happily along carrying the little dead bouquet, they walked just behind her, watching and wondering.

  14

  FOR THE NEXT FEW days Martha and Ivy talked a lot about the burned-out house and what had happened there, and for the next few days after that, they talked about going back. But before they got to the point of actually going, something else happened. Martha’s Grandmother Abbott sent money from Florida for all the Abbotts to fly down and spend Thanksgiving with her.

  Of course it occurred to Martha that the whole controversy about her staying for a while with Grandmother in Florida might be renewed if she actually was there, right in Grandmother’s clutches. It was certainly a very great danger. And it had all happened so quickly that there was only one afternoon to discuss it with Ivy. She moaned to Ivy about her fear that she might have to stay.

  “Well, don’t just sit there,” Ivy said. “Let’s do a spell again.”

  “Again?” Martha said. “How?”

  “With Josie. She saved you before.”

  “I know but—she can’t give me the mumps again. I’ve already had them—on both sides.”

  “I know. It wouldn’t be the same anyway, even if you could get mumps twice. Magic doesn’t do things the way you expect. If it did, it wouldn’t be magic.”

  “I guess not. How do we do it this time?”

  “Well, I’ll go home and get Josie. And you fix up the altar.” She called the last back over her shoulder as she started to run toward the trail.

  “But how?” Martha called. “Wait. I don’t know how.”

  Ivy stopped, but she didn’t come back. “You don’t need to know how. Just start doing it. You find out as you go along.”

  When Ivy came back towing an out of breath Josie, Martha had made up an altar on the flat rock near Temple Tree. She had draped the rock first with the Mousehole Quilt, and then she had placed four sacred objects around the edges at the four points of the compass. There was the Crystal Globe to the South, the Golden Eye to the North, and East and West, Josie’s ivory wand and the silver bell.

  “Very good, Ivy said when she saw the altar. She lifted Josie up and made her sit cross-legged in the center of the magic circle. Josie grinned happily. She loved ceremonies.

  Ivy began by ringing the silver bell. Then Martha rang it, and finally Josie. While Josie went on ringing it long and hard, Ivy said, “We’ll need a chant. Let’s sit down like this and see if a good one will come to us. Keep on ringing the bell, Josie.” They sat down cross-legged and covered their eyes with their hands.

  After a moment Martha said, “Maker of spells, hear our silver bell.”

  Ivy nodded and shortly after added, “Ring a magic chain, to pull Martha home again.”

  The chant was repeated over and over while Martha and Ivy walked backward around Josie and the altar. Next they breathed on the Golden Eye and held it to their hearts while they waved the magic wand. Finally they put the Golden Eye in one of Josie’s hands and the ivory wand in the other, and placed the Crystal Globe directly in front of her. “Now you look into the Globe while we sit here, and when you see that the spell is finished you can tell us.”

  “Okay,” Josie said. Martha and Ivy sat down in front of the altar and covered their eyes, and in a very short time Josie said, “All finished.”

  They looked up and Martha said, “Did the magic work? Is the spell going to work? Can you tell?”

  She was really talking to Ivy, but Josie answered. She leaned forward until her
nose almost touched the Globe and said, “Yes,” very definitely.

  “Will Martha have to stay in Florida?” Ivy asked.

  “No,” Josie said.

  “How come?” Martha said. “Why won’t I have to stay?”

  Josie leaned forward again and then sat up looking triumphant.

  “Your mommy won’t let you,” she said.

  Martha and Ivy had to giggle. It didn’t sound like a very magical reason. And it didn’t seem very likely, either. Martha’s mother had been all for the plan to send Martha away. It wouldn’t be like her to change her mind so completely.

  So the Abbotts flew off to Florida, and almost right away Josie’s magic started working; although Martha didn’t realize at first that that was what it was. She didn’t blame herself very much, though. Nobody would recognize magic in two-toned shoes and a pinstriped suit.

  The first thing Martha did notice that told her the magic was working was that her mother certainly was changing her mind. Suddenly she not only didn’t want Martha to stay in Florida, she didn’t even want Grandmother Abbott to stay. Usually Mrs. Abbott was not at all upset by her mother-in-law’s frequent visits to Florida, or to anyplace else. But this year she decided that that Grandmother just had to be in Rosewood for the holiday season. And Martha’s father seemed to agree. In fact they agreed so unusually well that they finally talked Grandmother into closing her apartment and coming back with them to Rosewood Hills.

  Ivy had explained that magic worked in unexpected ways and she was certainly right. This time it was so unexpected that Martha might never have known just what was happening if she hadn’t overheard a conversation between Tom and Cath. The three of them were lying on the beach, and Martha was pretending to be asleep, with her face under a big sun hat.

  “How come Mom keeps fussing at Gran to come home with us?” Tom asked idly as if he didn’t really expect an answer. But Cath knew why. You could always count on Cath to know a lot about almost anything you’d care to mention.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Cath sounded incredulous that anyone could be so dense. “It’s because of that Mr. Millmore. He’s always hanging around, and Mother says he’s planning to marry Grandmother.”

  Martha was amazed. Mr. Millmore was a young-old man with wavy silver hair and pin-striped suits who happened to be a neighbor of Grandmother’s in her new apartment. He had called on her two or three times while the rest of the Abbotts were there, and he was very helpful and friendly. But Martha had certainly not guessed that he was part of the magic.

  Seen through the cracks in her straw sun hat, Tom looked as astounded as Martha felt.

  “Marry her,” he said, and then after a silence, “Did he ask her or something?”

  “Not that Mom knows of,” Cath said. “But she can tell that he’s going to as soon as we’re out of the way.”

  “Oh yeah?” Tom said. “What do you know.” But then in a minute he laughed. “Well, why not let him?” he said. “He may not be great, but he’s bound to be better than all those garden clubs.”

  Cath snorted. “Idiot,” she said. “What about the inheritance?”

  Tom sobered. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I see what you mean.”

  All the Abbotts knew about the inheritance. It was a large and powerful sum of money that Grandfather Abbott had left to Grandmother Abbott when he died. It was supposed to be left to the rest of the Abbotts someday. But not, of course, if it was left to somebody else.

  Martha had thought that Mr. Millmore was rather nice, and she couldn’t help thinking that Tom was probably right about his being better than garden clubs. She’d been to a few with Grandmother, and she had reason to know. However, she also felt that she should just accept Mr. Millmore as a part of Josie’s magic and be glad that he had made it necessary for all the Abbotts to return to Rosewood Hills.

  So Martha went back to Rosewood Manor Estates, number two Castle Court, where everybody seemed to go right on getting busier and busier according to mysteriously complicated and demanding sets of rules and patterns. All except Martha, of course, who never seemed to be able to find a set of rules that worked for her.

  But she also went back to Bent Oaks Grove, where it didn’t matter if you didn’t know the rules because you could always make them up as you went along.

  And then, only a few days after Christmas, the Carson family packed up and left with no warning, and Ivy was gone again.

  15

  IT WAS ANOTHER LONG and lonely time in Martha’s life. She finished the sixth grade and went into the seventh with very mixed-up feelings about almost everything. She was happier, at times, and at others a lot more unhappy than she had ever been before. Everything stayed disgustingly the same—and at the same time changed so rapidly that she sometimes felt there was nothing she could count on as being finally true.

  Everything about number two Castle Court was the same, and the people in it were, too, except that Cath became a Junior in high school and Tom a Sophomore and their friends were very grown-up—at least in some ways. Cath’s friends wore crazy beautiful clothes and treated everybody and everything as if they were a part of some huge ridiculous joke. They laughed a lot, very loudly. Tom’s friends were mostly huge football types with crew cuts, and they were even noisier than Cath’s friends, without trying half so hard.

  Martha did a lot of watching, and sometimes it all seemed very exciting. And there were times when she almost felt a part of it. Sometimes Cath’s friends included her in their conversation without talking to her as if she were a retarded five-year-old; and once one of Tom’s friends, a very important fullback on the high school team, grabbed her by the hair. She was on her way to the back door at the time, and she had to squeeze through the kitchen, which was practically wall to wall with boys, particularly near the refrigerator. As she squeezed past the fullback, whose name was Grant Wilson, he reached out and grabbed her long hair and held it way up above her head so she couldn’t move.

  “Hey, look what I caught,” he yelled, and they all looked around. Then he yelled at Tom, “Is this that homely little sister you used to have? Well, what do you know. She may not turn out so bad, after all.” Martha nearly died of embarrassment, but afterwards she thought about very little else for several days.

  Another amazing change, that turned out not to be a real change, was the behavior of Kelly Peters. Towards the end of the seventh grade, Kelly suddenly became very friendly with Martha—at least at times. The times were usually when Martha was at home, and after a while Martha began to realize that Kelly nearly always felt friendliest when Tom was around. Gradually it became obvious that Kelly was crazy about Tom Abbott, who was three years older than she was and naturally thought of her as a little kid.

  But even after Martha knew for certain the reason behind Kelly’s sudden change of heart, she sometimes had a hard time keeping it in mind. Kelly and two or three of her close friends were the absolute rulers of seventh grade society. Everybody followed their lead in just about everything, and Martha certainly wasn’t cut out to be any kind of a counter force. So sometimes when she was asked, she made the effort and worked very hard at talking about the right things in the right tone of voice, at squealing with laughter at the right times and at cutting down the right people with the right kind of sarcasm.

  But afterwards, or sometimes even in the middle of things, she would suddenly be overcome with a terrible feeling that it was all phony and unreal. She was never positive if the worst of the phoniness was her own or everybody else’s; but whichever, it would suddenly seem just too much of an effort and she would turn quiet and strange and escape to her room and her books, and sometimes to Bent Oaks Grove.

  At Bent Oaks she often climbed up to Falcon’s Roost or to the Lookout. Sometimes she took a book along, but at other times she just sat there for a while with her thoughts and memories, often about Ivy.

  Thinking about Ivy was almost always good. Sometimes Martha wondered and even worried a little about what Ivy was doing
and what it would be like when she came back. But usually it seemed to Martha that nothing, not a single event in her present life, compared to the adventure of almost every day when Ivy was around.

  But no matter what else she was thinking, there was one thing Martha never doubted. She never doubted that Ivy would be back. In fact, the feeling that Ivy might show up at any moment was so strong that Martha often found herself looking for Ivy, particularly when she was in Bent Oaks Grove. When she was in the grove, she was constantly looking up along the trail, expecting to see Ivy appear over the top of the hill. But no one ever came.

  At least, no one came until a few weeks after school started, the fall Martha was in the eighth grade. It was a very hot end-of-summer day, and after school Martha put on some shorts and picked out a book to read. Then she climbed up to Bent Oaks Grove where the coolness of the ocean breeze almost always flowed over the top of Rosewood Hills and spilled through the branches of the oak trees. There were some little kids at Bent Oaks that day who were playing in the best reading spot in Falcon’s Roost, so Martha climbed higher. She settled herself in the wide fork that had been called the Lookout, and began to read. She hadn’t been reading very long when something made her look up toward the place where the trail looped over the top of the hill. Just at that moment someone was coming into view over the crest. Someone small and dark, who stopped at the top of the hill, looked all around, and then started to run down the trail. Plunging headlong down the steep trail, the figure skipped around the zigzag turns as lightly as if there were no such things as gravity and slippery pebbles. It had to be Ivy. Martha stood up carelessly on a narrow branch, and hanging on with just one hand she waved the other arm wildly and screamed, “Ivy!”