Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

  Now he admits that what he needs will not be found on this hilltop. Nor will he find what he desires in coyote form. Reluctantly, for he has loved being coyote as he has loved only a handful of other forms, he reaches for a new shape.

  “WHAT HAS THE KING EVER DONE FOR YOU?” ask words printed in red on a sheet of canary yellow paper.

  The envelope containing this flyer had been delivered to a rural mailbox at the edge of a large tract of forested land in Oregon, bordering on Umatilla National Forest. No one ever saw the person or persons to whom this mailbox belonged. Much of the mail was simply addressed to “Box Holder” but some was sent to “Mr. and Mrs. Trapper” or to “J.Q. Fuzzy.”

  The letter carrier knew that a week or more could pass before the box was emptied. Then the junk mail would be sorted into a bag neatly labeled “Please Recycle.” Sometimes a stack of boxes waited for pickup. Often a small envelope containing five or ten dollars “For Your Troubles” would be attached.

  Today the sheet of canary yellow paper is almost dropped into the recycling bag without a careful reading, but a hairy hand reaches out and intercepts it before it can fall.

  “Wait,” says a voice, distinctly female for all its guttural inflection. “I want to read that.”

  The creature that takes the letter cannot be called a woman. She is too hairy—furry might be a better word—and as muscular as a professional football player. She is also at least six feet tall. Next to her husband, who towers over seven feet in height and is covered with thick, coarse reddish brown fur, she is a dainty thing. With her silky black coat and delicately pointed head, she knows herself a young and beautiful representative of her kind.

  “Listen to this,” Rebecca Trapper says. She begins reading aloud to her husband, who politely looks up from a report on fashion models protesting against fur coats:

  WHAT HAS THE KING EVER DONE FOR YOU?

  The humanocentric policies of the current administration need to be challenged and now! Since the dawning of the Industrial Revolution, those incapable of human-form have been told that their only refuge is in secrecy. Why?

  BECAUSE IT SUITS THE NEEDS OF THE HUMAN-FORMED!

  Our coalition believes that there are other options available to those among us who have been relegated to the status of monsters and myths. Let’s band together and take advantage of modern society’s need for mysteries to balance materialism!

  ASK THE DRAGONS!

  Before you dismiss our appeal with the tried and true response “The King is always right” why not ask the dragons about their feelings on current policy?

  “Ask the dragons!” grunts Bronson Trapper. “What kind of nonsense is that? Everyone knows that dragons are extinct!”

  “I think that’s the point, my dear,” Rebecca Trapper says calmly. “There’s an address and a website here for further information. I think I’ll look into it.”

  “Politics has never done us any good,” Mr. Trapper protests, turning into the forest. “The King helped us purchase this land and secure the equipment we need to run a business without exposing ourselves to ridicule and rude inquiry.”

  “Still,” Rebecca Trapper muses, thinking of the places and things she has seen on television via satellite dish, of the friends she has made via computer chatrooms whom she would love to meet in person, “this flyer does have a point. There’s no harm in looking up their website, is there?”

  “No dear,” says Bronson Trapper, his mind already back on what this latest antifur crusade could do to business. “No harm at all.”

  After considering his needs, the Changer decides an owl will suit, a large spotted owl, capable of covering vast distances, of seeing with little light, and of carrying away prey. The idea pleases him, and his blood thrills in anticipation of flight. Too long has passed since he took wing.

  Warning his daughter that strange things are coming (news that she acknowledges by diving into her burrow and peering out over the edge), the Changer begins the shift from coyote to owl.

  With some amusement he has perused human legends regarding those who can alter their shape—legends that have remained legends because, even when confronted with the truth, most humans are unwilling to relinquish their myth that they are the dominant creature upon the Earth. As the human race has spread, those cultures which believe in humanity’s dominance have tended to overwhelm or absorb those that do not. Thus the truth is further obscured beneath legend.

  One of the dominant “truths” that humans use to deny the presence of shapeshifters among them is the question of matter and mass. Logically, they argue, something the size of a coyote could not become something larger (like a human) or something smaller (like an owl) because there would either be not enough matter or there would be too much matter.

  Only with the advent of modern subatomic physics have humans begun to come close to the truth. Matter is mostly space. Moreover, the building blocks of matter are, at a most basic level, interchangeable. One such as the Changer knows how to make such exchanges. The only difficulty is in the individual template. Thus, he can become anything living, but its gender must be male. Others of his kind have fewer shapes (indeed, all do, for he is the supreme shapeshifter), but are not restricted by gender.

  What templates are available to a shapeshifter vary from type to type. This issue interests him only slightly, since he is little restricted in his choices. Even as he considers such abstractions, he is beginning to alter his form.

  Feathers dark and brown over wings, tail, and round, puffy, head. The eyes, set frontally in that round head, are dark as well, but this brown-on-brown scheme is relieved by bars and spots artistically scattered along the owl’s underside. Yes.

  The details he needs are stored in the slowly awakening portion of his mind. Anything he has studied he can shape. Long ago he committed a vast number of creatures and their variations to memory. Some of the animals he can shape are extinct, but he has made no effort to restore them. To do so would be to court stagnation, and he is the Changer.

  When he has designed this particular owl form (and sent the black nose of his daughter deep into her burrow), he strokes a quick brush of memory over the shape. If he has need, he can reassume this shape with minimal effort, go in moments from coyote to owl. There are other such stored shapes in his repertoire, even other stored owls, but he enjoys the act of design. Making new shapes is part of his delight in being the Changer.

  Without further ceremony, he beats his wings, and, faster than magic, he is aloft. Shapeshifting has made him hungry. He sweeps down, a rodent’s silent nightmare, and takes a shivering mouse. This is eaten not only still warm, but so close to living that he can feel the beating of its heart. The kill has been easy, so easy that it reminds him why he does not frequently take the shapes of the smaller members of the order rodentia.

  Then he is over the ranch to which he saw the two men ride earlier that day. It is an attractive place, although built to serve practical needs. There is a large house, a single-story structure that has been added on to over the years. Parts of it are thick, solid adobe brick, others more modern frame-stucco. The building materials have dictated its rectangular form and its brownish color, but color touches doorframes and window frames.

  The livestock barns are more modern, constructed largely of sheet metal and concrete. Most reek of cattle, but there is one for horses and another with a few pygmy goats. Off to one side, there is a large vegetable patch, planted with tomatoes, onions, chilies, and squash. This early in the season, the plants are small and seem set too far apart. Near the vegetable patch is a little white wooden chicken coop. Doubtless the chickens are encouraged to forage in the vegetable patch during the day.

  Tonight they are locked safely behind wire and metal, safe from the predations of the local red or grey foxes and ambitious owls like himself. Several large dogs sleep in the shelter of the barns. One sprawls across the back door to the house. No doubt any more usual prowler would find himself receiving an unpleasant welcome
.

  Finishing his circuit, the Changer notices another, smaller, house set in a copse of cottonwood and tamarisk along an irrigation-ditch bank. While not precisely hidden, the house is effectively hidden from casual observation from either road or field. Curious, he swoops down to take a closer look.

  Perched in a tree branch outside of a window lit by the bluish glow of a television set, he observes.

  Four men sit within, watching a program on a screen whose sharpness of resolution and clearness of color surprises the Changer—especially since its battered case suggests that it is not a particularly new model. His brief ventures into the human world have not included taking time to watch television. Apparently the technology has advanced quite a bit since he last bothered to look at it.

  Judging by what is playing on the screen, the programming does not seem to have advanced very far. His interest in the television is passing, however; he studies the four men.

  Neither of the two who killed his family is among their number, nor does he catch the disturbing scent of flowers and musk that had made his hackles rise earlier that day.

  All four of the men are brown-skinned and dark-haired. Although the television program they are engrossed in is in English, the few comments they exchange among themselves are in Spanish. During a commercial, a debate over the virtues of the two gringa actresses breaks out. Listening to the cadences of their speech, the Changer becomes certain that they are Mexicans.

  A small mystery is solved then. These men are most probably wetbacks, illegal aliens hired by the rancher to augment his workforce at minimal cost to himself. If the rancher is Hispanic, they might even be relatives.

  Had the owl’s face been constructed to smile, the Changer would have smiled. Now he has a means of bringing pressure on the rancher. The Changer takes wing then and continues his survey.

  Changes in farming practices makes absolute judgment difficult, but he guesses that the rancher is doing well enough but is certainly not prosperous. A severe drought or an unfavorable fluctuation in cattle prices could put him deep in debt. If a stranger came and offered him a couple hundred dollars for a bunch of freshly killed coyotes, no questions asked, doubtless he would welcome the opportunity to earn some easy money and rid himself of vermin at the same time.

  The Changer’s last sweep takes him by the black-metal mailbox at the edge of the road. The name “Martinez” is stenciled neatly in white on the side.

  Very good. He knows precisely how he is going to acquire the human goods that he needs before he can call on Mr. Martinez.

  Ravens, another of the Changer’s favorite shapes, share with their cousins the jays a fondness for shiny objects. Over the years, the Changer has collected a variety of useful objects which he has cached throughout his territory.

  Because he is the Changer, and not merely a raven or coyote, the caches contain cash as well as coins and jewelry. They also contain some fairly useless items, for a bit of broken glass or bent metal can catch his fancy and hold it.

  The Changer spends the remainder of the dark hours winging from cache to cache, collecting his finds and carrying them to the hilltop where his daughter is hiding. It is onerous work, for while only a winged creature could reach his caches, transferring their contents efficiently is difficult without hands. He remedies part of his difficulty by scooping up a plastic grocery bag from the side of the road and using it as a carryall. Still, he must stop frequently to forage, and by dawn he is quite exhausted.

  With the last of his energy, he brings his daughter a ground squirrel (possibly kin to the one who so kindly provided the burrow) and stretches out beneath the thick growth of juniper. Sleep claims him almost immediately.

  On an isolated website, unlinked to any others, unlisted by web-browsing programs, its address distributed only to those who have found a certain canary yellow flyer in their mail, the chatroom is untenanted except by two.

  Rebecca>> Have you seen the latest posting?

  Demetrios>> The one on the proposed referendum? Yeah. What do you think?

  Rebecca>> I like it. Bronson isn’t so sure. He says the King has always been good to us. Why rock the boat?

  Demetrios>> To get your feet wet? :) Sure the King has been good to us, but what does it cost him? We’ve become his serfs.

  Rebecca>> :( Is it that bad? We live lots better than most Americans.

  Demetrios>> Are we really Americans? I know: you live in Oregon; I live in California, but we aren’t permitted to take part in governing the states or counties in which we live.

  Rebecca>> We don’t pay very high taxes either!!! We can handle what we pay and if we’re to own property we must be in human databases.

  Demetrios>> True. But what about our dues to the King? What are those if not taxes?? An extra tax.

  Rebecca>> Bronson says that the King’s help in securing our land is worth years of dues.

  Demetrios>> Still… There’s more to life than having good hideouts. What about being able to experience the joys of life? I miss beaches and moonlit glades.

  Rebecca>> Don’t you have a glade at your place?

  Demetrios>> Sure, but one patch of greenery gets old after a while. I long for the freedom of the world. Anyhow, fauns are cute, not monstrous like dragons.

  Rebecca>> Or sasquatches??? Don’t fool yourself. Fauns look like medieval depictions of the devil, at least some people think so.

  Demetrios>> You’ve got a point. Sorry.

  Rebecca>> Do you really think the Moderator can give us that freedom?

  Demetrios>> He says the human world is ready to accept us—more than that—it yearns for us. I agree.

  Rebecca>> I wish I was so certain…

  When evening comes, the Changer uses the waning light to survey his haul. Pawing through, sorting and counting, he is impressed with the value of what he has collected.

  In cash, there is something in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars—mostly in one- and five-dollar bills, although there are bills of larger denominations. There are several fifties with sequential serial numbers. These, he remembers, came from a wallet he found dragged by the current in a narrow mountain stream. He had flown the wallet to a postal drop and left it, but had kept the money for his troubles.

  In addition to the cash there is almost a hundred dollars in American coins and a smattering of foreign currency (mostly Mexican, although there is some German and British). He also possesses fifteen rings, numerous single earrings, five necklaces, and about a dozen bracelets. Since he has a good deal of cash, he decides to leave the jewelry. Some of it is merely costume jewelry, but he has lived long enough to see the trash of one age become the valued antiques of another.

  Finally, there is the pure junk, including large quantities of broken glass and countless twists of scrap metal. Much of the latter is chrome from automobiles, but there is also copper, aluminum, steel, and brass. He turns an automobile antenna over with his paw, recalling the day his raven self had proudly ripped it from an elderly auto.

  Some of the broken glass is far lovelier than the jewelry. Teal green, ruby red, various shades of blue, and delicate lavender, it recalls to him his mate of several seasons, a she-raven who enjoyed foraging for treasures in the ruins of a burned house that was at the heart of their nesting grounds. He had kept much of the glass out of memory of her, and he does not discard it now for the same reason.

  The money makes his current task easier, but it does not solve all his problems. Even with something like a thousand dollars in his possession, he cannot stroll stark naked onto the Martinez ranch and expect to be spoken to man to man. No, first he will need clothing, but without clothing he cannot enter an establishment to purchase clothing. Without much regret, he decides that first order of the night (after he has fed his daughter) is to steal something to wear.

  Stealing does not bother the Changer overmuch. As he sees it, humans take property too seriously and life too lightly. Therefore, after he has introduced the girl pup to some of the joys
of mousing, he shifts into owl form and goes seeking human attire.

  He has never paid a great deal of attention to human fashions, but memories from his coyote years reassure him that blue jeans and a button-down shirt are still considered reasonable menswear. Underclothing would be nice but can wait until he can carry it.

  Choosing a course that will carry him away from the Martinez ranch, he comes across a trailer court. Most of the folks who reside in this place apparently economize by hanging their laundry out to dry. In the darkness, the owl examines each of the clotheslines. From a particularly overloaded line, he takes a long-sleeved Western shirt and a pair of jeans.

  Immediately, he realizes that he has chosen poorly. The shirt is light, but he will not be able to carry the jeans any distance. Dropping these on the ground with a silent apology to their owner, he takes a pair of khaki shorts and a tee shirt. These he can lift, although he will need to rest frequently.

  As he wings away, the Changer considers what any who glimpses him might think. Had he possessed shoulders at that moment, he would have shrugged. Everyone in the Southwest knows that witches can turn themselves into owls. A sighting of an owl carrying off a shirt and a pair of shorts would add to local legend, nothing more. Certainly there would be nothing to indicate that once again the Changer walks among humankind.

  Stowing the stolen clothing in an isolated copse at the edge of sprawling pasture many miles from the Martinez ranch, he hunts mice and makes his plans for the morrow. Then he returns to his daughter and sleeps as a coyote beneath the juniper bush.