Peter And The Changeling (Story #3)

by Darren Pillsbury

“Dude, I need math test answer ointment,” Dill said.

  “‘Otherwise, fairies may choose to reveal themselves to humans, but unless they do so, cannot be seen unless the viewer chooses to enter the fairie realm. See page 122.’”

  Peter flipped several pages and gasped.

  13

  In the new section, there was yet another picture of an old painting: a man standing in a ring of mushrooms, surrounded by fairies swirling through the air and several ugly trolls on the ground.

  “Dill, look!”

  “Read it to me.”

  “I can’t, it’s a picture! LOOK at it !”

  Dill walked over, grumbling, and took a look at the book. “What, it’s some dude standing in a bunch of mushroOH, CRAP.”

  Peter pointed to the page excitedly. “‘Fairy rings are circles of mushrooms growing in fields or forests, and are by far the most reliable gateways to the fairie kingdom. Any human who steps inside one may well be transported to the fairie world, whether they desire it or not.’ Beth stepped inside one of these! Dill, that’s why she disappeared – she’s in the fairie world! We gotta go in there and get her back!”

  Dill frowned and pointed at the text. “Whoa, whoa, look – ‘There are many dangers if one enters the fairie world.’”

  “‘Time does not exist in fairie world as it does in the human world,’” Peter picked up. “‘One night in fairieland may be equal to a hundred years in the human world.’”

  Dill grew truly excited. “SWEET! Dude, that means if we spend one night there, we don’t have to go back to school EVER!’”

  “‘The most notorious story of a human being trapped in fairie world is Rip Van Winkle,’” Peter continued. “‘Though the strangely dressed men he encountered did not identify themselves as fairies, they undoubtedly were. Either the liquor they gave him was a fairie ambrosia, or he went to sleep in a fairy ring. Either way, when he awoke he discovered that twenty years had passed. He did not recognize anyone from the town where he lived, their having grown old and died or moved away. Moreover, even though a person experiences fairie time in hours, it is possible that he can age as though ‘human time’ is passing. Two hours spent in fairieland can often age a person by decades, as was the case with Van Winkle, who laid down a young man and awoke white-haired with a beard. Since time shifts unpredictably outside the human dimensions, Van Winkle’s experience is not always the case, though it should be taken into account before entering fairie world.’”

  Dill stroked his chin. “I could use a beard.”

  “‘Besides the uncontrollable aspects of sped-up time, the dangers of fairieland include wasting away physically. If the visitor to fairieland does not eat anything or fall asleep, he is far more likely to walk away from the visit unaffected. There is also the danger of physical attacks, which can be quite vicious depending on which type of fairie is the aggressor. Small winged fairies are usually more mischievous than malicious. Brownies, elves, and gnomes are usually more troublesome, but rarely lethal. Though Will o’ the Wisps have been known to lure travelers to their deaths in swamps, the visitor to fairieland should be especially careful of trolls and their various cousins (red caps, bogies, kobolds, goblins, etc.), who are aggressive, ill-tempered, and prone to deadly and unprovoked acts of violence.’”

  Peter gulped.

  “Great,” Dill muttered. “Why couldn’t we get a stupid flying fairy changeling? But nooooo, we had to get a freakin’ troll baby.”

  “‘Luckily for humans, there are some protections that a traveler can take to safeguard himself. Turning clothes inside out, such as a jacket, will discourage fairy and troll attacks.’” Peter looked up from the book. “I guess we gotta wear our clothes inside-out.”

  Dill frowned. “Really? That seems awful stupid.”

  Peter shrugged. “Beats me, that’s just what it says.”

  Dill thought for a second. “Maybe they’re afraid of the dirty underwear.”

  Peter’s face contorted into a yuck! expression. “What?!”

  “If you turn your underwear inside-out, maybe they don’t want to touch the skid marks, so they leave you alone.”

  “Skid marks?!”

  “Yeah, the little lines from your butt. You know, when you don’t wipe so good?”

  “EWWW!”

  “That’s how my dad says you know which side of your underwear is which: yellow in the front, brown in the back.”

  “GROSS!”

  Dill rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t have skid marks.”

  “I don’t!”

  “Well, you’re going to get beat up by trolls then.” Dill cracked his fingers. “Dirty underwear is gonna save my life. Anytime my mom says from now on to put on a clean pair of tighty-whities, I’m just gonna tell her no, I gotta be safe from troll attacks.”

  Peter looked at Dill out of the corner of his eye, then went back to reading.

  “‘Also, fairies and trolls particularly dislike iron. Even the simplest object made from iron causes physical pain or distress in a fairie creature, and thus makes a particularly effective weapon against fairie folk.’”

  “Why don’t they like irons?” Dill asked.

  “I don’t know…cuz they’re hot?”

  “But that means you gotta keep it plugged in all the time.” Dill shook his head. “Stupid fairies.”

  “Okay, so we gotta get out of here…get an iron…then we gotta catch the changeling… and then we gotta take it back to the mushrooms in the field, go to fairieland, and trade it back for Beth.”

  Dill nodded in agreement. “But first we gotta turn our underwear inside-out.”

  Peter wrinkled up his nose. “Just keep it on the INSIDE of your pants, dude.”

  “What, we don’t wear it on the outside like your sister’s Strawberry Shortcake bathing suit?”

  “NO.”

  Dill scowled. “Well, what fun is that?”

  “It’s not fun at ALL. I don’t want to see your skid marks.”

  “Dude, how is the smell going to knock out the trolls if it’s trapped in my pants?”

  “Aw, JEEZ Dill, cut it out.”

  “Seriously – how are they going to be afraid of the skid marks if they can’t SEE them?”

  As Dill chattered on, Peter closed the book – only to see something beneath it that caught his eye.

  14

  On the desk was an extremely old book with yellowed pages, which were filled with indecipherable symbols and strange letters. Next to it lay a notebook with sentences scrawled in pencil. Peter recognized the handwriting immediately from notes that Grandfather had left on the kitchen table.

  The penciled words seemed to be a translation of the ancient book. Every so often there were questions in parentheses, as though Grandfather was not clear about the meaning of some of the strange text.

  The CURSE shall fall upon the Flannagan family for thirteen generations, at which point it (the family? the curse?) will end, and all debts will be paid. The final member of the family will bring about great works and woe, but the last battle between good and evil (final battle of the family, or final battle of all time?) will settle the CURSE and finally destroy

  “Destroy what?” Peter whispered under his breath.

  “What’d you say?” Dill asked, his voice muffled.

  Peter looked up. Dill was nowhere in sight; apparently he was somewhere behind a bookcase.

  “Nothing,” Peter called out, then looked down at the notebook. He flipped back through several pages of the handwritten journal, but the rest was mostly boring scraps of sentences about things he didn’t understand – “the library at Alexandria,” “the rise of the Beast,” “the great Deceiver.”

  The CURSE…thirteen generations…the last battle between good and evil…the final member of the family…

  What did it mean?

  And destroy what?

  “How do I look?” Dill asked as he came out from behind the bookcase, his trademark yellow, orange, and red-str
iped shirt turned inside-out. So were his oversized shorts: the holey pockets hung outside the pants like the bunny ears of a raggedy, stuffed animal. Thank God his underwear was nowhere to be seen.

  Dill immediately saw that Peter looked exactly the same as five minutes before. “Hey, what gives? You’re not even dressed yet!”

  Peter had been so engrossed in the foreboding translation about the Curse that he hadn’t realized Dill was getting prepped for battle. “Um…I was getting ready to…I, uh, got distracted by something else in the book,” Peter half-lied.

  “Do you see me getting distracted? No! Do you see me slacking? NO!” Dill ranted. “Get it in gear, Normal!”

  “All right, all right,” Peter said as he slipped out of the chair.

  “When that troll baby bites your butt, I’m gonna laugh my head off! But it’s not gonna bite me! Wanna know why?”

  “I know why! Now shut up and let me change!” Peter snapped as he headed behind a bookshelf.

  But Dill was enjoying himself too much to let it go. “Am I the only one around here who cares about getting your sister back from the troll baby?”

  “You don’t care about Beth at all, you just want to wear your underwear inside-out!” Peter stuck his head out and looked around the bookshelf. “By the way, thank you very much for not wearing it outside, at least.”

  Dill grinned. “Ohhhh, I’m not wearing it at all.”

  Peter frowned. “What?!”

  “That’s right, I’m goin’ commando,” Dill said proudly as he fished out something from his back pocket. “And if that troll baby comes after me, I got my secret weapon RIGHT HERE.”

  Dill thrust his dingy tighty-whities up in the air like some proud soldier rallying his troops in the Underwear Wars.

  Peter ducked back behind the safety of the bookshelf, thankful that he had seen only dull gray in Dill’s hand and nothing yellow or brown.

  15

  The first assault on the troll baby didn’t go so well.

  They opened the doors of the library quietly and peered outside. The ceiling, walls, and the floor were bare; the changeling was nowhere to be seen.

  “Head for the kitchen first,” Peter whispered. “Let’s get the iron.”

  They padded softly down the hallway, Peter looking forward and Dill looking behind them for any sign of the creature. When they reached the kitchen, Peter stuck his head through the open doorway and scanned the room. No sign of Beth…or whatever had taken her place. That didn’t mean she wasn’t hiding somewhere, though.

  The laundry room was across the kitchen and eating area, in a little cubbyhole just past the oven and stove. The door was closed, which hopefully meant the changeling wasn’t inside.

  Peter looked back at Dill and jerked his head in a c’mon motion. They tiptoed across the kitchen, looking every which way for an indication they were being followed.

  Instead, they heard it first: a low, raspy, breathing sound. Hhh…hhh…hhhh…

  It was behind them.

  Peter and Dill looked over their shoulders, and Peter mentally slapped himself on the forehead. When he had stuck his head in the kitchen, he had looked at the floors, at all the walls around him, at the ceiling. He had looked up; he just hadn’t looked straight up.

  Beth was right above the door, clinging sideways to the wall in a crawling pose. Except it definitely wasn’t Beth anymore. It still wore the pink rainbow shirt and plastic potty-training pants, but now the changeling had turned a light shade of green, gone completely bald, and developed long, pointy ears. Its eyes had also bugged out of their sockets like ping pong balls with tiny black pupils. The creature stared at Peter and Dill with a slightly quizzical look, perhaps confused by their inside-out clothes.

  That didn’t stop it from attacking, though.

  “Raarararararaaaa!” it shrieked as it launched itself from the wall like a giant frog and thudded into Peter’s chest, knocking him to the ground.

  All the air in Peter’s lungs whooshed out the second he hit the floor. He never had the chance to scream, but Dill was doing fine for both of them.

  Peter desperately tried to breathe, but couldn’t – and what was worse, his arms and legs felt so weak that he could do nothing but stare up at the green, grinning thing on his chest. It opened its jagged teeth and flopped around its purplish-pink tongue. The bug eyes stared intently into Peter’s as the changeling cocked its head. Peter didn’t know what was more horrifying: lying there helpless with the hot, damp breath on his skin and the droplets of drool on his shirt – or what happened next.

  A white shape zoomed directly over his head and flopped over the changeling’s face. Except the shape wasn’t exactly all white…there were some faded tan and yellow stains all over it, and several brown-colored streaks.

  Dill’s tighty-whities.

  Unfortunately, it was right about then that Peter’s breath rushed back into his lungs, and he was hit with a smell like a school bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned in three weeks.

  Behind him, Dill yelled, “Bullseye!”

  Peter screamed louder than he had in his entire life, louder even than when he had confronted vampires and burned-up dead men. Dill’s underpants were just that horrifying.

  Bad as Peter had it, the changeling had it ten times worse. It didn’t realize what had happened, apparently, and it jerked its head left and right with the tighty-whities draped over its face. Then it took a big snuffling breath, like a dog sniffing another dog’s butt.

  Peter assumed that Dill’s butt smelled much worse than a dog’s, because the changeling screamed louder than Peter had ever heard anything else scream, even himself.

  The baby troll flipped backwards off of Peter’s chest, apparently in a panic – but, blinded by the foul underwear wrapped around its head, it ran full-tilt into the wall. WHAM!

  It immediately turned around and raced right into a kitchen chair.

  SLAM!

  It staggered around in circles, screaming and shaking its head violently, trying to shake free of the nasty blindfold on its face.

  “ACK-ACK-ACKACKACKACKACKACKACKACK!”

  “WHO’S THE MAN!” Dill shouted at the changeling. “WHO’S YER DADDY!”

  Peter pulled himself off of the floor, grabbed Dill by the arm, and dragged him towards the laundry room. By now the changeling had gotten wise: it had rolled onto its back and was kicking, scratching and clawing at the tighty-whities on its face.

  Of course, Dill was still being Dill. “WHADDAYOU THINK OF ME NOW, BUTT-UGLY MONSTER BABY? WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ME NOW?!”

  By the time Peter opened the laundry door, the changeling had ripped the underwear to shreds, flipped back onto all fours, and was positioned to charge. It looked like a miniature bull with Yoda’s face, except Yoda was furious, his eyes were bloodshot with rage, and he was foaming at the mouth. Plus he was wearing a pink rainbow shirt and plastic undies.

  “BOO-YAH, TROLL BABY! BOO-YAH!” Dill whooped.

  “Get in here!” Peter yelled as he dragged Dill inside the laundry room. The changeling charged full-tilt, its finger- and toenails scrabbling over the floor. Peter slammed the door just in time, and the changeling hit the wood with a BOOM!

  “Raaaaaarararararararararararararar!” it screeched, and head-butted the door again. BOOM! And again. BOOM! And again. BOOM!

  Thirty seconds later the head-butts ceased, and Peter could hear the thing muttering angrily to itself as it paced back and forth across the kitchen floor.

  “KISS MAH BUTT, TROLL BABY!” Dill yelled in a fake Southern accent.

  There was another screech outside, another clicking of nails, and another BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! against the door before the changeling went away chattering to itself again.

  “Don’t make it any angrier than it already is!” Peter hissed.

  “Maybe it’ll knock itself out on the door, you ever thought of that?”

  “Maybe it’ll come busting through the door, you ever though of that?”

  “
You’re just jealous that my underwear totally saved the day,” Dill said smugly.

  “Yeah, about that: if you ever have to make the choice again between letting me die and throwing your smelly underwear two inches in front of my face, LET ME DIE, okay?”

  “Whatever. I noticed that our turned-inside-out clothes didn’t do a dang thing. You notice that?”

  “I was too busy trying not to puke.”

  “Yeah, that troll baby’s gross now, huh?”

  “I wasn’t talking about the troll baby, I was talking about the – ”

  “That’s why I don’t read books,” Dill interrupted. “You read something, you do it, and freakin’ troll babies still kick your butt. Stupid books. I’m never going to read anything again my entire life.

  Dill paused. “Except comic books.

  He paused again. “And the funny papers. Except FAMILY CIRCLE, I don’t read FAMILY CIRLE. Or BEETLE BAILEY – why do they even still have BEETLE BAILEY?” he complained.

  Peter had moved on to looking for the iron. There it was, up on the rows of metal racks lining the laundry room wall. A thousand things sat up there: liquid detergent, bottles of bleach and stain remover, a box of Snuggle dryer sheets, several rolls of paper towels, an old blender, an even older egg beater, tons of unused Tupperware containers, a package of 20 Scotch tape dispensers Mom had bought from the nearest office supply store, a giant pack of Post-It notes, a rusty old can of ball point pens and Sharpies, a spray bottle of furniture polish, mounds of rags for dusting –

  “Why don’t we just go out the window?” Dill asked.

  Peter looked over at the ancient washer and dryer sitting side by side and the window just above them. It would have been so easy to climb up on one of the machines, open the window, jump out, and make a run for it. Peter could clearly see the rose bushes out back and the open sky and fields beyond.

  But Mom would be coming home soon. They couldn’t possibly stall her for longer than two minutes. If they begged her to stay outside until Grandfather came home, that would surely make her barge past them into the house. If the changeling didn’t kill her, shock over finding a troll baby instead of her daughter would. OR she would freak out over Peter and Dill losing Beth and kill them both, which was a situation worth avoiding, too.

  There was the chance Grandfather might get home before her. He might know exactly what to do. But even though he had been surprisingly un-angry about the vampires and the hobos, he hadn’t exactly been nice about them, either...and Peter still felt guilty that he had lost Beth, and that somehow this was all his fault for being a bad brother.