CHANGELING
MICHAEL MARANO
ChiZine Publications
COPYRIGHT
“Changeling” © 2012 by Michael Marano
All rights reserved.
Published by ChiZine Publications
This short story was originally published in Stories from the Plague Years by Michael Marano, first published in print form in 2012, and in an ePub edition in 2012, by ChiZine Publications. Stories from the Plague Years was originally published as a limited edition hardback by Cemetery Dance Publications.
Original ePub edition (in Stories from the Plague Years) October 2012 ISBN: 9781927469224.
This ePub edition December 2012 ISBN: 978-1-927469-68-2.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
Toronto, Canada
www.chizinepub.com
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CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Changeling
About the Author
Publication History
More Dark Fiction from ChiZine Publications
CHANGELING
I felt myself blacken as if charred, felt my skin drink fireless smoke as I was stained with the echo of solidity. I remembered and relived another moment, one of freezing cold in the midst of a bright warm summer, a moment of my taking the fair color of frost amid green meadows and barrows as I was made pale as lime-bleached skin scant days before I’d first heard the sound of a man’s eyes turning to wood.
And with that long-ago press of smooth wood against the soft cups of his sight, I had been freed.
I am not now free, any more than is the boy whose shade I reflect through his demonization, through the reverse-exorcism canticles that tend the seed of spite deep within him. The seed sprouts. I feel it. It earth-breathes despair the boy cannot grasp, but that the boy knows with the same intimacy that he knows his dreams. The boy does not feel the germ quiver to life . . . to my life . . . and the lives of my distant, more bodiless kin who sleep in his imagining.
I now know no meadows, no earthwork mounds heaped over chambers of rusting swords. This is a place and a time in which eyes are not turned to wood, but are turned to things like shining dark stones. There is no sound to accompany this changing of eyes to stone, for unlike the crack of rowan bursting thin socket-walls of skull, this change of eyes involves no alchemy of pain—it is merely the reflection of moving light that is pulled out of the air and forced to dance in a box with a face of curved glass. The glass face of the box gives the eyes of those who stare into it the same dead sheen I have seen in the eyes of blind grandmothers who crossed themselves feeling my nearness.
Invisible, I looked into stone-smooth eyes. I breathed without lungs a darkness like deep winter midnight behind the box that flickered the blue light of moving images no less alive than am I. Invisible, I swallowed the black of dead spectra while fear of persons and things dark-skinned worm-twitched in the minds of the boy’s parents and envenomed the boy’s mind and his image of himself. I felt myself stamped with fears I did not welcome, fears that would further color me and force upon me untouchable shape. I am clay molded by hands without nails, skin or nerves. I could be beautiful. I have been beautiful before, heralded by the crash of a snow-coloured stag from out the brush and by the songs of birch to oak. But here, now, there is no desire or need for me to be beautiful.
I felt kinship with the image moving within the glass face of the box. The image was flax-pulled from the ether by wire and metal that flowed with tamed and thunder-less lightning . . . just as I had been pulled from the air and given unfinished shape by this house of stifled, silenced anger. I am changed by this house, as a blown horn changes the air within it.
Later, as I was soured by the dreams of the child who slept above me, I wept a deaf nothingness from empty sockets of dust, knowing what I’d be made to feel and become.
The boy sweats poison, resting above me in a nest of blankets he twists about himself. His parents would welcome the hatchling of a cuckoo. They would embrace a twisted, stunted changeling, such as I had once been, running from the scalding of a font atop the backs of pews that were splintered by my hoofs. They desire a monster in lieu of their son, for such a monster would free them from knowing the child they have.
Longing for a monster, they craft one—and I am echo-crafted as well. Just as a smith would beat impurities from iron he shapes, so do they remove things they do not wish the boy to have, such qualities as they doubt exist in themselves, that they snuff to convince themselves of their worth.
With morning, comes a new crafting.
“What is this?” asks the mother. Like the air above a bellows, the room shimmers in my eyeless sight as she speaks. She kicks with a soft slippered foot a portrait of dust-grey strokes and red glowing eyes. It’s a scrawl. A collision of bracken-angry lines. A portrait of me. The paper leaf-glides across a floor so smooth and clean as to seem rubbed with beeswax; it skids past where the boy lay on his belly next to a wall and comes to rest in my hovel that is the underneath of his bed.
The boy says nothing. I hear in his mind the belief that he speaks the word, “Nothing.” The belief churns the haze of the room. He draws a dragon on another piece of paper with a nub of green wax. There is no dust, here in my hovel. The picture of me, of the impressions of me that he has caught in moonlight, flutters from a slight draft that rides the smooth floor.
The boy’s mother leaves. I hear her say what she does not speak. Her wish to truly say it makes the bellows-haze of the room flurry like wasps.
“You’re shit.”
The boy presses harder with his stick of wax as his mother’s thought grips the back of his neck.
There is pressure as I take the red eyes the boy has drawn, as I become a glamour just a bit more visible than I had been.
The boy feeds me poison in the night.
But only what poison he spits up.
The father sits before the box that sorcel-traps moving images. The boy is nervous as he sits beside the father, and wishes to be welcome, and to not be afraid. While fear murks with desire, I am summoned to stand behind the boy, pulled as if by a rope crafted of the twitching legs of wasps. The boy is aware of me, as some are aware of the coming of storms in their bones. I know this limbo. It is a home to me. It is the color of the boundary suspended between the earth and sky, where Beltane offerings killed by rope or fire are most treasured—where flesh burns best and where seed that would give me a woman’s form of root-matter falls best. Time shifts, as if by a farewell, or by the start of a cloaked exile. The boy conjures, out of the need to be acknowledged, and by the fear that he will be acknowledged. The motes of my being respond to the boy’s silent chant before this glowing altar.
Words of power and invocation filth the air, but they are not spoken by any who have breath or throat. The words are dream-syllables that accommodate the father’s dread and desire. Though I know not what the words mean, they have the bile-flavour of weregild, of deep shadow forests forbidden to travelers and the desperate springtime lifting of flesh with a stone knife to ensure a bounty of crops. The words are pulled from the ether. The father takes the trance of their power, as if they are spoken by a hierophant before a bloody stone table. The bodiless voice carried from the box with the face of glass has the feel of greasy metal cooling.
. . . youths . . . disturbances . . . wildings . . .
The words of power seize the mind o
f the father and wave-daub the mind of the boy. The un-present priest speaking the words is made of shifting light trapped within the box. He is a spell that itself casts a spell. He is less real than is the shifting light of heat and marsh-breath that births will-o’-wisps, though he is much more powerful in his capacity to bewitch and lead astray.
. . . shooting . . . unrest . . . drug-related . . .
The phrases connecting the thrawn-words are nothing. They are like the chants that bridge the uttered Names of gods that are at once loved and dreaded; the bridging words serve only to pace out the invocations. The gorge of fear nourishes both father and son. The gorge of fear shores the walls, and makes this home a fortress of the imagination. It masques the walls in the guise of a haven safe from fell beings—beings who, in the minds of those who live here, carry only the shape of humanity. I had been once such a fell being of human shape in this very spot, which had been a wood-rimmed clearing scant years before the sundering of trees and the fever-swift building of houses. I had once been made a giant of a man, glimpsed. I had been the gleam of a hook where there had been a hand. I had been both the snapping of a twig and the imagined boot that snapped the twig. Fear and desire had danced in this spot before the coming of houses, though in a way much different from how they do now.
. . . violence . . . urban . . . projects . . .
I am made more visible to the boy’s storm-seeking nerves. I drizzle the blood in his spine cold. Were he to stand, his knees would be limp for reasons he could not guess. The father is made more uncomfortable by the boy’s discomfort. He looks to his child, freshly in awe of the god- words of fear he has unknowingly worshipped. He hates the boy’s lack of deformity. Hates the lack of wickedness in the boy that would exonerate him from the apostasy of despising his own issue. The father looks to the box’s glass face, to the will-o’-wisp priest whose image gives way to images of shadow-people running on city streets. The father’s own face would be reflected on the glass if he strained to see it, in the same way he would see the lack of monstrosity in his child if he chose to see it.
“Not my kid,” he thinks for the pleasure of thinking it and the pleasure of controlling his reality by fiat. His discomfort abates, as if pressed under a poultice. And with that thought of the father’s, the muscles of the boy’s back clench as if a blade were drawn at his hind. It is the same tension I was aware of in a girl who long ago turned and searched for me beneath a great outcrop of rock without knowing why, but who knew that she would find me there swaddled in tresses of my own hair. The boy knows he is thought of by his father, and is in an ecstasy of hope for a kind word and of fear of punishment for an unspoken offense.
The father lets his hand drop to the back of the pillowed bench on which they sit, and does not know that the boy expects at once a pat upon the head or a pulling of his hair—both have been bestowed to the boy with equal suddenness. The father does not know why, but is pleased by the confusion he senses in the boy; hope and dread flavour the air in a way that allows me to taste my own ether-misted physicality.
The father himself becomes a hierophant, using words of power like those that have touched his mind. He gestures to the box, to the image of a city goblin led in shackles.
“You ever become a little white nigger like that, I’ll kill you.”
The father pats the boy’s head, and the boy waits to feel fingers close and pull.
I darken. My red eyes take sclera of white.
In his ecstasy of acceptance and fear, the boy would see my shape if he turned his head.
The pictures tell a story in bright colors of god-like warriors and chieftains. The boy fixes upon one image that fascinates and terrifies him. He presses the image upon the paper with his gaze, and I am pinned beneath the boy in my hovel under his bed; his attentions and fears hold me fast, as would a needle driven through the back of a beetle. The boy has endured more this day. Conscripted by his mother to help make food, she reviled him for dropping eggs like those I would have once spoiled with an infusion of my essence to announce my coming with the retch- smell of sulphur. Still stinging from her reproach, in the night he now stares at the image of a monster, a beast-man, abominating it to feel superior to it while at the same time feeling kinship with it for being abominated.
The boy enters a new trance staring at the image, a new state of half-vision brought upon by half-wakefulness.
But later in darkness, the boy lies fully awake above me while he tries to sleep.
In darkness, in the deep night, he has made me densely formed enough with his trance for me to draw raspy breath that he barely hears. The branch-twig fingers of the claws he has given me can lightly click upon the floor.
I am the living wyrd he needs to despise. His eyes dry in the darkness, for he is too afraid to blink. He fears to whistle up the flameless light he thinks may dispel me, believing I will seize his arm in the dry bark of my grasp as he reaches for the lamp. But I cannot seize him, so immobile am I made by his fear.
The boy’s eyes are dry, and I speak to them.
I change the darkness; while I am so dense, it is my food. I fill the darkness with forms as I pluck shades from pitch and depths from moon-whispered greys. I force shapes and beasts and apparitions onto the smooth stones of his sight. Immobile, I feed on shadows. I must while so physical. And I exhaust him with fear. His racing mind finally sleeps, and I am free to wander the house that has snared me.
This home is orderly. Where there had been thicket and rim of moss-draped trees before, when I had been a hook-handed monster, there is now nothing for me to straighten in the night and so incur the thanks that would free me from this place. The tables and cutting boards are wiped with oil so fine, the wood beneath cannot ever breathe or rot. There is no winter fuel to stack. No wool to spin. No residue of the eggs broken at dusk lingers to give me a homunculus-like form that would drop to shapelessness with the crowing of the cock.
I stand above the mother as she sleeps, for she demands that I do. I become the intruder she fears. The Man With The Knife she welcomes to dread, so that she as a victim will be free of the sick burden of self-determination that she so resents. The father feels the house in his sleep more tangibly than he does the blankets he rests beneath. He feels himself shackled to his property; it owns him. His worries infuse the timbers. They vibrate and are strengthened with his sweat-slicked fear.
The boy had liked the screaming, and so I choke on remorse. Remorse is alien to me . . . thus I am more familiar with its cruelties than are those who are born with it. I have never welcomed it, any more than the boy would welcome the hand of another grafted to his wrist. I try to fathom remorse, to know it as would one for whom it is natural as skin. Thus am I hurt by it more.
The boy had liked the screaming; it walks his mind. And thus he presses regret out of himself. It flavours the poison that has flavoured me these past six winters. The boy had liked the screaming, and the fur-warm twitching in his hands that became still.
I have lurked near boys like him, for whom the drowning of kittens had been a chore, and the screams a bother to be tolerated, like cuts inflicted by the baling of hay. I have stood behind such boys, who were infused with the smell of compost and rotting chaff. I have dried the milk in the udders of animals in their charge and made them fear for their blood in the night.
Remorse veins the air. I hate it. And in hating it, I feel remorse all the more strongly.
The boy has seen me, in the same way the farmer of long ago had seen me for an instant in glory upon the barrow I warded, in the second his eyes re-fleshed to smooth-grained rowan. The instant of the boy’s blinding reveals me. The thunder of his skull shattering from scores of small stones thrown by a blast of charcoal and sulphur had been uglier than the sounds of wooden orbs pulled by the tongs of a blacksmith. The boy’s eyes that had been made stone had been burst by stone.
The house, with the sundering of the boy’s mind, has fully accepted the maledictions spoken
to the boy over the passing years. They now invisibly wright the walls. They are the hated legacy of a hated place that holds the curse of a youth dying by his own violence within it.
The house is like the barrow. It is like the great stone I slept under by the roadside. Yet those places had been free to the air and sky. These invested walls hold me; they have been taught to grip fast the anxious worry that first snared me. They hold the boy who had found no release for his stifled remorse other than through thunder, fire and stones thrown through smooth and oiled pipes of metal. His remorse chokes me and thicket-traps me fast.
I am the conscripted midwife to the haunting of this place. The boy is that which haunts. He had seen me in the instant of his death. He is lonely and afraid of what I might be in the un-fleshed spaces of the place that had been home to him, and that shall be his home past death. His fear of me perpetuates the poison he had been fed; it no longer needs to be spoken. Yet despite his fear I cannot reach him. He is visible, yet untouchable as the grain of wood beneath beeswax.
We shall haunt this place separately until it falls.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Marano is a former punk rock DJ, bouncer, and the author of the modern dark fantasy classic Dawn Song, which won both the International Horror Guild and Bram Stoker Awards, and which will be reprinted by ChiZine Publications in 2013, to be followed by two sequels. For more than 20 years, his film reviews and pop culture commentary have been a highlight of the nationally syndicated Public Radio Satellite System show Movie Magazine International. His non-fiction has appeared in alternative newspapers such as The Independent Weekly, The Boston Phoenix and The Weekly Dig, as well as in magazines such as Paste and Fantastique. His column “MediaDrome” has been a wildly popular feature in Cemetery Dance since 2001. He currently divides his time between a neighbourhood in Boston that had been the site of a gang war that was the partial basis of The Departed and a sub-division in Charleston, SC a few steps away from a former Confederate Army encampment. He can be reached at www.michaelmarano.com.
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