Changeling

by Delia Sherman

I bent low over the Pooka’s neck. Through his whipping mane, I saw the shadow of the Reservoir embankment and the glimmer of an early moon reflected in the Museum’s glass wall. We were almost there.

  I grinned with relief. And then I remembered that the Museum’s entrance was all the way around the building on Fifth Avenue.

  The Pooka gathered his hind legs under him and leapt up and up and up the glass wall, leaving my stomach behind. He cleared the hedge around the roof garden and landed with a tooth-jarring thump. As I rolled off his back, the Hunt appeared in the air above us, yipping and bellowing triumphantly. I scrambled under the nearest wooden bench and curled up hopelessly, waiting for the Hunt to find me.

  Nothing happened. No claws ripped the bench away. No meaty breath seared the back of my neck. After a while, I peered around the bench. The Wild Hunt was boiling like a frustrated thunderstorm a tall giant’s height above the Roof Garden.

  “What’s with them?” I asked weakly.

  The Pooka had shifted into a black goat, and was huddled in the stony folds of an abstract sculpture. “I haven’t a notion,” he said. “Perhaps they have no tickets, the creatures.”

  “Neither do you,” I said.

  “Hush. Maybe no one will notice.”

  The Hunt obviously hadn’t given up on their dinner. Claws out, they swooped toward us, only to bounce away when they hit the Museum’s invisible barrier. Then they landed on it and tried digging through it. Something about their shrieks and their ugly, screaming faces reminded me of the naughty children in Carlyle’s cage.

  Giggling, I stood up, stuck my thumbs in my ears, and gave the Wild Hunt my best booga-booga.

  “Don’t be playing the fool, Neef,” the Pooka bleated. “We’re not out of the woods yet. They’re likely playing with us, the creatures.”

  I stared at him. I’d never known the Pooka to be afraid before, or out of bright ideas, but then, I’d never seen him deal with a mess that wasn’t his idea in the first place. “It’s okay, Pooka,” I said. “The Museum’s on our side.”

  “But I haven’t a ticket,” he said nervously.

  I thought for a moment. “I’m a life member. You can get in as my guest.”

  “And the fairy girl? What of her?”

  I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten Changeling. “I don’t know. I’ll think of something. Just get under the trellis, okay? That’s where the door is.”

  The Pooka scrambled to his feet and trotted over to a long trellis next to the glass building that housed the elevator.

  I looked around for Changeling. She was lying a little distance away, with the back of her jacket pulled up over her head like a flowery turtle shell. I gave her a gentle nudge with my foot to get her attention. “We’re going inside, Changeling, where it’s quieter. See that statue under the trellisy thing? The three droopy guys with the long arms? That’s Rodin’s Shades. It’s a door guard. It’ll protect you.”

  There was a pause, and then she rolled up onto her hands and knees and scuttled toward the trellis.

  As we joined the Pooka by the door, Rodin’s Shades raised its three drooping heads. “This is not an entrance,” its three hollow voices chorused. “If you wish to visit the Museum, you must use the main entrance on Fifth Avenue.”

  “We can’t,” I said. “The Wild Hunt is in the way.”

  The statue sighed. “Is that what all the noise is about? The Curator will be very displeased.”

  “In that case,” the Pooka piped up, “he should be informed immediately, so he can deal with them. We’ll be glad to oblige, if you’re busy at all.”

  “This is not an entrance,” Rodin’s Shades repeated.

  “Looks like one to me,” I said, and banged on the door as hard as I could.

  The Curator appeared almost at once. He looked from us to the Wild Hunt wheeling overhead and opened the door.

  “What on earth is going on here?” he asked crossly. “All Hallows’ Eve isn’t for months.”

  If the Green Lady of Central Park is all about wildness and growing things, the Curator of the Metropolitan Museum is all about collecting and conserving and keeping things safe. He’s got a neat brown beard and little oval gold-rimmed spectacles clipped to his nose, and he tends to look at you as if he’s judging your authenticity. Right now, he was examining the three of us like puzzling fragments of Mesopotamian pottery.

  “Fascinating,” the Curator said. “It’s not often I see an original and a forgery side by side. Not to mention the Wild Hunt. Is that pooka with them, Neef, or with you?”

  “The Pooka,” I said. “He’s my fairy godfather.”

  “The Pooka. Of course. Well. It’s very irregular, but under the circumstances, we’d better talk about it inside.”

  He opened the door wider and we trooped in. The Pooka held his curling horns high, but I could see he was still feeling shaky. Changeling’s hair was so matted with leaves and twigs that she looked like one of the untidier moss women. She headed straight for a potted palm in the corner, rolled herself behind it, and hid her head in her arms.

  “That’s better,” the Curator said, closing the door. “Now. The forgery is welcome as long as she observes the Museum rules. The Pooka, however, poses a problem. He is not a member nor even a copy of a member. In fact, he has no more right of entry than those unspeakable hooligans outside. I don’t know what the Museum was thinking of, letting him land here.”

  “He’s my godfather,” I said. “He was saving me. Plus, I’m a life member. I get to bring guests.”

  The Curator frowned. “One guest. In this case, the forgery.”

  I thought fast. “But Changeling isn’t a forgery. She’s me. We’re both originals, like two editions of a print. We count as one person. The Pooka is our guest. It’s all completely legal. It must be. You said yourself that the Museum let him land.”

  I held my breath while the Curator stroked his beard. “A neatly circular argument,” he said, and I let it out. “Still, allowing a trickster into the Museum is likely to lead to shenanigans. I do not approve of shenanigans. They upset the exhibits. I will only let the Pooka enter if you pledge your word that he will abide by the Museum rules while he is here.”

  I looked at the Pooka, who looked back, his yellow eyes unreadable. Another promise; another responsibility I didn’t want. Tricksters are tricky, after all. They’re better at wiggling out of bargains than nixies are at swimming. But if I didn’t agree, the Pooka would have to go out and face the Wild Hunt alone.

  “I promise,” I said.

  The Pooka looked sarcastic—but then, goats always look sarcastic.

  “Good,” said the Curator. “Perhaps you’d like to start by informing him that goats are not welcome in my Museum.”

  I knelt and looked the Pooka in the eye. “You heard the Curator,” I said pleadingly. “I’ve promised you’ll be good, and I’d really, really appreciate it if you didn’t make a liar out of me.”

  The Pooka lifted his bearded chin. “It’s sore grieved I am,” he said, his brogue thick enough to spread on bread, “to know that my own godchild should be having so little faith, when I’m after saving her hide at sore risk to my own.”

  “Come on, Pooka. You know I’m grateful. You saved my life. But I’m not a total idiot, either.”

  The Pooka slid his eyes sideways, then nodded. “I promise to try, then,” he said. “And you can’t be asking for more than that, for you won’t get it.”

  I patted his cheek. “Good enough,” I said. “Let’s shake on it.”

  To shake, of course, the Pooka had to take his man shape. As a man, everything about him was long: feet, hands, hair, and body. He was so tall that the Curator only came up to his nose, and the top of my head was about even with his chest. His yellow eyes were deep-set and slanted under eyebrows like birds’ wings. He wore black jeans, red high-top sneakers, and a black T-shirt with THE OYSTER BAND stamped across the chest in faded red Celtic scrollwork.

  He tossed his long black hair out of
his eyes and held out his hand. “Since you ask so nicely,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said, and shook. He still smelled like a goat.

  The Curator nodded. “That’s settled, then. Good. Now to get this riffraff out of my air space.” He clapped his hands. “Guard!”

  The elevator clunked, the double doors whooshed open, and the Assyrian Winged Lion stalked out.

  The Pooka put his hand over his heart and bowed almost double. Even I was impressed, and the Lion and I were old friends. But he looked a lot bigger here than he did hanging out in Ancient Near Eastern Art. His golden horned cap brushed the ceiling as he bent his kingly head to the Curator.

  “The Wild Hunt is making a disturbance,” the Curator said. “Please encourage them to make it elsewhere.”

  The Wild Hunt, all teeth and claws and hunger, is as old as the forests of the Old Country and as strong as fear. But the Assyrian Lion has been protecting mortals against evil spirits since the beginnings of human civilization. He paced through the glass wall as though it didn’t exist, unfurled endless wings as bright as rainbows, and reared up onto his three back legs. He tossed his gleaming horns, opened his bearded lips, and roared until the building rattled around us.

  The Wild Hunt tumbled up and away from him like a tattered wave, wailing with terror.

  “That should settle them,” the Curator said placidly. “Now, if you’re quite sure there’s no one else trying to eat you, I need to get back to work. Enjoy your visit.”

  CHAPTER 11

  NEVER LET THE TRUTH INTERFERE WITH A GOOD STORY.

  Neef ’s Rules for Changelings

  The elevator hall seemed very empty without the Curator and the Assyrian Lion. “That was thirsty work,” said the Pooka. “Do you know if there’s such a thing as a Guinness about the place, at all?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What’s a Guinness?”

  “It’s a soothing potion for overwrought Pookas is what it is, and I’ll be wanting a good deal of it very soon, if it’s quite convenient.”

  He was looking at me with one flying eyebrow raised, waiting for an answer I didn’t have. I shrugged.

  “You must know,” he said severely. “I am clean out of my element, Neef. My nature tells me to wreak whatever havoc may suggest itself. If I can’t follow my nature, I must follow you.”

  I looked from him to Changeling, balled up behind the potted palm. I’d hoped someone else would take charge now, but it obviously wasn’t going to happen. I sighed.

  “I don’t know what Guinness is,” I told the Pooka, “so Satchel probably won’t either. We’ll have to go to the cafeteria in the Fountain Court. Pooka, you call the elevator, and I’ll get Changeling.”

  “Right you are,” said the Pooka. “What is an elevator, for all love, and how does the creature like to be called?”

  On the ground floor, we were greeted by a small green-black cat, who leaped in as the elevator door opened and wound herself around my ankles.

  The Museum guide lists Bastet as an ancient Egyptian bronze coffin for a sacred cat. She insists she’s really a goddess, and I guess she ought to know. She’s got a narrow, elegant face and bat ears, and I was so glad to see her that I would have picked her up and kissed her if I’d thought she would let me.

  “Don’t think I’ve missed you,” she purred, “or care what’s been going on or why everybody’s talking about you. I’m just here to keep the Old Market Woman company.”

  The Old Market Woman was waiting for us out in the hall, her face twisted in a furious snarl. It didn’t mean she was angry—that was just how she’d been carved. She’s a docent, someone who conducts tours of the Museum. Her specialty is Greek and Roman statuary. She is also my Ancient Greek and Latin teacher.

  “Ave, Neef,” she said. “Quo vadis?”

  “To the cafeteria,” I answered. “We’re hungry and tired, and the Pooka wants a Guinness. Do you know what a Guinness is?”

  The Old Market Woman glared at me, but her voice was calm. “Some kind of barbaric alcoholic drink, I think.”

  “I heard the Wild Hunt’s in the Museum air space,” Bastet said, popping up between us. “Did you bring it? And what’s a pooka doing in the Museum, and why are you wearing a spidersilk dress, and where did the forgery come from, and why did you bring her here?”

  I glanced at the corner by the elevator, where Changeling stood stroking the embroidered flowers on her sleeve and humming three notes up, three notes down. I chewed my lip. “I had to. I owe her a life debt.”

  “You do?” Bastet’s tail quivered eagerly. “Tell! Tell!”

  “I’m too hungry.”

  “Come eat, then,” the Old Market Woman said. “The Pooka and the forgery, too, of course.”

  I’d thought Changeling was still too freaked to be listening, but I was wrong. “I am not a forgery,” she declared. “I am a preadolescent girl.”

  Bastet tapped over to her and sat down with her bronze tail around her paws. “You are not a girl,” she told Changeling. “You were made a fairy, but you’re not one now—at least, not entirely.”

  “That is nonsense,” Changeling said. “People are not made, they are born. And fairies do not exist, except in this dream. You are teasing me, and I do not like it.”

  The Old Market Woman turned to me. “Has no one told this changeling what she is?”

  “I’ve tried,” I said. “Is it my fault if she doesn’t believe me? Can we go eat now? And Bastet—Changeling is under my protection. Could you just please be nice to her?”

  “I am a goddess,” Bastet said with dignity. “I don’t need to be nice. But I will try to be polite.”

  According to the Old Market Woman, the Fountain Court is based on the atrium of an ancient Roman house. There are slender columns holding up a vaulted ceiling, and between them is a long, shallow pool. Comma-shaped bronze dolphins dance on the surface of the water, ridden by cheerful bronze boys who tootle softly on double flutes. Art-loving Folk from all over the City sit at little round tables, refreshing themselves with maiden’s tears, fresh milk, and other Folk favorites. Astris says the Museum fairy cakes are stale, but I love them anyway.

  Today, the Court was almost deserted. The Museum is always open, but on a fine summer night, most Folk have things they’d rather do than play with mortal art.

  I found a place to sit. The Pooka drifted off, I suppose to see about the Guinness. Feeling light-headed, I unslung Satchel and asked it politely for a hamburger, medium, with ketchup and no tomato. I got it, too, although Satchel added mushrooms and forgot the ketchup. I took a big bite. And then I realized that I’d lost Changeling again.

  I checked out the corners, then thought of looking under the table, and there she was, curled around the pedestal like a plump, flowery dragon. “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want to eat?”

  “Macaroni and cheese.”

  I considered asking her what macaroni and cheese was, decided that might provoke another fairy fit, and told her I’d do my best. The Pooka wandered up with a bowl of Irish stew and a glass of black stuff with foam on top (the Guinness, I guess—it looked nasty), sat down, and devoted himself to making it go away as quickly as possible.

  Without much hope, I asked Satchel for macaroni and cheese. It made me wait for a long time, and then it gave me a wedge of cheddar and a hunk of bread and a golden apple. I explained to Changeling that Satchel didn’t do macaroni and cheese, and would she settle for cheese and bread?

  “I usually have a cheese sandwich for lunch on Monday,” Changeling said. “Is today Monday?”

  “What’s Monday?”

  Changeling stared at me resentfully, then took the cheese, careful not to touch my hand. She sniffed, then nibbled it like a mouse, starting with the pointy end of the wedge. I laid the bread and apple on the floor beside her and went back to my hamburger.

  Bastet flowed up onto the table and assumed her favorite pose, tail-around-paws. �
�I’m ready for your story now,” she said.

  “I’m eating, Bastet. Give me a break.”

  “You wanted to eat; you are eating. I want a story; I’m listening.”

  I took another bite. Bastet watched, unblinking, while I chewed it.

  “Story,” she said.

  I knew Bastet. She wasn’t going to stop pestering me until I did what she wanted. And she wasn’t the only one. While I was feeding Changeling, the Old Market Woman had appeared behind me. Also the Assyrian Lion, a Suit of Seventeenth-Century Parade Armor, a Bodhisattva of Infinite Compassion, and a dozen other docents from various periods of art history, all staring at me eagerly.

  The Curator seated himself across the table from me.

  “I am not at all pleased with having the Wild Hunt infesting my air space,” he said. “They worry the exhibits. They put off visitors to the Museum. I have given you and your curious protégés asylum. You owe me—you owe all of us—an explanation.”

  I swallowed the last bite of my hamburger and started to talk.

  Usually I like telling stories. I know all the patterns and the traditional plots that tell you what kinds of events usually go between “Once upon a time” and “They lived happily ever after.” But the story of how I brought the Pooka and Changeling to the Metropolitan Museum was full of extra things that tales like “The Twelve Dancing Debutantes” don’t have, and no happy ending in sight.

  Still, I did my best to make it all fit a fairy-tale pattern. I told my audience how once upon a time, I’d gone to the North Woods on an errand for my godmother and met an old woman under a willow. The old woman, as old women will, revealed forbidden knowledge to me: in this case, the existence of the Solstice Dance. I told how I wanted to go to the dance more than anything in the world, and how I’d bargained with the kazna peri for a keep-awake charm and how I’d fooled Astris and the sandman and how I’d climbed a tree and watched the Folk of New York Between dance under the stars.

  When I got to how I saw the other mortal changelings and joined the dance, I glanced over at the Curator. He was shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.