Changeling

by William Ritter

  Kull pointed to an ancient piece of sun-bleached, knotted rope halfway up the nearest tree. “Witchies’ knots.” He chewed on his bottom lip. “We shouldn’a be here,” he said.

  Annie let her eyes slide down the trunk. There, near the bottom of the tree, a fresh notch had been cut in the shape of a jagged C. “The boys have been here,” she said. “Come on.”

  Cole and Tinn were crouched behind a fallen tree when the figure from the fog finally reached the shore of the Oddmire. He could not have been more than three feet tall—a man, or male, at least, and very old. This much they surmised from the enormous peppery beard that burst thickly from his face and did not stop until it was dragging on the ground near his toes. The beard was so full and bushy that the man’s short, thin body was almost entirely hidden behind it, like an afterthought to the facial hair. Two scrawny arms stuck out from the sides of the beard and two dirty bare feet padded along the earth beneath it, but the figure’s torso was completely lost to the hairy nest. From out of the top of the bushy mess peeked a wide nose, two squinting eyes, and a very bald head.

  In the center of the strange man’s beard, like a robin’s nest tucked in the knothole of a tree, was the source of the light: a single stout candle shone from within the wiry hair. The beard glowed around the flame, light flickering through its curls, but it did not appear to burn. Ivory trails of wax trickled below the candle and made themselves a part of the mighty beard.

  The man faltered as he moved, taking small, hesitant steps toward the forest and casting glances back at the swamp. He had not yet spotted the boys. A bright yellow butterfly flitted through trees beside him, and the man froze. His eyes went wide and his nostrils flared. His mustache hairs wiggled as he panted, watching the little insect flutter across the clearing.

  Tinn and Cole looked at each other, then back at the strange old man.

  The butterfly was three feet away from him when he suddenly exploded into motion, grasping for the little thing like a cat swiping at a fly. He almost had it once or twice, but the butterfly climbed above his reach and up into the forest canopy.

  The old man cursed under his breath. He leaned his hands on his knees, looking defeated.

  Cole screwed up his courage and stood up. “Um. Hi,” he said.

  The little man jumped, made a startled noise that sounded a bit like a donkey sneezing, tried to throw himself backward and sideways at the same time, tripped over his own feet, and finally spun headlong into a mossy stump. He sat there, dazed for a moment, looking like an unruly pile of damp hair.

  “It’s okay!” Cole said, holding out his hands in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. Tinn stepped out to join him.

  “Hey, mister. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re friendly.”

  “We just want to talk to you,” added Cole. “About the swamp.”

  The man wobbled and gazed up at the twins. He blinked rapidly and then looked from one to the other and back again. He squinted, shook his head, and raised one bushy eyebrow. Slowly, he held up two fingers.

  “Two?” said Tinn. “Yeah, there’s two of us. We’re twins.”

  Satisfied, the man nodded and let the hand drop.

  “I’m Cole,” said Cole. “And this is Tinn. What’s your name?”

  The man’s eyes darted between them. The flame at his chest danced wildly, although neither of the boys could feel a breeze. He did not respond.

  “They don’t use names,” said a voice above them, and Fable dropped down to the ground right behind the boys with a soft thump. The skittish figure at their feet gave a startled yelp and pressed backward against the stump.

  “And they hardly ever talk, either,” added Fable. “Except to each other. They’re called hinkypunks. Used to be lots of them in the forest. Lots of other magical forest folk, too. They pretty much all left, though. Even the gnomes left.”

  The little man pushed himself up to his full if unimposing height and straightened his beard, looking through narrowed eyes at the three children. With a slightly accusatory expression on his face, he held up three fingers.

  “Oh. Yeah, there are actually three of us, I guess,” said Tinn. Behind him, Fable did not try to hide her smile. “That one’s called Fable. She’s annoying, but she’s not gonna hurt you, either. So what do we call you?”

  The man pursed his lips, furrowing his brow as he scratched behind his ear.

  “Hinkypunks just are what they are,” Fable said. “They haven’t got names.”

  “They must’ve called each other something,” said Cole, “back when there was more than one of them.”

  “Come to think of it, where did they go?” said Fable, leaning in toward the old man. “All the other hinkypunks and the spriggans and pixies and stuff—do you know where they went? Mama said you all had to leave, but she didn’t say why. And how come you didn’t go with them?”

  The hinkypunk’s candle dimmed and flickered. He glanced at Fable, and his shoulders sagged.

  “You didn’t want them to go without you, did you?” said Tinn. “And now you’re all alone?”

  The odd man just stared at the ground and heaved a sigh. His brow cast a heavy shadow over his eyes.

  “Look. Um. We need to get to the other side of the Oddmire,” Cole said.

  The man’s gaze flicked to the swamp.

  “We saw you crossing. Do you think you could show us the way?”

  The hinkypunk’s eyes widened for a moment, and he looked as if he would like to climb right out of his own hair and run away.

  “I like your beard,” said Fable. “And your candle. I’m gonna call you Candlebeard, okay?”

  The hinkypunk raised his head a fraction. He shrugged.

  “Will you take us to the other side?” Fable asked.

  Candlebeard glanced at the swamp. He swallowed.

  “I’m really sorry about your family,” said Tinn softly. “I wish we could help you.”

  Candlebeard nodded glumly.

  “But if you helped us, it might just help all the magical creatures left in the Wild Wood. It would definitely help my family. You see, it’s really important that we get to the other side of the Oddmire. It would mean an awful lot if you would show us the way.”

  Candlebeard pursed his lips. Very gradually, he raised his hand. It trembled just a little. He was holding up four fingers.

  “Yeah,” said Tinn. “The four of us.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Candlebeard stepped out into the murky mire and planted one muddy foot firmly on nothing at all. At least, to the boys it appeared to be nothing at all. His toes sank just beneath the surface of the swamp and then held steady.

  He glanced back and gestured for the children to follow. His candle flame bobbed hazily in the reflection beneath him, and then he turned again and hopped a few feet farther along. Where his foot had been, the murky water bubbled and the faintest dimple remained, like a fingerprint left in rising bread dough.

  Cole looked at Tinn. “Well. Here goes,” he said.

  “Wait,” said Tinn, but Cole was already stepping out into the swirling water of the mire. He planted his foot on the fading patch that was the hinkypunk’s footprint. His boot sank an inch or so under the foamy gray-green surface, but then he found himself standing firmly a few feet out from the shore.

  “There’s a step!” he exclaimed. “A stump or a stone or something—it’s just beneath the water!”

  Candlebeard had already moved two or three steps farther along the hidden route.

  “Hey! Wait up!” Cole called.

  Candlebeard could not hear him, or else did not listen. He hopped forward again. Back on the shore, Tinn bit his lip, shifting from one foot to the other as Cole jumped after the hinkypunk.

  “It’s okay.” Fable smiled gamely. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you guys.”

  “Whether we want you to or not, huh?” Tinn took a deep breath.

  Fable laughed. “Yup.” She squeezed her eyes shut and then popped them open.

>   “What are you doing?”

  “I’m winking. It’s a people thing that makes friends feel better and like you more.”

  “That’s not winking. That’s—I don’t know what that is. Don’t do that.”

  “Is it working, though?”

  “Come on, Tinn!” Cole urged from up ahead. He took another step, and his foot half missed the invisible landing. He flung out his arm, swaying as he struggled to keep his balance.

  Tinn held his breath and took the first step after them. And then another. Cole was three or four paces ahead, Candlebeard nearly a dozen. Tinn’s heart was thudding, but with each step that did not drown him in the bubbling mud, his confidence grew.

  There was a rhythm to it. Ahead of him, Cole bobbed forward, to the left, and forward again. In turn, Tinn hopped forward, left, forward. It was beginning to feel like a dance.

  For a fraction of a second, Tinn’s mind flickered to the only actual dance he had ever experienced. He had stood with Cole on the back wall of the grange hall until Hana Sakai had come over in her fancy dress and asked if one of them would like to dance—to which Tinn had naturally choked on his own spit and erupted in a fit of coughs. Cole had danced with Hana while Tinn had sputtered, for which Tinn had felt quite grateful. Then, after a while, he had begun to feel something else. It wasn’t jealousy—he never felt jealous of his brother. His brother’s triumphs and failures had always felt like his own—but it was something new. He had scanned the far side of the hall until he had found Evie Warner. The feeling, whatever it was, had gotten stronger.

  Tinn had fumbled his way across the dance floor until he was standing directly in front of Evie. She had looked up at him with a baffled expression that mirrored the strange, uncertain feelings inside him, and then, plucking up his courage, he had . . . not asked her to dance. He had not managed to say anything at all. The two of them had just stared at each other awkwardly until the song ended and the crowd around them applauded the band.

  Tinn tried to remember if he had even reached out for Evie’s hand before the whole thing was suddenly over. The thought had certainly crossed his mind. Tinn was not good at dancing.

  Ahead of him in the misty Oddmire, Cole had gotten half a dozen jumps ahead.

  Yes, this awful swamp was painfully like a dance, Tinn decided. He wondered briefly what Evie Warner might be doing right now—and as he was wondering, he missed his next step. His leg plunged straight into the mire, and the acrid mud leapt up to catch him full in the face. Tinn’s world was suddenly dark and wet and heavy, his lungs were burning, and there was no air.

  It has been said that sharks can smell a single drop of blood from a mile away. Like many interesting and unbelievable facts, this one is not true—but knowing that it is not true will be of little comfort to the shipwrecked, bleeding swimmer who has just spotted fins on the watery horizon. More true, and also more terrifying, is the fact that there are things far worse than being sniffed out by a hungry shark—including truly gruesome creatures who make the toothiest sharks look like cuddly kittens.

  What Tinn did not know, as his body sank deeper into the mire, was that such a creature had already caught his scent—not his blood, but his fear. The smell of his utter panic and his exquisite distress rippled through the Oddmire until it reached the Thing.

  Perhaps it was best that Tinn did not know that his fear was drawing the Thing nearer with every flailing wave of his hands. Such knowledge could only have caused him greater distress—and at the moment, Tinn was quite distressed enough simply attempting to breathe.

  The Thing grinned wickedly. The Thing waited for the children to draw just a little closer.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Through here,” Annie said. “The leaves are all broken and stomped down. Do you think they were trying to leave us a trail?”

  “I dinna think them daft boys know what they’re doin’ at all. Beginnin’ ta think they’re tryin’ to cover every last inch o’ the Wild Wood except the safe, simple path I left ’em.”

  “We’re getting close to the mire again. God, that muck stinks.”

  “I drew them fools a map! Do humans na know how maps work? Spent days gettin’ it just right!”

  “Did you hear something?” Annie drew to a stop. Ahead of them, the trees thinned, fog rolling in off the swampy waters of the mire.

  “Learnt a whole new alphabet, I did! An’ fancy words ta go with it. But can they be bothered ta follow a simple path?”

  “Stop talking!” Annie squinted out into the fog.

  “Oh, they’d na be out there,” Kull said. “’Tis the Oddmire, that is. Lose yer way just tryin’ ta stand still out in that mist, and na bridges around fer half a mile or more.”

  “BOYS!” Annie began vaulting over the bushes as she ran. “Tinn! Cole!”

  “Ya daffy womern, what—” And then Kull saw them, too. “Otch! Boys!” he yelled. They were fifty yards away, taking little hops farther and farther into the mist. The twins were trailed by a girl with curly hair Kull did not recognize. Ahead of them, a pinprick of light bobbed forward over the waters of the mire. When Kull realized what he was seeing, he cursed in Goblish.

  “Cole!” Annie cried again. “Tinn!” The fog choked her screams, and they bounced back to her over the murky water in muffled, unintelligible echoes.

  Mere feet from the water’s edge, Kull caught up with her, latching onto the woman’s arm and pulling her back before she could plunge into the mire.

  “Let go of me! What are you doing?”

  The figures were vanishing into the distance, the clouds of fog rolling in hungrily to engulf them.

  “Ya canna help me get my changelin’ back if yer dead, womern!”

  “But the boys—”

  “Them fool boys are followin’ a hinky! Otch! Dinna humans have any sense at all? Why would anyone ever follow a hinky? Of course, that bearded blighter will know how ta get across, but ’tis anyone’s guess if them idjits will still be with him when he does.”

  The mist spun, forming eldritch shapes in the distance, and Annie’s head began to swim. She felt sick. The whole world was beginning to tip, and she couldn’t tell if it was the fog or her frustration that was causing it.

  “What do I do?” she moaned. “You know so much about this stupid forest—what do I do?”

  “We go back ta the beginning,” said Kull. “We take the goblin bridge. Better the long way than the dead way. If we’re right quick, maybe we can meet ’em on t’other side before they’ve gotten far.”

  “And if that hinky-thing decides to drown my boys in the mire before they ever reach the other side?”

  Kull’s pained grimace and a heavy sigh were his only response.

  With one last glance at the rolling fog that had swallowed her children, Annie nodded to Kull, and up the bank they ran.

  NINETEEN

  Tinn gasped. The muck was still thick over his eyes, but he could feel solid ground beneath him now and fresh air on his skin. He was out of the mire. He remembered splashing, struggling, sinking, but not surfacing. Had he passed out? His breath came now in hungry, frantic gulps, as though he was afraid the mist around him would steal the air away again at any moment. To be fair, in the thick of the Oddmire, that was a distinct possibility.

  “He’s breathing!” Fable’s voice yelled from somewhere close by. “You’re breathing, Tinn! Keep doing that!”

  Cole breathed, too. He wasn’t even sure how long he had been holding his breath. Had he breathed when Fable was vaulting the hidden steps to reach Tinn before he sank? Had he breathed when Candlebeard materialized beside her, the tip of his beard trailing in the grimy water as he hauled Tinn up by his ankles? Had he breathed while he was watching the two strange forest people rescue his brother?

  Cole had frozen when his brother needed him most. The best he had been able to do was to lean out of their way as Candlebeard and Fable hoisted Tinn out of the muck and carried him along the secret steps to a flat, soggy island in the middle of th
e mire. The island was no wider than a kitchen table, but it had room for the sputtering child to lie flat with just enough space left for his three companions to hover.

  Tinn sat up, coughing wetly and wiping mud out of his eyes. Cole took the moment to finally look around at the site where Candlebeard had led them. He couldn’t tell if the mist had gotten denser here, or if his eyes were watering. Possibly both. There was no sign of the shore in any direction. He tried to fix his gaze on a tree about ten yards away, but the trunk seemed to bend and twist under the weight of his attention. Anywhere he looked, the swampy surroundings curled and swayed, refusing to stay in focus.

  For just a moment, Cole was sure he heard voices crying out through the fog. He could have sworn he heard his mother, calling for him as she had a million times from the back window. Then on top of his mother’s voice drifted another, rough and raspy, and then a third, ladylike and courtly and cold. Voices began to bounce around him on all sides, echoing and overlapping—muffled words and shouts and eerie laughter, and behind them all rose a deep, low growl.

  “You hear them, too?” whispered Fable, sliding up to his shoulder. “Mama says the Oddmire talks to people. It tries to turn them about.” Fable looked around nervously. “What are they saying to you?”

  Cole shook his head. He tried to concentrate on the sound of his mother’s voice, but now all the voices were weaving in and out like complicated knots, gradually fading to hums and hisses. The mist curled and swirled, a wall of suffocating gray.

  “I don’t know,” said Cole. The voice that could have been his mother’s was melting into nothing, overtaken again by the low buzz and burble of the swamp itself. “Nothing, I guess. I just . . .” He let the thought trail off.

  “I heard her, too,” said Tinn. Cole turned to face his brother, who had pushed himself up to standing. Tinn was coated from head to toe in green sludge, but he was steady enough on his feet.