Changeling

by William Ritter

  “Ya see, womern? That’s what I’ve been trying to—”

  “You repugnant man, stop talking.” The queen’s eyes met Annie’s.

  Annie felt her heart lurch. The queen did not need to say it aloud—Annie knew what she was thinking. “We don’t know that it has my boys,” she said. Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat.

  The queen let her eyes drop, and for some reason that made it worse.

  Annie shook her head. “We don’t know that,” she repeated with forced conviction. “Come here, Fable. Let me put something on those cuts.”

  “Wait,” said the queen, wincing as she pushed herself up. Without further explanation, she staggered off into the trees.

  “Where are you going?” Annie said.

  “Wait,” came the witch’s voice.

  Kull shrugged.

  Annie was not about to sit idle until the insufferable woman reappeared. She tore long strips from the hem of her skirt, doing her best to keep her hands from shaking as she fashioned crude bandages for the girl’s bloody ankles. There was little she could do to clean or treat them here in the middle of the forest, but she could cover them, at least.

  She was ready to begin wrapping when the queen returned and dropped a sticky golden lump into her lap and then slid down against the base of a tree.

  “Ugh! What on earth?”

  “Honeycomb. For the pain, and to help her to heal more quickly.”

  “Oh.” Annie’s grandmother had sworn by honey for cuts. “Right. Okay.” She ran her hand along the comb to scoop out as much honey as she could. Gingerly, she daubed it on the worst of Fable’s injuries. Fable bit her lip and winced, but she did not allow herself to cry.

  “Annie Burton,” said the queen. Annie glanced up. The queen was breathing heavily, but a little color seemed to be coming back to her cheeks as she rested. “Thank you.”

  Annie nodded. She finished with the last of the honey and then did her best to clean her hands off on her skirt before applying the bandages.

  “I suppose there’s still hope,” Kull mused aloud. “Maybe that wicked weed only got yer manling and na my changelin’, too.”

  Annie looked up from her work long enough to stare daggers at the goblin.

  “Oi—dinna gimme that look, womern. Isn’a like I want any of the wee ones dead. More at stake, is all. If ya want to look at someone all angry like, look at her!” He jabbed a thumb toward the queen. “Wouldn’a be a problem iffin our witchy here had na planted the devil itself for her garden hedge.”

  “That bramble is not my doing,” the queen growled. “It is not of these woods. It is an unnatural, invasive thing. If I had recognized the pernicious plant when it was small, I would have plucked it out by its roots and burned it long ago. I have failed in my charge—allowed it to grow for far too long. It creeps farther when it is hungry and grows stronger when it is fed. I cannot control it. And the thief is right. When it has a victim in its grasp, it is relentless until satisfied.”

  “If the bramble needs a sacrifice in place of my children, I’m more than happy to let you toss this miscreant in.” Annie glared at Kull.

  “Oi. That’s na very fair now, is it?”

  “Fair? The baby-stealing, child-sacrificing goblin really wants to talk about what’s fair?” Annie tied off the last bandage. Fable stretched her legs and wiggled her feet experimentally.

  “Goblins is fair,” Kull said, hotly. “Goblins is always fair. Goblins has rules.”

  “I suppose your rules abide abducting innocent children from their beds in the middle of the night?”

  “Otch! It’s na goblins’ fault. It’s the fairies who wants the wee babies, na goblins—goblins is just better at sneakin’. The fairies is the guilty parties. Goblins make sure o’ it. We put it in the contract. Fairies buy the babies and all the responsibility from us—fer a reasonable price.”

  The queen took to her feet in one fluid movement. She rose until she was towering in front of Kull, the ends of her tattered cloak swaying around her feet. Kull looked up. The queen looked down. The goblin’s throat suddenly felt dry.

  “How much?” the witch said coldly.

  “How much?”

  “You say you sold children to the fair folk for a reasonable price. How much?”

  “Thinkin’ o’ gettin’ into the baby-sellin’ business?” Kull nodded with a weak smile. “From the stories I hear, ya’d be a fair hand at it, hag. Depends entirely on the buyer, of course, and the baby and—”

  “How much,” the witch said slowly, “did you get . . . for me?”

  For several very uncomfortable moments, Kull opened and closed his mouth without achieving actual speech. The queen’s eyes narrowed. She did not look away.

  Fable looked from her mother to the goblin and back again. Her mother had never spoken about any of this to Fable.

  “You—you were the girl,” said Annie at last. “You weren’t the witch from the stories at all, you were the little girl, the one with dimples and thick brown curls. You were the last child the goblins stole away, weren’t you?”

  The queen stared at Annie for a long time, her brow low and her eyes as black as the forest around her. Without answering, she turned to Fable. The girl’s expression was wide-eyed and wondering.

  “Can you walk?” the queen asked flatly.

  Fable stood cautiously, testing out her legs. The bandages Annie had wrapped around them were snug but not too tight. They did not completely erase the pain, but they shielded her injuries from the bite of the cold air. She nodded.

  The queen spun, her bearskin cloak sweeping across the face of the speechless goblin. “We have stalled for long enough,” she said, pressing on up a forest path that wound around the bramble.

  “That was so long ago,” Annie said. “What happened to you?”

  The Queen of the Deep Dark did not turn to face her. “We will find your children, Annie Burton,” she said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The only sound within the twins’ thorny prison was the scratch of a matchstick along the side of its box. Then silence. Darkness. Another scratch. For a brief moment, the flash of a spark lit up Tinn’s shaking hands. He nearly dropped the matchbox.

  It was soaked through from his tumble into the mire, but if only he could coax it to light . . . Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

  At last, a sputtering flame flared up. Almost at once it faded to nearly nothing, but Tinn cupped his hand around it and held the weak, stuttering light perfectly still. He held his breath. After several seconds, the tiny fire grew by a fraction and began to crawl grudgingly up the matchstick. He rattled the little box with his other hand. Three left.

  “Good job,” said Cole. “Hey. Over here. I think I see a path.”

  “Are you sure?” Tinn strained his eyes. An almost perfect dome of vines surrounded them now, so the meager matchlight glistened off sharp thorns in every direction. The path beyond Cole was the only opening.

  “It’s either go this way or stay here until we run out of matches,” Cole said. “It’s okay. I’ll go first. Hold the light up over my shoulder.”

  The boys crept deeper into the bramble, their backs hunched under the canopy of vines. Cole led slowly, testing each cautious step before moving forward. The tunnel twisted and curved, so it was never possible to see more than a few feet ahead or behind. Tinn kept close, holding the light as high as he could. The fire burned his fingers before he finally let the match fall, dwindled to twisted ash, on the forest floor.

  Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. The next match lit on the third strike, and the boys pressed forward again. The bramble grew denser. It was not long before Cole had dropped to his knees to crawl under the shrinking tunnel.

  Tinn lost his footing almost at once. The ground was unsteady through this narrow corridor, covered in thick roots and pale branches. Tinn’s free hand darted out to catch his fall, and his hand landed directly on one of the wicked thorns, carving a deep gash across his palm.

  He hissed
through his teeth, but managed to keep the match aloft. Until they were free from the bramble, there was nothing to be done. Tinn had already seen Cole suffer the same injury. Cole hadn’t cried, so Tinn would not cry. He would just focus on keeping his balance and ignore the pain until it dulled.

  “Where do you think it leads?” Tinn whispered, trying hard to keep the flickering light above his brother.

  “Out,” grunted Cole, hoping that his voice sounded more optimistic than he felt. Cole’s heart pounded heavily against his ribs. Each beat pulsed sharply in the cut on his own palm.

  The light bobbing over Cole’s shoulder lit up the ground in uneven patches. The knobby, broken branches beneath his fingers felt cold and dry and wrong, not like wood at all.

  Slowly, carefully, he picked one up. The branch was more than just pale, it was ivory white. And it wasn’t a branch.

  Cole turned to face Tinn. He swallowed.

  “Is that a . . .” Tinn whispered.

  Cole nodded. Tinn lowered the matchstick. As one, the boys looked down at the ground beneath them.

  Bones. Large and small, broken and whole, some as long as the boys were tall, some no larger than a fingernail clipping—the ground was carpeted with the bones of countless creatures. Victims.

  A wave of cold swept through the black corridor.

  The match in Tinn’s hand flickered out.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It was time at last. The Thing breathed in deeply. There would be no escape for the children, not now. With every step, they moved only farther into its nest. The Thing could take its time. There were two of them. So alike and different at once. Their fear, their misery, their panic and distress—the Thing could taste the sweet emotions through every prick of the ebony thorns.

  But then there was the magic.

  The Thing moaned in anticipation. Raw, ripe, mouthwatering magic coursed through one of the boys—more magic than any paltry spriggan or gnome or hinkypunk. Magic, raw and pure and powerful, waiting just under his skin. Goblin? More than goblin. A changeling. The Thing closed in on the boys. It would eat the human first and save the exquisite changeling for last.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Tinn’s third matchstick finally burst to life. “One left,” he breathed.

  “We’re getting out of here,” said Cole. He could see the despair in his brother’s eyes.

  “We’re only getting deeper,” said Tinn.

  Cole pulled out his pocketknife. “I promise.” With all his strength he carved at the vines. They bowed and swayed under the pressure, but he might as well have been trying to carve through iron chains.

  Tinn sighed. The matchstick was already nearly spent.

  Cole closed the blade with a huff and stuffed the knife back into his pocket. He picked up a long bone. It was as thick as his wrist and ended in a knobbly Y on one end. He pushed the bone against the branches as hard as he could. In response, the wall pressed back a foot or so, forming a shallow alcove. Cole shoved the bone against the ground to wedge it in place, and when he let go, it held its position.

  “Huh,” said Cole. So they couldn’t cut their way out of the vines, but maybe they could push them aside.

  Tinn hastened to help, picking out more strong bones with his free hand to pass to his brother. Propping bones in place one by one, Cole gained another two feet, then three feet, four feet. Painstakingly, they were leaving the bramble’s sinister path and forging their own. For the first time since Candlebeard had left them there, Tinn felt actual hope. And then the matchstick faded out.

  Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. While Tinn tried furiously to get the final match to ignite, Cole groped blindly for another sturdy bone to brace against the barbs. His fingers sifted through thin, fragile, fragmented remains until they wrapped around something soft and waxy. It was small enough to fit in his palm, and he was about to toss it aside when the match beside him finally caught.

  Tinn tucked the matchbox away and protected the flame with his hand. He glanced around. The path the bramble wanted them to take appeared much wider and taller than their makeshift tunnel by the light of their final match—it looked downright inviting, if it weren’t for the carpet of bones that lined it. Tinn shuddered. He looked at Cole. Cole was looking at the object in his hand. It was pale and pearly, but it was not another bone—it was a candle stub.

  The two of them stared for a moment, and then the match fluttered, and Tinn tilted it to keep the paltry fire alive.

  “Hold it still,” said Cole. He leaned forward. The flame licked the candle’s wick, but it would not catch. “Come on. Come on.”

  They turned the candle this way and that, willing the wick to light, but it was no use. Soon the final match was nearly spent, its precious light wasted on the unwilling wick. The candle might as well have been made of stone for all the good it had done them.

  “Argh,” Cole growled. “Forget it! It’s not working!” He stuffed the candle stub into his pocket and stomped back to scan the floor for sturdy bones.

  “It’s our last match,” said Tinn. “Cole?” The light flickered. It dimmed.

  A pair of antlers was half buried in the gloom ahead of Cole, and he tugged on them, trying to free them from the other relics.

  “Cole?” Tinn repeated. And then the light died. Once more shrouded in darkness, Tinn finally let himself cry.

  He could hear his brother working still, pulling at the antlers, wrestling with the thorny vines in the darkness. For once, Tinn wanted to be the brave one. He wanted to save the day. He wanted to fix this. Tears fell hot on his cheeks.

  Just when he thought he could not possibly feel worse, an unnatural cold crept over him. This was worse than the wet Oddmire, worse than a winter wind. This cold was absolute. It crept all around him, soaked through him. The hairs along Tinn’s arms stood on end. The world was ice and darkness, punctuated only by hollow echoes. He could hear his own heart thudding. He could hear Cole panting and struggling right in front of him.

  And he could hear something moving through the bramble right behind them.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Thing slipped through the vines, its cloak of shadows billowing behind it, unhindered by the thorny barbs. The boys were just ahead now—the human and the changeling.

  The Thing swelled and solidified as it closed in on them. It was roughly human now, if only a carnival-mirror reflection of its latest victims, draped as always in its cloak of tattered shadows. The Thing grew until its shoulders brushed the thorny canopy above it. The larger it grew, the hungrier it felt. It had been so long since the creature had fed, really fed.

  The Thing’s unwilling servants brought him scraps from time to time, barely enough to sustain it. And, of course, when their offerings dwindled, the Thing just fed on the servants instead—not that they were much better fare. The children, though, these tasty morsels ensnared within its vines, these were different. The magic of the changeling hummed through the entire bramble, and the creature’s mouth watered.

  It moved closer still until it could see the boys through the web of briars. They struggled blindly, helplessly. The Thing smiled. Did they know they were about to die? The Thing liked it when they knew.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Tinn’s heart felt like ice. Something was definitely moving just beyond the vines. Was that the sound of fabric catching on thorns? Talons scraping bones? He couldn’t tell.

  His eyes watered as he strained to make out anything at all in the direction of the noise. And then all at once a shaft of pure white light cut through the gloom.

  Tinn whirled around. Cole whooped.

  “Sunlight!” Cole yelled. “Tinn! We’re getting out of here!”

  Cole pushed forward with abandon now, the thorns slicing mercilessly through his shirtsleeves, but he did not care. He barely felt the cuts anymore—soon he would be free.

  Tinn glanced back at the vines behind him. In the beam of sunlight, he thought for just a moment that he saw motion within the
inky blackness of the bramble. A feeling deep in his belly told him not to turn his back on that patch of darkness. He placed a hand on the vines, pressing them away to peer into the shadows.

  A wave of unnatural cold washed over Tinn again, and the feeling weighed on him like heavy chains. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and every nerve was screaming, but still he could not bring himself to look away. The horrible something was there. It was right there—right in front of him. He knew it, but he could not see it. He could not move. He could not breathe.

  With every ounce of will left in him, Tinn wished that he were invisible. He wished that he could fade away to nothing and that the monster in the darkness would look right past him and go away. His fingers tingled. It was a familiar dread, but magnified tenfold. Tinn had wished himself invisible countless times. He had wished himself invisible every time Cole had convinced him to cut through the quarry or climb the water tower or sneak into Old Jim’s orchard. It was not the first time Tinn had wished to be invisible—but it was the first time that it worked.

  Tinn blinked. His fingers were suddenly midnight black against the vines. His whole hand had turned into the purest ink. He glanced down. More than just black in color, his entire chest had taken on the texture of the dark, braided vines.

  Before Tinn’s reeling mind could make sense of what was happening, the Thing slid out of the vines and stood beside him. It rippled and swelled as it emerged from the wall of thorns, its tattered black cloak sliding like liquid over the terrible barbs as though they weren’t even there. The creature from the bramble hesitated not more than a foot from Tinn, radiating raw, wretched cold. It cocked its head ever so slightly, listening. Tinn’s head spun.

  Behind him, completely unaware, Cole burst at last into the fresh air of the forest. He laughed. “Ha! I’m through! Tinn, I’m through! I told you we were getting out of here! Come on!” Cole had not seen Tinn change. He had not seen the Thing arrive.