by Tom Deitz
David slumped down in the seat and fiddled absently with the window winder. “I wish I knew, Liz, I really wish I knew. But if I did, I’d sure do something, don’t you think? So why are you so curious all of a sudden? I mean, you’ve known him for years and years.”
“Don’t you ever see anything, David?” Liz replied, a certain amount of exasperation coloring her voice. “Does it all have to be spelled out to you? He’s got a sort of something about him, that’s all I can say. He fits into the world. He’s part of your father’s world, the real world, the farmer’s world; but he’s got something more—a sort of . . . a sort of magic. The same magic that you have, kind of. I think you’ll grow up to be a lot like him.”
David cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were interested in magic.”
“Don’t you have anything between your ears besides air, David? Air and imagination? I’m interested in a lot of things you don’t know about. Some of them are even your fault, and I bet you didn’t know that, either. But I’ve been interested in the occult for a long time. I told you about my granny.”
“I wonder if she knew my grandpa or Uncle Dale.”
“Probably—they all knew each other up here back then. But about your uncle: I just think he’s a neat guy. There aren’t gonna be people like him around much longer—people who grew up here before there were cars or anything, who remember the old arts and crafts and stories.”
“So you want to collect my uncle like a piece of folklore?”
“I want to learn from him, Davy. Surely you can understand that. You’re concerned with folklore and magic and all that yourself.”
David frowned absently. “Well, I don’t think Uncle Dale knows any magic. And, besides, what I’m interested in is mythology, especially Celtic mythology right now, not mountain folklore—it’s only a shadow of the real thing.”
“Maybe so, Davy, but it’s your heritage—and it may not be as removed as you think.”
He looked sharply at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, you’re always going on about fairies and all, like they were real—but always in Ireland during the Dark Ages, or something; but my granny said she saw ’em once when she was a girl.”
“Was she Irish?” David looked at her skeptically.
Liz shrugged and reached forward to turn on the wipers. “May have been. I don’t think you have to be Irish to see fairies. She said she saw a couple playing in her yard when she was a little girl up in North Carolina.”
“What did she say they looked like?”
“Oh, she said they were about a foot high, had wings and all.”
David snorted. “Faeries don’t look like that.”
“And how do you know? Have you seen them?” Liz asked indignantly.
“If I told you yes would you believe me?”
Liz hesitated. “I don’t know. But I believed my granny. She never lied to me about anything else.”
David turned to stare out the window of the pickup at the sodden landscape, the whole world gone dull and flat, with the merest trace here and there of tired green, aged blue, or dim purple hiding among the shadows. A few clouds hung ominously lower than the rest, like vultures waiting to devour the day. He took a deep breath. “What would you say, Liz, if I told you I thought the Faeries had caused Uncle Dale’s stroke?”
Liz considered the question for a moment, her mouth a thin line. “I’d say either that you were telling the truth or were lying, and that if you were lying, either you knew you were, or you didn’t. How’s that?”
David smiled. “You sounded full of ancient wisdom just then.”
“I got that phrase from my granny too. She was full of ancient wisdom. But why would the fairies want to hurt Uncle Dale?”
“To get at me,” David said flatly.
Liz risked a sideways glance at him. “Why are you so important?”
“I saw them—not two weeks ago. I got Second Sight accidentally, and right after that I met the Sidhe and asked them for a token that the meeting was real. They gave me that ring.”
“Another tale about that ring,” Liz cried in exasperation. “David, please don’t lie to me.”
David sighed wearily. “I’m not! I’m like the boy who cried wolf, I guess: I’ve told so many wild stories nobody will believe the truth. But I swear to you, I really did get the ring from the Faeries. The fortuneteller knew it, and she knew I have Second Sight.”
Liz raised an inquiring eyebrow. “What is Second Sight? That’s twice you’ve mentioned it.”
“The ability to see into the Otherworld, I guess you could call it. I might see a mountain, or I might see a Faery palace. But I’m the only one who knows the Faeries are here, and they think I’m a threat to them because of that.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t mean to be. You’re the first person I’ve told and I doubt you believe me either—well, actually, I told Alec, but I didn’t have any better luck with him than I’m having with you. Who would believe it, though? You grew up in the same rational world I did, Liz. Grown people don’t believe in Faeries in this country in this century.”
“My granny did, and I think Uncle Dale might warm to the idea.”
“If he ever warms to anything again.” David paused, then continued. “Look, Liz, maybe you could use your power—or whatever it is you tried to use that day at the lake—and try to, you know, to read Uncle Dale. Maybe you’d get something that would convince you.”
She turned to glare at him in spite of the rain. “You’re serious!”
David nodded grimly. “Absolutely. You have no idea how serious. I would love to have somebody to share this with, Liz, only . . . only I think I’d be putting you in danger if I did. No, best I didn’t. The Sidhe might not like it, and would be after you next.”
“The Sidhe are the . . .”
“. . . Irish Faeries.” He paused, bit his lip thoughtfully. “Just a minute, Liz, I’ve got something here—” He reached into his knapsack, which rested on the floor between his legs, and pulled out something small and brown, which he laid on the seat between them. “This is the book the fortuneteller gave me—The Secret Common-Wealth. Got some stuff about Second Sight in there, some about the Faeries, too, though that part doesn’t seem to be too accurate. Maybe it’ll give you something to think about . . . but, then again, maybe I shouldn’t let you look at it.”
Liz laid a hand possessively on the book. “Oh for heaven’s sake, David, why not?”
David’s expression clouded. “Might get you in trouble. The Sidhe said they’d get at me through . . . through the people I care about.”
“Me?”
“You.” David took a deep breath. “Of course I care about you, Liz. You’re one of my best friends. Who else could I have trusted about this, except Alec of course, and he’s even more skeptical than you are.”
Liz glanced at him in surprise, noticing how flushed his face had become. “Well, I was wondering when you’d admit that.”
David cleared his throat awkwardly. “That’s why I want you to keep my runestaff. It’s made of ash, which is supposed to ward off the Faeries—of course iron is too, and crosses, but I’m not sure the last one works. They might for you, though, you being more religious and all.”
“Okay, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll keep the staff. Can’t hurt, can it?” Liz smiled.
David smiled back. “I don’t think so.”
“So, how many times have you seen the . . . Sidhe?” Liz asked bluntly. “Or should I say, do you think you’ve seen them?”
David slumped down in his seat. “I haven’t counted, but let’s see: There was the first time, dogs at the window two different times . . . and the waterhorse at the lake. You saw that.”
“That was pretty scary,” Liz agreed. “What do you think it was?”
“A kelpie, probably, a Scottish water monster, either that or . . . something worse. The Sidhe can make themselves visible when they want to, and c
an shape-shift as well. Some of them are on my side, too; they’re not all evil.”
“They told you this, no doubt?”
David frowned. “Look, Liz, if you’re gonna be sarcastic, I’ll shut up. I’ve lived in silence this long, I can continue.”
Liz shook her head unhappily. “I don’t know who I’m more worried about—you, or Uncle Dale.”
“Uncle Dale, I hope. I’m not likely to die of terminal Second Sight. But I may have to take the Sidhe up on their offer.”
Abruptly Liz slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a skidding halt at the side of the road. She turned and stared at David. “Their offer? What offer? David, what have you done?”
“They want me to go with them to Faerie. . . . You probably
wouldn’t know the difference if I did; they’d leave a changeling in my place.”
Liz poked David in the ribs. “I’d know the difference, believe me.”
David grinned, and to his surprise Liz grinned back.
“Tell you what, then,” Liz said in her most practical and decisive voice as she eased the car back onto the highway, “next time I see him I’ll try to read Uncle Dale. Maybe then I’ll get a clearer idea of what’s going on. Something sure is; you’ve been acting like a crazy man since the fair. Alec’s noticed it; my mom has too—and she’s only seen you twice—but she thinks you’re just in love with the mystery woman.”
“Well, I’m not. That much I am sure of.”
Liz didn’t say anything for a long moment, then let out a breath. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said.
“Only woman in my life is my mama,” David grinned. But he knew that was not quite true.
Fifteen minutes later the pickup slipped and slithered up the Sullivans’ driveway. Liz parked as close to the house as she could get, and she and David dashed frantically across the mushy yard.
David knew something was wrong as soon as they came into the house. It was too dark for one thing, for in spite of the gloom, no lights were on in the living room. The other thing was his mother. She was sitting in her chair by the television, her eyes open, but apparently seeing absolutely nothing.
He noticed immediately that her hair was soaked, as if she’d been out in the recent rain storm, and her shirt looked damp as well. She clasped a cup of coffee in her hands, but they shook so that she had spilled part of it; dark stains marked her pant leg.
“Ma!” David cried. “What’s happened?”
Behind him Liz closed the door softly and stood David’s runestaff in the corner. Neither Big Billy nor Little Billy was anywhere to be seen.
His mother didn’t say anything at all, simply looked up at David, horror on her face, tears running into wrinkles he had never noticed before. He could not read her thoughts, but there was something terrible going on, he knew, for her blue eyes were open wide, imploring, and her mouth as well—but no sound came forth. She simply stared into space.
“Pa!” David shouted. “Pa!”
Big Billy stomped into the room from the hall, wet about the shoulders of his khaki shirt. He was obviously shaken and his breath smelled faintly of beer.
“What’s wrong with her, Pa?”
Big Billy had brought a towel and began awkwardly trying to dry his wife’s wet hair and hands. “It’s Little Billy, son; he’s in his room. Go see.”
“Oh my God!” David cried, exchanging anxious glances with Liz. “If anything’s happened to him . . .”
He pushed past his father, vaguely hearing him say, “Now Mama, it’s all right. It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.”
David paused at the door to Little Billy’s room. He took a breath and opened it into the half-dark, steeling himself, not knowing what to expect, but suddenly grateful that Liz had followed him.
Little Billy sat on the side of his bed, soaked to the skin. He did not move, though he breathed softly, shallowly. He did not blink, either, but his eyes were fixed on some empty point in the near distance. It was like the time he had seen the black dog, only ten times worse.
David rushed over to him, and took him in his arms. “Little Billy, it’s me, Davy. What’s happened to you?”
Little Billy didn’t say anything.
“Good Lord, he’s dripping wet,” Liz cried, taking a step closer. “Why isn’t your father doing anything?”
“Ma’s messed up too—he just doesn’t know which way to go.” David grasped his little brother’s shoulders then shook him gently. David’s eyes were tingling again, and there was something weird about the way Little Billy was staring into space. “Little Billy,” he called tentatively. “Liz, turn on the lights.”
Light flooded the dim room. David stared into his brother’s eyes. Little Billy tried to turn away, but David held him firm, forcing their gazes to meet—and saw what he feared to see.
Beyond the frightened blue eyes that were Little Billy’s, David caught a glimpse of other eyes: green, and slightly slanted. He knew, then, that he looked upon a changeling.
The Sidhe had taken Little Billy.
“What’s going on?” Liz demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“Getting late, Liz. You’d best be going.”
“It’s four-thirty, David; that’s hardly late. I’m not going anywhere in the middle of this.” Liz motioned toward the chaos in the living room. “I might be needed. You’re obviously no good. What’s happened?”
“The Faeries have taken Little Billy,” David said heavily.
Liz stared at him, dumbfounded. “What’re you saying? Little Billy’s right in there. And he’s sick—catatonic, I think.”
“No.”
“Yes!” Liz retorted, and without really thinking about it, she slapped David hard on the cheek. “This is no time for fantasy!”
David’s eyes smouldered and he grabbed her wrists. “I’m telling the truth, Liz,” he said between gritted teeth. “The Sidhe have taken Little Billy and left one of their own children in his place. I believe that as much as I believe that you’re standing here.”
Liz backed away hesitantly. “I’ll go see to your mother.”
“Yeah,” said David, wilting, “I’d better get back to her too. At least she’s still in this world.”
A moment later they were back in the living room. David’s mother had buried her face in her hands and was weeping uncontrollably. Big Billy stood beside her, hands hanging helplessly. Liz took the coffee cup and set it on the floor.
“How did it happen, Pa?” asked David.
“I don’t really know,” Big Billy answered slowly. “I told Little Billy to go out in the yard to get the ax I’d left out there by the woodpile—and he didn’t want to go, but I made him, told him there wasn’t nothin’ to be scared of at his age in his own backyard. Your ma told me not to make him go, but I told her there’d been enough foolishness around, and that I was gonna speak to you ’bout scarin’ him with your fool stories.”
“I never . . .” began David, but his father went on:
“Anyhow, he didn’t come back, and he didn’t come back, and your ma come and asked me if I’d seen him. And then she looked out the window and seen him standin’ out there in the rain by the woodpile lookin’ up at the mountain, soaked to the skin. And she let out a holler and ran on out there and grabbed him and started shakin’ him.”
“Did he say anything? Has he said anything?”
Big Billy shook his head. “Nothin’ you could understand, just a lot of gobbledegook, like speakin’ in tongues at church—except just when your ma got there she says . . . oh shit, I can’t say this, boy.” He bent his head, caught his breath.
“Say it, Pa!” For the first time David noticed that Big Billy was crying too.
“She said, ‘Come to your mama,’ and he looked up at her and said, ‘You’re not my mother.’ And she busted out cryin’ and come inside.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Right before you come.”
“Shoot,” said David. “It’s my fault—if
I’d not . . .”
“We gotta call the hospital, boy,” Big Billy interrupted.
“You’d better do it, I don’t think I can. . . . This is all your ma
needs.”
David patted his father’s arm. “Sure.” He cast a baleful glance out the screen door at the sky. “You’d really better go, Liz.”
Liz folded her arms. “I’m staying, David.”
“Liz, this is a family matter. Please?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, and stomped to the door.
“I’m sorry, Liz,” said David, “but I can’t deal with anybody else right now. I’ll get in touch with you later. But be careful.”
“You sure I can’t help?” she asked as she opened the door.
David handed her his runestaff and shook his head sadly. “No. Thanks.”
She stared at the staff in puzzlement for a moment. “What’s this for?”
“Protection,” David said simply, as he closed the door behind her.
It was a bad thing to do, he knew, to run her off like that, and maybe dangerous as well, what with the Sidhe now taking positive action against him. But he could not be everywhere at once. Liz would be in the pickup anyway, and that was steel, which hopefully would offer some protection. And she had his runestaff, which might help her at other times, provided she remembered to carry it with her, which he very much doubted.
But what about himself and his folks? The car would help there as well, for most of the way. And, once in town, once at the hospital, there would be too many people around, he hoped—that was all he could do. And, after that, he didn’t want to contemplate. Maybe he’d think of something.
Actually, he considered, he probably ought to stay at home, to look after things, and to draw off the attack, as it were—if there was another attack. Somebody had to stay, after all, and he didn’t think Ailill would attack again right away; too many strange accidents would attract too much attention, which was exactly what the dark Faery’s faction did not want.
He hoped.
He squared his shoulders and went over to stand before his mother. “Ma,” he whispered, “it’ll be all right.”
She turned her tear-stained face again toward him. “You should have seen him, just standin’ there in the rain, starin’ at that mountain, and when he turned to me, just lookin’ at me like I wasn’t there, and said, ‘You are not my mother,’ I thought I would die. I just can’t stand anything else, Davy. First you and then Dale and now this; I just can’t stand it,” she almost screamed.