Changeling: Prelude to the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  The boy began to visibly shake and Geraint did not know whether it was from fear or from the injuries. Following the gaze, he noticed that the boy’s eyes were glued to his sword and blinking very rapidly. It was then he noticed that the boy did not seem able to catch his breath.

  “Geraint!” cried Llawela, as the boy’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed.

  He managed to catch the boy before he hit the ground, and scooped him into his arms.

  So light, he thought.

  Thrust into action, Llawela forced back the curtains that divided the pallets that served as beds and the rest of the home. It was the first time in which he noticed that there was a smaller bed set next to Llawela’s.

  “Here. Put him down here,” she ordered. “On his stomach.”

  Geraint did what he was bidden and only when the unconscious boy was on his bed did he realize the extent of the damage. Not only were the boy’s arms red, his back, shoulders and calves were on fire. Blisters were forming and some had broken when he had lifted him into his arms. Geraint had seen many wounds but this one baffled him and he took a step back, giving the old woman enough room to manoeuvre to get her healing herbs.

  “Wh - what did you say?” Geraint came out of his shock, realizing that the old woman had asked him something.

  “Wake up, man!” Clearly she was angry. “There’s a bucket over there. Go get some fresh water from the stream.”

  Geraint saw where she pointed, picked up the bucket and left the small home for the little river that flowed just to the west. Shaking, and not from the cold, his mind staggered through the events of the last few moments and knew, without a doubt, his life was forever changed.

  Llawela watched as her guest, and she figured – her Chief – leave her home with the bucket in hand. She had expected a reaction from the man once he saw the boy, but circumstances had changed everything. Bringing her attention to the boy on the bed, her eyes brimmed with tears. Something terrible had happened and somewhere deep inside she knew that her long held fears for the child had finally come true. The question she had to concern herself with now is whether this signified the end of their lives together?

  Then another thought came to her that shook her to the core. Would Geraint go off and tell of what he has witnessed or come back? Regardless, she knew that the choice was in his hands and she had no right to try and change it. Don would hopefully protect them and hide them as She always had. It was so hard to keep faith with the boy lying there, skin burnt and bleeding.

  Pulling down some of her dried herbs from last year’s harvest, she plucked off the amounts she needed and dropped them into a carved wooden bowl often used in her blends. She had to work fast; the boy was shivering from the wounds and the illness they created.

  What worried her most was the head wound. The cut lip was the least of her concerns. What confounded her was that the boy’s skin was burnt as though someone had taken a torch to him. She prayed to Don that had not been the case. She put her healing powers into pounding the herbs together, blending them and letting their magics interlink and then put them aside for when, or if, Geraint returned with fresh water.

  There was something else she needed, but could not put a name to it. Letting the Goddess guide her, she searched the shelves until the knot in her stomach loosed enough to tell her that she had found what She wanted her to find.

  The old bottle of wine that sat on one of her dusty shelves seemed to pop into her diminished sight. She could not imagine what wine could do in this situation. Maybe Geraint would need it; at least she could finally get rid of it. Grabbing it, she used the knife she kept on her belt to get the stopper out and took a whiff. She wrinkled her nose and held it at arm’s length. Whatever it was supposed to be, it wasn’t wine – at least not any more.

  Another intuitive flash came to her and Llawela knew that the Goddess was working through her to heal as She had done throughout her life. Letting instinct and the Goddess guide her, she took a rag that was once the boy's old shirt and she soaked the cloth with the vinegar. Carefully, so as not to hurt the child, she laid the sodden rag on the boy’s back. A sigh escaped from his unconscious lips and lifting a corner she tested the reddened skin. Heat radiated off, but it seemed a bit cooler. Unfortunately, the child’s shivering did not cease. Only time would heal those burns. In the meantime she could help by keeping them clean.

  Lowering herself onto the floor next to the boy, old joints cracking, she groaned at the effort to put a hand to his forehead, feeling the fever that racked his lean and graceful figure. It was so hard to see him like this; so helpless and in such pain. She shook her head. She had dealt with so many wounded and sick people in her very long life, but to see the boy she raised from a foundling laying helpless on his pallet gripped her heart. She finally understood the fears mothers had when their babes fell ill. Silently she asked him to forgive her, that she was too late - oh so late.

  Hands thin and spotted with age searched through the white hair crusted with blood to find the swollen gash that ran from just behind the boy’s left temple to behind his ear. Dried blood flaked off of the wound allowing fresh to flow free but only for a moment. It looked as though it was healing well, but the swelling was what really concerned her. She just wished that Geraint would come back so she could wash the boy’s wounds and truly see the extent of the damage.

  The door banged open and Geraint entered, pail in hand. He looked a wreck. She had not expected the boy’s presence to take such a toll on the man.

  “Where do you want this?” he asked. A tinge of sadness and shock simmered in his voice.

  “Can you please pour as much as possible into the kettle and hang it over the fire,” she asked gently. He did as he was bidden.

  The bench was painfully hard under Geraint as he sat and watched the old woman work her healing magic, taking the heated water and gently cleaning the boy’s head and face. He was astounded at the amount of dried blood that she washed off, but head wounds were notorious for the gruesomeness. He tried to tell himself that it would be okay – that boy would be all right. Shoulders tense and back straight as a rod, he found he could not relax, expectant for some word from Llawela, any word.

  She focused all her attention on the boy, and when she had done all she could she looked up at Geraint and nodded, face drawn tight and fear in her eyes. “It’s up to the Goddess now,” she declared, washing off the stains from her fingers.

  Her movements were stiff as the effects of her age and her craft took its toll and she sat down opposite Geraint, eyes lowered with anguish and fatigue. The silence in the hut was only cut by the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Geraint put his hand on top of hers, feeling their thin dryness that age and fate brought to her. How small her hands were and remarkably strong, just like her, admiring her even more.

  “I’ve done what I could,” she sighed. It seemed that she said this more to comfort him than anything else and the silence lengthened between them yet again. Geraint left his hand on hers since she seemed to take some comfort from his touch. Fighting his impatience to find out more about the child was hard, but he waited, eyes shifting to view the lithe figure trembling in the bed and back to the old woman before him.

  “I was too late,” whispered Llawela. “Dôn forgive me.”

  Her petition to the Goddess surprised Geraint and he drew his hand away, apprehension filling him. “Too late for what?”

  Steel grey eyes met his. “Too late for him to meet you.”

  Shaking his head, Geraint’s heart beat faster. Did her Goddess tell her something that only he now knew? Tentatively, he ventured, “What are you talking about, woman?” And then it dawned on him. “Is that who you wanted me to meet?” Surprise filled his voice, making him louder than he intended. Normally he would have been more courteous and not allowed his voice to rise, but the circumstances were too full of unanswered questions – something he did not like. It was time to find out what was going on.

  Llawela nodded, a frown
creased her already heavily wrinkled face. “I wanted the two of you to meet.”

  “Why, Llawela?”

  She gazed sideways at him. Was there a hint of a smile lifting the corners of her mouth despite the sadness in her eyes? “Because I can teach him only so much, because I am very old, and because one day I will be gone and he will have no one to protect him. He’ll have to do that for himself and I can’t teach him that. Out of all the men I know, only you have the honour and the knowledge to teach him what a man needs to know.”

  “Blessed God,” sighed the Chieftain. “Are you asking me to take him as a fosterling?” Despite his desire to know this boy, he could not bring him home.

  Grey hair fluttered as she shook her head. “No. Not that.”

  “Then what? Speak plainly, woman.” Confusion tinged with fear accentuated Geraint’s words.

  The old woman closed her eyes and took a couple of deep calming breaths. When she opened them again she stared into his deep brown eyes, making it impossible for him to turn away and impacting the seriousness of the words that followed. “I want – or rather he needs – you to come here when you can and train him how to defend himself. To use the sword, the bow, the knife, whatever the weapons of war are now. He needs to learn to be self-sufficient. He needs to learn, and only you can teach him that, Geraint. Only you. I’ve thought about other men in the area, but for the same reasons the Elders made you Chief I am imploring you to take time out of your life to teach him. I know you lost a son a long time ago...” Geraint gasped in shock – did she know? “But this boy has never had a father, or a mother for that fact. He needs you even though he does not know it right now. Will you help him?”

  It was hard to take his gaze away from her, but he managed to look away and found that his eyes naturally fell upon the unconscious boy. Clearly, Llawela did not know – but then again how could she. Pursing his lips together he blew out in a huff. There was so much to consider. It sent his mind reeling. But the boy on the bed, so vulnerable, obviously needed help. Could he be the one? Could he open his heart up again after years of dust and neglect had rusted it shut? Could he have hope again for a true son? What about his daughters? He groaned. There was so much to take into account.

  Brushing his hand across his weary and stubbled face, he regarded the old woman, trying to think things though and found he could not. “I’m sorry, Llawela –”

  “Please?” she implored.

  He closed his eyes and sighed, recognizing the emotional attack and knowing how effective it was on him. Living with three women taught him that.

  “At least let me think about it.”

  Realizing she had gained a foothold, the old woman smiled and nodded, eyes lighting up. “That’s fine. Very fine.” She got up, suddenly agitated by the excessive energy that newfound hope had brought. “Since it is so late, you are more than welcome to stay the night.”

  Geraint accepted her offer. A warm hearth was better than getting lost in the cold dark. He made his way to the door to care for his horse before he could rest. Before exiting he realized something, turning back he asked, “What’s the boy’s name?”

  The question startled her and she replied, “He doesn’t have a name.”

  He took a step back into the building. “What?” This was strange. Everyone had a name.

  “The boy is Fay, Geraint. One of the Tylwyth Teg. He will be given his name by his own people when they finally come for him.”

  The matter of fact tone surprised him. She really believed this. But what could he say? To tell her that he had witnessed the boy’s birth from his own wife’s loins would reveal the truth; a truth that must remain hidden for all concerned. “What do you call him, then?”

  She seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “I call him what he is: a boy.”

  Shaking his head, Geraint went outside to unsaddle and care for his horse. At least with Cadfarch, his gelding, the world was much simpler.

  It did not take long to brush down Cadfarch and see that the chestnut gelding had enough feed and water for the night. The sky had been a black veil littered with stars for quite some time and Geraint figured that it was well into midnight when he opened the door to the hut. Ducking under the lintel he found himself in a home where the only sounds were of a snapping fire, banked for the night, singing with the soft breathing of the two residents who slept in their respective beds. It would be uncomfortable to sleep beside the fire with the ground so hard, but he had suffered worse in his days.

  Geraint spread out his horse’s blanket as padding and left his cloak as a blanket. He knew he could not sleep just yet. So much had happened in such a short time that he doubted that any sleep would ease his troubled mind, because it seemed to think in opposites to what his heart screamed at him. Was it a curse or a blessing to see that the boy was still alive? He did not even know whether to be happy as he stared at the boy sleeping on his small bed made of blankets covering straw.

  Knowing he would not be getting any sleep yet, despite the weariness that weighed him down, Geraint stepped quietly, so as not to wake the two, and sat down on the hard packed floor next to the sleeping boy. The dim firelight glittered orange, and the deep shadows played with the boy’s battered features, but Geraint could plainly see that the boy was in the grips of a nightmare.

  He wanted to wake the boy, to make him realize that he was finally safe, to take him in his arms and hold him there, never letting him go. His arms ached for his lost son, and despite finding him after so many years of believing him dead, Geraint knew he could not. He was a stranger to this boy. And, oh God, what would the boy think if he knew that here was the man that was forced to expose him to a cold winter night as a way to kill him when he was but a babe? Guilt, anger and above all, self loathing filled Geraint. All the old emotions from nine years ago flooded back, but this time they came colliding with the joy, trepidation and the anxiety he felt at seeing his son.

  The boy moaned and Geraint could not tell whether it was for the pain or the dreams the child suffered. But when the boy started to squirm and cried out, old paternal instincts kicked in and Geraint touched the boy’s searing shoulder in an attempt to give comfort and hushed him, whispering to the boy that he was safe. He was rewarded with a whimper and then the dream was past.

  The heat radiating off the boy was tremendous and Geraint could not imagine the pain the child was in, but he could see it clearly in the shadowed visage of the boy’s face. He realized then, that even if he could not be the boy’s father in truth, then he would try to be there as the old woman wished. If God was truly giving him a second chance, then he damned well was going to take it. He would do as Llawela asked. Now it was just a matter of how he was going to be able to take the time away from his village to come here and teach the boy without letting anyone know.

  That could wait until tomorrow.

  A yawn escaped him and Geraint knew that the tensions of the day were finally gone with the acceptance of this new and added complication in his life. He smiled. Tonight he would sleep next to his son; something he had not done in a very long time, and silently moved his blanket and cloak next to the boy.

  Before the sun could break over the horizon, Geraint left his son, riding his horse home to his daughters. For the first time in a very long time Geraint was truly joyous.

  Chapter IV

  The mud and straw wall cracked and flaked off with the poking and prodding of the stick in the boy’s hand. Lying on his stomach, he scratched out of boredom. It was better than picking at his flaking skin that itched him so badly. The worst was when the small of his back and the spot between his shoulder blades began to heal and peel after several days of feeling that if he moved his skin would crack apart.

  Auntie tried everything she could, but what finally gave some relief was some foul smelling partially rendered tallow. Unfortunately it did not stop his skin from peeling. At least it was better than lying in his bed for four days after he had regained consciousness.


  Auntie told him she had been very worried for his life when he did not wake for three days. But even after three days the pain was enough to keep him abed. The fire on his skin had reduced, but coupled with the nauseating pain whenever he tried to lift his head kept him in place until he could rise without vomiting. Auntie could not believe that he had managed to stay alive, let alone come home on his own, and left offerings to the Goddess by the sacred elder tree in thanks that her prayers had been answered. The boy did not know whether to be happy that Auntie had been heard.

  A larger chip of dried mud popped off and landed on his bed, leaving a large enough indenture that Auntie would notice. Abashed at his own carelessness, he tossed the stick behind him to hit one of the legs of the table with a thunk. Rolling over onto his back – a luxury after seven days of being on his front – he stared up at the thatched roof sitting on beams made of small trees. He let the world spin and come to a slow stop.

  He still had bouts of dizziness, but they seemed to come less frequently now, only becoming a problem if he was careless. It was the blinding headaches that not even Auntie’s herbals could fix he could do without. They came less often now that a fortnight had passed, but the damage from one single blow to his head was done. It was why he lay on his bed. Boredom mixed with the truth of who and what he was, and thus the reason for his suffering, created despondency within him that not even the old woman who raised him could cure.

  Unshed tears glittered in his eyes and a blink sent them flooding out. Biting down on his healed lip he ran the events of his attack over in his mind again. It was not the first time, nor the one-hundredth time. He did so in hopes to find an understanding to the assault that would not lead back to what it always led back to – that he was considered something not human, even to Auntie. Because of this, part of him blamed her for what had happened. She had always known it would happen and why, and she could not stop it – did not stop it. He hated himself for what he felt and that only made it worse, because if it was not Auntie’s fault then it was his – for being different.