I crawl out of the blanket and creep to the cave entrance. I peer outside. The light blinds me. Where are they? I see grass, trees, sun reflecting off a pond. I scutter out, stand up, and run.
I pass an apple tree and hear grunting behind it. I cannot resist. I stand behind the thick trunk and look around it. The two of them, monster and crone, are entangled in each other, bouncing up and down, rolling in the grass, shrieking in laughter. She tears off his shirt, revealing rough skin; he lifts up her shirt— her breasts hang wrinkled down to her belly. He laughs as he caresses her. Then she looks right at me, over his head, and winks. She is singing a song:
Little girl lost, and little girl found,
Old girl cavorting on the ground,
Young and old, virgin and crone,
Statue or pleasure, together, alone.
I turn away and run toward the pond. I am so thirsty. I lean over and cup my hands in the water, bringing up cool satisfaction to my mouth, washing my face. I look at my reflection. Long, blonde hair. Pale skin. Bright blue eyes. So pure. A ghost.
I turn away from the pond, and walk back, tiptoe past the apple tree, crawl back into the cave. I cover myself with the blanket and sleep, dreaming of golden apples and soft grass. I feel myself growing old.
_____________
* This story was inspired by an episode in Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene, Book 4, Canto 7.
The Changeling’s Brother *
THE DOOR, THE wooden door to the small house. The door I once painted green, like the grass. The paint is peeling now, faded, like the meadow in autumn. Should I knock? Will my mother remember me? Twenty years ago I left home to be a soldier. Now I am back. She must have heard my footsteps. The door opens. A small woman. I barely recognize her. Her hair is grey and tied up in a tight knot. She used to wear it hanging down — black hair, as black as night. Her eyes are surrounded by wrinkles, her mouth puckered in a frown. She looks at me, curiously, almost hopefully. I sense that she doesn’t dare to hope. I hold out my arms. “Mother.”
She shrieks and falls onto her knees, touches my legs, stands up slowly, touches my chest, then my hair, caresses my face, almost as if she is blind and wants to know every detail of my features. Then she looks into my eyes.
“Is it you, Johnnie? Is it really you?”
“Yes, Mother. It is. I’m home.”
“I thought you were dead.” The tears run down her cheeks. “Come in. You are home.”
She embraces me then, holds me tightly to her chest, her arms wrapped around my back. Finally, she lets go and leads me into the cottage. The place has not changed at all. Wooden table with four chairs around it. Fireplace with a pot hanging over the hearth. Two comfortable chairs beside the fireplace, and another chair in the corner by the door. The fire is unlit right now. It is afternoon. Still warm enough. In fact, the room is stifling. A musty smell makes my nose sting.
I hear a whimper, then a fretful cry, like that of a baby. My brother was an infant when I left. Perhaps he is married and has his own child now.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Surely you remember your brother Willy.”
“Willy? He must be twenty years old now.”
I notice a cradle in the corner and walk over to it. I lean over to look inside. There is a baby there — not the cooing, giggling, chubby brother I remember but some creature with a withered, old face and wrinkled body. Pale, thin, whining.
“What is wrong with him, Mother?”
“Nothing. He’s just fine. He’s just a bit sickly, that’s all.”
I look at him again. He stares at me, his dark eyes gleaming with malicious craftiness. For a moment, I see a grin, an evil grin, a knowing, adult look. I feel chills throughout my body.
“This is a changeling, mother. We must get rid of him.”
“Do not say that about your brother.” She runs to the cradle and rocks it back and forth, patting Willy soothingly. “Don’t worry, dear. Your brother hasn’t seen you in so long. He doesn’t understand.”
“Mother, why doesn’t he sit up and feed himself? He should be talking and walking. He should be outside, cutting branches for your fireplace, or working to bring in money. It’s been twenty years since Father died and I left home. He should have gone to be a soldier, gotten married, had his own child.”
“He’s just a weak one, Johnnie. He’s always been like this.”
“He was fine when I left. Healthy and strong.”
“Here, dear. Sit down and have something to eat. I’ll give Willy some porridge.”
Mother serves me potatoes and beets from the garden. “I’m sorry, dear, I wasn’t expecting you. I don’t have any meat. I would have cooked something special. But — there’s tomorrow.”
“It’s okay, Mother. This is delicious.” Indeed, I am very hungry and eat everything on my plate.
Willy doesn’t stop whining and complaining all through the meal. He wants more and more porridge. Nothing will fill him. Still, he is thin and pale.
“Mother, has the doctor seen him?”
“He used to come by, but he just gave up. Granny Eldridge down the hill comes sometimes, but she’s afraid of him. I don’t know why.”
“Well, I’m afraid, too. This is not normal. Something is wrong.”
“I don’t believe he is a fairy changeling,” she cries. “I know Granny Eldridge does. She wants me to cast him out, so the real Willy can come back. As if I’d throw my own child out into the woods.”
After supper, I climb the ladder to the loft where I’ve always slept. I had wondered, when I was gone so long, if she had turned it over to Willy or done something else with it. But my mother has not changed a thing. I remember the blue bedspread, the white curtains made of coarse material, the brown walls. The wooden shelf holds toys from my childhood — a wooden soldier, a toy train, some blocks, books of fairytales. There is no sign of the young man I had become — but as I grew up I paid no attention to the room. I never collected things or tried to decorate my bedroom but spent most of my days outside. I’d like to add something colourful now — paintings with crimson fall leaves or violet curtains — though I don’t plan to stay here long. I hope to find a wife and have my own baby. Not one like Willy — a twenty-year-old infant! I’ll be sure to protect my own child and not let any fairies in.
After thirty minutes, there is a timid knock on my door. Mother, bringing me a cup of hot milk. “Here, sweetheart,” she coos. “This will help you sleep.”
She hands it to me and looks around the room. “I kept everything just the way you like it.”
“Well, I’m a grown man now, Mother, so I’ll be making some changes while I’m here.”
“While you’re here? You won’t leave us again, will you?”
“I am an adult. I’d like to find a wife.”
“I don’t know of anyone good enough for you,” she says, with alarm in her voice. “The good ones are all married by now.”
“Well, maybe there is a nice widow somewhere. Or I could marry someone younger.”
“Good night, Johnnie,” she says. She reaches up and kisses my cheek. There are tears in her eyes. “I’ve missed you so much. I’m glad you are home.”
In the night, a few times, I hear wailing. Willy is definitely sick — or not human at all.
The next day I walk to the brewery where I once worked to see if there is a job for me. My father was a foreman here for most of his adult life. The owner, Mr. Bell, rushes out to shake my hand. I am pleased that he is still here. He is somewhat stooped with age but still strong and handsome. “It’s so good to see you, Johnnie. Welcome home!” He offers me a job right away. “We need someone like you,” he tells me, patting my back. I am pleased and tell him I will start the next morning.
He shakes my hand again. “I’m glad you are home. It must have been terrible, fighting in those wars. I bet you had some terrible experiences.”
I don’t answer him. He can see that I don’t want to talk about this and pats my arm before changi
ng the subject.
“Johnnie, how is that brother of yours? Were you shocked to see him? I always thought he would be working here, too.”
“Yes, I am terribly worried. I don’t know what to do. Mother won’t even admit he’s sick.”
“Do you think he’s a changeling?”
“It’s very possible.”
“Here’s a way to find out for sure. You remember Granny Eldridge? She knows how to detect changelings. Your mother won’t listen to her — but I suggest you visit her.”
It seems silly to be frightened of an old woman. But as I approach her small house in the isolated countryside just outside the village, my hands are trembling. I remember her as a monstrous-looking person with a big nose — but instead I find a small wrinkled woman, who smiles at me in recognition.
“Johnnie. How wonderful that you came home. I told your mother that you would return someday.”
She invites me into her cosy house and serves me hot tea and warm biscuits. We eat silently, until she asks, “You must be here about your brother.” I nod.
“Your mother’s obsession with him is not healthy. I do believe he is a changeling. Would you like to find out?”
Changelings. Fairy children substituted for healthy human ones. As a child, I was told many stories about fairies. I thought they were just fantasy tales — until one night when I lost my way walking home through the woods. It got dark so suddenly. I was sixteen then, wondering what my future would be, and ready for adventure. Music — faint — little bells tinkling. Lights twinkling in the clearing. Beautiful people, tall and slim, dancing in a circle. Elegantly dressed, the men in old-fashioned green suits and the women in long green gowns. A beautiful woman, her long golden hair falling down her back, reached out her hand to me. The circle opened to admit me. I was ready.
Then something pulled me back. My father. He dragged me home, scolding me the whole time. He told me that had I joined the dance, I would never have come home, would never have been free. Trapped in the dance, circling the ground forever. “Don’t tell your mother,” he said. I never knew why he said that.
The fairy woman haunted my dreams every night after that. I longed to go back to find her. I spent many sleepless nights planning my escape out my bedroom window, my journey through the woods, my meeting with the woman, who would hold out her arms and embrace me. In the morning, my world seemed drab and dull.
A few months after my encounter with the fairies my father died in his sleep. Perhaps the fairies took him, but they left no substitute father. Was it my fault for almost entering the dance? Was it my fault for not dancing with the fairies? I used to wish that my father was still alive, living a carefree life in Fairyland, that the body we buried had been a changeling.
I left home a month later, though my mother cried and hung onto me desperately and my baby brother looked at me sadly with his deep brown eyes. I don’t know when the fairies came to take my baby brother, leaving this sick creature in his place. Perhaps soon after I left — my punishment for abandoning my family when they needed my help. My plan was to make money to send back to them. Instead, I walked through fields of blood, day after day, night after night. Often I slept surrounded by corpses. If only I had joined the fairy dance. On cold nights, in muddy fields, I thought about the life I could have had in fairyland, dancing with that beautiful woman with her golden smile. I remembered the warmth in her glowing eyes — imagined, I realize now, for her eyes were cold, a cold that was somehow inviting. I longed for her.
Back at work in the hopyards now. This feels safe and familiar — my body enjoys the physical exertion of productive work — so different from the agony of those years hiding and fighting, when I tortured and was tortured. Every evening now, I return home to a hot meal cooked by my mother — fresh vegetables from her garden, potatoes dripping with butter, and often chicken or sometimes lamb. I always offer to help her with cleaning up but she won’t let me do anything. She waits on me as if she is my servant. But she frequently leaves my side to tend to Willy — or the creature that she thinks is Willy.
All night, every night, Willy cries and whimpers. I sleep with my pillow over my head but I can still hear him.
This Sunday my mother wants to go to church to hear a well-known preacher’s sermon. I offer to babysit. This will give me a chance to try the trick for detecting changelings. I have planned ahead so that I have all the supplies I need.
After she goes, I mix together the barley, yeast, and hops, as if I am making beer — but first I gently crack an egg, leaving the shell almost intact, and pour out the egg. I place some of the mixture in the eggshell, then hold it over the fire as I stir.
A strange sound comes from Willy. I look at him. He is sitting up in the cradle and laughing. “What a sight,” he says, in a strange adult voice. “I am so old but I never saw anyone brewing beer in an eggshell.”
“Ah, so you can talk, can you?” I say. “Tell me who you are.”
“Give me a bit of whiskey, and I will.”
I pour whiskey in a small glass and hand it to him. He swallows it in one gulp. “Ah, I’ve been longing for that. Give me a smoke of your father’s pipe.”
The pipe is still on the corner table near my father’s chair. I find some tobacco in the box next to it, fill the pipe, and light it. Willy, or whoever he is, puffs on it contentedly for a while.
“Who are you?” I ask him. “You are not my brother, are you?”
He cackles. “I’m no brother of yours.”
“Well, then, go back to where you came from.”
I grab the walking stick that is sitting by the door and swing it at him. He jumps out of the cradle, runs around and around the room, then heads for the door. In my rage, I come close to striking him on the head — but he opens the door and dashes outside, racing like lightning down the lane. I chase him with the stick held high, running as fast as I can. I want to make sure that he never returns.
When my mother comes home, she smiles and says, “How was Willy? Was he a good boy?” She walks over to the cradle. She screams when she sees no baby there.
“Where is he, Johnnie? What have you done with him?” She frantically runs around the room, peering into every corner. “Where is my son?”
“He was a changeling, after all — just as I told you. I tricked him. He sat up, talked to me, and drank whiskey. Here, see the empty glass? When I challenged him, he jumped out of the cradle and ran out the door. I saw him disappear into the woods — he moved so quickly, I thought he was flying.”
“You stupid fool,” she says, sobbing into her hands. I sit beside her, my arm around her shoulder. “It’s all right now, mother. I’ll help you with the chores — and I’ve got a good job in the brewery. It will be so much easier for you now.”
She shakes off my arm and walks over to the cradle, crying, wailing, “Oh, Willy, oh my darling Willy.”
The next morning before going to work, I begin throwing out all the childish objects in my room. I will repaint the room — I think about colours. My mother does not get up, so I make porridge for both of us. Before I leave, I go over to her bed. “There’s porridge for you, mother. I’ll see you after work.” She opens her eyes but says nothing.
She is still in bed when I come home. I throw out the porridge and set out some bread and honey. “Come now, mother. You should eat something.” She slowly rises from her bed and hobbles to the table. Her face is grey, her hair falling in tangles over her face. I see that she is old, older than I had realized. She sits down but does not eat.
“Well, mother, it’s just you and me. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
I spread honey on a slice of bread and hand it to her. She reaches for it and takes a bite.
“I miss him,” she says.
“Of course you do. But think how happy the real Willy is with the fairies. He’ll be dancing all day, eating sweet fruit and drinking cool wine. He is waited on by servants who give him everything he wants. You couldn’t have done that
for him. But I’m here now. We’ll be fine.”
She nods and takes another bite of bread. I spread some honey on another slice and put it to my mouth. Honey drips onto my fingers, and I lick them. It tastes heavenly — rich, thick, and sweet. This is how it is meant to be.
A knock on the door startles us. I get up from the table, walk to the door, and open it. A fine-looking young man is standing there, dressed in green pants and a white silk shirt.
My mother shrieks. “Is it you, Willy? Is it you?”
“Hello, Mother,” he says.
My mother embraces him, weeping, touches his silk shirt, pats his face. He moves back slightly, then looks at me. “Are you my brother?” he asks.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, we must make the best of this. I’ve been sent home now. Is there something to eat?”
Mother leads him to the table. They sit down. She takes bread from my plate and spreads it with honey.
Quietly, I leave the house and walk slowly, deliberately, toward the forest.
_____________
* This story was inspired by an English folktale told by Jane Probert in 1908 and collected by Ella Mary Leather in The Folklore of Herefordshire in 1912. Titled “The Fairy Changeling” it was republished in The Penguin Book of English Folktales, ed. Neil Philip, 1991, pp. 311-312.
The Minotaur
FROM EACH HOUSE, I take something. Something small. This time I pluck a bright red rose from the garden. I’ll put it in the small vase that I dropped into my purse at the last house I visited. I’ll set the vase on the table beside my bed. Later, I’ll dry the rose and press it. It was risky to take the vase — mostly I take things whose absence will not be noticed — for example, a cloth napkin from the dining room table or a single sock from a dresser drawer.
I am wearing my one good outfit, an expensive grey business suit I used to wear when I worked at the bank. I am walking through a beautiful home in the Mountview area. But I have to pretend that it is not suitable for me.
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