Harvest of Changelings

by Warren Rochelle

  The high priestess began the sacrifice by touching Thomas with the blade of the athame: on his forehead, his chest, above his navel, his erect penis. Then she handed him the knife, black, carved handle first, and stepped back. Thomas inhaled deeply as he held the knife, drinking in the scents of the oil on his and all the other bodies: frankincense, cinnamon, bay, rosemary, and the almost overpowering musk. His skin glowed and tingled and as he looked at the hand that held the knife, he could see a subdermal luminescence shifting and turning, like a tiny, trapped ghost. Then Thomas listened: the cauldron, the fire, his own breathing, nothing else. The normal night sounds were gone; the forest was still. He was inside the magic now, in a time and space without minutes, without seconds and hours. And close, so close that Thomas knew he could touch it if he wanted: the others in the coven, the priestess, presences, pushing against his own.

  Midnight.

  “Now,” Thomas said, feeling power flowing into him, into his blood, stronger, harder, darker, permeating his cells like an enormous ink stain. Thomas presented the knife to the coven, to the high priestess, to the fire and the cauldron, to the night sky. Then, he cut out her heart and held it up, the blood streaking his arm.

  Father James Ronald Applewhite St. Mary’s Catholic Church, Garner, North Carolina Sunday, September 29, 1991, 10 A.M. mass

  “This is the Gospel of the Lord,” Jamey said.

  “Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ,” the congregation answered and in the soft rumble of bodies and fabric on wood, sat down.

  “Today,” he began slowly, as he scrutinized the congregation, his gaze roaming from pew to pew, lighting on first one face, then another and another, “today, I want to tell you a story.” After two months, a few of the faces now had names—and a goodly number were familiar. Around a third, barely glimmering, he could see auras: golden, white, blue, green, red, brown, and purple. Faint ripples of light, flickering, appearing and reappearing, like a candle in a breeze.

  Ah, there they were: the golden-eyed boy and his father. Their auras weren’t faint or flickering—more like small fires, especially the boy’s. White flames burned on the tips of the boy’s pointed ears. Jamey carefully ran his fingers through his own dark red hair, lightly tracing his own pointed ears. Then he cleared his throat, shuffled his homily notes, and smiled out at the congregation.

  “Today is Michaelmas, the Feast Day of St. Michael. According to the liturgical calendar today is the Feast Day of all the Holy Archangels, Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael. Only the fourth, Uriel, is left out—I couldn’t find out why when I was looking all this up in the library at State. Probably should have driven over to the Divinity School at Duke. Anyway, by tradition this is St. Michael’s Day. Who is he and why does the Church venerate him? What significance does St. Michael have for modern American Catholics in Garner, North Carolina, in the latter days of the twentieth century? In England, this is a day for roast goose. And don’t pick any blackberries after Michaelmas Day. Any young animal born on this day is thought to be particularly rambunctious. Kittens are called blackberry kittens and if tortoiseshell, considered lucky. If you wish to have money in your pocket, put three leaves each of blackberry, bergamot, and bistort—I see you shaking your heads, I am not sure what the last two are, either—inside it on Michaelmas Day. Now, how many of you, not counting those who took St. Michael’s name when you were confirmed, had any idea, until now, that today was St. Michael’s Day, Michaelmas? Come on, raise your hands.”

  A scattering of hands rose nervously across the church. The parishioners of St. Mary’s weren’t used to being quizzed by the priest during the homily. Jamey noticed with no surprise that the golden-eyed boy, Malachi, and his father, raised their hands.

  “I thought so.” Jamey glanced quickly at his notes and cleared his throat, wishing he had thought to have a glass of water tucked away in the lectern. “Well, then, who is St. Michael? There is no historical figure anywhere in the Church’s long two-thousand-year history that matches the St. Michael of tradition and story. But the Catholic Church believes in angels, and I do, too,” Jamey added. He saw one woman in the back pew stand up, look hard at him and then at her watch, and then left. The auras of a dozen more glowed even brighter. He felt as if he could warm his hands by their fires.

  “In Hebrew Michael means who is like unto God. In the Book of Daniel, we learn he is one of the chief princes of the heavenly host. Indeed he is the great prince and the guardian of Israel; he is their patron angel. Michael is also the patron saint of soldiers and knights, and of the Catholic Church herself. Michael is the great captain and the slayer of dragons, according to Revelation 12: 7-9. He is the helper of the Church’s armies against the heathen. He is the Prince of Light.”

  Jamey paused and shuffled his notes. A couple, three pews from the rear, slipped out the back door, their exit opening and closing a brief box of white light.

  “You are, I know, wondering why I am telling you all this in this morning’s homily. More than a few of you are trying to look at your watch without anybody seeing you. Yes, this homily is a little longer than what you’re used to. But I do have a purpose and it is one that I feel is important, especially today, now, here, in Garner and Raleigh, in North Carolina. I will explain—but let me get back to Michael. In Acts 7:38 there is mention of the tradition that he gave Moses the Ten Commandments on Sinai. When Michael is portrayed in art, he is a young man, strong, in full armor, but barelegged, and wearing sandals. Often as not his sword is drawn and a dragon is prostrate at his feet. But Michael is not just God’s chief warrior. There is more.”

  Someone cleared his or her throat. Two other people coughed. A woman two pews back from the front sneezed.

  “Michael is the patron saint of soldiers. But he is more than that: Michael is an angel considered so powerful that his intercession can rescue a soul from Hell. This is reflected, surprisingly, in the song we all sang at summer camp: Michael, row the boat ashore, Michael, the saver of souls. High places are sacred to Michael; there are churches and chapels across Europe built on hilltops consecrated to the saint, the most famous being Mont-St. Michel in France. Any hilltop is sacred to Michael.” Jamey cleared his throat and again wished for water. Nobody was leaving; they were all watching him intently. A few, he was sure, were wondering if this new, young priest had gone over the edge. After all, Garner was a flat, little town, with no hills worthy of the name. The Southeast Regional Branch of the county public library system, which had replaced the old Garner Public Library a few years ago, was built on a slight rise—hardly a hill. St. Mary’s was on very flat ground—so flat Jamey had been reminded of the beach.

  “So, St. Michael is the warrior-archangel, one of the chief princes of the Heavenly Host. Now, you have some context for Michael, context for what I want to talk about now, what I think is important to us here at St. Mary’s today. Michael is not far from God in Heaven. He knows the secret of the mighty word, by the utterance of which God created heaven and earth. A lot of you are thinking right now: so? Well, we all read the newspapers and watch the news, listen to it on the car radio. Most of us either saw or heard President Bush speak last night. Surely most of you read about his speech in the paper this morning; it was the front-page headline story in the News and Observer. How many of us believe what he said was true? Go ahead, raise your hand.”

  Jamey waited as a sprinkling of hands raised in the sanctuary.

  “I thought so. What did the president say—it’s sunspots or atmospheric phenomena, NASA is going to send up a shuttle to investigate? But we know better: something out of the ordinary is happening. Things we would normally call impossible, out of fairy tales, have and are happening, and are witnessed by thousands of sober, reliable people. And not just the happy magical things from fairy tales, but the bad, dark things. The New Agers are proclaiming the Age of Aquarius. I don’t think so. I think it is this, friends in Christ—that God is changing the pronunciation of the secret word of creation that Michael knows. The world, the
universe, is transforming.

  “It scares me.

  “I know it scares you. I can hear it in your voices in confession; I see it in your faces—even from up here. So, my message for this Sunday morning, this Michaelmas, before we take communion, is to remember God loves you. He sent Jesus who loves you. And because God loves us, we must love one another. Love is, I believe, the single most powerful force in the universe and when we love and accept love, we are the closest to God we will ever be in our lives. Love will get us through these crazy dark-and-light times we are in. It’s going to get crazier folks, darker and lighter. But if we love one another, as Christ taught us to, we will survive. Remember the words in the creed we recite every Sunday:

  “We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ,

  The only Son of God,

  Eternally begotten of the Father,

  God from God, Light from Light,

  True God from true God,

  Begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

  Through him all things were made.”

  Jamey counted to ten, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. At least they were listening; some were nodding in agreement; others looking as if he were completely crazy. Maybe he was. But he had told them what they needed to know, given them the armor to protect themselves in the coming craziness. Most of them would get through it in one piece. More or less.

  “God from God, Light from Light. Through him all things were made. All that is happening now—the banshee wails in the night, the shadows of dragons, the flickerings of light and shadow through which we see no place on this earth—all this comes from God. It is a mystery as to why they come with fear and darkness, but they do. And what isn’t from God, the evil, the malevolent, the wicked—we must resist with love, the force, the strength, the power of love. Jesus is this love incarnate; we must remember this. There is no other way. God is changing the pronunciation of the Word. We must remember to call on the saints like Michael to shield us with love, to help us fight the wicked and be who God meant us to be. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  From the journal of Ben Tyson Tuesday morning, October 1, 1991

  Yesterday went on forever. I should be in bed—getting some sleep before I have to go to work this afternoon, instead of sitting here in front of this computer, babbling on. I envy Malachi tonight—being ten-going-on-eleven, being a boy, no matter how unusual a boy he is. We spent the day with Jack in Charlotte, at Hilda’s funeral, got home late last night and after futzing around the house and grazing in the kitchen, he asked me to tell him again Valeria’s story.

  “Again?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, I want to memorize it, okay, Dad?”

  “Sure.”

  So I told the story again.

  “I dreamed about the swimmers, Dad,” Malachi said sleepily, interrupting the story. “They aren’t really big frogs, you know.”

  “Yeah, but that’s how I picture them,” I said and tapped my head. “Anyway, then ... And you’re still a pretty good looking boy,” I said at the end, “now go to sleep.”

  “Night, Dad.”

  I watched him as he slept. He looks so small—light and little, like a bird. He’s still losing weight. I wish—what do I wish? That he would stay ten forever and that none of this had ever happened—that I wouldn’t have to keep telling him his mother’s story, that he was a human boy and not half-Daoine Sidhe? That when I turned off the lights in his bedroom, I wouldn’t be able to see light leaking from his fingers, his nose, his ears, his eyes—tiny flecks of light on his eyelashes? Not see the tiny snakes of light twisting through his hair, like tendrils of ghost ivy?

  I don’t know what I wish except that I could go to sleep as easily as he does, and not pace the house, rearranging magazines, the salt and pepper shakers, the bottles in the medicine cabinet. Or sit down and write everything out, while sipping on Sleepy time tea.

  He was worried about me when I drove him to school this morning—that I was too sleepy, that I wouldn’t be okay driving home alone. I’ll be fine, I told him, you go on. I’ll be fine.

  So I came home to sit down and write. Taking my thoughts and making them into concrete, tangible words appearing one after the other on a computer screen or a Piece of paper makes them real and manageable. I worry out problems by writing down questions for myself, possible solutions, alternatives. Anne Morrow Lindbergh once wrote that “writing is more than living; it is being conscious of living.”

  I believe she’s right.

  I got up early this morning, before Malachi did, and went to the six o’clock mass at St. Mary’s. I liked the walk—few cars, a sky with a few stars left, a fading moon. I felt foolish, though, to be going to early morning mass on a weekday. Most of the people there were little blue-haired old ladies, clutching rosaries. I never went to early mass at St. Anthony’s with Father Mark. Emma wasn’t a morning person, and after moving to Garner, well, it was just too far to drive into Raleigh.

  Jack has asked me why I still keep going to church.

  For Malachi, I told him, but he wouldn’t have it. “Come on, Ben—it’s more than that. Why don’t you convert to Wicca, then, or whatever faith Valeria professed?”

  “Because Val said they were all the same.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He asked me again, yesterday, at Hilda’s funeral. And here I am, Tuesday morning, trying to come up with a good answer. They are all the same, but there is more to it than that.

  I was raised a Presbyterian in a little country Orange County church whose roots go back over two hundred and fifty years to a group of Scotch-Irish settlers coming down from Pennsylvania looking for farmland in the Carolinas. The Scotch-Irish are from Ulster and were supposed to be pretty hardcore Presbyterian—I imagine my Presbyterian forebears spinned in their graves when I was confirmed a Catholic.

  I started attending Catholic confirmation classes (Jack always said RCIA: Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults, sounded like joining some fraternity or lodge, where you had to eat raw eggs or something to be initiated. So speaks the confirmed agnostic-and I told him it wasn’t raw eggs: it was the fresh blood of a chicken) just to make Emma and her parents happy. But after we were married, and I was attending church regularly, I found the mass to be poetry, rich, tex - tured, symbolic poetry that struck a chord in my soul that the Presbyterian services of my childhood never did. Religion is, after all, imagination before it is anything else: to believe in God, you first have to be able to imagine the concept of a god or gods, something greater and larger than yourself. Instead of just pleasing Emma, the faith journey became mine and to my surprise, I stuck with RCIA and on Easter a year after we were married, I was confirmed and took my first communion as a Catholic.

  And I stayed Catholic, more or less, after she died, because of the poetry.

  So, this morning I went to the 6 A.M. mass. I wanted to talk with Father Jamey, especially after his Sunday homily. He knows. He looks at Malachi and sees more than his yellow eyes. He sees the pointed ears and the glow in the eyes, the sometimes too-visible shifting lights of Malachi’s aura. And that all that is happening is not, as President Bush tried to explain, a result of sunspots, disturbances in the ionosphere-no, not causes, symptoms.

  Okay, okay, I know the president is trying to calm and reassure everybody, take away some of the fear I see in almost everybody’s eyes. Just Saturday, at the library, Mrs. Carmichael told me she sleeps with all her lights on: “I don’t know, Ben, but the lights do keep away the dark and, well, things have just been so strange at night lately. Every - body on my street keep their lights on-like Christmas. It is more than just being scared of the dark; this dark is different. I know that sounds crazy, but the dark does seem, well, alive and purposeful.”

  Alive and purposeful? Yes, with the Fomorii and their minions.

  I lit a candle this morning and then knelt in a pew near the front. I Prayed for strength and wisdom and love and that my son be safe and that he
live. And I felt guilty: are my prayers selfish, do I say the same things all the time, am I—Father Jamey talked about love being the force we need to get us through, to sustain us for what is coming. And what is that? I have to get Malachi to Faerie before he dies and I still don’t know how to and where to go—when, Halloween, I guess, Samhain. Is it the call to come home, to return to Faerie that is causing all the weird stuff? It has to be.

  I talked to Father Jamey after mass. He came by to visit after I got back from taking Malachi to school. He seemed to know the wards Valeria left around the house were there. He pushed to enter the house, paused, as if waiting for the magic to recognize him, and then, a sudden pop, and he was in.

  Father Jamey sat at the kitchen table as I poured coffee, and then put milk on the table, spoons, checked the sugar bowl to see if it was full.

  “So, Ben, what do you want to talk with me about?”

  “Your Sunday homily, I guess, the craziness, all the strange things,” I said as I sat down across from him and spooned in sugar and then milk.

  “Tell me what you know—like why is there an invisible electrical fence around your house. The Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons aren’t that bad in this neighborhood, are they?”