“There are only a handful of people who can feel that fence,” I said slowly and looked at the priest for a long moment, long enough for the lights in the kitchen to shift and change color. His dark red hair grew suddenly brighter and the freckles on his face glowed. His eyes—I am sure they were blue. Now, they were a silvery-grey, like pol - ished pewter. I would have guessed Father Jamey Applewhite to be about my age, late thirties, but now, in this new and unexpected light, he was no age, like Valeria, ancient young Valeria, who had no age. Father Jamey’s aura shimmered around him, a pale blue shot through with gold. His ears poked out of his hair.
“You’re one of them, too; you’re a changeling,” I said slowly. “You’re the first adult I’ve met—and there haven’t been any JW’s or Mormons about in a long time.”
Father Jamey sipped his coffee and looked back and slowly smiled, “Of course you would be able to see past the fairy glamour, wouldn’t you? It started back the first of May—”
“Beltaine,” I said.
“Yes, and that was about the time the Diocese told me I was coming to St. Mary’s here. But I started having dreams about Malachi before that—and three other children, and the dark ones,” Father Jamey said. “Got any more coffee?”
“Some instant dessert flavored stuff, Cafe Vienna, Italian Cap - puccino-I’ ll get it—I can nuke it in the microwave. Which flavor?”
“The Vienna. You weren’t raised Catholic, were you?” he asked as I first spooned in the coffee, added water, and set the microwave for two minutes, ten seconds.
“No, how can you tell?”
“Oh, you don’t have that pre-Vatican II parochial school look about you. No scars on your hands from those nuns’ sharp rulers. Any - way, by the time I came here, I was seeing auras; I could levitate—not much—and move things. You know, you are the first person I’ve been able to tell all this.”
The plastic milk jug on the table rose up and floated over to Father Jamey’s hand. The microwave chimed and the door opened and the cup floated over to land in front of the priest.
“I knew when I met you and your son that you both knew, but I thought maybe it would be better if you sought me out. Protect your privacy—not expose you, you know. Ben, I don’t know the purpose of our coming together here, but we are supposed to; I feel sure of that. My fate and yours and your son’s and his three friends are tied together in all this.”
“But, Father,” I asked, wanting this priest, this priest-who-looked-too-young, to give me an answer that would explain everything. “This can’t be just about my son. Yes, he is entering puberty and I have to get him to Faerie; I know that. But he is only one half-fairy child. Your mother isn’t a fairy—these three other kids—they’re human. I saw the ghost of a unicorn running down Vandora Springs Road last night. You are all being called, you are all becoming magical—why?” And I told him everything: Valeria, the dreams, the light-sicknesses, the Fomorii, everything I could think of.
Give me an answer. You have to know. You’re a priest.
“You and James Thurber?” he said and laughed. I laughed, too. “It’s the call from Faerie all right—and from everything you are telling me, everything I have seen, what people are talking about—here, here (he slapped the kitchen table) is a locus. Malachi is like, a magnet, and the center of a huge rippling pool—which metaphor is better, I don’t know. Fairyness, sexuality, puberty, not-quite human hormones, the call: powerful stuff to be in one place. But I don’t know why I am being called—or even if I am. I haven’t had those dreams like Malachi; I am just changing. Maybe it’s because of the story in Gen - esis, what happened right before the Flood. And I don’t think we are really becoming magical—I mean, I can’t work spells. I don’t even know any. Rather, it’s as if our bodies are waking up to what they are meant to do. Witches are different. They can manipulate the unseen forces—God, that sounds corny—the Force? They are learning another language; we are becoming that language.”
I nodded my head. “Malachi tried to explain all that to me, too.”
“Genesis 6, verses 2 and 4: The sons of God seeing the daughters of men, that they were fair, took to themselves wives of all which they chose. Now giants were upon the earth in those days. For after the sons of God went in to the daughters of men, and they brought forth children, these are the mighty men, men of renown. The story is in all the mythologies: humans bearing the children of the gods. Hercules, Perseus, Aeneas,” he said, and then raised his hand and his cup floated over to the pot and hovered as the pot poured him another cup. Then the cup sailed back to the priest’s hand. “I’ve been practicing. There have been fairies mixing in the human gene pool since forever, Ben.”
“Valeria told me that Faerie-folk had been coming here for centuries. Now they need their descendants back—all of them, it seems.”
“No, not all. Like I said: I haven’t been called. I am to remain here. The crossing is soon, though, and the dark ones will do anything to stop it.”
I shuddered. “Have you seen the Fomorii?”
“Yeah, I have,” he said and drained his cup and stood. He wasn’t wearing his collar and he didn’t look much like a priest. T-shirt, jeans, Nikes. “I’ve got to get back to St. Mary’s. Ben, you’ll know when to ask me for help. Be careful. They will kill you and Malachi if they have to, to prevent him crossing over. He’s important.”
“He’ll die if he stays here. Why is God letting this happen? Why is He letting evil run loose? Why is He changing the pronunciation of this universe’s word of creation?”
Father Jamey had no answers.
The governor of North Carolina, according to National Public Radio, is considering declaring the state to be under martial law. He declared a state of emergency this morning. He has ordered the National Guard to mobilize, and is consulting with Senators Helms and Sanford and even the White House.
Malachi told me this morning, on the way to school, that he had had a dream of flying over North Carolina, being guided by the twelve-pointed star around his neck. He said the star was pulling him east.
V
Light and Dark Thursday, October 3 - Tuesday, October 15
Jack
THREE DAYS AFTER HILDA’S FUNERAL BEN CAME looking for him.
“Jack, if you don’t open this damn door, I will knock it down. I swear I will. I know you are in there.”
Jack sighed, looking at the knife in his hand. He had waited too long. He knew Ben wouldn’t go away and that Ben would knock down the damn door.
“The door’s not locked; come in.”
“You look like shit. You haven’t been eating—damn, Jack, you haven’t even changed your clothes since the funeral. And what in the hell are you doing with a knife? Give it to me,” Ben snapped and threw the steak knife across the room. “Are you out of your fucking mind? I don’t have time for you to be messing around with a damn knife. Now get up and get some clothes, you’re coming with me. I know how it is—remember how I was when Valeria died? Hadn’t been for you, and if I hadn’t had a baby to look after—never mind, I’ll get your clothes,” Ben growled and stomped off down the hall.
“Valeria has been dead for ten years. You’ve had time to get over it; you’ve got Malachi,” Jack said to Ben’s retreating back. He was sitting in his living room, facing the television. He hadn’t bathed or shaved, let alone changed clothes since coming back from Hilda’s parents in Charlotte. Would he have used the knife? He had tested it against his skin; it was sharp enough.
Ben turned to stare hard at Jack. “No, I’ll never get over it; I’ve just learned to live with it, and you can, too. And I know you haven’t had ten years—but I need you now. Alive. Thomas isn’t your fault. Where’s that duffel bag of yours?”
“In the closet, top shelf. But you have her son. My son, my only son, killed Hilda. My only son is a murderer, a black witch, a practitioner of the dark arts and the whole fucking world is going crazy.”
Ben came back in the living room, carrying a stuffed duffel
bag. “This should be enough for a few days; we can get some more stuff later. Now, get up.”
“Why?”
“Like I said: I need you. I can’t do this alone. I can’t protect Malachi and three other kids, and get them to the gate on Halloween—if we can find the gate—and now his teacher is calling. She wants to know why he’s been out of school so much. Told me he’s already missed too many days. Made some vague comment about reporting these absences, making sure Malachi was really all right. I told her where to get off. Now, come on.”
“What do you want me to do? I can’t do anything,” Jack muttered, looking away from Ben. “I can’t save my wife; I can’t save my son. How can I save my best friend and his son? Who is going to save me?”
“I’m trying to. Now get the fuck up,” Ben said. “Okay, I’ll get you up.” He grabbed Jack and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Jack let Ben haul him next door, untie his tie, pull his jacket and shirt off, shuck off his shoes, and socks, and then shove him in a shower. (“You can take off your pants yourself.”) After standing there, his pants and underwear soaked, water pooling at his feet, Jack started crying for the first time since the funeral. Jack slowly started peeling off his sodden clothes until he was naked. He leaned into the shower then, wanting nothing more than the water to keep beating his head, pounding its way into his brain. He cried for a long time.
That had been seven days ago and nothing had happened since the funeral. No more dragons were sighted in the air, no more unicorns wandered out of the woods. No more shadows moved without bodies, no more children disappeared. Schools reopened and parents started sending their children back to school. Jack met all his classes at State.
Men and women, calling themselves white witches, appeared on local television and warned the public whatever was happening wasn’t over, that Samhain was coming, and people should get prepared.
“What,” a bemused Channel Eleven reporter asked, “should we do? Wear garlic?”
“Yes, and rowan,” one of the white witches said. “Burn marjoram; it will help people accept the changes that are coming—”
Psychiatrists also appeared on TV to talk about mob psychology and mass hallucination and to make fun of the white witches. Everywhere, most people sighed in relief and turned the TV off when the white witches came on the air. But garlic and marjoram weren’t to be found on the shelves. Rowan trees lost a lot of leaves.
Jack met Ben at the library Thursday afternoon. “Did you see the News and Observer this morning? There was another white witch on TV last night and today the paper prints this article on mass psychosis and that everything is all over and we can go about our business as if nothing happened.”
“I saw it; I even called the paper,” Ben said, shaking his head. “I told them it wasn’t over and everything really did happen and more is going to happen. The reporter wanted to know how I knew and didn’t I think my kind of talk was just going to scare people. I said that people should be scared and that she was an idiot. Then I slammed the phone down. I should have told her that every day three children fly to my house—through the trees, hiding in clouds, walking at strategic points. They are all waiting for Samhain and for me to get to them to that gate. And today—”
“What happened today?” Jack asked.
“I got a call from Malachi’s principal. Wants me to come in tomorrow. Very serious, she said, Malachi’s welfare.”
Jack looked around the library. Today was the first day it was crowded again. People were trying to believe what the newspaper had said and were coming out of their houses and doing more than just going back and forth to work. Even so, they looked wary, glancing over their shoulders and around the room from time to time. And the library’s books on anything remotely connected to magic had to be put on two-hour building-use-only reserve, or the shelves would have been stripped. Staff had to start searching bags and purses and knapsacks at the door to be sure the reserve books were just being used in the building and not borrowed by “mistake.”
“So we had a respite. We rested while the Fomorii and their people gathered their strength,” Jack said.
Ben nodded.
Camille Bondurant
Camille found Malachi Tyson in one of the study carrels in the library asleep over a book. His class was at PE down on the playground.
“He has a doctor’s note—but I have my doubts,” Charlotte Collins had said to her that morning. Camille had been in her office, reviewing Russell White’s thick file. Hallie Bigelow had asked her to. The boy was doing much better, Hallie had said, and he seemed to have finally made one friend, Jeff. Jeff Gates, of all people. How did those two find each other? One wounded soul knows another? Hallie had wondered if maybe she should just let well enough alone, but still, this change seemed a bit too quick. Jeff certainly needs a friend, too. And here I am, reviewing a bad boy’s file because he is now a good boy? Camille had tried telling Charlotte that maybe if she expected Russell to be good, he might surprise her—kids live up or down to our expectations, she had said. Charlotte had ignored her. Camille tucked her brown hair behind her ears, and pushed her glasses back up her nose. Back to the bad-boy-gone-good’s file— “He has a doctor’s name—but I have my doubts. Camille?”
Camille had jerked up from Russell’s file, her glasses almost falling off. Note: go to optician’s today. Charlotte Collins stood in the door of her office, a dark frown on her face—and her eyes—surely they weren’t red. Odd the room seemed darker with her in it.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I must have spaced out completely. Who has a doctor’s note you doubt?”
That had been an hour ago. Camille Bondurant, school social worker, investigating—checking up—Hell. What parent would fake a doctor’s name? Just to get a kid out of PE? To the point of faking doctor’s stationery? She sighed and leaned down to gently shake Malachi awake. He felt so warm—could he be running a fever? It’s my job to investigate cases of neglect. She shook Malachi’s shoulder again.
“Malachi?”
He slowly looked up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Mrs. Collins said you weren’t feeling well and I just thought—”
Malachi looked hard at her, as if he could see something about her she couldn’t. “You’re not the nurse. You’re the counselor.”
“She just mentioned in the lounge and I had to come in the library to pick up a copy of—Nana Upstairs and Downstairs—for my grief group and I saw you.” God, I am a terrible liar and I have no idea if that is the right name for that book.
“I have some sort of flu. My father said it’s going around. I’m better; I just get tired easily.”
“What sort of flu?”
“Stomach. I’m okay, Mrs. Bondurant. I just get tired easily.”
“Why aren’t you at home? What did the doctor say?”
“I felt okay this morning. My dad didn’t want me to come anyway. I had to promise I would call him if I felt sick again.”
Pretty quick with the answers. Rehearsed? And he didn’t answer my question about the doctor. He seems to be hiding something. Am I getting paranoid or is Charlotte Collins?
“You feel warm; I think you’d better call him,” Camille said. “You can’t even keep your eyes open to read.”
Malachi stared hard at her again, his odd eyes seemingly brighter. She finally had to look away, her skin prickling. What is this child seeing? And why is he holding on so hard to this carrel? Like he would float away if he let go? What is going on with this kid?
“Okay, if you think so.”
Camille watched Malachi walk out of the library and down the hall to the office. Something was odd, but neglect? The doctor’s note looked real. She just didn’t know enough.
Above her the fluorescent lights popped and went out.
Ben, Hallie Bigelow, and Charlotte Collins
Hallie Bigelow frowned at the clock in her office. Friday, October 11, 7:45 A.M. In fifteen minutes, Ben Tyson would be sitting in
one of the chairs facing her and so would Charlotte Collins, Ben’s son’s teacher. Hallie didn’t want either of them in her office for the reason they were coming. Where was her coffee? She had put her mug down right here on her desk—was she losing her mind? Put something down for a minute and—there it was, below today’s breakfast and lunch menu. Hallie picked up her dark blue Duke University mug and took a long swallow. She wondered if she had tried hard enough to talk Charlotte out of all this. At least the woman hadn’t called DSS—or had she? Charlotte had gotten Camille Bondurant to talk to the boy, but all the social worker had said was that Malachi had thought he was better from some flu and came back to school too early—after arguing with his father. He should have stayed at home. Camille, when pressed, said something was odd, but what, she couldn’t figure out. She was adamant that she had no proof of neglect. Hallie shook her head. Damn Charlotte Collins. The woman had always had a mean, self-righteous streak in her, Hallie thought, and she didn’t like people brighter than she was—like Malachi and Ben Tyson. Or Hallie Bigelow, for that matter. If only we paid teachers enough money.
She took another swallow of her cold coffee. If Charlotte had called DSS, Hallie would be furious—just thinking about it made her more than a little irritated. Innocent until proven guilty, right? She got up to pace her office: a neat square enclosing her desk. She just couldn’t believe Ben Tyson was guilty of criminal neglect in regard to his son. After Charlotte had talked to her, Hallie had made some calls. Well-respected librarian in Garner, been there for almost fifteen years, pillar of the community, regular church-goer, widower who doted on his only child. Not that any of these were guarantees, she reflected as she flicked open and closed the venetian blinds. Too many well-respected churchgoers had been guilty of child abuse. Hallie had met Ben when he came to check out the school and later, to enroll Malachi. She had been sure then Ben was a good man. And if Hallie Bigelow was anything, she was a good judge of character.
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