Harvest of Changelings

by Warren Rochelle

  I felt the heat first, before I saw the fire, at first a slight warmth on my face, as if someone had touched hot metal and then touched my cheek. But the touch lingered and grew warmer: sunburn at the end of too much time on the beach. I started sweating. We walked past an enormous, old oak next, with a park sign on it and a box attached to its trunk. (White Oak, Quercus Alba. If I pressed the button on the box, I would be able to hear what the White Oak had to say—about what I couldn’t then imagine. Did trees talk in Faerie? Were they “in-spirited” with a dryad? Narnian trees were, but Narnia and Middle-Earth are fictions; this was real.)

  After White Oak, I could see the fire and the coven waiting for them, shadows around the flames.

  “Jack, Ben, it’s going to be all right,” Father Jamey said and blessed Jack again and drew yet another glowing cross in the air.

  “Right, Father. Ben, if I don’t—take care of yourself,” Jack said and squeezed my arm. I hugged him, naked as he was, and then Jack turned to face the coven and their fire and his son.

  The fire was huge. Somehow Thomas had managed to get whole trees to burn: they formed a tipi-like structure, with the fire at its heart and crown, roaring, laughing, eating, talking. The coven stood around the flames, all of them naked, the fire making red shadows on white, black, brown, and yellow bodies.

  “He has stolen a church altar. Or it was given to him,” Father Jamey whispered to me. I wondered why he was whispering—surely nobody could have heard anything unless they were shouting above the fire’s roar. Sweat had plastered the priest’s dark hair to his head. It rolled down his forehead, dripped off his ears, soaked his white robe, now a wavery pink in the firelight. I nodded. I had seen the altar, too. The marble top had been placed over four rock cairns, forming a rough table. I gripped the silver star hard and tight; its points cut into my flesh. I felt a surge of power and warmth in return.

  Thomas stood behind the altar, the fire at his back, facing the coven, which had stepped back to open the circle, to let Jack in. Malachi lay on the marble, spread-eagled, his arms and legs tied to the four corners of the altar. Black candles sputtered in each corner. One silver bowl had been placed at Malachi’s head; another had been placed at his feet. Something burned inside each bowl, releasing a strange scent and a heavy, white smoke twisting and curling out of each bowl like snakes. The smoke oozed and slithered to the ground, weaving itself in and around the stone cairns and Thomas’s feet. Thomas lifted a long, black knife, its blade reflecting fire, when he saw all of them. He alone of those around the fire wore clothes: a mid - night-blue robe, marked with glowing pentagrams and twisting spirals.

  “Of course I can hear you. And, of course it’s a church altar, priest. But this is a different congregation than the sheep that listen to you every Sunday, isn’t it? Or is it? You might recognize some of these faces, if you look closely,” Thomas said. “But let’s discuss such things another time. We all know why we are here tonight.”

  “We have a deal, Thomas,” Jack said. “My life for the boy. Release him to his father and the priest and then I’m yours.”

  “Yes, we had a deal. Your life for his life, your heart for his heart,” Thomas intoned and raised his arms. The coven, in one voice, started humming: aaaeeeiiiooouuu. They stepped closer, drawing the circle tighter. I could see, in the shadows, in the firelight, individual faces: Charlotte Collins, Malachi’s teacher, a Baptist minister, the mechanic at a service station on South Saunders Street. I looked at the priest and saw him nodding—yes, there were members of his congregation here. And were those red eyes as well—were there even more Fomorii already here? Had the walls between rooms gotten so thin?

  I was terrified.

  Charlotte stepped out of the circle and stood behind Thomas. Her blond hair seemed to be part of the fire, as it writhed and twisted around her head—a medusa in flame. Her bare body glistened and shone and was marked with the same symbols as Thomas’s midnight robe. She must be his witch queen. I knew she couldn’t be trusted. She reached around Thomas’s waist and pulled his robe back and then down his back, to pool at his feet. The same markings that covered his robe covered his body. His erect penis had been painted to match the color of his knife.

  The humming grew louder. A log shifted and the fire jumped, flames curling up into the sky like unrolling streamers. The smell from the silver bowls grew thicker and more pungent and the white smoke spread, twisting itself through the legs of the coven. I felt the fire’s heat on my face; I was soaked to the skin with sweat. I felt the terror growing, swelling and I wanted to run, yelling, knocking down the coven, Charlotte, Thomas, get Jack, get Malachi, get the hell out of here—but this was pretty close to hell. My best friend, my son.

  “Don’t. I know it’s hard, Ben, but don’t do anything,” Father Jamey said softly, stepping closer to me, grabbing my arm. “Thomas is distracted and he’s let go some of his binding on Malachi. Give Malachi a chance to feel this, to figure out what’s going on.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I whispered back.

  In answer, the priest gripped my arm tighter and with his free hand, pushed back the hair from his own pointed ears. “Wait, just wait. And keep praying. Saint Michael, defend us in our battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of this world of darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places. Wait.”

  Jack stepped to the altar and untied Malachi’s left hand, then his right. Then Malachi’s left foot, his right. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned down to pick up the boy.

  “No, stop,” Thomas said, and pulled Jack back from Malachi, who seemed to be waking up, stirring slightly, as if he were pushing against the spells that had bound him on the marble slab.

  “What do you mean: No? We had a deal: me for him. More power from the willing sacrifice of a parent,” Jack said, pushing away Thomas’s hands.

  Thomas laughed and held up his knife. The blade shone in the firelight. “But I would have even more power if I took both hearts, now, wouldn’t I? And why should I keep a promise made to you, old man?”

  Thomas slashed down, aiming at Jack’s chest, as Charlotte and the rest screamed, and the fire leaped higher. Jack caught his arm as the blade bit into his chest, and pushed Thomas back again, the blade shifting and then sliding against the sweat on Jack’s chest. It fell between the two naked men as they wrestled, the screaming louder and louder.

  Malachi slowly set up, dazed, rubbing his eyes, straining to see where he was, who was around him. I started toward him, but the priest grabbed my arm again.

  “No, Ben, wait one more second. Jack, this way, Jack—now,” Father Jamey yelled. “Now!” He pulled something—a squirt gun—out of his robe. An Uzi-sized squirt gun, which he shot straight into Thomas’s face and groin. Thomas screamed and jerked away from Jack, covering his face and his genitals, the smell of cayenne pepper pungent in the hot air.

  “Go, Ben, get him, get Malachi,” the priest yelled and ran with me. Jack still stood by the altar, the knife at his feet, watching his son writhe in pain from the pepper-saturated holy water. The coven and Charlotte stood still, as if something had been broken, whatever had moved them as one group.

  As the priest yanked Jack out of his stupor, I pricked my boy up and held him against my chest, the boy’s body hot against my sweaty clothes. Oh, my baby boy, my little baby boy. Malachi glowed everywhere, and moaned, burying his face in my shoulder and throwing out his arms. Lightning erupted from each hand. One bolt smashed the table. Another melted the knife. The third zapped Charlotte Collins in the chest. She shuddered, swallowing a scream, and fell over, her body smoking. Her hair fell about her head, long and loose and burning. Already the air was rank with the smell.

  “Run, go, run, now,” Father Jamey screamed, and with one arm around Jack, dragged him from the fire, the altar, his writhing son. “Jack, run, run with me.”

  I took off, Malachi close to my chest, one hand cradling the boy’s head, the other around his waist. The sile
nce broke when we hit the graveled path. The wind rose behind me, pushing me and Jack and the priests, breaking the fire into a rain of burning wood. The rain came behind the wind.

  “No, no, no, the boy is mine—the old man is mine. No, I won’t have it!”

  We stopped–Malachi, Jack, Father Jamey, and I–and turned. Thomas stood over Charlotte’s body, his face contorted in pain, his arms high over his head.

  “Don’t look, run,” someone yelled, I had no idea who. Thomas threw a fireball as they turned and hit Jack in the back and Jack fell right beside me, his back burning. Father Jamey threw Jack to the ground and rolled him on the gravel, beating at the fire.

  “He’s mine. He’s MINE.”

  Then the Fomorii guards attacked, their fire whips singeing the air. For almost too long a moment, I froze, remembering that night, years ago, when they came to kill Valeria and Malachi. Not this time. I let Malachi slip to the ground and straddled him as I whipped out the poker and slashed into the dark. A whip caught one ankle and I tripped, the pain hot and sharp. Father Jamey, with Jack on the ground behind, yanked out his butcher knife and sliced through the fire whip. The Fomorii howled and jerked back, and I rolled over and up, and whacked the nearest one on its arm. This time the monster screamed. I hit him again and again and its arm broke off, the skin melting, dissolving. The other Fomorii snapped its whip and it cut through my sleeve, taking the hair off my arm.

  Malachi whimpered and opened his eyes. Another bolt of lightning erupted from his hands, exploding at the Fomorii’s feet. I remembered the iron filings then and clawed them out of my pockets, uncorked them, and with a sweep of my arm, the grey dust fell on both monsters, their faces, their chests. The one-armed one fell, writhing. The other fled.

  “Now, Ben, get Malachi, go,” Father Jamey gasped, as he jerked Jack to his feet.

  I picked up Malachi and ran and the rain fell, sheets of rain, cold, lashing rain, laced with hail, rain that hurt. The fire sizzled and hissed and screamed as it died. The coven broke and ran: some down the path, pushing past me and Malachi, shoving aside Jack and the priest, some screaming into the woods.

  Father Jamey made Jack run. I heard the priest yelling but what I had no idea, as the rain tore his words from his mouth and beat them into the ground. I felt the ground move and I stumbled, got up, and kept running. The trees started moving then, shaking, and one fell, beside me, another somewhere behind me.

  I had no idea how long it took to get to the car.

  I laid Malachi gently on the backseat and peeled off my shirt to cover him. He looked so small and weak. Light popped and sparked from his fingers. The star glowed on his chest. The rain fell, so hard and so fast, I could only see a few feet in any direction. What had happened to Jack and Father Jamey? How in the world was I going to find the other three kids?

  “It worked. We woke him up and he used us to make the lightning, call the storm.”

  I jumped as Hazel tugged at his arm. Where had she come from? And Russell and Jeff standing beside her. I was shivering, teeth chattering, without a shirt in the rain, and they were all dry. I could see the rain sliding off the light around them.

  “I know, I can’t believe we did it. Where’s Jack? Father Jamey?” I yelled, trying not to think about the pain in my ankle or Jack’s back. I held the poker like a sword. Just two Fomorii guards seemed almost too good to be true.

  “There they are,” Jeff yelled and pointed toward the path. There they were. Father Jamey was helping Jack over a fallen tree. The priest had wrapped Jack in his cassock.

  “Wait, we’ll help,” Russell said and he and Jeff ran across the parking lot. I could see their shields extending around the two men and the relief in the priest’s face. I couldn’t see poor Jack’s face.

  It was too good to be true. The third Fomorii dropped out of a tree, right behind Jack and at the priest, a black shadow behind the shimmer of the children’s protective shields. It lashed its whip against the shield, throwing off sparks and bits of fire and heat.

  “Father Jamey—look out—look out—behind you,” I screamed and ran. The priest let Jack fall and turned and threw his knife. At that range, he couldn’t miss. The Fomorii stopped, looking down at the blade in its chest, its skin dissolving and falling away in chunks around it, in total surprise. I don’t think it thought we would fight back. I shoved past the kids and finished it off with my poker.

  “Come on, let’s go. Now,” I said as the rain fell even harder, as Jack groaned on the ground, as Hazel cried, and the boys and Father Jamey noisily exhaled. “Get in the car, kids. C’mon, Father, let’s get Jack up.”

  Once everyone was in the car, I cranked the heat on and drove home, the rain beating the roof, sliding down in sheets across the windshield, enclosing us in a grey, wet world.

  Jeff

  Jeff woke before the others late Saturday morning. He had been dreaming of a huge house, with many rooms and corridors, stairs, attics, and cellars. He had been in the house and couldn’t find his way to the door, his way out. He had to get out—his father was somewhere in the house and Jeff knew he had to get out before his father found him. He could hear his father calling his name and telling him to wait, wait just a minute, everything was going to be all right, really it was. If Jeff would just wait a minute, everything would be all right, he’d see. Jeff ran up and down stairs, looking for the door to go out, a place to hide. He ran down another long flight of stairs, down into a dark basement, slamming doors behind him. But his father followed him and was pounding on the last door, pounding and pounding and pounding.

  Jeff sat up, disentangling himself from Malachi and Russell and Hazel. What time was it? Where was Malachi’s clock—there, on the dresser—had anybody remembered to wind it? 11:10 and someone was pounding at the front door. Jeff tiptoed to the window and carefully pulled back the curtain. There were two women and two men at the door. Both men had on sheriff uniforms—Jeff could see the six-pointed stars and the heavy gun holsters. One of them was the pounder. In the middle of Ben Tyson’s driveway sat a sheriffs car. Another unfamiliar car was parked in the street in front of the house. The light at the top of the sheriffs car was on, throwing red light around the yard. Jeff could see across the street another curtain just pulled back and a handful of people standing on their porches, their arms crossed.

  Had they come for him? Had his father sent them? The Clarks said he had to meet his dad—had the sheriffs come to take him? Or was it because of last night? Mrs. Collins sure looked dead.

  Move, Jeff, do something. Don’t just freeze there. I can do this, he told himself. No use in waking up Malachi, Russell, or Hazel. He ran down the hall and slammed open Mr. Tyson’s bedroom door: “Mr. Tyson? Mr. Tyyyyssonnnnn!”

  “Je—wha—whaissit? Whasswrong?” Mr. Tyson had been sleeping on his stomach, buried under the covers. Jeff couldn’t even see his head.

  “You have to get up,” Jeff said and shook the bed. Mr. Tyson finally rolled over and pushed back the spread to stare at Jeff, his eyes dazed and unfocused.

  “The sheriff’s here. At the front door—that’s him pounding. He’s got a deputy with him—and they have guns. They are going to take me to my father. I just know it. I can’t go; I won’t go, I—”

  “Jeff. Stop. Let me think a minute. Just let me think. No, don’t wake up Jack—he needs to sleep—besides with all those painkillers, he won’t easily wake up. Just let me think.”

  There was Mr. Ruggles, on a cot on the other side of Mr. Tyson’s bed. He looked terrible: what Jeff could see of his face looked grey and pale. The bandages that were visible were stained with blood. He stirred and groaned.

  “Go back to sleep, Jack,” Mr. Tyson said and sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. “I will take care of this. Jeff, hand me my pants over there—and that sweatshirt—God, they are going to break the door in if they keep hammering it like that. Call Father Jamey at the rectory. Tell him it’s an emergency, go.”

  “Dad?” Malachi’s voice, just down th
e hall, sounded small and thin and weak.

  “Jesus,” Mr. Tyson muttered. “Use the phone in my study. Go, Jeff, now,” he said and stood to pull his pants up, stumbling to get his feet in the right legs.

  Jeff raced to the telephone. The rectory number was on a list by the phone. He punched in the numbers, as the sheriff started shouting. Please, please, please answer. The phone kept ringing and ringing. Finally someone picked up and Jeff heard a tired, sleepy hello.

  “Father Jamey, we’re in trouble. The sheriff is here and I don’t know what to do. Mr. Tyson said to call you—”

  “Where’s Ben? Jack?”

  “Huh—Mr. Ruggles is sick, hurt, I mean, but he’s asleep, and—Mr. Tyson told me to call you—”

  “Hello? Can I help you?”

  Jeff froze, the receiver pressed to his ear. Mr. Tyson was in the living room and he had opened the door. The pounding and the yelling stopped.

  “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  “Jeff? Jeff, tell me what they are saying. Quick, tell me.”

  “A warrant, to search—”

  “Get Russell and Hazel. Come here, now, the fastest way you know how. Do it. Do it.”

  “Where are Russell White and Jeffrey Gates, Mr. Tyson?” one of the women asked, her voice sharp. “I have reason to believe you are harboring these runaway children and that you have been molesting them, along with your own son. That’s what the warrant is for, to find these children and take them into protective custody.”