The Changeling

by Helen Falconer

  Ultan said, ‘Oh, absolutely. No one coming this way will notice that lying there in full view.’

  ‘Who cares if they do? We’ll be miles away by—’

  The carriage screeched to a halt, horses whinnying loudly; they all went flying.

  After a long moment, all four of them got back to their feet and peered out of the narrow window. The stolen book was still guiltily visible under the archway through which they had just passed. Speechless, they turned and stared at the windowless door. No one opened it. Then came the sound of leather and metal tack being unhitched; horses’ hooves clopped evenly away, fading into the distance.

  Looking up from her crisps, Eva said calmly, ‘Are we home yet?’

  ‘Not yet, honey.’

  ‘I want my—’

  ‘Oh, for . . . I’m sick of all this messing!’ Caitlin rattled the door handle furiously. ‘Locked! Will I just burn our way out?’

  Ultan said sourly, ‘Sure, set this tiny enclosed space on fire with us in it.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Hang on.’ Aoife pressed her palm to the bronze latch. The door opened wide, and the sweet scent of fresh hay flooded in. (Caitlin complained loudly behind her, ‘Why didn’t she do that before, the fool?’) She jumped down to the stone straw-covered floor. The shafts of the coach were empty, the points resting on the ground. A single torch, set in a conical bronze bracket, showed red leather reins hanging from a hook and a heap of hay in one corner. They were in a stable – a long one, with a low arched ceiling. Tens of wooden stalls stretched away into the dark; the tall figure of the coachman was leading the four horses into the darkness, his hood pulled up over his head, the orange lantern dangling from his hand. ‘Hey!’ Aoife called after him, running forward a few paces. ‘Wait! Where are we? Stop!’

  The coachman stopped and turned. Under his black hood, where his head should have been, a cloud of flies hummed busily around the raw stump of his neck. The lantern in his hand was not a lantern after all, but his own decomposing head.

  For a long shocked moment Aoife could not move.

  The dullahan took a single pace towards her, and the rotting orange head opened its mouth – a long pale tongue protruded, and a mouthful of maggots spilled onto the stable floor.

  Aoife slowly lifted her hand. Her arm was shaking. No power in her fingers.

  A low voice very close to her said quietly, ‘Go.’

  The headless coachman turned on his heel and continued on into the darkness, the four horses clopping softly after him.

  It took her a moment to find the speaker in the dim light – but then she realized that he was only a few metres away, leaning casually against the side of the nearest stall. He was wearing a long black coat over a loose dark shirt; his face was in shadow, but a shuttered lantern was sitting in the straw at his feet and by its faint light she could see that he was wearing heavy leather boots.

  She said shakily, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad to be of service to you.’ He reached down for the lantern, opened the shutter and held it towards her at arm’s length, studying her face. His eyes widened, and he caught his breath as if what he saw were very surprising, or very gratifying, or both. He said softly, ‘You’re welcome home.’

  ‘Thanks – we only just got here today . . .’ Aoife glanced behind her, expecting to see the others climbing down from the carriage. They were, but she could hardly make them out because the carriage was so far off – a black silhouette against the light of the single torch. It was as if, instead of taking a few paces after the coachman, she had run a hundred metres deeper into the stables. She turned back to the man. ‘Where is this place?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No . . . How would I?’

  He brought the lantern up to his own face, illuminating it in light and shadow. He said, ‘Maybe you remember me?’ There was amusement as well as warmth in his lamp-lit gaze.

  ‘No, sorry . . . Who are you? Do you look after the horses? Are you the groom?’

  He laughed. ‘You might say that. Come. Look closer.’

  Aoife looked, and for a passing moment something about his face reminded her of Killian – although this man was dark, not blond, and his eyes not pale grey but black. More than that, he was taller and older than Killian – in his early twenties, at least.

  She said, ‘I’m really sorry, I definitely haven’t met you before.’

  He looked a little sad now, his head on one side. ‘But you’ve hardly been away from me at all.’

  ‘Away from . . .? Did you use to know me when I was a child, here in paradise?’

  ‘You truly don’t remember me?’

  ‘Look, who are you?’

  He came a step nearer, still holding the lantern up beside his face. Up close, his eyes were not black after all, but an intense deep inky blue under long, slightly upturned, dark copper lashes. He said, ‘I am Dorocha. I am the Beloved.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The uppermost tip of Falias, a minaret suspended above the city, had been hollowed out of a single white crystal, and its walls were so delicate that the moon shone through, flooding the chamber with a ghostly light. Arches opened onto the balcony that circled the entire minaret; blue silk drapes fluttered in the night breeze.

  A round oak table was set in the centre of the room, laden with platters of half-eaten roast chickens, torn-apart lumps of pork, joints of beef. Tall wax candles burned brightly between the plates. Half-empty silver jugs of rose-coloured drink leaned drunkenly in bowls of melting ice. The centrepiece of the spread was a life-sized swan constructed of spun sugar – it had looked real until Ultan greedily snapped off its head. Now he was happily sucking its beak and breaking off sugar feathers to feed to Eva.

  Aoife pushed her wooden plate away – she had reached bursting point. Shay, to her left, was still eating as if he had plenty of room left, using a bronze knife to hack his way through a plate of pork and obscure knobbly vegetables. Caitlin was wolfing down her fourth chicken leg; she had her kitbag in her lap, one arm tight around it. Dorocha, the Beloved, was sitting on the stool next to Aoife, his elbows resting on the table. Leaning forward, he asked Caitlin, ‘Is that good?’

  She nodded vigorously, holding the bag tighter, wiping her greasy mouth with the cuff of her flowered blouse. ‘Reminds me of Christmas dinner at my aunt’s. My mam – I mean Mary McGreevey – never gave me nothing but boiled potatoes and hardly any ham, she was that mean . . .’

  The man turned to Aoife. He had shed his long black coat once he had escorted them to his dinner table; his thick linen shirt was loosely laced down the front with a thin strip of red leather. In the mixture of moon- and candlelight, he was very pale-skinned with high, shadowed cheekbones; his hair was not black but a deep volcanic red, like iron ore; his eyes were a starry midnight blue. ‘Did you have chicken, ever?’

  ‘Oh yes. Every Sunday.’ An image came pouring into Aoife’s mind: after Mass, herself and her parents at the kitchen table; roast potatoes. Her heart ached suddenly at the memory.

  Dorocha was gazing even more closely at her. The flickering candles burnished his copper lashes with sparks of gold. ‘You look sad. Were you not content in the surface world?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘It’s not that – I was just thinking I need to let my parents know I’m still alive.’

  ‘That can be arranged. Tell me about yourself, Aoibheal.’

  A touch on her bare foot – Shay’s own foot, under the table. Urging her to silence. But she was too delighted by Dorocha’s offer to care. This man had been so helpful since she had met him in the stable – entirely different from the Beloved she had imagined. Not powerful and old, but young and easygoing – at the most only ten years older than her. He had insisted they eat and drink before they discussed anything of importance. He had brought them to his own apartments, high in the ethereal minaret. She said, ‘Aoife, not Aoibheal. Could I really send them a message?’

  H
e nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Could I take the message myself?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Is paradise so dull?’

  ‘No, not a bit, it’s just . . . Could I, though?’

  Dorocha was smiling into her face with puzzlement. ‘First, tell me – what was so much better about your life among humans that you are so eager to return?’

  ‘I wasn’t saying it was better . . .’

  ‘How did you pass your time in the surface world?’

  ‘How did I . . .? Oh God, I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘Try. I would like to know.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Such simple things, too ordinary to talk about, yet hard to describe. School and home. Writing songs with her guitar. Facebook and television. Trying to beat her own time on her bike. Texting Carla – what was Carla doing now? Three days ago they had been choosing dresses to wear, taking a bus, going to the cinema. ‘It’s not exactly exciting stuff.’ She felt a stab of guilt for talking as if her best friend were ordinary.

  Dorocha smiled and poured her out a cupful of the rose-coloured drink. ‘At least I trust you were happy while you were gone. Your foster parents promised to be kind to you, in return for the banshee minding that little thing.’ He tipped his head towards Eva, who was leaning on Ultan’s knee, still eating sugar. ‘Remind me, what were your human parents’ names?’

  Another touch on her foot from Shay. ‘Maeve and James O’Connor.’

  ‘And did they take good care of you, as they promised?’

  Aoife took a slow sip from the cup – it was sweet, slightly fizzy, and tasted of the rosehip syrup her mother had insisted on giving her every time she’d had a cold. The memory was both comforting and sad. ‘They did take good care of me, yes.’

  ‘You sound unsure.’

  ‘No, it’s just . . .’ It was a difficult, strange thing to come to terms with – that their kindness to her had all been for the sake of another child: their real daughter; the one over there, her head resting sleepily on Ultan’s knee.

  Dorocha said softly, leaning towards her, ‘Did they take care of you, Aoibheal?’

  ‘Aoife . . .’

  ‘Because if they treated you badly, tell me, and I will destroy them.’

  ‘What? No! What?’

  She stared at him in horror, but he was smiling, his hands raised – slightly mockingly – as if to ward off her anger. ‘You were fond of them?’

  ‘Yes! Very! They were fine! Good! Perfect!’

  He lowered his hands. ‘Then nothing will hurt them.’

  ‘All right. OK.’ But she was shaken by the casual easiness of his offer. She took another sip of the rosehip drink, for the homeliness of the taste.

  Dorocha pulled a ring out of his pocket – a small, rainbow-coloured thing – and spun it idly on the table top. ‘I alarmed you. I apologize. You still have a liking for those who raised you. But I have good reason to despise all humans.’ He caught up the ring and pocketed it again. ‘You must have heard that a priest – in the name of his God – chose to murder my queen. That he stabbed her to death in her bed, with an iron blade so she could never be transformed. If ever I close my eyes . . .’ He lowered his copper lashes until they touched his high cheekbones, then shuddered deeply and raised them again, looking straight at her.

  Gazing into their deep blue darkness, Aoife said, ‘I’m so sorry for your trouble.’

  ‘I never sleep, Aoibheal. Never.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Humans are murderers.’

  ‘Not all of them—’

  ‘They cause us pain.’ Dorocha slapped his hand on the table. ‘And any child of Danu who has suffered at their hands, they can come to me and I will avenge their pain.’ He glared at each of them, then barked at Caitlin, whose pale green eyes were bulging with sudden anxiety: ‘Will I avenge you?’

  The changeling girl blinked. ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘Will I destroy this . . . this . . . What was your mother’s name? Mary McGreevey?’

  ‘No! God no. Don’t go troubling yourself about her. I loved her boiled potatoes, and there was plenty of them.’

  Dorocha studied Caitlin’s face for several seconds; she flushed, and he laughed. ‘The things we do to protect those who have wounded us.’ He switched his gaze to Ultan. ‘You?’

  Ultan flinched. ‘No, no, you’re good, not a problem, everyone fine. Lovely childhood. Happy out.’

  ‘Happier than in paradise?’

  ‘Yes. What? No! You mean . . .? Christ . . . Much better here, in paradise.’

  But the man had become calmer; smiling now. ‘It takes a while for any changeling to cut their human ties. And yet they must.’

  ‘I’ve cut my ties,’ Caitlin blurted loudly. ‘I killed a priest.’

  ‘You did? A priest, by the Fear Dubh! With what power?’

  ‘Fire! You should have seen his face when—’

  ‘Brave girl. When you return the book to the druid Morfesa, you may tell him I gave you permission to take it.’

  Caitlin turned a yellowish white. Her mouth was still wide open to tell her boastful story but the words were now trapped in her throat.

  Dorocha leaned slightly towards her, his forearm on the table. ‘Did you really think that no one would notice you pick it up, down there in the stable? I can see better and further in the dark than I can in daylight, and I can see better in daylight than any other being.’

  Not waiting for her to recover her speech, he turned his head to look past Aoife to Shay. ‘And you, with the black hair . . . How did you find the human world? Are you also finding it hard to break your human ties?’

  But Shay was – or appeared to be – entirely absorbed in selecting an apple from the deep clay bowl of fruit.

  The man shifted position, rested his other elbow on the table, and his chin on his hand. The firelight shone off his hair, bringing out the depth of the red, like the last coals smouldering in a dying fire. Once more, something about his face – the angle of his high cheekbones, the length of his eyelashes – reminded Aoife of Killian. He shot her a light smile, the shadow of a wink; then jerked his chin slightly towards the farmer’s son. She turned; the apple had fallen from Shay’s hand and was rolling in a wide complicated pattern among the clay bowls and silver cups before it came back to Shay and stopped. He looked at it for a moment, then picked it up again. Again it slipped from his fingers, and this time trundled slowly past Aoife’s plate and into Dorocha’s open palm.

  Shay followed the apple with his eyes until the man’s long fingers closed around it, then withdrew his gaze and sat doing nothing for a moment. Then reached into the bowl for a pear, and started eating it.

  The man laughed.

  Shay looked sideways at him; took another bite of the pear.

  The man said, ‘So, did your foster parents treat you well?’

  Shay said nothing.

  Aoife said, ‘They did, of course.’

  ‘Wait, let him tell me himself.’ Dorocha sat up and tossed the apple back into the bowl. ‘Did they reject you?’

  Shay glanced at him, his cheekbones darkly flushed, and remained silent.

  ‘You don’t like to talk about it . . . Your father beat you? Your mother didn’t care for you?’

  Aoife said, ‘Look, please stop asking him these questions. His brother raised him after they died.’

  In the quiet of the room Dorocha sat with his gaze fixed thoughtfully on Shay. The silk drapes fluttered in the night breeze and a barn owl drifted past the window on white outstretched wings. Somewhere there was music, too faint to make out the tune. Eventually he said, ‘There is something unspoken here. You are very dark-haired to be a child of Danu. You have a human look about you.’

  ‘He’s not human!’

  ‘He’s definitely not human,’ said Ultan, almost at the same time. ‘Is he, Caitlin?’

  ‘No he’s not,’ said Caitlin, but she sounded slightly wild – clearly still frightened by bei
ng caught out about the book. ‘But he’s not one of us neither. It’s not our fault, I swear – we found him in Gorias, he tagged along, he’s a lenanshee—’

  ‘A lenanshee?’ The man’s eyes widened – something between surprise and caution. ‘A lenanshee? Are you certain of this? Let me look at you.’

  He stood up and moved round the table. Shay also got to his feet, and turned to face him, his lips set, eyes steady. The two were of a similar height. Dorocha studied him very closely, with a half-smile. His mouth was narrower than Shay’s, without the curve, the bones of his face more delicate; skin paler. He said, ‘I suppose you do have the look of a lenanshee. Especially around the mouth – and the shape of your eyes. But not the colour of your eyes. The child of lenanshee, perhaps, by a human . . . But what colour is your blood?’ He ran his forefinger quickly down Shay’s wrist, and a fine thread of bright red spilled out. ‘Human.’

  Aoife stood up very fast; ice spilled into her veins and her fingertips stung.

  Without lowering his eyes from the man’s gaze, Shay placed the palm of his other hand over the wound for a few seconds, then took it away. The cut had healed to a faint pink line.

  Dorocha raised his eyebrows at the scratch. ‘Lenanshee skill. Interesting. Half and half.’ He looked up at Shay’s face again. ‘Was it your mother who was the lenanshee? A foolish choice for your father to make.’

  ‘It wasn’t his choice.’

  The man nodded, as if in genuine sympathy. ‘No. But nor was it hers. There is no grá like that experienced by a lenanshee. They cannot help the hunger of their love. They cannot release the soul they are consuming alive. Soon you will experience that grá, and when you do, you will understand your mother better.’ He paused, then tilted his head very slightly. ‘Or maybe you have discovered it for yourself already . . .’

  Shay lifted his head and his shoulders stiffened; he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the man’s face. ‘No, never.’

  After studying him closely, Dorocha nodded. ‘I see. Too young, perhaps. When you are older, you will feel it.’ He turned his eyes suddenly towards the nearest archway, one finger raised, head on one side, listening intently. ‘I think . . . Why not? They live very close to the summit of Falias, close to the ceiling of this world. I think . . . Yes, I hear them. They are coming. It is your human blood that calls to them.’