Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

  “I tell you,” the supervisor is saying, “your friend is quite fine.”

  “I insist on seeing for myself,” Arthur answers, stubborn and imperious. The Changer can imagine him sweeping along, his beard jutting forward, his shoulders squared. “And if you attempt to stop me, I will be forced to report you to the board.”

  The supervisor stops talking, trying to decide whether this arrogant man might have the connections to harm her. Evidently, she decides that challenging him further is not worth the risk.

  When they enter, the Changer hears Arthur’s sharp intake of breath when he sees his battered comrade. To the Changer, who had seen him raw and bleeding, Eddie’s present appearance is an improvement, but he can understand Arthur’s shock.

  The bruises that had just been forming at the scene of the accident are purple and swelling. Eddie’s five-o’clock shadow has lengthened some with the passing of the hours, but it is not enough to hide the abrasions on his chin—and nothing can conceal his split lip. His forehead has been stitched. And these are the minor injuries.

  Arthur must have been told about the broken ribs, the lung that had to be reinflated, the pints of blood soaked into the upholstery of the sedan. He must know about the perforated bowel that has been resected, about the looming threat of peritonitis.

  He mutters something softly and the Changer is among the handful of those living who can understand the tongue of ancient Babylon: “Oh, my liege man! Oh, my friend! If you die, I will have the blood and heart of the one who has caused this!”

  The King sits heavily upon the room’s one chair, his gaze still fixed on his Eddie’s pale face. Accepting the inevitable, the floor supervisor departs. Arthur rises after she is gone and closes the room’s door.

  “Changer?” he queries the air.

  The Changer scampers out from under the bedside table, crosses beneath the bed, and takes human form on the other side.

  “Here, Arthur,” he says.

  Arthur looks across, gestures to the curtain. “Pull that closed,” he says, “so you will have a moment to shift if the nurse returns. Did they see you before?”

  “No, I came in as a mouse, remained as such until…” The Changer frowns. “Until Eddie’s attacker arrived. She was dressed as a nurse or technician—I can’t read their heraldry—and was going to kill him by introducing air into his blood.”

  “She?”

  “Female form at least. When I tried to stop her, I had ample evidence that she was a shapeshifter.”

  Concisely, he recounts the skirmish, not omitting any of the forms he had seen his opponent assume.

  “The komodo dragon was an interesting choice,” Arthur says, when the Changer is done, “though not a terribly easy one to pass off if she was discovered. Did she remain female throughout?”

  The Changer frowns as he tries to remember. “I can’t be sure. I was too busy fighting to sex reptiles.”

  “All reptiles, though,” Arthur says. “Interesting. If Satan was real, we’d have a match.”

  “Sadly, that one is fancy,” the Changer says. “The trail is cold by now, but if you will remain with Eddie, I will scout.”

  “Go!” Arthur says. “I am not stirring from his side. If that devoted nurse tries to make me, I shall gently request that she check my name against the hospital benefactors’ list. Do you need help making an exit?”

  The Changer shake his head. “No, I’ll run mouse-form until I get outside, then shift raven. I should manage.”

  “Be careful,” Arthur says, his gaze already returning to his friend’s face.

  “Are you armed?” the Changer asks.

  Arthur smiles, lifts his jacket to reveal the gun holster concealed by his immaculate tailoring. “I also have a blade in my boot. However, I will keep the nurse’s call button under my thumb and be prepared to make a ruckus if anything happens.”

  “Modern tools”—the Changer nods—“will serve you better here than steel.”

  “I know.” Arthur’s expression turns sorrowful. “And so I try to tell our people, but at times like this even I long for the direct solutions of sword or fist.”

  “Today is not the day to alter policy,” the Changer reminds him. “I will let you know if I find something.”

  “Call in every hour or ninety minutes, if you would,” Arthur says, his sorrow masked by kingly concern. “We do not want you to be taken without our being alerted. To be honest, we have been worried since you departed and sent us no further word.”

  The Changer looks rueful. “I forgot about the telephone. I tend to, after a long time away from such things.”

  Arthur smiles slightly, watches as the man becomes a mouse.

  “Good luck,” he whispers.

  There is no answer, not even a squeak. The mouse skitters beneath the nearest cover and runs.

  9

  The long habit of living indisposeth us for dying.

  —Thomas Browne

  Rebecca>> So what are you?

  Monk>> Is telling a requirement for being on this site? How would you know if I was telling the truth, anyhow?

  Demetrios>> Don’t be so rude to a lady! She didn’t ask anything offensive.

  Monk>> Sorry. I guess we have all become so accustomed to protecting our identities that I jumped at the question.

  Rebecca>> You don’t need to tell.

  Monk>> That’s all right. I’m a tengu.

  Demetrios>> Pardon my ignorance, but what’s a tengu?

  Monk>> I’m island-born, originally from the mountains of Nippon—Japan. A tengu is a shapeshifter. Some have called us tricksters. I don’t think that’s precisely fair.

  Rebecca>> A shapeshifter?? What kind of shapes??

  Monk>> Something like a bird-ogre, birds of prey, humans.

  Demetrios>> You can shape humans? Then why are you interested in our cause?

  Rebecca>> You can be human? Wow!

  Monk>> Fair question, Demetrios. Like I said, some people call us tricksters. I prefer to think of us as social commentators. For centuries we have been the enemies of those who would use religion against the masses. Corrupt monks—especially wandering ones who begged for food and shelter and didn’t have to answer to anyone—were our particular targets.

  Rebecca>> What’s to keep you from going after them now?

  Monk>> Well, for one, there aren’t quite as many as there once were. Two, Arthur has authorized some of the warrior athanor to keep us in check. You see, we have minor illusion magic. He’s afraid that if we use it people will begin to suspect that magic works.

  Demetrios>> In Japan these days, they’d prob think it was a microtech gimmick. I think Arthur’s overreaching himself.

  Monk>> Me, too. I’d love to expand my range. The television evangelists or media-darling politicians are right up my alley, but Arthur keeps the bully types happy by making creatures like me fair game. If I live quietly—human or avian—I’m fine. Let me do what I crave and WHAPPO!! I’m likely to be smiling up the blade of Katsuhiro’s most noble sword Kusanagi.

  Rebecca>> NO FAIR! NO FAIR!

  Monk>> I might ask what has you two involved in this cause. From what I’ve learned, you’re both leading pretty good lives. Certainly a desire to play tourist isn’t enough to make you dabble in political upheaval at the risk of your lives.

  Demetrios>> No, it isn’t, though touring all in itself is tempting. I’m in it for the natural world.

  Rebecca>> I’d like travel, but I’m worried about the trees.

  Monk>> You overlapped but your answers are pretty much the same. What do you mean, about being it for the trees?

  Rebecca>> I live in forested land here in Oregon. Logging’s bad enough, but industrial pollution—acid rain, chemical run-off, tainted water—and other things, like the damming of rivers so that the fish can’t make their spawning runs, are having serious repercussions. My husband, Bronson, says that even where we live (and we’re pretty isolated) he can see changes. He’s an old one. Remembers when the
Indians weren’t even Indians yet, when there were still mastodons. These aren’t the natural changes of evolution. These are major catastrophes that humans are too short-lived to understand fully.

  Demetrios>> We’re going to overlap again, but I hope I won’t repeat too much. Fauns—like me—were the mobile nature types. Greek myths speak of nymphs: dryads, naiads, oreads—the spirits of trees, water, even mountains. I’m not just getting religious on you when I say that they exist. Not everyone can see them, but that doesn’t make them any less real. After all, how many moderns have seen a faun or a sasquatch?

  The massive destruction of natural areas is driving the nymphs to extinction. They’re an endangered species with no one but my kind to speak up for them, but how can we? If I go on the Internet and lobby, I sound like a kook. But if someone sees me and figures ‘Hey, if there are fauns, maybe there are the rest…

  Monk>> I catch your drift, both of you. This is serious stuff. And Demetrios, I’ve never seen a nymph, but Japanese Shinto is full of references to things like them—kami, they’re called. If you say they’re out there, I’ll believe you.

  Demetrios>> Thanks.

  Rebecca>> Do you understand how important this is, Monk? We can’t just stay in our woods and glens. We’ve got to get out there and do something.

  Monk>> Yeah. I sure do see. I’ll talk to my kin. We can attend the Lustrum Review. We’ll speak up for you, so you won’t just have to be reduced to words on a computer screen.

  Demetrios>> Thanks, again!

  Rebecca>> !! Thanks!! :)

  King Arthur’s hacienda feels empty when the Changer flaps into a tree in the courtyard. The lilac from beneath which his daughter emerges, her bushy tail wagging wildly, has lost its blossoms, its leaves darkening with every passing day.

  How long have they been in Albuquerque? Ten days? He feels as if months have gone by, but the puppy bouncing and yapping around the base of the tree on which he is perched is proof enough that comparatively little time has passed.

  Swooping to the patio table, he shifts coyote, then jumps to nip and nuzzle the rejoicing puppy. Despite his daughter’s yaps and whimpers he hears bare feet on the tiled hall.

  Glancing up, he sees Vera standing beneath the arched entry. Her hands are twisting wool around a distaff in a restless motion that, nonetheless, is marvelously skillful.

  “When you’ve finished with the pup,” she says, her voice calm, “come into the kitchen. You’ve got to be starved. We can trade information.”

  She doesn’t command, but she doesn’t request either. The Changer wags his brush in acknowledgment, romps with the puppy a few minutes more, then goes into his room to shift shape and don some clothing.

  Good to her promise, Vera is waiting in the kitchen. She sets a bowl of puppy chow on the floor for the coyote pup, who looks up at her with pleading eyes.

  “Sorry, kid,” Vera says, “health food first. You can see if you can cadge something from your father later.”

  “Perhaps,” the Changer says mildly.

  “I think that Arthur was sneaking her table scraps,” Vera says, shoving a bowl of chili con carne and half a loaf of corn bread over to him. “She seems to expect them.”

  “That may just be her coyote nose telling her that people food smells better than kibbles.” The Changer dips his spoon into his bowl. “Thanks for this. Shifting takes its toll.”

  “You’re welcome. I had to do something while I covered the base here; otherwise, I’d go crazy with waiting.”

  “Where is Lovern?”

  “Out, like you were, scouting for signs of Eddie’s attacker. He checked in forty minutes ago. No luck. How about you?”

  “Nothing new since my last check-in, nothing at all for all the night’s work.”

  Vera sighs. “Arthur phoned to say that the duty technician told him that someone had stolen clothes from a locker. Our guess is that’s how the woman you met got out.”

  “Sounds reasonable. I wish I had snatched something of hers we could use for divining, but, to be honest, I was too busy defending Eddie—and myself.”

  “So it goes,” Vera says. “At least Eddie is still alive. Arthur figures that he’ll have him home within a few days.”

  The Changer frowns. “I dislike the idea of a stranger in the hacienda. Is Arthur recruiting an athanor?”

  “That’s right. I have calls out to several candidates. It’s a blessing that the Lustrum Review is coming up. Many people have freed up some time from the usual duties.”

  “But can Arthur handle the Review without Eddie’s assistance?”

  “He must. He has little choice. If he cancels the Review, too many athanor would see Eddie’s accident as insufficient reason to suspend normal government.”

  The Changer wrinkles his nose, a gesture more canine than human. “I forget these things so easily. What…”

  The telephone ringing interrupts him. Vera answers it: “Pendragon Productions.”

  “What’s cooking, grey-eyes?” chuckles a warm voice. “This is Anson A. Kridd. May I speak with Enki-dinky-doodle?”

  Vera swallows hard. “Anson, Eddie’s in the hospital. He was in a car crash.”

  “No!”

  “I’m afraid so. Arthur’s with him, but he’s pretty badly beat-up—broken bones, lost lots of blood, all the rest. His life isn’t in danger, though if he hadn’t been tough, it probably would have.”

  “I’ll be there by this evening.”

  “That’s not necessary, Anson. He’s not up to visitors.”

  “Shit. I’m not coming to visit. I’m coming to take care of him. Don’t cross me, Vera.”

  “I…”

  “I’ll be there. Eddie’s one of my best friends. I’m not going to leave him to anyone else.”

  “I have called…”

  “I can do as well as whoever you’ve called. I’m no spring chicken, eh? I’ve cared for my share of injured people.”

  “I…”

  “Good. I’ll leave a message when I have my flight information. Is there room at Arthur’s hacienda for me?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Good.”

  The line goes dead and Vera sits for a moment staring at the instrument for a moment before setting it down. She looks across at the Changer to find him grinning, yellow eyes twinkling.

  “I caught enough of that.”

  “Anson A. Kridd is coming here,” she says, disbelief in her tones. “How can I ever tell Arthur?”

  “Fairly easily. Tell him that you’ve found a qualified nurse for Eddie, someone who will mend his spirit as well as his body. One of the elders of his line.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, when he’s expressed his gratitude, tell him it’s the Spider come to stay.”

  “Ave Maria.”

  The Changer breaks off a chunk of corn bread and drops it to the begging puppy.

  “It could be far worse, Vera. I do not share Arthur’s dislike of Anansi…”

  “Anson,” she corrects mechanically.

  “He is adaptable, versatile, and nearly always productive. Creators are often unpredictable—how could they be else? Creation in itself involves envisioning that which hasn’t been done before. King Arthur is a good man, but he has never been very creative—an administrator, a facilitator, and a usually just ruler, but not usually creative.”

  “And creativity makes him nervous?” Vera asks.

  “Certainly. Just like it does you”—the Changer’s expression is kind, but unswerving—“as well you know.”

  “I know what you’ve said,” Vera retorts, rising from her seat. “Well, I can’t very well send Anson away. I’d better see what rooms to give over to him.”

  “Put him near Eddie,” the Changer suggests. “That’s where he’s going to be anyhow.”

  “Eddie’s in the same wing as Arthur and me—the one we use for permanent residents. I’m not certain there’s space there.”

  “Can you move or would it be easier to move Ed
die?”

  Vera stares at him in disbelief. “Why should I move?”

  “To make room for Anansi.”

  “You would have me move for a transient?”

  “Sure. Shifting dens is usual.”

  “But we live here.”

  “And I lived southeast of Albuquerque. I don’t see anyone suggesting that I should move back.”

  For a moment the grey eyes grow stormy, as if Vera wants to suggest just that, then she starts to laugh.

  “Changer. You are that, aren’t you? Very well, to show you I’m not the stick in the mud that you think, I’ll move out and give my suite to Anansi. I can move into one of the guest wings.”

  “I’ll help you,” the Changer says. “There’s not much else I can do now.”

  Vera shakes her head, laughs again. “Very well, ancient. I accept your offer, but the puppy stays outside. I don’t care to have her marking my belongings.”

  “Very well.”

  Vera opens the door to the kitchen stair. “I’ll head up and decide what I need to move and what can be locked in a closet until Anansi leaves. Join me when you’ve settled your daughter.”

  “Which suite is yours?”

  “It’s in the west wing. I’ll leave the door open.”

  The puppy wants to play, so the Changer humors her, knowing well that such games are necessary to develop her hunting abilities and stimulate her intelligence.

  When she finally drops off to sleep, he resumes his human form and clothing, and goes hunting for Vera. For the first time since his arrival, he takes a good look at the interior of Arthur’s hacienda. It’s a sprawling structure with four wings built around a central courtyard. Unlike many Southwestern buildings, it’s two stories high.

  The ground floor is largely given over to shared areas: meeting rooms, offices, libraries, kitchen, dining room, sitting rooms equipped with big-screen television, even a swimming pool, smoking room, and two residential spaces as well.

  Three different staircases lead to upper areas: one from the kitchen, one from the entry foyer, and one from the courtyard. This last ends on a catwalk overgrown with flowering vines and provides an irresistible temptation to the coyote pup, who often races up and down it, certain she can catch the hummingbirds and butterflies if she is up on their level.