Harvest of Changelings (22 page)

“Sure,” Russell said with a shrug.

The school came into sight within a few minutes' flying time. Jeff turned his head and grinned. “Are you ready?” Russell nodded. When they cleared the trees enclosing the playground, Jeff dove
straight down. It was like riding a roller coaster: a long, long, sharp dive, and down, down, down, down, to skim the ground; then straight up and back down again. And up again, making a corkscrew in the air. Then Jeff led him in great circles around and around the playground.

“Okay, now we go this way, toward that pond over there,” Jeff shouted and banked left.

“What are we gonna do there?” Russell shouted back, wondering why they were shouting. Jeff was only a few feet away.

“You'll see.”

When they got to the small pond, Jeff dove straight down again, slicing into the water with a quick splash. Russell could see Jeffs blue-green-white shape streaking below the pond's dark surface, like some great racing fish. He burst through the water on the far side and flew up, the water streaming off his light-skin.

“We're still playing follow-the-leader, Russ. You aren't scared, are you?”

“I'm not scared,” Russell snapped. He'd show Jeff who was tougher. He let his light-skin wink out and before he could begin to feel the night air and the now-misty rain, dove into the pond. The water was like a sudden slap, very cold and very hard, and then he was under, shooting just below the surface as fast as he could go. The water exploded in front of him and he shot up in the air, a wet comet.

“You lost your shorts,” Jeff yelled, laughing and pointing.

Russell looked down. He was naked, forty feet up in the air. And he was wet and shivering. Chattering and with some effort, he turned back on his light-skin full strength. At least the cold went away. He flew down slowly, in wide circles, to look for his shorts. There was the dark water of the pond. No shorts. Russell flew back up, shaking his head. Jeff laughed again and dove down into the water. He skimmed the surface this time, as if he were a skipping stone, and then up, stopping to hover in front of Russell.

“Here they are, you goof. Can't you see? You'd better put them back on,” Jeff said and handed the dripping shorts to Russell.

“What for? Who's going to look up in the air in the middle of the night? This is like swimming with the swimmers, remember?” Russell said and let his gym shorts fall back in the water. They weren't his favorites, anyway.

“I guess you're right,” Jeff agreed and peeled his clothes off and dropped them in the pond. “This
is
like when we were with the swimmers and the dolphins. C'mon, let's race.” Jeff flew off, with Russell at first behind and then right beside him.

Sometime later they stopped racing and diving and floated, like dandelion fluff on a light breeze. They lay on their backs, with their arms outstretched, over the trees between Russell's and Jeff's houses. By then it was almost morning. The clouds were gone and the sky was changing from purple-black to blue-grey.

“I could live up here forever,” Russell said, his eyes closed.

“Me, too. The sun's going to come up soon, Russ. Look over there. See the light just starting behind those trees?”

“Yeah, I see it. I guess we should go home soon before somebody on their way to early church does look up and see us up here with no clothes on.”

“You're right,” Jeff said a few minutes later, yawning. “There's the sun, just over the trees,” he added. The faint glow had become a golden fire. “There's the Clarks' house. I'd better go. Call me later, if you can.”

“Okay, see you later,” Russell said, wondering if either one of them would be able to sleep when they were home, if they would just lie in bed, remembering flying. Russell watched as Jeff flew down and landed in the backyard and then ran into the house, disappearing into the back door, a white shadow on the green grass. Russell flew back to his own house and landed on the roof. The floor felt odd to his feet as he put the manger scene back in the window. He crawled back in bed and the sheet and spread lay heavy on his skin. For a little while the pillow felt hard. And then, completely under the covers, Russell let his fire-colored light-skin go out.

Malachi stayed out of school three more days, until the middle of the week. He had wanted to go back on Monday but his father had insisted he stay home, sleep, get back his strength. Thursday was soon enough.

“Dad, I'm going to get behind,” Malachi grumped Monday morning as his father stood meditatively over his open briefcase, pondering what to put in next.

“I'll call your teacher and get your assignments. I'll drive over there this afternoon and get your books. I'll tell her the doctor said you were to stay in bed for a few days. The flu. No, don't ask me again. You're staying at home. And how in the world could we explain how you look?” Ben said and selected two books he needed to review. Then he scooped a stack of the manila file folders. He wasn't on the public desk until the afternoon; maybe he could get
all these done today. Well, at least two or three of them. “I don't think there are any other kids at Nottingham Heights Elementary that have light-smoke drifting out of their pointed ears. Do. You? Besides. You're. Still. Tired.”

“When Mrs. Collins gets mad she has smoke coming out of her ears—never mind,” Malachi said. Whenever his father spoke each word as if it was a single sentence he knew the argument was over and done with. And he
was
still leaking light. Tendrils oozed slowly out of his skin pores, his ears. As his father closed his briefcase, another thin stream came out of his nose. Malachi watched as it drifted slowly up in the air, twisting and turning near the living room ceiling until it faded away.

“Case in point,” his dad said, watching Malachi's nose smoke in the air. “Your mother could turn the light on and off. I wish I knew how to tell you to do it, too, son. Try concentrating on it, visualizing the light going off. You can do it—you were born to,” Ben said. “You glowed all over when you were a little baby. I wish I could take you to a doctor about being so tired.”

“I've never been to a doctor,” Malachi said. He raised one hand and the door opened in front of his father.

“You've never been sick before, either. Never caught anything like measles or mumps. But even if you weren't leaking light, I couldn't take you. Who knows what would show up on a blood test and your normal temp is 100. I arranged for all the paperwork the schools needed—but never mind that. I'll be home for lunch. I love you, son,” his dad said and kissed Malachi on the forehead and went out the door.

“I love you, too, Dad,” Malachi called after him as he closed the door.

It was a long three days, even though Malachi spent most of them sleeping—deep, heavy sleep. His father had been right. Getting up for breakfast, eating, reading, doing whatever schoolwork Mrs. Collins had given his father took him to mid-morning. Then Malachi would be bone dead tired again, so tired he would fall asleep where he was, on the couch, in an armchair, at the kitchen table. By Tuesday night he began to feel stronger and the light discharges stopped. Malachi had wanted to be able to tell his father he had stopped them, but he couldn't. They just stopped.

In the afternoons, after the morning nap, lunch, and another nap, Malachi practiced his levitation and psychokinesis. By Wednesday morning Malachi was able to keep a circle of balls moving over his head, like a revolving halo. He drifted about the house, from
room to room, and walked up walls and on the ceiling. It was a relief to be able to practice magic and not have to hide it from his father. All his father had said when saw the balls in the air was to be careful and let no one else see what he was doing.

“Be sure you draw the drapes, son. And no going outside. I just have a funny feeling they aren't far away.”

They
were the Fomorii—the red-eyed ones who sometimes lurked in dark corners in his dreams. He knew the monsters terrified his father. Malachi was able to pick up enough of his father's thoughts to know that. It wasn't actual mind-reading or listening—rather it was as if the emotions that were part of his father's thoughts —fear, worry over Malachi—were being projected. And even if he couldn't pick up his father's emotions, Malachi could tell his father was worried and afraid by the colors in his aura. The usual warm white-yellow of his father's aura was streaked with dulling browns, black, and greys. He wanted his father to tell him about the Fomorii: who were they, really and did they come from Faerie, too, and what did they want so badly? Uncle Jack had been of no help.

“The Fomorii? Those red-eyed monsters, huh? No, Malachi, that story your dad has to tell you, not me,” Jack had said.

 

On Thursday morning, his father, grumbling that Malachi could have waited until Friday, drove Malachi to school. Malachi had wanted to ride the bus, but his father had been adamant. “Malachi, are you sure you're up to this?” his father asked when they were stopped in front of the school.

“I'm fine, Dad, really,” Malachi said, one hand on the door handle.

“Well all right, but you be sure you tell the teacher to call me if you get tired,” his father and kissed Malachi on the forehead.

“I'll be fine, Dad.” He wanted to ask his father right then about the Fomorii. The physical contact—lips on forehead—had been an instant download and this time not just emotions, but images. The Fomorii, their eyes, fire whips, in the middle of the night, and his father, afraid, afraid for his son, his wife—and deep, sharp grief. Then his dad had pulled away. “I'll be okay, Dad; I have her charm, remember? See you at three.”
You are going to have to tell me and soon
.
I need to know
.

Malachi waited at the top of the school steps until his father's car was out of sight. Then he turned and faced the school and took a deep breath. Malachi could just vaguely sense the other kids' feelings, as if they were a distant thunderstorm. When a girl bumped
him as he stood there, it was like having someone throw cold water on him in the shower. He pulled away, gasping. She was—her dad had—no, no—she hadn't wanted him to—And she was gone. Malachi counted to ten and then, keeping himself as close to the wall as he could, went in. He wasn't leaking light, and as long as he didn't touch anyone, it would be safe.

That feeling of safety lasted until he got to his classroom. Hazel's mind practically slapped Malachi in the face when he stepped through the door. She was sitting at her seat, reading and fiddling with her long, brown braid. Hazel was outlined in layers of light: a pale blue close, then rainbow colors, yellow, and more rainbow colors. What looked like small fires burned at the top of her head, her neck, and her heart. Hazel's ears were pointed; her eyes glowed silver. Malachi blinked and she looked like she always did, except she wore a headband over her ears. Hazel looked up then and Malachi saw recognition in her face: he knew she had seen him in her dreams.

Two
, Malachi thought, and went in the room, chatted with Mrs. Collins, and then sat down with the work sheet for morning work.
I'll talk to her at lunch
,
maybe PE
.
She's scared
,
too
,
and kind of glad
—

The air crackled and snapped and Malachi felt a sudden heat on his face and rain on his head. He looked up. Russell White stood in the doorway, talking with his buddy, Jeff, who was in Mrs. Markham's room across the hall. Both of them had headbands wrapped around their ears. Malachi could see the layers of color in Russell's aura all the way to the fine burning gold edge. Small fires burned on the top of Russell's fiery red hair, his neck, his heart, the middle of his torso, his belly, his crotch. His eyes glowed green. Jeffs eyes were as green as Russell's, but his aura was cool: white, blue, and green. A rose-colored vine of light grew out of each of their hearts, linking the two boys together.

Three and four
. Russell, he thought, hadn't been the same since his suspension two weeks ago. The usually cantankerous boy had come back quiet and subdued and suddenly best friends with a boy who was no longer quiet or subdued. And somehow Malachi was sure Russell's new quiet wasn't just because of the fire and the trailer and the new Resource teacher. Malachi quickly looked back at the work sheet on his desk as Russell walked past him to his desk, feeling like a faint brush across his back the boy's dislike and distrust.

At least he doesn't out and out hate me
.
And he and Jeff and Hazel are the other kids I have dreamed about
.
Now
,
what do I do
?
I know
them and I don't
.
I know they are becoming like me and we are sup
-
posed to be together
,
the four of us
—

“Ow,” Malachi said out loud, for the moment forgetting the other three. He had brushed his bare arm against the steel desk support. There was a long, angry red welt where the metal had touched his skin and his arm hurt. He pressed his right hand against his mother's charm and felt an answering surge and the welt faded. A ward, he thought; Dad had talked about her setting wards like force fields. And iron, how iron was poisonous to her—

“Malachi? Do you feel well? Did you hurt your arm?”

He looked up to see Mrs. Perry leaning over him.

“Just tired. I've finished my morning work. Here it is, and here's what I did when I was home and ...”

Then Mrs. Collins began quizzing Russell about his headband.

“Is it some sort of club you and Jeff have, or something one of you saw on TV? Well, Russell?” she asked, tapping her pencil on her desk. Malachi looked up to see Mrs. Collins's aura as well, a dull, rusty brown that kept flickering on and off, as if whatever batteries powering it were weak.

“We just wanted to wear them, that's all. No club, no special reason. Besides, Hazel has one on, see?” Russell said. Mrs. Collins turned from Russell to look at Hazel and her mouth dropped open.

“Hazel? Why are you wearing a headband?”

“Uh, I, uh—”

Malachi dropped all his books on the floor and everybody in the class jumped and looked away from Russell and Hazel. Jeff slipped out the door and Russell took his seat. Hazel buried herself in her spelling book. Malachi busily and loudly picked everything up.