Harvest of Changelings Read online

  “I wish I had blown down everybody in the hall,” Malachi said as he tossed pinecones. He could have pretended he was a hurricane, with howling winds. Or a tornado that would pick them all up to be dropped into mud. Or maybe just move them, the way he had Miss Windlemere’s chair: pick them up and drop them in a dumpster.

  There weren’t too many kids at school that Malachi liked. Or wanted to like. Ever since kindergarten he had tried and tried to fit in and make the others like and accept him, but no matter how hard he tried—bringing brownies to school, getting into trouble on a regular basis—nothing had quite worked. Some kids were okay, but no one was really his friend. Starting school had been something of a shock in the first place. Malachi hadn’t known how different he was until then. His world had been the kinder, gentler adult one of his father, the folks at the library, Uncle Jack, his father’s best friend, Father Mark. There had been Thomas, Jack’s son, but he had been so much older Malachi had never thought of the awkward teenager and now brooding young man as a friend. Besides, until he was sixteen, Thomas had lived with his mother most of the year, and only visited his dad a few weeks in the summer and some holidays. None of them had told him he was going to be the shortest, have the blondest hair, or that golden eyes were anything out of the ordinary. Most of the camouflage Malachi had tried hadn’t worked. He had blacked his hair with shoe polish in third grade. His father hadn’t punished him for that—going to school the next day with a shaved head had been punishment enough. All that had helped was not being smart. No end of earnest and long conversations with his teachers and his father and Uncle Jack made him waver from getting a succession of B’s and C’s.

  “But you could get straight A’s, son. Remember those games Jack’s friend played with you? They were intelligence tests and—”

  “B’s and C’s are safer, Dad.”

  He knew his dad was convinced Malachi would give up the low grades at Nottingham Heights. Maybe.

  Having Father Mark around had helped. The old priest had reassured Malachi again and again it was okay to be different, that it didn’t matter, and things would be better when Malachi was older, just wait and see. Malachi had been Father Mark’s unofficial helper since first grade: dumping the offering baskets, straightening the missalettes in the pews, collecting the old bulletins. When the old priest died the summer after second grade Malachi felt the world had become a more dangerous place and third grade proved him right. Some big fifth grade boys zeroed in on a tiny, towheaded kid with funny-colored golden-brown almost yellow eyes. Dog-eyes. Dog-boy, Old Yeller, Pee Wee, Shrimp, and Chihuahua Boy had followed him ever since. No amount of explaining his eyes were golden-brown and not yellow did any good.

  Nor did asking his father for contacts.

  “Contacts? You have perfect—better than perfect vision, son. You don’t need glasses, not like me, and you probably never will,” his father had said, not even looking up from the book he had been reading. The pair of cheap sunglasses Malachi bought at Kerr Drugs only lasted for a day. The music teacher wanted to know how he could see with them on inside. The other kids laughed, the glasses were put in the teacher’s June box, and she called his father.

  Malachi hated it when his father got mad. And since the beginning of this school year it seemed like he made his father mad every other day. He could even name the day it started back in the fall, when he had pushed that chair out from under Miss Windlemere in her witch costume.

  He hadn’t been able to wait to tell his dad about it. Malachi had run all the way from the school to the library. He hadn’t stopped running until he burst into his dad’s office, dodging three or four shelving carts, grumbling blue-haired library volunteers, and shouting hello at the desk clerk on the way.

  “Dad, Dad, you’ll never guess what happened at school today. I can do—” Malachi said, as he brushed past the fake giant cobwebs strung across his dad’s office door. His father, who had been peering intently into a computer screen, held up one hand.

  “Just a minute, son, let me finish this last paragraph of this report—have to send it in to the main branch tomorrow—just a little bit more.”

  Malachi picked up a heavy, acrylic paperweight from his dad’s desk, and started tossing it back and forth, from one hand to the other. He wondered how they had gotten the butterflies inside. Maybe the butterflies—a red Monarch, a yellow one, a white one—weren’t real. Maybe the butterflies had been happily flying along, no, maybe it was magic—

  “Okay, there, finished, and save, and print,” his father said and then wheeled his chair around to face Malachi. “Son, put that paperweight down before you drop it. Thanks. Something happened at school today?”

  Malachi told his father what had happened, talking as fast as he could, his hands moving like excited birds. “... and then she just dropped to the floor. It’s magic, Dad; I can do magic, that has to be it. I moved her chair right out from under her just like this—”

  “What? You did what? You moved your teacher’s chair and she fell. Magic? You can’t do magic. Your imagination has gotten way, way out of hand.”

  “Dad! It has to be magic! You should have seen her face when she hit the floor, and that witch hat fell and—”

  “Never ever do that again. Never. Do you understand me? Don’t. Malachi, are you listening to me?”

  “Dad, I didn’t mean to, not really. Why are you getting mad at me? That old witch—sorry, Miss Windlemere, wasn’t really hurt. I’m talking about magic, Dad. It’s real. It’s true, I don’t know how it happened to me, but—”

  “You heard me: Don’t. Ever. Do. That. Again. Pulling out your teacher’s chair—you could get expelled. Are you listening to me? And to make matters worse, you are making up a story about how you did it.”

  “I’m not making it up and I didn’t pull out the chair—not with my hands. Are you listening to me? I made it happen—I pushed the air and—”

  “I said: never again.”

  His father was yelling. Malachi stepped back. He had never seen his father so mad or heard him so loud. People outside his office were trying not to listen or look.

  “Do you hear—what am I doing?” His father, his face fast turning red, quickly sat down in his chair. “Malachi, I’m sorry. Go home. Just go home; we’ll talk later.”

  It happened again at supper. Both Malachi and his father were out of sorts after what happened at the library, and mealtime conversation was mostly pass that, please, thanks, and not much else. When Malachi decided he wanted more bread he decided not to even bother asking. Let’s see if being magic was more than the chair and the kaleidoscope. For a moment nothing happened. Then, wobbling and dipping, rolls falling onto the table, the bread bowl drifted over the carrots and string beans and salad to drop with a bang in front of Malachi. His father stared at the floating bowl, transfixed, his hand and water glass frozen in midair.

  “Dad? I know you saw that. See, I am magic; it’s real. I made the bread bowl float across the table. What’s happening to me?”

  “I didn’t see anything. Nothing is happening to you, nothing at all. Next time you want some bread, just ask me and I will pass it to you, okay?” his father said, his face even harder and colder than he had been at the library.

  “Dad, you were looking right at it. I made the bowl float. It’s magic, you saw it. What is wrong with you? All right—watch this.”

  For a very long moment, nothing happened. Then, with a rush of air propelling them, the salt- and peppershakers launched into the air. Following them, but less steadily, were the mashed potatoes and the green beans. The potatoes fell first, potato-side up, the bowl splitting in two as it smacked the floor. The saltshaker made a soft landing in the potatoes, and the beans just drifted back to the table. The peppershaker exploding, showering the table, all the food, Malachi, and his dad. Moving things was harder than Malachi thought, especially so many things at one time. It made his head hurt. His father, who had sat very still during the entire display, finally moved when
he started sneezing and brushing the pepper off.

  “Magic is just for fairies, not for people. Stories. If you can’t behave, maybe you should go to your room,” his father finally gasped out, when he stopped sneezing.

  “Dad, are you crazy—you saw, I know you saw—”

  “Go to your room.”

  “All right, I will,” Malachi had yelled. He slammed his bedroom door as hard as he could and threw himself on his bed, crying. What was wrong with Dad? Why was he so mad? Why was he pretending he couldn’t see what had happened? What’s wrong with me? I didn’t do anything bad ...

  That had been in October. Neither Malachi nor his father had mentioned Miss Windlemere’s chair or the bread bowl since. It was as if the magic was happening in another room, a place different and secret from their everyday lives. Malachi was sure his father knew—there were times he would look up from doing his homework or reading a book or watching TV to see his dad staring at him. “What is it, Dad? What’s the matter?” Malachi had asked a few times. “Nothing,” his father had said. “Nothing’s the matter.” The secret had to stay secret, an invisible and offstage presence that haunted 1413 Beichler Road. Malachi wished, over and over again, that he knew why. He hated not being able to talk to his dad about it. Not talking about the magic didn’t make it any less real. Magic? Was that what it really was? In a lot of the stories and books he had read since he had moved Miss Windlemere’s chair the magic had something to do with spells and making strange things in huge bubbling cauldrons. Witches and wizards did magic like that. Fairies, on the other hand, were different. They were magic. When Malachi figured that out, he was almost satisfied. What about the other meaning of fairy? The one he wasn’t sure about, the one he had heard some older boys whispering and laughing about? Malachi wanted to ask his father if he thought that was right: witches did magic, fairies were magic, what the older boys meant. But he asked nothing.

  But despite the silence, everything else was pretty much the same, which made the weird silence tolerable. Uncle Jack still came to dinner once or twice a week, although now he sometimes brought his new girl friend, Hilda. Malachi and his father still went to movies in Raleigh every now and then, and some Sundays they would make it to mass down the street at St. Mary’s. School, homework, the library, and the ghost safely in another room.

  Malachi, of course, did not stop doing what he called little magics: sliding the chalk just ahead of Miss Windlemere’s fingers, pulling book markers out of all the books on her desk. Or, as he had done yesterday, nudging a softball in mid-air to pop the head of one of his tormentors. The boy had deserved it. He had been picking on Malachi on the bus, calling him Old Yeller and baby, and what was a little bitty baby doing in school, huh, cat got your tongue, little bitty feller? No, Malachi had thought when the ball smacked the boy’s head, but I just got you. And a week ago, he had found out he could raise the wind, be the Big Bad Wolf.

  Malachi got up from the tree and brushed off leaves and pine needles. He had also practiced in his room at home, after his father thought he was asleep, or out in the woods, in places like this. He started walking deeper into the little grove. There was a clearing that he remembered from the last time he had gone exploring in these woods. Besides, he didn’t want the principal to find him; at least not right away.

  “Dad’s going to be really mad when he finds out,” Malachi muttered to himself as he followed a winding dog-path. He was sure by now his father had been called and was probably on his way to the school. And no matter how hard his father was pretending, Malachi was sure his dad would figure out how the school bell had gone off so early.

  This is a Good Place. He had come to the clearing, which was almost a perfect circle cut out of the trees, as if someone had lifted up everything with a huge cookie cutter. Weeds, tall grasses, leaves, and branches covered the ground. Tiny pine and cedar saplings, spindly oak and maple saplings. Small blue and white star-shaped flowers were scattered inside the circle like sprinkles tossed on a cake. Malachi’s feet crunched on acorns. He stood in the middle and looked up into a smaller circle of sky, its irregular rim made by tree branches.

  He had been dreaming of this trick for as long as he could remember, and now, after the softball, the bowl, the chalk and the chair, and today, after the clock and the bell—well, could he do it—could he be like the wind?

  Okay, here goes. One, two, three, up where the air is clear, up in the stratosphere, let’s send it soaring, let’s go fly a kite ...

  At first, like with the dishes at the table, nothing happened. Then, Malachi pushed against the ground and shot straight up, one, two, three, four feet, then stopped, faltered, and dropped like a stone into the leaves. I can do this. just like the clock. The dinner bowls. I can do this. Malachi lifted more slowly the second time and stopped a yard up. It was as if something shifted in his brain, something clicked, and there, now he could see what to do. He dove up and out and into the breeze.

  Malachi flew.

  He swooped up to the top of the nearest tree and then down and up again, turning his body over and over as he did, making spirals in the air. He dove in the warm air and did somersaults all the way down, and then a sudden flip, and he was skimming the tops of the saplings, like a rock skipping on water. He plucked leaves from a big oak and then dodged them as they drifted to the ground. He floated on his back, on his stomach, on his side.

  If he could just stay in the air and never come down. Nobody could come and get him, and any names they would call would just drop on the ground. It no longer mattered that he was smaller than everybody else, with funny eyes and hair, with a dad who was a librarian and with no mother at all. Valeria. That was her name, but all Malachi knew about her was that he looked just like her and that to ask his dad about her meant silence and sadness. Could she fly? Was she magic?

  But never mind all that. He could fly.

  Finally Malachi looked at his watch. 4:30. Better get going. Tuesdays his dad would be home from the library by five. He knew his dad was going to be mad because he had run away from school; that was a given. Making him madder by being late wasn’t worth it. Malachi let himself slowly float down to the ground, his feet landing lightly in a bed of moss.

  He got home just before five, only minutes ahead of his father. Malachi was in the bedroom, changing out of his school clothes so his dad wouldn’t see the leaves and cobwebs, when he heard the front door open, then his father’s footsteps, and the thud of his father’s briefcase on the coffee table in the living room. Malachi quickly pulled a T-shirt over his head and ran to the bathroom to stuff his school clothes in the hamper.

  “Malachi Lucius Tyson. Come here, please.”

  All three names. He’s really mad. Malachi gulped and went down the hall.

  “Dad? Dad? I’m sorry—it was an accident—I, uh—” Malachi stopped, staring at his father. Dad didn’t look three names-mad. He looked tired and sad; his eyes were red and wet. Dad had been crying. Malachi shuddered; he couldn’t believe it, he wouldn’t believe it. Was it this magic? No, it couldn’t be—anything that let you fly could not be bad—

  “Go back to your room. You’ve scared me to death. I almost called the police. The principal called; he is furious. Miss Windlemere is even more furious. Go to your room. I can’t talk to you now. Go.”

  “But, Dad, I have to tell you, I want to tell you—Dad, I flew today, in the air. Could my mother fly? Dad, please—”

  “I said: go to your room.”

  “Dad!”

  “Not another word.”

  Malachi went to his room.

  Much later, after a miserable dinner, surrounded by a thick, sullen silence, Malachi lay on his bed, waiting for his dad to turn in. When he heard his father go into his bedroom across the hall and close the door, Malachi got up. Making as little noise as possible, he went to the back door and gently eased it open and slipped out onto the back porch. Two, three more steps and he was in the backyard. He glanced next door at Uncle Jack’s house—jus
t one light on—Thomas, he guessed, house-sitting. Uncle Jack had gone to some conference or something. Malachi took a deep breath and shot straight up into the cool night air, a shooting star in reverse, blue-white light streaming behind him in a shimmering tail.

  By the time Malachi came home the second time it was late, a little after eleven. Malachi knew he was going to be exhausted in school tomorrow, but he didn’t care. He could fly. He landed on the front stoop and standing beneath the outside light, fished his key out of his pocket and unlocked the front door. He stepped into a silent house. The lamp on the end table, beside the couch, was on, making a soft yellow circle on the rug.

  After cutting off the lamp, he went down the hall. No light edged his father’s door. The bathroom night-light made a tiny white sphere, illuminating the linoleum and the bath mat. Malachi looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes weren’t just golden-brown anymore. They were becoming the color of the gold crayon in the Crayola box. For a brief moment, his eyes glowed and just as quickly the glow winked out. His hair—was it getting even lighter? And his ears—Malachi turned on the overhead light and turned his head to one side and then the other. Yes, his ears were getting pointed. Dad couldn’t ignore these things, could he? Like he ignored the floating bowls? He knew all that was happening wasn’t normal. Was he—no, not going crazy?

  Dad, you know; I know you know. Why won’t you talk to me?

  Before leaving the bathroom, Malachi pulled the night-light out of the socket. He had told his dad a hundred times he was too old for a night-light. He very slowly and carefully opened his bedroom door at the end of the hall. The lamps on his night table and his desk were on. His father lay on his back on Malachi’s bed, fast asleep and snoring.

  April 30, 1991

  The Technician

  “Campus Magic”