Harvest of Changelings (35 page)

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 silence 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 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 the 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.”

“We should just shoot the goddamn sunuvabitch and be done with it,” the deputy said, not bothering to whisper.

“Let me see that warrant—you have reason to believe nothing. And I think I should be allowed to call my lawyer before you do anything.”

“Russell, Hazel, we have to go, now. Now, before they catch us
here,” Jeff said and yanked both of them off the bed. “Come on, the back door. We'll fly; Father Jamey is waiting for us at the church. Wake up.
Wake up.
We have to move
now.”

“Go,
go,”
Malachi whispered and leaned over as if he were going to push at both Russell and Hazel. Both stood suddenly as someone had pulled them up by the backs of their necks. “Go, out Dad's window. I'm supposed to be here.”

“I'm afraid you are going to have to step aside, Mr. Tyson, or I may have to arrest you. Do I make myself clear?”

“I still haven't seen that search warrant.”

“This is ridiculous,” the other woman hissed angrily. “The search warrant is valid.”

“You said it, sister. Goddamn faggot, trying to tell us what we can and can't do,” the deputy added.

Russell and Hazel were finally moving. Alexander helped, nipping at their heels to get them to go faster. “Okay, okay, stop, Alex, I'm awake,” Hazel said, when they stumbled into Mr. Tyson's study.

“Well, the warrant
looks
valid. You can look, but my son is sick; I won't have you disturb him, and so is my neighbor, Jack Ruggles. He's been staying with us since his wife died.”

“Yeah, I'm okay, I'm ready, let's take off,” Russell said.

Jeff shoved the window up. “Russ, go first.”

“Step aside, Mr. Tyson.”

Russell climbed out the window and dived out and up into the air. Hazel was right behind him. Alex simply jumped out the window and took off running, his feet skimming the wet grass.
We made it,
Jeff thought and flew out behind them.

It was the Saturday evening vigil mass. Father Jamey started down the altar to take his place to offer the Host. The two Eucharistic ministers flanking him held ciboriums, and the two behind him held chalices. The woman on his right stepped down first and positioned herself by the front pew. The man on the priest's left held his yellow ciborium by the steps to the sacristy. The man and the woman behind the first two, holding the wine-filled chalices, took places closer to the church's side doors. Father Jamey, as always, stood in the middle. He picked up a Host from his own ciborium and looked up to see Ben Tyson at the front of the line. Ben held Malachi in his arms, the boy's fair head resting on his shoulder. Jack stood behind them. Jack was clearly only up and moving on sheer will power and
painkillers; Malachi was obviously ill: pale, flushed, sunken eyes.

“Body of Christ.”

“Father, we're here. What do we do now? Where do we go? I got out of the warrant this morning because the boys and Hazel got away, but they're going to be back. A deputy followed us here—he's parked in front of the church.”

“Listen to me,” Father Jamey whispered back to Ben, who had his right hand open to take the Host. He motioned to the obviously impatient woman behind Jack to go to the female Eucharistic minister. Both Eucharistic ministers were staring at the priest. They stopped when the communicants started following the priest's insistent hand gestures and came to them to take the Host. “After you take the Host, go to my left to take the cup. Then, go up those stairs to the sacristy. From there, go downstairs to the choir rehearsal room. The other kids are already there. Got it? Malachi,” the priest went on, raising his hand to touch the boy's head, “I bless you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and ask their healing to be upon you.” Malachi's hair was wet with sweat and he was hot with fever. “Ben, the Body of Christ. Got it?”

“Amen,” Ben said as he glanced back at Jack, who looked perilously close to falling over. “Jack?”

“I heard him; it's okay,” Jack whispered back.

“May the Lord bless us, keep us from all evil and bring us to everlasting life,” Father Jamey said as he traced a cross on Jack's forehead.

“Amen,” Jack said, his voice barely audible.

The Change has finally begun,
Father Jamey thought, watching the three of them walk over to the Eucharistic minister holding the chalice. The grey-haired woman seemed unperturbed by the long delay, and offered first Ben, then Jack, the silver cup. It had been on the radio again this morning: more monsters in the Great Dismal Swamp, unseasonal storms, apparitions, dragons in flight, unicorns wandering in city and state parks. And the focal point, ground zero: North Carolina, Raleigh, Garner, Vandora Springs Road. The church was as packed as if it were Christmas or Easter. A dawn-to-dusk curfew was in effect. Martial law had been declared.

“Body of Christ, Ethel.”

“Amen.”

What is Your will here? What sort of world will we have when this is all over? What do You want us to learn, to do, to be? Do You want to show us, teach us that magic is real and afoot?
There, Ben, Jack, and Malachi were safe in the sacristy.

“Body of Christ, Steve.”

“Amen, Father.”

Somehow Jamey knew that what he was doing right then: celebrating mass, giving sanctuary to the persecuted, was exactly what God wanted him to do and keep doing, no matter what sort of Change was coming.

“Body of Christ, Margaret.”

“Amen.”

 

The Raleigh News and Observer
Sunday, 20 October 1991

Gays, Lesbians, and the Left are to Blame?

“They
are the ones responsible for what's been happening here in North Carolina. Gays, lesbians, the feminists, the pro-abortion lefties, the ACLU, all of them—they are bringing the Devil and his minions into this state,” television evangelist Jerry Falwell said yesterday, the final afternoon of his seven-day Raleigh crusade, a joint project with Billy Graham, in Dorton Arena at the State Fairgrounds. Joint crusader Billy Graham seemed to be in sharp disagreement, as he walked off the podium in the middle of Falwell's attack . . .