Harvest of Changelings (38 page)

“No, no way, no way in hell—or heaven—I won't let you do this, Jack. I won't. I'll take you with us—”

“I can't go—I'm not a changeling. You don't even know if you can go, Ben. This wound is going to kill me, anyway. I can feel it. This way, my death will do some good. Not the evil Thomas wants. Please, let me do this,” Jack said as he struggled to sit up, each movement obviously causing him pain.

“No, Jack. You are not going to do this. Father J, you tell him. No, no, no, NO!” Ben yelled.

“Ben, stop. Jack, no, it's wrong. He'll still get his evil and—it's just wrong.”

Jack slumped back down on the couch, his eyes closed. “All right, Ben. Father,” he said, whispering. “I haven't got the strength to argue with you.”

“There doesn't have to be a sacrifice,” Jamey said. “There aren't many witches out in the day—and in the hour of light before the clouds close back in, there won't be any. And the glamour will hide the van. I'll douse the van with holy water, string it with garlic. We will be in Chapel Hill in an hour, a little more. Then, tomorrow night, we can do it again—or something. We will; I know it.”

He knew it was true. They
would
think of another plan to get from Chapel Hill to the Devil's Tramping Ground, in the dark, in the storm. How and at what cost—well, what good did it do to worry over that part? Good always won over evil, didn't it? In the end, anyway, he had to remind himself, and the end was sometimes a long way from the beginning. But that wasn't true. Evil did win, sometimes, completely and thoroughly. Weren't there Nazis who went to their graves uncaught and unrepentant? Wasn't genocide a way to outline human history? Did something good truly come out of everything evil? If humanity learned anything from the Holocaust, then why had there been killing fields in Cambodia? Maybe this was supposed to end badly—Malachi, Jack dead, Thomas the victor. Evil triumphant.

Or maybe there was no God at all.

I don't know. I have to believe Good wins; I have to believe God cares, that Jesus was who he said he was. I have to believe that all of this has some purpose. That the Nazis had to answer for what they did in the next world, if not in this one.

Then, he sat down by Jack on the couch, took the man's too-cold hand and began to pray.

Usually at this time, most local stations break Morning Edition for state and local news. And I will, even though North Carolina is national news today and has been for a while. The National Weather Service at RDU Airport is at a loss to explain why the state is the focal point for the electrical storms now plaguing the country. Janet Carrollton, Weather Service spokesperson, said this morning that so far the storms seem to be connected to some sort of extreme ionization of the upper atmosphere. As to why central North Carolina should be the spawning ground of all these storms remains a mystery to meteorologists all over the country.

Electrical power and phone service has been disrupted throughout the state. This station is right now running on a generator. Of course, I have no idea who is hearing this broadcast, if anybody is, or if it is making it out of North Carolina to DC. Almost three-fourths of Raleigh is in the dark, and Chapel Hill and Durham are supposed to be totally without power. Heavy rains have caused local flooding and that, plus the high winds, has made most major highways impassable. Lightning strikes have been reported throughout the state—the greatest number in south Raleigh and Garner—

While the Weather Service cannot explain the reason for the electrical storms, there are people in the area who do have explanations. Yesterday I spoke with local church leaders, several of whom believe this is the Apocalypse, Armageddon, the End Time. Local pagan, Wiccan, and Old Faith groups have another version or vision of what is happening: they are saying the storms are harbingers for the coming Great Change, the end of one Millennium and the beginning of another, a time when magic will once again be set loose in the world. Jackson Turner, Chief Priest of the Chapel Hill Pagan Circle, said yesterday the world is at a critical juncture in history.

Turner: The world is coming to an end—just not quite the way doomsayers would have us believe.
This
world—this way of life, with its machines, cut off from the Great Mother, Earth—is ending. It's failed, run its course, run out of energy, and a world in which humans are truly an integral, responsible part, is about to begin. Gaea is coming.

Molpus: Why here in North Carolina? Why not some place like —oh, I don't know, Ireland, for example? And how do we know for sure this is going to be a positive change? What about black magic?

Turner: An enormous amount of
mana
or magic energy has been released over the last ten years. This energy, I think, has caused many of the storms. Magic, as a natural force, akin to gravity, has always been around, and now it's been tapped, so to speak. As for why here, I want to believe that is because there are so many Old Religionists here of one kind or another. I really don't know why North Carolina and that does scare me. Evil—well, the change itself is neutral; it is just change. Evil people can use this change for their own purposes. There is that danger. Black magic is just as real as white. I think evil is responsible for many of the storms, too.

Molpus: And may the Force be with you. So, witchcraft is going to make a comeback? And it may be black witchcraft? When will this happen?

Turner: You joke about the Force, but Lucas wasn't that far off. As for when, on October 31, or Samhain, of course.

Molpus: On Halloween? Are we going to see a whole host of goblins, beasties, and things that go bump in the night? Dragons in the air.

Turner: There already have been dragons in the air; you know that. It was recorded on film. What sorts of creatures are set free will depend on who controls the Changer, the Dark or the Light. Molpus: The Changer?

Turner: Yes, the Changer ...

Russell watched through a narrow window, at the top of the stairs that led from the sacristy down into the choir room, as the church van backed up to the choir room door that opened to the outside.
Father Jamey drove slowly, wanting to make the van's back as close to the building as possible. He wished the priest would go just a bit faster. Light was literally burning. The time between sunrise and the rising of the dark was short and shorter. No blue sky—there hadn't been any for days, but for now, brightness despite the grey and no wind and no rain and no lightning. For the moment, except for the sound of the van, the world was quiet. For Russell, the quiet right then, as Father Jamey finally got the van to where he wanted, was both interior and exterior.

In a few minutes, he knew they would be calling him to come on, to go. And he wanted to; he wanted them to hurry. And he didn't. Russell was safe by this window, on these stairs, in the church. He had but to turn around and he would be through the sacristy and onto the altar. Nothing could hurt him there. Outside the church, even in a holy water-blessed, magic herb-washed church van, inside a glamour cast by a changeling priest, the others, the dark ones, the red-eyed ones, were that much nearer. They had hurt him before. He could feel them at the edge of his aura, nibbling at him like rats, their teeth tearing at the light, their claws trying to shred the colors. He had known they were very close when he had gotten up, early, to go to the bathroom. In the bathroom mirror his hair looked redder than he had ever seen it and his eyes had been green fires. Now he could hear them, too, whispering to him:
Russell, angry Russell, come, anger is power, real power, true power, if you just come . . .

Now, this morning, as he heard the others carrying things into the van, the voices were louder, and this time, they sounded like Miss McNeil:

Russell, Red Fox, my little red fox, foxy woxy, sweet, little red fox,
what's
a little boy like you doing with those bad people? Come on out, be with me. That's right, just one step at a time; they are so busy they won't even notice, not that they care. Take another step . . .

“Russ? Russell, don't go out there yet. Not by yourself. Jeff, help me—”

Russell had come down the stairs; he stood in the choir room. The door to the outside was open. Father Jamey was out there, and Ben and—

Red Fox? Come on, you are such a good boy, that's right, come on. You've always been such a good boy for me, remember? Nobody else believes that but me. Little Red Foxy-Loxy, Fox-in-socks, sir, do you remember that story, Russ? Do you remember?

“Haze? What is it? Ben and Father Jamey said we should come
on, as soon as they get Jack and Malachi settled, get whatever stuff you want to take—”

“Stop talking, Jeff, and help me, it's Russ, look at him, he's almost—”

Tell these bad children to just go away and leave you alone. Tell them I said so.

“You got him?”

“No, not yet, I can't reach in enough—link, link, take my hand—Haze, my father is out there. I hear him. He's promising to be good forever. He loves me, he really loves me—”

“Jeff, not you, too, oh and Malachi is too sick to help, Alex!”

Russell Red Fox Russell Of course I love you; I would never hurt you.

The cat leapt through the door to land on top of the three children who by then were all tangled and pulling and pushing each other. The chairs and music stands fell around them, banging and bumping on the floor. Russell was on the bottom, shoving and kicking. If he could just get these two off of him, he could go. Miss McNeil was waiting. Jeff was on the top and he had just gone limp, caught between trying to hold Russell and trying to escape from Hazel at the same time. She was fighting with both boys as a rope of light wove itself around all three. The rope kept winking on and off.

“Here, Russ, Jeff, Hazel—we're here,” Ben yelled as he burst inside, Father Jamey at his heels. Russell shoved Jeff and Hazel off, and stood in fighting stance. Ben was an adult, but slow. Russell faked him out, dodged to the right and out and he ran right into Father Jamey who locked his arms around him. Hazel held Jeff, rocking him back and forth, as Alex licked his face.

“It's okay,” Jeff whispered. “I don't hear him anymore. It's okay. Help Russ.”

“Let me go, let me go,
let me go, you cocksucking sonuvabitch priest—LET ME GO—”

“No, you are not going out there alone, you're not giving in, no, no, no,” the priest said, and held on. Ben grabbed Russell from behind, and right then, at the touch of the second man, Russell felt everything—the dark voices, Miss McNeil, the shadows—slip away. And he slipped against the priest, his body limp, and so tired, so tired.

“I'm sorry, Father J, I didn't mean—”

“Hush. Ben, bring me some of that herbal mixture I sprinkled on the van. Hazel, go get a paper towel. Jeff, just be still.”

“What's in this?” Hazel asked awhile later as the priest dipped the
paper towel into the dark-colored, aromatic liquid Ben had brought him in a bucket.

“Garlic, laurel, mandrake, marjoram, mugwort, parsley, thyme —a few other things,” Father Jamey said as he wiped Russell's face. “For protection, for strength, for courage. These herbs are like conduits.”

“They're all from Valeria's garden; she planted it right after she found out she was pregnant. I've been growing them ever since and never knew really what to do with them,” Ben said. “Jeff, are you all right, son? You should wash your face with this stuff, Hazel, you, too.”

Jeff sat up. He ran his hands through his dark hair and shook his head. He looked up, first at Ben, then at Father Jamey and Russell. Russell looked asleep. “Yes, I'm all right” he said and slowly got up. “I don't hear my father anymore. I think he may be out there, with the others, in the shadows.” He took the wet paper towel from the priest and ran it over his face and gave it to Hazel; he wasn't sure he liked the smell.

Father Jamey shifted Russell until he held him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. “I think it's time to go. I'll put Russ in the van. Ben, get Malachi. You two stay with Russell. Then we will get Jack and go.”

 

Russell woke to find himself covered by an old quilt, lying on a narrow mattress. Malachi lay beside him, still asleep. Russell leaned over and put his hand on Malachi's forehead. Alex lay on Malachi's other side. The cat looked up at Russell, his blue eyes glowing. Jack lay beside the cat on another narrow mattress, his face turned to the wall. Hazel and Jeff sat, facing him where the last row of van seats would have been; Ben and Father J were in the front. How long had he been asleep? How long until they got—where were they going, anyway?

“He's still hot,” Russell whispered.

“Yeah, I know. How are you?” Jeff whispered back. “Come over here, so you won't wake him and Jack. They aren't doing too good.”

Russell crawled over the mattress and the quilt and the blankets Hazel and Jeff were sitting on and eased himself against the back of the middle van seat, besides Jeff. He leaned into the smaller boy, knowing again that Jeff, in many ways, was much stronger and tougher than he was.

“Everybody all right back there?” Ben called, turning around.

“Fine. Russell's awake; he's up,” Jeff called back.

“Russ? How are you feeling?” Father Jamey said over his shoulder.

“I'm all right. I'm just real tired.”

For a while, no one spoke. There were only the low soft sounds of Jack and Malachi sleeping and the van's engine and the wind outside. Russell got up on his knees to look out a window into what seemed to be a white veil wrapped around the van. Through it he could see dimly the passing highway—somewhere on Interstate 40, heading west—the blur of trees, the darkening grey of the sky, the shadow of the approaching rain. How much longer did they have before this bit of sunlight was gone? Where were the other cars? The big tractor trailers? Had everyone gone to cover, hiding from whatever was happening, the storms, the darkness, the monsters? And
they
were nearby. Looking. He felt them, just barely on the edge of his aura, not a touch, but a flicker, like a light wind over grass.

“When do—where are we going?” Russell asked, as he sat back against Jeff, suddenly tired again.

“Another church—south of Pittsboro, if we can make it there. So we won't have far to go tomorrow to get to the Devil's Tramping Ground,” Hazel said. “That's what Father Jamey said. Depends on what happens when it gets dark again—which is any minute, I think.”

Russell closed his eyes and leaned into Jeff. If he could just stay right where he was until they got to wherever whenever. Not move. Not think. Let Jeff hold him up. That was all Russell wanted.