Changeling (Illustrated) (4 page)

Dan rolled onto his side and looked up at him. He smiled weakly.

“You want to play something for me? I’ll be glad to listen.”

The boy shook his head.

“Not just now,” he said.

Michael looked about the room, at the huge shelf of picture books, at the unopened erector set. When he looked back at Dan, he saw that the boy was rubbing his wrist.

“Hurt your hand?” he asked.

“Uh-uh. It just sort of throbs—the mark—sometimes.”

“How often?”

“Whenever—something like that—happens.”

He gestured toward the door and the entire external world.

“It’s going away now,” he added.

He took hold of the boy’s wrist, examined the dark dragon-shape upon it.

“The doctor said it was nothing to worry about—no chance of it ever turning into anything bad . . . ”

“It’s all right now.”

Michael continued to stare for several moments. Finally, he squeezed the hand, lowered it and smiled.

“Anything you want, Dan?” he asked.

“No. Uh . . . Well—some books.”

Michael laughed.

“That’s one thing you like, isn’t it? Okay, maybe we can stop by a bookstore later and see what they’ve got.”

Dan finally smiled.

“Thank you.”

Michael punched his shoulder lightly and rose.

“ . . . And I’ll stay out of your office, Dad.”

He squeezed his shoulder again and left him there on the bed. As he headed back toward his office, he heard a soft, rapid strumming begin.

When the boy was twelve years old he built a horse. It stood two hands high and was moved by a spring-powered clockwork mechanism. He had worked after hours at the smithy forging the parts, and on his own time in the shed he had built behind his parents’ place, measuring, grinding and polishing gears. Now it pranced on the floor of that shed, for him and his audience of one—Nora Vail, a nine-year-old neighbor girl.

She clapped her hands as it slowly turned its head, as if to regard them.

“It’s beautiful, Mark! It’s beautiful!” she said. “There’s never been anything like it—except in the old days.”

“What do you mean?” he said quickly.

“You know. Like long ago. When they had all sorts of clever devices like that.”

“Those are just stories,” he said. Then, after a time, “Aren’t they?”

She shook her head, pale hair dancing.

“No. My father’s passed by one of the forbidden places, down south by Anvil Mountain. You can still see all sorts of broken things there without going in—things people can’t make anymore.” She looked back at the horse, its movements now slowing. “Maybe even things like that.”

“That’s—interesting . . . ” he said. “I didn’t realize—and there’s still stuff left?”

“That’s what my father said.”

Abruptly, she looked him straight in the eye.

“You know, maybe you’d better not show this to anybody else,” she said.

“Why not?”

“People might think you’ve been there and learned some of the forbidden things. They might get mad.”

“That’s dumb,” he said, just as the horse fell onto its side. “That’s real dumb.”

But as he righted it, he said, “Maybe I’ll wait till I have something better to show them. Something they’ll like . . . ” 

The following spring, he demonstrated for a few friends and neighbors the flotation device he had made, geared to operate a floodgate in the irrigation system. They talked about it for two weeks, then decided against installing it themselves. When the spring runoff occurred—and later, when the rains came—there was some local flooding, not too serious. They only shrugged.

“I’ll have to show them something even better,” he told Nora. “Something they’ll
have
to like.”

“Why?” she asked.

He looked at her, puzzled.

“Because they have to understand,” he said.

“What?”

“That I’m right and they’re wrong, of course.”

“People don’t usually go for that sort of thing,” she said.

He smiled.

“We’ll see.”

When the boy was twelve years old, he took his guitar with him one day—as he had on many others—and visited a small park deep in the steel, glass, plastic and concrete-lined heart of the city where his family now resided.

He patted a dusty synthetic tree and crossed the unliving turf past holograms of swaying flowers, to seat himself upon an orange plastic bench. Recordings of birdsongs sounded at random intervals through hidden speakers. Artificial butterflies darted along invisible beams. Concealed aerosols released the odors of flowers at regular intervals.

He removed the instrument from its case and tuned it. He began to play.

One of the fake butterflies passed too near, faltered and fell to the ground. He stopped playing and leaned forward to examine it. A woman passed and tossed a coin near his feet. He straightened and ran a hand through his hair, staring after her. The disarrayed silver-white streak that traced his black mop from forehead to nape fell into place again.

He rested the guitar on his thigh, chorded and began an intricate right-hand style he had been practicing. A dark form—a real bird—suddenly descended, to hop about nearby. Dan almost stopped playing at the novel sight. Instead, he switched to a simpler style, to leave more attention for its movements.

Sometimes at night he played his guitar on the roof of the building where birds nested, beneath stars twinkling faintly through the haze. He would hear them twittering and rustling about him. But he seldom saw any in the parks—perhaps it was something in the aerosols—and he watched this one with a small fascination as it approached the failed butterfly and seized it in its beak. A moment later, it dropped it, cocked its head, pecked at it, then hopped away. Shortly thereafter, the bird was airborne once again, then gone.

Dan reverted to a more complex pattern, and after a time he began singing against the noises of the city. The sun passed redly overhead. A wino, sprawled beneath the level of the holograms, sobbed softly in his sleep. The park vibrated regularly with the passage of underground trains. After several lapses, Dan realized that his voice was changing.

IV
.

Mark Marakson—six feet in height and still growing, muscles as hard as any smith’s—wiped his hands on his apron, brushed his unruly thatch of red back from his forehead and mounted the device.

He checked the firebox again, made a final adjustment on the boiler and seated himself before the steering mechanism. The vehicle whistled and banged as he released the clutch and drove it out of his hidden shed, heading down toward the roadway along the path he had smoothed.

Birds, rabbits and squirrels fled before him, and he smiled at the power beneath his hands. He took a corner sharply, enjoying the response to the controls. This was the sixth trial of his self-propelled wagon and everything seemed to be functioning perfectly. The first five expeditions had been secret things. But now . . . 

He laughed aloud. Yes, now was the time to surprise the villagers, to show them what could be wrought with thinking and ingenuity. He checked the pressure gauge at his side. Fine . . . 

And it was a beautiful morning for such an expedition—sunny, breezy, the spring flowers in bloom at either hand . . . His heart leaped within him as the hardwood seat pounded his backside and thoughts of suspension systems danced through his mind. It was indeed a day for great undertakings.

He chugged along, occasionally feeding the flames, trying to imagine the expressions on the people’s faces when they got their first sight of the contraption. A farmer in a distant field let up his plowing and stared, but he was too far removed for his reaction to be visible. Mark wished suddenly that he had thought to install some sort of whistle or bell.

As he neared the village, he drew back on the brake, slowing. He planned to halt right in the middle of town, stand on the seat and give a little talk. “Get rid of your horses,” it would begin. “A new day is dawning . . . ”

He heard the cries of children from a nearby field. Soon they were racing along beside him, screaming questions. He tried to answer them, but the noises of the machine destroyed his words.

As he turned onto the only street through the village, slowing even more, a horse bolted and ran off between two houses, dragging a small cart. He saw people running and heard doors slamming. Dogs snarled, barked and backed away. The children kept pace.

Reaching the town’s center, he braked to a complete halt and looked about.

“Can we ride on it?” the children shouted.

“Maybe later,” he replied, turning to check that everything was still in good order.

Doors began to open. People emerged from homes and stables to stand staring at him. Their expressions were not at all what he had imagined they would be. Some were blank-faced, many seemed fearful, a few looked angry.

“What is it?” a man shouted from across the way.

“A steam wagon,” he yelled back. “It—”

“Get it out of here!” someone else called. “We’ll all be cursed!”

“It’s not bad magic—” he began.

“Get it out!”

“Out with it!”

“Bringing that damned thing into town . . . ”

A clod of earth struck the side of the boiler.

“You don’t understand!”

“Out! Out! Out!”

Stones began to fly. A number of men began moving toward him. He singled out the one he knew best.

“Jed!” he shouted. “It’s not bad magic! It’s just like boiling water to make tea!”

Jed did not reply, but reached out with the others to seize hold of the wagon’s quivering side.

“Well boil you, you bastard!” one of the others shouted, and they began to rock the vehicle.

“Stop! Stop! You’ll damage it!” Mark cried.

Top-heavy, it quickly responded to their pressures with a swaying motion. When he realized that it was beginning to tip, it was too late to jump.

“Damn you!” he cried, and he fell.

He landed rolling and struck his head but did not pass out. Dazed, he saw the boiler burst and the firebox come open, scattering embers. Several droplets of hot spray struck him, and he continued to roll. The waters streamed off toward the main ditch, missing him.

“Damn you, damn you, damn you, damn you,” he heard himself repeating, and then he blacked out.

He smelled the smoke and heard the flames when he came around again. The wagon had taken fire from the embers. People stood about watching it burn. No one made an attempt to extinguish it.

“ . . . Have to get a wise man to exorcise the demon now,” he overheard a woman saying. “Don’t no one touch it. You kids stay away!”

“Fools!” he muttered, and he struggled to rise.

A small hand on his shoulder pushed him back.

“No! Don’t draw attention to yourself! Just lie still!”

“Nora . . . ”

He looked up. He had not at first realized that she was there, holding a compress to his head.

“Yes. Rest a moment. Gather your strength. Then come back this way between the houses.” She gestured with her head. “We’ll move quickly when we do.”

“They didn’t understand . . . ”

“I know. I know. It was like the horse, when we were children . . . ”

“Yes.”

“ . . . Something you just thought up because you think that way. I understand.”

“Damn them!” he said.

“No. They just don’t think the way you do.”

“I’ll show them!”

“Not now you won’t. Let’s just get ready and slip away. After that, I think it might be a good idea for you to stay out of sight for a time.”

He stared at the burning wagon and at the faces beyond it.

“I suppose you are right,” he said. “Damn them. I’m ready. I want to get out of here.”

She took hold of his hand. He winced and drew it back.

“I’m sorry. It’s burned,” she said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Neither had I. It will be all right, though. Let’s go.”

She clasped his other hand. He rose quickly and moved with her, past shrubs, beyond the houses.

“This way.”

He followed her down a lane, through a barn.

When they paused to rest, he said, “Thank you. You were right. I’m going away for awhile.”

“Where?”

“South,” he hissed.

“Oh, no!” she said. “That’s too wild, and—”

“I’ve got the name,” he stated.

She stared into his eyes.

“Don’t,” she said.

He reached forward and embraced her. She was stiff for a moment, then relaxed against him.

“I’ll be back for you,” he told her.

The trees were smaller, the land was drier here. There were fewer shrubs and more bare areas. This land was rockier and much, much quieter than his own. He heard no birdcalls as he walked and climbed, no insect-noises, no sounds of running water, rustling boughs, passing animals.

His hand had stopped throbbing several days ago, and the skin was peeling now. He had long since discarded the bandage from his head. His tread was firm despite weariness, as he neared the anvil-shaped peak through lengthening shadows. He wore a small backpack, and several well wrapped water bottles hung from his belt. His garments were dirty, as were his face and hands, but he smiled a tight smile as he looked upward and plodded on.

He did not feel that there were demons and assorted monsters in the area, as some people believed. But he bore a short sword across his pack—one he had forged himself years before, when he had been shorter and lighter. It seemed almost a toy now, though he could wield it with great speed and dexterity. He had spent months practicing with blades to obtain the feeling for edged weapons which alone would ensure his producing a superior product when he came to forge them. He had picked his up at the smithy when he had returned there for the supplies for his flight. Now, hiking closer and closer to the forbidden area, he felt no great need for the blade in what he took to be a dead place, but its presence made him think of the effort which had gone into its manufacture, yet had still produced an item inferior in quality to some of the strange fragments of metal he discovered imbedded in the ground here.