Changeling

A short story about promises, consequences and collateral damage

If you’re here at ‘Notes from the Edge’ for the serialisation of ‘Underworld,’ feel free to skip this short-story post. The next installment of ‘Underworld’ will be out on Tuesday 25th, and we’re diving into history as Persefóni gets her swords out at the Battle of the Fetters! If you’d like to begin at the beginning of the novel, check out the Prologue here.

Now for today’s Crossworlds Fantasy Friday story. I originally wrote ‘Changeling’ in response to the prompt ‘Bards and Bargains’ for ‘Indie Bites’ magazine, but then I decided to submit a totally different story (a 7,500-word world-building fantasy, and possibly my favourite thing I’ve written!) I then submitted ‘Changeling’ to ‘Elegant Literature’ where it received an Honourable Mention. I was reminded of it this week because it’s so freakin’ cold in Attica right now, and my frozen fingers made me think of Jade’s, pressing into the strings of her guitar. Wrap up warm and enjoy!

Busking sucks, but Jade loves it. She loves the way her voice fills her own ears, the way her fingers press into the unforgiving strings of her guitar. She loves watching the people in the street, especially the ones who try to watch her without seeming like they're looking.

On this post-holiday Friday evening, it sucks more than ever - the cold, the dark, the biting wind. Jade goes for a Loreena McKennitt, just to get her through. She closes her eyes and lets the haunting melody and otherworldly lyrics sweep her away. When she opens her eyes, a thirtysomething mum with two kids in tow is placing a generous fiver into her guitar case. "It's my favourite," she confides. There's always one with Loreena - but only ever one. Jade smiles and then sighs as she strums the first chord of a golden oldie, guaranteed to bring a rain of pound coins clinking into her case. She sweeps them up at the end of her set, placing her guitar reverently in their place. Her stiff fingers fumble with the wires of her headset mic as she disentangles it from her body and tucks it into its pocket.

The lights of the nearest bar look tempting, the warmth spilling from the door, but she has promised to attend her parents' anniversary party across town. It's in the pub at the end of their street, which has barely changed from when they used to take her there to eat Mr Men spaghetti shapes and sausages on Sundays. The smell is the same: booze, pub grub and old-man aftershave.

Photo credit: David Bartus on pexels.com

Her parents have rented the upstairs room. It has its own bar and, after kissing and hugging her parents and various acquaintances and relations, this is where Jade sits. She orders a beer, drinking it straight from the bottle, her back to the bar and her feet hooked around the legs of her high stool. Elbows resting on the slightly sticky varnished wood, she surveys the room.

"Good evening."

She turns to look at the man leaning on the bar next to her. She doesn't recognise him, but notes that, somehow, he bears an odd similarity to the illustration on her bottle of Hobgoblin King.

"They aren't really your parents," he says, nodding to where her mum and dad are dancing like idiots to the Backstreet Boys.

It's a strange line to lead with, but she doesn't let it ruffle her.

"Yeah, I know," she says. "They never made a secret of it. They're smart - they read up on the psychological impact of being adopted - learnt that sort of shit messes with kids' heads, when they find out the truth."

"The truth," he says, annunciating the word, rolling it around inside his mouth. "That is an interesting concept. Is it still the truth if it's only partial?"

"What?"

He leans towards her, conspiratorial suddenly. "Wouldn't you like to know who your real father is?"

"Nope. Those are my parents over there." Jade gestures with her beer bottle. "Two's enough - don't need any more."

"But it's important that you know. There are certain ... legalities -"

Jade cuts him off. "If you're social services, you're two months too late. I've officially been an adult since November, so it's officially none of your business."

He smiles a crooked, hobgoblin smile. "I am not speaking of paperwork, but promises. It's time you learnt where you belong, and it's not with those two -"

Jade slams her beer bottle down - she’s always had a short temper. "What's your problem?" she snaps.

"I meant no offence." He offers his hand with an incline of his head, almost like a bow. "Would you care to dance?"

"I don't dance."

"Everybody dances, in the end."

"You're a fruit loop, man." Jade stands, leaving her half-finished beer on the bar.

She crashes a conversation between her mum and her aunts. They don't look alike, but they all have the same infectious cackle of a laugh. Someone is passing around something fizzy in tall glasses. God help them, her dad is probably going to make a toast.

Aunt Lisa is telling some story from the days when Jade’s parents were dating. She gets to the punch line, and the group of women explode into giggles. Jade’s mum leans into her, clutching her arm, still laughing, and wipes an eye with one finger.

A hand lands Jade’s other forearm, boney fingers gripping her tightly through her cable-knit jumper. It's Hobgoblin Guy, but he doesn't speak to her. Instead, he addresses her mum.

"Time's up, Lorna," he says.

Her mother stops laughing and her eyes go wide. A strangled noise escapes from between her lips, and then she is shrieking, calling her husband's name.

"Mum!" Jade is freaking out too - her mum is always so calm, even in a crisis: when Jade cut her head open on the bay window, racing around the outside of the house on her new bike; when that guy in the mask threatened them in the park. But now she is screaming, clinging onto Jade with French-tipped fingers, naked fear in her eyes.

Jade clings to her too, but the strange man wrenches her away, and the space between her and her mother is expanding inexplicably. The room above the pub and its 90s soundtrack fades away and is replaced by a much larger room and much stranger music. The only thing that doesn't change is the pressure on her arm. She turns to look at Hobgoblin Guy. He looks different now - taller, slimmer, a lot more handsome - but his hooded eyes have the same look of cunning.

Jade shakes him off, blinks hard and rubs her eyes, but nothing changes.

"You put something in my drink, freak?"

"There was no need," he answers dismissively. "The contract was fulfilled -"

"What are you talking about?"

He looks irritated. "Why does no one ever explain?" he asks the air beside him. "The man you call your father cannot sire children, and your mother has a criminal record - not promising for a prospective adoptive parent. So, after exploring various avenues, they called on me."

"And who are you? The underground adoption agency?"

He ignores her. "They were so desperate, Lorna and Ash; they didn't ask questions - not the right ones anyway. I suppose you could say, when you're young, trying to make a fresh start, 18 years seems like a long time. But it wasn't that. From the beginning, they thought they could wriggle their way out of the bargain. They changed their names, moved halfway across the world, but it did them no good. They could never hide you from me. I always know where my children are."

"What the fuck, man?" Jade is frightened now. She's never had a trip like this, never even had a nightmare like this. Everything feels too real.

"What's the matter?" the man asks blandly. "Can't you see the family resemblance?"

He holds up a mirror - a shard of a mirror, actually, that he produces from nowhere - and the face it reflects back is like, and yet not, hers.

She squeezes her eyes shut, but when she opens them she is still confronted with the pixie-version of herself, her features pointed and sharp.

This isn't real. This isn't real.

"What did you do to me? It's my parents' anniversary, you sicko. Who crashes the anniversary party of some middle-aged couple and spikes their daughter's drink?"

"You still think I poisoned your drink?" He gives a delighted laugh. "It's fascinating, the possibilities the mind runs through to convince itself that the senses are playing tricks. Everyone I bring here goes through the same process, the same desperate denial. It's almost admirable. But they all cave in the end.” He sighs, a deep sigh of satisfaction. “They either accept the truth that they are in Faerie, or else they go insane."

Jade is pinching her arm, thinking of the blue pill and ruby slippers. There's no place like home. She'll never take another trip. She'll never even drink again. Wake up, Jade, wake up.

"It's time you joined the dance," the man says.

"I told you, I don't -"

"Everybody dances," he says, and they begin.

Jade dances - for an hour, a year, an eternity. She dances away her childhood, her first crush, the feeling of her father's arms and the warmth of her mother's smile. She dances away flavours and smells, textures and colours. She dances away love and fear, tears of joy, best friends, favourite films and the magic of Christmas. She dances until all her memories are forgotten, until the only thing that remains is the shadow of a feeling - her fingertips pressing into the strings of her guitar.

Then, and only then, does he let her stop. But by then, there is nothing left of the girl who was Jade. He hands her an instrument that looks very much like a guitar.

"Play for me, daughter," he says, and the fae child plays.