Guest Page 2

  “Have you lost your wits?” Mam asked. “Nurse that creature? I can’t, I won’t. If you refuse to do it, I myself will take him to the crossroads tonight and leave him there. They can come for him or not. I want my own child, not this monster.”

  “Be still and listen.” Granny’s grip on Mam’s arm tightened. “If you treat this changeling well, they’ll treat Thomas well. But if you treat him badly, you can be sure your child’s life with them will be filled with misery and suffering.”

  “If I mistreat this creature, they will mistreat Thomas?”

  “That’s their nature. They and theirs come first—​even the ones they don’t want. We and ours come last.” She paused a moment. “If the changeling grows strong and healthy on human milk, they might take him and return yours. Mind you, it doesn’t happen often, and I make no promises. There’s a chance you’ll get your Thomas back—​but only if you please them.”

  Mam returned her gaze to the cradle. Tears ran down her face. “I do this not for you, but for Thomas,” she told the changeling. “My own true child who’s been taken from me.”

  With tears running down her face, she lifted the changeling to her breast and opened her dress. He began to suck at once. The only noise then was the sound of him nursing. Loud, slurping, as greedy as a piglet and many times uglier.

  Granny Hedgepath steered me toward the door. “Leave your mam alone with it,” she said. “She must have peace and quiet if she’s to nurse the changeling.”

  She led me to a stone bench in the garden and sat beside me. Thomas’s quilt lay on the grass, rumpled and empty, a pitiful reminder of my little brother.

  “It were you, weren’t it? You said what you shouldn’t have said.” Granny Hedgepath held my arms tightly and forced me to face her. “Tell the truth—​I’ll know if you’re lying, you wretched girl!”

  Trembling with fear and guilt, I dared not confess to Granny. I tried to pull away, but the old woman’s fingernails bit into my skin and I whimpered.

  “Answer me!” Granny shook me so hard, my head bounced, as if the old woman meant to scramble my brains. “Careless, stupid girl, you praised Thomas, did you not? You boasted! You drew their attention.”

  “I didn’t mean to speak out loud,” I cried. “The words were supposed to stay in my head, but—​”

  The old woman shook me again. “I knew it the day I came with the locket and you hid in the shadows, sly as a snake. You were jealous of your brother. You wanted them to take him away!”

  “No, no.” I tried to escape the old woman’s hold. “I love Thomas.”

  Granny Hedgepath shoved her face into mine so we were nose to nose. Anger danced in her eyes. “I see the wickedness in you.”

  I turned my head away from Granny’s face. Yes, I’d envied Thomas, but not enough to want the Kinde Folke to take him. No, surely I didn’t. I wasn’t that sort of sister.

  If only the old woman would go away. I couldn’t bear the strange earthy, smoky smell of her or the feel of her cloak, coarse and scratchy and old, against my skin. Her breath was raspy, and its odor was a mixture of herbs and spices and stale food. Once more I tried to free myself, but she didn’t loosen her grip.

  Suddenly she pulled the locket out of my dress and unfastened it, then held it in front of me. “So, you took the locket. I wondered why it hadn’t kept the dear babby safe.”

  “Thomas gave it to me—​he wanted me to have it. It was just for a little while. I meant to give it back, but, but . . .” I began to cry. The old woman was right. I was indeed a bad sister, a horrible sister, the worst sister a baby brother could ever have. “I didn’t want them to take him, I didn’t!”

  She leaned even closer to me and hissed into my ear. “How do you like your new baby brother? Is he what you wanted?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Granny Hedgepath hurled the necklace at me and strode toward the gate.

  Shaking with anger, I shouted after her. “Don’t you dare call that monster my brother!”

  Granny Hedgepath looked back. “Best learn to mind your tongue, or it will forever bring you trouble.”

  With a swirl of her tattered cloak, the old woman strode through the gate and out of my sight.

  Not knowing what else to do, I fastened the chain around my neck and hid the locket again under my dress. I was no longer comforted to feel it against my skin, but I didn’t want anyone else to know I had it.

  A few moments later, Dadoe came down the lane whistling, his work in the fields done for the day. Usually I ran to meet him. When I was little, he’d hoist me onto his shoulders and carry me home. How tall I’d felt perched up high. I could see over the green fields all the way to Mirkwood, lying like a dark shadow at the mountains’ feet.

  He’d laugh and say, “Shall I take you to Mirkwood and leave you there with the Kinde Folke?”

  “No, Dadoe, no.” I’d cling to him, terrified of that dark wood and its mysteries. Never had I gone there, and never would I go.

  This evening I didn’t run to meet Dadoe. I sat on the bench and dreaded what he’d do when he saw the changeling in the cradle he’d made for Thomas.

  Dadoe stopped in front of me. “Why, Mollie, what are you doing sitting here all by yourself without a word of greeting?”

  A loud screeching in the cottage saved me from answering.

  “That can’t be our Thomas,” Dadoe said, “wailing like a starving cat.”

  He looked at me as if he expected an answer. In a small voice, I said, “You’re right, Dadoe, it’s not our Thomas.”

  I’d spoken too low for Dadoe to hear. With a puzzled face, he went into the cottage, and I followed slowly.

  Scooping up the changeling, he looked at Mam. “What’s the matter with our Thomas? He looks a bit poorly.”

  Mam began to cry. I turned to Dadoe to explain, but before I opened my mouth to speak, Dadoe asked, “Has Granny Hedgepath seen him, Agnes? He looks worse than I first thought.”

  “Yes, yes, she’s been here and gone,” Mam sobbed. “There’s nothing she can do.”

  “It must be bad if Granny can’t help.” Dadoe held the changeling close and rocked him gently. “Never fear, Thomas, we’ll make you well again. There are other healers who know as much or more than Granny Hedgepath.”

  “Sam, are you blind?” Mam cried. “That’s not Thomas in your arms!”

  Dadoe smiled down at the changeling, who stared back with strange wide eyes. “Don’t be daft,” Dadoe said. “If he’s not Thomas, who is he?” He laughed as if Mam were making a joke.

  I snatched the changeling from Dadoe and held him in front of his face. “Look at him!” I screamed. “Can’t you see this is not Thomas?”

  Shrieking, the changeling wriggled and fought to escape, but I held him tightly. “They took Thomas today. And left this in his place.”

  Dadoe still did not see the truth. “They?”

  “They,” Mam said. “You know very well who Mollie means, Sam! Look at the baby properly.”

  Dadoe stared at the screaming creature in my arms. His face changed from worry about Thomas’s health to horror at what he finally saw. “It cannot be,” he whispered. “We’ve been so careful, Agnes. We’ve not said a word to draw them to our door.”

  Fearing he’d hurl the changeling at the wall, I took the strange baby from Dadoe. Shouting to make myself heard above the wailing, I said, “They came with their sickly baby and took our Thomas away with them.”

  Dadoe groaned and turned away from me. “We cannot keep their wicked creature.”

  “We must,” Mam told him. “Granny Hedgepath says if we treat the changeling well, they’ll treat Thomas well. If their sickly one thrives, they sometimes bring back the one they took and take their own away with them.”

  “They’ll never bring our Thomas back,” Dadoe said. “I’ll carry their castoff to the crossroads this very night and leave him there for them to take or not.”

  “No.” Mam took the wailing changeling from me. “We’ll do
as Granny Hedgepath says. We must, Sam—​for Thomas’s sake.”

  Dadoe watched her unfasten her dress and bring the changeling to her breast. “I cannot bear the sight of this.” Without another word, he strode out of the cottage.

  Mam ran to the door and called after him. “Where are you going, Sam?”

  “To the tavern. There, I’ll hear no screaming, yowling brat.”

  “When will you be home?” Mam cried.

  “Not until you’ve taken that thing to the crossroads. I’ll not sleep under this roof until it’s gone.” Dadoe opened the door and nearly ran from the cottage.

  I put my arms around Mam and pressed my head against her side. Above me, the changeling kicked and squirmed and sucked Mam’s milk as if he were starving.

  “Dadoe will come back,” I said, my heart breaking as I spoke. “He will, I know he will.”

  Mam pushed me away. “Leave me be, Mollie. I don’t need you tugging at me too.”

  Gone was Mam’s rosy face. Gone were her dimples, gone was her smile. From the worn, sad look of Mam, she might as well have been a changeling herself.

  * * *

  Late that night, I lay in my bed in the loft, hoping to hear Dadoe come home before I fell asleep, but the only sounds were the changeling’s wails and shrieks and Mam’s weary attempts to rock it to sleep. No footsteps in the lane, no sound at the door, no voice calling out Mam’s name.

  I felt the locket under my nightgown. I’d wear it forever, not because it was pretty but as a reminder of what I’d done.

  3

  * * *

  DADOE DIDN’T COME HOME that morning, nor the next, nor the one after that. A week passed without news of him. Finally, one of the local men told Mam that Dadoe had gone to a distant village and found a job there as a farm laborer. He wouldn’t return until the changeling was gone—​in one way or another, he said.

  Even though it was my fault Dadoe had left, I was angry with him for abandoning Mam and me. Without Dadoe’s wages, we had little to spend on flour and sugar. Mam grew too weak to do anything except care for the changeling, so I cooked and made sure Mam ate, but it seemed the changeling was sucking the life out of her.

  While I milked the cow, weeded the garden, scrubbed the floor, and scoured pots, I wished the changeling would sicken and die. If I’d had the courage, I myself would have taken him to the crossroads while Mam slept.

  As the changeling’s belly grew round, he cried less, but still far more than a human baby. When he was angry or hungry, he bit and kicked and pulled Mam’s hair. No matter how badly he behaved, Mam spoke softly and kindly to him. She rocked him and nursed him and gave him a name—​Guest, for that’s what he was, a guest in our home who would return to his people one day as Thomas would return to us.

  Guest never smiled or laughed. He didn’t gurgle or coo. When he wasn’t crying, he lay in his cradle and scowled. Often he stared as cats do, at something only he could see.

  I hoped it was the Kinde Folke he saw, coming and going in the cottage to make sure Mam treated their baby well. Surely they’d be pleased by his health. Someday soon they’d come with Thomas and trade him for Guest. Dadoe would return, and Mam would recover, and all would be as before.

  * * *

  A year passed, summer and fall and winter and spring, and still the Kinde Folke did not come. Guest outgrew the cradle, but he did not stand or walk. Not one word did he speak. Even though he’d grown a few tiny yellow teeth, he wanted only milk.

  One morning, I stood at the garden gate with Guest in my arms. Pointing across the green fields to Mirkwood, I said, “That’s where your true people are, but they don’t want you. Nobody wants you. Not even Mam. Certainly not me. You’re a wicked, soulless creature, and I long to be rid of you forever.”

  It was wrong to say such things to Guest, but what did it matter? He understood nothing I said. He was more animal than human—​a mongrel dog maybe, the runt of a litter who should have been drowned at birth.

  Guest’s yellow eyes gleamed, but what lay in the shadows behind them I couldn’t guess. Most likely he hated me as much as I hated him.

  Turning his head, he gazed across the fields to Mirkwood, a blue shadow in the distance, and made a series of strange harsh sounds.

  “Listen to you,” I said. “Click-clack, click-clack. Is that all you can say? A beast is what you are.”

  I felt a powerful urge to throttle him. To dash out his brains—​if he had any. To drown him in the water trough. To leave him at the crossroads. Granny was wrong. No matter how we treated the changeling, the Kinde Ones would not bring Thomas back to us.

  The sound of harness bells interrupted my thoughts. I leaned over the gate and watched the peddler’s horse come down the lane, pulling a cart heaped with the sorts of things you never knew you needed until you saw them, and then you couldn’t forget them. Shiny new pots and pans, bolts of bright cloth, shoes and boots and hats, saws, hammers, barrels of nails, sacks of sugar, and smaller things like feathers, buttons, ribbons of all colors, spools of thread, combs, and pretty beads that sparkled in the sunlight.

  The peddler sat on his high seat behind the horse and waved when he saw me. He’d known me since I was a baby and Mam and Dadoe long before that. If he had a name other than peddler, we’d never known it. But he came every month or so, and he knew the name of everyone in the village and on the farms.

  He wore the same old blue coat, long and faded and patched here and there with bits of cloth that didn’t match. On his head was a shapeless yellow hat with a crow’s feather stuck in its band. A nose the size and shape of a carrot, but more red than orange, jutted from his face, and a bushy gray beard and drooping mustache hid his mouth.

  Halting at our gate, the old man smiled down at me. “Here’s pretty Mollie Cloverall, who needs silk ribbons for her hair, and perhaps a string of green beads to match her eyes, or maybe even a bouquet of flowers to give her mam.”

  Guest leaned toward the peddler and sniffed as if puzzled by his smell. I couldn’t tell if he liked the smell or not. But it was the most interest Guest had shown in anything except milk.

  The peddler laughed. “My, my, but you’ve got an ugly wee brother there, sniffing me more like a pup than a babby.”

  I scowled at the insult. Surely the peddler could see Guest was no relation to me. “He’s not my brother.”

  “Well, now, if he’s not your brother, who is he?”

  Unwilling to admit what Guest was, I said, “A band of travelers left him in our garden.”

  The peddler scrutinized Guest, leaning so close, I thought he might sniff the changeling like a dog himself. “He don’t look like a traveler’s babby.”

  “Perhaps that’s why they left him here.” I was getting annoyed with the peddler’s comments. “He’s so ugly and mean and nasty, they didn’t want him, and neither do I.”

  Guest turned his yellow eyes to me as he’d done before, and the old man said, “I believe he likes you more than you like him.”

  “He doesn’t like anyone, and what’s it to you, anyway?” In a huff, I walked into the cottage without looking back.

  The peddler called after me, “Does this mean you won’t be needing ribbons, beads, or flowers?”

  My answer was to slam the door behind me. Dumping Guest in the cradle, I ran to the window and peeked out. All I saw of the peddler was his back as he drove away. I wanted the ribbons and the beads and the bouquet for Mam, but the peddler was entirely too nosy, him and his feather in his cap and his sly eyes. And, truth to tell, Mam had no coins to spare on frippery.

  That afternoon, Granny Hedgepath came by. Before she crossed the threshold, I hid in the loft. I didn’t want to see her or hear what she might say to me, but I did want to eavesdrop on what she said to Mam. I lay flat on the floor and pressed my ear to a knothole.

  “I’ve brought more of my elixir to strengthen you,” Granny said. “Is it helping you, Agnes?”

  “All that will help me,” Mam said, “is to
hold Thomas in my arms again.”

  Granny mumbled something, and Mam said, “See how this one has grown? Have I not been good to him? Have I not been kind?”

  “You’ve been more than good and better than kind,” Granny told her.

  “Then tell me, why don’t they come for him? My milk has put fat on his bones and taken it from my bones. He rarely cries now. He sleeps at night and wakes at dawn.”

  “But he doesn’t talk or walk or even stand up like a proper young one. Why should they want him when they have yours?”

  “But you said if I treated him well—​”

  “I said perhaps, Agnes Cloverall. Perhaps they’d take this one back and return yours.”

  Guest began to wail so loudly that I covered my ears.

  “Perhaps,” Mam hissed. “I’ve devoted myself to this creature for over a year, I’ve lost my husband and my strength, and you tell me perhaps?”

  “I said perhaps from the very start. And I still say it. We don’t know what the Kinde Folke will do. There’s no understanding them. They’re not like us.”

  “If that’s all the comfort you can give me, you might as well leave me to suffer.”

  There was a brief silence. Then Granny said, “So be it, Agnes. Truly, I have done all I can. But I urge you to go on caring for the changeling. You never know what might happen. There’s still hope.”

  “I am weary of waiting and hoping. Just go and leave me be.”

  “Good day to you, then.” The door closed, and Mam began to sob.

  I stayed where I was, thinking she might not want me to see her crying. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the loft’s small window, bringing with it the smell of hay, the sound of birdsong, and the heat of summer.

  I watched bits of dust dance in the shaft of light and thought about Mam’s longing to have Thomas back. What if, what if—​what if I took Guest away and went in search of Thomas? Suppose I found the Kinde Folke and persuaded them to take Guest and give me Thomas? Surely they’d see Mam had treated Guest well. Wasn’t it possible they had some kindness in their hearts?