Changeling's Island - eARC, page 13
“Sounds like good advice to me,” he said with a grin. “But you’re not that strange, are you?”
“That’s what I said to him. I said I’d lend him some books.”
* * *
For Tim, Christmas day might have been a different day from any other day. But to the cow it was still a day on which she needed milking. By ten o’clock, when his mother called, he’d been up for more than four hours, and had done all sorts of tasks, had breakfast, and had just come in for morning tea. As a sign that it was not just any other day, there were little gingery star-shaped biscuits. Nan believed in lots of ginger. Tim had read that it was good for keeping off zombies, and it must work because there had been no sign of even one so far on the farm. Until his mother phoned he would have said they hadn’t even got to Melbourne, but obviously they’d eaten the part of her brain that was arranging his trip home. She prattled on about her holidays, like his being here was normal.
Eventually he just had to ask.
There was a brief silence. “Oh, Tim. Your father is being awkward about it. I asked him to organize it. He hasn’t even gotten back to me.”
Tim knew she wasn’t telling the truth. Or not entirely. In the messy bit of his life where he’d realized that Dad just wasn’t coming back, he’d learned to spot his mother’s not quite revealing everything. Well, that was how she might put it. Lying was how he put it. “You didn’t tell him, did you?” he said, crossly.
“I did, Tim. I did. You e-mail him. He sometimes listens to you.”
Like “not unless he thought it would make you mad,” thought Tim, glumly. He hadn’t spoken to his father for months, even before he came to the island. But what he said was, “I haven’t got the Internet here. That’s just one of the other things you did to me. It’s not fair.”
“You did it to yourself, Tim Ryan.”
The call didn’t get any better. It didn’t quite get to shouting and screaming, but when it got down to “you’re ungrateful and didn’t even say thank you for your Christmas present” Tim was actually quite able to say “well, I haven’t got one.” He hadn’t got her anything either…actually, hadn’t even thought of it.
That did stop the rise in temperature. “I posted it.”
“We only get the post about every two or three weeks.”
There was another silence. “Then it’s waiting for you.”
“Well, thank you, anyway,” still resentful. At least she hadn’t forgotten.
“Yes, um, I am sorry it didn’t get there. And contact your father. Now, love, I really must go, I’m going out to lunch with…with Mark. Goodbye, be good and take care.”
Tim was left holding the sound of long-distance silence before he could ask just how he was supposed to contact his dad. He couldn’t phone on Nan’s phone. And who was Mark? It looked like Nan was right about the boyfriend. No wonder she didn’t want him home.
His grandmother put a hand on his shoulder. “Just so yer know, I asked Dicky to check the post for us yesterday. He said there was nothing, but yer can’t always rely on him.” She took a deep breath. “I got nothing for yer, really. Just some chocolate. There’s not a lot of spare money. But I’m hoping we’re going to do better with those steers at the next sale. Prices have been bad.”
That was puzzling. “People at school were saying the price was up. They talk about it. And Gran…I got my present early from you. You let me use the fishing stuff, and…and I enjoyed that so much.” He knew he was being a little devious, but he wanted the freedom. “If I got hold of Molly, and she and her dog met me at the beach paddock…could I go fishing again? She’s older than me. I wouldn’t go down alone.” He felt like a baby saying that.
“Hmph. I’ll see.” With his mother, that meant she was giving in. With Nan it seemed to mean “no.” “Now I got to finish our dinner. You check the sheep near the road for me. My little helper is worried about the water.”
Tim was glad to go out to walk through the bush and tussocky paddocks, to be alone with his head for a bit. Just walking along, barefoot, because he was too hot to put boots on, did seem to make things seem well, less unbeatable. If neither his mother or father were going to lift a finger to get him out of here, he’d just have to get out himself. He just needed somewhere to go. He was thinking about that when a big copperhead slithered across his path. By now, he knew better than to jump or run. He stood quietly and watched it slide away.
* * *
The dancing and feasting continued here beneath the hollow hills, with the Aos Sí lords and ladies on a wide and a level place, where the sun never shone but somehow the grass grew green and long nights followed long warm days. There was a tenuous connection with the world above, and the things that moved and changed there, but this place did not change with them. The great lords of the Fae seldom walked or rode the lands of mortal men anymore. The tracery of steel spread across the land with the railways had set bounds on them, and they did not like to be reminded of the loss of their dominions.
Humans came to Faerie—but far fewer now—and were bound to Faerie lands, with the eating or drinking of the produce of Faerie. The Fae knew how food and drink were a part of the land and place, and that by consuming them, those who ate and drank became part of the place.
Most humans seemed willing to be thus entrapped, and loved the life of Faerie.
But they did not flourish there.
The selkie, Maeve, did not know or care how well they did. But she herself was entrapped and needed to free herself from the ancient obligation, the geas laid on her. The king under the hollow hill at Cnoc Meadha needed to be repaid before she could be free.
The young man had proved stronger than the last one she’d hunted. The bloodline had always been hard to catch, with the magic of the Aos Sí helping them and the spirits of the land binding them. Her last prey, this one’s father, had escaped her by chance and luck, a piece of scrap iron from an old mooring that his desperate hand found as she’d held him down. It had been a bad mischance. She’d planned to frighten him witless and get him to agree, and instead he’d never come near enough to the water to be caught again.
The first changeling and his lesser spirit had fled Ireland long before she had been summoned to the court of King Finvarra. It had taken her some years to track him down, across the wide and wasteful oceans…to find him dead. Killed in a fight over an Aboriginal woman, his half-Aos Sí blood soaked into the sand, leaching down into the water, to the sea, to her.
The key remained, somewhere, hidden on the island where he had died. Not easily found, either, to one who had no claim to it.
There was, however, an heir to the changeling’s birthright. A child carried by the woman. Maeve had planned to search for the key, or at least steal the heir-child…until she slid out onto the beach.
And found that this land had its own hold on the child.
If she was going to catch one of those who had a claim to the key, she needed them in the salt sea.
She’d tried, when the changeling’s heir moved to the bigger island. There, the child had had defenders, besides the land. She still carried the scar.
But she was nothing if not patient. Long generations passed, and still she hunted the changeling-heirs.
This one…she hadn’t gotten him into the water, but her spell-hooks would at least draw him back. She’d felt the lust in him. Humans were like that, and her kind were good at using it against them.
CHAPTER 12
Tim had been wondering about how he could get into town to e-mail his dad, when that became something he didn’t have to do. His father called. At eleven p.m. on Boxing Day, which was probably a reasonable time of day in Muscat. A half-asleep Tim got to the phone first. His father’s voice woke him like no cold water could have. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Nothing. I was just calling to find out how you’re doing. You don’t sound pleased to hear from me.” His father’s voice was guarded. Wary, the way it had been when he’d come home late and there’d been one of those fights with his mother. Tim had not really understood what had been happening back then. Now, a couple of years later, he had a better idea. He loved his dad. But…well, in a way his mother was right. He was Mister Unreliable, especially if someone offered him a drink and company. His mother said he’d rather be with people he didn’t like than alone. But then she’d also said that if he ever wanted to come back to Australia he could either pay child support or go to jail when he did come back.
“It’s the middle of the night! You frightened me, Dad.”
“Oh. I messed up the time difference. Don’t bite my head off, you sound like your mother. So, how are things going there?”
What was he supposed to say, with Nan hanging over his shoulder? “Okay, I guess,” he said, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice.
“Good. Good. Glad to hear you’ve settled.”
“I haven’t!” Tim drew breath to tell his father what he thought about “settled.”
“Well, um, your mother said it would be best,” said his father, awkwardly. “Look, I’ve had a couple of deals fall through…”
Nan took the phone from Tim. “Tom. What do yer mean frightening the boy out of his wits like that?”
Tim couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation. He was too angry and still shocked by the fright he’d had. He just heard his nan say “Well, at least he’s got a caring home with me.” And then, “No. I told yer then, and I’m telling yer again now. It’s out of the question. It’s not happening, Tom.” And then: “I’ll look after him. I told you that.”
Eventually Tim got given the phone back. “Look. I won’t talk too long,” said his father.
Gee. Like he called every day. “You never do,” said Tim crossly.
“Well, you’ll understand one day,” said his father. “It’s…it’s complicated, son. I won’t be back in Oz for, well, probably a year. And your mother has custody. So, um, she thinks you need to stay there, for now.”
“You could have told her no!” But Tim knew he never would have.
“Yes. Well, I tried.” Tim knew by his voice that that wasn’t really true. “And your grandmother will take care of you.”
Tim swallowed, not really knowing what to say. “Why can’t you come home?”
“Um. The business really won’t allow for it,” said his father. “Look. You’ll be all right. I’ll…I’ll give Dicky a call. Ask him to keep an eye on you.”
When Tim worked out who that must be, he managed to say: “Don’t. I’ll be fine. Just…go and leave me alone.”
He put down the phone.
Nan put her hand his shoulder. “I need some tea. I reckon you do too,” she said with a rough kindness. “This is your home, Tim.”
The lump in his throat in his throat only let him nod. But Nan seemed to understand. She made tea. And started telling him a long story to distract him—about mutton-birding and the guy who found shipwreck loot in a hole—and somehow he got over being mad and disappointed, and dozed off. Nan sort of led him to his bedroom, he remembered. He had to ask about the end of the story in the morning.
She snorted. “He didn’t want to share the find. A silver teapot, candlesticks…he pushed it back down, thinking he’d come back alone later. But he never did find it again, or so the story goes.”
* * *
Christmas was over in the Symons household. The mince pies had all been eaten, the turkey had taken up its long, drying-out residence in the fridge. Molly had wondered about phoning Tim. She had a pile of books she thought he hadn’t read, and that seemed a good excuse, better than “I’m bored with no company but my parents, their guests, and Facebook.” She’d been down to the beach with Bunce several times, but he hadn’t been fishing.
Her father solved her problem, partially at least.
“About that spot you caught those big flathead with the boy next door.”
“He is not next door. There’s like, two properties between us.”
“They’re holiday places. Unoccupied most of the time, and it is actually four, but anyway, what I wanted to know is if you’d show me the place. I’ve got this afternoon free, and I thought I might do some fishing.”
“You’d have to ask Tim. I’m not sure I could find it, anyway,” she said, which was not strictly true. But it was Tim’s spot.
Her father grinned. “I thought you’d say that. I’ve got the rods on the ute. I’ll go over, unless you want to come with me. There’s a track down to the beach there.”
“Might be better to phone,” said Molly, thinking of what she’d heard of the grandmother.
“They were out with a mob of cows when I drove past. Tim gave me a wave.”
“I guess I could come along. I’ve got, like, a pile of books for him. And Bunce needs a run.”
Her father gave her his most annoying smile. “What a favor you’re doing me, coming along. But I did put a spare rod on, in case.”
“I don’t like fishing much.”
“I thought you said you had a lot of fun?” he said, grinning.
“Yeah, but that was catching fish, not fishing.”
He laughed. “Fair enough. That’s why I am going to consult an expert.”
“Okay. Can we take Bunce?”
“I suppose so. You just need to keep him in the van if there is any stock about. We can’t afford to pay for sheep he might play with.”
Molly knew that. She also knew they shot dogs that worried sheep here. Enough people had told her that. She collected Bunce and the pile of books, and they drove down the road to the unmarked gate.
They hadn’t gone very far down the track when they saw Tim and what must be his grandmother and a small mob of sheep on the far side of the field. Tim waved.
* * *
“Who is this now,” snapped Gran. “More blooming blow-ins wanting to use our place to get to the beach? I’m gonna…”
“It’s Molly. The girl I’m at school with, from down the road, and her dad,” said Tim, hastily.
“Oh.” That was a gentler tone, anyway. “What do they want?”
“Molly said they go into town to collect guests for their cottage. She said I could have a lift in to the library…”
“Huh. Always got yer nose in a book. Well, we got to catch and treat that fly-struck sheep, Tim. It’ll die on us otherwise.”
It probably wouldn’t—or not for a few days—but Tim couldn’t have left a fly-struck sheep, either. The maggots burrowed into the living flesh, eating their way into the poor animal. “I’ll go tell them, then see if I can come at it from the top corner.” The problem with this paddock was that there was too much bush and scrub. The farm was understocked, and the bush was growing faster than the sheep and cattle could keep it back. Tim had seen other farms where they had to fence the stock out of the shelter beds. Here, well, the fencing was too expensive and they wanted it kept down.
He jogged over to the track. “Hi.”
“Hi,” said Molly’s father, smiling and waving a hand. “I came to ask some advice on flathead fishing, and if you’d like to join us.”
“And I brought you some books,” said Molly.
“Thanks!” said Tim, delighted. “But I have to catch a fly-struck sheep. Maybe…maybe you could just leave the books for me at the corner post…I’ll take good care of them, I promise.”
“We could wait a bit. I’m in no hurry,” said Molly’s father.
“It might take a while. There’s too much bush in this paddock, and the stupid thing doesn’t know that we want to help it.”
“Can we help?” asked Molly.
Tim blinked. Them catch sheep? Well, it wasn’t that long ago he’d never caught one. And it could be quite funny, a part of his mind said. “Sure, I guess. See that mob of sheep there? Well, I need to catch one. Gran’s pushing them this way. If you can, like, help box them in? I’ve got to grab the one that’s got wool coming off its neck.”
“What?”
“You’ll recognize it when you see it,” said Tim, to avoid describing it. They would. He’d nearly been sick the first time.
* * *
“That kid can run,” said Mike Symons, wishing he was wearing something besides thongs on his feet. His daughter could run, too. And so could the sheep, breaking away through a copse. He was the only one out of breath, as the old duck had plenty to yell at them and the sheep, and still move through the tussocks. “Get around them, boy!” she shouted.
Bunce responded to the yells and the running with a deep-throated bark. Thank heavens he was firmly shut in to the SUV, though heaven alone knew what he’d be doing to the upholstery.
And then…just as the sheep broke away again, he wasn’t. Bouncing and leaping through the scrub and tussocks, the wolfhound had joined in the chase, ignoring their yells…
Mike braced himself for trouble, his mouth dry as he yelled “Bunce!” again. In his mind he was already seeing killed sheep, furious people, and a weeping daughter.
Whether it was their yells or that they’d stopped running, the wolfhound bounded wide of the small group of sheep, sending them running back to the human chasers, straight at Tim. The boy sidestepped, and then ran into the midst of them, grabbing one by the hind leg. Bunce, either thinking he’d caught one, and now they’d all feast, or just wanting to be part of the action, bounced around him as the rest of the sheep ran off. In the fashion of sheep, they didn’t run terribly far before milling in a confused mob, going in circles.
Tim wrestled with a sheep that looked nearly as big as him. Mike ran up to try and grab the dog before it all turned into the disaster he’d foreseen. He was slower than the old lady, though. Her voice got there first. “Get in behind!” It was like a whip crack, that voice, and Bunce…stopped his cavort, put his tail down, and slunk away, behind her. Mike grabbed him by the collar as his daughter came running up and helped…to hold the sheep. “Oh, yuck!” she squalled, as the old woman arrived with a tin and a brush. “It’s all full of maggots!”
“Have it dosed in no time,” said young Tim, confidently. “Just hold her still for a minute.” And to Mike’s surprise, his daughter grabbed the sheep and held on.
