Changeling's Island - eARC, page 2
This day he’d served his master well. He’d woken the need-fire in an air-conditioning unit. Fortunately it was mostly plastic, aluminum and copper wire, with little cold iron. Even the iron bones in these buildings caused Áed discomfort. It had been hard to do. Raising fire was an achievement deserving of reward, uisge beatha or at least a bowl of old mellow mead…
It wouldn’t be forthcoming, Áed knew.
Still, he was loyal.
* * *
When he woke, Tim wasn’t too sure how he’d gotten to his bedroom. He hadn’t changed or anything, or even gotten into the bed that he’d fallen asleep on. He was still wearing the same school clothes with the smell of smoke from the burned-out store clinging to them.
He tried not to wake up. Tried to bury himself safe in sleep. It couldn’t have been real. It must have been a really bad dream. Please? He closed his eyes again, determined to ignore the school uniform and the smell of smoke.
And then his mother was yelling at him lying there. That, at least, was normal.
“Get up! I don’t know what is wrong with you, Tim! Have you been smoking that filthy weed again? I’ve begged you to stay away from that stuff. But would you listen to me? No!”
Tim sat, blinking, on the edge of the bed. “I told you, I only ever did that once. But you never believe me, do you?” he muttered, sullenly. It was true. He’d been scared to try it, but Hailey told him not to be a nob. And that the tagging that he’d done on the train had been so cool. He’d wanted to be cool, not a nob, so he’d taken the joint from her. And then he’d been really, really sick. Couldn’t breathe, and saw weird things, which wasn’t what happened to other people, from what he’d heard. Hailey had panicked, and had run away and left him. Some passerby had found him and called the ambos. The doctor at emergency said that he had an allergic reaction. The doctor hadn’t been very sympathetic, but it was nothing, absolutely nothing, to the fit his mother had thrown—nearly as bad as last night. She didn’t believe him, and she was at him all the time about it. It had been after the fight about the bill for breakages at Harvey Norman. She hadn’t believed him then, either. Well, no one did. There had been a few other things when it had been him, he had to admit. But he didn’t ever want to touch cannabis again.
His mother shook her head, her face set in that surly-cross expression, like a bad-tempered tradesman’s dog, that she got when she was setting out to be really nasty. Her Irish accent came back strongly whenever she did that. “Not anymore, I don’t. You’re just like your father. And you’ve brought this on yourself. Pack your things, Tim. You’re only allowed fifteen kilos of luggage, and Tom has booked you on the plane at midday. I’ve had to take another day off work for this. And you can clean up this pigsty before you go!”
He could hear the sound of rush-hour cars in the street, and see that the sun shining through the window was sparkling on the dust motes dancing in the air. If it was that bright and noisy he should be on his way to school, to another miserable but predictable day.
So. It wasn’t all some kind of nightmare. He was leaving Melbourne. Leaving the life he knew, leaving everything and everyone. He hoped at least that that was true. He’d be leaving his friends, if he had any. At St. Dominic’s there was only Hailey, and then, he had to admit, only if she didn’t have an audience and if she wanted something. His heart still hurt thinking about her. She was drop-dead gorgeous, in spite of it all. He didn’t even want to think farther back in his life. He’d been sort of happy here, once. Had a few guys he played about with at junior school, but then they’d moved, and he’d gone to St. Dominic’s. Before his father left, before his unlucky thirteenth birthday, when the weird accidents had started happening around him.
He turned to his room, determined not to think about it all. It was like deciding not to think about pink elephants. So what did you pack when you could only take fifteen kilos of your life with you? Well. Not barbells. Not that he had any. He’d kind of wanted some, so he could get stronger and bigger…only, they were expensive and…Books? Some of them. Sabriel. Lord of the Rings. The Harry Potters could stay. Did his laptop count? It was old and heavy, a hand-me-down. The battery only did twenty minutes. He was still sitting there, trying to reach decisions, when his mother bustled back in carrying a suitcase. “Haven’t you done anything yet? Don’t just sit there, Tim!”
And on his desk, just behind her and across the room from him, a pile of books tilted, tipped, and the first fell, bang! to the floor.
They both stared as the next book tipped over the edge and fell to land on the next. And then the next…
“I suppose you think you’re incredibly funny with these tricks! Grow up!” shouted his mother, and stormed out of the room.
Tim sat and stared at the books. They didn’t move again. So he got up, and went to the kitchen and had a bowl of cornflakes. He didn’t really know what else to do, and he was past caring, and into the hopelessly resigned phase of coping. Books overbalanced, especially in tottery piles, when people stomped into the room. And actually, he didn’t really give a toss what he packed. Well. He had to take a couple of books and his “I love Ireland” T-shirt. It was way too small by now. But like the stamp in his passport, it proved he’d been there. Looking back, he could see the trip had been his father’s attempt to patch his failing marriage, taking Mum for that trip back “home” to Ireland that she’d always claimed she wanted. But at the time Tim had just enjoyed it. And there’d been something about that green and ancient place that had made him think it was sort of home-ish too. It wasn’t, of course. This was.
He slouched back to his room. Looked at the case his mother had dropped. Groaned. It had a Spiderman II logo on it. He’d thought that was really flash…when he was nine. It had been cheap, getting rid of old stock, but then he hadn’t cared. If anyone saw him with it now they’d crack up. He put it on the bed. Began putting things into it, more or less at random, after the books. He looked at the “I love Ireland” T-shirt. It was faded, the collar frayed, and it was way, way too small. He wasn’t big for his age, but that shirt was, like, not going to ever fit again. He blinked. He wasn’t going to let it get to him. He firmly put it back in the cupboard, walked out into the hall and dug in the top drawer of the cabinet. He fished out his passport. This was dumb, and he knew it. He’d never be able to afford the ticket, ever. But he still took the passport and put it into the zipper pouch of the case. And then picked up the T-shirt again anyway. He could always leave out something else. His deodorant was nearly empty. It had to weigh less like that, right?
Things went in. Came out. Went in again. It was…something to do.
“Tim! Are you finished? We’ve got to go. You’ll be late,” shouted his mother.
Like I should care, he thought, glumly. But he closed the case, slid out the handle—he had to sort of wrestle with it and it wouldn’t go all the way back in either, and squeaky-rattled his way to the door, trundling the case behind him. He walked out, not looking back.
* * *
Áed waited. His kind had a poor sense of time, or time as it was in these earthly realms, anyway. He was not so much patient, as unaware of not doing anything. When his master left the building he did too, perched on the bag as it trundled on its erratic wheels, and he slipped into the boot of the metal chariot with it. Creatures of air and darkness do not have much in the way of weight, and so—as usual—his presence was not noticed. Only those humans with a trace of Aos Sí blood who were gifted with the sight could see Áed or his brothers. And, mostly, they refused to believe what they saw. That was good too…which Áed could not say of the oil-smelly iron chariot he and his master were trapped inside, but that too could be endured, because it had to be.
* * *
Essenden Airport was almost exactly the opposite of what Tim thought defined “airport.” It wasn’t big. There were no queues, or moving walkways or announcements you could hear only half of. And the place wasn’t full of strangers. Well, they were all strangers to Tim, but they all seemed to know each other. It made sitting there in silence worse. At least nothing weird happened, except to the scale when they tried to weigh his bag. The airline official just shrugged, and picked it up and said with an easy smile, “Bit heavy. But the plane’s not full and he doesn’t weigh much.” That wasn’t quite how he remembered boarding at Tullamarine International when they’d flown to Ireland. But he’d been younger then and excited and eager.
At last someone came along and said, “Well, we’re all here. You can board now for Flinders.” Tim stood up. His mother kissed him, half missing, on the jaw and not the cheek. “Try to pull yourself right, Tim.”
There was an awkward pause as people filed past them through the open glass doors and onto the runway. Tim swallowed the lump in his throat. He wanted to hold onto her and beg her not to send him away, but all he did was nod. Anyway, he couldn’t find his voice to say anything right then.
His mother patted him on the shoulder, awkwardly, and turned him toward the door.
So he walked, not looking back, out into the sunlight and to the waiting Metroliner. A very little plane, Tim realized. It had propellers! And the man who had said they could go…was the pilot.
* * *
Áed loved flying in human flying-machines. They moved so much faster than creatures of air and darkness could fly on their own! He liked to sit on a wing and feel the rush of the wind blowing through him.
Besides, the air was cleaner up and away from the human habitations.
CHAPTER 2
He must have been running on autopilot, getting onto that plane, Tim realized later. He hadn’t walked out the door when he had a chance at home. He hadn’t gone to the gents’ at the airport and not come back. He’d walked across the runway, and hadn’t run off among the other planes. Just walked like a sheep, following all the other sheep.
The plane was tiny inside. Just two rows of seats, A and C. He had to duck his head to walk down the corridor between them.
There was someone in the seat he’d been allocated.
The girl gave him a nervous smile. She had braces on her teeth, and freckles, so many freckles that her skin was just about one big freckle. It might have been a bit more obvious than usual, because her face was very white between them. “I’m supposed to be sitting there.” She pointed to the seat in front of her. “But, do you mind, I…I’d rather sit over the wing. Do…do you mind sitting one forward instead? I asked them to give me a seat over the wing, but I guess, like, they thought everyone wants one with a view. But I hate sitting next to such a long way down.”
She was speaking too fast. And she was plainly even more afraid than he was. That was kind of a shock to Tim. He wondered what sort of trouble she was in. “No worries. I don’t mind.” She’d stood up to talk to him. She was taller than he was. Skinny. But those were designer label jeans she was wearing. That brought back to Tim the misery of being an outcast in among posh kids, and made him feel awkward. She didn’t seem to see it that way, though, as she leaned over his seat to talk to him. He looked about, trying to figure out where the overhead lockers were.
“I hate flying. But I had to go for my teeth. And Auntie Helen is paying, so it has to be Melbourne.” She saw him looking about for a place to store the elderly laptop. “You have to put it at your feet. I’m sorry…some of my stuff is in there. Can you fit your bag in? My aunt bought half of Melbourne for me. She didn’t think much of my clothes. I don’t know anything about clothes. But I couldn’t really tell her I don’t care. I mean, she wants me to wear white trousers. Bunce, he’s my dog, he’d just cover them in mud, like, instantly. He’s a cross Irish wolfhound-Great Dane.”
* * *
Molly knew she was babbling. At any other time, she would have been embarrassed. She didn’t really know how to talk to people she didn’t know, let alone strange guys. But right now she was too scared to care. She really was scared of flying. And she was scared of flying in small planes even more. So what made her parents go and live on an island? At the moment, talking was better than thinking. “Mom and Dad and I moved to the island a few years ago. And you can only really get on and off by flying. Well, it’s that or a boat, and the ferry only runs once a week, and it doesn’t take passengers unless you’ve got a car, and I’ve only got my P-plates. And I hate flying, but I had to. And we had a bumpy trip over. Do you fly often? I suppose you know all this, and you come from Flinders?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never been there. Well, not since I can remember. But I’ve flown overseas. To Ireland.”
“Wow. I’ve never been overseas.”
That got the first sign of a real smile from him. He’d looked like a bit of scary storm a few moments before, when she’d seen him looking at the seat number. He had very black hair, and his dark eyes had been all crinkled up. She’d seen that look before. She did a lot of babysitting, not that he was exactly a baby. When he smiled, and it wasn’t much of a smile, you could see his eyes were blue, actually. “It’s kinda different from this.”
“Everything is different about Flinders. My dad says it’s like going back fifty years. We’ve got a B&B over there. We only moved a couple of years ago, and I’m still getting used to it. Are you going on holiday?”
* * *
Tim was saved from having to answer by the captain giving them a talk about the life jackets, now sharing the space under his seat with his laptop. If he had to jump into the sea he’d better make sure to take the right thing. Not the life jacket! He could swim pretty well. Dad had liked taking him to the pool, back before he’d left. It was probably so he could look at the girls in bikinis, or that was what his mother said, but Tim got to go swimming.
Then it was seat belts and taxiing out onto the runway, taking off and flying above the city and out to sea. At any other time and place he would have been loving it. Now…his thoughts were interrupted by a little whimpery noise behind him. He looked back, twisting himself around in the seat to kneel on it. She was staring blindly at the book in front of her. Tim knew she wasn’t reading it, because she had it upside down. He could read it: George R.R. Martin…she read good books. He managed not to say anything stupid like “is something wrong?” Instead he said, “Do you want to talk to me? Keep your mind off it.”
She nodded. Didn’t say anything.
Tim had zero skilz at talking to girls at the best of times, but she needed his help. He groped around for something intelligent to say. The best he could manage was “So, what’s your name?” It was noisy in the plane. She was leaning forward to hear. They were all of ten centimeters apart.
“Molly. Molly Symons. And yours?”
“Tim Ryan.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. Grasping at straws, Tim said, “So…you said you had a dog called Bonce?”
It was an inspired, or at least a lucky choice. She smiled. “My Bunce. ’Cause he’s, like, halfway between a bounce and dunce, my dad said. I love him to bits. He’s got a moustache.”
“A moustache? Way cool! You mean like Adolf Hitler? Or one of those long ones with curly ends?” The image was enough to make Tim smile, and to make the girl start giggling, in little snorts of the sort of laughing you do when it’s laugh or panic, but that was better than straight panic. “And a beard?” asked Tim, following up while he was winning. “Like one of those goatees, maybe? Or a Lord of the Rings type plaited dwarf one? Maybe with a bone in it?”
That got still more laughter. “Poor Bunce. He’d be, like, trying to eat his own chin, and when he couldn’t eat it, he’d try and bury it.”
The talk flowed easily from there, with the Irish wolfhound–Great Dane cross getting more ridiculous costumes and hairdos, and curlers, and gel and bows on his tail. They drifted on to other things—books, the smell of dead wallaby, the school. Panic had been beaten, and so had some of Tim’s own misery. It was still there, of course, but it had been pushed away to be resentful and nag in the background.
* * *
Outside the human flying machine, where the air was cold and delightfully sharp, Áed danced on the wing, enjoying himself. Far below, the sea, hungry and restless, moved and surged about isolated islands, drowned mountains of a long-ago that Áed could dimly sense, like an echo that one could see, with the old magics still walking there, deep and strong. There were traces too, far more recent traces, mere hundreds of years old, of Fae-work and the creatures from hidden realms, in the shipwrecks and the buildings on the islands.
Áed saw there was at least one of the Fae, an old, strong one, swimming far below him. It was almost as if she were chasing the flying-machine he perched on.
The little spirit of air and darkness did not see as humans saw. If they could have seen her from such a height at all, they would have seen a gray seal arching through the waves. To Áed, her true form was obvious, and her long wavy auburn hair washed across her naked breasts as she half-turned in the swell, looking up at the airplane.
What did the seal-woman seek here, so far from the cold coasts of Ireland or Scotland?
* * *
The plane banked steeply, giving the passengers a glorious view into the clear sea. Through the azure water, Tim could see patches of white sand in between the reefs and the weed-banks.
Molly went pale again, lost her smile. “You’d better belt up. We’re coming in to land.”
Hastily, Tim did, and looked out at the curve of the coastline—a strip of dark trees just inside the white sand. He noticed she’d stuck her hand up the narrow gap onto the window-side armrest. She must be lying forward on her knees. Her knuckles were whiter than the beach sand they were approaching. He tentatively reached across with his other hand, trying for the reassuring squeeze…only she grabbed his hand and held on, as, with a very slight bump, they touched down. It gave him an odd sort of inner satisfaction, being something of a comfort. She pulled her hand back as the plane slowed, propellers roaring. It swung round and taxied over to a tiny building in front of a car park…and stopped.
