reposted from my old blog, which got deleted: Ā
Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time sheās three sheās turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her motherās well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Maryās mother doesnāt drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesnāt take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch.
She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a childās first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.
Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her motherāwhich isnāt all that muchāand is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings.
āArenāt you clever,ā her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Maryās not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and thatās about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child.
Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.
āI donāt remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,ā her mother says, brushing Maryās hair smooth and steady like theyāve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. āTime was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. āSpecially when you donāt know if theyāre going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve āem all right if you ever figure out curses.ā
āI want to go back,ā Mary says. āI want to go home, to where I came from, where thereās people like me. If Iām a fairyās child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.ā
āAye, well, Iād miss you though,ā her mother says. āAnd I expect thereās stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.ā
Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughterās eyes shine.
āWe need an herb garden,ā her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. āYarrow, and madder, and woad and weldā¦ā
āWell, start digging,ā her mother says. āWonāt do you a harm to get out of the house nowān then.ā
Mary doesnāt like dirt but sheās learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what sheās given, and the first year doesnāt turn out so well but the secondās better, and by the third a cauldronās always simmering something over the fire, and Maryās taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like theyāve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.
āJust as well you never got the hang of curses,ā she says, admiring her bright new skirts. āI like this sort of trick a lot better.ā
Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.
She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairyās child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Maryās own creations grows stranger and more complex. Maryās hands callus just like her motherās, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.
āDo you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?ā the priestās wife asks, once.
Maryās mother snorts. āShe wouldnāt be worth a damn at weaving,ā she says. āLord knows I never was. No, Iāll keep what Iāve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, maāam.ā
Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priestās son comes round, with payment for his motherās pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion. Ā
They all live happily ever after.
*
Hereās another story:
Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didnāt expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it.
āHeās a changeling,ā his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that.
They didnāt bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didnāt dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregorās father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregorās father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didnāt mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where sheād left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail.
āPity youāre not a girl, youād never drop a stitch of knitting,ā she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl.
āYou know exactly how many youāve got there, donāt you?ā she says.
āSix hundred and thirteen,ā he says, in his quiet, precise way.
His mother says āVery good,ā and never says Pity youāre not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons.
The next autumn heās seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain.
āWhat you got there?ā The miller asks them.
āSixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hareās Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,ā Gregor says. āTotal weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesnāt have a name. Iām Gregor.ā
āMy son,ā his father says. āThe changeling one.ā
āBit sharperān your others, aināt he?ā the miller says, and his father laughs.
Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them.
āDidnāt know the fair folk were much for machinery,ā the miller says.
Gregor shrugs. āI like seeds,ā he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. āAnd names. And numbers.ā
āAye, well. Suppose thatād do it. Want tāhelp me load up the grist?ā
They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregorās father to bring him back āround when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights.
When heās twelveāanother lucky numberāhe goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after.
*
Hereās another:
James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesnāt bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time heās six heās out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep donāt give him too much trouble, considering.
āItās not right for a boy to have so few complaints,ā his mother says, once, when heās about eight.
āProbably aināt right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,ā his dad says.
Thatās about the end of it. Jamesā parents arenāt very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy.
When James is eleven, heās sent to school, because heās going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesnāt like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesnāt like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when youāre spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy.
But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isnāt the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they donāt gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few stepsātottering straight into a gallopāto read.
Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humansā world, step by uncertain step, as best they can.
James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees. Ā
āLetās hear from James,ā the men at the alehouse say, years later, when heās become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. āWhatāve you got for us tonight, eh?ā
James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, āHereās a story about changelings.ā
