The Last Train Changeling
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SW00121 & SW00122 CHANGELING by angela forrest THE LAST TRAIN by val ormrod CHANGELING by Angela Forrest September, 2015 He isnae mine, hasnae been for twelve years. I know that now. It took a good long while tae admit it and I’ve tried tae make up for lost time, for a’ the years I dithered about whether or not it wis true. These last few years especially I’ve done ma best, done right by Lorna and wee Olivia even if they couldnae understand. They don’t know whit he is. They don’t know Bradley left us a long time ago, that day in the woods. September, 2003 This is ma favourite place. The way the trees come crowing up tae the shore of the loch, closing us in tae our own wee private beach: ye cannae beat it. Lorna’s minding the baby, letting her roll around on the picnic blanket among the half-chewed cheese and ham pieces. She’s still a stunner, my Lorna, even after having two weans. Run ragged looking after them, so she is, but ye’d never know it looking at her. She’s kept her hair long and bonny, not like a lot of they mum’s I see at the school gates. I catch her eye and she gies me a wink and a smile, holding up Olivia’s wee hand to wave at me. I wave back at ma girls and have a check in with ma boy. He’s near enough up tae my waist now. He’s trying tae skip stones across the water but they’re landing wi’ splattering plops. He’s probably too wee tae get it right yet, but he’ll get it soon enough. Aye, soon enough. September 2015 There were clues mind, clues that came not too long after it happened. Lorna and me, we bought Olivia a wee set of My Little Ponies, and fair enough she wis only two at the time so she’d only cuddle them and sook on their legs. Bradley though, Bradley was aye playing wi’ her wi’ the ponies, kidding on they were galloping round her, giving them wee squeaky voices, making them kiss her on the cheek. I didnae think anything of it, a bit weird maybe, but he wis young still and just trying to do a nice turn for his sister, maybe. CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 2 That how it starts mind, things that seem normal, things that just pass ye by, things ye can write off as no big deal. Well, turns out they are a big deal. It wis when he started playing with them by himself I noticed it. It wisnae even that he wis playing with the ponies, it was how he played with them. I mean, an eight-year-old boy brushing out their manes and tails, putting wee hair clasps on them, colouring in their hooves like he’s painting their nails, kidding on they’re at a beauty salon; no right, is it? It went on for days. Lorna wis laughing about it, laughing at the girly wee stories he was making up. I wasnae laughing. He never used to be like that. I took them off him, the ponies I mean, took him outside tae play football in the back garden. Fair enough it was tipping it down but mud never hurt anyone: seemed like he needed it. He started greeting, bawling and greeting! Whit kinda reaction is that tae playing football? I was that angry I sent him up tae his bed without his dinner and without his story; he was getting too old for getting tucked in and read to anyway. September, 2003 I make a sun visor out of ma hand, looking out tae the far side of the loch where the water’s rippling and twinkling. There’s a swirling swell out there, churned up by the back of a touristy loch cruise boat; probably full of Americans. Ma granny used tae point the boat trails out tae me: they were a sign that a kelpie wis following yer boat. The water horses’ hooves frothed up the water if they were coming for you, coming to snatch you down to the depths with them: that’s why ye should never sit at the back of a boat, so she said. It’s been a while since I thought about that story to be sure and the smile’s spitting ma face. I turn around tae show my boy the choppy water, tae tell him a’ about the kelpies and how he’d better watch himself when he’s out there on the loch, but he’s not there. September, 2015 I couldnae sleep that night. I mind tossing and turning till the wee hours, trying tae work out whit wis happening tae ma boy, having all kind of dreams. Faeries it wis, in the dreams. They were capering CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 3 around everywhere, frolicking and rollicking through ma house, breaking ma furniture, ripping ma paper right off the walls, eating ma food, smashing all Lorna’s ornaments and all our family pictures. Lorna was run ragged trying tae chase them out, giving it laldy smacking at them wi’ a rolled-up copy of The Sunday Mail. Wee Olivia was giggling away tae herself, clapping her chubby wee hands at a’ the colour and chaos, till two of them latched ontae her hair, trying tae drag her off. I wis trying tae get Bradley tae go and help her, but his back wis to me and I couldnae see if he wis hearing me or not. I grabbed his shoulder, had tae pull my hand back for the cold. He turned around. His face was a’ twisted, twisted and mossy and green like a’ the rest of the faerie folk. His head wis thrown back, showing me all his jaggy teeth, caked wi’ earthy mush. There wis no getting back tae sleep after that one. I had tae go down tae make maself a cup of tea. Normally I take it black, but something made me put in a big dodd of milk and a couple of sugars, baby tea ma granny called it. That’s when I clocked it. It was her sending me they dreams, giving me a warning so she was. She told me all about the changelings when I was wee, faerie folk stealing away yer children and leaving ye wi’ one of their own instead. But I wisnae ready for it that night, called myself daft for even thinking it and went back to ma bed. I wish tae God I hadnae, but like I say, I just wisnae ready tae accept it yet. Kept Bradley away from all the girly toys after that mind. September, 2003 Waves are washing up around a footprint in the silty shale and Bradley’s nowhere. He’s nowhere. I cannae see him, I’m looking and looking and I cannae see him. The gaps between the trees are darker than I thought and I’m looking for a flash of his wee red anorak but there’s nothing and I’m shouting tae Lorna and she’s crying and holding the wee one up close to her chest and we’re running, running through the woods and I’m cutting ma arms on jaggy branches but I’m still running, running, running. Something grabs for ma foot and I smash into the moss and mud, spitting my lip on a tree root. My head’s birling faster than the Waltzers CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 4 at the fair as I’m trying tae stand, trying tae see whit pulled me down. I see it. A ring of mushrooms, all crushed and crumbling on the one side where I skited through it: that’s how the faeries get you, granny said, that’s whit she always said. September, 2015 A few years it wis before I got it right in ma head, what he was. Ignored a lot a signs, so I did. Him writing wi’ the wrong hand for one: being corrie-fisted, as my granny used tae say, wis a sure sign of something else making use of yer hand. Now, whether it be the devil or the faeries, they were a’ one and the same. The school said it wis normal, so there wis nothing tae be done about that at the time. And thon way he used tae dae that well in his schoolwork? Aye top of the class he wis, when me and his mum were nothing like that. Don’t get me wrong, his mum’s got a good heart and she’s always had her looks, but she’s thick as they come: it’s lucky she’s always had me tae sort her out. I’m practical minded, see? Bradley though, he had whit’s called unnatural intelligence, so he did. Anything unnatural like that, that’s a sign of your wee one not being who you think they are. It’s a sign that ye’re raising a changeling. That’s whit put the wind up me about him and the ponies: it wisnae natural. Fair enough, it was too late for me tae get him back when I realised it. Once yer wee one’s eaten any of their food, they’re lost to ye forever. That’s how I knew ma Bradley wis gone. September 2003 I’m using a tree trunk tae pull maself up and there’s faeries spinning and laughing round me, like the time they danced a man to death, spiriting him away and sending him daft wi’ their capering.