Changeling Ch. !: A Curious Visitor

Memories are fickle. Something exciting happens, or scary (or both!), and afterwards you're convinced that you'll never forget what had happened. Then, before you know it, this momentous occasion becomes naught but a blurry photograph in a dusty photo album that you stumble upon whilst cleaning out the guest bedroom. There are, however, a few exceptions: those experiences that change your entire being, from the way you walk to your entire outlook on life. You never forget, and the memory is there to greet you when you wake up to each new day, and to personally escort you into the deep, dark confines of sleep as the bright- and youthfulness of daytime exchanges laurels for the dark, ancient smock and cowl of night. Today, I will recall one such memory and reflect on it for your enjoyment: how it started, what exactly happened, and how it turned out.

I awoke with a start. What had aroused me from the deep, mindless confines of sleep? My bedroom was dark, somehow ominous despite its obvious familiarity. Was that really just a shadow in the corner, or was it something dangerous, something terrible, something.. Other? Wait. Did the shadow just move? Or was I just imagining things? Am I paranoid? Or is there really something there? I felt like the old man from Poe’s The Telltale Heart. Either way, there was only one way to find out. I slowly snaked my hand out from under the covers and put my glasses on. Inching the blanket off of my nervous, sweaty body with one hand, I reached out, oh so slowly, for the book on my bedside table. It was the unabridged Les Miserables, so that meant it would pack quite a whollop. Then, in one fluid motion, I bunched up my legs, then sprung off of the bed to face that dark, dreaded corner, book in hand. I reared back, ready to swoop down upon whatever was there, and then threw all of my body into hitting.. A wall. I dropped onto my rump and rubbed my poor nose, which had come into unfortunate contact with said wall. "Well, fiddlesticks," I said aloud, " I guess there really was nothing."
"You'd be wrong in that respect, love," replied a voice behind me in a strong Dubliner lilt. I didn't feel my head hit the carpet as I fainted.

As I slowly regained consciousness, the first thing I noticed was the scent. It smelled like a spring meadow. Or was it freshly turned soil? Maybe a mixture of both. Definitely not a smell one encounters in present day. It smelled of nature, wild and fresh.

Light was filtering through my closed eyelids, so I squinted my eyes, waiting for them to adjust. Funny, I don’t remember turning on a light. My pupils finished dilating, and I opened my eyes to a pair of smiling, curious green ones, and a shock of unruly red hair. I don't mean copper or carrot-topped either. I mean RED. Loose locks tumbled around his head like tongues of flame above ageless eyes, green like young ferns. If this had been a book, I would have been mesmerized by this stranger's otherworldly aesthetics. However, this wasn't a book, so I did what any normal person would have done: I screamed. He hurriedly clamped his hand over my mouth to stifle my shrieks. So, I bit him. Cursing in another language (a form of Celtic, I think), he nursed his saliva-coated hand and glared at me. "Who are you," I pressed him, "And why the hell are you in my room?" He sighed and hooked his thumbs under his suspenders. I noticed that he was wearing a tweed jacket, red as holly berries, matching breeches, with a white button-up shirt peeking from behind his cheerfully green vest, and white stockings with gold-buckled black shoes. "Well, dearie, it's not so much as WHO I am, but more importantly WHAT I am, that should concern you. The name's Faolan.” The name sounded like he said Fwal-awn. “I'm a.. Well, I'm a luchorpán." I stared at him uncomprehendingly. Very reluctantly he added, "I think your generation would call me a.. Leprechaun?" Understanding dawned, and I slowly smiled, then started snickering hysterically. He shook his head as I snorted, tears running down my face. "Where's your pot of gold?", I giggled. "Aren't you supposed to be a short, fat grandpa with a beard?" Then, the low blow: "Haven't I seen you somewhere? The front of a Lucky Charms box, perhaps?" Faolan, at this point, was slumped over miserably, so I composed myself with great difficulty, wiping the tears from my eyes. The reason I was so okay with all of this is that I assumed that this was all a very elaborate dream. It might also be because I'm just really weird, and actually was kind of enjoying the company of this ponderous bloke. "So, then, what are you here for?", I asked finally, calmed once more. "Well," he said simply, "You."

"Me?" I was at a loss for words. I was still sitting on the floor where I had fainted, and now I unconsciously scooted backwards until my back was against the side of the bed. Why did this strange man come for me? was he some sort of serial killer, or a stalker? What if I resisted? Would he go away, or would he take me by force? These thoughts whirled through my head at warp speed as I reached for another book to use as a blunt weapon, this time choosing The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. He held up his hands, saying, "Relax. I'm not any of those buggers, that ain't what a good lad mun do. I ain't a wee bit crazy, cross me heart." "Then why have you come here?", I asked, wondering at how he had seemingly read my mind. "Well, let's just say you're a long-lost sibling of sorts. I was sent to retrieve you and start your training." "Sibling? So, you're my brother? We're related?", I asked, confused. How had I not been told about the apparently magical, Irish branch of our family tree? "No, no. You and I aren't related. I just handle the retrievals of the Changelings, like you. Now, we haven't much time. Take this," he said urgently, handing me a necklace with a Celtic triskelion on it. The tarnished gold glowed with a calming sense of eternity. Without thinking, I unclasped the simple catch and put the necklace on, lifting my dark curls out from under the chain. The simple yet elegantly-wrought pendant was warm against my sternum. Faolan checked the ancient pocket watch he had pulled from his vest and cursed again. "I thought I would have more time, but your parents are early risers and it takes a while and a half to transport more than one on me meager wick," he said angrily, "wick" apparently a reference to whatever power he possesses to transport himself. "I'll just have to come back tomorrow night. Caen't your mam and da' sleep in once in a while-y?", he added exasperatedly. "Tell no one about this," he warned. "Who would I tell that wouldn't think I was crazy?", I reasoned. "Aye, good point," he conceded. "Tomorrow night, then, love?", Faolan inquired with a grin. "If this isn't a figment of my imagination," I replied cheerily. Then, with a poof, he was gone, leaving me sitting on the floor of my bedroom with a pendant and so many questions.

I awoke with a jolt and sat straight up in bed, half expecting to see green eyes and ruby locks at its foot. There was no one, mythical or no, though. I shook my head at the vividness of the dream I just had. I checked the bedside table and found my books untouched, neither aware that I would have used them to dispatch a magical being. Holmes might have enjoyed it, though, I'd wager. As I reached over to put my glasses on, I felt something move across my collarbone. My heart was submerged in ice water as I looked down at a gleaming triskelion pendant.