Beneath the CaulMatthew Cote
1500 words I rest for a moment in the shadow of the old church. A field of gravestones, cracked like gnawed bones, shelters me from the bonfire blazing atop a nearby hill. That suits me fine. I've seen no signs of pursuit yet, but the wee beasties will be after me if they aren't hunting already. This family of mine is always watching me. Always following. They notice everything. They'll hear me, or they'll smell me, or they'll taste me on the breeze, and they'll come stumbling through the darkling gloam with laughter on their lips and my captivity in their hearts. My hackles rise at that thought. Every year on Midsummer's Eve, when cords of wood are stacked and oiled on all the county's hilltops, the veil between the worlds is thin as gossamer. Every year, on this night, a deep desire to run away and find my birth family claws its way into my belly and takes hold of me. I'm reminded that my wife and children are all that tie me to this world. I don't belong here; I was born beneath the caul. A changeling child. On the tail of this thought, my daughter's voice, lilting and terrible and tinged with dread laughter, carries through the stillness. "Where are you? Daaaaaaady, where aaaaare you?" And another, younger yet doubly menacing: "You can't hide, Daddy. I smell you!" My son. Bile stings my throat. I've tarried in the churchyard too long. I cannot be caught again this year. The sun has set below the hills, but twilight doesn't hamper me while the two worlds touch. Shadows along the lane's edge are shades of gray, each tree bleached bright as white stone. A small form coalesces from the darkness, cackling, jerking forward with outstretched arms. Two larger silhouettes follow. One carries a lantern, but I don't need its light to see them coming; my fey eyes are sharp as needles. I'll thank my father for that gift once we meet. He awaits me at the fairy-fort, I know. I feel him watching for me, pacing the circle in silent anticipation. This year will be different than all the others. After all this time, he'll bring me home. Crouching low, I hurry to the shelter of the church's entry then plunge headlong into the nave. Shadows dance and duel along the walls where the remembrance candles are lit. The crucified carpenter hangs above the far altar, heavy beneath his own judgment, weighing me in silence. I've not been welcome here since I was a child, but I remember an exit by the sacristy. From there, it's a short jog to the forest, where I should easily lose my pursuers. My children are young and clumsy; they cannot stop me. My wife could catch me if she were alone, but she'd never leave them. These thoughts and more whirl through my mind as I pad across the nave to the side passage leading outside. The sacristy door is ajar. I pause, one hand clutching the door frame, one eye peering within. The sacristy is all in darkness now, the chairs and benches empty. Once, Father Cullen sat there with the village's cunning woman and the man who raised me as his son, while I watched from this very doorway. "I must ask for compensation, Thomas," said Father Cullen that day. Greasy gray hair hid his eyes, but the bulbous red mound of his nose protruded between the strands. "And for you to keep the lad away from the other boys." "My son had nothing to do with the fire, Father." "It's no use diverting blame. It's the lad's nature—he's tainted. Nora, tell him." "It's true, sir," said the cunning woman. "He was born beneath the caul, weren't he? He's uncommon small, and he knows things, don't he? Reading already, and at his age! Fey-touched, ain't he? He's a changeling child if ever I saw one." The priest's lank hair swayed as he nodded. "Best thing to do is bring him out to the woods at midsummer and leave him. Let the fey folk have him back. Save us all the trouble of him." I'd never seen my da so angry as on that day, when he hit a priest and damned his own soul to hell. He kicked the sacristy door open with a curse and a shout, so violent he nearly tumbled me over. Then he lifted me and kissed me. "Don't listen to those arseholes," he said. "You're my son, and I'm your da." He wiped my tears away, and his, and carried me home. But he wasn't really my da, was he? A door slams in the nave, snuffing my memories. "Daddy?" calls my son. "Quiet!" snaps my daughter. "He'll hear you." That man who raised me was a better man than I could ever be. He protected his changeling child; I run in terror from my trueborn. That's my nature, as Father Cullen said. I bound down the stairs and out the door, across the tumbled weeds and brambles behind the church, and into the forest. Gloom closes in beneath the canopy of trees where neither moonlight nor firelight reach, but my footing is sure and my destination isn't far. The wee beasties will chase me. I can't fault them for it. I'm chasing my own father through these woods when it comes down to it. The fear lessens now that I'm hidden beneath the trees. Anticipation grows. I pick my way uphill, more comfortable with each step. Branches and brambles slap and grab at me. I pass without care, and pause to rest at the border of a clearing. A circular wall of waist-high stone, bedecked with green moss and yellow lichen and white toadstools, rests in the center of the clearing. Waves of blue fairy fire rise from the structure. A man paces within. My approach is not silent. He turns and takes several steps towards me. He is lanky, like me, but imbued with a grace I've never possessed. His face is as pale as mine, but angular and sharp. His eyes are over-wide and fey, with dueling gray irises glowing in each. I've seen glimpses of those same irises in my own eyes when I've stared too long into a mirror. A ring of daisies crowns his brow. "Father," I say, stepping forward. He smiles, revealing a mouth of sharp, obsidian teeth. He speaks with the intonation of crickets; eyes flashing like fireflies. His language is as alien as he is. I reach for him and he for me. Then a twig snaps behind me. "Daddy, I finded you!" I turn as my son breaks the tree-line, running. It's too dark for him to see the log stretching across his path. I call out, but too late. He trips, falls. For a moment all is well. Then my son screams. "My arm! My arm!" I step towards him, but a chirping draws my attention back to my father. He holds one hand out to me, gesturing wildly for me to join him. I pause, wavering, head turning between worlds. When I was a child, my da was there to pick me up and comfort me when I needed him. My son--Liam—needs me now. I rush to him, and cradle him, both of us crying. I've held him like this many times since the midwife handed him to me, but seldom due to hurt. Liam is scraped and bloody, but whole. He laughs as I hug him and wraps his arms around my neck. "I finded you, Daddy!" "You found me," I say, and pull my daughter, Aisling, into the embrace. My choice made, the fairy fire winks out, severing the threads pulling me away from this world. "They almost took you this year," Maeve says. There's no laughter in my wife's voice as she eyes the circle of stones over my shoulder. She sounds so tired, this woman who loves me. And she’s right, of course. The fey would have had me if a broken twig and Liam’s cries hadn’t brought me to my senses. I’d come so close to losing my family. I climb to my feet and pull Maeve into an embrace, but it’s half-hearted on her end. “I’m sorry,” I say. The words aren’t enough. The wound between us is raw and bloody. Time might heal it. Time and deeds, like I learned from my Da. We set off down the path together, Liam cradled in the crook of my arm, and Aisling holding my hand. Maeve walks silently beside us, holding the lantern as we make our way home. "Be careful on the roots," I say. "It's dark." And it is. Each root is wreathed in shadow, and I need Maeve's light to see them. I always have, even when I was too blind to realize it. "Are we going to play again next year?" Aisling asks. In years past, the chase delighted her, but now her voice is quiet and questioning. I look back to the fairy-fort, dead stone and shadow, barely visible at this distance. "Never again," I say and squeeze her hand. "Let’s go home." |
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Matthew Cote
Matthew Cote is a writer and engineer living in the Northeastern United States. When he's not writing or engineering, you can find him wandering the forests and hills of New England with his family, searching for faerie forts and pretending he doesn't want his wee beasties to find him.
More by Matthew Cote:
"Not One Magician Born" from Baubles From Bones: Issue 3
"Not One Magician Born" from Baubles From Bones: Issue 3
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