Wilson - The Changeling Warriors

THE CHANGELING
WARRIORS

DOUG WILSON

Copyright 2017 by Doug Wilson.

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4990-9993-5

eBook 978-1-4990-9992-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/04/2017

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

NO WAY

H E NEVER WANTED to go.

You cant make me not to that cold, crummy island! No way! His voice squeaked, completely spoiling the effect.

For days Peter Wanderer had told his mother, over and over again. No. These are my holidays. I want to stay here! Not with some stupid old lady. He banged his fist on the table, which he knew she hated. He was tall for his age, and growing fast, so the table banging was getting louder. On and on it went her insisting, him yelling and banging the table. For days. It was a middle-sized house, attached to one other, so if he shouted the old woman next door, Mrs Smayley, would peer angrily over the fence, shaking her head as if to say spare me . He knew his mother hated that as well, so it was worth a try. Might work.

Morning Mrs Smelly, Peter would shout as he left for school. She was always watching, pulling back the curtains, or sweeping her pathway; she had lived there since creation.

She bristled. Smayley, Peter, Mrs Smayley. You know that.

Ill try to remember. Bye Mrs Smelly.

But Annie Wanderer ignored Peters shouting. Just ignored him. He didnt know how, but she did. Where was the place now? Ireland. Island of the White Cow. How dumb was that?

Youre going Peter, whether you like it or not. Your aunts alone, shes lost her husband, and she needs support and a bit of company and just two weeks of your holidays. Dont be so selfish! You know I cant get time off from work. Shes very lonely, and youre her favourite nephew.

Favourite nephew he thought the womans barely me t me.

His mother had struggled with Peter ever since his father died, two years before. He was a tall boy, lean and whippy, with very dark eyes, longish black hair, a straight nose and weird ears, almost pointed. They were odd, and not his best feature, so he let his hair grow to cover them. He was pretty much an ordinary teenager, but did get angry when he felt crowded. At school in Chelmsford, in England, he was bright, and becoming a great swimmer. People used to say he swam like a fish, which was so clich it was boring but he did. Hed always been a bit of a loner, so swimming was good with no need to talk. Hed always felt different from his friends. None of them were real friends, just kids he hung around with. What he didnt know was that his life was on the edge the edge of huge, explosive changes.

Your grandparents came from there, so its really home. And you were born there if you remember, when we were on vacation. You came early. The only time you were ever early. She laughed.

Of course I dont remember being born! The place is like nowhere. Full of stupid old people, and theyre Irish, and its cold and wet all the time. Thats not a holiday, its a prison sentence!

He did the shouting thing again, stomped into his room and slammed the door. Why me , he asked himself. What have I done to deserve this? There was so much to do at home, and to stay with an old aunt, on a crummy, wet, cold Irish island seemed like the worst punishment. Worse than death! Even stamping his foot again didnt make him feel any better. He spent hours on his computer, furiously playing angry, violent games, but that didnt help either.

He knew he should be practicing his violin, but that was another waste of time because he knew he was never going to be any good. His father had wanted him to do it, and said so before he died. It was about the only thing left that seemed a link to him. So Peter tried. Scrape, scrape, scales, rondos, whatever they were. He was sure his teacher, Mrs Black, knew he was hopeless, but needed the money.

He pleaded with his mother, over and over again. Cant I give this up? Im rubbish. Ill never play this thing.

No, thats one thing you cant do. Your father wanted you to play the violin, like he did. And he would be so disappointed if you gave up. I think youre getting better.

Peter almost said he couldnt be disappointed because he was dead, but thought better of it and shut his mouth. A wise decision.

His mother worked at the local supermarket as some sort of supervisor, telling people what to do, and where to put things. Since his fathers death she had been much quieter, as if she would never get over her loss. Peter didnt know what to do to make her happier. He found it all very hard. Hed liked his dad, but in some ways never felt very close, as if he was somehow distant. But he had liked him.

A few weeks later all the arguments were over and Peter was on a plane to Shannon, in Ireland. To his horror, he was travelling with an envelope, packaged in a plastic sleeve on a tape around his neck, for his passport and documents. Though he was really thirteen, a mix-up in the airlines office said he was eleven, and too young to travel alone. The airline had to take care of him at each stop and he had to wear a passport pack. Unaccompanied minor the paper read. Underground miner would be better. He asked for a beer on the Aer Lingus plane, just for the hell of it.

Dont be cheeky, young man, said the cabin attendant, wagging her finger at him but grinning all the same.

At Shannon airport he was escorted through immigration and customs by a very friendly woman in an airline uniform, who kept calling him Mr Wanderer , as if this was the funniest thing shed ever heard, and he couldnt decide whether it was cooler to roll his eyes or just ignore her. The eyes won.

He saw his aunt, Maggie OKeefe, waiting to meet him, all pink cheeks and bright eyes. She was wearing a dark brown coat, sensible flat shoes, a small hat with a feather and a big smile.

Oh youve grown dear, quite the young man.

What did she expect that hed stay the same size, like some sort of midget? He wriggled awkwardly as she hugged him, but smiled back at her while papers were signed to show he was really who he was, he had arrived safely, and carried no diseases, contraband alcohol or cigarettes. He tried a spin around with his arms out as if expecting a body search. Seeno hidden anythings. The airline woman smiled politely, flicked her eyebrows and disappeared.

Now were off to Galway and then Cleggan, explained his aunt, folding her large carry bag and handing Peters bag and his battered violin case to the driver as they climbed aboard a large bus. Hed promised his mother hed practice his music, though he thought he might give that a miss.

It was early afternoon, and as it was autumn, it was gloomy. It wasnt raining but it felt as if it were a soft, wet, damp and cloying mist. An early winter, his aunt explained. Oh great he thought, stuck inside that tiny cottage all the time. Ill go mad and then what will they all think? Hed be pointed out. He grinned to himself. Mad Peter. Yep, mad as a meat axe, mad, mad, mad!