Morgan's Story
From Changeling Venue
Contents |
The Beginnings
I was born Lydia Saravakos.
I remember tucking my skirts between my knees, reaching back over my shoulders, braiding my hair, wrapping it around my head. Taking my nets into my hands, I wade out into the bay. The boy pulls the net tight and drives the peg through the loop at the corner of the net into the sandy beach. This could have been anywhere, anytime, a peasant scene from any country in any time in history, but it was me. The boy, my brother, my twin, Tamas. Tamas and Lydia Saravakos. We were red-headed Greek twins living in a little immigrant settlement on Lake Erie, barely aware of anything on the outside, barely aware of the coming of the Second World War.
I remember. I remember it was all anyone talked about, at lunch, after church. All my brothers and I wanted to enlist--I had three brothers including Tamas. They all had gray eyes, only Tamas and I had the red hair. Bad luck, some said. We didn't care. We were happy children, and more than brother and sister--we we halves of a whole, like in mind and body. Mother said that while we were in the cradle, we cooed to each other as if speaking in our own language, in our own little world. We did more than finish each other's sentences. Even into our teens we could say half a word and the other would understand; start a question and the other would answer before it was finished.
I remember when my eldest brother Alexandros--Alec--went away. Tamas and I were frightened but put on a brave show of playing soldiers and Nikolas wanted so badly to go with him. But Alec had just turned eighteen, and Nickolas was still fifteen.
I remember the blue star my aunt gave my mother when Alec left. Father laughed at her. Who would see it from the road? They had a fight and mother cut down the scraggly elms that blocked the view from the road. No one went down our road until I hung that star in the window. They stopped after a while. At least until the men in the black suit came, and Aunt gave mother a gold star to place in the window. It wasn't real until then.
I remember running. Running barefoot, through the fields and the vineyard to his house, Matthias. Our best friend. I ran through his hedge, crying and shouting. He was splitting wood, but laid aside his axe to comfort me. My brother stood off, watching, and for the first time in my life I didn't know if Tamas knew what I felt.
I remember lying on the bank next to the lake with my brother and Matthias, reading a book of the old myths, the Bible, or a classical story of our grandfathers. Matthias wanted to be some sort of scholar of the Classics. We three wrote, too. We recreated the old stories and made new ones. Debates between Ares and Athena, Apollo and Artemis. You can guess who played those roles. Unlike Classical plays, the dialogs always ended in a fight--which always ended with one, both or all of us in the lake.
I remember that Matthias' father and older brothers ran the dry goods shop. They were not poor, but the family had many mouths to feed and Matthias was to have a very small inheritance, if any.
I remember Tamas was quiet, very quiet when we announced that we wanted to get married. I could tell that he was stung, a little bit afraid. So was I. When we were alone, we both said some ugly things. I didn't speak to him for the rest of the evening. I didn't sleep well. The sun was just coming up when I went to my brother. We both sobbed and forgave each other. It would be a had change, but Tamas just wanted me to be happy. I promised to make sure Matthias built our house next to his.
I remember the fight Matthias and I had. He had gone to the city and gotten a job at a steel mill. He wanted to marry me by Christmas. I told him I would wait, I wanted him to go to college, to fulfill his dream. He was gone three weeks when the storm came.
I remember that fish come up to the shoreline when it rains. They love eating the bugs that wash down into the bay. The big fish come into the bay, into my nets when the summer storms come. The wind tore at my braided hair when I spread my nets, when I secured them. It would have been faster with Tamas's help, but the storm had come up so quickly that he securing the boats. I could barely see when I went to retrieve my catch--before the weather became worse and I would lose my nets. Mother thought I was mad, but I promised the best catch all season. I'd pulled out three fat walleye and a bass when the Others in the lake pulled me in.
I heard that Tamas almost died in that storm; he was too dazed and ill from the encounter, but mother wouldn't let him out of the house. Matthias led the search party and was out on the lake from the moment he arrived back in town. I heard that they rushed to find him once they pulled "me" out from under the docks, but they didn't find him until two days later. Apparently his little boat was swamped three miles down the shoreline and he drowned.
Tamas... was a broken man. But that's another story.
The Durance
I had learned how to swim nearly at the same time that I learned to walk--and yet I was drowning. He held me under until I blacked out and I cannot remember much...
I remember that I never came up.
I remember that Tamas was not with me.
I remember nothing for a long while, nothing but the rush and the sigh of the current as it ran over and through me, washing my skin, bones and blood away, cooling my heart and soul.
Was it days or weeks before I looked out and saw two armies, lining up on a vast plain. One side with crisp red jackets and muskets that shined in the Arcadian sun, the other rag-tag, barely uniformed and forming a poor line. The man standing beside me sent a shock through my cold, cold memory.
Fragmented memories of the one who pulled me through the water... A glass urn... A sparkling city... Changing hands... A strange garden, a small lake...
Wars.
And there He was.
Regal, commanding and leaning up against a sparkling rail, baton in hand. He spoke a Word, touched my forehead with his baton. I felt my cold, cold limbs quicken.
{You will be my war goddess. You will be my patron of heroes. First, though, you must be the best.}
Someone thrust something heavy and cool into my hands. I felt the smooth grain of twisting wood. I looked up the haft. A broad-leafed head on the tip of the shaft.
A blow to my head. I cried out. Tamas, you never hit so hard!
He walked away as I tried to find my attacker, raising my spear to hold off the blows. When I could barely stand, beaten and bloodied, rough hands threw me into the lake again, where small wicked-looking creatures pulled me beneath the waters.
I remember fighting, desperate for air, coughing and screaming as they pulled me down. I try to hold my breath, the pressure as if metal bands are tightening around my chest. The shriveled creatures let go once the convulsions pass. I don't feel them, but I know it's happening. I see it as if it's happening to someone else. And then nothing. Not until He came back for another session of training his war goddess.
Some cry for their mothers. I cried for Tamas.
This went on for...
Eventually, I got very, very good at avoiding blows, following my foe's movements.
Eventually, I gave myself to the water.
Eventually, I stopped crying.
It would be a lie to say that I never forgot forgot Tamas. There were times when I remembered nothing, just... cool stillness. The wind on my slick wet skin. And then the aching loss. The open wound in my heart that came from our separation begged me to let things go, to forget. I refused.
But I submitted, waiting. The shriveled creatures went away. Ironically, that is when it all became clear. Between the chaos of becoming the lake, becoming the goddess in the lake, I saw things--visions, plateaus.
Wars.
Eventually, I could emerge from the water by myself.
Eventually, He brought me heroes. Those whom He wanted to be heroes. Those who showed promise. Those who, most of the time, died. And I watched.
Wars.
With every drop of blood my heroes lost the fury built.
Sometimes He sent his goddess onto the field. I don't know how many times. It... was not real... Or it was too real. It was hard to tell. The only real thing was the blood, my blood. Not even the death.
And then a certain person came into my life. As close as we can figure, it was some forty years ago. It sounds romantic, but you weren't there. I can't show you the scars. He's that good. The first time he spoke to me I was ripped nearly hip to shoulder, deep stab wounds in my back. Maybe a few more.
I remember lying on my front naked. The Chirurgons were rushing around, triage. A sharp sting of a needle, stitching. A whisper in my ear. "I know you. I've watched you. You hate this, don't you. How many friends have you lost to this madness? Don't speak, just nod. Do you want out of this place?"
A shiver went through me. "Hold still, I don't want to hurt you!" He scolded quietly, and I nodded slowly. The spark of hope that I'd thought had gone out flared quietly.
"There are others," he whispered. I could barely feel him stitching, though looking over my shoulder his hands were almost flying. He paused for the briefest of moments as another of the Lost passed behind him. "Your skin is quite lovely, humn... I'll come speak to you soon. "
"Wait. What do I call you?"
He gave a rueful little grin. "Faust. Doctor Faust."
And that was the beginning of that.
The Escape
It was a massacre. Seven of us set out.
Faust, Chirurgeon. Morgan, Waterborn. Cassidy, Leechfinger. Virgil, Hunterheart. Polyphemus, Cyclopean. Ricky Buchanan, Soldier. Ser Elwyn Blackwater, Draconic.
Faust made it, he wouldn't have if I hadn't gotten torn to shreds. I barely made it--and only because he dragged me out.
It makes my blood hot just thinking about it.
But. Apparently that was the price. It was the price I would have paid for any of my friends.
Why me? Why did I survive?
A lot of people ask me why I put up with Faust's smart-ass comments. I typically don't answer. He didn't have to drag my sorry, bleeding hundred and a half pound deadweight out of the Hedge.
This So-Called Freedom
Life outside was... exhilarating. For the first few days, anyway. We clung to each other, terrified. I don't remember much, but I do remember the shock that came over me at realizing that sixteen years had passed. I cannot say how long it felt like, but Faust tells me that he remembers me there, a sculpture of living water, for at least five.
Every Changeling longs to return home. Doing so is always painful. And it is usually a mistake.
I remember convincing Faust to come along with me, or at least to the outskirts of what had become a pretty little city on Lake Erie. Even in the 1940s, oars or small sails mainly powered our little boats. As I neared the waterfront the smell of gasoline and exhaust made me wrinkle my nose. "It's called progress, Morgan."
Bit by bit they collected the story, the storm.
Matthias' drowning. Some part of my heart had hoped that he would be here, waiting for me. My parents? Cancer took my father, mother didn't last much longer. I didn't cry. It was as if I had wept all the tears I had out in Faerie.
Nikolas had moved to the city after their death, though the last Christmas card someone sent him had come back in the mail. And Tamas.
Sixteen years I had been dead and "the unlucky brother" was still a wreck, still living in our old house by the lake. I was frightened, but Faust said I should at least take a look. What could it hurt to just look?
So I did. I slid under the little dock outside the house to watch. And there he was. I looked up from my reflection in the water--the Mask--and saw the same gray eyes. He'd put on some weight, he was nearing forty yet the shape of his nose, the way he squinted and passed a hand over his brow when he came out into the sunlight.
I cried out with joy and ran to him, arms open. "Brother, my brother!"
Shock, anger, fear, then a wary smile. "Lydia? How? What?"
He took me inside and we ate and talked. I spilled it all. What happened after I was pulled under, the Durance. My shaping, my training, my battles. The Escape, the deaths. How I feared that I would never see him again. Matthias. I could have at least hoped that he would have moved on from my "death." I bitterly cursed the Others.
He invited me to stay that night. I told him I didn't quite feel comfortable enough yet. I took my news back to Faust, and he rejoiced with me. His time was spent in town with the local physicians--there was more than one now. It was a good week.
I spent most of that weekend with Tamas. We didn't leave the house, but that was all right. We didn't know what to say to the neighbors, to the townspeople. But that was okay. I had my brother. We spent most of those days on the dock, casting lines into the lake, feet dangling in the water.
Though, something was off. I couldn't finish his sentences. He was different, but so was I. The feeling of unease grew over the days I spent with him. And I began to see it in him. And then he slipped.
He said something. He asked me what is was like when He put me in the lake. I'd never mentioned His name. He didn't finish the sentence. I did. We locked eyes for a long moment.
The thing that was not my brother sighed. "I guess the gig is up."
I remember too much. It was the hardest fight I'd ever faced and my heart bled freely. The thing that was not my brother wrapping its hands around my neck while I reached for its. I was beginning to see spots by the time I pulled us into the shallows.
That I was what I had been made into likely saved my life--he held me under the water, but couldn't squeeze hard enough. My contract with the water did not come to my aid to batter him down, so I swept his feet out from under him.
Tamas was never as good a swimmer as I, and neither was this creature. Once I pulled it to deeper water, it was over. I ended up smashing his--its--head in against the algae-coated wood of the dock. The water swept what his body dissolved into away.
I tried to stay under, to drown myself. A fetch. Faust said something about replacements that the Others leave of us. Tamas. My sweet brother. When was he taken? Still in There. Maybe, maybe not?
In a rage, I tore apart the house. What was I expecting to find? They had sold most of the valuables so Nikolas could go to college. Taking what few valuables were left in a canvas bag along with the flag that had been draped over Alec's coffin and some family pictures.
I had thought wrong, I hadn't wept out all my tears.
Dusty shoes on a sidewalk. Faust found me weeping my poor heart out in the alleyway next to the hardware store. I bit my lip to keep from sobbing and hid my face. He said he'd been having a lovely time getting to know what sort of medical equipment they'd come up with since he was taken.
"So, I'm pretty tired of this town. I've heard that there's what they call a Freehold in Midland, they say it's a lot of fun. Shall we?" He held a hand out. I looked up and stared at him blankly, face streaked with tears and likely a little blotchy, too.
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Hey," he said in a low voice, making a stab at levity. "Athena. Artemis. Whatever the hell. We gonna get outta here or what?"
Heh. I was grateful he wasn't asking for an explanation. I took his hand and we left before anyone could ask any questions. I told him anyway, later.
When we came for what passed for the Midland Freehold in late 1965, Faust did all the talking. I still think we should have gone south. It was so cold. I remember my father talking about summers of Attica, and how some of their friends had gone to Texas on the Gulf of Mexico.
It was a nice enough place. I wandered around in a daze for a while. A few of the other Changelings there helped us get situated. Faust found a nice little practice to help out in and eventually got his much-coveted license. As if he wasn't good enough before. And I proved myself to the Summer Court.
The old days, yes, the days before the Court system was established were little more than a string of dictators after another. Faust, myself and a few friends who came and went tried to stay out of it for the most part. A notable exception was the Great Debates of 1980 (check date) when some fool decided that a Democratic system was just what the Midland Freehold needed. Initially Faust was all about it--until he saw who was backing it.
That blew over, and blew up into a full-scale war, the Lost and all manner of their allies against each other. A group of us fled to the Pantry, we did not want to get involved in this, not a Civil War. That was 1985. After the blood stopped flowing, we finally did get a Seasonal Court system going. No one wanted that much bloodshed again.
In the meantime, I used my time to make sure the Lost knew that they could turn to me for aid, and that they could defend themselves. I taught many. Some of them died, some even died in the civil war. Some died by some accident or another in the Hedge. Some fell afoul of the Hunt and fell fighting.
Some of them got a little adventurous moved away. I even visit from time to time. Sometimes they told others about me, so from time to time I get a call for advice, or a young person shows up on my doorstop saying that "So-and-so suggested I come to you."
I suppose I'm pretty good at it. That should make me proud.
Sometimes I feel that deep, burning rage. People my age should be surrounded by grandchildren, sitting on a porch swing next to their husband of fifty years.
But more often than not, I just feel... cold.
