Dear Fellow Traveler,
My given name is Caelan Jones, but I’d prefer it if you called me C.J. I am sure I don’t know you, and you don’t know me in turn, but I still have a story to tell. It’s just a thing I need to get out, so I’m writing it here.
To start, my life began in a small town in rural Europe. Across the hills, and near the thick ancient forest lands, it sat among the cultivated farm lands, a place so small you couldn't step outside your house without bumping into someone familiar. The year was 1953, and I was like any in their 9th year. At least that’s what I had thought for the longest time. I was happy, I went to school, and played with children, among the fields and running through the cobblestone streets, while the town peacher squawked. I didn’t know anything about the world outside of the small town, other than what I heard on the car radio or on the telly.
Britain was still feeling the after effects of the 2nd world war, sweets were back in stores, and father was home, even though he now had a bum leg and a cane. Some neighbors returned, other’s did not, children were still children, adults still adults, but there was a sense of relief in the melancholy air. The world seemed to be made right again in some small way, even if the town preacher still squawked as loudly as he did during the war.
I didn’t know how harsh the world could really be, nor how much it feared someone who was different when someone who was loud enough paid too close of attention. This was because, in my 9th year, things started changing during the spring before father had returned, and the change remained, growing like a patch of foxglove.
It started out small at first, like a sprout that had just poked out of the earth. I would see things out of the corner of my eyes, but I never thought much of it for some time. Before I knew it, I started hearing things, tiny voices whispered at home. They whispered in bell-like voices, just out of ear shot, but nowhere close enough to hear clearly. The soft sound became louder when I played near the ancient woods I love so dearly, and louder still when I was alone. The tiny voices were shy when others were near.
I started to become rather restless with each passing day, it was hard to sit for long, my legs tingling to move, whether it was at the schoolhouse, or at the dinner table. My legs tingled and twitched so badly, like lightning was dancing in my nerves, to the point I was practically dancing rather than walking. My new behavior seemed to worry mother and father, but the more I allowed myself to dance as my feet seemed to want, the better it felt. The world felt bright, the world felt better.
It also felt odd to me.
The house I lived in for 9 years slowly stopped feeling like home, the house felt itchy to be in, almost too small to be comfortable. The people I had known just as long, seemed akin to strangers as time continued to pass by. The food I ate felt odd in my mouth. The air within town when a car went by felt more bitter. Even my reflection seemed odd to me, like I wasn't looking at my own face any more.
When mother and father noticed the changes in me, I could see they were scared for me, it was reflected in their eyes like a mirror. The people within the small town were religious, there was a scare in the news about the mental illness of returning soldiers, and the preacher squawked so loudly about things that fed the remaining fear from the war. They feared my mind had started to become odd, and tried to keep it quiet.
Mother was gentle and tender of heart, father was quiet yet silly despite his stern demeanor, but neither had been religious to start with. They attended church sometimes, when they needed a little more strength, but their beliefs were not as deep as other’s. Because of that, the preacher seemed to have a sore spot towards them, no doubt he would have used my oddness as another reason to be nasty. That was my worry, because they were both sweet and kind compared to the preacher.
Soon I kept close to mother, holding her skirt, and keeping close when outside, they stopped taking me to the school house, and told me to be careful when dancing. It was safer that way, mother would say, and father would say, listen to your mother, before lighting his pipe for a smoke. So I did my best to do as they said. I didn't want to worry them.
Being at home was dreadfully boring however, the telly and radio was nothing but noise, it hurt my ears and the house felt like it would get smaller and smaller with each passing day. The longer I remained inside, the more I felt myself being pulled to the forest. When we went to town, I longed to smell it’s fresh air. When we went for a drive near it, I heard it’s song as the wind blew through it. Father would have to tell me not to stick my head out. At home I grew more and more and more restless, the tingle in my legs getting worst and worst. At night it was especially tough to remain inside.
For it was under the silver moonlight I felt most alive. As it’s glowing beams washed over my body, I was filled with sparks and my feet wanted to move all the more, longing to dance for reasons I dared not question.
It came to the point I would sneak out when mother and father laid down to rest for the night, through the white picket fence around our house, over the cobblestone trail, and through the field of grass, was the call of the forest. I was not the only one who wanted to dance under the silver moon. Lights danced within the forest, and voices whispered for me to join. I dared not enter the forest though. Not just yet.
So at the edge of the forest, I danced along with the lights, under the silver moon.
I danced. And danced. And danced some more, until the sparks in me flickered out, and sleep tapped my shoulder, bidding me to return to my bed.
So I did.
And I slept.
And I woke up with my parents, mother cooked and cleaned as dad went to work, and I either watched the telly or listened to the radio. And night time came once more.
And so I danced once more, this time, slightly closer to the forest.
The cycle continued like that for a year, from spring, to summer, to winter, to spring once more, each night that came, the closer I came to the forest. Closer and closer.
The whispers kept bidding me to join them, but I knew if I joined them, I would not be returning to the house again, but the temptation grew more and more with the passing nights, and the silver moon went from a crescent, to as full as an autumn pumpkin.
Until-
The preacher found me last night.
He stopped me in the middle of my dancing, I couldn't tell you why he was there, only that my arm hurt badly as he dragged me back home.
The preacher knocked hard and loudly on the front door, and once opened, he started squawking at the parents, throwing nasty words with a sour face. I didn't listen though, because his voice was drowned out by the whispers as they beckoned me back to the spot under the moonlight. I needed to finish my dance.
So when I felt the preacher let go of my arm, I dashed off the porch as fast as my legs would take me, the shouts of my parents and the preacher quickly fading into the night.
Faster than father or the preacher could move, I dashed away with a strength and speed I had never known till then, almost like my feet had wings.
My body was weightless under the full moon, and before I knew it, I was back to my spot, and once again I danced.
I danced and danced and danced some more. I twirled around, tapped my feet and leaped in the air like I had never before.
As I danced, the oddness washed away, and my mind became clear of the reason, answering the unspoken questions, making my body weightless even when the dance finally ended.
When I finally settled in place, outside the forest, right before me, stood someone very much like me, but also not like me at all.
The same grassy green eyes from mother, the same unruly brown locks from father, and the same sprinkle of freckles all over from the sun. From his nose to his toes, he was mother and father’s baby. We reached for one another, mirroring eachother’s actions flawlessly, like the moon was acting as the mirror between us.
Our hands met and our places switched.
I watched him leave in my place. Mother and Father ran over the grassy hills we loved so dearly, and took their baby into their arms, hugging him close, encasing him in their arms, and kissing his head. I smiled seeing that.
Mother and Father loved me, as I loved them, but the love for their child was so much stronger, I could feel it from the shadows of the ancient forest.
Some changelings stay a lifetime, from birth, to the human parents' deaths, but I suppose Caelan had grown to miss this world, while I, C.J. felt like a decade as a human was a bit too long, let alone a lifetime.
Still, I also knew I'd at least miss mother and father, which was why I was so hesitant to leave. Hopefully Caelan isn't too sore at me for making him wait a year longer.
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