Harvest of Changelings by Warren Rochelle Read Free Book Online Page A

the dishes at the table, nothing happened. Then, Malachi pushed against the ground and shot straight up, one, two, three, four feet, then stopped, faltered, and dropped like a stone into the leaves. I can do this. just like the clock. The dinner bowls. I can do this . Malachi lifted more slowly the second time and stopped a yard up. It was as if something shifted in his brain, something clicked, and there, now he could see what to do. He dove up and out and into the breeze.
    Malachi flew.
    He swooped up to the top of the nearest tree and then down and up again, turning his body over and over as he did, making spirals in the air. He dove in the warm air and did somersaults all the way down, and then a sudden flip, and he was skimming the tops of the saplings, like a rock skipping on water. He plucked leaves from a big oak and then dodged them as they drifted to the ground. He floated on his back, on his stomach, on his side.
    If he could just stay in the air and never come down. Nobody could come and get him, and any names they would call would just drop on the ground. It no longer mattered that he was smaller than everybody else, with funny eyes and hair, with a dad who was a librarian and with no mother at all. Valeria. That was her name, but
all Malachi knew about her was that he looked just like her and that to ask his dad about her meant silence and sadness. Could she fly? Was she magic?
    But never mind all that. He could fly.
    Finally Malachi looked at his watch. 4:30. Better get going. Tuesdays his dad would be home from the library by five. He knew his dad was going to be mad because he had run away from school; that was a given. Making him madder by being late wasn’t worth it. Malachi let himself slowly float down to the ground, his feet landing lightly in a bed of moss.
    He got home just before five, only minutes ahead of his father. Malachi was in the bedroom, changing out of his school clothes so his dad wouldn’t see the leaves and cobwebs, when he heard the front door open, then his father’s footsteps, and the thud of his father’s briefcase on the coffee table in the living room. Malachi quickly pulled a T-shirt over his head and ran to the bathroom to stuff his school clothes in the hamper.
    â€œMalachi Lucius Tyson. Come here, please.”
    All three names. He’s really mad. Malachi gulped and went down the hall.
    â€œDad? Dad? I’m sorry—it was an accident—I, uh—” Malachi stopped, staring at his father. Dad didn’t look three names-mad. He looked tired and sad; his eyes were red and wet. Dad had been crying. Malachi shuddered; he couldn’t believe it, he wouldn’t believe it. Was it this magic? No, it couldn’t be—anything that let you fly could not be bad—
    â€œGo back to your room. You’ve scared me to death. I almost called the police. The principal called; he is furious. Miss Windlemere is even more furious. Go to your room. I can’t talk to you now. Go.”
    â€œBut, Dad, I have to tell you, I want to tell you—Dad, I flew today, in the air. Could my mother fly? Dad, please—”
    â€œI said: go to your room.”
    â€œDad!”
    â€œNot another word.”
    Malachi went to his room.
    Much later, after a miserable dinner, surrounded by a thick, sullen silence, Malachi lay on his bed, waiting for his dad to turn in. When he heard his father go into his bedroom across the hall and close the door, Malachi got up. Making as little noise as possible, he went to the back door and gently eased it open and slipped out onto the back porch. Two, three more steps and he was in the backyard.
He glanced next door at Uncle Jack’s house—just one light on—Thomas, he guessed, house-sitting. Uncle Jack had gone to some conference or something. Malachi took a deep breath and shot straight up into the cool night air, a shooting star in reverse, blue-white light streaming behind him in a shimmering