The Beast Within

The Changeling: Chapter Four

I did not keep them in suspense.

For the first time in weeks, I awoke with a sense of hope. I had made the right decision. Everything was going to be all right. 

I told Sampson at breakfast that I intended to 'put my roots in the ground'.

"I'll stay with you, but I won't be your son."

It wasn't the nicest way to put it. Sampson winced and I knew I hurt his feelings. I don't know what prompted me to speak that way. Now it sounds silly, even cruel, to say such a thing, but in the moment it was important to me that Sampson understood my true meaning:

No one will ever replace my real family.

"But maybe we can be...something like a family?" Sampson's voice was quiet, meek.

I nodded and his expression filled with joy.

Yes, his eyes seemed to say, I'm not your pa, but I'm happy to be your father.

Even Angela cracked a smile. She surprised me with a cloth like the one Sampson kept in his pocket to wipe his brow. On the face of it was my name stitched in elegant, curvy lines, with red and orange leaves surrounding the first and last letters.

"A little something to welcome you home," she said, obviously proud of her work but too humble to say so.

"It's lovely, thank you." 

Sampson later revealed that Angela had spent a week fussing over my gift, and it was not only a symbol of me joining the tavern, but a pact of peace and acceptance made between myself and the woman who ran it.

That day the atmosphere was merry. The sun was warm and the air held the pleasant scent that lives between summer and autumn, suggesting hope for the new life ahead of us. When Sampson and I went into the woods to collect traps we traded jokes back and forth, until tears were streaming down my face and I was holding my stomach to ease the ache of prolonged laughter.

A handful of times I was even allowed to utter the word, 'damn', without admonishment, which made me feel grown and confident.

I helped Sampson skin and prepare the animals, and not once did my stomach turn. A passing wonder came to me, of when the disgust of blood had left my heart.

At dinner, Sampson announced the new addition to his family and offered a mug of ale to the humble handful of three guests who were staying at the tavern. They raised their cups and toasted, and the room was lifted into celebration. One of the guests brought out an old fiddle, and at the behest of an unusually giddy Angela, he filled the tavern with music.

Sampson's posture relaxed with each gulp of ale, and he pulled me into several tight embraces throughout the night. I sang along to the music, creating new words instead of learning the real ones. Angela and Sampson found it so amusing that they tried to join me, though their words grew increasingly slurred. Even Moira was swept into the frenzy when Sampson picked her up and swung her about as if they were partners in dance. The toddler loved every second of her father's attention, and cheered and giggled and screamed until she grew tired and Angela took her to bed.

Long after the fiddle ceased and the guests had left for sleep, Sampson motioned me to follow him into the back of the tavern for a surprise.

"Guests've been thinning," he attempted to whisper, "so we made one up for ya!"

With a beaming smile he opened a door and revealed a room with a bed and table. 

"Go in, boy! It's yours now!"