Family Trees
The only pursuit to which Glen devoted more energy than horology was among the most forbidden for changelings like him: the study of his family tree. Where ordinary mortals combed through parish records and boxes of old photographs in search of their ancestors, he was looking for his descendants.
‘My siblings’ descendants,’ he clarified.
Before him, his mother had given birth to eleven other children, four of whom had survived to adulthood, and two of whom had raised children of their own.
They had remained mostly in the West Country, with the occasional migration to Canada, India, or Australia, adventurers striking out on their own.
He hovered a palm under his jaw, feigning thought. Who does that remind me of?
‘She is a gardener,’ he said proudly, ‘and a tarot-reader. But,’ he added with the softest sigh, ‘I don’t think she’s inclined to have children. And her sister is barren. Sorry, no – infertile. I hate how I forget my contemporary words.’
‘You do better than me, and I spend more time here.’ With some trepidation, I asked: ‘Will you…’ I defaulted to an open arm, grand and declarative. Announce yourself to her?
Glen may have been abetting me in my secret border crossings out of loyalty, but he, too, had something to gain.
My hope was to eventually live wholly and completely among the mortals; Glen’s was to discover his family’s fate, possibly even to reunite with them.
But that hope had taken root when we were still young, barely out of childhood.
Back then, he might have been able to track down and befriend his grand-nephews and -nieces.
Selfishly, I had been afraid to ask if he still nurtured that hope now, with so many generations lost to him. If he no longer wished to cross over and remain in the Restless Lands with me, then I would lose the pleasure and comfort of his company, not to mention his vital practical support.
Glen shook his head before I had even finished the question. He chose a gesture, rather than words, to convey his decision. I have the heart to do it, not.
‘Besides,’ he added, switching back to speech, ‘how would that even work? “Greetings, I was born just after the year of your Lord 1700 and yet here I am, wearing the newest basketball sneakers.”’
We laughed to the point of breathlessness. But as we recovered, I remembered that the question of “how would that even work” was the very one I had been trying to answer ever since I first walked into the Covent Garden Dance Hall.