Changeling
The Underhills were a family of spooks, or so the villagers said. They were certainly easily recognisable: gaunt and pallid, with an odd greyish cast to their skin and lank black hair that always seemed a little wet. They always seemed a little crooked and twisted, though a closer examination showed absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about their posture. And though they were always soft-spoken and exceptionally polite -- or perhaps because they were so -- people called them unsettling.
The wise old women who sat rocking by the peat fires said that the shadows grew longer when an Underhill drew near, that it was bad luck to cross an Underhill, that the "ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night" were heartily welcomed -- or as heartily as an Underhill could do anything -- into the Underhill home.
But Septimus Underhill was different.
Septimus Underhill was the seventh son of old Mr Underhill, and had a roguish grin (slightly buck-toothed) that would light up the dankest depths of the Underhill earth cellar. There was a reddish tint to his soft, wavey hair, and although he certainly didn't actually have much more meat on his bones than the rest of his brothers and sisters, no-one ever thought that he would blow away in the wind.
He was certainly much less well-behaved than his siblings -- or perhaps he was less skilled at not getting caught. He was the only Underhill child to have sustained bruises, cuts and scrapes from running about the playground, and he was the only Underhill child known to have repeated a vulgar word. (Mrs Underhill, who had been present at the time, barely narrowed her eyes; they were in the general store at the time, and she merely turned to the shopkeeper and asked, ever so politely, for an extra bar of soap.)
The wise old women who sat rocking by the peat fires all nodded knowingly and said, of course, the seventh child is always likely to be a changeling. In a family of spooks such as the Underhills, it was only natural that the changeling should be the only normal one in the family.
The wise old women who sat rocking by the peat fires said that the shadows grew longer when an Underhill drew near, that it was bad luck to cross an Underhill, that the "ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night" were heartily welcomed -- or as heartily as an Underhill could do anything -- into the Underhill home.
But Septimus Underhill was different.
Septimus Underhill was the seventh son of old Mr Underhill, and had a roguish grin (slightly buck-toothed) that would light up the dankest depths of the Underhill earth cellar. There was a reddish tint to his soft, wavey hair, and although he certainly didn't actually have much more meat on his bones than the rest of his brothers and sisters, no-one ever thought that he would blow away in the wind.
He was certainly much less well-behaved than his siblings -- or perhaps he was less skilled at not getting caught. He was the only Underhill child to have sustained bruises, cuts and scrapes from running about the playground, and he was the only Underhill child known to have repeated a vulgar word. (Mrs Underhill, who had been present at the time, barely narrowed her eyes; they were in the general store at the time, and she merely turned to the shopkeeper and asked, ever so politely, for an extra bar of soap.)
The wise old women who sat rocking by the peat fires all nodded knowingly and said, of course, the seventh child is always likely to be a changeling. In a family of spooks such as the Underhills, it was only natural that the changeling should be the only normal one in the family.