A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words - The Changeling

This post was inspired by an image-based writing prompt in the Freewriters community, A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

This is the image to inspire us;

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"You'll be so proud of her, Ma ! They've picked her to play on the Feast of St Flora. She's the finest fiddler in all the land, and the fairest, too."

Pat Connor had a beaming great smile. But his mother's face dropped and she crossed herself.

"You shouldn't talk like that, Patrick. Mary may be fair, and a fine fiddler, but you mustn't say she's the finest and fairest. Pride comes with consequences, and you never know who may be listening."

He laughed. "Now don't be so superstitious, Ma. You talk to me of fairies and elves, of boggarts and witches, but that's just pagan twitterings."

With that, he went on his way; he had work to do, and the Feast was only a fortnight away.

All fortnight Mary practiced, and everyone in the town commented on how well she played, and how they were looking forward to hearing her at the Feast. The Connors made no secret of the pride they felt in their young daughter.

Finally, the day of the Feast rolled around. But Mary's customary easy smile was replaced with a frown and a surly expression. Her parents put it down to nerves.

The hall was full, everyone in town had come to the Feast; the last one of the winter, celebrating the cook's art of making the best of what remained of the previous year's harvest. There must have been three hundred people there. The stew smelled amazing, and they all took their places on the dance floor ready to dance to Mary's playing before sitting down to eat.

Mary sat on the chair, in her finest pale blue dress, her red hair drawn up in ribbons, and began to play.

It was a traditional jig, to get people's bones moving after the cold of winter. She played merrily, and the folk danced in a whirl with great smiles on their faces.

But as she played, the music changed. Subtly, oh so subtly. It sped up, the fiddle had an edge to it's tone, a sharpness. The sharpness turned to menace as the music accelerated.

The people found themselves dancing faster and faster, and none could stop. Faster and faster they spun and whirled and pirouetted. The smiles of pleasure changed to looks of confusion and then panic. They wanted to stop dancing, but were held in a spell, unable to stop.

The first to drop were the oldest folks, the grandparents and great-grandparents. They'd survived a harsh winter, but their hearts could not survive this.

More and more people stopped dancing and dropped dead as the music sped up faster and faster. Mary kept playing, in an impossible frenzy on her fiddle, her face blank and impassive, focused entirely on her work.

Finally she stopped. The hall was strewn with the lifeless corpses of the townsfolk. Only her father was left standing, breathless among the carnage, tears in his eyes.

A new figure entered the hall. Four feet tall at best, robed and crowned and regal. He needed no introduction. He was the King of the Elves.

"Patrick Connor, your overweening pride did this. We have your daughter, she will be well cared for after our own manner. You have her changeling. Care for her, or your life will be forfeit. Now, I see there is a feast prepared. Good. My elves are hungry after this long winter."