Kilcross church, on the outskirts of the village, was the largest building, and its spire was visible for miles. Next to it was the school, and the priest’s house. Father McGinty, the parish priest, was a short, hunchbacked man who ruled as judge and jury over the morals of his flock. He had a voice like thunder and put the fear of God in every man, woman and child in the village. When I arrived in my secondhand communion dress, he wagged his finger at me.

“I see the changeling has come to ask for grace,” he shouted, “but our Lord will only grant it if you convince Him that you are worthy of his mercy. You have reached the age of reason now, my girl, and your sins will be on your own head. ’Twill be your own fault if you fall from grace. And you know what happens then?”

“You go to Hell, Father,” I whispered.

Da said nothing, but put his arm around me as if trying to protect me from the priest’s wrath. After that, I went to Mass every Sunday and day of holy obligation, and confession every week, hoping to convince God and Father McGinty of my inherent goodness.

But there were also times when I was a child that a rebellious spirit took hold of me and I was tempted to do the “bad” things that a changeling might do. I dreamed of taking Ma’s favorite plates from the dresser and smashing them; dousing the turf fire with water when no one was looking; pouring paraffin into the churn, turning the milk sour; and, when Ma confronted me, shrugging my shoulders and asking what else did she expect from a changeling? Such fantasies made my helplessness bearable for the moment, but I knew I wouldn’t dare to make them reality. Ma was hard enough on me as it was, and doing such things might cause her to throw me out of the house altogether. So they remained in my head.

There were times, though, when I wondered if Ma wasn’t right about me being a bad fairy. From the time I was quite young, I was often able to predict things before they happened. Sometimes I was wrong, but as time went on, I was right often enough that I realized it was not chance. I was nothing like the old biddies in the village who Ma often visited to get her fortune read from the tea leaves. This was something much more subtle and happened only once in a while. I knew when misfortune was going to befall a villager, or when good fortune would come someone’s way. I never mentioned this ability to anyone; it would only have brought me ridicule.