Enchanted Astorwold Flipbook PDF

Enchanted Astorwold by Kenneth Dobson

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2 Preface 3 Professor of Propaganda 9 Kittner Massacre 13 Like Magic 18 Enchantment Class 21 Inspired Quills 31 Magic Beyond Hogwarts 35 Magic Numbers 41 Witches University 66 The Short Hobgoblin War 71 Christmas In Attlee Castle 80 Hogmanay 84 Forest of Deep Magic 104 Angela 108 Tirastreaks 113 The Trojan Horse 119 A Summer At Astorwold 131 Robin’s Flying Carpet 138 Weekend In London 144 Geddes’s Tattoo 148 The Demon Rahu 156 What Is Magic? 160 Count Prothero’s Pot 176 Nine-Dimensional Reality 181 Last of the Mengers 187 Explaining Arthur 190 Wand Maker 196 Vergeugnigg’s Grotto 206 Wand Maker’s Apprentice 259 Christmas At Astorwold 282 Organizing Astorwold

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Preface Virgil Verbal sat in his most comfortable chair with a low fire in the fireplace adding more cheer than warmth. He held a cup of tea in one hand and idly stroked Sarun’s silky gray head. Sarun encouraged this by purring contentedly. On a table a few feet in front of them a quill was poised to transcribe the professor’s memoirs into an empty, gilt-edged book. The professor was trying to begin at the beginning, which is often the wrong place to begin writing. “Discourse on Magic,” Verbal said, mostly to see how it sounded. The quill waited. “No,” Verbal decided. “Hogwarts after Harry”? No, again. “How about, ‘Amazing Young Witches and Wizards’?” The quill waited. Something had better come soon or the ink would dry inside the quill and need to be cleaned out. Verbal wanted to write about those things, but at last he thought, “They almost all come together at that fantastic farm.” The quill took it from there.

�nchanted �storwold

2

Professor of Propaganda

One of the last suggestions Professor Albus Dumbledore made on the day before he took off to explore a forlorn cave where he expected to find a horcrux, was for Professor McGonagall to “Recruit Virgil Verbal, when you get a chance.” “For heaven’s sake, why?” Professor McGonagall had retorted. “These must be the worst of times to bring in someone so closely connected and so partial to Muggles.” “Rely on young Verbal to be discrete, but use the abscondius spell.” “Will that work in here?” McGonagall wondered aloud, her voice quivering with doubt. “It will work with those who have the dark mark,” Dumbledore assured her. “Their Dark Lord’s mark neutralizes Verbal’s radiations if he is covered by the abscondius.” In the terrible year following Dumbledore’s death, Professor Snape’s takeover of the headmaster position (but not the office at the top of the Griffin 3

spiral stairway), and the arrival of the cruel Carrows, Hogwarts was turned into a military academy. It seemed a small move, largely symbolic, when McGonagall urged Snape to include a course on “Propaganda”. But what did the move symbolize? Was it bowing to reality that the Ministry had instituted a totalitarian regime and relied on propaganda? If so, then the course was bound to arouse suspicion. Perhaps the “Propaganda” course was how to do it effectively, in which case the Ministry had that covered, most thought. “I propose to have our students protected from scurrilous writings that undermine our noble traditions,” McGonagall insisted, loftily, and vaguely. Snape never issued a direct order about the Propaganda course, and under cover of that neglect McGonagall took it upon herself to locate young Virgil Verbal in Dublin and bring him to Hogsmeade on December 29. Verbal was issued a new identity as Professor Lloyd Rupatious Attlee and protected by the abscondius spell. From there he was brought after dark to his office and quarters in the castle. His residence and classroom were in a tower with access through the third floor room where Hagrid’s monstrous three-headed dog, Fluffy, had guarded the passageway to the subterranean chamber where the Philosopher’s Stone had been stored. Everyone who saw the new teacher assumed he had been sent by the Ministry, as the Carrows had been. Even Snape and the Carrows thought so and ignored him as of no consequence as long as he did not interfere with their militarization of Hogwarts in advance of it being taken over by HeWho-Must-Not-Be-Named. Professors Sprout, Flitwick and others without a dark mark on their left forearm could still sense what Dumbledore had called young Verbal’s “radiation” and strongly suspected the man called Professor Attlee was pretending to be inoffensive almost to the point of being invisible, while actually having a secret mission which McGonagall had implied was at Dumbledore’s instigation. On the first day of classes, after the students returned from Christmas holidays, selected students in the first and second years were invited by the heads of their houses to have a course added. When Prof. Slughorn objected that no Slytherin students had been chosen, Prof. McGonagall snapped, “And which Slytherin students, Professor, do you think are in danger of succumbing to writings that undermine Hogwarts’ noble traditions?” Slughorn was sufficiently sure that no Slytherin students were vulnerable at that point, but he smelled a rat. Like Professor Trelawney, Professor Attlee never appeared in the great hall 4

and apparently never left his chambers which were in the back half of the circular tower with his classroom being the other half. At the scheduled hour chosen students of the second year class cautiously approached the famous third floor door and were relieved to find the room free of magical monsters or anything at all except a narrow rug leading to an archway. Inside was a semicircular classroom with very high ceiling and chairs in random groups. The most remarkable thing about the classroom was how cheerful it felt, almost as if the students had left the grim confines of the military institution Hogwarts had become. The effect was, well, magical. And then there was Professor Attlee, smiling benignly from under a top hat of bright velvet patchwork. The teacher wore a royal blue gown that made him look more like a professor and less like a wizard. He was of average height, unremarkable features, clean shaven, pale eyes of no particular color, and skin of very English pallor as if bleached by fog rather than tanned by sun. When he spoke it was with an upper-class English accent tinted a bit Irish from his recent sojourn there to finish a Master’s degree, or very nearly to finish it before being urgently summoned back to his alma mater. “Propaganda,” the young professor intoned, aiming his bright blue wand at a blank space on the flat wall where the word appeared. “Propaganda is a subtle art.” The students were only in their second year, but they were used to having magical skills called things like “subtle art”. However, rather than elaborating as most teachers tended to do when introducing their subjects, the young professor wheeled gracefully and invited a heavily scarred boy to tell, “What does propaganda do?” The little boy had just been made an example of a Cruciatus curse the hour before in their Defense Against Dark Arts course, and he couldn’t yet focus on the question or even conjure up an admission that he did not know. Opening his mouth, he babbled, “tha-wallapa faw” before collapsing onto the student beside him. Professor Attlee overlooked two or three students trying to explain how their classmate came to this condition. “Yes,” the teacher agreed, “Yes, indeed.” This confused the class. “That is a perfect example of how propaganda makes us incoherent. That is exactly what propaganda does.” The students thought it was much more what came of an unforgivable curse, but none dared say so, being not yet familiar with their new teacher. “Shall we sing?” the professor suddenly asked. The students had rarely felt less like singing, but the teacher conjured a magical ribbon that formed the Hogwarts song in the air, as Professor Dumbledore had sometimes done during the beginning of the year feast. As with Dumbledore, Professor Attlee didn’t seem to care what tune the students used. As the last sound died and 5

the ribbon evaporated into a wisp of smoke, Professor Attlee asked, “How do you feel, compared to, say, an hour ago?” An hour before, the students had been commanded to practice the Cruciatus curse on one another. It had been terrifying. Horrible. The pain had been excruciating. They had screamed and writhed. Professor Attlee did not wait for an answer to his question, but lifted his wand in an encompassing motion and students found glasses of sparkling liquid floating at arm’s reach in front of their faces. “Quite refreshing,” the professor commented, finishing his in a draft. “Refreshing” was an understatement, most students thought, as one-by-one they dared taste their refreshment. It felt as though their heads sparkled even after the drink had presumably descended into their stomachs. The bubbles sizzled some of the grim horrors away into far corners of consciousness. “There are many ways of disambiguation,” the young professor commented. “Disambiguation” appeared on the wall beneath “propaganda”. “Make no mistake, young friends,” he seemed to roam and ramble, “propaganda can confuse us into feeling threatened, fearful, angry and beaten as well as it can make us feel strong, good, brave and heroic. But propaganda is words,” he emphasized with his whole being, “not brutal physical attack or delightful beverage. Words alone can induce powerful feeling. In this course we will discover what propaganda is, how it works, and how to resist it.” Then in almost a whisper he added, “That is how we will preserve the noble traditions of our great school.” By the end of class most students had recovered from their stress and wounds. They were helped in that class not only by healthful beverages and diversionary activities; the very room seemed restorative, and the young professor was like a physician. Every class period started with some refreshment and light-hearted exercise. The sessions were light as well, games of deception that illustrated how the mind is easily fooled, optical illusions that taught the same lesson, and puzzles; and then they watched little dramas or looked at pictures and wrote accounts of what they had seen, slanted this way and that. The brighter students concluded that the young teacher was advocating they consider everything critically against such measuring sticks as, “Is it logical?” “Does it make sense according to facts we know to be true?” “Does it lead to results that encourage?” “Is it about what to hate or what to admire?” By Easter, tension was unbearable at Hogwarts. Students were being withdrawn despite Ministry orders and threats. Abuse of students was causing the 6

more frail to break down. Deaths were mounting outside, parents included, turning some students into orphans. Teachers were doing what they could to bolster morale, but morale was plummeting. There were only two refuges in the beleaguered castle. Members of Dumbledore’s Army were camped in the Room of Requirement, safe as long as the room was secure. Newer, younger students had Professor Virgil’s classroom and quarters if they needed sanctuary. That is what Dumbledore had foreseen for them. Every class period these battered, bruised, frightened young students were enshrouded in a cocoon of calm and healing, as well as teased into realizing what many of their parents and elders outside never grasped, that the Ministry of Magic was lying to them. Propaganda class was the one class where The Daily Prophet was actually studied. Professor Slughorn doubled his efforts to find out what was going on with the reclusive young professor. It galled Slughorn that he did not know this graduate who had attended Hogwarts after Slughorn had retired. Although he tried to visit the “so-called Professor Attlee” he always just missed him. But where did he go if he never left his tower? Slughorn was gradually convinced that the young teacher was avoiding him. There must be a reason behind that. None of the first or second year students seemed to remember what had gone on in the Propaganda class except that they had “learned to read The Daily Prophet”. That was suspicious. Before Professor Slughorn’s paranoid suspicions prodded him into action, however, it was May 1. On May 1 a strange thing happened in the Propaganda classroom as the first year students were finishing their medicinal beverage and biscuits. Two students emerged from the professor’s back room, rather than through the third floor hallway. They had been rescued the night before from Filch’s dungeon where Alecto Carrow had tortured them. Since Madame Pomfrey’s hospital was unsafe they had been brought to Professor Attlee. One of them had overheard a report from the clandestine radio program, “Potterwatch”. She announced to the class, “Harry Potter’s been seen again. He was riding a dragon out of Gringott’s Bank.” The other student continued, “Dumbledore’s Army is being called up.” “Where is Dumbledore’s Army?” a student shouted. “Right here! My sister’s in it,” a tall student with many scars announced. “Let’s go!” several voices chorused. At that moment their professor appeared in his usual place, which a moment before had been vacant. “Where will you go, dear young warriors?” That caused a moment of indecision. 7

“To join Dumbledore’s Army,” the tall student declared. “And where would they be? This is a vast magical castle. How will you find them if the Death Eaters have not? Meanwhile, how can we be sure this is news and not propaganda? Where can we get confirmation?” Some students thought of the key tests, but the professor cut them off before they could begin to recite what they had memorized. “There are times when events overwhelm propaganda,” he said, nodding. “This may be one of those times. But in such critical moments, timing counts.” The professor then spoke distinctly, but as to thin air rather than to any student, “Ranklin, come to me.” Almost immediately there was a loud pop that caused several students to scream. A house elf appeared and bowed before the teacher. “What are the elves about?” Professor Verbal asked without idle chatter. “They are preparing to defend the castle. Harry Potter and the Dark Lord will be here by night.” “Thank you, Ranklin. You may go back to lead your battle group.” The house elf popped loudly into invisibility. “So we have confirmation that the marvelous story of Harry Potter and the dragon may not be propaganda.” Then, responding to some unheard message, he continued, “Ah, here are our orders now.” At that moment the magically magnified voice of Professor McGonagall announced throughout Hogwarts, “All classes are suspended for the rest of the day. Students are to return to their houses where dinner will be available.” The soothing safety of Professor Attlee’s tower soon seemed far away.

8

Kitner Massacre

B

y mid-morning on Sunday, May 2, 1998 news had begun to trickle into Gilfenning in the Highlands of Scotland, not far as a broom flies from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, that big events had happened. Muggles knew nothing. The BBC highlighted Holbrooke’s comments on the Cyprus peace talks. The most stunning magical event of the 20th century went unnoticed by Muggles, although a few like the Dursleys were told and allowed to go back home. By the time The Daily Prophet ran the story “DARK LORD DEFEATED” on May 3, the news was old even in tiny Gilfenning. It began for Gilfenning just an hour after the Battle of Hogwarts ended, with something more local. Donnie Kitner came rushing into his family’s broom shop exclaiming that “Langley’s gang are running around like chickens wi’their heads off and Langley’s gone.” That alone would have been cause for breaking out a bottle of vile Gilfenning Scotch. Laird Langley had been extorting “taxes” for the past year based on his boast of being the marshal for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Langley called himself an auror, but everyone who knew him called him a Death Eater. The mystery was solved about how he had recruited his gang. “They were good laddies, ruff but gud,” was how villagers put it. Now that they were released, their spell dissolved, it was clear to the Kitners the boys had been imperiused, and controlled against their will. 9

Shortly after noon Tira Kitner came back from delivering some brooms with unbelievably better news. “The war is over! The Dark Laird is dead!” The Kitner clan gathered by late afternoon to celebrate. They were the only all-magical family on Gilfenning Ridge and their homestead was apart from the village. Mutton was roasting on the spit and a feast was in the making. Tira called to Donnie, “Go get McGee’ta giv’ye a bottle of Glenmorangie. He owes us a favor.” Donnie doubted McGee would be glad to have him come knocking on the door on the Sabbath to be asked for a bottle of expensive whiskey he wouldn’t be paid for. So he set out to pass his traps to see if he’d caught a hare to pacify old McGee. Donnie was in a gulch beside a copse of trees when he heard sounds of men nearby. Carefully he climbed a tree to get a better view. Of all the things he might have guessed, this was the least expected. There on the meadow a short distance away, and a quarter of a mile uphill from the Kitner house, were a dozen rough-looking men. Most of them were wearing pointed hats or this and that only wizards wore. They had just arrived, by the looks of it, and were planning to make camp, but they had seen the house which looked inviting. “We ain’t ‘et since yesterday,” one of them complained. A large fellow, known only as Morgannan, agreed. “We’ll see what they’ve got,” he nodded toward the house. And with that, they set off. Donnie put it together pretty fast. These must be leaving the battle at Hogwarts, escaping. They couldn’t know this was a house of witches and wizards. They didn’t look like the type to try to pay for what they wanted. They were moving too fast for Donnie to get ahead of them to warn the family. Donnie only had one idea. He aimed his wand into the sky and sent off a red flare, hoping someone in the house would see it. In the gathering darkness it was seen by quite a number. Tira saw the flare and thought Donnie must be in trouble. She was out in the workshop and she mounted her broom and headed toward the flare, still glowing in the sky over the meadow. Below on the ground she saw the black forms approaching the house. They, too, had seen the flare and stopped. Inside the house Uncle Andy saw the figures in the field by the light of the flare. He shouted a warning and three Kitners jumped to the window, wands drawn. Eight year-old Maggie screamed. Her mother picked her up and dropped her into the cistern just outside the back door. Water in it was only about 2 feet deep. Things still might have ended quietly enough, but Morgannan was a Death Eater with no intention of being caught. His crimes would have 10

landed him back in Azkaban. He planned on leaving no witnesses. His was the first curse to hit the house where he figured the flare had come from. Although the Kitners responded, the dozen Death Eaters commenced firing in unison. The house exploded under the fusillade. The only survivors were Donnie in the tree, Tira on her broom, and Maggie in the cistern. Donnie’s flare had been seen by others. Not far behind the dark dozen, Professor Virgil Verbal was also on his way home from Hogwarts. He was traveling toward England with a score of students and again as many witches and wizards who had responded to the call to battle. The red flare followed by the bright flashes of the explosion directed them straight toward Gilfenning. Morgannan’s band was not expecting an attack from the sky, much less by 40, swooping down on them on brooms with wands ablaze. Donnie looked down from the tree. The scene on the meadow was confusing. There were flying witches in the air and wizards on the ground. He recognized Tira on her broom, but none of the others. He had seen the group on the meadow hurl volleys of deadly fire at the house, his home, his family. The fire was now total; it was clear the house was lost. It was also clear that the ones flying overhead were targets outlined against the sky. He saw children among them, Hogwarts students. They were flying in circles and scrambling. The marauders on the ground had turned their attention on their adversaries in the air. Donnie felt he needed to do something. He pointed his wand at his throat and said, “sonorous”. Now his voice could be heard over the whole area. “Students DOWN,” he commanded. They dove to the ground safely out of range. Then Donnie hurled another flare over the crouching Death Eaters. This evened the odds. The field was lighted. Morgannan had spotted Donnie in the tree by this time and aimed a killing curse at him. Donnie Kitner toppled from the tree like a pine cone in a windstorm. The gang leader aimed another curse at the witch bearing down toward him from behind. The curse missed by inches but seared Tira’s sleeve so she lost her grip on her wand and it tumbled out of sight toward the inferno that had engulfed the Kitner homestead. It was Morgannan’s last curse. Verbal was right above him and transfixed him in a total body freeze. Two of the Death Eaters had fled and were being chased by 6 young wizards from Dumbledore’s Army. The rest of the Death Eaters surrendered as they saw their leader subdued. Verbal and his crew helped Tira with the grim task of rounding up the slaughtered remains of her family. They were laid side by side, some burned 11

nearly beyond recognition, but others too clear about the suffering they had endured. Surveying the line-up on the grass, Tira shrieked, “Where’s Maggie?” The search seemed futile until one of the Hogwarts students happened to move a table that had been hurtled, half-burned over the top of the cistern. There the terrified little girl was found cringing, squatting in water up to her neck. Tira Kitner was suddenly a homeless widow with a helpless granddaughter. She had nothing else. House, family, fortune (small as it had been) – all gone. Kitners were among the last victims of Voldermort’s second war. Tira spat an impotent curse into the black sky and at the glowing ashes of her homestead, and at her granddaughter still cringing and whimpering. “Because of you, girl, I cannot join the rest of them!” Maggie understood nothing, but crawled over to Granny Tira and buried her face in her skirts.

12

Like Magic

Professor Virgil Verbal’s classroom was a semi-circular shape which was useful in many ways. In the first place, from time to time the students sat in two or three rows facing the center where something was going on. Professor Verbal rarely lectured, but often read aloud and sometimes acted or performed. More frequently groups of students did that. Some of the time the students were involved in composing ideas, which was the way the professor referred to writing. “It is much more than writing, don’t you see,” he would say. “The writing is the part that happens when the ideas are trying to escape. You capture them with your sharp pens while they’re still squirming around in your head. They can’t get away as easily when they’re all spread out in view.” “Oh yes,” Professor Verbal said enthusiastically one day, “language is quite as magical as any hex or charm.” The students laughed at this absurd idea. “Come, come, don’t make it so hard for yourselves,” Professor Verbal came back at them. “You can all learn how to make words turn into images or ideas. Some of you are quite good at using language to draw attention toward something you want people to notice.” The students chortled again. 13

“Oh, indeed! Just a few well chosen words can send minds racing far away, or re-create a time and place that once existed or conjure one up that never existed at all. With words you can make people think or forget. You can have the power of the dream spinner.” “But dreams aren’t real,” a student objected. “Whatever gave you that idea?” Professor Verbal responded. “Well, when you wake up the thing you dreamed is gone,” another student picked up the challenge. “So it’s all in your head.” “Oh, you mean that a thing is not real if it does not exist somewhere else as well as in your mind. I think a thing might be quite real even if it were only a dream-like thing. Let’s try an experiment,” Professor Verbal said, as if he were making a suggestion rather than uttering an imperative. “With words alone, I will describe something and we will see what we can see with just what’s in your head, without anything ever going first through your eyes.” Professor Verbal got a far-away look in his eyes and began, “I-bows are about the size of watermelons but quite round like basketballs. They are pink on the top and green underneath, green as a mint leaf. Each of the I-bows has six legs, like the legs of a bird, with three toes on each foot. The legs are evenly spaced all around and the three toes on the feet face in the direction the I-bows want to go. There are no other things visible, no eyes or tails, for instance.” Professor Verbal then took a deep breath and finished, “Now, draw a picture of an I-bow.” When the pictures of the thirty students were finished Professor Verbal posted them all around the outer wall. As the students walked around admiring the work and comparing each other’s pictures to their own, Professor Verbal spoke to them. “That is the magic of language. Nobody has ever seen an I-bow but you could all draw a picture of one. What’s more, almost all your I-bows are so much alike that if a person knows what one I-bow looks like they’ll know that something else that looks like that is an I-bow. Shall we give it a try?” Matching his actions to his words he went to the door and called in two students who happened to be in the hall. The teacher held one of the pictures in his hand. “This is an I-bow,” he said and then repeated it, “an I-bow.” Then he gestured toward the pictures on the wall. “What are those?” The two students looked back and forth between Professor Verbal and the pictures as if they were hoping for some clarifying reason for this quiz or perhaps an inspiration, but after a little while both students surrendered. “They are I-bows?” they said with their voices going up as if they were trying to straddle the line between an indicative and an interrogative statement. 14

“Yes,” Professor Verbal nodded sagely, “if one of them is an I-bow, it would be reasonable to conclude that all these splendid portraits are of I-bows. Would you be surprised to learn that no one has ever seen an I-bow before this very hour?” Professor Verbal asked the two visitors who were smiling faintly and edging toward the door without answering. “Well, thank you for confirming our discovery.” When the two visitors had gone Professor Verbal turned again to the class. “So you see, it is not necessary for a thing to exist anywhere outside our mind for it to be real enough for all of us to have a fairly large consensus about it – as long as there is language to make the necessary connections. That’s the magic of language. “Now, would you say that an I-bow is more real than a penguin?” he asked, smiling good naturedly. “Less real,” several students assured him. “Well, let’s put it to a test. How many of you have ever drawn a picture of a penguin?” A few hands went up. “Not as many as have drawn a picture of an I-bow,” he observed without bothering to count the hands. “But maybe your having drawn a picture of something is not the only test or even a valid test of something’s existence. How many of you have drawn a picture of my grandmother?” the professor asked. No hands were raised, but a titter went around the room. “So we can agree that some things, perhaps most things in the world, are or were very real even though you cannot draw a picture or even take a photograph of them. Is the problem because of your artistic or technical skill?” “We don’t know what your grandmother looked like,” a student protested. “Well, let’s say that’s because I haven’t described her to you. We haven’t had the words.” “We could do better from a picture than your telling us,” one student challenged him. “Well, I happen to have a picture of her,” Professor Verbal conceded. A few seconds later it was being projected onto the front wall which served as a screen. “Confucius is said to have said that a picture is worth ten-thousand words. Let’s try that out.” Verbal drew a card from his pocket and held it up beside the picture of his grandmother. They were the same size. “The card has about a fiftieth of ten-thousand words. Listen. “Lottie was born in a shepherd’s cabin in the highlands of Scotland where the birds taught her to sing, she said, and the sheep and her father taught her 15

everything else that was important. The most crucial day in her life was in the winter when she was ten. There was a highlands blizzard and her father was lost in it. There was no food in the hut and the fire burned out. It would have been death to go away from the hut, but it was deathly cold inside. Toward evening Lottie heard some bleating. A few sheep had wandered up to the sheltered side of the cabin. Among the sounds outside she recognized the high-pitched stutter of a little lamb. ‘It’ll freeze,’ she told herself and she decided to rescue it. The lamb was easy enough to find, but its mother was not about to let the girl take it away from her. ‘Well, inta th’ cabin wi’ye,’ Lottie said. Before she could get the door shut there were seven sheep in there. After a while, their bodies warmed the room a wee bit and so they survived the last full day of the storm until Lottie’s uncles could get to her.” “Which tells more about my grandmother, the photograph or the twohundred-word story?” Professor Verbal asked. Some students were sure the right answer was the story. “But why is the story a better look into my grandmother’s life than the photograph?” “It tells more, the story does.” “Does it tell us what she looked like?” “No.” “Well what does the story tell us?” “How she stayed alive and kept the lamb alive.” “What else?” “That she cared about animals. That they would come to her. That she didn’t panic and run.” “So is that what you’ll remember from the story, that Lottie was courageous, compassionate and lucky?” “Yes,” some agreed. “I doubt it,” Professor Verbal shook his head. “No,” Anthony admitted, “I’ll remember the little girl in the hut with the sheep keeping warm in the blizzard.” “Ah, the thing you’ll remember is a scene you can picture, a key part of the story. The picture in your mind is what will help you recall the abstract parts of the story, but the story is more vivid and informative than the photograph we saw. “One last thing about the power of language: why does it have power? Think about what you do when you listen to a story you are very interested in. Your ears take in the sounds and your mind makes connections with things you have stored in there. Lottie, sheep, cabin, blizzard. Notions of 16

what these may be like are pulled into your conscious mind which is very busy as you quietly listen. You are in a very active frame of mind when you have to conjure up the pictures to fill in the blanks. It is easier to listen to a description when there are things to compare it to. I-bows are round like basket balls, the size of watermelons, with three-toed feet on legs like birds. You can picture an I-bow by assembling those parts in your mind. Your mind is very busy. “But what happens when you see a movie? What does your mind have to do? If the movie is like most of them your mind doesn’t have time to do anything but receive the images. The picture is full and your mind has to absorb what is given to it. The less it flits around the better, because you can absorb more. You must be passive. “Language is the most magical art form, students, very magical.” Professor Verbal straightened up and waved his wand so that the pictures of the I-bows flew off the wall back to their artists.

17

Enchantment Class

Professor Virgil Verbal scanned the students clustered in tight semicircles around him. They were paying attention, no need to call them to order. There never was much worry that his third-year Enchantment students would be distracted from what the enchanting professor was going on about. He made sure of that. On this particular day that was doubly true owing to the fact that he had replaced his usual royal blue robe and brightly colored velvet top hat with a pair of breeches, a white linen shirt bunched in a knot in front, a shabby double-breasted coat that came below his knees and had more silver buttons than it needed, and topped it all off with a three-cornered hat of questionable provenance. On his shoulder perched either a disheveled parrot or a life-like imitation which he fed little crackers from time to time. Third year language enchantment students never knew what to expect when they came to Professor Verbal’s tower classroom in Hogwarts. On this day the room was dark except for a few four-sided whale oil lanterns swinging on unseen chains. Rope ladders ascended from the floor up out of sight. Other ropes galore were coiled, suspended and attached to wooden pins sticking out of the wall. The floor heaved gently and occasional creaks and sloshing finished the atmospherics. “Welcome aboard the Circe,” Professor Verbal growled. “Afore we set sail you lot will need to know a thing or two about our ship and crew. Stow your 18

gear and wands and peel your eyes. I am Cap’n Virgil Verbal, ‘Aye, Cap’n Sir’ to you lot.” He paused dramatically as if anticipating disappointment. “When I say some thin’ requiring assent I want to hear ‘Aye, Cap’n Sir!” like from a choir.” A few brave students dared, “Aye, Cap’n Sir’. It was ragged, drawing a cry from the parrot, “Mutiny! Mutiny!” The captain peered over the students and thrust a cupped hand forcefully upward as a band director might do. “Aye, Cap’n Sir!” the students shouted, passing the Captain’s test for the moment. “This here’s Silver, this parrot is,” Professor Verbal growled. Somehow his voice managed to be both gravelly and clear. “Aye, Cap’n Sir!” a few students chimed. The Captain jumped to his feet from the wooden barrel on which he had been sitting, where his tall stool usually was. “I am the CAP’N, Silver’s the mate, you salute me, not the bird!” Cap’n Verbal bellowed, as if offended, while failing to keep a twinkle out of his eye that betrayed how much the professor was enjoying this. “Aye, Cap’n Sir!” rang out from every student, thus averting another distracting set of instructions. “Silver’s named for Cap’n Long John Silver, who this is all leading up to.” Professor Verbal turned his back to the class and was illuminated by a beam of ivory light when he turned back around, indicating a story was beginning. “The last time the Walrus set sail a storm broke suddenly not a hundred leagues from Bristol.” The sound of distant thunder punctuated the narration and the floor of the classroom seemed to rock more noticeably. “What’s worse, an albatross landed on the yard arm of the forward mast, and was shot dead by a sailor kidnapped from Surrey. The stupid farm boy was clueless that sailors treat albatrosses with the utmost respect and superstition. To kill one was to invite disaster. “Any captain but Flint could not have put down the mutiny that simmered at the twin ill omens. Led by John Cork, the first mate, the men began to demand the ship turn around. “Firing a shot into the air, Flint demanded, ‘Avast, there! Who are you, John Cork? Maybe you thought you was Cap’n here, perhaps. By the powers, but I’ll teach you better!” Cross me and you’ll go where many a good man’s gone before you, first and last, these many year – some swinging aloft, shiver my timbers, and some walked the board. You, John Cork might savor being keelhauled, but those with you will not see it with their guts cloven. “‘Did any of you gentlemen want to have it out with me? Put a name on what you’re at. Him that wants shall get it. Well, I’m ready. Take a cutlass, him that dares, and I’ll see the color of his insides.’” 19

The professor paused and scanned the faces before him. “You seen it didn’t you, Silver?” Professor Verbal addressed the parrot on his shoulder, who parroted, “Mutiny! Mutiny! Mutiny! Mutiny!” until the captain passed his hand over its eyes as if to put it to sleep. “It was smooth sailing for many days after that with the young sailor wearing the rotting albatross around his neck and John Cork in irons for four days hugging the mizzen mast. No man who knew Jacob Flint dared look him between the eyes. Flint swore that any who did ‘would never have a good day after that.’ “The Walrus was a sleek schooner, fast as the wind and clever as a shark. A good captain could do what he wanted with her and she was armed with four cannon that were kept hidden until the fateful moment. Sometimes she sailed with the Union Jack and sometimes the flag of Spain or Portugal, but always, in a fight, she flew the skull and bones. Flint was a shrewd captain. His crew began to suspect he was in league with the Devil and Davy Jones. Flint had an uncanny intuition about where to find a ship carrying gold among the many carrying tea and cloth and sugar. In two years of plundering Flint collected twelve thousand pounds of gold and twice as much in silver melted into bars. The cost to him was twelve crewmen who he replaced with slaves from ships he plundered. The cost to shipping was beyond calculation. ‘Dead men don’t bite’ was Flint’s motto for trying never to let there be any survivors. Before the third year the Walrus was recognized and feared no matter what flag she flew, so it was time, Flint said, to change tack. “‘This is the last of the Walrus,’ he announced to his crew. ‘We will head for the island and divide the loot. Then you can go home or anywhere you choose.’ “After John Cork lost his job it was not long before he lost his life in the boarding of a Spanish brigantine. Some said he was shot by a Moroccan musket ball and others guessed it was Flint that done him. But Long John Silver was promoted from quartermaster to first mate of the Walrus until the day she was scuttled. “They raided a small sloop sailing alone. She was almost empty on her way to Caracas from Bermuda. But Flint wanted the boat and liked the cut of her jib. They butchered the Salamander’s crew and then Flint put Long John Silver aboard her with half the crew from the Walrus and the pair sailed toward Florida. Their goal was an off-shore island Flint called ‘port’. On the south end of the island was an inlet where they dropped anchor. Then for two days Flint and Silver and two others divided the loot according to the proportions each sailor had earned. Flint’s portion was biggest, nearly half, but none dared 20

argue. They were all going to be rich. “The year before, Long John Silver had a terrible wound that cost him his leg but saved his life on the island. On the final night Flint outlined his plan. He and 6 men would take the Walrus and scuttle her out of sight and then they would sail to Savanna in the little sloop Salamander and live like kings scattered by the wind. Because Silver had lost a leg he was useless to Flint on this last adventure, and he was left in charge of their escape craft with the bulk of the crew. Silver had been quartermaster and knew all the storage places on the Walrus. He was keenly aware that the loot taken out and counted so openly was only part of the gold and silver the ship carried, but Silver was a patient man who drank less and planned to live longer than the much older Flint. “Out of sight, rounding the east side of the island, Flint confided in his six partners. His scoundrel plan, he told them, was to bury a hoard of treasure before they sank the Walrus. This gold and silver was his share from long before, he told them. At three different times he had collected his share and now he was going to bury it to get when he needed it. For their help he generously offered to split it with them. In trip after trip they transported the gold and silver from the Walrus up to a high plateau on the island. This exhausting work took more than a week. On the second to last trip from the ship to the treasure trove, the second to last, mind you, before the six men were well on their guard but after they had been laden to the limit, at the top of the trail Flint casually shot them all. ‘Dead men don’t bite,’ Flint snarled. Then he laid one of the men at an angle precisely in line with the treasure, and composed his map. “Alone, as he preferred to be, Flint sailed the Walrus a few fathoms from the cove out of the North harbor and lit a long fuse into a barrel of gunpowder. He was well away when she blew and sank in twenty fathoms. She was carried ashore by a hurricane two years later where she moldered and was seen by young Jim Hawkins, hero of another adventure. “Flint alone knew where the treasure was. He alone had a map to get back to it. And when Flint died hideously, poisoned by rum, the secret of the treasure would have died except for Ben Gunn on one side of the Atlantic Ocean and the map on the other.” The hidden spotlight effect dimmed and Cap’n Verbal removed his tricorne and coat with the big silver buttons and gigantic cuffs. The story had taken nearly the whole class period. There was little time left, but the professor made the most of it. Instead of asking for a review of the plot of the story which he assumed 21

they could all do, he inquired, “How did you feel as the story unfolded?” He got the usual answers, “nervous”, “thrilled”, “scared”. One third-year said, “Awful!” “And what does ‘awful’ mean to you?” Professor Verbal probed. The student was expecting this and quickly replied, “Appalled, revolted.” “See how a story moves us! That is the enchantment of a good story well told,” the professor intoned. It was how he ended almost every class session. It was a signal for the students to retrieve their packs and wands. The idea of the “enchantment” class was not to explain how stories work, but to have the students discover it. Still Professor Verbal couldn’t resist one last observation and a homework assignment. “Ah, a good story is quite as enchanting as a magical spell inflicted by a wand.” The students had long since given up scoffing at this Muggle-sounding idea. In those days after the Battle of Hogwarts in which Lord Voldemort had been defeated by Harry Potter, the study plan at Hogwarts included ways that Muggles were also magical. For Professor Verbal it was all about how language was magical and enchanting. “The homework, boys and girls, is to report back on whom Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver were, which you can find by reading Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson.”

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Inspired Quills Rita Skeeter was not the only one to have Quick-Quotes Quills that could read her mind and scribble at the speed of thought, making editorial improvements as they went. Professor Virgil Verbal had charmed a collection of quills from Amanuensis Quills in Diagon Alley for students in his Enchantment class. So, on the day after the Slytherin and Huffelpuff–Quidditsch match which happened to be the first day the grounds around Hogwarts felt like spring, Professor Verbal sent his class outside to become inspired. “Stories cannot enchant readers unless the writers are enchanting, and they must first be inspired,” the professor told them. He knew that most of his charges had minds stuffed with pastel cotton wool after their night of post-Quidditsch parties and a morning of warm sunshine melting their brains. “Inspiration is an activity, my friends,” the young professor confided, “that rarely happens to writers in a passive state. Inspiration comes after one has paid attention to something interesting. On this warm, spring afternoon before your minds turn to slush as the snow is doing in the shadowy glades where it has drifted, I want you to go outside and find something that is interested in you and be prepared to tell all about it.” Aeron turned to Cecil his seating partner, “What did he say?” Cecil repeated, “We’re to find something interested in us outside.” “How are we to know? Anyhow, I’m not very interesting this afternoon. I’m sure I’d just be ignored.” But Aeron was too glad to be going outside to argue with the idea. As the class made its way toward the front door the Headmistress wanted to know, “Where are you going when you’re supposed to be in class?” “Professor Verbal has sent us on a writing assignment,” one of the students responded rather than being too specific about just what they were ordered to do. “Well, move along then,” the Headmistress directed them with a swipe of her hand. But she thought the young teacher was asking for trouble sending students outside unsupervised on a day like this. Professor Verbal, however, thought this might be the best day in the past several months for students to find things expressing some interest in the children. Only things alive and lively would do that and this day almost everything was alive again if it was going to be. Aeron thought the best place to get quick success with this assignment was at Hagrid’s house where the big mutt, Fang, never failed to slobber all 23

over anybody who paid the slightest attention to him. With Fang, being paid attention was a sure thing. Cecil was not so sure this fulfilled the spirit of Professor Verbal’s assignment, but he didn’t have much hope of successfully writing about the violets objecting because he trod on them, nor did he have any desire for attention from the Whomping Willow with all its green buds that fooled no one into tender thoughts of the dangerous tree. The two boys reckoned that only magical plants and animals would come right out and say the boys were interesting...and possibly delicious. They were stymied when they found Hagrid’s door locked and no sign of Fang. A chunk of the allotted time had gone before they sat beside a rock beyond Hagrid’s house and began to chew on stems of grass. Since this activity did not require much action, they were rather quiet.

Then from the corner of his eye, Cecil caught sight of a small movement near a bayberry bush or bog myrtle and a clump of clover. Ever so slowly he turned his head just enough to see four baby rabbits getting their first chance to feast on greens. The babies were busy and paid no attention to anything beyond their patch of food. The bunnies were not alone, however. In the shadows of the bush their mother was staring straight at Cecil. She had not stopped her chewing, but she had slowed down as if considering sounding an alarm by thumping her big hind leg on the ground. As long as Cecil was stone still she was undecided. There was no doubt that she was extremely 24

interested in Cecil. He was the center of her whole attention for the moment. Was this what Professor Verbal had sent them to find? If so, Cecil had found it. What to do about it was the next matter. What had the teacher told them to do? “Find something interested in you and be prepared to tell all about it.” Immediately, a whole idea flashed through Cecil’s mind. The mother rabbit’s attention was riveted on Cecil and he knew why. He could tell about it. She was assessing danger and weighing the risk against the disadvantage of demanding that her offspring give up their first clover and flee back into their dark hole in the ground. The whole account flowered in Cecil’s mind between one breath and the next. Meanwhile, Aeron, just out of sight behind the rock to his partner’s left, was nearly asleep. But in his drowsy state his imagination was still lingering on the Black Lake with thick trees beyond, where Harry Potter had first called his Patronus to drive away a swarm of Dementors. Being of a philosophical frame of mind, Aeron wondered what those trees remembered of the legendary events they had witnessed, the second Triwizard trial where the four champions had tried to rescue dear friends from the cold depths, the Durmstrang ship that had floated there for half a year, Professor Dumbledore’s funeral and interment in the white stone mausoleum just visible through the trees, and perhaps student trysts and love-making in the shadows. Aeron was interested in the trees, but what interest did they have in him? In his dim, groggy mind, so near a nap, Aeron felt a stirring. It was not a storm, nor even a breeze that swept through his thoughts. It was an inspiration about how much slower things happened for the trees, how patiently they waited for incidents to affect them. And then Aeron thought or dreamed one of the trees had noticed him and felt a kind of affinity one living thing might have for another. The notice the tree had of the boy was not a kind of sentient consciousness. There was nothing cognitive about it. It was relational at a molecular level and in a metaphysical way. Aeron imagined the tree might consider him a potential form of nutrients, if someday his body were deposited there, which he realized he hoped it might someday be. But then, Aeron grasped, the tree would not be so pragmatic. There existed between them, the tall sycamore and the young wizard, a shared ontology, overlapping DNA, and ultimate destiny back into atomic energy from which they had evolved on their separate paths. Aeron was more awake now and wondered if he had any words to describe “all about how the tree had been interested in him.” The word “poetry” came to mind. Class time was about over when the students finally made their way back to Professor Verbal’s third-floor, semi-circular classroom. There was no time 25

to write. Instead the teacher handed each one a quill and gave them homework. “Let the quill do the writing, as it wants to do. But you have to inform it of your inspired vision and what to write. Then it will transcribe the way you experienced being noticed. The quill will do the writing just as you want it to do. It has no will but yours. That is ever the way with inspired writing that will be enchanting to readers. The magic is within you.” Students came to the next class more than usually excited. Their rolls of parchment were tucked under their arms or carried by hand ready to be turned in at the beginning of class, as usually happened. The classroom was transformed for the lesson into a remarkable still-life panorama of the Hogwarts’s grounds. It was almost like outside, but the scene was stationary and seemed a bit artificial because of that. Professor Verbal did not collect the student’s writing. He had them hold their manuscripts overhead and sent a partridge to collect one. The partridge flew straight from its perch in a pear tree growing out of the classroom wall to pluck Vesta Arbuckle’s parchment out of her hand. Then the bird flew around the room before dropping Vesta’s offering into the professor’s velvet top hat. As the bird had been flying, Professor Verbal followed it with his blue wand tracing wavelike motions that enlivened the panorama. It was almost as if the classroom walls melted away and the students were right where Vesta had been when she felt herself noticed.

In a shallow puddle beside the Black Lake a green and brown spotted frog floated with only its eyes and the upper part of its head out of the water. It was motionless, staring at Vesta, and therefore appeared to be staring at the 26

rest of the students, too. Then, from the professor’s hat, Vesta’s voice was heard. “I cannot join you, you know,” Vesta said. After a moment she continued. “You would be disturbed if I tried. You are so comfortable in the shallow water warmed by the sun. Are you waiting for a fly or a bug to be a snack? No, I see the film of your spawn floating there. These will be your children, Mother Frog,” Vesta declared a bit breathlessly. At the mention of frogspawn under any other circumstances the thirteen-year-olds would have tittered and poked one another, but for some reason today it was magical. The frog kept her eyes focused on gigantic Vesta staring down. Then Mother Frog swallowed, creating a tiny ripple across the puddle and in a flick-flash was gone. Only the milky scum was left to prove the frog had ever been there. Professor Verbal clapped his hands and nodded to the class to do the same to show their appreciation for Vesta and her frog. At that, the classroom restored itself with only the panorama painted on the walls and the pear tree sprouting out of the corner. The teacher took Vesta’s manuscript out of his hat and tapped it with his wand so it unrolled. Then he set his Quick-Quote Quill busily making teacher-type notes along the margins, while the partridge again flew above the students holding their manuscripts over their heads. Cecil’s writing was grabbed next. As the bird flew with it around the room, Professor Verbal’s blue wand brought forth a vision of green grass, the clover patch and the bayberry bush. Cecil’s opening description of the scene needed no recitation, because it was displayed like a movie in an IMAX theater. The four baby bunnies scurried out of the shadows, causing gasps of delight from the students that the bunnies, being recalled from the day before yesterday, did not notice. Then Cecil’s voice was heard from the hat where his writing had been deposited. Phrase by phrase in a barely articulated whisper, Cecil told of the mother rabbit’s suspicions about the boy. Since the old rabbit seemed to be staring at all the students in the class, they all felt included in the mother’s concern. That was the magic of this perspective. “Were they trustworthy? Would they make a sudden move? Would the mother’s anxiety rise or fall?” Meanwhile, the baby bunnies nibbled on the clover as if nothing in all their young lives had tasted so marvelous. The shadow of a passing bird frightened the mother rabbit and ended the reverie. There was time for six more presentations. Aeron’s poem about the tree got a response from Professor Verbal. “A wise Native American took his nephew, who was home from college, out onto a lake by canoe. When they got to the middle, the uncle asked the young man, ‘Who are you?’ The student was confused, ‘I am your nephew,’ he retorted. The answer was not good enough. 27

Neither were another half dozen answers. Finally, the nephew asked his uncle, ‘Tell me, then, who I am.’ The old man pointed to the water. ‘You are the water.’ He pointed to a hawk flying over the lake. ‘You are the hawk.’ Then he pointed to a tree. ‘You are the tree.’” Robin Havorford, whose parchment had been entirely made up about a fight between two pigeons over a biscuit he said he had thrown to them, was not convinced this whole class was worth his time. “We are NOT a tree!” he blurted out. Aeron’s voice from the hat repeated two lines of his poem: Air from my breath feeds the tree. Air from the tree feeds me. Professor Verbal pulled Aeron’s poem from the hat before the recitation continued. “Accio parchment,” the professor chanted with a flick of his blue wand. Robin’s manuscript flew from the startled boy’s pocket into the velvet hat and the room went dark as if night had fallen without moon or stars. “Lumos” the young professor said, igniting the tip of his wand with magical fire. Verbal unrolled Robin’s homework while the student squirmed. “There were two pigeons in the courtyard when I sat by the fountain,” the professor read. It was not Robin’s voice, but Professor Verbal’s. There was no hint of the familiar Hogwarts courtyard and fountain. After a moment the teacher asked, “Why does this account fail to evoke our accustomed level of enchantment?” Although the question implied criticism, the professor’s voice was kind rather than harsh. Robin backed down from the angry retort he was thinking, “This class is rubbish!” Instead, he admitted, “I made it all up about the pigeons.” “Yes,” Professor Verbal agreed. “Well, try again.” Flicking his blue wand toward the pear tree, he ordered the partridge, “Go to Mister Havorford and look him over.” The bird flew lazily once around the boy and then settled on his arm, looking at him first with one eye and then the other. After a few moments during which Robin grew increasingly uncomfortable, the bird flew back to its branch on the pear tree and turned his hungry attention onto a ripe pear. With another swipe of his blue wand the teacher cleared the story of the pigeons from the parchment and handed it to Robin with a new Quick-Quotes Quill and told him to set to work. While they waited, Agnes Penfrew raised her hand. “I have been wondering why we use these enchanted pens when we use regular ones in all our other classes.” Professor Verbal smiled broadly, “Excellent, Miss Penfrew. We use these magical quills only for this assignment for a reason. Can you imagine what that reason might be?” 28

Aeron was called on from among the two or three students who had hesitantly raised their hands. “The quills you gave us are perfectly able to transcribe our thoughts.” “Correct. And how might that help?” “We do not have our thoughts messed up by second thoughts and interfered with,” Aeron said, and then sat down to emphasize that he preferred to say no more. “Generations ago wisdom and experiences were never written,” the professor explained. “There was no writing. Stories were told and remembered. That way they were always fresh. Telling stories was a performance. Each telling was unique as the setting, the listeners, and their situations were never the same way twice. We are out of practice after so many centuries of books, so these quills help get our first impressions into a form that can be brought alive … with a little magic,” grinned the teacher as if disclosing a little-known secret. “Our stories weren’t that good,” a thin, blond student protested. “I thought they were enchanting,” Professor Verbal responded. “But they weren’t meant to be stories.” “They didn’t have much action.” “That was Mr. Havorford’s obstacle,” Professor Verbal agreed. “He thought a narrative had to be a story and a story had to have action. Well, let’s see what he has for us now.” Professor Verbal got Robin’s attention. “Put your parchment into my hat. The partridge seems to be occupied with its daily pear.” As Robin rolled his manuscript and deposited it into the hat, Professor Verbal traced waves onto the walls and they again changed color from midnight black into misty blue. Instead of looking out upon the Hogwart’s grounds, the view seemed to be inward into Robin’s conscience. Robin’s voice came from the hat. He was talking to the partridge. “You have seen what it’s like, what I’m like. I don’t want to be here. I’ve never wanted to be a wizard. I want to be ordinary. You know that. You’ve seen more of me than the Sorting Hat saw. You’re no bird from the woods. You are bewitched. Why are you blinking at me? You know it’s true. Would you like to be free? Is this all you want out of life, to be a slave here in this tower and rewarded with pears? Come, let’s leave. We can be away from all this by suppertime.” The bird apparently had not agreed to escape, because it had flown from Robin’s arm at the suggestion and resumed its contented life in the pear tree. “That was far more enchanting,” the professor congratulated the red-faced 29

student. And what makes it so enchanting is that it is authentic. Every person in this room was moved by your magic.” The students were stunned by Robin’s confession. They were each thinking about what Robin would do next, and assessing whether they agreed with him that they might leave Hogwarts. The professor shifted as if going on to announce the homework assignment. He adjusted the lighting back to normal and then, as if an afterthought, he looked Robin square in the eyes. “Well, your story moved us I dare say. What did telling it do for you, Robin Astor Havorford?” Robin gulped. Tears, of course, made it difficult for him to see the professor. Professor Verbal waited. “Magic is hard for me,” Robin gulped. “I am the only one in our family, the only one in our whole town, who is not a Muggle. I am QUEER!” he wailed. The professor waited. The class waited. “The bird is right,” Robin choked. Professor Verbal nodded encouragement ever so slightly, and then he waited again. Robin sniffed and finally blurted out, “The partridge is right. We are what we are. We go from there.” Professor Verbal went to the corner and picked a second pear off the tree and handed it to Robin. “Like the bird would say,” the professor mused, “‘Life could give us a lot of things worse than Hogwarts pears.’”

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Magic beyond Hogwarts Once again Professor Virgil Verbal’s semi-circular classroom on the third floor of Hogwarts was littered with exhibits as the Enchantment students entered. The theme seemed to be art, but each student was given a hand-out referring to Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, that read: When Professor Dumbledore called music ‘the magic beyond all we do here,’ he was basking in the emotional afterglow of a rendition of the Hogwarts school song. As far as students were concerned his euphoria might have been another indication of the Headmaster being ‘a bit mad’, as Harry Potter had wondered on his first encounter as a student with the magical genius. By the night of the Battle of Hogwarts 7 years later Harry was in full possession of all the knowledge he’d need to agree with Percy Weasley’s analysis that first night, ‘He’s a genius! Best wizard in the world!’ Almost everything Dumbledore said and did was impelled by rationale at many levels. So also was his calling music a surpassing form of magic. Professor Verbal was continually trying to impress upon his young students that magic was not unknown by Muggles nor was it the exclusive right of Witches and Wizards. “We share the world,” Verbal repeated. There were a few professors at Hogwarts who had mastered levels of magic that were transcendent -- beyond the practical level taught at Hogwarts. Professor Flitwick, who taught Charms and directed the Hogwarts’ choir, was probably one who knew what Dumbledore meant when he said that music is “magic beyond all we do here.” Far away from Hogwarts, Johann Sebastian Bach had been another. Professor Verbal began class by talking about Bach’s magic. “Watch what Bach did,” Verbal crooned as he waved his blue wand in the air conjuring up a magical ribbon with musical dots and lines. “Bach created the ultimate canon with a melody-phrase that can be played not only backward and forward but both directions at the same time, continuously, as if written on a Mobius strip. The class struggled to see how this was done.

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http://www.downvids.net/canone-inverso-dibach-a-dimostrazione-che-lui-era-la-musica-40349.html

After a few minutes Professor Verbal removed the Bach canon which had the potential to go on forever. “Just there, in places like that, Muggle magic ceases to be trickery and becomes supernal.” “What is supernal, Professor?” a student asked. “It conforms to a higher set of laws of nature than we can understand. The Bach “Crab Canon” first is amazing, and then it is more than amazing. It goes beyond impressing and astounding us. It becomes enchanting. It gives us glimpses at a level of insight beyond the world of nature as we know it.” The teacher then conjured up one of Vincent Van Gogh’s “starry night” paintings.

“Van Gogh was another genius who managed to make contact with super-intellectual levels of reality. A hundred years after he made 4 paintings like this scientists found that Van Gogh actually had depicted fluid turbulence as the mathematician Kolmogorov had analyzed it. Both Van Gogh and 32

Kolmogorov have come as close as any human beings have to picturing fluid turbulence, one of Muggle physics’ great mysteries.” “But Van Gogh cut off his ear and committed suicide. He was crazy!” Vesta Arbuckle objected. “He was a genius! Best painter in the world! But he was a bit mad, yes,” Verbal paraphrased Percy Weasley. “The Greek philosopher Pythagoras was best known for his scientific discoveries of the relationship between musical sounds, mathematics, geometry, astronomy and medicine. He seemed to believe that eventually all knowledge would be found to correspond and then the future would be unfolded as our Divination teachers are proposing to do, rather unsuccessfully. He was called crazy, too. But Albert Einstein spent the last several years of his life looking for the same connection which he called a unified field theory, and he was not thought of as being mad.” “What does it all matter?” Robin Havorford wanted to know. “It means that when Professor McGonagall transforms her desk into a pig she is accessing a connection we cannot yet explain between a force of nature and a principle of material existence that seem to have no rational connection. We can use the connection but cannot explain it, so it is magic.” “Can anyone explain these connections?” Victor Okonjo asked. “Oh, yes! Your uncle has long stories all about them,” Professor Verbal replied. Victor laughed. His uncle was one of the famous traditional magicians of Nigeria. Professor Verbal went on, “Naturally, his explanations are not the same as those of Fester Maladroit.” At this the whole class laughed. Fester had been a recent subject in the Daily Prophet for his dramatic attempt to relocate a pyramid of Egypt to a parking lot in Brighton, with rather unfortunate results for mummies in the British Museum. “So this connection between force and matter has not been found,” Robin said, with a tone of voice suggesting, “Just as I thought!” Professor Verbal glanced at Robin and then around the room. “I would not say the connection has not been found. But there is still no agreement on what it is. The difference between Muggles and us is that we know we have found ways to use the connection and Muggles have not realized they have too. On the whole I imagine Victor’s uncle has come closer to understanding what it means. Have you ever heard your uncle explain how things are connected, Mr. Okonjo?” 33

“All I can remember is that he often says, “The lizard in the tallest tree is the first to feel the dawn’s early heat.’” Verbal nodded thoughtfully. “I should very much like to meet your uncle some day.” Victor laughed again. “That might be hard. My uncle does not believe in airplanes.” Professor Verbal winked and said, “For the two of to meet, however, it is only necessary for one of us to believe.”

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Magic Numbers “Muggles call it ‘recreational math’!” Aeron Finchfinder fumed. He wasn’t finding Advanced Arithmancy class very much like play. “In the 7th Century a Chinese writer recorded an interesting story from the ancient past,” Professor Cho began. “There was a terrible flood that year with many lives lost, towns washed entirely away, and all the rice destroyed which meant hard times and famine for months to come. But as the king was surveying the disaster a turtle swam by with a pattern of numbers on its shell. There were 9 distinct numbers in 3 rows of 3….” “Like a Sudoku puzzle,” Ethell whispered knowingly to her seat-partner. “They added up to the same total,” Professor Cho told the students, “whether they were figured left to right, top to bottom, or from corner to corner diagonally. In any direction the 3 numbers produced the same total. It was the same number as the days in each of the 24 segments of the calendar. That is the oldest story we have of MAGIC NUMBERS. This amazing coincidence between mathematics and the natural year impressed Chinese thinkers for centuries. Magic squares have not been forgotten, but science of ancient times made much more fuss about them than we now hear. Well, let’s see if we can produce the famous magic square using the instructional formula rather than me just telling you what the numbers are. That way we can learn how to make all magic squares. “Follow my directions. Ready? To help you keep things straight put a tictac-toe grid on your slate. The 7 students drew 2 vertical lines and 2 horizontal ones, creating a # grid. “Now in the center space on the top line put number 1. “Here are the rules for the next numbers. Rule 1: try to put the next number in sequence diagonally, one space up and to the right. UP and RIGHT.” There was mumbling and students looked around at their classmates’ slates. Professor Cho seemed to have expected this. “Rule 2: If you can’t stay in the grid, then either go to the last row in the intended column OR…” he raised his voice because the students were suddenly busy writing. “…or go to the first column and put the number there. Remember, for each number go up and right, or if you need to, go to the last row (below) or the first column (left). BUT,” he had to raise his voice again, “…but if you go up and right and the box is already filled, go down instead and put the number under the number you have. That is Rule 3.” A few of the students got the pattern on the first try, but the rest finally 35

thought they got it after finding a mistake and correcting it. “Check your grid,” Professor Cho ordered. “Add every line and the diagonals. What do you have?” “FIFTEEN!” “Everybody have that?” It seemed they did. “That was not too difficult. For the rest of our time today see if you can produce a 5 by 5 grid, with numbers 1 to 25, of course. Begin by putting number 1 in the center space on the top line. Now, tell me, Miss Claridge, where will number 2 go? Think out loud so we can hear you.” Ethell cleared her throat to give her an extra moment to think, and then said, “Up and right, off the grid, so go down to the bottom of the column instead.” “Which column?” Professor Cho quizzed her. “The one to the right of number one.” “Correct. Now just one more and then you can work on your own for a while. Where will number 3 go, Mr. Waring?” “Up and right of number two,” Geddes answered. “Which space would that be?” “Far right column, one from the bottom.” A couple of students got stuck on where to put number 6. Up and right of number 5 was the center top row where number 1 was. Seeing them looking at each other’s slates, Professor Cho reminded them, “When a space is filled, go straight down from the previous number. So number 6 doesn’t go up and right of number 5 because number 1 is there already. That means number 6 goes straight below number 5.” After a few moments the teacher spoke again. “When you get to number 9 what do you do? Up and right for number 10 is off the grid and you can’t put it at the bottom of the column, because there is no column. What do you do, Mr. Hardee?” “Put 10 in the first column of that line above the 9,” Grier said. “Correct. And when up and right is filled, go down instead. Oh!” Professor Cho faked amused surprise, “Now you have clear sailing all the way up.” Then Cho again spoke over the scritch-scratching of chalk on slates, “After 15, up and right is off the grid. So go to the last row if you can. The bottom of that column is taken by number 9, so what’s the rule? When the box you want to go to is full, go down from where you are instead. “So the 16 goes where?” “Under 15,” someone said. 36

A few minutes later the class time was over. They had produced a magic square that was really a ‘hyper-square’, Professor Cho told them. “A hyper-square is one in which all the lines and diagonals add up to the same total.” Their 5 by 5 square had 5 lines of 5 numbers like this:

“For homework, read the chapter about Yang Hui’s magic concentric circles,” Professor Cho said, as the students were collecting their slates and getting ready to leave. It wasn’t long before the students were clear about the magic squares all the way up to 12 by 12 grids that Professor Cho called “Order 12 Squares”. One rainy Wednesday the professor was waiting for his Advanced Arithmancy scholars without the usual pile of wood-framed slates and chalk. “Today, I want you to see something few people have paid attention to in more than 600 years.” The students were directed to seats arranged in a theater pattern. “First, let’s remember the basic Lao Shu magic square discovered on the turtle shell. Three lines of three numbers: top line, 4, 9, 2; middle line, 3, 5, 7; and 8, 1, 6 on the bottom. That is the classical pattern that Ding Yidong followed in developing another wonderful magic pattern. For this we need 6 concentric circles. The innermost circle we will save for last. Just concentrate on the outer 5 circles. Now we will add Ding Yidong’s numbers in his fasci37

nating way. Beginning with number 1 in Lao Shu’s placement. What would that be, Mr. Hardee?” “I don’t know, Professor,” Grier admitted.

“Well, look at the Lao Shu pattern,” Professor Cho pointed his wand at a blank wall and there appeared a bull’s-eye pattern of 6 circles inside one another, with a box of 9 familiar numbers off to the side. “Where is number 1?” Professor Cho prompted Grier. “Center, bottom,” he replied. “Correct. Now notice what Ding did. He began with the number 1 on the bottom of his circles and created a line of 5 numbers ending in 1 going up to the center. There you are, line by line: 1, 11, 21, 31, 41. Remember we will leave the middle circle until last, but it is where all the multiples of 5 will go.” Cho glowed with anticipation the students hadn’t caught yet. “Now, what number is opposite 1 on the Lao Shu magic square, Miss Thomas?” Nadia replied confidently, “9.” “Correct. Now, Ding did this: if a number began on the outside circle, as the 1s did, the number opposite should begin on the inside circle. So put 9 just across from 41, leaving the middle circle blank for now. The numbers going toward the top are 9, and then what, do you imagine?” “19, 29, 39, and 49?” Nadia guessed. “Right you are. So, where would 3 go? Anybody?” Several students thought 3 should be on the left. Cho agreed and added, “1, 2, 3 and 4 commence on the outside while their opposite numbers on the Lao Shu chart begin on the inner circle.” For several minutes he called on one student after another to add numbers 38

until all five outer circles were filled with lines of consecutive numbers, ten numbers apart. Then there was only the innermost circle to be filled in. Professor Cho told them, “Put the 25 right in the middle. 25 is the middle 5 between 5 and 45. Now add the 5 to the line with the 1. Put 5 right above the number 41. Add 10 to the line of 2s. That’s it, right next to number 42. Put the 15 onto the line of 3s. And so-forth until you add the 45 in the last slot on the line of 9s.” The teacher fairly glowed with appreciation for this discovery his ancient ancestor had made. Then, as if remembering the lesson he was teaching, he asked, “What is the total if you calculate all the 13 numbers in a diagonal line?” Some of the students were pretty fast doing addition in their heads. “325, Professor,” two or three of them responded. They had been anticipating the question. “What total do the numbers on the circles produce? Same as the diagonals?” “No, Professor. 200.” “Correct again.” Cho was smiling broadly. “Every circle produces a sum of 200.” Cho let this sink in. “The Chinese were astounded at how Lao Shu’s magic square could be expanded to encompass the whole universe.” Then he asked, “Any questions?” “Professor, what is magical about this?” Aeron inquired. Cho nearly collapsed with happiness at this question. “That is just what Ding Yidong wondered, Mr. Finchfinder.” Cho collected himself and continued, “For a thousand years there was a search for a connection between those magic numbers and some parallel aspect of nature. The very first story concluded that floods would be controlled through applying the magical numbers they found on that turtle. We don’t know how they did it. The thinkers refused to believe something as profound as those magic numbers didn’t reflect some important key to the way nature works. Maybe all of nature has a secret order, if it could be found. So they hoped that magic numbers might help them unlock great secrets if they could only find the link. “Do you see what we’re looking for?” Professor Cho asked after a moment. They didn’t. “We are looking for the way to find what the stars in their precise order tell us about something else, like our health or the outcome of history. We are looking for a way to make divination work. We are looking for a connection between numbers and runes and magic patterns of lines and what that might tell about how to control crops or how to design buildings or fight wars. We are looking for a way to integrate everything being taught here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!” 39

“But we don’t need that, do we?” Verucia Gaitlocke said, nervously. She didn’t want to upset the clearly excited teacher, but she was pretty sure after all this time in Hogwarts that magic wands and spells could bypass most inconveniences and get things done that needed to be done. “Ah, I see,” Cho responded. He didn’t seem to be very distressed by Verucia’s doubt. “Indeed, you are right, Miss Gaitlocke, that our magic exploits inconsistencies in nature. That’s what magic IS. Magic is all about finding a connection between two apparently unrelated aspects of nature. It is magic if an action is not supposed to produce a result, but it does. It is magic when we say a word and we get a reaction from something that is not supposed to be able to hear what we say. It is magic if we cause a physical result through a metaphysical means. It is magic if we turn a teacup into a turtledove. Magic is all about finding a secret link that can be used.” “Our magic wands and spells can do that. But can magic numbers do it?” Verucia persisted. “Great magicians devoted their lives to trying to find the connection, and perhaps they did. Nicolas Flamel found a connection between a certain physical object and the pattern of life. The object he found reorganized the variables and eliminated the disharmonies, we might say.” “Who was Nicolas Flamel?” Grier asked. “He was the only known owner of a Philosopher’s Stone. He was able to use it to produce gold and to concoct an elixir of life by which he lived for 665 years. He was a good friend of Professor Dumbledore.” “Do you think there is a connection between magic numbers and some aspect of nature like, weather or anything?” Grier asked. Professor Cho was so pleased with this sign of understanding that it looked like he was suppressing an urge to give Grier a hug. “If anyone ever finds a pattern in nature that reflects the Lao Shu pattern, that person will have great power.” “Will that be good?” Aeron wondered out loud. “It will be neutral. Whether it is used for good or evil, like all magic, will depend on the character of the witch or wizard who uses it.”

40

WITCHES’ UNIVERSITY A Pact in Poland

LUBRANSKI ACADEMY Angelika Mraz walked slowly past the Lubranski Academy as if it were the last place in the world that would interest her, but then seemed to change her mind when a small door opened half-way down the far side of the building. Without varying her pace she strolled in her stiff-hipped way to the door and disappeared within. She was greeted silently by another older woman. The two were dressed and looked so much alike they could be sisters. In fact, Angelika was Bohemian and the woman she met was Polish. In a short time they were joined by two more women also clad in long skirts and colorful shirts with plain scarves over their heads. They, too, looked enough alike to be twins although one was from Germany and the other from England. What these four had in common, aside from their Polish garb, was the fact that they were witches invading this most Catholic academy in the heart of the very Catholic city of Poznan, Poland. None of the four said a word as they wended their way through the university’s public areas to a small archway in a shallow nook that seemed full of emergency firefighting equipment. Angelika tapped the glass panel in front of a coiled fire hose with a short stick and the assembly swung inward revealing 41

a stone stairway descending out of sight. “Lumos”, the English witch said, igniting a flare on the tip of her wand, as did the witch from Germany. The passageway was narrow but dry. There were no landings or side passages. After descending about 50 steps, which took the women several minutes, the tunnel leveled out and went farther than actually seemed possible on this island in the Warta River. Eventually they came to another archway through which they again had to duck, even though they were women of no great stature by modern standards. Without warning a drape drew itself aside and they emerged into a well-lit limestone atrium with doorways going in all directions, and stairways leading to balconies on either side. “Welcome to Wielkopolska Uniwersytet,” Olga, the Polish witch, said with a nod. “The university was begun not far from here in 1032 during the time of the Rebellion, 70 years after Mieszko I was baptized and the Church began to suppress the old ways.” Olga led them into a room that was three floors tall, lined with shelves of books. “We moved here when the Pagan Revolt was put down by Casimir the First in 1034. Mieszko III ‘The Old’ built this university building for us. Part of it was a tower above ground level, but most of it is out of reach by those who do not know a way in. Although Poland is actually tolerant of old ways as well as new ones when they come along, Mieszko The Old knew what he was doing to keep this largely hidden. The exposed part was burned during the witch hunts and the fire was used to burn as many witches as they could catch, although the ones who died were innocent. Then it was burned in the great fire in 1622 and again when Lubranski Academy burned in 1772. The Nazis carried away as much as they found in 1940 and set up their own witches’ academy in Bavaria. They thought they would create a new religion for the Third Reich.” “Do all witches in Poland study here?” the witch from England asked. “By no means,” Olga replied. “Most of them are farm women with only basic education in one or two skills.” “Take the ‘whispering witches’ near the border with Belarus. They are healers who pass on the lore from person to person,” Angelika said. “Most of our witches and wizards go to Durmstrang if they go anywhere.” “This university is not a training school, like Hogwarts,” Olga continued. “It is a research center. Witches come from as far away as Syria and Siberia to study here.” “What are the departments?” the English witch wanted to know. “Well,” Angelika replied, “let’s take a walk and see.” Olga led them out of the library down a long, circular hallway that 42

branched in four directions. In the course of the next half hour they visited the College of Medical Miracles with its departments of Potions, Nursing, Health, and Healers. Then they passed the College of Magical Lands and Lore with departments of Magical History, Dead Languages, World Magic, Religion, and Narratives. The College of Science included Astronomy, Calculation, Manipulation, Chemistry and Life Forms. There was also a College of Commerce called the “College of Osobnik Management”. They didn’t visit that. Olga seemed inclined to avoid it. Even in such a short tour it became clear that the research was mostly about re-claiming magical information from all sorts of places. The point of all this is the exact opposite of Muggles universities,” the English witch commented. “They are constantly trying to explore where they have never been and develop what they’ve never had. But here you are trying to keep our wisdom-wealth and bring it back together.” “Precisely,” Olga clapped in agreement. “What’s the use of studying electronic tele-communications when we have had better systems for thousands of years?” “But we don’t have them now,” Linda commented. “The constant loss of wisdom is a great threat. It’s impossible to count the number of wisdom deposits that have been destroyed by war, fire and flood. Atlantis, Angkor, Ayutthaya, Alexandria…” Linda began. Before she could get to the Bs on her way to Zimbabwe, Olga suggested, “Now it is time to meet the rector.” A fifth richly-paneled hallway was adorned with impressive portraits of witches in academic robes and caps with tassels. The portraits sat stiffly in place but their eyes seemed to follow the group as it made its way to a door marked “REKTOR”. Olga knocked softly. The door was opened by a Kobold elf, dressed in a modern skirt and blouse, the English witch was delighted to see. The expansive room was dominated by a witch coming around a desk the size of King Arthur’s Round Table. She wore a plain black robe that one hardly noticed because all attention was drawn to her wide smile and sparkling, ice-blue eyes. Olga announced, “Madame Rector, may I present our delegation. Friends, this is Doctor Professor Kamila Safko.” “Welcome, honored witches,” Dr. Kamila said. For such a large woman her voice was deceptively subdued but utterly distinct. She turned to the English witch. “I have been looking forward to meeting you, ‘the brightest witch 43

of our time’.” Her eyes flicked toward the source of this information, sets of a familiar 7-book series in ten different languages. One lay open on her desk, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban in Polish. Then she turned to the witch from Germany. “I am delighted to see you could accept my invitation, Professor Messerschmitt. I have received the raven from Doktor Professor von Lundt about the successful launch of the Hartz Institute. Engineering has always been our blind spot.” “There are blind spots in every direction,” the famous English witch replied with a nod to her German companion. “In Britain it is hard to find agreement about the need for higher education of any sort. We seem content to have fast brooms and spectacular curses.” “But that is about to change,” the rector speculated. “We here in middle Europe are enjoying one of the few extended periods of peace in many centuries. Friendly relations from Estonia to Ethiopia by our Muggle governments is a great relief from the stress our ancestors had to deal with. But most importantly, this gives us openings to explore and investigate.” “What’s to be found?” Linda Messerschmitt asked. “Three kinds of knowledge to begin with.” The rector was becoming excited. “Knowledge in plain sight if we can get to it. Knowledge lost where we know it once was…” Linda began to chant quietly, “Atlantis, Angkor, Alexandria….” Madame Kamila kept on, “Knowledge completely forgotten about.” “…Memphis, Machu Picchu, Macedonia …” Linda was recalling until she realized everyone was looking at her and she stuttered to a stop. “Tell us more about the ‘knowledge in plain sight’ Doctor Professor,” Olga suggested. “Ah, that is where Britain and Berlin can help. There is a mountain of information being neglected because it seems to tell of something else. Key clues have been overlooked. Celtic runes, Egyptian hieroglyphic panels, and alchemy texts from right around here have always been read only one way by the osobnik, and then locked up.” “Osobnik?” Linda asked. “That’s what we call Muggles,” Olga explained. “It is long past the time when we treat magic as a form of folk lore for the simple minded,” Rector Kamila stated. “We need international cooperation to move our knowledge to a higher level and reclaim our status.” “Is that what university is all about?” the English witch asked. “Are we working for status?” “Of course we are,” the rector said. “Status is a worthy thing to work for. 44

We were once the wise women and our kind were held in awe. Look around. Who wear the magic robes and chant the holy words now? Who are the bishops and the priests? Any women in that rank?” “A woman is head of the German government,” Linda said. “A woman is Queen of England,” the English witch added. “But your point is understood. Witches are underclass woman. We hide.” “I propose to have us join hands to change that,” the rector said, rising to her feet and extending her hands. “Let’s agree right here, right now that we should have an International Magical University with institutes all over Europe.”

45

WITCHES’ UNIVERSITY A Hex on A’a Gedolfa Farnsfar kissed her daughter good-bye on platform 9 ¾ of King’s Cross Station, watched as the red Hogwarts Express moved down the tracks, and then made her way to the Helen Graham House on Great Russell Street. She was a familiar figure to the YWCA staff. She often took a room just down the street from the British Museum. Gedolfa told the YWCA registrar that she was associated with The Institute of Exotic Studies. No one ever inquired beyond that. The real name of the institute was The Institute of Magical Studies; it was a secret, and she was the director. On this balmy September 1, with her daughter Wilhelmina safely on her way back to Hogwarts, Dr. Gedolfa was about to do what no one had ever successfully tried to do before. There was no predicting the consequences of using the Mefulstian Hex. Today Gedolfa needed Room 24 of the Wellcome Trust Gallery to be vacant for a few minutes at least. She knew that the museum closed at 17:30 and the Wellcome Trust Gallery was unlikely to have visitors after 5 p.m. The cleaning crew came in at closing time, but that gave them about a half hour to close off room 24. There was no need to de-activate the security cameras since the witches would just pretend to be cleaning a bit early. The only ones likely to challenge them would be the real cleaning crew who were still on the underground coming to work and wouldn’t be in a hurry to get to the gallery. Their plan included creating a loop to replay on the CCTV security cameras. It would only need to go around twice when the heavy magic was bound to interfere with electronic surveillance. At 17:01 the fake cleaning team emerged from the housekeeping changing room pushing a cleaning cart. They put “Wet Floor Keep Out” signs at the door of room 24 at 17:04 and began mopping while Gedolfa used a special feather duster on the protective barrier around Hoa Hakananai’a. By 17:11 she got to the back of the Easter Island statue where she said, “Revelato”. The cleaning crew paused, the security loop replayed a mop going over the same patch of floor but nothing else happened. Gedolfa thought she had time for one more effort. “Specialis Revelio” she intoned. The statue changed color from plain stone to white with red markings as it originally had been before being towed on a raft to the ship that brought it back for Queen Victoria. Gedolfa was stunned, but realized what this meant. Hoa Hakananai’a’s spectacular colors were not simply artistic embellishments; they had been applied with 46

magical intent. But what was it meant to do? In desperation Gedolfa tried one last spell. They were running out of time. One of the cleaning crew in the hall outside had begun to whistle “Hi-ho … it’s off to work we go” as a signal that a roving guard had been spotted. “Aparecium” Gedolfa chanted. The white paint and red bird-man cult markings disappeared and were replaced by shadows of indentations long since rubbed off as the Moai era of Ancestor religion was defeated by Tangata manu, the bird-man cult on Easter Island. She whispered “Memnio” and waved her wand disguised as a feather duster at the image to record it as a prior incantation to be recalled later. She was coming out the door at 17:24 when the guard strolled up. “Vomit all cleaned up,” she said to the guard, who quickly decided to look into another room than number 24. Back in the Institute of Magical Studies next to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Gedolfa, Professor Virgil Verbal and two Pacific island witches settled down to see what Hoa Hakananai’a had told them. “I expected the Mefulstian Hex to be set off immediately,” Gedolfa admitted. “Nothing is ever easy. Priori Incantatem,” she intoned. Her wand, now shorn of its feathers, produced a string of images, but the committee was only interested in the latest one. The two witches were from Fiji and Hawaii. “We will have to go to Easter Island,” Kai, from Hawaii, said. Tarlae, from Fiji added, “That inscription is an incantation to fulfill an old prophecy about the Ancestor and the Birdman. It’s all about a hero named Ponui. I can’t believe the rest of it, if I understand it, which I doubt I do.” “We will have to go,” Kai repeated. “Unless there is another way,” Gedolfa said. “We will have to go recruit the wise old women who knew this magic.” “They’re all dead!” Verbal exclaimed. “Precisely. Dead or scattered. They can’t come to us, so we have to go to them if we are to recover any of the Old Way,” Gedolfa declared. “Maybe the story is ‘enchanting’,” Virgil suggested. He was thinking how Verucia managed to get back to Parthia and Omion, the Forest of Deep Magic, by simply merging into the story. It would be far simpler if one could just make a virtual trip rather than a physical one. “You could try,” Kai said, sounding doubtful. The big obstacle was that they did not have a story, just bits of a story that didn’t fit together. So what they were going to have to go for, actually, was the story. “There is one other resource in the museum,” Gedolfa said. 47

“Surely you do not mean A’a,” Virgil gasped. “We are not sure what the Mefulstian Hex would do to him,” Tarlae pointed out. “Only one way to find out,” Gedolfa said. Their opportunity did not come until June. The three witches and the wizard joined the large audience at the British Museum for the lecture on “A’a: God, Reliquary or Idol”. As they were waiting for the Muggle professor to begin, Virgil commented to Gedolfa, “How typical of them to consider this as religion!”

After the lecture ended, when the audience adjourned for wine and tidbits and a chance to buy A’a t-shirts and museum publications, the Magical Institute team drifted nonchalantly over to A’a, where with a little choreography they blocked Gedolfa from view as she stood behind the wooden statue. She pointed her wand, disguised as a writing pen, and whispered, “Mefulstia.” Seeing sure signs of the Mefulstian Hex she muttered “Dissendium”. Tarlae dropped her empty wine glass to distract from the crunching sound 48

as Gedolfa was sucked into the back of the hardwood statue. “Omigosh!” Virgil said, “I thought there’d be a stairway going down!” A’a was carved from a massive pua keni keni tree in about 1720. A century later the Austral Islands in French Polynesia, which included little Rurutu, were ravaged by disease introduced by European sailors. Within a year (18181819) the population of Rurutu was reduced to a tenth, barely 200 souls keeping themselves alive. Their leader was only 30 years old, and he was no match for the cunning chief planning to take over all the islands under the banner of Christianizing them. It was of little concern to ruthless Pomare that the veneration of the ancestors was to be dispensed with, or that this was the very foundation of Polynesian society. But the old ones on Rurutu were not convinced that the ancestral spirits were powerless or that they would go passively into oblivion. The time came, inevitably, when the young elders of Rurutu undertook the long journey by boat to the Christian temple on Ra’iatea as Pomare had ordered. They brought their “god” A’a as “prisoner” to the missionaries to be taken back to London where he is sometimes displayed in the British Museum, the great temple of the British Empire. For that journey a cavity in the back of A’a was filled with souvenirs for the London Missionary Society. One of the missionaries back in London described the contents as “twenty-four heathen gods.” In 1882 those trophies were removed from their temporary container as A’a was being negotiated by members of the London Missionary Society and the British Museum. The 24 were not exactly what the missionary thought. Nor was A’a what either the missionaries or the museum thought. The wooden image of the god had been desecrated. The witch Gedolfa had not been entirely right about the Mefulstian Hex attached to A’a. What Gedolfa had done was substitute herself for the original contents of the cavity in the back of the wooden statue. Those had been the bones of the first ancestor on Rurutu, fortified and subtly altered by the sacrifice of several outcast young people. The first ancestor, ever after called A’a the Ancestor, was a direct descendant of legendary A’a who was a descendant of the Polynesian Creator God, Ta’aroa. For countless generations the little society on Rurutu had venerated the Ancestor and his links to the great gods who descended from the stars when the seas were formed. Every island society had a casket in the form of a god like A’a, within which sacred bones of the first ancestor had been installed. The carved wooden statue was a container for the sacred relic. It was the relic that had magical drawing power. During the generations of Rurutu’s Old Ways, the carved statue representing the god A’a, had been dressed in the manner of great chiefs, including a feathered loin 49

cloth. Even that was insufficient protection for profane eyes, so he was sometimes fully encased in a shroud of coir cord. Periodic rites of re-consecration were the most solemn and terrifying ceremonies of the Old Ways, involving the removal of the shroud and replacement of the god’s attire. On the night before Au’ura and his entourage took the wooden statue away from Rurutu, the raiment was removed one last time leaving the wooden image naked. All that was leaving Rurutu was a casket carved in the symbolic form of A’a, creator of life on Rurutu, that had once held the holy bones of the sacred ancestor. Holy A’a (that is the bones of the Ancestor) were removed by a witch and a wizard, chosen by a toss of knuckle bones. They took the holy remains away from anywhere the Christianizing warriors or the unsuspecting missionaries could find them. Their secret was well kept by Gedolfa. She had apparated to a tiny, uninhabitable, desolate island in the middle of the ocean. She had no idea where she was. There was no one to tell her that she had arrived at the 1821 repository of A’a’s descendant, the first Ancestor on Rurutu. Gedolfa was surprised, disappointed and not a little frightened. She had come on this dangerous journey expecting to find descendants of those who had installed magic in the wooden image of A’a in the British Museum. For a while she imagined herself cast away as Tom Hanks and Robinson Crusoe had been. The island reminded her of the place Voldemort had stored his horcrux to be found by Regulus Black and Dumbledore. Gedolfa could sense the magic, but unlike Dumbledore, she could not find its source or secret. When Gedolfa realized she was alone and her mission to visit witches in Polynesia had dumped her in the middle of nowhere, she tried to apparate back to the British Museum, but the magic of the wooden image was not as strong as the bones of Rurutu’s sacred ancestor who was the real A’a. The A’a carving was too weak to draw her back to him at the British Museum and she was lucky not to have been splinched. She remained stranded and confused. The audience for the lecture on A’a was leaving the museum and guards were beginning to turn off lights and close doors noisily to encourage the exodus. At the last minute Virgil announced to his two Polynesian companions, “I will go to her. Meet us on Rapa Nui.” “How can you be sure…?” Kai began to protest. But Virgil had said “dissendium” and disappeared with a crunching sound. The powerful bones of A’a pulled Virgil as they had Gedolfa. Rather than descending into a hidden cavern, he apparated half-way around the world onto an unnamed island in the Austral archipelago, a very long way from Rapa 50

Nui off the coast of Chile. The gamble this time had been a success to the extent that Virgil appeared with a loud pop just a few feet from Gedolfa. His appearance raised a thousand important questions that would occupy the Institute of Magical Studies for a long time, but at the moment all Gedolfa wanted to know was, “Where are we?” Virgil pulled a smart phone from his pocket and glanced at it, punching it a few times with his forefinger. “Magic is too strong right here,” he announced with a small worried frown. “There’s not much room to move around,” Gedolfa sputtered. It was obvious that they were standing on what amounted to a large rock in the ocean. It was large enough for them to walk to a lower level where Virgil again punched his GPS app. This time he suggested, “Take my wand and go as far away as you can.” When she had moved to the other side of the rock Virgil called out, “The island of Rurutu is right over there.” He pointed to a green rocky island with tall cliffs a couple of miles toward the sunset. “I should have known,” Gedolfa said, disgusted with herself. Then she added, “Shall we go?” “Away from A’a?” Virgil challenged her. “A’a is here but he will not help us,” Gedolfa replied, taking out her wand. Now with the name of a definite destination in mind she was better able to travel magically. She grabbed Virgil’s hand so they could go together. They arrived in a garden of a place with a sign that proclaimed, “Pension Moana”. It was not the mating season for humpback whales, which attracted nearly all the tourists to Rurutu, so Poe, the owner of the little bed and breakfast, was surprised when Virgil and Gedolfa showed up at her door. It was their turn to be surprised when Poe scrutinized the two of them and unceremoniously commanded, “Come with me.” Suppressing the urge to ask, “Where are we going?” Virgil and Gedolfa simply did as they were told. Poe was a stronger walker than her graceful, petite stature would have suggested. The path was far from flat and Poe appeared to be taking them away from town. Just before Gedolfa was about to protest, however, they came to a small house where Poe called, “Grandmother!” In due time, an older Polynesian woman appeared from around the side of the house. She peered at Gedolfa and Virgil in turn, very much as Poe had done, and then the grandmother flapped her hand as an apparent signal for them to enter the little house. She shuffled through the front room with wicker chairs, and pushed aside a cloth covering a doorway into the most 51

unusual room Virgil and Gedolfa had ever seen. The room was nearly stuffed with museum-quality exotic Tahitian art objects, although they had every appearance of being regularly used, which a museum would never tolerate. Gedolfa, who was acquainted with Polynesian exhibits at the British Museum, was stunned. Grandmother Hina seated herself on a mat on the floor and nodded to her British guests to do the same. So far no one had actually said anything since coming inside. Poe returned with three green coconuts with a hole cut and a plastic straw sticking out. Then the young woman withdrew. Grandmother Hina looked hard at them again and announced, “You have been brought here by A’a.” It was a statement so fraught with possible implications that neither Virgil nor Gedolfa dared to respond. “Your mana glows.” Hina took a sip of her coconut and smacked her lips. “No one can get so near A’a unless he calls them.” Virgil and Gedolfa thought they had used magic to apparate, but hesitated to contradict the old woman. On second thought, Gedolfa was not sure Hina was wrong. Perhaps A’a was in charge of all this. “Do you know where A’a first lived?” Hina asked with renewed intensity. Taking their silence to mean they thought the question was hypothetical, she answered for them, “In a cave. Poe will take you. Then we will talk.” It was no easy walk. The caves on Rurutu where the first settlers lived were in a cliff that thrust straight out of the ocean. The height and the surf below were not for the squeamish. Furthermore, the cave to which Poe took them was definitely not one that tourists were shown. “This is where the Ancestor lived,” Poe said. It was a smaller cave than most of the others, and less filled with geologic wonders, but once inside it was larger than it appeared. It looked very much like it was well tended, rather than lived in. Poe let them gaze around at the chamber before leading them farther in. They entered a smaller chamber just large enough to hold about ten adults standing. Then Poe indicated in words and actions that if they were going still deeper they should get undressed. Virgil, a scrupulous English aristocrat by breeding and temperament, hesitated. But he complied when he was handed a “grass” skirt called a more made of shredded hibiscus bark fibers. It was all very prim except for bare skin from the waist up. That was forgotten the moment they stepped into the third chamber and there HE was. A’a was standing next to the far wall. There was no doubt about it, although he was wearing more garments than the British Museum ever imagined. His head was crowned with an elaborate cap adorned with a ring of tall 52

feathers standing vertically with a tuft of even taller feathers in the middle. His face was covered by a mask dominated by fierce mother of pearl eyes and thin, protrubent blood-red lips. His torso was adorned by several leis of matched colored feathers and sea shells. A cape of black hair or fiber came nearly to his knees. It was studded with silver bells, glittering shards of quartz and polished stones. His wide maro loincloth was covered with feathers in a design too elaborate to describe. He seemed to be emerging upright out of the log from which he had been carved. His feet and ankles were still sunk in the massive log. The log, a meter and a half tall and nearly as wide was carved with rings of birds, fish, animals, trees, flowers and people, with the lowest ring depicting whales cavorting in the sea. Every inch of A’a that could be seen, bits of his stomach and a few inches of leg, were oiled and polished to a gleaming finish, rubbed no doubt by bare hands in scores of re-consecration ceremonies. A thick coir cord shroud hung nearby for those occasions, probably long ago, when A’a was paraded around the island. Along the back of this room were lined spears and knives of stone and metal. They looked less neglected than could be accounted for by the past 200 years of peace. Elsewhere were what appeared to be carved posts and small straw huts (that were actually cloaks for dancers). On one stretch of wall were hung about a hundred non-descript tufts of grass and hair with items hidden inside. Virgil caught sight of a whale’s tooth in one. Poe saw Virgil examining these curiosities. “Those were the household gods,” she explained. “…in the old days.” Gedolfa saw why A’a in the British Museum had his feet cut off to be taken to England, and what the 24 “gods” inside him had been. She was dying of curiosity about the function of this cave room. It was impossible this was simply a storage place for unused artifacts. Poe wouldn’t have had them wear ceremonial skirts to view antiques. Besides, all the items sent to England had been replaced. This cave must be a temple. But if these were objects of the Old Way, what were the practices of the Old Way these days? Virgil was growing anxious. Those killing tools looked very sharp and well-polished. If they were not for war, and there had been no war, what were the knives and spears all about? Their pondering was interrupted by Poe saying, “Now we will pay respects to A’a.” She extracted a handful of sandalwood shavings from a tall pot and placed it on a clay dish, lighting it deftly with a single stroke of flint and steel. The fragrant smoke was accompanied by Poe’s short rhythmic chant. Then Poe led them back through the changing room and over the precarious cliff-side trail to the top. Virgil kept his eyes glued to the path, but was 53

haunted by the pounding surf down below. Gedolfa wondered how in the world they ever managed to take A’a out for trips around his island, or how they had gotten him in there in the first place. Back at Grandmother Hina’s little house, they were greeted by a direct challenge. “What are you here for? Why has A’a brought you here?” Up to that very moment Gedolfa could not have said exactly what she hoped to gain from this expedition, much less what A’a had been planning. The answer, however, sprouted wings and flew out of her mouth. “We are sent here to invite you to help us preserve the Old Ways.” Hina snorted derisively. “Every ten minutes some new student comes to study the old ways. They get answers to the questions they ask and leave satisfied. We have become rather good at getting them gone before they ruin everything. So what is your question? Be quick about it!” Virgil replied, feeling he was being given just one chance to guess the emperor’s dream or bear the consequences. “Since A’a is on that rock in the ocean, who is in the cave we just visited?” Hina stared at Virgil for a long moment. “You are not like the others,” she said, half to herself. Still, she replied with another question, in a more conciliatory tone, “Why do you want to know that?” Virgil was braver now. “If you say ‘A’a is everywhere’ I will have to conclude you are trying to deceive us. If you say, ‘I do not know’ I will bid you farewell and we will try to get to Papeete as soon as we can.” “So you are testing me,” Hina said bluntly. “But I will tell you why you would draw those two conclusions, and pass your test. You have met A’a on that rock out there and you are still here. You were in the cave and A’a was not there.” Hina glared her challenge to Virgil in a way the dons in Dublin had never done and the witches in Hogwarts had never dared. Hina and he were equals. “Yes,” he said. Gedolfa decided to ease the tension, not yet realizing it had just been resolved. “A’a is on the rock. That is why we apparated to that rock rather than the cave.” “Yes and no,” Hina replied. “Yes, A’a is most powerful there where the venerated bones of the Ancestor have been undisturbed for 200 years until today. Except by birds,” she added. “No, your witchcraft had little to do with it.” Gedolfa bristled. “Whose witchcraft, then?” “Poor witch, you, if you claim what belongs to all and no one.” Poe was amused at this lively exchange. Virgil was alarmed. 54

Gedolfa was not ready to give up. “I performed a Mefulstian Hex on A’a in the British Museum and then used a Dissendium charm to get from there to that rock out there.” “The naked idol in London has no power,” Hina said flatly and then added, “But the wood remembers A’a. There is that bond between them. So when you ‘magiced’ the wooden A’a with your hex, A’a the Ancestor brought you here. And here you are.” Gedolfa calmed down. “Yes. Here we are to invite you to join us in preserving the old ways. Not just knowledge about the old ways, but their magic – their power.” There was a pause so Virgil decided to rephrase his question, “If wooden A’a in the British Museum has no power because A’a the Ancestor is no longer contained inside, then does the wooden A’a in the cave have power even though there are no powerful bones inside?” “You are a sharp one,” Hina admitted. “A’a in the cave has power because through him we connect to A’a the Ancestor.” “It is the power of memory,” Virgil replied. “All religion has that power above all.” Gedolfa decided to try one more time to prove the magical power she possessed was more than a memory link, even though she barely perceived with a powerful thing a memory link can be. “Wingardium Leviosa” she said, waving her wand at a heavy wooden pole carved in the shape of a tower. It rose threateningly before Gedolfa set it back down. “Too bad there was no mountain troll to clobber,” Poe commented. She snickered, “Even Grandmother has seen ‘Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone’.” “Listen, little sister,” Hina skewered Gedolfa with a piercing look, “what you want to know about is different from all this about A’a. It overlaps but is not the same. I am not a witch, if you must know. I am more like a priestess. I remember the stories, the rites, and the Old Way.” “A wise old woman, that’s what a witch is,” Gedolfa insisted. “Have it your way. But I have no wands, potions or spells.” “Have it your way,” Gedolfa repeated with just a hint of sarcasm. “All right,” Hina conceded. “We have equivalents of wands, potions and spells. But you need to go to Morongo Uta on Rapa Iti. Meet Fetia and Aitu. They are who you are looking for. Be sure to bring them a baby pig. Take this too. They’ve been pestering me for it for ages.” Hina drew out a gleaming white shaft longer than Virgil’s foot. It was the largest shark’s tooth he had ever imagined. 55

Virgil and Gedolfa stayed in Pension Moana for two days getting to know enough about Rurutu to be aware that even after 200 years the majority of the 2000 inhabitants in the town of Moerai and especially those in the smaller town of Avera on the other side of the island still respected the Old Ways, gave Grandmother Hina a wide berth, and were pretty sure A’a could be called on for help. Learning any more would take another trip at another time. The baby pig Poe was able to get for them was more grown-up than Virgil had hoped. It took both him and Gedolfa to carry the basket the pig was in. “We can’t apparate with THAT,” Gedolfa protested. “I’d take a boat, if I were you,” Poe recommended. “Travel with a pig?” Virgil thought the notion was uncouth. “You’ll find,” Poe replied, “that a pig is not the most unusual thing on that boat.” So they set off for Rapa Iti with a pig, which set them apart from the two or three other tourists coming to see Little Easter Island and its enigmatic forts. The town of Ahurei is small. The entire population of Rapa Iti is about 400. People know each other by name, reputation and kinship. Virgil and Gedolfa were informed that Fetia and Aitu lived across the bay from where their boat had pulled up to a pier. Getting the two travelers and their pig from Ahurei to ‘Area was a matter of hiring a motor-boat driven by a boy who looked too young to be able to do it. As a bonus, the boy led them straight to Fetia and Aitu’s house. Even though he was paid, the boy showed no sign of leaving without finding out about the fate of the pig. Word spread through the little village like wild fire that two foreigners speaking English had been brought to the house of the “Makemake” and his wife. No one had ever done that before. And they had a pig. While they waited, Virgil nicknamed the boy “Little Boatman” which delighted the boy, who shortly rounded up a bucket of water for the grateful pig. In only minutes a rotund man in a tattered wrap-around pareu came along a dirt path from a taro patch a bit farther inland. Trying French and then Spanish rather unsuccessfully, Little Boatman rescued the introductions by telling them in schoolboy English, “The man ‘Eye-two’. The woman ‘Fat ee-ah’,” indicating a round woman in the style of Polynesian matrons who was jogging up to them. She did seem to match Little Boatman’s name for her, but Virgil and Gedolfa already knew the cou56

ple’s correct names. Fetia said something to Little Boatman in Rapan and he scampered away, returning before long with an older version of himself who turned out to be the boy’s uncle, home from college in New Zealand. The student’s name was Temoe. From then on conversation flowed and became more serious as well. Gedolfa extracted the shark’s tooth wrapped in cloth inside a canvas bag Poe had given them for their journey, begun, as it had, with fairly empty hands from the British Museum. Temoe, Fetia and Aitu gasped as Gedolfa unfolded the cloth from the large tooth. Fetia and Aitu chorused, “Hina!” The tooth changed everything. “We have come from Rurutu,” Virgil explained quite unnecessarily. “We were brought by A’a,” Gedolfa added, hoping to give weight to their being there. At the mention of the protector god of Rurutu, the Rapa couple became somber and made Temoe say twice again, “We – were – brought – by – A’a.” This was followed by a number of questions resulting in a complete narration of their adventure from London to Rapa Iti. It ended with the one question Gedolfa had hoped to avoid. “Why did A’a bring you to him?” Fetia asked. The answer would probably explain why Hina had sent them to Rapa Iti. “A’a did not speak to us,” Gedolfa tried to explain tactfully why she had no idea about the god’s motives and still harbored a belief that the Dissendium charm had a lot to do with it. It turned out Fetia and Aitu had their own idea about what A’a was up to with these naïve English sorcerers. It would be very clear on June 18, two days hence. There was no time to waste. Temoe told them they were going to the pare Morongo Uta, which was about 500 years old and they had to get there before sundown … or else. He declined to agree that a pare was a fort, which is what the travel literature says. Virgil had the same misgivings he had had about the weapons in A’a’s cave. The main diet on Rapa Iti is fish and taro. Little Boatman had been hoping it might include a rare taste of pork, but he made himself scarce to avoid being told specifically he was not to come with them to Morongo Uta. A Rapan hiker could get from the bay to Morongo Uta in an hour or less, even though it was uphill all the way. The group led by Aitu and Fetia was slowed down by the English witch and wizard. There were two new Rapa residents as well as Temoe and his nephew, 8 in all before 3 more joined them later. The 11 camped on one of the terraces of the stronghold making-do during 57

the cool June night on piles of dry grass. June 18 dawned bright and clear. Clouds gathered during the day. The Rapa folks spent time and energy clearing brush off of the highest terrace and the so-called tower. They made no attempt to either chop weeds or explore the rest of the long, narrow snake-shaped confines of Morongo Uta. Supposing Virgil and Gedolfa would be useless with regard to sprucing up the landscape, Temoe had kindly brought along a copy of the legend of the expansion of Polynesia, based on the hero, Te Ariki-Tera-are. The story purported to account for the spread of Polynesia from Easter Island to Tahiti, with special attention paid to Hawaii. Reading the narrative, had a disturbing effect on Virgil. All Gedolfa said was, “They certainly killed each other a lot.” In one episode after another, brothers became enemies over a piece of fish or the actions of a sea turtle, as well as because of rivalries over women. Women in the stories tended to be more central characters than in old Anglo-Saxon legends. The most striking thing was how conflicts between battling men were resolved by negotiations of women. Virgil agreed with Gedolfa that it was remarkable how defeated rivals were killed, cooked and gladly eaten. One story’s central plot was how a certain victim, even though decapitated, refused to be baked until his negative forces were reversed by proper sacrifices. As the day wore on Fetia and Aitu withdrew to the tall tower and the others settled onto the wider terrace just below. The evening meal included liberal amounts of a native alcoholic drink made from taro. June 18 was the date, in 1887, that the last queen was deposed. It was supposed to bring pre-colonial ways to a final end. The Rapa Iti natives in Morongo Uta knew better, It was, in fact, the date when Old Ways were made permanent.

MORONGO UTA 58

It was pitch dark, nearly midnight by modern reckoning, when the first warriors attacked. Who they were was impossible to tell in the dark and it did not matter. Surprisingly, the attack was repulsed by a band of warriors on a lower level of terraces. The arrival of these defenders had not been noticed and it was hard to believe that such an apparently large and well equipped force had gotten in place without drawing attention to themselves. From the sound of it and from movement in the shadows, the battle was fierce. From time to time it subsided, only to resume, now here, now there. The attacks went on throughout the rest of the long night. But when the heavy darkness began to yield to the thin promise of dawn the attackers charged back down the slope to try to retreat in their double-hulled war canoes. The defenders charged after them, leaving Morongo Uta to the badly shaken campers on the highest terrace. Within moments, Aitu descended from the stone tower where he had spent the night with Fetia. In the pre-dawn gloom Aitu looked like a different being than the heavy-set farmer Virgil and Gedolfa had first met. For one thing he was wearing a tapa loincloth and a band of red feathers on his head. His face, chest and arms were chalk-white with red markings. He carried the shark’s tooth, now outfitted with a leather handle. He stomped each terrible step up to inches away from Virgil Verbal. Then the Rapa demi-god slapped his chest, thrust out a preternaturally long black tongue and bellowed, “They have taken Princess Hatiki-tiki.” “Who has?” someone called. “The devils of Rurutu,” Aitu shouted. Virgil squealed like a stabbed rat. “They will feed her to A’a …” Aitu frothed, scattering spittle in all directions, particularly on Virgil who was closest to him. “… unless you stop them, white swine.” At that, two young Rapa men grabbed Virgil and two women pulled his clothes off, while Fetia tied a tapa loincloth on him and Aitu thrust the shark’s tooth into his hand. Then, with a foot to Virgil’s pale butt, they sent him plunging down the trail toward the sound of the armies at the bay shore. “Bind her!” Fetia commanded. This took Gedolfa so much by surprise that she dropped her wand and was defenseless. Virgil had always considered himself a peaceful wizard. Even on the night of the terrible Battle of Hogwarts, he had rescued the wounded and guided the frightened to safety leaving the battle to those who were older and battle-hardened. Now as he scrambled and stumbled toward the two battle groups he thought he was dead one way or another. Either he had already 59

died and this was a nightmare or he was about to die as soon as he got to the warriors. He didn’t even have his blue wand. All he had was the dull shark’s tooth, which had begun to take on a dim phosphorescent glow. In another two minutes he had caught up to the fighting forces. They were fully engaged, but Virgil could tell them apart by their costumes. The warriors from Rurutu wore feather aprons and carried spears and knives Virgil had no doubt had come from A’a’s cave. But the other army, who had seemed to defend the mountain stronghold, were wearing skirts and capes of ti leaves. For the moment, no one paid any attention to the pale-skinned Englishman. They were occupied trying to get into the war canoes and keep the other group from doing so. The battle was so fierce it was producing victims, stabbed, sliced and beheaded. Their blood glowed silver, like liquid mercury. As if to prevent the wizard from concluding these phantom armies were imaginary, a wild swing by a Rurutu warrior creased Virgil’s thigh. The pain was real enough and his warm blood looked black rather than silver. This wound had the effect of goading Virgil into action with the only weapon at his disposal, the monstrous shark’s tooth. For the first time, he noticed it was lit like the tail end of a huge firefly. Not knowing what else to do, he swung the tooth like a sword in front of him. A fan of blue fire-fly light sliced through the air. All fighting stopped as this phenomenon was noticed. Two men had their grass capes cut open and were reacting to flows of silvery blood. Virgil swung the tooth again, catching a young warrior from Rurutu below the knees, causing him to tumble into the water and disappear. After these two slices, Virgil was getting the hang of his weapon, but the two armies had now reached a decision. With one accord they laid down their weapons and took off their war headbands. Virgil Verbal could take them all prisoner. He had won the battle, or stopped it. There was little time to gloat as Virgil remembered Aitu’s challenge to rescue Princess Hatiki-tiki. It was beginning to be light enough to see. Nowhere in either group of captives was there anyone who could pass for a Rapa princess. In the midst of his befuddlement, Virgil felt a tug at his elbow. Little Boatman was pointing out onto the bay where a single hull canoe with six men paddling was heading for open water. Virgil swung his shark tooth. A fan shaped sheet of light sliced through the air, far short of the canoe. By the time Virgil recovered his wits, Little Boatman had started his Evinrude outboard motor and was frantically waving to Virgil to get aboard. Virgil barely kept his balance as the boat shot forward. The sleek canoe and the little motorboat were nearly matched if they 60

had an even start, but the canoe had a head start. The canoe, however, was heading for the sea down the center of the C-shaped bay and Little Boatman aimed his motorboat at a point straight across the bay ahead of it. This narrowed the distance enough for the boy to coach Virgil to take another swing. By now Virgil was thinking the Princess must be on the canoe. He didn’t know what the shark’s tooth was capable of, but he decided to see what would happen if he sliced the water rather than the men and their boat. Daring to rise briefly to get a good swing, Virgil sent a crescent of blue light toward the space where the canoe was about to be. The light sliced the water in two, creating a trough, followed, of course, by a wave as the water filled it up. The canoe hit this turbulence with the force of a surfer going the wrong way into a wave. Their escape was swamped. By this time the little motorboat had gotten to the canoe and Virgil heroically jumped into the flooded vessel and began feeling for the body of the Princess. The canoe was a long, narrow one, but Virgil was frustrated to get from end to end without retrieving drowning Princess Hatiki-tiki. The paddlers had swum to shore and were staring back toward Virgil, wallowing about in their water-logged canoe. As had happened several times before in his life, Virgil felt his heroics disintegrate into comedy. This feeling tended to multiply when the motorboat pulled alongside the sinking canoe with Little Boatman and Princess Hatiki-tiki grinning at him. The sun was coming up by the time Virgil, Little Boatman and Princess Hatiki-tiki clambered ashore below Morongo Uta. Virgil’s wound had stopped bleeding but had begun to throb. He decided to ignore it as long as possible. They took their time getting back up to the stone-fenced terraces of the old stronghold. Aitu was still wearing his crown of red chief ’s feathers and was painted white with scarlet markings. The rest of the small group were squatting reverently before a group of short stone pillars on which Fetia had placed what looked like bundles of twigs and leaves. “Princess Hatiki-tiki has been rescued,” Aitu announced, as though this was news. In the full light of day the Princess had lost some of her splendor and seemed more like a native of Ahurei wearing a coil of leaves on her head. Virgil glanced down at the bay gleaming in the distance and could see no double-hull war canoes heading out to sea. Aitu continued, “Ta’aroa has declared Ponui the hero and Makemake for the year.” Virgil looked around to see who Ponui was but everyone was looking at him. “You must go to Rapa Nui,” Aitu declared. “Now.” 61

Aitu took his headband of red feathers off and planted it on the startled Englishman. “No time for paint,” Fetia said, regretfully. Gedolfa protested, “We have no tickets and it’s six more days till the boat to Tahiti.” “Thor Heyerdahl was the most intuitive explorer who ever visited these seas,” Temoe responded. “He knew there was a special channel between Rapa Iti and Rapa Nui. But he never found it because he thought only about ocean currents and wind streams.” Virgil was getting an uneasy feeling about this. “What is it that energizes the channel between here and Easter Island?” “You don’t want to know,” Fetia told him. Aitu was growing fidgety. “You need to go,” he repeated. Fetia threw some glowing bits of charcoal onto the tinder lying on top of the pillars and they began to smoke. Aitu reclaimed the shark’s tooth. Little Boatman handed Gedolfa the canvas sack with their clothes in it. “Use your sticks,” Temoe suggested. They waved their wands and chanted Dissendium, which had worked before. Easter Island is a pathetic ghost of its former glory when it was covered with trees and divided into “estates” presided over by ancestral spirits and ruled by rival chiefs (or whatever they were called – the legends have died as this old Moai culture was replaced by the Bird-man Culture and then that was replaced by Christianity adopted by the devastated survivors of the slave trade). The Easter Island protective spirits have been defeated and the great stone statues have been toppled. Probably the most often visited stone Moai is the statue named Hoa Hakananai’a in the British Museum. All that’s left on Rapa Nui is the hole in the ground where Hoa Hakananai’a used to be … and the powerful bones of a forgotten sacrifice victim buried before Hoa was installed and crowned. 62

Somehow on the trip across the South Pacific from Rapa Iti to Rapa Nui Virgil acquired a bird’s egg and lost his loincloth and feather crown. With a loud POP he apparated on a tiny ledge near the top of a cliff every bit as tall as the one in Rurutu. He was alone. Very alone. Below him the surf pounded. Sooty terns swirled over the water and around the tiny island of Moto Nui. His glimpse in that direction made him dizzy. Looking up he saw he was in an arm’s reach from the top of the cliff and there were eager hands reaching down to him. He held his free hand up and found himself being hoisted onto the brow of the cliff still clutching the egg. From that moment his feet never touched the ground. He was carried on the shoulders of half a dozen boisterous men to a pavilion set up in front of an Easter Island Moai painted white with the same red swirls and lines Aitu had had but with impressive eyes inlaid with mother of pearl. A small crowd of 20 or 30 people had gathered. Virgil noticed they seemed divided equally between those rather fully dressed, and those wearing leaf and feather skirts and aprons with strings of flowers. In the pavilion Virgil was relieved to be given a feather skirt to wear, amazed to hear himself being called Ponui, and surprised to have a long feather cape draped on his shoulders and a fairly elaborate version of the headband with red feathers he had just lost. It was beginning to feel like he had been expected. Meanwhile, attracted by different forces, Gedolfa emerged from her trans-Pacific journey in a grassy depression in the ground. Some distance away a festivity was going on. She could see it as she crawled out of the hole she was in. She still wore the skirt from Rapa Iti she had been given after she had been released from being tied, hands and feet, between two stone poles ready, she gathered, to have her heart cut out and eaten raw. Her imagination was not far off but had not included what was planned for her and Virgil’s heads. She had the canvas bag which reminded her to wonder where Virgil had gone. And, to her immense relief, she still held her unique Chilean myrtle wand with braided hairs of a Thestral inside. She would have felt terrible, and powerless, if she had lost that wand, made out of a rare piece of wood inherited from a great, great, great grandfather who sailed the seven seas. She fished around in the bag and for modesty’s sake wrapped a long strand of tapa cloth around her torso and headed toward the party. First to see her coming across the grass-covered slope were Kai and Tarlae. They tore themselves away from the spectacle of nude Virgil being vested in the robes of Makemake, and scampered over to try to smother Gedolfa with hugs. When the three got back to the pavilion a wrinkled, wizened man was 63

holding the assembly spellbound with a chant he seemed only able to mumble. Kai caught the drift and explained, “It is a prophesy that Ponui, the 400th Makemake would be a white man sent from a god named A’a to Hoa Hakananai’a. On that day A’a and Hoa would end the age-long battles and resolve to be at peace in Ta’aroa.” A girl about the age of Little Boatman came over to Gedolfa and said, “Hoa Hakananai’a!” Her eyes glistened in wonderment. It did not matter to the little girl that this white woman bore no resemblance to the Easter Island ancestral statues. The girl knew the site belonged to Hoa Hakananai’a. Then she said to her mother, “I saw Hoa Hakananai’a pop out over there.” She pointed to the depression from which Gedolfa had emerged. The girl’s mother tried to shush her but the old man had heard what the girl had said. To the shaman it all fit together. He declared the prophecy fulfilled. With that, the festival accelerated. As soon as he was able, Virgil asked a Rapa Nui graduate student, home from Honolulu University for the summer, “What is the Makemake?” She was astounded he did not know, since he had just been accorded this great honor. “Back in the days before Christianity there was a time when the clans of Rapa Nui were united in the religion of Tangata manu, the Birdman Cult. It brought an end to the clan rivalries over building the biggest Moai and the clan wars. They had a contest, instead. On the day that the terns returned to the island down there, there was a race between one young man from each clan to climb down the cliff, swim across to the island, get the first egg, and get back up here with it. The winner was declared Makemake, honorary chief, and his was the ruling clan on Rapa Nui for the year. The winner lived in a palace – well, it was a nice house – and was waited on hand and foot.” “Why am I Makemake then?” Virgil asked. “I did none of those things.” “You came over the cliff with an egg,” the student pointed out. “Yes. How did I get that egg?” The student looked around to see if they were being overheard. “Mana-magic, I think,” she said rather tentatively. “We met a man on Rapa Iti who was called Makemake,” Virgil said. The student knew about this. “Aitu was the 368th Makemake. Then he moved to Rapa Iti where he is chief of the Old Ways. “Was it Aitu who sent us here?” Virgil wondered, not expecting an answer. The student answered anyway, “A’a is moving you around. But your friend over there is being drawn from place to place by her ancestors.” Virgil was overwhelmed. “Oh, yes,” the student went on, “Her great, great, some64

thing-great grandfather was a sea captain and he had a wife on every island. His children were outcasts, lovely bi-racial children, but clan-less. He rescued some and others were allowed to escape or were ‘chosen’.” “Chosen for what?” “You know what,” the student said, refusing to be forced to say what she thought was detestable and obvious. “So there was a child buried alive under every one of those statues?” Virgil was incredulous. “Where have you been so far?” the student asked. “Rurutu, Rapa Nui, here,” Virgil recounted. “Taking Virgin Airlines home?” the student asked. “Virgins are what got her this far.” Virgil shuddered. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell Gedolfa this.” “She knows,” the student said confidently. “Whether she admits it or not she knows. Witches know.” “Will I have to stay here a year, to be Makemake?” Virgil asked, anxiously. The student shook her head. “No. The party is only one day long anymore.” Two years later Temoe from Rapa Iti graduated from the University of Otago in New Zealand and was awarded a European Union graduate fellowship to Newcastle University, which has a long-term interest in Rapa Nui and the other Austral Islands. Temoe spent Christmas at Attlee Castle. One afternoon Virgil wanted to know, “About the pig?” “The pig was to be dinner after the annual battle, but considering how the Princess was rescued by the two of you the pig was given to Amura, the Little Boatman. Turned out the pig was pregnant and had 6 piglets before too long. Amura means “big smile” and because of you he’s really smiling now”.

65

The Short Hobgoblin War

A

familiar, large, maroon book hovered in front of Professor Virgil Verbal as his third year students came from breakfast into the semi-circular classroom. The November sky in the Great Hall ceiling had looked overcast with scudding clouds fleeing from the north. But the “Advanced Adventures” classroom had only an arrow-slit window at the far end which was always covered with thick black drapes. Student chairs had been replaced by cloak racks on which hung green capes and large scarves which Professor Verbal was modeling. Without needing to be coached, the students put down their backpacks and donned capes and scarves. “Today we will venture into Sherwood Forest…” the teacher said, matter-of-factly, even though what was left of the famous forest was a long Hogwarts Express train ride south. “…into the fourth century,” Professor Verbal finished his announcement. “Ranklin will be our guide.” Many of the ten students taking the elective course on Advanced Adventures knew that Ranklin was a house elf attached to the Attlee estate which Professor Verbal had inherited from his Anglo-Saxon ancestors. Like most teachers at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Professor Verbal did not talk about his family, although some students assumed he had descended from a long line of magical ancestors despite his affinity with Muggles and his love of history and academic studies. It was altogether possible that the ghost of Professor Binns had mentioned the Attlees and their aristocratic Verbal branch in some droning lecture the students had dozed through. If he had been more forceful they might have perked up because they liked benign, bland Professor Verbal. Quite despite his character, his imagination and creative teaching were such fun that he drew a loyal group of students year after 66

year. There was nothing pale and colorless about the adventures that poured out of his maroon book floating in the center of the room. Unlike such standard courses as Herbology, Potions and Transfiguration, Adventures was not always confined to the present or even the past, as was History. Some stories moved students into the future, but it did seem that today’s adventure into Sherwood Forest in the fourth century would take them into the past. “If we only had access to a preserved wisp of memory from our intended informants we could perhaps impose on our Headmistress to let us use the Pensieve for our journey, but you have now mastered the art of this sort of travel through the drier medium of old books,” he joked. In an earlier course the students had been “enchanted” into the stories they read. But by now, merely touching the maroon leather would get them transported. For a few students, just imagining touching the book or looking at its enthralling pages was enough. However, to get them all to the same destination, Professor Verbal began reading, “On the day of Samhain in the Christian year 409 a fateful confrontation was undertaken in a little Roman village with the pretentious name Antonius, a short way north of Segelocum, which is now the hamlet of Littleborough in Nottinghamshire. In a field on one side of the village Druid priests prepared to sacrifice a virgin, while a Christian missionary just arrived from across the Channel was preparing to oppose it.” The classroom faded. The students found themselves huddled in misty shadows at the edge of a thick wood. Before them stood a giant figure made of sticks and straw with a gaping hole in its torso. A young woman lay on the ground at its feet while townspeople watched a naked dancer feverishly menace the victim with a spear in one hand and a long knife in the other. The dancer was screaming chants while a chorus of townspeople droned responses accompanied by three drums. The woman, clothed only in tufts of dry grass bound by rope, was perfectly still, as though resigned to her fate or drugged. Opposite them a lone figure holding a wooden cross accompanied by two boys, was also chanting from a book one of the boys held open. In truth, the Christian monk could not read the book, but he had memorized what he wanted to say. The monk was dressed as a Roman, as were the elders of the village. His chant was in Latin, the language of the Romans who had conquered all this part of the island of Britannia, which the people considered their whole world. From time to time the naked shaman took a slice at the supine woman, catching a few blades of grass, making the people gasp. Each time he did this 67

the monk thrust the wooden cross forward and forbade danger to come to the girl. It seemed a futile gesture. What could sticks of wood do against a flint spear and iron sword? This contest was not what it appeared to be. It was not about the Roman-Celtic monk against the Anglo-Celtic Druid. Nor was it a battle between the old order and the new, as later accounts would have it. A much more definite and final struggle was going on with the Druid and the Christian just holding the attention of the townspeople to keep them out of the way. There was no clue that the monk and the Druid knew they were a sideshow while the main event went on deeper in the thick wood. Ranklin tugged at Professor Verbal’s cape and he waved his students to follow him. They turned away from the unconcluded sacrifice that would decide if the village was to become Christian. They walked soundlessly into the dense forest. After but a few hundred paces they came upon a scene that blotted out all thought of the village and its drama. There before them gaped a large hole in the ground as if the earth had sunk causing a long hollow. Clustered around the rim of this crevasse were thousands of creatures. They were of similar build, like hairy little men and women the size of four-yearold human children, with big pointed ears, enormous noses, bulbous eyes and heads too large for their small powerful bodies. At sight of this mob the students all glanced at Ranklin standing beside Professor Verbal. These were Ranklin’s ancestors, surely. The house elf paid attention only to the scene before them. In the middle of the pit, two clusters of about ten individuals each were milling about and apparently jeering at each other. Then the action became more intense. With a sudden gesture, two of one group seemed to devastate two of the other. The attackers had not touched their targets, but the victims crumpled in agony. Chaos ensued, accompanied by cracks as loud as thunder when boulders were hacked in two by unseen forces. This escalated the action and a group on the rim waved their arms as if to concentrate the air to produce a whirlwind. The wind was countered by bolts of lightning. Here and there the battle got personal and some individuals sparred, attempting to pull ears and gouge eyes. These attacks were all ineffectual, as no one was actually wounded. Pride, it seems, was the target. The goal was to humiliate each other. The student spectators could make nothing of the fighting. The students couldn’t even tell who was on which side. The combatants looked the same. But apparently some objective was reached because all at once, after quite a breathtaking final melee, half the group flocked into the cavern and were 68

gone, while the other half clustered around their champions without, however, displaying signs of victory or defeat. Whatever had been decided was not about which side won. A couple of student noticed that Ranklin was stock still, as if thunderstruck or dumbfounded. The hundreds who had not withdrawn underground disbanded, moving away in all directions, until there were none left to be seen. “What was that?” one of the students asked. “That was the war of the Hobgoblins,” Professor Verbal replied. “On this day the Hobs and the Goblins separated, each withdrawing to the conditions they preferred.” “Couldn’t they have done that without a fight?” a young wizard from Aberdeen asked. “There was the question of whether one group could dominate the other, I suppose,” Professor Verbal replied. “Was it a draw?” a witch from Surry asked. “It was,” the teacher assured her. “From then on the Cofgodas of the Anglo-Saxons and the Lares of the Romans in Britain remained domestic. We think of them as elves, or Brownies in Scotland, although ones like the Kobold from Germany tend to be even more attached to hearth and home. The Goblins prefer the underground with its minerals and mines and are known throughout our lands as Dwarves.” “But they are Goblins,” a Slytherin student insisted. “How have the elves been turned into slaves?” a girl asked, avoiding a glance from Ranklin. “I think you will find they are not all so subservient,” Professor Verbal suggested. “Those attached to magical families and households have been severely subjugated. But outside our magical world elves can be quite independent. They all retain great skills, when allowed to manifest them.” “They can spin straw into gold,” one Muggle-born student recalled from the story of Rumpelstiltskin. “And produce wonderful leather slippers,” remembered another. “Puck,” announced a third. The students born in strict magical families had never heard of dangerous Puck or “Robin Goodfellow” as he was called. Even after the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of terror against the Muggles, independent elves were seldom mentioned. “Perhaps it is time to return to our classroom,” Professor Verbal suggested since no further adventures seemed forthcoming right then in Sherwood Forest. 69

Ranklin, for once, was inattentive to his master. Still staring at the now-vacant crevasse he muttered, “We were once one. We were gods.” “We were, we all were, if we go back far enough,” Verbal reassured his elf and his students. Ranklin was never quite the same after that.

70

Christmas in Attlee Castle Christmas Trip

Robin could not go home for Christmas. He could never go home again. He no longer had a home. The morning he had been taken from his family’s Council Housing flat to platform 9 ¾ in King’s Cross station was the last time he saw his family. His father had made it quite clear that if Robin persisted in accepting the absurd invitation to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry he was never to try to contact any members of the family again, nor was he to let their neighbors know where he was going and especially what he was “trying to become”. “But I am a Wizard!” he protested. He had been sure about it ever since his letter from Hogwarts came on his 11th birthday. “It’s who I am. I didn’t choose to be this way. I am not deliberately trying to shame the family. I’d quit if I could.” His father refrained, this time, from slapping him for his cheek. But his 71

tone was threatening when he sneered, “I do not want to hear another word out of your filthy mouth, you ungrateful … [censored].” This was the last row Robin had had with his father and, measured against earlier ones beginning on his birthday on the Ides of March, it was icy and formal. Still, it shut off Robin’s last hope of reconciliation. He was frozen out of the family. There was nothing left to do but leave. There was no doubt that Robin Astor Havorford was endowed with magic. It fairly oozed out of his fingertips and blazed in his brilliant blue eyes. But that did not help him like it. After nearly a year at Hogwarts Robin had contemplated running away to live on his own as he knew other boys had done. He knew one or two of them and that is what had dissuaded him. Their lives were wretched. What they had to do in order to survive Robin would have quickly found impossible, and he knew it. So, he could not go back home and he could not find the courage to take to the streets. Besides, he was in Hogwarts and that was a very long way from London and the only streets he knew. Following the Battle of Hogwarts in which legendary Harry Potter had defeated Lord Voldemort in single combat, relations between magical people and Muggles had improved. In fact, Robin’s whole class had been born several years after that, and it was not part of their shared experience. Hogwarts students of all types went back home for Christmas with their families. So as Christmas came again there were only a handful of students who were not leaving Hogwarts for the holidays. Not a single Hufflepuff was going to keep Robin company in the Hufflepuff common room behind the vinegar barrels. After collecting papers at the end of Enchantment class Professor Verbal dismissed his students with a jolly, “Merry, merry Christmas!” But as they were rising he added, “A word, Mr. Havorford, if you please.” “I wonder if you would consider a change of plans for Christmas. I am told you have signed to remain here, but if it is not too much of an imposition I’d appreciate your accompanying Victor Okonjo and me to Attlee Castle for Christmas. Victor’s family has gone back to Nigeria and it’s too far for him to join them, so I have invited him to come home with me. I imagine it would be more comfortable for him to have a Hogwarts colleague.” Taking Robin’s silence for agreement, Verbal continued, “You’ll take the Hogwarts Christmas Express. I’ll see you there.” At King’s Cross station, Victor and Robin were surprised to be met by a driver dressed in livery and then they were led to a vintage Bentley Continental Flying Spur for a luxurious ride north. Robin’s family had never owned a car, nor had Victor’s. Until they were getting into the Bentley Robin 72

had never thought about Virgil Verbal’s life outside Hogwarts. The teacher had blended into the Hogwarts scene and hardly seemed entitled to another lifestyle. One aspect of a person’s identity often overwhelms other possibilities that way. The driver, whose name was Gerald, took the A-12 north past Ipswich to Lowestoft, and then took a small road to Attlee Castle. They arrived after dark, which made entry into the Anglo-Saxon castle very much less dramatic than it would have been earlier in the day when they could have seen that the Castle appeared to be isolated on an island. Gerald handed Robin and Victor over to the Attlee house elf, Ranklin. House elves keep Hogwarts in running order, but seldom appear in view. Neither Robin nor Victor had ever seen an elf. Robin was startled to be greeted by a naked, hairy being, barely three feet tall with large ears and a bulbous nose. “Greetings, young masters,” Ranklin croaked, his voice divulging that he was far older than he looked. Just recently Ranklin had learned of the illustrious lineage he shared with elves and dwarfs, going back to Roman gods. After that, he declined to be burdened with wearing servants’ rags and, except for rare occasions, shunned either the starched black and white attire of a butler or the silk toga he had had specially made for his liberation celebration. Liberated though he was, Ranklin was devoted to Attlee Castle and its residents, whom he now thought he outranked, noble as they were. The next morning, the day before Christmas, Ranklin came to fetch Robin and Victor. “Master would like you to join him for breakfast in the solarium.” As the boys followed the ambling elf, it was clear that Attlee Castle was both modest and ancient. It had been built as protection against Viking raiders, so it was strong rather than elegant in any sense. Robin thought it looked like a small version of the Tower of London. Over the years two wings had been added to accommodate Attlees, Verbals and their frequent guests with more comfortable quarters. “Today we will go Christmas shopping,” The Lord Verbal said by way of greeting his students. “I hope you slept well. Your tower room was the bridal chamber for the first Lord Verbal and long before that it was the prison for a few days for Viking chief Harald the Horrible, who unwisely tried to pillage the countryside without reckoning on our having acquired certain ‘extra abilities’.” Noticing the boys’ gaunt, amazed expressions, he asked, “You did sleep well, didn’t you?” “Oh, yes!” the two quickly responded. “I have no money,” Robin confessed as he remembered the plan for the 73

day. “Nor do I,” said Victor, “except a few Knuts and one Galleon,” which he couldn’t imagine spending around Suffolk. Verbal chuckled. “You will see how accommodating people are here along the North Sea.” Looking at the boys over his handful of scone and strawberry jam, the professor informed them, “Robin will buy something for a very old woman, and you, Victor, will buy something for ME!” Before the boys could repeat their protest, Verbal said, “I will loan you the money for these things and you can pay me back at some future date in Pounds, Euros, or Galleons.” As they were cruising along in a silver Rolls Royce that Robin began to suspect was not just painted silver, he asked, “Who is the old woman I am to buy a present for?” “Ah, that is a long story I will let her tell you, but I will suggest to you she adores Dutch chocolate covered cherries.” After that, Robin’s shopping was easy. He also found a soft wool scarf for Victor, who was constantly shivering despite his repeated English winters. Finding his little loan of a few pounds scarcely depleted by these two purchases he decided to get some chocolate for Gerald and Ranklin as well as Professor Verbal. Even then, his wallet was only a little lighter. Victor had the same experience. Meanwhile, Gerald and Verbal were off gathering Christmas crackers and festive decorations for the Yuletide table. As dusk came, Virgil bundled the boys back into the Rolls and took them to a cathedral several miles from the castle. On the way Victor commented, “I didn’t know wizards went for this sort of thing.” The professor winked conspiratorially, “Why, some of the greatest wizards can be found wearing surplices and copes … white under-robes and colorful capes,” he explained. The event on Christmas Eve was “Nine Lessons and Carols”, an English tradition that “should always precede the coming of Father Christmas,” Victor enthusiastically asserted. The Lord Verbal was recognized at the cathedral doors and so he and the boys were ushered to a pew of honor which provided everyone the chance to see them process, but also gave them the best seats to view the choirs and clergy. At one point Robin leaned over to whisper to Virgil, “Is that man the Chief Warlock?” The man certainly seemed awesome enough to be a great Wizard. But Virgil identified him as a mere Muggle bishop. After the candles and incense, the pipe organ and trumpets, the boys’ choir 74

and the massed choir, as they were leaving through a tower where change ringing was regaling the countryside, Virgil confided, “Really, lads, our wizards could do with a bit of pageantry like this, don’t you agree?”

Christmas Day Ranklin did not need to arouse the boys the next morning. They were awakened by aromas flooding the castle, and by the thought of Christmas. Clearly the guest list was expanded as Robin and Victor realized when they emerged into the great hall wearing new jeans and jumpers that had been laid out for them by unseen hands in the night. The great hall was small by Hogwarts standards, although it had a fireplace large enough to roast an ox and tall narrow stained glass windows with occult patterns that seemed to melt into different shapes as the sun passed by. The hall had been transformed from its somber stone with oaken trim into a holiday venue. A round table in the center would seat twenty when dinner was served. Meanwhile, early guests were making do with tidbits and heated drink. A trio of musicians strolled about playing an instrument with several strings, a pipe apparently carved out of a wooden vegetable, and a one-headed drum with a rattle and bell. The boys felt shy among strangers, none of whom seemed close to their age except a small person of indeterminate age, sex, and ethnicity, who zoomed hither and yon engaging everyone in snippets of conversation, apparently unconcerned about continuity. After a while, Ranklin, for once clad discreetly in a large wrap-around apron, escorted an aged woman adorned (rather than simply “dressed”) in a violet velvet gown spangled with glittering silver stars set with colorful jewels. She wore a matching turban on the side of which perched a small gold bird with sapphire eyes and rubies on its breast, which tended to preen itself when no one was looking. She carried a staff that served as a walking stick and resembled a scepter. As if on signal, Lord Virgil emerged from his chambers and glided over to her as she was being seated on a gilded bench with cushions and a bit of canopy overhead. “Welcome, Dame Agatha and merry Christmas,” Virgil called as he got close enough to bestow a kiss on her cheek and get one in return. Dinner was served very soon after that. Poppers popped and everyone retrieved a party hat. Then a parade of waiters recruited from young, out-of-work fishermen from Lowestoft, carried in a boar’s head (or facsimile), a large roast goose, tureens of potatoes and pars75

nips, green, yellow and red vegetables, mountainous molded salads, purple wine and much more. Conversation was limited to those seated on either side, and tended to take second place to the feast. Only after the flaming pudding and final round of beverages, when the waiters retired to their own repast in Gerald’s decorated garage, did the party resume its native informality. For starters, Lord Virgil proposed a toast to Dame Agatha Vegford-Freelander Astor, “the most fearless witch in Suffolk and all of Anglo-Saxon England!” The guests were on their feet instantly raising glasses and nodding toward the grand dame. In response to their cheers, she hoisted her staff and discharged a shower of confetti and streamers.

THE CARRYING OF THE BOAR’S HEAD By now it was clear the guests were composed of witches and wizards with any stray Muggles being totally initiated, as the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy had been gradually relaxed. Games began as well as a type of dancing, never seen elsewhere, that must have come from about the time of Harald the Horrible’s capture and disposition. Under cover of the festivities, Lord Verbal spirited Robin into a side room where he was surprised to find Dame Agatha waiting alone beside a small table that held two wrapped gifts, one which Robin recognized as his box of Dutch chocolate covered cherries. So, Robin realized, this venerable woman 76

was to be the recipient and this meeting was what Professor Verbal’s invitation to Attlee Castle had been all about. He had little time to ponder this plot. Addressing Dame Agatha, Verbal introduced Robin, “This is Robin Astor Havorford, whom we were discussing.” “How do you do, Robin? Come sit by me here,” the old woman patted the armrest of a chair beside her, and added, “We will be fine, Virgil,” dismissing him. “Tell me about yourself,” she ordered. “There is not much to tell,” Robin responded. In his agitation, his Cockney accent showed itself. Robin heard it and reddened. “I know more about you than you might imagine,” Dame Agatha confessed, “but I would like to hear it from you.” Bracing his feet on the floor, Robin launched himself into the deep. “I am a wizard,” he admitted, only slightly emboldened by the knowledge that Dame Agatha was “the most fearless witch in Suffolk and all Anglo-Saxon England.” “I am the only wizard in our family, ever,” he added. “You are wrong about that,” Dame Agatha filled in a moment’s hesitation. “But tell me how you first knew you were empowered with magic.” “I did not know what caused strange things to happen, nor did anyone suggest they were not deliberate acts of a delinquent,” Robin quoted his teacher’s conclusions, often reported to his parents. “They would never believe me when I denied trying to do those things, and they didn’t listen when I said I hadn’t meant to do them. Then on my eleventh birthday the letter from Hogwarts was dropped on me by an owl. Then I understood. When I showed the letter to my father he got mad. He said things I cannot repeat.” “I have heard them all before, I’m sure,” Dame Agatha conceded. Robin took her nod to mean “continue”, so he did. “I got another letter when I had not replied to the first one. And then a young woman I had seen a few times in the neighborhood spoke to me on my way to our flat and told me she’d come on September first to take me to the train. ‘What about the school supplies, the wand an’ stuff?’ I asked. ‘It’s taken care of,’ she said. And so I went to Hogwarts.” “Was your family happy about that?” Dame Agatha asked, showing great gentleness that hinted she already knew the answer. “We fought about it many times,” Robin admitted, holding back a sob. She let him recover and then persisted, “How do you feel about Hogwarts now?” “I was sorted into Hufflepuff.” 77

“As was I, a century ago.” It was unclear if she was jesting about the date or telling the plain truth. “Go on,” she coaxed. “I do not want to be a magician, a wizard, or anything!” Robin retorted. “I want to be normal! I want to be cured!” After a moment, “I want a family.” Dame Agatha straightened herself minimally. “Now it is my turn to tell my story,” she said. “I have no memory of my mother or father,” Dame Agatha began. “There was a war going on. There is usually a war, it seems. But this one surrounded me. I supposed, after that, I was an orphan. My family never appeared and I could remember nothing before the war. All my life before that was a blank. I managed to survive by theft and larceny. Does this surprise you? The one thing I wanted most was the thing I had least, family. Of that I had naught and nary. I had strangeness, however. Strange things happened to those who proposed to abuse me, little waif that I was. At age 10 I was the size of Ranklin, but hairless and skinny. I had no family, no roots and no history. I had never been to school longer than a few days. I had cunning, speed and stealth, but I had no future, nothing but a very narrow, unpleasant present. I had no days, nothing as long as that, only moments at a time. But into that brevity an owl came one day bearing a letter all sealed and lovely, which I could not read. You know what it said. They all say the same thing. But I had no more use for the letter than I had for any memory of my past. I needed meals not mail. Not a week later the strangest woman I have ever seen stepped out of a shadow and pulled me into an alley between two buildings. Her hold was frightfully strong and she called me by name. ‘Aggie,’ she said, snappy and demanding. ‘We’re going to eat,’ she said. That got my attention. ‘Now you can run or eat. Decide,’ she said. I decided, ‘why run when you can eat … if she’s telling the truth.’ She was. We ate and then one thing led to another and in a couple of weeks I was on the train to Hogwarts. I was intending to find out what I could steal and then get away. But Hogwarts is not a place you can steal from and get away. My stealing came to a sudden end, as you can imagine. “It was there I met Edward Astor. He was an exceptional wizard, two years ahead of me. Ah, the stories I could tell you about our walks around the lake, into Hogsmeade, adventures.” She seemed lost in a dream for a moment, then snapped out of it. “He was no good at Quidditch. But he made up for it in … in other ways.” Her pale cheeks flushed. Robin pretended not to notice. “We were married, of course. At first it seemed impossible, he being Sir Edward Astor from a noble, landed family, until we found out who my great grandparents had been. Minor nobles, but noble at least, with a coat of arms 78

and all. They had thrown out their second son, my father, when he was found out to be magical. Wizards were not allowed. I later learned my father and mother had been killed in the Yorkshire Elvish Uprising.” She paused and asked, “Have you ever wondered about your middle name, Astor?” Robin nodded. “Your great grandmother was my husband’s sister. Back in her time witchcraft and wizardry were horrible crimes. Any hint of such would cause scandal and exile. People’s names were erased from ledgers and forgotten. Only your mother did remember that somebody back up the line was named Astor and she liked the sound of it. Fortunately. That’s how we found you.” “Then you are my great-great aunt,” Robin gasped, counting on his fingers. “After a fashion. My husband was your great-great uncle. But the main thing is we had but one son, who was killed in the war. Not Grindelwald’s war or Voldermort’s war, Hitler’s war. There are a few nieces and nephews but none to my liking and none magical. You are the first wizard in three generations, since Effring Astor, your mother’s mother’s mother. Do you know what I am about to propose?” “I dare not guess.” “Clever lad. Well, caution first. I propose we get to know one another. As I am alone these many years, and you are newly disinherited, perhaps we can become family, one quite old and one very young. What do you think of that?” “It’s overwhelming.” “Intelligent, too. We can try it out and see if it fits.” After that the Dutch chocolate covered cherries seemed trivial, but Dame Agatha was delighted, and Robin was enthralled with a dress robe that was the envy of Hufflepuff and Hogwarts.

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Hogmanay The two years following the Battle of Hogwarts were very hard times for many a magical household. That was especially true for families who had lost members in Voldemort’s year back in power when Death Eaters and bands of Snatchers rampaged the magical world trying to purge all Muggles and Mudbloods. Few were more hard-pressed than Tira Kitner and her granddaughter Maggie. Both of Tira’s sons had been killed along with all their families, sparing only little Maggie who was now ten. They had lost everything. They survived in a highland hut above the village of Gilfenning, just a fair broom-ride from Hogwart’s Castle. As the shortest day of the year passed and Christmas came and went, the weather grew more severe. Maggie was now old enough to share her grandmother’s struggles as well as anxieties that the dour Scottish matron did nothing to hide. Of the necessities for winter they had little, little oats for porridge, hardly enough wood for the fire to last another week, none of anything else. Then began first bright glimmers. A few days before Hogmanay two people from Gilfenning made their way up to Tira and Maggie’s hut with a proposal. “We are going to revive the ‘old way’ a wee bit,” they explained. For years Gilfenning was one of the few places in Scotland to end the year with the burning of the Clavie. To that custom they wanted to add another vague tradition from the distant past. “Make us a Sun Goddess, will’ye?” Ailie Gordon asked. Maggie was mystified but Tira was alarmed. Anything that drew attention to the ‘old way’ was going to arouse suspicions. But Ailie produced a picture from the Inverness Courier of “the Catalonian Sun Goddess” used in a Hogmanay parade in Edinburgh. “If they can do it down there, we can do it up here,” Ailie declared. The picture placated Tira a little, but she said, “Why do ya come ta me?” She tried to keep the fact she was a witch a secret. Had they found 80

out? Was trouble on the way?” “Who knows the old ways better?” was the only answer Ailie would give. “Tell us what you need.” “Just some flour for paste and some strips of cloth.” Ailie and her friend left a bag of oatmeal “as a down-payment”. Within two days the sun goddess image was ready for delivery. Meanwhile, preparations were underway for the burning of the Clavie. An oaken whiskey barrel was sawed in half and securely mounted on a pole. It was split apart and stuffed with twigs and splintered wood doused in coal oil. As far as the villagers knew this was just one of many ways of sending off the old year with fire. In other places burning balls were hurled, torch parades were held, and bonfires were set. In larger cities fireworks were colorful. Some brave and foolhardy fellows breathed fire or twirled spectacularly burning batons. The Clavie was spectacular enough for Gilfenning. After it was lit, the parade wended its way to the top of Gilfenning Ridge led by three strangely dressed sisters carrying the Sun Goddess. The whole parade could be seen from Tira and Maggie’s hut, but Tira merely stood in the shadows and huffed at this imaginary magic. The ruckus was still going on when Tira and Maggie were startled to hear a male voice call from the path to their door. “It’s a brigand!” Maggie squealed. “Brigands don’t announce their coming,” Tira retorted. “But if it’s after midnight it’s our ‘first footing’! Light the lamp and see who it is.” At Maggie’s invitation a tall dark man stepped into the circle of lamp-light. He was followed by two younger versions of himself, all dressed for the chilly New Year’s night, not in tartan wool but distinctly wizardly attire, complete with peaked hats. Tira held her breath. Yes! The first foot across her threshold on Hogmanay night was a tall dark man. Their luck had turned! Tira could hardly keep from smiling. The dark stranger said not a word but set a bag on the table in the middle of the room before waving a stick in his hand at the glowing fire in the hearth causing it to blaze brightly again as if an armload of kindling had been 81

thrown on it. One of the pair with him unpacked the sack, bringing out a bottle of whiskey (not the local Gilfinning kind, a mellower brand in a triangular bottle with a name that was very well known). Then came a ‘black bun’ stuffed with rich candied fruit and sweetmeat, a small symbolic sack of coal, one lump of which the other young wizard tossed onto the hearth producing a magically warm, multi-colored flame that would go on burning throughout the winter, and a heavy package of shortbread. Tira was beside herself. Not in decades had she seen such an auspicious thing as this first footing and set of gifts, and never had it happened to her. These were the traditional Hogmanay promises of a prosperous New Year. “I would not object to a slice of the black bun,” the tall man hinted, removing his hat. In better light, he was seen to be younger than Tira had first thought. Maggie scurried to cut the bun into six pieces for the five of them. Tira regained her wits as well, and opened the tall green bottle, tipping a splash into each of the two glasses she owned, offering one to the stranger. It was such a night and such an occasion that normal social formalities were foregone, but not forgotten. Tira thought of asking the names of the visitors and all the customary banter to become acquainted, but it felt wrong to interrupt this quiet event that seemed so fraught. Laughter and cavorting on the ridge were still going strong, but it no longer intruded into the hut where the dark stranger said, “Now for the last piece of the black bun,” as if it was special rather than simply left over. He handed it to Maggie. She was unsure what to do with it. Her hesitation ended when she was told, “Eat it carefully.” The reason was immediately clear when her bite produced a substantial gold coin. There were three others in that slice. “Now, two final things,” the stranger said. “Do you know of Hogwarts?” “Maggie misunderstood. “Tonight is Hogmanay,” she said. “Hogwarts,” the stranger repeated. Maggie lapsed into embarrassed silence. “It’s the witch school,” Tira replied, making it clear she had not been there. “I am a graduate, a year ago. My name is Dean Thomas and I have news. Next month you will be eleven, Maggie,” Dean said, as if Maggie might not know. “On September first I will come back here to take you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, if you would like to go.” Rather than pleased, Maggie was alarmed. “Oh, I cannot leave Grandma here alone,” she protested. Dean smiled for the first time. “Tira Kitner, your wand has been recovered from the scene where your family was massacred.” He drew the knobby shaft from his sleeve. “And with this and the help of these two,” he indicated his 82

helpers, “you will produce brooms.” Tira did not need to be told what kind of brooms. It had been the craft of Kitner women all the way back to Poland. Tirastreaks would soon be the most sought-after magical brooms in Europe by those who could afford one.

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Forest of Deep Magic Verucia Gaitlocke was the only Slytherin of her generation to be born of Muggle parents and grandparents as far back as anyone knows. That by no means says that Verucia’s heritage was of no consequence in the Muggle world. Her ancestry included links to the same Greek royalty as Prince Phillip, husband of Queen Elizabeth. Still, the idea that “mudbloods” make second-class witches was far from dead in the minds of most Slytherin parents even though the main characteristic of a Slytherin was a passionate desire to succeed, and Verucia certainly had that. The only problem for her was to decide on what to succeed at doing. She was a brilliant student, best in her year, every year; best overall since Herimone Granger a generation ago. As did Herminone, Verucia took Arithmancy, Runes, and other complicated courses. Along the way, she was the first Hogwarts student in several hundred years to read a Parthian text by Aponaxoris from 47 BC. It is astounding what treasures are in the library at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In the story that Verucia read, Aponaxoris says he had been taken to a city in the Forests of Omion by Simurgh. With such strange names that’s as far as most readers would have gotten but Verucia read the whole story and discovered that there were Parthian magicians 2000 years ago who were having fantastic adventures, or so Aponaxoris reported. “Who was Zhang Qian?” Verucia asked Professor Cho, her Advanced Arithmancy teacher. Cho looked at his star pupil with fresh amazement. “He was a Chinese explorer who is a greater hero in China than Christopher Columbus is in America,” Cho began. “Zhang Qian explored Central Asia and opened the Silk Road between Han China and the Roman Empire.” Cho reconsidered, “Where did you hear about Zhang Qian?” Verucia produced a roll of parchment on which a story was written in her own rapid handwriting, beginning with, “In the year that Mithridates I died and Zhang Qian set out for Hecatompylos the magi Rsama found a passageway to Omion….” “Mithridates sounds Persian,” Cho mused. “Parthian,” Verucia informed him. “Do you think the Forest of Omion really exists?” Verucia asked after a moment. Professor Cho had been reading the parchment, “Almost everything that Aponaxoris wrote about has been shown to be true or probably true if we can just figure out what his writings refer to. He was a keen scholar but he wrote 84

a lot based on hear-say.” “Was the Forest of Omion on the Silk Road?” Verucia wondered. Cho shook his head tentatively. “Not if Rsama took Simurgh to get there.” “Why not?” “Simurgh would only be needed to go to very magical places,” Cho said, avoiding calling the Forest of Omion a mythical forest although he thought of it as the kind of place Baba Yaga, the Russian witch, or Big Foot, the Himalayan giant, might be found. “I want to go there,” Verucia declared, with a glint in her golden-green eyes and her fingers clinching spasmodically. “Oh,” Cho retorted, a bit alarmed, “the Forest of Omion would be much harder to reach than the Forest of Dean.” Verucia looked at her teacher with something akin to disdain. Cho tried another tack to dissuade Verucia. “I imagine a Simurgh would be hard to find with all the restrictions the Ministry of Magic has imposed on magical beasts.” He laughed weakly at his little joke. Then thinking better of his light-hearted ridicule he asked, “Why would you want to go to the Forest of Omion?” “As you said,” Verucia replied, “it’s loaded with magic.” “Humor me with a little patience and caution,” Professor Cho said with quiet intensity. “Before you set off, as you are intending to do, at least find out more about the mage Rsama and the magical Simurgh.” It turned out there was a lot more to be discovered in the treasures of Hogwarts library about the Simurgh than about the illusive Rsama.

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Part 2 Verucia Gaitlocke concentrated on finding all she could about the great Simurgh so she could prove to Professor Cho she was ready to set out for the Forest of Omion. Of all the stories, she concluded two were most revealing. This is what she wrote: As the world began again, there was a vast sea. In the midst of it there arose a tall mountain. On top of the mountain stood a Som tree in which the great bird Simurgh roosted. She was immensely wise owing to the fact that she lived for 1700 years between her births and that had been going on for three creation cycles of the world. One day there appeared on the slopes of the mountain a fair young man who was desperate. Seeing his desperation and knowing all, she knew what made him desperate. Simurgh called to him. “Pluck some twigs from this tree,” she said. “Press them to extract their juice and then pour the juice into the water that is in the pool where you came from. This will purify the water and you will prosper.” The young man cast himself thrice onto the ground in gratitude to the wise Simurgh and did what she had instructed him to do. The water purified into its two types. The water on the mountains became fresh to sustain the life of animals and birds and as the water flowed on into the world-sea the salty waters therein were purified to sustain the life of fishes and sea creatures. So life prospered. The great Simurgh ruffled her feathers and with a mighty cry she took off from the tall tree of life onto which clung seeds of every sort of plant. As she left her perch the tree shook and the seeds were loosened and were blown by the wind into the world-sea. The seeds were swept to every part of the world where they took root and prospered. Many generations went by. Then one day Simurgh heard the wailing of a new-born child on the mountain where she roosted. She found the child, Zar, the albino son of Saam. When Saam had seen that his son was albino he believed the child was the sire of devils and abandoned him, as was customary, on the slopes of the mountain. Simurgh rescued the baby and raised him as her son bestowing on him her great store of knowledge collected during her many long lives. Zar grew wise and strong. He loved Simurgh with all his heart, but the day came when he was a man and he yearned to descend into the world below to rejoin his own kind. Simurgh was grieved, but as a parting gift she gave Zar three of her magic feath86

ers. “If you ever need me burn these feathers and I will come to you,” she promised. Possessing wisdom greater than any mortal of his time, Zar became a famous sage, but being a young man he was also smitten with love for beautiful Rudaba, the daughter of the King of Kings. Their love expanded and the day came when she was to give birth to the child she and Zar had conceived. Through long hours she labored but the only result of all her effort was that she grew perilously weaker. Zar was aware that the end was near, and at that moment he remembered his nurturing mother, Simurgh, and hastened to call her. As the three burning feathers blazed, Simurgh appeared in their midst as if reborn in the fire. “Do not despair,” she said. “The child and the mother may still be saved.” Then she instructed Zar and his helpers to make an incision ‘Just there” across Rudaba’s abdomen and “thus again”, and how then to retrieve the infant, and sew the wound. So Rudaba gave birth to Rostam who became the greatest hero of his time, as great as Hercules.” “Impressive!” Professor Cho said, after reading Verucia’s account. “Let’s show this to Professor Verbal.” “But I want to go find the Simurgh and the magic Forest of Omion,” Verucia protested. She could not get over the suspicion that Professor Cho would try to prevent her from going. “What better way than to go to the Simurgh directly?” Cho replied. When they got to Prof. Verbal’s quarters half an hour later, the semi-circular chamber where he taught Adventures in Magic was dark, as usual, except for a long, narrow arrow-slit window at the end, filled with occult designs in stained glass. A very large, very old book floated in the midst of the gloom. Verbal was apparently ready for them, dressed in a silk sack trimmed with gold thread and woven in an elaborate picture that could not be made out. There was a low cap on his head and he wore baggy pants. He waved his hand suggestively toward two other costumes for Verucia and Cho. Cho’s was the most spectacular, including a tall head piece. Prof. Verbal indicated they should extend their hands to the book and at his signal, touch it. “Where to,” Cho whispered. “Hecatompylos,” Verbal said softly as if it was a directive.

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Part 3

HECATOMPYLOS The three travelers emerged into blinding sunlight. After a few moments Verucia made out a large city with several gates spread out in a valley before them. People were coming and going on horseback and on foot. A caravan of double-humped Bactrian camels plodded in the distance. Emblazoned on the wall between two of the most impressive gates was an image with two wings out-stretched. “Simurgh,” Verucia gasped. “Now we must find the home of Rsama and Anoys,” Virgil said quietly, so as not to be overheard by others on the road. “I think I know the way,” Cho said. Verucia and Virgil looked at him questioningly. “It comes to me, now that we are here, that I was here once before in the delegation that came with Zhang Qian.” “But that was more than 2,150 years ago,” Verucia exclaimed. “Quietly, Verucia,” Professor Virgil cautioned her. “Well I read the accounts of Zhang Qian to the Han Emperor and they came ‘quite alive’ for me,” Cho explained vaguely. “We should go straight to the temple of Ahura Mazda and then find the Greek market. Someone there will know Rsama and Anoys.” The temple of Ahura Mazda was not hard to find. All roads from city gates led to it. In any case, it could be located by the columns of smoke that rose from the sacred, eternal fire. Built in the Babylonian style, the temple was also many stories taller than anything else in the city. The Greek market was in the Greek section of the city to the West of the great temple. A rectangular Greek 88

temple with Doric columns all around could be seen down a broad avenue. The market was next to the temple dedicated to the goddess Hera.

AHURAMAZDA AT PERCEPOLIS “You are the Greek among us,” Prof. Verbal coaxed Verucia. “Ask someone where to find the Parthian magi Rsama.” Greek was one of the earliest of 39 languages Verucia would eventually learn, but she had never used it to actually communicate with anyone. Still, she had little trouble getting directions to the garden home of Rsama and Anoys. “Now what?” Verucia asked as they stood before the magi’s stout gates. They were carved with pictures and inscribed with text. “You tell us,” Prof. Cho suggested. “You read the text of Aponaxoris,” Cho reminded her. “That was in Persian, this is not,” Verucia protested. Prof. Verbal suggested, “Perhaps it would help to lay your hand on that seal in the middle.” As soon as her hand touched the seal of Simurgh on the Som Tree, the two heavy gates swung open. They were greeted respectfully but cautiously by two boys about Verucia’s age, who apparently had been waiting for the gates to open. They were clad in sacks much like the one Prof. Verbal wore, but without colorful pictures. With no more than a few words the boys led them into the heart of the 89

garden where an eight-sided pavilion on three levels stood beside a pond in the center of which there was a small island with a bush on top. Verucia knew immediately the bush was haoma, a plant that rendered magical medicine, or “Som” as she had called it in her story. But where was Simurgh, if not nesting in its branches? The two boys were quickly gone and back with a decanter of wine and a tray of pomegranates and pickled grapes (that turned out not to be what they seemed). A small dish of salt was in the center of the tray. “Be sure to put a bit of salt on your tongue,” Prof. Verbal coached them. As soon as they had done so, with the boys paying rapt attention, the two bowed and fled. Verucia was a bit alarmed. “They have noticed we accept the host’s hospitality by eating his salt,” Verbal explained. “We are safe. We would not dare break the sacred pact of hospitality, nor would they.” Before long a tall older man came to the pavilion accompanied by two servants holding an umbrella and a fan. As they approached, Verucia saw Professor Verbal secretly wiggle his blue wand. The air in the pavilion seemed to get a bit more luminescent. The tall, older man obviously noticed and paused just at the edge of the lowest step of the pavilion. “Ah, welcome, magi from afar,” he said in a language they all magically understood. “I am Rsama of Hecatompylos at your service.” The three travelers stood. “We are from another realm,” Verbal said. “I am Virgil from the islands beyond Rome and this is my student Veru-see-ah” (or so it sounded) “whose people came from Macedonia.” That was a place that Rsama certainly recognized. “I am Cho from Han China,” Cho said clasping his right fist with his left hand in front of his chest. This seemed to satisfy Rsama. He came onto the pavilion and made himself comfortable, inviting them to do the same. Then he dismissed his retinue, sending the boys for more refreshments. “But you are not merchants or emissaries. The people in the market inform me you asked for us by name,” Rsama commented. He sounded like he was inviting an explanation. “We are here because young Veru-seeah has read an account by the historian Aponaxoris that you found a passage to the Forest of Omion,” Verbal said. Rsama looked startled, but recovered quickly. “I have not heard of Aponaxoris,” he said. “But going to the Forest of Omion is impossible,” he began, and then decided to finish the thought, “unless Simurgh were willing to take you. Why would you want to go, young maga?” 90

“Great magic is there,” Verucia replied. Rsama regarded her in a new light. “Send for Blessed Anoys,” he called into the apparently empty orchard. Hearing the highly honorific title, Prof. Cho commented, “We understood that Anoys was your wife, the daughter of the King of Kings.” “Well, that too,” Rsama admitted. He didn’t say more because a group of women came down the path just then. Everyone stood again as “Blessed Anoys” was helped up the three low steps. Verucia thought that for a daughter of the King of Kings the woman was plainly dressed, in her wrap-around of thin white linen that she wore discretely draped over the top of her head. However, there was an air of powerful authority about her that soon eclipsed all other impressions. Rsama spoke first. “Young Veru-seeah would like to visit the forest of Omion.” Without hesitation, Blessed Anoys replied, “Then she can, if she passes three tests.” Scrutinizing Verucia’s expression, Anoys continued, “The first will be tomorrow. You have tonight to reconsider. If you withdraw from the first test before it begins there is no consequence.” She did not mention what the consequences might be from refusing to take the tests after they were started. Rsama clapped sharply and the two boys appeared from just out of sight. “First we dine,” he said. Evening faded into night as the dinner extended course after course. Finally, very late, the Blessed Anoys stood and announced, “Veru-seeah will sleep with the virgins tonight.” At which point three young women came and offered their hands to help Verucia to her feet. They led the way to a building beside what appeared to be the main house. There Verucia was helped to wash and given a thin gown to wear. Her room was small but elegant. She fell asleep immediately and awoke as light was beginning to chase away the stars.

Part 4 Verucia’s first test came in mid-morning. She and Anoys sat in the eight-sided pavilion alone. Then Anoys sat a crystal cup on the table between them. The cup was nearly full with clear water. “All you have to do is drink this cup of water,” Anoys said. Verucia had been to Hogwarts for several years now and was suspicious of things that were too simple. Her thoughts carried her to the island in the middle of the lake. “Where is Simurgh?” Verucia wondered again, without 91

saying so. That was worth bothering about, but the cup of water was more immediate. The thought popped into her head, “What would Simurgh suggest?” Then she remembered the story she had found in the library. “To purify water, add juice of haoma.” It seemed an insult to add medicine to a drink she had been offered, but an inner voice insisted that she do it. Taking her wand out from the folds of her Greek gown she pointed it at the tree on the island and said, “Accio haoma!” Moments later a sprig of Hom flew into her hand. Using the lip of the crystal cup she extracted all the juice she could. When it had run down into the water to her satisfaction she drank it as Anoys watched, a smile spreading gently across her face. “You have passed the first test,” Anoys announced, and added, “None ever do. Tonight will be the second test.” Verucia shuddered. She dreaded magical tests at night. The afternoon passed pleasantly and an early evening meal, like English tea, was quite simple. The moon was just a thin crescent that night as two women dressed in somber robes came to escort Verucia to her second test, which was to take place inside an arena constructed of a circle of torches. As Verucia stepped into the circle she was handed a silver dagger. Across the arena one of the magi’s two boys moved into the circle of light. He had almost nothing on except a brown diaper. His hands were empty. He stepped forward to the center of the arena where a small fire burned in a shallow hole in the ground. “Kill me,” the boy said, pointing to a place on the left side of his chest. “Kill me now,” he seemed to plead. NO! Verucia was sure she would not kill this lovely boy. “Kill me, he demanded again, “or lie with me.” He extended his hand and stepped tenderly around the fire. He was within reach. Which would it be, the end of his life or the end of her virgin childhood? “This is a TEST!” she remembered. The word “test” fairly shouted itself in her head. “No!” she said aloud, rejecting both offers without knowing why. No sooner had she said it than the boy disappeared and his place was taken by a draped figure covered from head to toe in a sheet like a ghost on Halloween – like a party ghost, not the silvery-transparent, Bloody Baron, type of ghost that haunted Hogwarts. “Kill me,” the draped figure said in a shrieking tone of voice. The figure lunged forward as if to impale itself on Verucia’s silver dagger, but Verucia stepped aside so the figure lurched past her. In doing so the pale cloth got tangled and fell to the ground. There before her was a second Verucia, a per92

fect copy of herself, except without any clothes and with wild red eyes. “Kill me and we will both be free,” the figure shrieked madly. Again she lunged toward Verucia as if to grab the knife and do the murderous deed herself. “You will never escape this ring alive as long as I am still alive,” the figure threatened. “One of us must die!” Then the figure did a dance upon the fallen drape and came up with another dagger. Now they were both armed and the ghostly twin began to take jabs and swipes at Verucia. Again she thought, “This is a test. It is just a test.” It was not a duel but an illusion of a duel. “What does one do with illusions?” Throwing her silver dagger aside Verucia whipped out her wand. “I am a witch!” she shouted at her double. “Depulso,” she demanded, adding, “Be gone from here.” Flames erupted from the hole as if to devour the illusions she had been goaded to kill. Then, breathing hard, she found she was alone in the arena. “Of course!” she realized, “I could never have killed them.” Verucia concluded she probably had the nerve to have done it, she was a Slytherin, but the adversaries were not real. They were a test. Anoys again came into view out of the shadows. “You have passed the second test on your first try,” she congratulated Verucia. “Quite helpful, that stick of yours.” As the two of them came back toward the house they heard sounds of merriment. “Now we may join the main event of the evening.” She said it as if the duels in the arena had been nothing much in comparison to the feast that went on until past midnight.

Part 5 Not long after dawn the next day, the two boys, dressed more warmly than seemed necessary, came for Verucia with three horses and a heavy cape like they wore. Two hours before mid-day they arrived at the foot of a tall hill shrouded in mist. One of the boys handed her a flask of water. “You are to ride as far up the hill as you can and then climb to the top,” he told her. “We will be waiting for you here when you come back,” the other boy said. “If you come back,” he added. Verucia rode on alone. Finally, she came to the end of the fog. The clouds were spread out below. Above loomed the peak of the mountain. From here 93

on the trail was steep and littered with large black stones. She would have to walk. When she was tying her horse to a tree she was surprised to see an old woman sitting on a flat stone nearby. “Have you a drink to share with an old woman?” Verucia nodded respectfully and handed her the water pouch. “In return for your kindness, Grandmother will give you advice. As you climb to the top remember to never look back. You will hear demons and devils. Pay them no heed, not the slightest. Keep going until you reach the top. Do not stop for anything. When you get there you will know what to do.” Verucia was alarmed at this serious warning, but she was determined to go on. Mist was swirling around her feet. “Thank you Grandmother,” Verucia said. “I had better be on my way. The fog is coming.” Just a short distance up the path the black stones became a hazard. As she worked her way among them voices began to call. The voices screamed warnings and cried for help. Verucia decided to sing the Hogwarts school song to cover up the cries. The school song was a good choice because any tune or tempo would do and Verucia was not a good singer. It was fervency that mattered anyhow. The stones were scattered ever thicker and something about them gave Verucia the shudders. Then came the sound of an army in full battle-cry drawing nearer. Without thinking, Verucia turned to see what mighty force was pursuing her. But as she was beginning to do so, a bird swooped out of the clear sky just above her and attacked her head. The bird made her forget about the army for a moment and gave her time to remember that she must “never look back”. The battle sounds faded, but were replaced by sounds of a stampede, and then a flight of banshees. Verucia trudged on. The last of the black stones loomed just ahead. For a split second Verucia imagined the largest one was a troll turned to stone. As she passed it the mountain peak came into view not far away. “You will know what to do,” the old woman had said. Verucia was very thirsty after her long steep climb, but the old woman had nearly drained the water pouch. The remaining few sips just intensified her thirst. At the tip top, however, Verucia was amazed to find a small bubbling spring at the base of a tree … a Hom tree. Verucia filled her pouch and crushed a few haoma stems into the water, simply because it had worked so well before. 94

It was serene on the top of the world. She could see for miles in every direction, although there were clouds below. “What would it be like to view the world from even higher?” she mused. Glancing toward the top of the tree Verucia almost fainted. Sitting above her (how had she not noticed it before?) was the largest, most imposing and meanest-looking vulture Verucia had ever seen. Compared to this, the vultures in the London Zoo were nothing. On second view Verucia realized it was not a vulture. Daring to steal a third peek, she felt it must be Simurgh. Who else would be roosting in the branches of a Hom bush the size of a tree on the top of a mountain? Simurgh reached one of her immense feet toward Verucia. The bird’s grasp was the size of Verucia’s waist. “Well,” Verucia though, “if I do not risk this I will be forever sorry.” She reached up and Simurgh gently wrapped Verucia’s arm in her grasp and swept off her perch, while securing Verucia firmly in both feet. They were in flight and soon plunged down into the thick clouds. Only then was Verucia doubtful, but it was too late for second guesses.

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Part 6 Simurgh emerged from the clouds after a long while. They were sailing over a forest that ranged out of sight in every direction. As far as Verucia could see there was no break in the trees, no roads through the forest, not even a river. For another long while they glided over the endless treetops. From time to time Verucia could make out details on the ground, here a much taller tree, there a clump of a different kind. Simurgh appeared to be flying lower, or the trees were taller. Verucia wondered what she would do if they landed in a tree top a hundred feet above the forest floor. She needn’t have worried, Simurgh had other plans. There in the middle of endless green a mound came into view, towering above the trees but covered with vines and bushes so that only a couple of bare spots showed that the mound was made of square stones. It was twice as large as the stepped-pyramid dedicated to Ahura Mazda in Hecatompylos. In fact, it was even larger than it appeared, with some of its height hidden by the trees. This was Simurgh’s destination. She set Verucia down on the flat uppermost stone and settled beside her. The stone mound did not look as if it had been disturbed for decades, perhaps centuries. There were no great statues scattered about. Not enough of the stone surface could be seen to show if there were inscriptions. But stairs had been carved leading from the base to the summit. Simurgh scrutinized Verucia with her right eye and then her left as if to say, “What now?” Verucia was keenly aware she had arrived without a plan. She had wanted to visit the Forest of Omion because “great magic is there.” If she was now in the forest, she had no idea what to do with the opportunity to know about the great magic. She suddenly felt ashamed for having pressed on with such a little-girl idea. This was no magic show by David Copperfield, nor even a lesson by Hogwarts professors. In fact, Hogwarts teachers tended to avoid magical forests and labeled the one next to the castle “Forbidden”. She wished Professors Cho and Verbal had come along. “Well,” she decided, “I’ll just have a look around.” She went to the top of the flight of stairs and peered over the edge. It was a long way down. There must have been hundreds of steps – unused for centuries, covered with moss and vines, clogged with debris that had decayed and produced soil for considerable vegetation. The first flight of stairs from the top block where they had landed to the next level below was not too impassible. Verucia eased herself down about 30 steps altogether. There was a fairly wide platform to the left and right. Verucia assumed it went all around the mound. To the left the 96

way was blocked by fallen trees and clutter. The right was somewhat more inviting. She could get from the stairs to the first corner. Beyond that there did not appear to be a way to go, unless she was a snake or a gibbon. This notion drew Verucia’s attention to a fact she had not noticed. There were no birds flying or making noise. There were no insects, no sounds except breeze through the trees. There was much less noise than in any woods Verucia had ever visited. Then she decided it was quieter than a forest should be. The thought made her uneasy and she found her way back to the stairs in short order. The 30 steps up seemed steeper than they had going down, but it was easier since she could use her hands as she went. When she got to the top a horrible surprise was waiting. Simurgh was gone.

Part 7 For the first time in this whole adventure Verucia felt panic. Panic is fear of a special sort. It not only alerts a person to possible danger, it confuses the person so the danger cannot be handled well. Verucia was not so far into her panic that she could not think at all. For a person like Verucia clear thinking might be the last thing to go. So she took stock of her situation. She was alone on top of a pile of stone blocks and could not get off of there. She had no food and no way of contacting anybody for help. All she had was a flask of water and, and … a lump in her belt … her wand! She was a witch and she had read a great deal of witch and wizard wisdom. She was not pathetically helpless. She just had to help herself. When the panic eased, Verucia began to wonder why Simurgh had brought her here to this particular place. What instructions or information had the magi Rsama and Blessed Anoys given Simurgh? That question settled Verucia’s mind even more. Why had she not thought of it? She had no plan, but that did not mean she was not part of a plan. Someone was including her in a plan, either Simurgh or Anoys or Rsama, perhaps all of them and even Professors Verbal and Cho. And between them they could find her, especially if she did not wander away. The idea that she should stay put and wait for things to happen was as comforting as remembering she was not helpless. Even the eerie quiet of the forest was less oppressive as she thought about it. She also convinced herself that she was safe on this open block far above the tree tops. 97

With that settled, Verucia began to reconsider the great magic that had so attracted her back at Hogwarts. Hogwarts magic was about skills, how to transform desks into pigs, how to fly on brooms, how to recognize useful plants, and how to deal with Boggarts. Yes, that was why she had been so fascinated by Aponaxoris’s account of Rsama’s trip to the Forest of Omion. There was more magic in the world than she was being taught at Hogwarts. There was black magic, which she was not interested in at all, even though she was a Slytherin. What she wanted to find was deep magic. Why, she had a plan in coming here after all! But why here, precisely? Why this vast forest and this particular stone mound? And why was she being left alone? Indeed, was she alone? That was the question answered first. Verucia had explored the top block rather thoroughly. There was not much to investigate. It was about five meters by five meters. So she sat down to wait for Simurgh to return. It was toward evening but by no means dark when she first became aware of throbbing in the distance. For a while there was nothing more to notice than that the noise became more distinct and complex. Eventually there was movement down in the forest. The foliage was disturbed along a line leading toward the stairway. Daylight was fading but Verucia could soon see that the perpetrators of this disturbance down in the forest were both alike and different from any she had ever seen, read about or dreamed. They were creatures, but many of these creatures were spectral and nearly transparent like, in that small way, the ghosts of Hogwarts. As a senior student at Hogwarts, Verucia had had many encounters with ghosts, including the Bloody Baron who haunted Slytherin house. The beings coming into view were very different in all other ways. They bore no marks of having had their mortal life end tragically. In fact, it could be said they had no signs of ever having had a mortal life, at least not an entirely human one. Some were ghostly, but many of them looked fully physical, full of flesh, fur and feathers. They were a menagerie, a pantheon. They processed to the stone stairway. The first to come were birds, clearly, large birds with bird legs and bodies with elaborate tail feathers, but with torsos, heads and hands of human men and women. Then, as if to be fair, there were human men and women with heads of birds and forest animals. Among them were animals of a mixed and exotic match, an elephant with three heads, and one with the head of a bird. Great birds had heads and shoulders of monkeys, and one had the head of an elephant. There were monkeys of all shapes and sizes. Crocodiles featured prominently in the procession. 98

Verucia lost track and was distracted by the fact that they were beginning to ascend the stone stairs. How could they all fit on top? Some of the creatures were so large not more than one of them could be accommodated. Verucia could not see very well. For a while she did not understand that the creatures were spreading out around every level of the mound as they came to it. Many also gathered at the base. The mass of vines, trees, and plants offered no problem for the spectral creatures. They simply treated the vegetation as if it did not exist, yet they had more respect for the stone mound than ghosts did for the walls at Hogwarts. The mound was solid enough for these ghostly creatures to have to climb or at least glide upon the stones rather than passing through them. On they came, filling every terrace, up and up, step by step. Finally, they filled the last terrace, the one Verucia had tried to explore. Five more creatures continued to the top. They were not the largest, but they glowed and shone with special brilliance. One of them, to Verucia’s great relief was Simurgh. Another, to her unnecessary discomfort, was a seven-headed serpent which took an immediate interest in Verucia. Two others to come to the top were dog-lions, neither one or the other. The fifth was unlike anything in the assembly. He or she was like a blazing being that never burned up but was composed entirely of fire. In essence this being was the opposite of most of the other spectral creatures, which were silvery, cold and distinct. The fiery creature was golden, hot and shimmering. The throbbing of drums and the wailing of pipes stopped. It seemed to Verucia that creation stood still. At that moment all creation was connected through the axis of this very place. Verucia had no doubt that far below, the root of creation penetrated to the core of the earth, which is to say, to the heart of the universe, while above there was another vortex of creation extending into heaven. Creation was like an hour-glass. This very point was where the sand flowed through. This was the focus of eternity and existence. Verucia had imagined, as the mound was filling up, that there would be chanting or singing, a recital of some impressive and meaningful sort. She was therefore unprepared for immense silence. The silence went on. It did not seem like waiting, but more like a preface. In a flash it dawned on Verucia that this was all to be consummated in a sacrifice!

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Part 8 These big ceremonies on piles of stones all ended in a sacrifice. That was what the books Verucia had read all talked about. It took the sacrifice of some pure virgin to energize the next cycle of creation. A cold chill ran up her spine and flashed across her forehead and skin. She imagined she was to die here on this stone altar. This was the deep magic she had asked for, she reflected bitterly. Yet when she looked at Simurgh there was no sign of any change in her serenity. The 7-headed serpent, rather than being threatening, had coiled itself protectively around Verucia. The lion-dogs had also assumed guardian poses on either side of the stairway. There were lion-dogs guarding every landing all the way down. Still the silence reigned, as if preventing any interruption. As this silence was … what was it that happened to the silence? It was fulfilled. That was it. As the silence was fulfilled, the flaming-being ascended. Not as a rocket ascends, but with immense dignity, filling space above it that had been designed for it to fill. It rose into that middle-space and hovered as a shimmering, golden shaft of light. Where it had been, on the center of the stone, surrounded by the lion-dogs, the now uncoiling serpent, Simurgh and Verucia, there was a round, black rock. It was the same as those Verucia had struggled over on her way to the top of the hill where she met Simurgh. The golden shaft of light, poised overhead, cast a sheen over the black stone. It was Verucia’s turn, not to die as she had concluded earlier, but to complete the deep magic. She felt it was her turn. Simurgh and four of the serpent’s seven heads were looking at her. This confirmed the feeling, and then the voice of the grandmother echoed out of the black stone. “Have you a drink to share with an old woman?” Verucia untied her water pouch and let it dribble on the stone. What else was there to do? The change that came over the stone was amazing. The rock unfolded as a bud unfolds, but faster. In only a few seconds the round, black stone was unrolling arms and legs, exposing a head covered with white hair, and expanding. So phenomenal was this transformation that Verucia barely noticed that the silence had ended. Now there were harmonizations of natural and celestial sorts, vocalizations from both the spectral and physical creatures and natural accompaniments from deep within the stone mountain. There on the very spot Verucia had sat waiting for someone to rescue her, 100

where the black rock had taken the place of the golden flame, there, illuminated by a piercing ray from the golden shaft overhead, lay a small child. She was a newborn infant, and she was albino. Simurgh took the infant in one maternal, protective claw, and as she flapped her gigantic wings she grasped Verucia with her other foot.

The trip back to the hilltop seemed much faster than the trip outward had been. Before long, Simurgh alighted in the Hom bush. The bush and the spring gave Verucia an idea. She refilled her water pouch and added a measure of juice from the Hom bush. As she was doing this Simurgh spoke to her for the first time. “Fair child, now you are possessed by the deep magic you sought to possess. You have acquired a role in the world of magic and mortals. Take three of my feathers and if you are ever in great need of me, burn them and I will come to you. Now go. The attendants waiting on you down below have grown restive.” 101

Not knowing what else to do, Verucia bowed deeply three times and uttered the Parthian phrase for “worshipful thanks”. All the way down the hill Verucia sprinkled Hom-infused water on the black rocks, which were all beings who had started up the hill and then looked back. They had been cursed and turned into stones instantly. By the time she got to her horse tied to the tree where grandmother had been, Verucia was accompanied by a formidable host of humans and non-humans, all overwhelmingly grateful to “Veru the Healer”.

Part 9 Varaz and Trdat, the two boys waiting for Verucia, had nearly decided that she, like all the others before her, was lost on the hill, when they began to hear the sounds of an advancing army. The sounds were, however, not militant, but raucous and enthusiastic. Mixed into the singing and laughter were dull roars and thunderous retorts. The two boys were debating whether to try to escape when Varaz spotted Verucia on her horse at the head of this oncoming horde. She seemed neither to be their commander nor their captive, and the mass did not appear to be an army or a mob, but more mob than anything. Curiosity won over caution, so the two boys were still there, mounted and ready to ride when Verucia got to them. It was just about daybreak. Among the rescued throng were several young men from Hecatompylos, although Varaz and Trdat would have had to be many decades older to recognize most of them. There were two trolls as Verucia had suspected. They towered above the rest and made the ground shake as they danced. There was a squad of Greek soldiers, as well, who claimed Alexander as their hero and general, and were going to be shocked that Alexander the Great had died a hundred years ago. The one thing they all had in common was hunger after so many decades without a bite to eat. “Ride ahead and tell the Magi what to expect,” Verucia suggested to the boys. In the end it was decided to have them camp outside the city and not to have any more people than necessary see the variety of refugees on their doorstep. Naturally, everyone in Hecatompylos came out to see. Professor Cho and Verbal joined the encampment and feasting arranged by Rsama and the leaders of the city. “Was your trip a success?” Verbal asked. Verucia did not yet know how to 102

answer that question. Like most life-changing experiences that happen to the young, the impact of her trip to the forest of deep magic did not fully register for a while. She did not even dare to talk about it. Still, the obvious results of Verucia’s success at magic were feasting and very effusive about their gratitude at having been sprinkled with Hom and rescued. The only good thing about being turned into black stones is that they could not remember anything about it now that it was over. “I think I was taken to the Forest of Omion,” Verucia said, at last. “Blessed Anoys promised I would be taken to the forest if I passed her tests. Simurgh took me to a forest and brought me back. I must have gone where I was supposed to go.” “Did you learn any magic while you were there?” Verbal asked, and then laughed at his own question. There were two or three thousand happy refugees ready to proclaim Veru the Healer as their queen. As far as Prof. Verbal was aware that had never happened to any Hogwarts student in the past thousand years. But then he thought again and muttered to himself, “Maybe this is a thousand years before Hogwarts was started.” “Where is Blessed Anoys?” Verucia asked. “She was gone all the time you were gone,” Verbal said. Rsama overheard this and added, “Blessed Anoys is a woman of many features. She gave me this sprig as a going-away present.” He handed a large twig of Hom to Verucia. Professor Cho saw it and announced, “Cretan dittany! The pink blossoms make a marvelous love potion.” “How like a Hogwarts teacher to reduce deep magic to some simple use,” Verucia sniffed to herself. But she knew that the Som twig she had in her hand was Ephedra sinica and, on the other hand, dittany was made from Origanum dictamus. Haoma, if combined with dittany would do marvelous things, wonderful things. Her head spun with thoughts of the possibilities. Verucia Gaitlocke was on her way to glory as a potions maker and this was her first day to be aware of it.

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Angela

THAMES WALK, BLUEWATER SHOPPING MALL, KENT Angela was hardly the right name for the littlest witch from Kent. Small as she was, destined to be the size of Professor Flitwick when she was full grown, she had the stuff of other famous Griffendor graduates including courage, especially that. Fortitude and persistence accounted for some of her courage, but it was her knack for plunging straight toward trouble and the need of courage, that was most remarked upon in the teacher’s room at Hogwarts and in the Griffendor common room. “Angel is certainly not overly cautious about rules, like others of Griffendor House I well remember,” Professor McGonagall said with a hint of pride in her tone of voice. “Angel, my foot,” of the professors commented. “She’s a cunning lass, that she is.” There was no need to ask, “What has she done this time?” Her deed appeared on page two of The Daily Prophet. “Wee Hogwarts Student Creates Big Panic,” the headline blared. There was a picture of Angela admiring a large blue fire in the atrium of the largest mall in Kent. She was there, the fire was blazing, and everyone in the picture was fleeing but her. “What’s more,” the 104

article insisted, “the fire was clearly magical. It burned without burning anything up. The Ministry of Magic identified Hogwarts student Angela Pavone at the scene of the panic doing magic. A secret hearing at the Ministry was conducted”, The Daily Prophet concluded. “That’s the last Hogwarts will see of Angela Pavone,” the Griffendor prefect announced to his mother when she had asked about the newspaper article. There was mystery surrounding the whole incident in Bluewater shopping mall, Britain’s fourth largest. The fire had taken place on March 10, the tenth anniversary of the mall, but it was mid-July when the picture of Angela surfaced. Why had it taken so long, and even more perplexing, why had four months elapsed before this case of underage magic was brought up? Most cases were being acted upon in a matter of minutes. “She’s toast,” Wilhelmina Farnsfar declared, and immediately tried to forget she ever knew the diminutive notoriety. Most Hogwarts students read the story and turned their attention to other matters during the slow remaining days of summer. Professor Virgil Verbal, however, at home in Attlee Castle, wondered about the strange case. The fire in Kent on March 10 had been reported excitedly by all the media at the time, but the case was resolved by fire inspectors as a freak accident involving an escaping gas mixture used in an animated anniversary display, and the mobile phone picture had just been discovered. Somehow, only The Daily Prophet knew about this picture. Verbal made it his hobby to keep track of Muggle mysteries involving witches and wizards. He was suspicious of The Daily Prophet story. Following ominous turns in Muggle media toward fabricated news and exaggerated exposés, The Daily Prophet rarely had an edition without some steamy scandal. This had grown more pronounced after Mr. Rupert Mudrock from Australia acquired a controlling interest in the paper. Two days later The Daily Prophet ran a follow-up “investigative report” asking why the little witch was escaping prosecution for her underage use of magic. The reporter hinted that her patronage by Prof. Filius Flitwick of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the “escalating drive to be politically correct about immigrant witches with handicaps” were protecting her “from the full consequences of the law.” On September 1, to many people’s surprise, Angela joined all the other Hogwarts students pushing carts through the solid barrier of gate 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station. She arrived well ahead of departure time. She had no trouble securing a seat since most students were still on their way. Once in a compartment, what she had trouble with was stowing her luggage in the over105

head rack, so she just left it on the floor. It was quite a while before a couple of Griffendor 3rd years dared to join her as the train filled up. They no sooner had claimed their places than they left Angela alone again. She decided to follow them out into the excitement on the platform, but that was soon tiring. When she got back to the compartment three younger students were there. They looked startled, and one said, “Sorry, we didn’t know this compartment was taken.” They abruptly left, tittering like sparrows. Once the Hogwarts Express got moving the trip to Hogsmead was largely uneventful. Angela slept most of the way with her cat Perseus on her lap. Professor Verbal’s course on “Propaganda” had been redesigned as “Creative and Critical Writing”. The professor taught students to handle ideas carefully. “Careless words cause worry” and “A cruel word is a sharp knife without a handle” were a couple of his mottos. As the specially selected 4th and 5th year students were coming from all directions into the third-floor hallway leading to Prof. Verbal’s semi-circular classroom on the first day, Wilhelmina Farnsfar pointed an accusatory finger at Angela and asked everyone within hearing, “What’s she still doing here?” A couple of girls giggled. Verbal’s classroom was usually fanciful but for this first class on “Creative and Critical Writing” he had outdone himself. A couple of the students recognized the room as the atrium of the Bluewater mall in Kent, complete with the “Thames Walk”. There were no seats, so the students milled around admiring the 10th Anniversary decorations. Suddenly one of the large animated displays burst into flames. Students began screaming and trying to find exits, which had disappeared. Before the fire could spread, however, it turned from golden-orange into emerald-blue and the heat became a decided chill. Seconds later, sprinklers came on and extinguished the fire. The animated display had stopped moving but seemed hardly singed. “How did you do that, Angela?” Professor Verbal called from the mezzanine walkway just above. Angela was stunned and didn’t answer. “How did you transform the fire?” Verbal asked again. Popping open a velveteen umbrella that matched his multi-colored top hat, the professor jumped off the mezzanine balcony and drifted to the main floor amidst the students. He landed next to Angela. “Lustre”, Angela said at last in a small quivering voice. “LUSTRE,” the professor repeated in a loud voice for all to hear. “A little background,” Verbal announced glancing around at the students. “Lustre is a Sanskrit word used to describe a certain kind of divine fire sacred to the 106

Etruscan divinity Sethlans later known as Vulcan, the fire god. “Lustrous fire’ appeared around the head of Servius Tullius on the day he was born. He became the legendary sixth king of Rome. The Roman poet Ovid says it was a sign he was divine at birth.” Verbal paused in his discourse and glanced at Wilhelmina before turning to Angela. “Remarkable! Let’s try it again. Wand out.” Verbal waved his blue wand at a mall tree in a giant pot. It erupted into hot flames. Without hesitation Angela called out, “Lustre” and the fire turned to spectacular but harmless, cold, emerald-blue flames. Verbal let it burn for three or four moments before performing the extinguishing charm. “Angela,” Professor Verbal asked, “What did the Auror say who investigated your use of underage magic?” “Mr. Potter said he was not inquiring about underage magic because none had been done,” Angela replied. “Why was that?” “Because I was not underage,” Angela admitted. The students gasped and whispered. Verbal let it die down. “What was Harry Potter investigating then?” “A possible case of dark arts or doing magic in the presence of Muggles.” “What did he conclude, Angela?” Angela assumed Professor Verbal already knew all about it so she decided against being overly modest. “He agreed with me that turning the fire into lustral fire had prevented a disaster without Muggles guessing magic had been used.” “And what was the result of the investigation – and TWO OTHER inquiries?” Professor Verbal thundered, holding a shiny medal in his hand that only Angela could see.” She began to drain tears and lost what little power of speech she had. “Yes,” Professor Verbal announced. “Tomorrow’s edition of The Daily Prophet will report that the Wizengamot has awarded Angela Pavone the Order of Merlin, Second Class. The article will also explain how Angela had to delay her start at Hogwarts in order to care for her mother and grandmother back in Milan during which time she became an Etruscan Vestal Virgin one of the oldest orders of witches in Europe. She is not only Hogwarts’ oldest student, as of tomorrow for a short time as fame is fleeting, she will be our most illustrious.” “You may clap,” Verbal added. “Or apologize.”

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Tirastreaks

Tira Kitner thought she preferred to work alone now that granddaughter Maggie was away over the hills at Hogwarts. At first she resented the two laddies the Ministry of Magic had sent as her assistants for a broom shop. In fact, Tira, being the independent Highland Scot she was, didn’t think much of the whole plan to put her back to work. But the pre-paid order for ten brooms was persuasive. “Pre-paid,” she muttered as if she’d meant to say “PRE-POSterous!” No Scot would do such a thing as pay before they had to, at least none she knew, who were mostly confined to the vicinity of Gilfinning, which was not a large population sample. The thing that aggravated the old woman was the idea of being roped into broom-making again, and given “orders” to produce ten brooms with the ominous promise of “still more orders” to come, plus the intrusion of two utter strangers. In the end things took a bonnie turn. The boys, for a start, were precious lads, come to that. She’d have resented feeding them, but from the first day on the job they brought food enough for the three of them. So that complaint never got hold of her soul. A more gnawing suspicion was that the boys had been foisted on her, not so much to help lighten her burden, as to ferret out her secrets. 108

Tira Kitner was the last living witch who knew how to make brooms “the old way”. She was vaguely aware that one thin line of her ancestry went back to Poland and that was the line that carried the old broom lore. Even though she was the last and then the lore would be lost unless Maggie took it up, she harbored the suspicion the boys would abscond with the secret that was hers, her own, her one claim. She could not say it was a claim to fame or even a mark of her identity, since it was a secret she thought no one had any idea she knew. But she knew the secret and it was one she loathed to disclose. Better to have the secret perish with her than to trust unworthy witches with it. As the old lore had it, only witches could make truly bewitched brooms. Wizards did not have the patience or the keen eye for details. So, she decided, the boys were safe because they’d be sure to miss the key clues to the old way of broom-making. She could use the boys to fetch and follow. If Dean Thomas had given her a couple of lassies she’d have been less inclined to go back to broom-making. She had quit, she told herself, to preserve the secret, although the work was really more than she could handle. She had refused to admit this. Admitting it would have blocked her returning to the craft. Broom lore in magical Britain was locked in the late Middle Ages. Brooms to fly had to look like they did in peasant villages 500 years ago, all twigs and sticks. They had to be enchanted, but little things made the difference between one model and another in terms of aerodynamics. In Harry Potter’s time, when he was seeker and then captain of the Gryffindor team, the Firebolt was the fastest broom in the sky. It took a broom-flying master to handle one. Real Quidditch professionals loved the game because they trusted their brooms. Quidditch magazines felt that broom science had advanced about as far as it could go. Amazingly, Tira Kitner did not know anything about Quidditch. She may have heard about it but it went in one ear and out the other. She made brooms for the love of broom-making, a purer love than Ollivander had for wand-making. Ollivander was dedicated to producing wands that chose a witch or wizard so he could see how that marriage worked out. He remembered every wand he had ever made and who it had gone to. Tira could barely remember ten of the hundreds of brooms she, her mother and grandmother had made, and she couldn’t remember a single witch who had bought one, nor did she care. So she was not the least bit curious about who had ordered the ten brooms for which she had been paid in advance. She was motivated entirely by her Scottish sense of duty. Since she had taken the money she was honor-bound to make the brooms. Dean Thomas and his colleagues in the Ministry of Magic probably 109

thought that Tira Kitner would need help securing scarce products to manufacture the brooms they had ordered. Their investigators had rounded up two 50-year-old samples of brooms made by Tira and her mother. The components were hard to find these days. Strong young men would be needed to scale the mountain where the last of the vines grew that bound the brooms the Ministry had studied. “Nae,” Tira said when Bobbie volunteered to make the arduous search for vines to bind the brooms. “Nae” was all she said, but she turned up with a leather thong that she said would work well. In fact, wire would work even better and produce a tighter broom that lasted longer, but Tira had concerns about lightning in stormy flights. The same thing with the handles. Any wood would do. Perfectly matched twigs were not needed either. Plain old broom straw would produce a satisfactory broom, she insisted. Before long Bobbie and Rory were beginning to doubt the stories they’d heard in London about the Gilfinning witches’ wonderful brooms. All the folks wanted to know in the Department of Magical Games and Sports was “How do they fly?” The two 50-year-old models out-flew Comets and Nimbuses. Finally, the ten brooms were finished except for the family secret. In the end, Tira had to relent. It was a contest of principles. She resisted the idea of sharing the secret with the boys, but she realized she herself could not take the brooms for their final treatment, without which they would just be ordinary flying brooms. Bobbie and Rory were aware that Tira was procrastinating for some reason. The brooms were finished and ready to be shipped, but days slipped by and Tira dithered. They let her alone and practiced Quidditch to pass the time. There were only six days left, she thought. She dithered through four of them letting twin ideas grow that the boys were likeable, trustworthy, clever lads, but lads for all that, who would fail to fathom the Kitner secret even if it flew right at them. The secret, she told herself, was safe as long as no witches were exposed to it. On the second day before the full moon she broke her silence. Nothing Bobbie McLaren and Rory Morgan had ever done or dreamed of doing came close to the nightmarish instructions she gave them. After moon-set, before sunrise on the night before the full moon, they set forth on a nine hour flight, carrying five brooms each to a cave on an island in the North Atlantic. There they waited for evening. Inside the mouth of the cave – just as the sun was setting and not a moment before – they carefully laid the ten brooms in a precise pattern. Three brooms were laid side by side a foot apart on the ground. Three 110

brooms were laid cross-wise on top of them. The four other brooms were laid as a border, one on each side. They formed a grid of sixteen squares. Into each of the outer twelve slots they placed an apple and into each of the central four squares they placed a pear. Before the full moon rose, the boys hid as Tira had warned them to do. They were within sight of the brooms, but felt fairly secure behind a boulder. Their wands, brooms and every magical item they carried, had been stowed far enough away they could not be felt or seen. Again they waited. Slowly the moonlight crept toward the mouth of the cave. Then it illuminated the brooms just inside. The boys were too far away to hear stirring inside the cave, but they shuddered as they caught sight of flashes of reflected moonlight, followed by a head with a pointed snout like a Rugby or American football the size of a household refrigerator. The head appeared to float in the moonlight since the neck supporting it was still in the shadows. It looked right and left as if expecting to find something portended by the grid of brooms and fruit on the cave floor below its chin. Then one by one the beast sucked the apples into its mouth leaving the pears until last. When the fruit had been consumed the strangest part of the whole event took place. Step by careful step the great lizard passed slowly over the brooms without causing them to stir an inch. As it got past them, almost haphazardly it swished the tip of its tail just enough to destroy the grid. Now in full moonlight, the size of the monster was visible. Its body was as big as a truck with a tail twice again as long. When it was all the way out of the cave, the beast paused, surveying the cloudless sky. Once, Bobbie was sure it looked right at them cowering behind their pathetic shield a short jump away. But, with a yawn, the silver-white lizard leapt into the thin air flapping leathery wings that extended over the boys’ heads and beyond. Within a few flaps it was gone. “What now?” Rory whispered. Tira’s instructions had been vague about this part of the ordeal, as if she had doubts it might extend beyond this. All was calm, silence broken by the normal sounds of the night. “Now we go back,” Bobbie proposed. Cautiously they made their way to the brooms, helter-skelter on the ground. “Omigosh,” Rory gasped. “They’re wet!” “Soaked in dragon pee!” Bobbie swore a protective oath. Dark, handsome Dean Thomas was waiting in Tira Kitner’s cottage when Bobbie and Rory got back. They were flying on two of the new brooms and could hardly contain their excitement. 111

“We got back in three hours!” Bobbie shouted. “We’d have been sooner but we had to slow down to keep from passing a jet plane.” Dean wanted to know about performance, maneuverability, drift and drag … everything but dragons. Bobbie noticed how carefully Granny Tira was paying attention to their report, a scowl only gradually easing as they never even hinted about the dragon. Dean took one of the new brooms up and swam a ballet through the sky, finally rocketing toward the horizon. He came back even more enthusiastic than the boys because he had ideas about how all this might develop. Rory had produced a meal, lavish by Gilfenning standards, and as they sat around the broom workbench eating it, Dean pulled a little cotton sack out of his robes that rattled with the dull clinks of gold galleons. He was going to say, “Here are orders for 100 more brooms, with specifications and design improvements,” but something told him to slow down. Bobbie took over. “Granny Tira,” he began modestly. “Can we make a few more brooms for customers, at, say, three times the price you’ve been paid for these?” Dean gulped but kept quiet. The old woman chewed thoughtfully and then nodded. Nothing was mentioned about “orders, specifications or deadlines”. But it was agreed the new class of brooms would be called TIRASTREAKS and each broom would be inscribed with a name, like steamships have, rather than a serial number. The first four were to be Aalie, Abner, Action and Adam. The next day, after Dean had left with the first ten Tirastreaks, Bobbie asked the old woman, “What’s our peak capacity?” “Ten a month,” she said flatly. “What if we had more workers…?” Rory began. “Ten a month,” she repeated sharply. Then the wizards thought they knew the Kitner secret. Lads though they were, they were neither too stupid to know why the limit was ten, nor too dim-witted to know they must never let on they knew. Tira, on the other hand, never let them see what she did to the fruit for the dragon. Only Maggie would be told that. Tira and the boys made a good team. Bit by bit Tira let them improve her circumstances, adding a bit of sheltered space, a bit of comfort, a bit of variety to their diet, but no spilled secrets.

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The Trojan Horse “This enchanting adventure may be our most challenging,” Professor Virgil Verbal announced darkly. “We will have to negotiate two language and cultural mountain ranges that take us back into the misty mysteries of myth.” For such a difficult undertaking the professor seemed remarkably enthusiastic. “Where are you taking us, Professor?” Prudence Snarf wanted to know. “First we will go to the newly-built, lavish palace of Queen Dido of Carthage, through the magic of the Roman story-teller Virgil, the Roman Virgil, not the Wizard of Hogwarts,” Prof. Virgil Verbal chuckled. “Although Virgil’s poetry is enthralling, we will have to be enchanted by translations,” Verbal apologized. Waving his thin blue wand in a complicated pattern around the semi-circular third floor tower, the walls dissolved into arches draped with linen curtains. In place of a semi-circle of student chairs there were lounges. The time-travelers from Hogwarts found themselves outside the crescent looking on, while gentlemen were reclining in front of them, with the queen on a raised platform surrounded by well-armed young guards. She waved an ostrich plume fan and said, “Come, our guest, and tell us, from their first beginnings, of Grecian treachery, the fall of Troy, and the wanderings of thyself.” From time to time Verbal touched his throat with his blue wand and softly said “dramatis Aeneas” or “dramatis Dido” or some other character, and his voice would change accordingly. Verbal: The leader of the group of men was the hero Aeneas who had escaped from the burning city of Troy with his father and son. Aeneas: Too deep for words, O queen, lies the sorrow thou bidst me renew, to tell how Greece overthrew the power of Troy. Yet, if such thy yearning to learn our disasters, I will take the word. The sumptuous palace in Libya faded and the scene shifted to the gates of a city wall three stories high. Verbal: It began with Helen, or the gods. Some say one thing, and some another. They all say Helen was the most enticing and beautiful woman in the world, perhaps in the universe. She was wed to Menelaus, King of Sparta, but was kidnapped or willingly escaped with Paris, Prince of Troy. The Greeks treated it as an abduction. Menelaus swore to have her back and bound all 113

the kings of Greece to help him do it. So they launched a thousand ships carrying the largest army the world had yet seen to besiege the great stone walls of Troy. For ten years the battles flared to no avail, except that heroes, Greek and Trojan, died. At last King Ulysses of Ithaca conceived a plan. Aeneas:

After many years have slipped by the leaders of the Greeks Opposed by fates, and damaged by the war, Build a horse of mountainous size, through Pallas’s art, And weave planks of fir over its ribs: They pretend it’s a votive offering: this rumor spreads. They secretly hide a picked body of men, chosen by lot, There, in the dark body, filling the belly and the huge Cavernous insides with armed warriors.

Verbal: The Greek fleet, now far less than a thousand ships, sailed away as if going home before the winter storms. But they went only as far as an offshore island and hid. Trojans came out to celebrate their victory and to bring the wooden horse into the city. But the lintel over the gate was too low. Aeneas:

Then Laocoon rushes down eagerly from the heights Of the citadel, to confront them all, a large crowd with him, 114

And shouts from far off: “O unhappy citizens, what madness? Do you think the enemy’s sailed away? Or do you think Any Greek’s gift is free of treachery? Is that Ulysses’s reputation? Either there are Greeks in hiding, concealed by the wood, Or it’s been built as a machine to use against our walls, Or spy on our homes, or fall on the city from above, Or hides some other trick: Trojans, don’t trust this horse. Whatever it is, I’m afraid of Greeks and the gifts they bear. Verbal: Laocoon punctuated his oration by thrusting a spear into the belly of the wooden horse, which drew a gasp from the crowd, covering commotion inside the horse’s belly. Many thought the great horse was an offering to the gods, but some were unsure. Even as the Trojans were beginning to listen to these words of warning, on the beach where there stood an altar to blue Poseidon, god of the sea, a great serpent swam out and commenced to wrap itself around Laocoon’s two young sons. The father rushed to their aid. The serpent (some say there were two) trapped Laocoon as well, and devoured the three of them.

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Aeneas: This was taken as an omen that the priest Laocoon had been punished for desecrating the great offering that stood before them. Their confusion was soon confounded. Into the clamor a group of shepherds came dragging a naked man with hands bound behind his back. Pitifully he moaned when he saw he was before Troy’s open gates. Sinon: I have no home. I am dead to my family!” Verbal: Thus he lamented until hushed by old King Priam of Troy. Priam: Who are you? And why alone? Sinon: I am Sinon of Ithaca. Verbal: For long minutes he told how the Greeks had been planning to depart. For ten years their battles with Troy had accomplished nothing but the deaths of their greatest heroes and hundreds of soldiers. But the Greeks were going back to build a stronger force and would return again in the spring. The departure was delayed these last few days by storms of such strange intensity the Greek kings decided there must be a hidden reason. They proposed to build an offering to Pallas Athena to watch over their safe crossing of the treacherous sea. But they wanted it to be too large for Troy to take it in and get credit with the gods for giving Athena honor. As long as the horse stood on the Greek’s battlefield the offering was theirs. Should it be moved inside the walls of Troy, then Troy would claim the right to worship Athena with it. -- Still there were storms. Finally, they compelled their prophet to disclose that Poseidon was angry and would not let them pass without a sacrifice. When the Greeks had embarked for Troy a sacrifice had been made, and so one should be made for their return. Sinon: Alas, it was I my King Ulysses picked. I was readied for the altar, bound and decked with garlands. As night fell the pyre was to be lit and ships depart at once. But lightning fell from Jove’s own hand on Mount Olympus. Rather than killed, I found myself hurled into a swamp while the pyre raged and the Greeks fled in a mad rush. All night I cringed in the mud until I found my way out and threw myself at these shepherds’ feet. O, what is to become of me? Aeneas: The words of loyal Sinon, faithful to Ulysses of Ithica, convinced 116

the Trojans that the great wooden horse must, at all cost, be moved into the city. To do that they toppled the stone lintel above the gate. Then they hauled the wooden horse with thirty Greek soldiers hidden inside. Of all the students in Professor Verbal’s Advanced Enchantment class, Verucia Gaitlocke was the one who had most completely mastered the magical art of enchanted travel. While the rest of the group was held spellbound by Sinon’s deceptive tale, she wandered through the gate and found her way to the temple of Pallas Athena. The goddess was barely three cubits tall, standing in a shaft of light. Her dark body glittered, but Verucia barely noticed. Athena’s mother-of-pearl eyes commanded awe and attention. They seemed to do more than stare, they penetrated. Verucia felt exposed, but then she noticed she was not alone in the sanctuary. On the floor was an abject woman just a little older than Verucia, but age can be deceptive. She was distraught and had a vacant, mad, deranged look about her. From eves far overhead an owl drifted down and alighted in front of the woman. A short time later she struggled to her feet. Before long Verucia heard her wailing, “Woe, woe! Troy is betrayed! Great Troy is fallen. Those who die are the most blessed.” And Verucia heard an angry retort, “It’s only mad Cassandra!” Verucia felt immense sorrow for the witch Cassandra, Princess of Troy whom the fates had doomed to see the future but never to be believed. “This is the tragedy of witches,” Verucia muttered with a flash of insight, “never to be understood.” Verbal: As night fell the celebration in Troy ended, and in darkness the Greek fleet moved back from behind the island where they had waited, re-landing on the beaches they had left the night before. Aeneas: Sinon – screened under the partial doom of Heaven – stealthily unbarred the pine-built prison, and released the Greek warriors pent in its womb. They rushed upon the city as it lay buried in slumber and wine, slew the sentinels, welcomed all their comrades through the wide-flung gates and united their confederate hosts! For the Hogwarts students, the scene faded as the great city began to burn and screams of women and children competed with the roar of the inferno and the cries of the rampaging Greeks. Back in their familiar classroom, Professor Verbal gave the students a few 117

moments to recover, before announcing, “Despite the obstacles of time and distance we have seen enough of the story of the Trojan Horse to compose some informed opinions. For your homework please choose one of the following topics to write 30 centimeters of parchment.” With a flick of his blue wand, the topics appeared on the front wall: “Was Ulysses’s plan a clever and prudent act of war or was it a cowardly act of terrorism against armed men, women and children?” “How were the Greek and Trojan warriors disadvantaged without the use of magical hexes and curses, or did their limitations actually keep the loss of life lower than it would have been if wizards and witches had been doing the fighting?” Verucia Gaitlocke paid scant attention to these topics. She was growing up and growing independent, as of that very hour. She would write, but she chose her own topic, “Women Were the Victims at Troy: Wives and Witches Tell Their Tales”.

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A Summer at Astorwold The lane leading off to the left from the A-12 north of Ipswich was like any other farm lane except that it wasn’t always there, and when it was it didn’t always go anywhere. It looked from the highway like it would be more of a tractor path than a roadway fit for a deep purple Rolls Royce Phantom that was wending its way carefully over the ruts and rocks. A careful observer might have been impressed at how the limousine glided over this rough terrain without so much as a waver or wobble, almost by magic as if the lane were smooth as silk or the wheels never quite touched the ground. Once across the first ridge the purple car slid through a patch of mist and descended into a narrow valley lined with willows. Beyond the gorge lay a wide, lush meadow with a manor house of indeterminate age flanked by a cluster of small houses on one side and farm buildings on the other. A mosaic of field stones laid at the far end of the meadow just before the mansion spelled ASTORWOLD. This was now the home of Dame Agatha Vegford-Freelander Astor, Dowager Matron of the manor for the next short while at most. Dame Agatha reckoned she was “ageless but aging” and wondered which distant heir would claim her late husband’s inheritance. That included a hereditary title and lands, but not Astorwold. None of those scheming nieces and nephews would even know Astorwold existed. Robin Astor Havorford stared out of the car window as the limousine threaded its way across the meadow, gliding to a stop under a carriage port where Dame Agatha was waiting with two attendants. “Welcome, Robin!” she chortled enthusiastically. Robin allowed himself to be engulfed in an affectionate embrace and then led into the foyer, past an umbrella stand next to a broom stand. The thought came to Robin how unusual it was to have a rack of brooms in such an elegant entryway, but then he dismissed it as not so odd for a magic manor. Astorwold was magical but far removed from grim, grey Malfoy Manor and even medieval Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. Being loaded with magic made such Muggle contrivances as electricity and telecommunications impossible. Witches and Wizards, of course, felt it was more of an advantage than an inconvenience to be without these intrusions. Every room and passageway of Astorwold manor house had either windows or skylights, although in a couple of cases Robin suspected they were magical affects, like the ceiling in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Astorwold was light and airy. “My husband, Sir Edward, was a friend of British lumber barons,” Dame 119

Agatha said by way of explaining why the rooms of the central wing were of teak, mahogany, rosewood, cherry, maple, oak and several other woods of the world. Some years later Robin would be impressed with this variety and what it indicated about the extent of the British Empire, but he was still very much a child of the crowded city where things were concrete and metal. He was out of his element in such an elegant agrarian place. That disorientation didn’t last long. It was time for tea. Robin was beginning to get a feel for Astorwold. Tea was served in a pavilion in an orchard behind the main house. From there Robin could see glass covered nurseries and green houses, gardens and shrubbery, with woodland beyond. These plantings were crops, not for show, Robin felt, as prize roses might be. Dame Agatha noticed Robin paying attention to the surrounding vegetation. “From these gardens comes a fair portion of the potions sold in Diagon Alley,” she informed him. Seeing she had an attentive audience she went on, “Native herbs are grown over there.” She waved vaguely beyond the fruit orchard. “Exotic plants in the glass houses. The insectarium is beyond the stables,” from which there came a commotion that did not sound like horses. “The distillery is that stone building; the brewery is next to it with the slate roof.” By now Robin doubted these produced alcoholic beverages. “And the eight-sided building is the laboratory.” Leaving several buildings unidentified, she changed the subject to Robin. “I want to thank you for joining me on your summer holiday. We shall become acquainted and you will enjoy yourself, I hope.” Dame Agatha’s invitation to spend July and August at Astorwold, following their introduction to each other at Christmas, came with mixed feelings. Robin was relieved to have somewhere to spend his summer where he did not feel he was imposing, but he was anxious about spending it with a woman old enough to be his great, great grandmother. As if sensing this very point, Dame Agatha said, “For tonight you will stay in the Apricot Room. But tomorrow you can decide whether you’d rather have a bunk in the Lodge with the other lads.” Robin was startled and it must have shown. He had not seen anyone except the driver, Dame Agatha and her two attendants. He had not imagined “other lads”. “Oh yes,” Dame Agatha assured him. “We have quite a little community here.”

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Well after sunrise Robin was led from his snug bedroom, by Ethel, one of Dame Agatha’s attendants, to a low stone building separate from the manor house. He heard the sounds of a crowd inside. As he crossed the threshold into a spacious dining hall the sound diminished. “This is Robin,” Ethel announced and immediately abandoned him. Almost as quickly the sounds resumed as everyone turned attention back to their breakfasts and conversations. Robin stood in the doorway not knowing what to do. He noticed that there was “quite a community” indeed. There were ten or fifteen witches and wizards of all ages, four or five gnomes (very much larger and more refined than the pesky garden variety that infested the Weasley Burrow). There were at least 3 elves and six or seven human beings the likes of whom Robin has never seen before. As Robin was deciding whether to enter the dining room, which no doubt he was supposed to do, or turn around and escape, which he was inclined to do, a boy’s voice called, “Well, come on Robin, or you’ll be licking empty plates!” So began the first day of the most interesting summer Robin spent in his first thirteen years. Sorg Leflin, the fellow who had called Robin to join at breakfast, had been delegated to bring Robin to the “Milking Room”. Sorg seemed a bit sheepish about it. That aroused Robin’s suspicions. His street-sense kept him alert. This “milking room” was unlike any he could have imagined. There were no stanchions for dairy cows, not that Robin knew there should be, but there were pits with tall concrete walls, that Robin thought there should not be. In the middle of the room Dame Agatha stood, dressed in a heavy canvass one-piece work suit holding her long wand at the ready. Each pit contained different types of vipers, cobras, kraits, or rattlesnakes. These were being “milked” for their venom by being grabbed behind the head and having their fangs draped over the lip of a drinking glass covered by a latex lid. The snakes seemed none the worse for this treatment. Resignation seemed more like it. “Good morning Robin and Sorg,” Dame Agatha called cheerfully, without taking her eyes off the Guyanan Green she was holding behind its head while it whipped itself back and forth around her arm. “This one’s magical,” she said. “Very rare. Each drop of venom is worth fifty Gallions” After a pause she ordered, “You, Robin, please fetch its mate from pit 14. Sorg will show you how. Time to put them into a breeding tank.” “It’s better if you don’t know all the details about how deadly they are,” Sorg commented deviously. 121

The trick was to surprise the viper by reaching it from behind before it had any idea you were going to do it. Most of the snakes weren’t stupid, small as their brains might be. They had been milked many times before. But they had an attack instinct, although it was designed primarily to catch prey rather than to avoid being caught. “Getting them in the wild is the real challenge,” Sorg informed Robin. “Do you do that here on the farm?” Robin stammered. He’d rather not be in a wild serpent habitat. “We get them from away from here,” Sorg confessed after an extended moment enjoying the new-comer’s discomfort. Sorg and Robin worked their way through two other buildings where dangerous, rare or magical products were being grown and harvested. “Oh, if Professor Longbottom could see this!” Robin sighed at one point. Sorg laughed. “Neville Longbottom did an apprenticeship here just as you are doing.” Robin made a hiccup sound, at the surprising notion he was being launched unbeknownst into an apprenticeship. Sorg was a bit wrong. Dame Agatha, still in her coveralls, now noticeably soiled by animals with bowel and bladder control issues, joined the work staff for lunch, sitting discreetly down-wind on the dining hall porch. “No, Robin, you are not an apprentice. Let’s say you are a summer resident.” Sorg and Robin were in the “brewery” during the afternoon. Robin recognized it immediately as an industrial version of the Hogwarts Potions classroom. On one counter were cauldrons similar to those used by students. But in the middle of the room were commercial size pots, and at the back of the room large vats and tanks with complicated valves and gauges. Dame Agatha was there as they arrived. “Ingredients are prepared in here,” she waved the two boys to follow her into a side room where magical machines were whirring and grinding and three elves in lab coats were extracting juice from reluctant tubers not unlike mandrakes grown at Hogwarts. All this activity was supervised by a man with a pointed white hat and lab coat, whom Sorg introduced as, “My father, the brew-master.” “Welcome Robin,” Master Leflin said with a nod, filling another beaker with transparent tuber juice into which he dropped a glittering spark causing the beaker to hiss and the contents to glow orange and turn into a maroon syrup. This beaker was placed on a shelf where there were already quite a number of similar ones. “Here’s what you two can do,” Master Leflin announced. “Pour that syrup into those bottles and seal the stoppers.” This task took an hour or more be122

cause new beakers were being added to the shelf from time to time. It worked well if Robin poured the syrup into the fist-size bottles and Sorg popped in the glass stopper and dipped the bottles upside down into a vat of molten sealing wax, adding an elaborate “A” stamp as it cooled. “What’s this stuff?” Robin asked after a while. “Main ingredient in a number of restorative potions like Skele-Gro and Nailzagain,” Master Leflin replied. Robin’s first week at Astorwold was a blur. The magic manor was much larger than could have been pictured by the Suffolk government or even the neighbors. Like the house at 12 Grimmauld Place or The Leaky Cauldron, the lane and all that lay behind it were invisible to the average traveler. There were fields and plots for many types of plants, pastures for a half dozen magical farm animals, and one ox with horns curled into a double helix, a tail that fanned like a turkey, and a double row of scales down his back like a crocodile. The pigs and poultry looked like normal Suffolk farm animals, until you got to know them. Sometimes Robin slept in the dormitory when Sorg spent the night away from his family, but Robin began to notice this put a damper on the fun and games of the three or four others staying there. So most of the time Robin stayed in the cozy Apricot Room and had breakfast with Dame Agatha, who tended to veer toward two subjects, Hogwarts and the farm. On Robin’s tenth day at Astorwold, as the sun was going behind the trees on the far hills, Master Leflin called to Sorg, “Bring in the flock.” “You come, too,” Sorg invited Robin, throwing a broom in his direction that Robin managed to lunge and catch. Robin was not a born broom rider. It was never part of his Hogwarts experience he enjoyed, but he could at least travel in a straight line on one if it wasn’t too far off the ground. Sorg gave a shrill whistle through his front teeth and an excited collie dog bounded from between two farm buildings. For a minute Robin thought she might try to ride on the back of Sorg’s broom, but she tore off down a dusty path between rows of thick weeds with the two boys skimming along overhead just fast enough to keep up. The flock was a strange breed of sheep that Robin was too much a city-boy to know was highly unusual. Their fleece was brown and flowing, not at all kinky or tangled. Other details were hard to see as the collie began to herd them into a group and move them toward a lane that skirted the wide weed 123

field they had flown across. There was an old ram that habitually challenged the collie’s authority, ultimately to no avail, although it amused them both to make the effort every evening. Lambs by this season were almost fully grown and no longer needed to be within a nuzzle’s reach. As the sheep disappeared down the lane, Sorg dismounted from his broom beside a wide pool created by a small stream alongside the pasture. He peeled off his clothes and leapt into the pool. Hesitating only a moment Robin did the same. The pool was shockingly chilly, so their bath was abbreviated, but they dried off in the sun for a few minutes. Sorg nodded toward the weed field. “Every type of plant in there has some use,” he said knowledgeably. “Either the flowers or leaves or roots. Sometimes the seeds. The gnomes know all about those things. That’s what they do, the gnomes.” “Never saw gnomes like that at Hogwarts,” Robin responded. “No, I suppose not,” Sorg shrugged. “Uh, how come you aren’t at Hogwarts?” Robin asked without thinking before he spoke. “There is no reason. I got the letter three years ago, but why go? I am going to be here. I’m going to learn everything I need to know to be the next brew-master after my father or maybe the foreman of the farm if the next Lord wants me.” Sorg cast a furtive glance toward Robin and began pulling on his clothes. They arrived at the manor house just as the sheep were being let into a fenced area one at a time after being brushed. All the silky hair was carefully collected in a bag. “That hair,” Sorg said confidentially, “is going to become carpets.” He whispered the word into Robin’s ear as if it were a great secret. “Where will they be made?” “Right here. Didn’t you notice the Berber family in the dining room? They will make the first carpets starting this week,” Sorg said quietly. “The Arab family?” Robin asked, trying to sort this out. “They are Berbers from Morocco or maybe Algeria. Dame Agatha had a deuce of a time getting them here, but in the end they flew in on one of their own carpets! Broke a hundred Ministry laws and some British immigration laws, too.” Robin had the right idea now. “Flying carpets!” “Right!” “Right here in England.” “Importing them has been banned. They weren’t even allowed for the 124

Quidditch world Cup. But domestic flying carpets have to be no problem,” Sorg guessed. As Sorg had thought, weaving started in just a couple of days. Robin found the flying carpet project more interesting than breeding poisonous frogs. Or distilling elixir of invulnerability, which had the disadvantages of a very short period of potency and needed human testing for each batch, for which only the strong and brave (or lads wanting to make an impression on somebody) would volunteer.

BERBER CARPET BEING WOVEN Despite a major language barrier, Robin learned a lot about Berber flying carpets just by paying attention every chance he got. The Berber family began weaving two carpets at the same time. It was not long before Robin realized that one was being woven of yarn from the farm’s own flock and another used yarn from elsewhere. The first carpet was entirely brown with hardly any design except a border of contrasting black, brown, tan and ivory design. Robin also came to realize that he was the only one whom the Berbers let see exactly how they were doing their weaving. He became so competent that he occasionally worked in back of the weaving along with the children. Three times during the summer Dame Agatha had a dinner party in Oak Hall or on the back lawn. The first was mid-summer’s eve, and it was what she called a masque. Professor Verbal attended along with two witches from 125

Ipswich and old Professor Sprout, retired teacher of Herbology from when Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom were students. For a late supper they brewed a savory soup in a large kettle over an open fire and ate “sweet corn like Americans do” slathered with butter and heavily salted. Robin could never get the point of the masked dance the older party goers enjoyed almost to the point of exhaustion. The climax of the evening was a marionette drama recalling the opening of the Chamber of Secrets and killing the dreaded Basilisk. Guests were housed for the night in the east wing of the manor house. Professor Verbal invited Robin to join him in the Maple Suite for a midnight snack “to welcome the diminishing half of the year.” “How are you enjoying your holidays?” Verbal asked. “I work just like everyone else,” Robin answered, fastening onto the idea that it was not a vacation of leisure. “Uh, it is my first time on a farm.” Verbal smiled and waited, sipping the brandy out of a chocolate bon-bon. When Robin was quiet a while longer, Verbal pressed his main query, “Do you and Dame Agatha….” For once, verbose Professor Verbal was at a loss for words. “She has me call her grand-mum,” Robin announced. That was all Verbal needed to hear. The rest would follow in due course. As August waned Dame Agatha announced one morning, “I believe I am due for a trip to Gringotts and Diagon Alley. I would like you to come too, Robin.” That week an owl had brought Robin a letter from Hogwarts with his third-year book and supply list. It happened that Robin had scored exceptionally high on his Herbology exam and was admitted to a special course Neville was offering on “Magical Muggle Herbs and Poisons”. There was no textbook on the list for that, which was unusual. Robin and Dame Agatha rode the violet Rolls to London in what seemed like no time at all. They were let out at the Leaky Cauldron and went straight through into Diagon Alley. It was Robin’s first time onto this most exotic street. It took his breath away with its colors and sounds, like a fair. It was like Hogsmeade compacted and multiplied by four. “In behalf of the farm products,” was Dame Agatha’s explanation for a number of encounters with merchants who tended to blanch at the sight of her coming toward them. In every instance she came away with a new order at a slightly higher price. Dame Agatha outmatched the general run 126

of Diagon Alley shopkeepers. At the same time she made sure they noticed Robin and knew who he was. Old as she claimed to be, Dame Agatha plowed her way resolutely forward, parting the crowds as Moses parted the sea. At Gringotts Wizard Bank she got special treatment, being escorted to a Goblin teller with a patch of red carpet on the floor in front of his counter. “I would like to make a withdrawal from my vault and open an account for Master Robin Astor Havorford,” she announced in her normal reserved tone of voice. But two tellers on either side stopped what they were doing and cast curious eyes with lifted eyebrows toward the suddenly self-conscious boy. As the Gringotts car careened down the long, enchanted rail toward the Astor vault, Robin began to wonder what was happening. His first two years at Hogwarts was on scholarship and charity he believed. Where was he going to get money for a bank account? The Astor vault was a wonder, filled with priceless antiques and jewels as well as neat stacks of Gallions and piles of lesser coins. To the side, was a chest made of gold and things that sparkled. “This chest is yours,” Dame Agatha announced, taking a handful of Gallions from it. Robin felt the ground tilt and was caught by their Goblin guide who offered him a sniff of menthol he had at the ready for those who succumbed to the roller coaster ride down. “You see, Robin,” Dame Agatha explained, “you are the only heir of Lady Effring Astor. Indeed, all of this,” she waved her hand at the contents of the vault, ‘is probably yours. But we will sort that out later. Now we need to go shopping.” Robin remembers nothing from the ascent and barely noticed how his very own account was opened with his wand supposed to be his identification. He was given a gold key to the Astor vault, which he agreed Dame Agatha should keep since she was clear that she had never seen “a boarding school where students kept their possessions safe.” In addition to the textbooks for the third year, Dame Agatha thought Robin ought to have a new set of student robes and most of all a new wand rather than the pathetic hand-me-down he had gotten from a bin at Hogwarts. Ollivanders was under new management and stock was dwindling, but a mistletoe wand with unicorn hair responded enthusiastically when Robin whipped it about. “One more thing,” Dame Agatha said, ignoring Robin gawking at the latest Tirastreaks broom sensation in the window at Quality Quidditch Sup127

plies. “Your labor on the farm this summer ought not to go unrewarded.” She waved Robin’s incipient protest aside before he could utter it. “Would you rather have an owl or a cat?” Owls at Hogwarts could be borrowed; cats were generally a nuisance in Robin’s opinion. Before he could stop himself he said, “I would like to have one of the collie puppies.” Dame Agatha wondered how he knew the collie was going to have puppies. He had learned a lot of farm lore, obviously, in his short time, as farm boys do. “They don’t allow dogs at Hogwarts, unless I am mistaken,” Dame Agatha said. “He’ll be my dog on the farm,” Robin replied. Dame Agatha could not help herself; she gave him a kiss on the forehead. The first two carpets were small, only about the size of bath towels, but they had taken almost the whole summer to complete. It was only a day before school began that the carpets were cut from the loom. Dame Agatha and the whole Astorwold community gathered for the test flight. Using gestures and a few words of English and French the Berber patriarch explained that the brown rug was to race the beautiful red and blue one. This seemed hilarious to the Berbers, but aside from them only Robin actually knew that the carpets had come from separate wool sources. Since the carpets were small, the test pilots were Itri and Azrur, the youngest members of the Moroccan family. The idea was to fly around the front meadow starting at the Astorwold stone sign. Dame Agatha waved her handkerchief and they were off. Robin was amazed that they flew the entire race side by side and crossed the finish line in a dead heat. Again the Berbers were beside themselves with laughter. The two carpets were put back in position and Robin was firmly guided onto the brown carpet he knew to have been woven of wool from their own flock. Sorg, much to his consternation, was put on the colorful one. Dame Agatha dropped her handkerchief and Robin took off. Flying on a carpet was entirely different from flying on a broom or even under a parasol, as Mary Poppins and Dame Agatha sometimes flew. The carpet with Robin seated cross-legged on it needed no steering, nor seemed to be the slightest bit tippy or unstable. In fact, Robin found he could barely lean to the side, much less fall off. As Robin rounded the lower end of the meadow he glanced back at the manor house and saw Sorg sitting exactly where 128

they had started. He hadn’t moved an inch. The Astorwolders were cheering and waving as Robin rounded the last bend and came to rest beside Sorg. The father, Udat Ayt Udat, managed to say something in French that Dame Agatha’s attendant, Giselle, translated, “Now Robin, fix in your mind a flight to the sheep pasture and back here.” Was that all there was to it, Robin wondered? Just imagine a flight and the carpet obeyed? Apparently it was. As soon as he whispered “to the sheep pasture and back here” picturing this in his mind as he said it, the carpet took off again, rising higher this time to clear the fruit trees. Over the weed field, around the pasture, close to the woodland, back down the lane and a loop around the tall Oak Hall of the manor house, back to the cheering crowd. With a flourish Udat Ayt Udat rolled up the brown carpet and pressed it into Robin’s arms while the Berber children danced and Dame Agatha wiped her eyes. There was a roast feast that evening to celebrate this new Astorwold accomplishment and the end of Robin’s stay on the farm. “Why wouldn’t your carpet fly with you?” Robin asked Sorg. Dame Agatha answered, “The Moroccan carpet is not magic. It cannot fly. It flew with Azrur because I had charmed him and he hung onto the carpet or he would have sailed along without it. Before you ask,” Dame Agatha hastened to add, “that feat can only be done as long as the witch keeps the flying object in constant sight not even blinking. Very risky. One must be fearless to try it. Carpets and brooms are in another league.” September 1 dawned clear and with the certain promise of warm sunshine. Robin had his new robes and books packed and ready to go, so he decided to take another carpet ride over the farm before facing the Astorwold community one last time. His Apricot Room had large double windows that should easily let him through. He plotted his course in his mind and the carpet lifted gently off the floor and glided out the windows before accelerating as it headed toward the gorge through which the Rolls Royce would soon pass, swerving over a hay field about to yield a second cutting, over the woodland where Robin now knew a herd of enchanted deer lived, and back toward the sunrise coming up over the manor house. If he had intended for the excursion to be a secret he was disappointed. The entire community poured out of the dining hall as he got near. They cheered and waved their hats. So Robin willed the carpet to descend. Breakfast was both earlier and more festive than usual. “Your last meal before institutional food,” Sorg commented. Robin re129

frained from mentioning how fantastic Hogwarts fare was. Dame Agatha appeared at that point and indicated she was ready to make an announcement. “After which,” she said, “Ronald will drive Robin to London to catch the train.” Clearing her throat she resumed, “Last night Robin and I agreed that I shall acknowledge him as the heir of Astorwold.” The Astorwolders clapped enthusiastically at this news that surprised none of them. Robin, apparently, was the last person to understand this was to happen. In a very British way, it had all been worked out before it was talked about, and with as few words as necessary. “’Till Christmas then,” Dame Agatha tried to bid Robin a tearless farewell and be off to the horse stables to tend to a foal that was just sprouting her wings. Dame Agatha did not get away. Robin ran after her and grabbed her. “Oh, Grams! Thank you for being my family. I love you.”

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Robin’s Flying Carpet

FLYING CARPET BY VASNETSOV SAMOLET As the Hogwarts Express made its way north through increasingly snowbound territory, Robin Astor Havorford turned over his class schedule and studied it for the dozenth time. His Christmas holiday at Astorwold had been fantastic, the first truly fantastic Christmas of his young life. He had bonded with Star, his three-month-old collie pup. He and Sorg Leflin had palled around and plunged into farm chores as if they had not been separated for the past three and a half months. He had been over-indulged by the Astorwolders, owing, Robin suspected, to the fact he was now heir to the manor, a role he had no idea how to play. Still, he had pulled it off on Boxing Day with his Grandmom’s coaching. The train ascended into mid-winter early darkness. Lanterns came on along the corridors and over the luggage racks, drawing Robin’s guilty attention back to his valise. Inside was one of the two secrets Robin wished to keep. The first secret was that his brown wool carpet wrapped in a bath towel could fly. What’s more it could fly with him on it. Second, was the secret more difficult to hide, that Robin Astor Havorford of Muggle London was to be Lord Robin Astor without further ties to the Havorfords of Thames Council Housing flat 27/1547, whose order stood firm that Robin was never to darken their dingy threshold again. Robin’s father refused to accept the idea that his son had not chosen to be a detestable male witch. He was an outcast whom they refused to acknowledge ever existed. Robin’s parents were so 131

closed-minded they would not have believed what was within the Astor vault in Gringotts Wizard Bank even if they had seen it with their own eyes, nor could they have found their way to sprawling Astorwold in Suffolk, which was invisible to Muggles. The Havorfords and the Astors inhabited separate worlds with little traffic between. Students in Hogwarts came from every background. This very year, in the Huffelpuff common room could be found the son of a bank teller, daughter of a mayor in Wales, an orphan thought to be child of a prostitute, the disinherited son of an Anglican canon in Northumberland, daughter of a secretary in Balmoral Castle, and a descendant of a Prussian Duke and his nurse. It did not matter, Robin believed, who your ancestors were. In magical Britain every child had an equal chance at happiness and fame. Robin’s schedule included the usual classes for Hogwarts third-years: transfiguration, divination, potions, spells and defense. But he had accepted the option of substituting Neville Longbottom’s course in Magical Muggle Herbs and Poisons for the course on Magical Creatures. He was also continuing Professor Virgil Verbal’s Advanced Enchantment course. If the divination course had been really effective it might have warned Robin that his two new courses were going to change his mind about how all magical beings are endowed with equal opportunities. Driving wind from the north turned snowflakes into icy projectiles in the Hogsmeade station. Not even the Hogwarts carriages were warm. Robin felt sorry for the invisible Thestrals pulling them. Inside the castle students were going through the hallways swathed in blankets from their beds. Dinner was designed to warm the students from inside out, but students were reminded of the blizzard outside by the magical ceiling of the Great Hall where white streaks were blindingly driven across a black sky and by very real wind shrieking outside. Not until he had tapped “Hel-ga Huf-fel-puff” ( - - … ) on the right vinegar barrel and was admitted into the cozy Huffelpuff common room did he begin to warm up. Robin’s first class after the holidays was Magical Muggle Herbs and Poisons, held in Professor Longbottom’s comfortable work room next to the greenhouse furnaces. The Christmas Blizzard, as it was being called, had abated somewhat, but the Herbology teacher had prepared his first assignment to be inside. He would have the students investigate the difference between poison ivy, poison oak, and poison sumac. Neville had cultivated samples in his private laboratory. “It is the oils that cause the allergic reaction,” he told them. The rest of the class was filled with discussion of a wide range of natural poisons, ending with Neville bringing out a bulging sack, containing 132

a drowsy green snake with thin darker green bands running lengthwise. “And this,” Longbottom announced, “is why we have this class. She,” he indicated the snake which was quickly becoming more skeptical about her situation, “she is one of many poisonous creatures that are both natural and magical.” Robin lost consciousness of the class and classroom. He might as well have been in Narnia or Oz. The snake was beginning to uncoil. In a few seconds she would be uncontrollable. Robin had an idea what Professor Longbottom was planning to do with this Guyanan Green, but he knew from experience in the milking room back at Astorwold what the snake was about to do. She was looking at the teacher who was gesturing, attracting her attention. Robin was behind her. Carefully as a cat pouncing, Robin captured the Green right behind her jaws in one swift movement before she knew what was happening. The eight students gasped and shrieked as one. The Green wrapped herself around Robin’s arm and commenced to whip back and forth. Neville stuck the lip of a glass with a latex cover into her mouth as if he was going to give her a drink. It was she who was in a giving way. In seconds she quite unwillingly relinquished nearly a teaspoon full of clear golden venom into the glass. A couple of moments later Robin dropped the exhausted Green back into the sack and handed it to the teacher. Professor Longbottom gave Robin a long look and then said, “There’s only one place in Britain where you could have learned to do that.” So, even though Professor Verbal had never said anything, the word began to spread among the teachers and students that Robin Havorford was an Astor, an Astor of Astorwold. Robin was losing the battle to keep it from making any difference. The unveiling of Robin’s flying-carpet secret began the next morning. As luck would have it Professor Verbal was enchanted by magic carpets in world literature. “Tsarevich Ivan and the Firebird is one of the most often told stories of Eastern Europe,” Verbal announced. For the rest of the session the students were enchanted back in time to relive the adventure of Ivan the Fool and “The Prophetic Dream”. As usual, the professor transported the students by activating their imaginations back into ancient Russia where they re-lived the clever plan of guileless Prince Ivan to win the hand of Elena the Fair and fly home on the magical carpet in triumph. “What are the three magical items in ‘The Prophetic Dream’?” Verbal asked. The students had no trouble responding that they were the cap that made one invisible, the carpet that flew magically, and the boots that covered 133

seven-leagues per step. “Count off by threes,” Verbal ordered. Robin was a two, assigned as a group to write a parchment explaining, “Whose carpet is better, Baba Yaga’s or Aladdin’s? Write a conclusion about magic carpets in Britain, pro or con.” The group had no trouble agreeing that Aladdin’s talking carpet was better. But they were split over the issue of magic carpets in Britain. Some believed the Ministry of Magic was right to ban flying carpets which were apt to get into Muggle hands. Others agreed with Robin that this danger was over-rated. They thought that the real reason for the ban was to protect British flying broom and parasol makers from competition by foreign made carpets. In the end they recorded both points of view and were done with it. Except for Robin. He was just beginning to realize what it meant that the Berber carpet he had rolled up in his trunk was a prohibited magical item. He doubted that even Dame Agatha could successfully defy the Wizengamot, the high court of the Ministry of Magic, if their illegal weaving was discovered, no matter that the production total was still only two small rugs. Robin hadn’t been told about how the challenge was being mounted to repeal this ban that did nothing to prevent Muggles from getting magical carpets from Cairo, Istanbul or even Paris. Robin was wracked with guilt that his careless act of bringing his Berber to Hogwarts might endanger Dame Agatha and get himself expelled from Hogwarts. This worry was trumped in the middle of the night a week later. Robin was startled awake to find a little man standing on his bed. His eyes glowed like a cat. As Robin was drawing breath to call out, the little man said, “Hush! I need your help, Robin Astor.” With a flick of his hand the little man lighted a candle inside a lantern. Robin sat up to see the visitor more clearly. He was barely two feet tall, heavily clothed in a coat and old fashioned stocking cap. He had a full beard beginning to turn from blond to white. He reminded Robin of the gnomes at Astorwold manor. Robin was too surprised and too recently awakened to know what to say, so after a moment the little man confirmed, “I am a gnome.” After another moment, “My name is Tomte Gubbe.” Robin did not know whether to shake the gnome’s hand or not, but noticed he had just four fingers. “How did you get in here?” Robin finally stammered. Tomte Gubbe repeated, “I am a gnome,” as if that answered how he had traveled through solid ground into the Huffelpuff sleeping quarters. Huffelpuff was largely earthen. The students slept in small caves of their own, which were quite cozy once you got used to them. 134

Robin had his wits about him again. “How can I help you?” “Bring your rug and come with me,” Tomte Gubbe replied. Robin was alarmed. No one was supposed to know about that illegal flying carpet. And here a total stranger was ordering him to bring it out of hiding. Robin felt his secret caving in, but instead of asking how the gnome knew about the rug, he decided the question could wait. “Where are we going?” was all Robin could think to ask. “You will need warm clothes,” the Gnome coached him. For the first time since he had arrived in Hogwarts Robin got his flying Berber carpet out of his trunk. At Tomte Gubbe’s suggestion they exited from the Huffelpuff common room the normal way, via the vinegar barrels. Tomte Gubbe knew a kitchen door out into the vegetable garden, now frozen solid. The night was clear. “Let’s fly,” Tomte Gubbe said. “I’ll guide since you have never been where we’re going.” With the gnome sitting in Robin’s lap they rose gently and headed over the Dark Forest, keeping a safe height above whatever might be flying up to them. The forest stretched over hills and mountains. Here and there were lakes, and inlets from the sea. Eventually they descended into the trees. Robin had the strange feeling he was the first person, at least the first human being in modern times, to be here. Tomte Gubbe held Robin’s hand tightly as they walked on a thick bed of pine needles into darker shadows. Suddenly there was no ground beneath them. They were falling, or so it felt. Moments later the fall simply ended, as if there never had been a fall. Nearby, a cluster of gnomes were attending to one lying in their midst. “Is he …?” Tomte Gubbe asked. An old woman replied, “Barely.” Without further words, four of the gnomes hoisted their stricken companion onto their shoulders and the whole group, including Robin and Tomte Gubbe, ascended back among the pine trees. Tomte Gubbe fixed Robin in an unblinking gaze. “Tomte Stener has been bitten by a Nisse. If he is to be saved he must be taken to your farm where the gnomes have the cure. There is no time to lose.” Robin was about to protest that Astorwold was hours away. Tomte Gubbe went on, “Tell your carpet that you need to be there immediately. Make that clear in your mind. Have your farm in mind and think of the journey as immediately done.” Without waiting for a response they prodded Robin back onto his carpet and deposited the dying gnome into his arms and lap. 135

“Now, concentrate, boy! Focus!” It was all Robin could do to erase his galloping thoughts. But he managed to sing, “Astorwold, NOW!” “If the wizards and witches only knew about THIS,” Robin thought some days later after he heard how much apparating was like being sucked through a sewer pipe or a birth canal. Instant travel on a carpet could be … IMMEDIATE. One second you were one place and less than a second later you were another. Of course you missed the scenic views along the way. Their arrival at Astorwold was not unexpected. A reception committee included the Astorwold gnomes, Sorg and his father, Master Leflin, and Dame Agatha. The gnomes were somber, lifting Tomte Stener as if he were a vat of precious fluid in danger of spilling. The place on Tomte Stener’s arm where he had been bitten had changed to an ominous range of colors and was beginning to swell and pucker at the same time. The gnomes accepted bottles of liquid from Master Leflin. An old gnome stood by Tomte Stener’s head and chanted while massaging his temples. Dame Agatha produced a misty blanket in the air over the patient. The mist gradually coagulated into a floating gray copy of Tomte Stener. It quivered. Robin and Sorg hovered on the outskirts of the action, thrilled as well as intimidated. Sometime later, how much time was hard to tell, two new gnomes in unusual colorful garments came to the door of the infirmary and made an announcement that only the gnomes understood. Tomte Stener was stripped naked and carried outside to a sauna that had just been erected. The still unconscious patient was deposited into the care of a couple of similarly unclad gnomes waiting in clouds of steam. Three times during the next hour Tomte Stener was carried out of the sauna and dunked in a trough of ice water and carried back inside the steaming sauna. All the while the gray misty image hovered where Dame Agatha had conjured it. At dawn all the Astorwolders converged on the infirmary, taking turns to peek inside and be sympathetic and curious. Sorg and Robin had slept in the dorm for a couple of hours when it became clear they were not going to be needed for a while. In the early dawn Dame Agatha’s misty form of Tomte Stener began to show veins of color that gradually spread from deep within the gnome’s chest. By the time the color had filled his face, arms and legs, the gnome on the bed began to stir. Breakfast in the Astorwold dining hall had a festive feel. Visiting gnomes 136

joined the celebration, congratulating Robin for his magical ambulance service, Master Leflin for his potions, the gnome healers, and everyone else in turn. Robin found himself next to his Grandmom, Dame Agatha. “Why did they come for me last night?” “Well,” she said, “they needed you to bring him here. A broom would not have worked. Gnomes cannot apparate. Your carpet was the only way.” Robin remembered he had disappeared from Hogwarts without getting permission or telling anyone. He was worried about that. Even more, he was plagued with guilt about letting the secret of the magic carpet out. “Oh, the Headmistress’s mother and I were classmates way back when,” Dame Agatha replied. “She’ll be most understanding. She’ll have my owl before she sees you flying back.” “What was the wound from?” Robin hadn’t understood what a Nisse bite was. “There is a gnome hierarchy, you might say,” Dame Agatha sipped her tea thoughtfully. “Elves, gnomes, goblins, hobs all have their rank. Tomte gnomes and Nisse gnomes are cousins from Norway and Sweden, but they have a long rivalry. The Nisse are often more pugnacious and violent. They are slow to change, we hear. But don’t look down on gnomes, Robin. Magical society is just as prone to violence and elitism.” “What’s elitism?” Robin asked. “It’s when you’re going to be Lord of Astorwold and begin to think that makes you special rather than making you compassionate and responsible.” Robin got the point. “What am I responsible for?” Dame looked at him and said, “Getting back to Hogwarts for your next class, my lad.”

137

Weekend in London

14-15 BULGRAVIA Ronald steered the purple Rolls Royce effortlessly toward Buckingham Palace, down Grosvenor Crescent, past a row of white Belgravia mansions, to the access drive behind numbers 13 to 23. A garage door opened with the label “Society of Chemical Industry.” There was parking space inside for several limousines. Ronald ignored the empty spaces and maneuvered the purple monster into a crevice between two pillars that seemed barely wide enough for a bicycle. Many of the mansions on Belgrave Square had been leased by embassies or as prestigious headquarters for associations. Astor House was hidden within numbers 14-15. 14-15 Belgrave Square had been modified into one unit. The chemical industrialists never noticed there was a third house tucked in between numbers 14 and 15. “I thought it was time for Sorg and you to spend some time away from the farm,” Dame Agatha Astor explained to Robin, as she and the two boys were climbing the stairs from the garage into the rear entry hall. Robin wondered what the reason for Grandmum’s concern really was. She soon explained her plans. “We have four things to do here in London,” she said. “We have a delivery to make to Diagon Alley. There is a young witch I want to meet you. I’d like you to see Sir Edward’s estate, now being fought over by his bickering heirs. And I want you to see a play.” She seemed delighted over the play as if it were to be the highlight of the weekend in London. 138

“Will we have time for all that?” Robin thought they’d only have 2 days in the city. “Yes,” Dame Agatha agreed. “It will be tight, but I think there’s time enough.” First stop was Diagon Alley. Both boys were loaded with A-Brand produce from Astorwold farm. Most of the merchants had made it a point to remember Robin from his first visit the summer before, or at least they pretended to remember him, and would in the future. It was Sorg that was being introduced this time. “The boy may be coming in my place, sometimes,” Dame Agatha explained at each stop. And to Sorg she said, “Now pay attention. There are only certain shops we will have anything to do with.” She pointed down a dark, twisting side street. “We will not be going down there, and we will do our best to keep our products out of their hands.” The sign said Knockturn Alley. Sorg looked as doubtful as he felt. “If you come,” Agatha said, “I’ll send Ethel with you the first time or two. She seems a sweet young thing but she’s tough as steel.” Noticing the boys’ expressions, Dame Agatha continued, “Oh, we’re a loving community – witches and wizards, but there’s larceny and rivalry in the soul of every one of us. Oh, yes.” Both boys were a bit alarmed at this confession of magical corruption. There was no hint of it back at Astorwold. Astorwold was the magical estate where Sorg had been born and raised. It was isolated from the outside world almost as securely as Hogwarts. Sorg was contented with the farm in the way only a child thoroughly acquainted with every corner of a place can be. He would love to spend his life hidden away there. For the past 3 years Sorg was convinced he needed none of Hogwarts’ complicated training even though he had received an invitation to enroll on his eleventh birthday. Ronald piloted the purple limousine from Charing Cross Road all the way back to Mayfair. “Now we meet the Muggle side of the family,” Dame Agatha said resolutely as the car made its way to the front door of a chateau right there in London. At the mention of Muggles, Robin took out his mistletoe wand, intending to leave it in the car. “No, bring the wand,” Dame Agatha said. “You never know when you’ll have to defend yourself in a place like this.” Sorg glanced at the bulge in Robin’s pocket and, for the first time, wished he had a wand, too. The front door opened and they were greeted by a portly matron about the 139

age of Robin’s oldest aunt. “Dame Agatha,” she said with a bit less enthusiasm than her words should have carried, “what a pleasant surprise.” The emphasis was on “surprise” rather than “pleasant”. “And how’s my Rose?” Dame Agatha asked. Neither the boys nor the matron were quite sure if Dame Agatha had been asking about a person or a plant in the garden. The woman recovered and realized with a shock that her husband’s great aunt, still stranded on the doorstep, had been inquiring either about her or her daughter. In either case this was to be a friendlier visit than several previous ones. “Oh, how remiss of me,” Rose gasped, perhaps sincerely. “Do come in!” As they were all in the spacious foyer, Robin saw Rose tug a long cloth with a tassel on the bottom. Presently, a butler came through an archway and nodded stiffly, with a hint of warmth, or amusement, at the corners of his eyes. “Just the man I want to see first,” Dame Agatha announced, agreeably. “I would like to schedule a gathering of all the staff, past and present, for Friday next, right here at 2 o’clock.” Turning to Rose, now suspicious again, she said, “I will meet with the family at the Board Room that day at 4.” Giving Rose a moment to compose herself, Agatha smiled and commented, “Now, as you were about to offer me some of the brandy I keep supplying, I’d like Reginald to show the boys around the estate, since it may be their only chance to see it.” “Yes, maam,” the Butler responded. Then turning to a cone imbedded in the wall he blew into it and after hearing a whistle in return he said, “Reginald to the foyer if you please.” For the next hour a young man just a few years older than the boys showed them around the chateau and the grounds. The house had a large hall complete with pipe organ, a bowling alley, a billiards room, a gym and fitness center with a modest swimming pool. There were any number of bedroom suites, a banquet hall and smaller dining rooms, and an entire wing for servants. But there were no facilities for making potions, even though there was a greenhouse for producing flowers out of season and another for organic salads. What amazed the boys most was the film theater and computer lab. “The house and grounds are totally wi-fi,” Reginald informed them. The boys grunted appreciation, having only a vague idea what wi-fi was and how computers worked. As the tour was apparently winding down, Reginald pulled them into a kitchenette to the side of a breakfast solarium. Popping open cans of Coke for the boys, Reginald took a breath and blurted out, “You are magicians aren’t 140

you? Do a trick!” Taking the technical difference between magician and wizard as an error, Robin felt safe to deny they were magicians. They certainly were not the kind who stood before audiences and made pretty girls disappear from glass boxes. Reginald reconsidered his approach. “Come on,” he urged. “What’s it like living with witches and so forth?” At last he got to the point, “My little sister got a letter from Hogwash and it’s scared the pee out of her.” Just in time to save Robin and Sorg from trying to respond, Reginald’s cell-phone played the first two bars of Chopin’s “Funeral March”. “Mister O’Fallon summons us,” Reginald explained, without answering the phone. “He’s the butler.” And so concluded the visit to the Astor Estate. As the Rolls Royce glided the short distance from Mayfair back to Belgrave Square, Sorg said to Dame Agatha, “Reginald thinks we are wizards.” “He would guess that,” Agatha agreed. “The Ministry has always been overly concerned about Muggles knowing about us. It gives them a major reason for having all those departments, after all. But Muggles do sometimes get enough clues to draw the right conclusion.” “Reginald’s sister got an invitation to Hogwarts,” Robin said. “It has frightened her,” Sorg added. “It will be up to a Hogwarts teacher to explain everything to the girl, but we will do our bit,” Dame Agatha said, without mentioning what their bit might be. Dame Agatha’s biggest treat was a theater party to which she had invited three of her friends, and two younger witches to keep Robin and Sorg company. She refused to tell them what the play was, until the purple limo rolled up to the Palace Theater and they saw the huge yellow marquee advertising, “Harry Potter and the Cursed Child”.

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Sorg, in particular, was spellbound by the saga of Harry Potter’s youngest child. The idea that magical children had as many struggles as Muggle children, and that being the child of a famous hero brought no insurance against conflict, was new to Sorg. Following the afternoon performance while they enjoyed high tea at a classy restaurant near the theater, Sorg was fairly quiet. Part II of the play that evening may have resolved things for Albus Severus Potter, but it deepened a quandary for Sorg Leflin. Somehow, this weekend in London had challenged Sorg’s resolve to live his entire life sheltered inside the magical protection of Astorwold. The farm only worked if it maintained productive connections with the outside world. Most importantly, Sorg had come to realize that the magical world was not always peaceful. Life was not uniformly serene. There had been several serious wars. There was no certainty Astorwold would not be involved in the next one or its livelihood interrupted. Midmorning the next day, after a restless night for Sorg, Dame Agatha announced, “Now we will go for tea.” Dame Agatha chose a table at Harrods’s tea room as far away from other customers as possible. Glancing at a clock she commented, “She’ll be along soon, I’m sure.” Who “she” was, was resolved almost immediately when Reginald came to their table with a girl about 3 years younger than Robin and Sorg. Dame Agatha smiled at her, and she winced in return. Dame Agatha seemed not to notice. “This is Gwendolyn.” “Wendy,” the girl barely whispered. “Robin and Sorg,” Agatha continued the introductions. By the time Wendy had been convinced to remove her overcoat and be seated beside her brother, a waitress came with tea for five and a 3-tiered tray of sweets, featuring chocolate in various forms. They ate quietly with Dame Agatha finally instructing Robin, “Tell Wendy about Hogwarts. She’s received an invitation.” Reginald beamed with interest. “Hogwarts is the most magical place on earth,” Robin began, having no idea what to say; but once begun he became lyrical. “You get there by train,” Robin said and, realizing how un-magical that sounded, he quickly moved on to the sorting hat and the four houses. At the mention of anything unusual Wendy cringed or shuddered. Sorg picked up on this. “You are a witch, you know,” he said quietly. “How would YOU know? You don’t know me!” Wendy retorted, more animated than she intended to be. 142

“You got the letter,” Sorg replied. “The letters only go to witches and wizards. If you got a letter, you are one. Let’s see it.” Wendy hesitated but slowly extracted the parchment envelope from her Hello Kitty backpack. Sorg didn’t try to take the letter. She had it, and that’s what mattered. “Do you go to Hogwarts?” Wendy asked, glaring at Sorg. His answer surprised everyone but Wendy. Most of all Sorg surprised himself, “Yes, I’m going to Hogwarts next year with you.”

143

Geddes’s Tattoo

“I never saw a design like that,” the burly artist admitted. He looked at the boys doubtfully. “Where did you say you want it?” Geddes Waring answered, “On my back.” “It’s complicated, know what I mean?” the tattooist said. “You mean it’ll be expensive,” Grier Hardee guessed. “That too. It’ll take 3 hours, and it’ll hurt,” the man replied. “Then you’ll do it?” Geddes asked for the third time. “You’re young.” Doubt slipped back into the artist’s tone of voice. “You sure your parents won’t object? I don’t want police and angry parents coming after me.” “I’m of age,” Geddes bristled, aware that “of age” in the magical world was a year younger than for Muggles who are not magical. “We’ll be done long before my parents see it. They’re in Cape Town.” “OK. I’ll do it, but you pay in advance. If you chicken-out before we’re done I keep the money.” “How much?” Grier asked. 144

The tattoo artist sized the boys up, trying to guess how much they’d be good for. “Five hundred Euros,” he finally said. Grier didn’t blink, nor did he respond. He waited. “OK, I’ll do it for four.” Geddes nodded when he got down to three hundred. As the boys turned to leave Grier said, “See you at 1. Oh, by the way, we’ll bring a coach for you.” They hurried out with the big man sputtering and getting louder as they got farther away. Lawrence Fry had been a tattooist for 20 years, since he got out of the Royal Navy and retired to Newcastle upon Tyne rather than back home in Alberta, Canada. He had seen the tattoo fad rise. He considered himself a professional with strict standards and an excellent reputation, but he was not a master artist who could do realistic images of fierce animals. However, the largely geometric design the boys wanted was not going to be too much trouble. The boys had gotten the sketch a week earlier from a witch everyone knew as Granny Og. “Call me Og, rhymes with hog and dog,” the witch had said. “Where did you get this design?” They had come across it in an old book they had found while doing outside reading for Professor Cho’s arithmancy class. Both Grier and Geddes felt the design was special. Geddes had decided to have a tattoo made of it. But they had found out that the design had to be converted by a specialist if it was to “work” magically. They had then been told Granny Og was the one to contact. “Why? Is anything wrong with it?” Geddes responded to the witch’s question about where they’d found the design. “It looks like a magic design. What do the numbers add up to?” “65”, the boys said in unison. “Hmm. That’s odd.” She studied the palm of Geddes’ hand for a while and then announced, “Could be.” “What could be?” Grier asked when Geddes had not said anything. “Eh, his hand could be a 6 or a 5,” she said mysteriously. “Are you right or left handed?” she asked Geddes. “I can use either hand. I write with whichever hand is closest to the quill.” The old witch brightened. “Ho!” she exclaimed. And then she repeated, “Ho! Ho!” She grinned, showing a couple of missing upper and lower front 145

teeth and other inadequate dental hygiene. Then she settled down a bit. “First we need to know when and where you were born.” Geddes gulped as if they were crossing a river and would not be coming back. “December 1, 1998 in St. Andrews, Scotland,” he said. “Time?” “Ma said it was 2:45 a.m.” Og consulted a well-worn book. “The moon was 90.69% full the hour you were born,” she announced. “Year of the Fox we call Meno. Opposite the year of the Eagle we call Gula.” She sketched Meno hovering over an almost-full moon with Gula flying below. “You’ll need to be shielded from behind, moon like that. The shadows are in back of you,” she said as if that explained what she was talking about. “On your back we’ll need a labyrinth,” she continued. “On your chest and belly it would be a tree. But first we need to establish the 25 points. Let’s see, full moon is 18, opposite new moon, which is dark, number 1. 18 goes at the top.” She was talking to herself, but the boys were paying rapt attention. “We won’t write those numbers, but use glyphs for’em. They will be applied in numerical order with the ‘Meno Gula’ chant. That’s what activates the tattoo, the chant. Finally we connect all this by the labyrinth lines and there’s your shield.” Og worked a while scratching lines on her parchment, drawing free-hand. The boys had been silent during this entire process. “Is that what makes it work, the chant?” Grier finally dared to ask. He was wondering where a magic wand was used. “No. The chant activates the magical tattoo. The energy is from a convergence of natural coincidences. That’s what magic is, you know. This diagram is an 8-pointed star-shape. If you think of it as 2 squares, that gives you 8 lines. Then you connect each point with the point opposite and you have 4 more lines. Those cross in the middle. Everywhere a line crosses is assigned a number from 1 to 25. The center is number 22, where the moon will go. Every line has 2 ends and 3 lines crossing it. There are 5 numbers for every line. The numbers can’t be random. Each line has to add up to 65. That’s HALF the magic. The other half comes from lining the number design up with a pattern in nature. We use your birth time for that.” As it happens, there were a few factors Granny Og was guessing or ignoring. “Let me know when you find someone to do the tattoo. I’m no good at tattoos. I’ll come and coach him.” So, that day at one o’clock Geddes, Grier and Granny Og were back at “Larry’s Tattoo Harbor”. 146

Larry and Granny Og sized one another up. The contrast couldn’t have been greater. Granny Og was white-headed, stooped and wore a long black dress favored by witches two centuries ago. Lawrence Fry was 240 pounds, all muscle and hair like a bear. He wore baggy jeans and a sleeveless undershirt, with a Royal Navy cap from his last voyage. “Begin where I point,” Granny Og said. Lawrence sputtered, but it was macho bluster. He recognized authority when he heard it. “Put that beetle mark right there,” she said, pointing to a spot on Geddes’ bare back at the base of his neck. The instrument rattled. Geddes gritted his teeth. “Meno”, Granny Og chanted as Lawrence worked. It took almost a minute for the figure of a beetle to be complete. Grier vowed never to be tattooed. Figure 2 looked like a fish. “Jo-bah”, Og chanted. There were a snail, an eye, and 21 more, each eliciting a magic word from Granny Og. Figure 22 was the nearly full moon, “Luun.” It was a coincidence that the 22nd word of the “Meno Gula Chant” was Luun, the word for moon. Grier noticed that, but Granny Og did not appear to care about such a detail. After figure 25 they paused. “Now the fox,” Og said. The fox was followed by the eagle. They seemed to be chasing each other’s tails counterclockwise around the moon in the middle of Geddes’ bloody back. “You still OK?” Lawrence asked Geddes. His back looked far from OK, but the boy was clear the job was to be finished. The labyrinth, Og had called the last part of the design, were swirling, lightly-incised lines connecting the glyphs in a mysterious pattern similar to those on Celtic monuments. When they were done Lawrence patted Geddes’ bleeding back with pads soaked in aloe vera juice and warned him about possible infection. As a memento, Lawrence took a picture of his finished handiwork and invited Grier to have a tattoo done. “No thanks!” Grier replied, firmly. As they were leaving, Lawrence called, “Come back when it’s all healed and I’ll take a picture for your scrapbook and mine.” The tattoo itself was going to keep that from happening. 147

The Demon Rahu

RAHU DEVOURING THE MOON Grier Hardee was probably the least insular of all British-born Hogwarts students in the last 100 years. Not only was he smart, fluent in 5 languages, and a member of “Mensa” (an association of people with high IQs), he was a kind and loyal friend to a larger number of younger students than was usu148

ally the case. His best friend since early childhood was fellow classmate and Ravenclaw roommate, Geddes Waring. It was Grier’s international curiosity and experience that helped Geddes get through his last year at Hogwarts after getting the tattoo. Students had barely arrived at Hogwarts and hadn’t even gotten into the Great Hall for the start-of-term banquet when Professor Flitwick, head of Ravenclaw, pulled Geddes aside. The professor seemed a bit embarrassed to be doing this to one of his favorite pupils. “Is something wrong, professor?” Geddes asked, his Scottish burr showing he was anxious. Professor Flitwick made a dismissive gesture as if trying to shoo away a gnat. They made their way to the Ravenclaw tower before Flitwick said, “Some suspicious magic has been detected and I need to inspect your trunk.” For the next few minutes they went through Geddes’s possessions. There were no restricted items. Nothing unusual at all. Still, Professor Flitwick was not satisfied. “Please turn out your pockets,” he ordered. Nothing there, either. At last the professor scanned Geddes himself with an instrument Argus Filch normally used, still revealing nothing. Then a thought dawned on Geddes and he lifted his shirt showing his recently tattooed back. Professor Flitwick perused the tattoo. His perceptive eye caught nothing, nor did his wand, until it accidentally grazed the moon on Geddes’s tattoo. The moon tattoo began to glow. In a few seconds a shadow began to cross the moon as if an eclipse was taking place. Finally, the moon was replaced by a demonic face, like a vicious cookie monster stuffing the glowing moon disc into its mouth. Geddes slumped to the floor. The sorting ceremony continued in the Great Hall, but half the teachers filed out from their head table and the Ravenclaw prefect was summoned. Grier was so concerned about his friend’s absence that he needed to be reminded he was the Ravenclaw prefect. In the hospital ward the professors and Madame Pomfrey were crowded around the only occupied bed. Professor Flitwick was saying, “…my wand touched the moon in that tattoo and then this creature devoured it.” “We should deliver him to Saint Mongo’s as soon as possible,” one of the teachers suggested. There was growing agreement to do that. “It is Rahu,” Grier said in his normal quiet voice. The chatter stopped instantly and all eyes turned to him. “Granny Og designed and activated the tattoo,” he added. 149

“Granny Og from Newcastle upon Tyne?” Professor Verbal asked, as if there could be two Granny Ogs. Without waiting for an answer, Verbal continued, “I will get her.” After he departed Madame Pomfrey commented, “I wonder if this delay is wise. The boy is weakening.” Rahu, on the other hand was growing more distinct and animated as the disc in his mouth grew dimmer. “I’ll be right back,” Grier said to anyone who happened to be listening. In the library he quickly found a book he was looking for and rushed back to the hospital. Positioning himself an inch from the demon Rahu, Grier began to repeat, “Aum Ram Rahuvey Namaha”. Those closest thought they saw the demon look startled. Madame Pomfrey, who had been about to evict the entire crowd, checked the patient instead. He seemed to have stopped quivering and his breathing was steadier. Grier repeated the mantra for a few minutes. Not only Geddes, but the moon still in Rahu’s mouth was getting stronger. Grier turned to another page in the book and chanted, “Aum Som Somaya Namaha” and then “Om Bhraam Bhreem Bhraum Sa Rahve Namah”. As Grier encouraged the moon with the “Aum Som…” mantra, the moon re-emerged from voracious Rahu’s mouth and outshone the demon again. Grier was still chanting mantras when Professor Verbal got back with Granny Og, looking the worse for having been apparated from Newcastle to the gates of Hogwarts, and then rushed up tall flights of stairs. When the moon was fully restored and Geddes was resting comfortably, Professor Flitwick, Prof. Cho and Granny Og withdrew to Flitwick’s quarters to see if they could reconstruct how the tattoo had gone wrong. Finally, Granny Og remembered, “The other boy was there, too.” “What boy?” Prof. Cho asked. “The one who’s always with the lad with the tattoo.” They found Grier just outside the office door waiting to be summoned. “So, what do you remember of the tattooing?” Professor Flitwick asked. “The important thing is that there was only one word in the activation chant that coincided with the glyph being applied. The glyph for number 22 was luun for moon. Granny Og’s chant was also “luun”. She said it 9 times while the moon was being tattooed.” “Nine to the power of nine at 90.69% of full strength,” Granny Og figured. “Wonder you didn’t pull the moon right out of the sky,” Prof. Cho commented. 150

“Not that simple,” Prof. Flitwick responded. “When I touched the moon tattoo it was not the moon who responded, but the demon.” “How do you de-activate a powerful tattoo?” Professor Cho wondered. “Never done that,” Granny Og confessed. “You find out a person’s birth time; that gives you the exact phase of the moon. The year gives you the dominant and subordinate figures of the mystic zodiac, which gives you the chant. You put those into a magic diagram with glyphs for each number and chant it out one word per glyph. Once it’s done I don’t think it can be undone.” The four were quiet for a long moment, staring into space in all directions. “The tattoo is magic,” Prof. Cho said. “Stronger than we’ve yet encountered in a tattoo,” Prof. Flitwick added. “But we do not know what it can do,” Prof. Cho said, sounding a little frustrated. “Or how to control it,” Granny Og admitted. After another pause, Grier said, “The Warings might have an idea.” Three days later, Robert Waring called at the front gate of Hogwarts. He was not alone. “You’ve been expected,” Argus Filch, the surly caretaker, said to Mr. Waring. But he had no idea how to respond to his companion in a turban, who greeted him with, “Namaste.”

The Lion and the Bull “These are amazing ruins,” Shakar Dal commented to Robert Waring as they waited for caretaker Filch to bring a teacher to deal with the Muggle at the gate of Hogwarts. Waring was a wizard and could see his old school quite clearly, but Dal was a Muggle, and to him the castle looked like ruins in a very unstable condition. Waring knew his Indian friend from Cape Town pretty well. He knew that when Guru Dal said “amazing” he didn’t mean what a casual tourist might mean when looking at Stonehendge or the pyramids in Egypt. “How are they amazing?” Waring asked. “I detect an aura among these imposing stones,” Dal said. “An aura?” “A shimmering light. Most auspicious, I might add.” Dal looked here and there. “One can almost make out an image of splendor therein.” Waring was saved from making a response to his perceptive friend by the 151

arrival of his son, Geddes, Geddes’ friend Grier, Professor Flitwick and the Deputy Headmaster. “I have arranged a place for us in Glen Dennon,” the Deputy Headmaster announced after introductions had been made. Shakar Dal was acquainted with the idea of a magical world, but not with details such as how the coach had silently arrived within arm’s reach directly behind them. His view was blocked as he was helped aboard, so he was not able to see either the coachman or the horses. He might have been concerned that this coach appeared to have neither. Glen Dennon had so few houses it could barely be called a village, and it was not an official village. Half of its 6 or 7 scattered residences were unoccupied except in summer. The house at which the coach stopped was two stories tall, made of field stones a long time ago. Granny Og was waiting for them inside the cottage. After the evening meal they sat before a fire in a large fireplace that could also have been used to cook the meal. Professor Flitwich brought up the main subject. “We need to learn about the tattoo that affected Geddes Waring.” Granny Og repeated how she had concocted the design. Geddes told about the moments after the moon tattoo had been touched by Prof. Flitwick’s wand. He felt as if he were being abducted by unseen beings and flown to the Himmapan Forest, which is a place he had never heard of. Mr. Dal was most interested in Grier’s account of recognizing Rahu the Demon devouring the moon and his desperate attempt to placate Rahu and redeem the moon, through mantras he has come across. “And so, my friend,” Robert Waring said quietly, looking Mr. Dal directly in the eye, “what do you make of this?” “There is much to consider,” Mr. Dal agreed. “First the story of Rahu, in brief. At the creation of ambrosia of life, when a pot of it had been produced, the demon Rahu seized the elixir and began to drink it to become immortal. Instantly, Lord Vishnu cut off his head to keep the power from spreading throughout Rahu’s entire body. The decapitated head, however, was immortal. Rahu, thus, has limited power, but one thing he can do is attempt to disrupt the eternal cycle of the waxing and waning moon, which is to say the cycle of death and resurrection.” They had Geddes get undressed, down to his shorts. Mr. Dal studied the tattoo on Geddes’s back. “The moon and the demon are in eternal competition. Neither will defeat the other. Mr. Hardee was very clever to give them equal honor in the crisis. But something more enduring is 152

needed. The principle is to supplant the bull with the lion.” “What?” the Deputy Headmaster exclaimed. “The sun exceeds the moon in both capacity and stability,” the guru explained, but none of his audience knew that the bull is related to the moon and the lion to the sun. “Are you suggesting another tattoo?” Geddes asked, with his voice trembling. “Perhaps not,” Mr. Dal replied. “You clever folks may have a better alternative.” When no one spoke, Mr. Dal added, “It seems that the demon was called by some enticement when the moon was agitated.” Professor Flitwick thought of his wand touching the moon tattoo. Mr. Dal continued, “However, it might be worth remembering that this tattoo is unique and potent. I see the entire tattoo and the young man wearing it imbued with a golden aura. Most astonishing!” Grier remembered that Granny Og had called the number 65 related to Geddes’s hand “astonishing”. None of it was as astonishing as what happened next. Geddes Waring was feeling a bit shy wearing nothing but a pair of faded boxer shorts with those adults studying his back. Granny Og confessed, “Musta been somethin’ I forgot.” The wizards were inclined to agree. Geddes’s father tried to be sympathetic. “There are many overlapping factors. Hard to remember them all.” Guru Shakar spoke up, “That’s it! This symbolic complex needs to be complemented.” “You mean we should praise it?” Granny Og asked, sharply. “Not ‘compliment-praise’ but ‘complement-complete’,” Grier explained. Granny Og fell silent. “In nature,” Dal said, “light and dark are symmetrical. That is what is missing here in this configuration.” Dal’s gesture took in the whole tattoo and the boy wearing it. “Even the light of the night is in conflict here, not with the light of day, but with still deeper darkness.” “A charm should adjust that,” Professor Flitwick said. “Solsuration”, the Deputy Headmaster suggested. “Allow me,” Mr. Waring spoke up. “Geddes is my responsibility.” “I am of age!” Geddes objected. “And you are my son forever,” his father responded mildly. Then waving his wand in a wide spiral coming to a point directed at the moon tattoo, he shouted, “Solsurate” (which sounded like “saul-sure-AH-tay”). 153

A lime green puff of vapor erupted from the end of Waring’s wand and collided with Geddes’s back where the glyphs glowed for a brief instant. Then the green vapor congealed into a cloud beside Geddes. It was translucent and insubstantial, like the ghosts in Hogwarts; it was also ambiguous, both the form of a lion and a man, neither completely one nor the other. After a moment the image evaporated, leaving behind a faint spicy aroma and a tingle in the air. For a while the group sat in a somber semi-circle before the fire. “Unless I am badly mistaken,” the guru said, at last, “young Mr. Waring has acquired a rare capacity.” “What is his new ‘capacity’, as you call it, my friend?” Mr. Waring asked. “Ah, the capacity of the hero,” Dal responded. “But what kind of hero remains to be seen. Heroes are many. Some warriors, others sages, a few are princes, the best are workers of mercy and charity.” “How long does it take to develop this capacity to be a hero?” Geddes asked. Dal chuckled, “For the titan Vritra it took 60,000 years. Perhaps it will not take so long for you since it is not your destiny to go forth to slay the invincible son of the mother of demons with a thunderbolt. One thing more, if I may be so assertive,” Dal nodded respectfully to the Deputy Headmaster and Professor Flitwick before turning to Geddes, “heroism of the highest sort is not the performance of spectacular individual deeds. The surpassing hero discovers the irresistible crest of history and rides it forth.” “‘History makes heroes’, not ‘heroes make history’ as many believe,” the Deputy Headmaster commented. “Indeed. Very precise,” Guru Dal agreed. Professor Flitwick, the Deputy Headmaster, Grier and Geddes went back to Hogwarts soon after that. As Grier and Geddes got ready for bed, Geddes asked, “What was that all about?” “Keeping Rahu from devouring your life,” Grier said. “There seemed to be more to it that that,” Geddes replied. “Apparently our elders haven’t tried to handle anything like this before,” Grier said. “We’ll probably discover things undreamt of.” Much as Geddes liked and admired Grier, it was a bit aggravating how matter-of-fact he could be about this impending, astonishing heroism. Granny Og, Mr. Waring and Guru Dal stayed in the cottage until a bus 154

passed through Glen Dennon on its way to Inverness the next morning. When the two men had gone, Granny Og put out the fire and apparated back to Newcastle upon Tyne.

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What Is Magic? “What is MAGIC?” Professor Virgil Verbal thundered in one of his “great teacher” moods. When he was wearing his patchwork velvet hat and using that tone of voice, students in his Advanced Enchantment class knew to be quiet. The professor was not asking a question but was dramatically announcing something he was going to talk about. It was something that several Hogwarts teachers often talked about in the days after the whole world knew of Harry Potter and knew all about Hogwarts, except how to get there. It was rather funny how those Muggles so wanted to see Hogwarts that they built copies of the castle and even Diagon Alley in theme parks around the world. Millions of people knew something about magic. But Muggles thought it was one thing and Witches and Wizards thought it was something else. Professor Verbal was going to be philosophical about it. “Magic is when a cause produces an effect but there is no known link between the act and the outcome,” Professor Verbal said, in his dreadful-serious voice that meant also “write this down, it will be on the test.” Students suspected what was coming next: a demonstration. They were right. Verbal pointed his blue wand at a big padlock and a moment later it sprang open with a loud “clank”. “What made it do that?” the teacher asked. This question was in his “answer-please” tone of voice. “Alohomora,” two or three students responded. “Explain,” Verbal ordered. Vesta Arbuckle stood. “Alohomora is a charm to unlock locks. The wand sends the charm to the target.” She thought she had said that right. “That could be correct, Miss Arbuckle. You may be seated.” Professor Verbal continued, “The connection between charm and lock can be tested to validate Miss Arbuckle’s theory. What would such a test be?” “Point the wand and say something else,” Jon Lincoln suggested. “You do it, Mr. Lincoln,” Professor Verbal said, re-fastening the padlock and getting out of the way. Jon pointed his wand and said, “Wingardium leviosa”. The padlock, as expected, did not spring open, but floated off the table as Jon’s wand directed it. “What does that demonstration prove?” the teacher asked. “That a different charm gets a different result,” Charles Levine responded. “Very good,” Verbal agreed. “Still, we have not proved a connection between the wand and the lock. Perhaps we can make the padlock open by just saying Alohomora without pointing a wand?” 156

“That would be very advanced magic, more than we can do,” Vesta said. But you opened the lock without saying the magic word.” “I did not say it out loud. I did think the charm, however,” Professor Verbal responded. “But it seems we might not always need a wand if we were skilled at advanced magic, and we do not have say the charm out loud. Let me ask you this, can we unlock the padlock if it is somewhere else?” The students didn’t think so. “Well, let’s test the theory that there is a link, an energy thread, or something that can be interrupted, that goes from the wand to the padlock. Mr. Levine will you please take this lock out into the third floor hallway and close the doors behind you. After a minute come back with the lock in whatever condition it is in.” Charles went out. The class pointed their wands and sang out, “Alohomora!” Pretty soon Charles came back with the padlock still locked. “What have we proven?” Professor Verbal queried. There were several ideas: “The connection can be interrupted.” “There needs to be a straight line between wand and lock.” “The lock didn’t hear us.” “The charm gets weaker at a distance.” Professor Verbal let the suggestions roll. Finally he said, “Each of those theories can be tested. To do that you have to eliminate all variable factors and test just one thing. You have to try to imagine what all the possibilities are and narrow them down to just one. With true magic we cannot do that. “Do you know what Muggle magic is?” Verbal went on. “Rabbits out of a hat, flowers out of thin air, cards doing impossible things,” Duncan Funk remembered a show he had seen. “What did the magician do?” “She waved a black and white wand and said, ‘abra-cadabra’…” Two of the student witches screamed, thinking they’d heard the forbidden killing curse. “Was she doing real magic, Mr. Funk?” “She was good. But I think she was playing tricks on us. My father said she was. He bought me a Muggle magic set the year before I came here.” “Well, from your experience, then, what is the difference between our magic and Muggle magic?” Professor Verbal brought out five metal hoops. “Perhaps you can tell us how a Muggle entertainer would have used these.” “Oh!” Duncan said brightly, “my set had rings like those.” “Show us,” Verbal invited him. 157

Duncan looked at Professor Verbal’s rings. “No,” he admitted, “mine were different. One of mine had an opening and two were already linked. I had to practice to make it look good, but it looked like I could make a chain out of them.” Professor Verbal laid his five rings, one by one, on the table in a jumble. Then he pointed his wand at them and said, “Conjunct-ite”. The rings rattled and shook. When Duncan picked them up, they were linked like a chain. “Madame Marvel could not do that,” Duncan guessed. “But she could make it look like she had.” Verbal nodded approvingly and then turned toward the class again. “Still we have not answered the question with which we began this lesson, ‘What is magic?’” “Alohomora makes the lock open up,” Shirley Spink insisted. “Here is my point,” Professor Verbal said patiently, “the charm and the wand are the action, and the lock springing open is the result. We know what to do. We can do the action and get results every time. But we do not know why it works. We need to be able to identify and name the form of energy. Muggle science says there are 4 kinds of energy: chemical energy, physical energy, electrical energy, and nuclear atomic energy. We think there is at least one more. If we put a metal key into the lock and turn the key, physical energy will move the mechanism and push the metal catch out of the way so the lock opens. But we do not know what the energy is that makes real magic work when we say ‘Alohomora’ while waving our wand. That energy has never been isolated and tested. There is no proof it even exists except that it works for us.” Jon Lincoln had been thinking about this. He raised his hand and Professor Verbal nodded to him. “Perhaps there is a third factor … us!” Verbal smiled and encouraged Jon, “Go on.” “Maybe Alohomora and wand waving only works if a witch or wizard does it. My brother stole my wand once. He has no magic in him, but he’s seen all the Harry Potter movies and he tried to make a feather float like Hermione did. He couldn’t get the feather to budge. Neither could Ron Weasley that first time. But it worked for Ron with the club and the mountain troll. It takes practice. But even with practice I don’t think my brother could ever move the feather magically.” “I personally believe you are right, Mr. Lincoln. Even very young witches and wizards have magical powers that sometimes just erupt when they are threatened or angry. Our magical education teaches us how to channel and control this magical energy we have no other name for. 158

“Well, that’s it for today,” the teacher said, glancing around the room. “Oh, yes. Our homework is an essay on ‘Who has more magical power, witches or wizards?’” The class erupted in a din of “NO!” “Not THAT!” “Not AGAIN!” “No?” Verbal said, grinning broadly. “Well, then, no homework this time.” That brought about an instantaneous, near-magical change of mood.

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Count Prothero’s Pot Etruscan Vestal Virgin Angela Pavone, Order of Merlin, Second Class, was one of a number of immigrant, young witches studying at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She was both the smallest and oldest member of her class. When her mother died in Milan, Italy Angela went to live with her aunt who had moved to Kent, England. It would be an understatement to say that Angela was an illustrious Griffendor who already shone as brightly as some of her famous predecessors. At any one time there were only ten Etruscan Vestal Virgins and of them only Angela was also entitled to wear an Order of Merlin medallion. “Why are you here?” she was occasionally asked by fellow Griffendors who had heard Angela was an Etruscan Vestal Virgin. Her standard answer was, “That is an entirely different kind of magic.” In fact, she was not sure the Vestal Virgin cult was magic at all. It was much closer to a religion, but not that either. It was an adapted form of ancient Italian culture. She might or might not someday go back to Mantua and become part of the inner circle who kept the flame burning there in the Etruscan temple disguised to look like a closed cloister for Catholic nuns. Meanwhile, she was a witch at Hogwarts learning how to use her fennel wand with dragon heart-string.

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One day, not long after the incident at the Bluewater shopping mall in Kent, her aunt sent her back to Hogwarts with a new pot, or rather an old, old one to replace the dinky pewter one all students brought as they were going to Hogwarts. “Your grandmother wanted you to have this when the time was right,” her aunt explained. Green patina suggested the pot was made of bronze. It was heavily embossed, about the size of a child’s chamber pot, Angela thought, but quickly felt the thought was irreverent. The shape of the pot implied it was a cauldron for cooking things. It was a bit large for the Potions class, but Angela was determined to show it to the professor before giving up on using it in place of her little pewter one. The Potions Master took a long look at the bronze pot and sat down heavily as if his legs had given out. Angela was prepared for about any reaction but that. “Merciful Merlin, where did you get it?” the professor wheezed at last. “My grandmother gave it to my aunt for me,” Angela replied. “What did they tell you about it?” “Nothing at all.” Apparently, that evening, there was discussion about Angela’s cauldron among the Hogwarts teachers. The next morning Angela received an owl with a message from the Runes teacher, “Please meet me in my classroom, the hour before dinner. Please bring your fascinating cauldron. Hilderina Hoffmann.” Angela was surprised to be met by several Hogwarts teachers including young Hilderina, who was on a one-year leave from the Swiss Institute of Magical Languages and Lore. After opening remarks designed to put Angela at ease, but having the opposite effect, Professor Hoffmann asked Angela if they could perform a few tests on her bronze pot. “Of course, none will harm this valuable antique,” Hilderina assured her. “We hope!” Professor Flitwick added under his breath. There was nothing Angela could do except agree. Professor Virgil Verbal stepped forward with his blue wand pointed at the green cauldron on a table in the middle of the room. Before even tapping the pot as he had intended to do, his wand sailed out of his grasp high into the air, causing Verbal to have to leap to catch it. The other teachers seemed impressed. Angela was alarmed. Professor Flitwick asked, “Miss Pavone, have you ever touched the cauldron with your wand or brewed anything in it?” “No,” Angela admitted. “I just got it and I asked our Potions teacher if I could use it instead of my pewter one.” Angela glanced at the circle of 161

teachers and noticed the Potions Master was not among them. “He seemed shocked when he saw it, but didn’t say yes or no about my using it.” “Very prudent,” Professor Hoffmann nodded. “But would you mind just giving the pot an imaginary stir with your wand?” Angela held her fennel wand loosely in case it decided to fly away rather than have anything to do with the bronze pot. Nothing of the kind happened. But as she pretended to stir the pot with her wand a musical ringing could be heard, like the sound of the rim of a crystal goblet being stroked by a wet finger. “Now would you mind swirling in the opposite direction?” Professor Hoffman urged. The pot hummed another tone, a quarter of an octave lower. Only Angela’s wand would get a reaction from the cauldron. No other wand could get near the pot. “Apparently you have inherited the pot but also the right to use it,” Professor Verbal commented. Very gingerly, as if expecting to be burned, Professor Hoffmann rotated the cauldron. “The markings are in three languages. I can only read one of them which says, ‘Calistri Prothero something-something apothacarios magicus suprimi’.” “Count Prothero’s Pot!” Professor Verbal exclaimed in a voice so highpitched it squeaked as Professor Flitwick’s voice sometimes did. “I thought it was just an old alchemist’s legend,” Professor Flitwick declared. “What is it … all about?” Angela asked the roomful of wise teachers. “To the library with you,” Professor Hoffmann ordered, and then changed her tone, “May I please keep the pot tonight to try to decipher the writing? I promise not to brew anything in it.” The teachers all laughed, as Angela was supposed to do. Madame Pince, Hogwarts’ fussy librarian, was uncommonly helpful at the mention of “Count Prothero’s Pot” and directed Angela to a section of books on medieval alchemy. There were several articles on Count Prothero’s Pot, one of which stated, “It is said that Count Calistri Prothero obtained the pot from the grave of a descendant of an Etruscan wizard in Mantua, and the pot was the cause of the death of every wizard who ever had it until Count Prothero broke the curse put upon it by Phemonoe, the Libyan Sibyl.” “Holy clouds!” Angela gasped. “This pot’s 3000 years old!” Angela gave up the idea of using Count Prothero’s Pot to brew concoctions in the seventh-year Potions class. The pot was too magical, too famous, 162

and too unpredictable to be used as a piece of school equipment. This was a decision apparently backed by the Potions Master, who gave her a sturdy iron cauldron “in trade”, he said, for her pewter one, which he professed to admire for its “Italianate lines”. Ghostly Professor Binns interrupted his droning lecture on how the great Welsh wizard Gwyddien had prevented the great alchemist Johann Georg Faust from discovering the secret to the Philosopher’s Stone in the possession of Nicholas Flamel. Perhaps it was the effect of Count Prothero’s Pot in the castle, but Binns diverted into a long, dry discourse on how a magical cauldron had cursed every witch and wizard in Tuscany until Count Prothero had broken the curse put on it by the Libyan Sibyl in 335 BC. Angela felt it was too bad none of the second year students had been alert enough to remember what Binns had said about what the nature of the curse had been and what the pot was able to do. Overnight, Angela Pavone was famous throughout magical Great Britain as the owner of the most mysterious magical pot in the world. The Daily Prophet ran a story on page 1, continued on pages 2 and 9, with the headline, “Count Prothero’s Pot at Hogwarts”. The story described Angela as an “Italian dwarf witch” and as a “recent immigrant”. They didn’t say that she was an elite Etruscan Vestal Virgin and didn’t mention until the seventh paragraph on page 2 that she was Order of Merlin, Second Class. According to The Daily Prophet the copper pot was far more important than the witch whom the pot claimed as its owner, the only one to whom the pot would respond positively. Still, neither The Daily Prophet nor anyone else could say what Count Prothero’s Pot could do, if anything. Opinion tended to favor its productive capabilities. It should be able to produce a great supply of something, as magical pots were said to do. Professor Verbal commented that they could generally make porridge or pasta, but gold was another possibility. Verbal reminded Angela that all those stories were cautionary about the danger of getting the magic pot to produce but not knowing how to get the production to stop. The stories all ended badly. Two mornings after The Daily Prophet article appeared, Angela received an owl from her Aunt Portia in Kent that said, “In addition to the pot, your Grandmother Estralia left you a small book and a copper ladle. Would you like to have them now or when you come home at Christmas?” Angela’s reply was just one word. The book was very small, indeed, 16 pages, the size of a passport. What’s more, not every page contained writing, and the writing was very strange. Professor Hoffmann offered to send it to the Swiss Institute of Magical Lan163

guages and Lore. After a month the Institute reported that the writing was in Medieval Latin used by alchemists of the 15th century in Northern Italy written in mirror imagery. “Not very imaginative,” Professor Hoffmann scoffed. Angela thought it had been rather effective, but the decoded writing was nearly as obscure as before. The booklet contained four recipes. It would take Angela most of the rest of her life to figure out the ingredients for three of them.

Codexiemsis Verucia Gaitlocke had been Angela’s table-mate in Potions classes for the last three years. They were a formidable team anytime the teacher held a potions-making contest. The project they were working on during the second half of their seventh year at Hogwarts, however, was supposed to be a deep secret. One of the recipes in the little booklet Angela had inherited along with Count Prothero’s Pot was for a substance called Codexiemsis. The explanation under the title was frustratingly brief. “The key,” it said. It was the first of four recipes in the little book, so Angela hoped it might be the key to the rest of the recipes. What she and Verucia needed, first of all, was a key to the key, it seemed. The recipe listed ingredients: Ladle of crystallized musatopa 14 drops of essence of harvinger Vial of flad Fumes of frankincense Matrix of discalconated bees’ wax Every step was a mystery to unlock, and it took luck in most cases. “How much is a ladle?” Verucia asked, not expecting an answer. Angela made a guess. “Let’s imagine this bronze spoon is the ladle Count Prothero was talking about.” “We can’t be sure all of this is a set,” Verucia objected. “It’s all we have to go on,” Angela responded. “But what is musatopa?” The answer came from Neville Longbottom, teacher of Herbology at Hogwarts after Professor Sprout retired. He got help from the Swiss Institute. Between them it was decided musatopa must be the liquid that comes from banana stalks. “Musa is a scientific word for most bananas,” Neville explained. 164

The Swiss Institute said they thought topa was a word used in alchemy by the Nasarid dynasty in Grenada, meaning “elixir” or “life fluid”. Neville added that at one time bananas from Grenada were considered the best in the Muslim world. Professor Longbottom agreed to sacrifice two of his banana plants and they managed to secure another plant from a botanical conservatory “that will go un-named, but thanked,” Professor Verbal said. The plants yielded copious amounts of juice, but it boiled down to almost nothing. By very carefully scraping the cauldron they managed to acquire a level ladle-full of flakey powder. None of the other ingredients was to be found in the supply sources in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. Each had to be rediscovered, reinvented, or retrieved from old records and lucky guesses. The most difficult item that they could not make for themselves, was banana paper. Professor Verbal located it in a Muggle art supply store very near the Leaky Cauldron. He bought their entire stock. Finally, they had distilled harvinger and brewed flad, completing the three critical ingredients. Instructions said to infuse it with fumes of frankincense. They got frankincense from a church in Inverness and suspended the musatopa crystals in a cloth bag over clouds of incense smoke. Then they were to add the mixture one pinch at a time to a cauldron of discalconated beeswax. “How much beeswax?” Verucia wanted to know. “We need to spread it out one inch thick in a three by three foot square,” Angela read. “That’s a lot of beeswax,” they agreed in unison. Hagrid provided it. “Discalconating must mean removing the parts that are active agents in the beehive,” Verucia ventured. “How do we do that?” Verucia didn’t know for sure, but her lucky guess was that they might use haoma which purified water and endowed it with magical properties. This they blended in Count Prothero’s pot, carefully adding the gooey powder a pinch at a time. Verucia pitched the pinches into the pot while Angela, following a lucky hunch, stirred the air in the mouth of the cauldron, first clockwise producing a crystal tone, and then counterclockwise. “Hee, hum,” sang the pot. By the time they had added the last pinch, the murky wax was as clear as glass. “This looks both too simple and quite impossible,” Angela said, wrinkling her nose and brow as she re-read the final instruction for the hundredth time. 165

The simple meaning of the text was to lay a page of someone’s handwriting on the matrix and say “encodex” using a rolling motion with the wand belonging to the owner of the “magic kettle”. Then remove the written paper and lay sheets of banana paper onto the matrix, “for as long as writing continues to appear.” “Well, here goes,” Angela said as she dropped the recipe face down onto the transparent matrix. “Encodex,” she chanted, rolling her fennel wand over the matrix. The results were disappointing. There were, in fact, no apparent results. The matrix was still as transparent as ever. There had been no sparks or smoke, or any other sign that magic was taking place. Verucia went ahead and laid a sheet of banana paper on the matrix. It felt a bit like jelly under the paper as she rubbed the paper flat. When she peeled the sheet off, it was covered with writing, in the same indecipherable script as the recipe booklet. Page after page of text was produced. By page 4 or 5 the witches were sure none were the same. By page 15 they were pretty sure they were getting text in sequence. From time to time the language seemed to change. It took the two witches and two companions all night to finish. They knew they were done when the last two impressions were blank. It was a good thing, too, because they had just nine sheets of banana paper left, at the end. Angela guessed, “We have recovered the entire writings of Count Prothero!” “The last page,” Professor Hilderina Hoffmann told them the next morning, “is the last will and testament of Count Calistri Prothero. It is written in 14th century Italian and bequeaths his estate to his heirs, but the bronze cauldron is to go to the eldest magically endowed descendant of alternating generations. Should this chain be broken, the curse of the Libyan Sibyl will be restored.”

Wilhelmina’s Revenge What aggravated Wilhelmina Farnsfar most was that Angela Pavone was older and better at Hogwarts than most students, by whom Wilhelmina meant herself. Angela was “just wrong”, as far as Wilhelmina was concerned. Angela was a foreigner in Hogwarts which was supposed to be for native-born British people, and Angela had an accent that was not British. Moreover, Angela was little – exactly as Professor Filius Flitwick was little and thought 166

to be part Goblin. At least Slytherin house members thought Professor Flitwick was part Goblin. Angela was also older than Hogwarts students were supposed to be. “It’s unfair!” Wilhelmina fumed. Age seemed to explain why Angela was better than Wilhelmina, that plus teacher favoritism. Wilhelmina was sure she was born to be superior. Her father had drummed it into her since before she could remember. “You were BORN to … (fill in the blank) excel/lead/win.” But at Hogwarts, contrary to the way it was supposed to be, Angela Pavone, barely three feet tall and a foreigner, had beaten Wilhelmina at everything but Quidditch. It was the final blow when, just two months before graduation, Angela was again on the front page of The Daily Prophet with the headline “Midget Witch Recovers Count Prothero’s Writings”. This time they mentioned her O.M., 2nd Cl., although they ignored her greater honor as one of ten Etruscan Vestal Virgins, which was the oldest order of witches in Europe. There was a picture of Angela presenting a copy of Count Prothero’s Collected Writings to the Hogwarts librarian, Madame Pince and the Headmistress, Prof. McGonagal. In one last effort to restore her place of honor in her father’s esteem, Wilhelmina recruited fellow Slytherins Katarin van Divel and Gregor Milkovich to help her find the “secret laboratory” where Angela and Verucia had worked. After two weeks of investigation they found it. All they really needed to have done was to ask Angela or Verucia. With the recipe for Codexiemsis worked out and Count Prothero’s Collected Writings recovered, the secret lab was no longer a secret. It was a workroom right behind the Potions classroom storage room. Knowing that the Potions Master would be in the Great Hall during the evening meal, Wilhelmina and Katarin left Gregor in the hall to keep watch as they sneaked into the Potions classroom and easily found their way into the workroom AND THERE IT WAS! “The wretched pot that caused all this!” Wilhelmina exclaimed. The look that came over Wilhelmina’s face scared Katarin. She had seen similar expressions of fury and triumph, and it always led to trouble. Katarin also had a greater appreciation for the magical bronze cauldron, and a deeper fear of it. Unlike Wilhelmina, Katarin had read an article in The Quibbler 167

that was a fairly complete account of the legends of the famous pot, including stories of witches and wizards killed by it in a variety of horrible ways. Katarin was sure that the way to get back at Angela, if that was to be done at all, was not through Count Prothero’s Pot. She was also certain that Wilhelmina should not be picking it up, as she was doing. “I think we should go,” Katarin urged. “Not before I pee in this pot,” Wilhelmina hissed. Katarin thought she heard a hiss from the pot as Wilhelmina picked it up. “What good will that do?” Katarin asked, truly alarmed by now. “Oh, it is just the beginning of my revenge. I’m just getting warmed up.” Wilhelmina’s face was livid, bright red and her eyes bulged. Katarin was desperate. She snatched her wand from her sleeve, but Wilhelmina was faster. “Expelleramus,” Wilhelmina snapped. Katarin’s wand sailed into the air and out of sight behind vats along the wall. With her wand in hand, Wilhelmina changed her mind about what to do with the brass cauldron that was so precious to Angela. She would transfigure it into, into what? “What should the pot become? Pot, pot … hippoPOTamus!” “No!” screamed Katarin. That brought Gregor running. Considering the modest size of the room, the idea of conjuring a hippopotamus inside it was ill considered. Besides that, transfiguration cannot be done by transforming a small object into a huge one; there are not enough molecules. None of this occurred to Wilhelmina, wrapped in rage. “Hippofacto!” Wilhelmina bellowed, aiming her wand steadily at the bronze cauldron. Consequences were immediate. The spell hit a spot, not the pot. There was a magical shield surrounding the pot. This protection is what Count Prothero had been able to penetrate in order to subdue the curse of the Libyan Sibyl. Wilhelmina’s spell did not merely bounce off the shield; since the spell had been aimed at the heart of the magic adhering to the cauldron, the spell rebounded explosively. Unlike the brass pot, Wilhelmina had approximately enough molecules to constitute a baby hippo. But the spell was just a tiny bit mispronounced. The result was half-girl and half-hippo, both astounded to be half and half. Fortunately, Gregor had been paying attention in Professor McGonagal’s classes. “Reparifarge!” he commanded. This reversed the unsuccessful transformation. Still it would take the skills of Madame Pomfrey to remove Wilhelmina’s tusks, whiskers and patches of gray leather. Wilhelmina waited tensely for reactions that did not come as expected. 168

She was given detention, but allowed to stay in school and finish her final examinations. There was also no Howler from home. Wilhelmina considered the silence ominous. Neither her father nor her mother responded to their daughter about the owls they had received from the Headmistress. They were waiting, however, at King’s Cross Station when the Hogwarts Express arrived, bringing students home for the summer.

Community Service Captain William Farnsfar and Dr. Gedolfa Farnsfar looked like any other parents waiting on platform 9 ¾ for the arrival of the Hogwarts Express. They showed no signs of reacting harshly to their daughter’s delinquency. “Congratulations on completing your studies at Hogwarts,” her father said, presenting her with a bouquet of flowers. Her mother gave her an affectionate hug and then announced, “We have arranged an internship for you at the Tuscan Institute.” “What if I don’t want to go?” Wilhelmina retorted. “Oh, this is an offer you cannot refuse,” her father said pleasantly. If both her father and mother were behind this plan she was outnumbered. Wilhelmina had only the vaguest idea that Tuscany was somewhere mountainous in Europe. She couldn’t remember where she’d heard of it. Her years as a Slytherin had imbued her with a narrow range of concerns centered about being British, pure-blood, magical, and successful. Wilhelmina’s world crumbled, she felt, when she learned that the Tuscan Institute of Magical Arts and Traditions (TIMAT) was in Mantua, Italy and she would be doing this “internship” with no other than Angela Pavone, whom she loathed. Wilhelmina’s chagrin got progressively worse. Each aspect of her imprisonment compounded matters. She would have to learn some Italian – “Italian is one of the main languages of Europe,” her mother pointed out. She would have to eat Italian food – “You like pizza, so no sweat,” her father responded, unsympathetically. And she would be doing some “community service” like prisoners do on parole. There was no escape. In a week they were on their way to Italy. Angela’s Aunt Portia accompanied the two young Hogwarts graduates to Milan and then by train 146 km to Mantua. TIMAT was inside a compound with high stone walls bearing the sign, “Cloister for Nuns of the Sacred Virgin”, although the sign said “Secret Virgins” when tapped by a wand to open the iron gate. 169

PALACE GATE IN MANTUA 3000 years ago Mantua had been an Etruscan village and this cloister had been the Temple of the Vestal Virgins. From the Etruscans to the Romans, to the Goths, to the Venetian Italians, the Temple of the Vestal Virgins had changed names, but never changed its purpose. When they got to the octagonal “chapel” with its impressive dome and beautiful stained glass windows Angela said, “Here is where we part for a month while I renew my vows.” Wilhelmina was elated not to be stuck with the runt Angela all summer, after all. Portia said, “I’ll introduce you to Signora Micelli at the Institute.” Compared to the Chapel of the Virgins, TIMAT was not impressive. It was a functional set of square, flat buildings in the prevailing post-war yellow brick style. “Before the founding of the Institute, this was a school for witches,” Portia said, “much like your Hogwarts.” Wilhelmina scoffed at the notion that this plain school could have anything in common with magnificent, magical Hogwarts. “Our school is now on an island that was once the summer palace of the Roman Emperor Tiberius,” Portia added. Signora Micelli was a stately matron with gray hair pulled onto the top of her head. She reminded Wilhelmina of Professor McGonagal, but with a readier smile and a greater love of pasta. “Your mother and I have collaborated on many research projects,” Signora Micelli said, by way of establishing a background for why Wilhelmina was being condemned to this summer of imprisonment in Italy. TIMAT turned out to be encased in magic spells that could confuse the unwary, and what’s more, the words needed to get around the Institute were Italian, although Wilhelmina’s wand worked quite well once she knew what to say. What worked even better was to move around as a group that included 170

an Italian. The community service team to which Wilhelmina was assigned was made up of five from Italy and five from other countries. They all spoke English pretty well. By nightfall Wilhelmina was beginning to shed her anger at being sentenced to this summer exile and was finding the team members interesting. They began calling her Willa, which melted her a little. Before long she realized that she alone was not in the know about the community service that was being planned. Her team was going to do five “Summer Magic Camps” under TIMAT’s Department of Magical Interventions. “Are we going to teach children to do magic?” Wilhelmina asked their team leader, a breathtakingly handsome young wizard from Florence. “No,” Augusto explained. “We are going to help them survive.” Magic Camp Uno was held in Augusto’s home town of Florence. The city is known around the world as the cultural capital of the Italian Renaissance. It is famous for its great cathedrals and museums. But there is another side of life few tourists see. In fact, few natives of Florence knew that scattered among the refugees, immigrants and foreigners were some of the most desperate children in Europe. “Of all the cities in Italy,” Augusto explained to the team, “Florence has the most churches devoted to the Virgin Mother. Florentines are more devout than Romans are. And what does that mean? It means that we are most passionate about stamping out magic. The great hero of Florence was Savonarola, who rounded up witches and wizards and burned them along with their libraries. Florence has always been the most dangerous place in Italy to be a witch.” Wilhelmina was shocked. “I thought witches could just perform a Flame Freezing Charm and enjoy the festivities.” A young witch from Belgrade had also read Bethilda Bagshot’s A History of Magic. She commented, “They could be protected if they kept their wands and knew how to use them. But not all wizards and witches escaped as Batty Bagshot implied they had.” The first magic camp was for around 40 children. They were from Albania, Croatia, Italy, Lebanon, Syria, Turkey, Bulgaria, Slovakia and six other countries. They were from 5 to 9 years old, very little children. Wilhelmina flipped through registration cards. Several phrases stood out: “parents deceased”, “camper washed ashore on Cyprus”, “mother in prison for witchcraft, no other family”, “camper separated from family by immigration”, “homeless, 171

stateless, background unknown”. The only thing all of them had was inherited, latent magic. They were magical, but rather than making them powerful, as it potentially might someday, at their young age it made them vulnerable. Young as they were, every one of them had been abused, molested, bullied, wounded or abandoned. Two or three were so traumatized they could not function in society and refused or had forgotten how to talk. “Our program is very basic,” Augusto told the team. “We are going to do what we can in one week to help these children survive. They will be protected by three powerful charms when they leave camp. They will know they can survive because they have survived terrible misfortune and they are survivors. They will know they are not alone because they have each other and us as a force of love and as life models. They will know they have been born with powerful magic which we will enhance through Count Prothero’s Protective Charm.” Nothing Wilhelmina had heard since she left London shook her as much as what she learned about Count Prothero’s Protective Charm and how it had been recovered from his Collected Writings. But first there was work to be done. The forty children were rounded up from all over Florence. They were collected a couple at a time in Augusto’s family pensione and from there whisked magically to Camp Provident for a week. For the first time in their lives, at least in their recent lives, some of them had fun and forgot to be afraid. The greatest thing was to have an older magical friend taking care of them. Wilhelmina’s five little girls were slow to warm up. They seemed to tremble and quake most of the time during the first day or two. Camp routine intimidated them. They were terrified of the small circus tent where meals were served. They were afraid of the trees and the lake with its tiny swimming beach. One of them could not be persuaded to keep from wrapping herself tightly around Wilhelmina’s leg. That girl and another insisted on sleeping with her. Wilhelmina’s main job, she learned, was to show the little witches what a big witch was like, that is, how confident, caring and capable. Bit by bit she enticed them to talk about themselves so they began to realize they were not only embattled but also endowed. “If you only knew!” became their favorite retort. They learned to say it when someone called them something bad. They practiced hurling insults at each other: “You witch!” and batting them back with the saying, “If you only knew!” adding to themselves something more, like, “… how great I am going to be”. Or, “If you only knew … what I could do to you if I had a wand.” 172

This gave the children a secret power they were simply choosing not to use yet. The girls learned that some things would wait. Wands would wait. They would get a wand when they went to school. And they would definitely be going to school in fabulous Emperor Tiberius’ Summer Palace on the Island of Capri. But some things would not wait. Baths would not wait. It had been a long time since several of the girls had had a real shampoo. Then came the night when they were encased in Count Prothero’s Protective Charm. Augusto had two old witches come to help. He told the campers they were going to get a “magic shell” like an invisible peanut shell. He didn’t tell them too much about how the protection worked, in order not to scare them. He only told them they would not feel any different, but they would be safer from bad guys. They were protected one cabin group at a time. Wilhelmina’s cabin was the third. The group came forward and sat on the ground. One at a time each camper stood on a low flat rock as the two older witches and four magic-camp counselors walked around them wrapping them with threads and ribbons of light trailing from the tips of their wands. They wrapped each child like a spider spinning a web around a fly. It might have been frightening, but the whole group of campers sang a fun song as it was happening: O I don’t care and I don’t scare. My fuzzy web is all about me. It’s all of light and out of sight, So no one else but me can see IT (They made a popping sound with their tongues as they sang IT) O I’m a nut and I can shut Your sticks and stones from getting to me. They’ll seem to hit but I am fit With armor … only me can see IT (pop) It was a silly song but it told the truth about Count Prothero’s Protective Charm. When a child was protected by it, no blow could do real damage. A rock would seem to hit, but would barely be felt. When her group had been protected, Wilhelmina hollered at them, “YOU’RE WITCHES!” With one voice the five little girls hollered back, “IF YOU ONLY KNEW!” The whole camp cheered. 173

“Why do you call it Count Prothero’s Charm?” Wilhelmina finally dared to ask Augusto. “It was contained in his collected writings your classmate retrieved. It was found just last month by the Vestal Virgins in Mantua. Imagine what a help it will be!” “It will surely help these poor children,” Wilhelmina managed to agree dryly. “It should protect them until they’re old enough to get their wands,” Augusto said. From Florence the magic camp team moved to Naples, Venice, then to Rome, and back to Milan. On the fourth night in Milan five Etruscan Vestal Virgins took the place of other witches to confer Count Prothero’s Protective Charm on the little campers. Wilhelmina thought she was ready to meet Angela, but she was not. No matter how much Angela had risen in her estimation, Wilhelmina was overwhelmed by the honor given Angela and these other four women in white. The Vestal Virgins were of all ages. Wilhelmina had expected them to be young. Angela was both the youngest and, of course, the smallest. The five were accompanied by 20 young men carrying bundles of rods bound around an axe. There were 25 young girls dressed like the Vestal Virgins, but carrying palm fronds in one hand and olive branches in the other. They sang a grim-sounding chant that had to be in an ancient language. They were accompanied by two half-humans, one a man with the head and torso of a bull, and the other with the head and torso of a man but with the lower body of a goat. “The Vestal Virgins rarely go outside the cloister,” Augusto said, quietly, standing next to Wilhelmina. “They are doing this to celebrate Angela’s recovery of all the lost lore. The other five Vestal Virgins never leave the temple. They keep the fire burning.” For Wilhelmina Farnsfar this was the final collapse of her attitude of entitlement and elitism. Standing there quite close to the most spectacular male human being she had ever met (and, wow-Wow-WOW, holding hands with him!) watching her classmate be treated as a goddess, Wilhelmina realized she was going to have to take pride in something else than her birthright and national origin. If there were this many magical kids in danger and need in Italy, how many more there must be around the world needing Count Prothero’s Protective Charm. 174

At last she had her sight set on what she should take pride in and succeed at doing. It would eventually earn her the second O.M., 2nd Cl., awarded to Hogwarts alums of her graduating class.

175

Nine-Dimensional Reality “What can I do for you, my boy?” Professor Cho asked, kindly, settling onto a low platform into a half-lotus position he preferred in order to remain relaxed but alert. “I have been wondering about the dimensions of the universe,” Grier Hardee began what looked like it would be a long discourse, but turned out to be shorter than expected. “One dimensional units are just a single point. But we say they are length or width, so they are a line.” “In time,” Cho added. “A point stretched in one dimension becomes a line – in time.” “But the time may be an instant, so it is no time at all,” Grier objected. “Go on,” Cho encouraged. “Well,” Grier gathered his thoughts, “two dimensions are length and width.” “Two-dimensional space has length and width,” Cho agreed. “A unit of space with length and width is a flat plane but if two planes are at any angle to each other their intersection is a line without volume,” Grier said. “Go on,” Cho encouraged, again. “If the intersecting planes are 3 dimensional they have length, width and depth. They have volume.” “To get from a point to a 3-dimensional shape requires time, even if it is an instantaneous, infinitely small amount of time,” Cho repeated a point he was insisting upon. “Time is an illusion, then,” Grier surmised. “An abstraction, I think,” Cho added, “but measurable. Please go on.” “Well if time is the fourth dimension it is indistinguishable from the other three. A single point with no volume can exist for an infinite amount of time.” “Yes,” Cho again concurred, “I think we might agree that time is the first dimension, but we need not quibble over terms that are arbitrary to begin with. And what of the fifth dimension?” Grier took a breath and said, “Yes, what is it? Is it the interference of some force acting upon the solid/volume?” “What do you think it is, this fifth dimension?” Cho asked. “Gravity,” Grier suggested. “Why gravity?” Cho asked, although his tone of voice suggested he suspected the answer. 176

“Gravity is the simplest force,” Grier said. “Gravity is inherent in anything that is material. To have gravity the unit must be concrete rather than abstract. It must be an object. It must be composed of atoms or at least one atom,” Cho mused, enjoying the conversation. “Do you mean that there might be something simpler than gravity?” Grier asked. “Gravity is probably the simplest force as you said. But is a force a dimension? And what influence does the force have?” “It has power to change the location and shape of material objects.” “At the atomic level? I wonder. It was a great concern of Dr. Einstein. But suppose, for a moment, that force of any kind is not a dimension to be talked about just now. What would the fifth dimension be?” “Infinity?” Grier speculated. “Bravo! I think you have it. But how can infinity co-exist with finity, tell me that.” “It would have to be bent and twisted.” Cho smiled appreciatively at how his student’s mind was plunging into areas hardly any student his age was interested in. “Following your reasoning, there is this abstract possibility of something, not yet a thing, having length, width, depth, over time, expanding infinitely by twisting back to its beginning.” “Uh, I think so,” Grier conceded. “In your model of the universe there is need for both time and infinity. In some other models time and infinity are negations of one another; they cancel one another out.” “Then neither could exist,” Grier said. “In those models neither is real,” Cho agreed. “But following your line of speculation what comes next?” “Is magic next?” Grier asked, cautiously. “Let’s say tentatively that magic is power, which we have agreed to set aside from this discussion of dimensions, at least for now,” Cho suggested. “Isn’t there a magical dimension to the universe? That’s what we are being taught here at Hogwarts, isn’t it?” “For the moment, I would say, no. Magic is not in the same realm of discourse as those abstract dimensions we are listing. If magic exists independently it is not a fifth dimension, but perhaps it is a power that can be exerted on dimensional things,” Cho consented. “I’m stumped,” Grier admitted. “Perhaps we have not given infinity due consideration,” Cho coached. “All 177

four dimensions are theoretically measurable. One can say how long each of them is. Can infinity be measured?” Grier didn’t think so. “Can it be divided? Can we say something is half as infinite as it once was, or twice as infinite as something else?” Grier doubted it. “Does this prove infinity does not exist?” “We have said it is necessary,” Grier reiterated. For purposes of our speculation, let’s say infinity is a necessity, but since it is not measurable we have to conclude that dimensions are not all measurable,” Cho said. “Perhaps infinity is a place holder, like zero is,” Grier suggested. “That is very close to my thinking,” Cho agreed. “Zero is a logical necessity and a great help, but it is an exception to every other number. So, my bright young colleague, what function does infinity have in our multi-dimensional universe?” When Grier was quiet for a time and Cho had finished his small glass of clear liquid that emitted a strong aroma of Oriental flowers, he mused, “Let me propose that infinity is the context for finity, that is, for all that is finite, in other words for material substance.” “Then infinity cannot exist unless there is something material, such as atoms and compositions of atoms. Those are electrical charges,” Grier said, remembering his reading about Muggle physics. “Yes, indeed. In your model of reality the five dimensions are integral to matter and energy. The dimensions are more than descriptions of reality, they are aspects of reality. So, then how many dimensions are there, altogether?” “Nine,” Grier replied immediately. “Why nine?” Cho countered. “Why not?” “Muggle scientists are talking about ten dimensions,” Cho said. “They won’t need ten when they discover that magic is real,” Grier said, grinning. They were onto sheer speculation at this point. “Ha! Well, what is the sixth?” Cho inquired. “Connectivity,” Grier said, flatly. “Connecting what to what?” Cho gestured with his hands open as if not knowing what to do with them. “That, Professor, is what brought me here tonight. I was pondering your theory that there is a principle of relationship between magic circles and physical reality. As you know my friend Geddes experimented with that.” Cho remembered the tattoo incident very well. Grier went on, “Despite centuries of looking, that has not been found, the relationship. There has been investigation of the movement of stars and planets in relation to birth times and dates, but nothing certain has come of it that can be independently 178

verified. It occurred to me that, well, these magic designs are not fully dimensional are they? They are flat. They don’t have depth. What if they were three-dimensional? Would that get us anywhere?” “I never thought of it,” Professor Cho admitted. “Two dimensional magic squares are a rarity although small 3-D ones have been played with. Have you tried to create a globe-like magic sphere?” “Yes. It works, but the numbers get in the way of each other. I think this model would work better without numbers. I have tried runes, but they just replaced numbers. Colors worked better, but swirled and blended so nothing could be made of them. We are looking for some other way to calculate the relationships in the magic sphere,” Grier informed him. “And you think energy is involved in this ‘connectivity’ you are calling your sixth-dimension, do you?” “That is my hunch, professor,” Grier said with a resigned sigh. “Let me review,” Cho took over. “In your model, infinity and finity are impossible without material substances composed of energy particles. So the universe – I prefer the term reality – so reality is a whole. Reality is interconnected. And if so, that brings us to the seventh dimension.” “Does it?” Grier said, sounding surprised. “I think it leads us to assume parallel reality,” Cho replied with a nod. “A multi-verse,” Grier expounded. “That’s why I prefer the term reality. It causes less trouble and points us in the direction we may most profitably speculate.” “What is that direction, Professor?” “Transformation, an eighth dimension. Stability is an illusion owing to our short attention span and limited field of vision. The nature of reality is change, rather than random instability, I might add. Your model of reality requires it. Within this dimension resides the energy you’re fond of mentioning, gravity, electricity, magical energy and any others function in this dimension in very predictable ways, I have no doubt. All this being accepted, philosophically, that is to say, supposing our speculation has followed logically, what is your ninth dimension?” “Life?” Grier wondered. “Very bold! But it would be best to consider not life, but consciousness of life,” Professor Cho said, unfolding his legs and preparing to arise from his bench. (Not for the first time, Prof. Cho reminded Grier of a Buddha.) Cho gazed into the middle distance and continued, “Life is a result of material being subjected to forces. But life as we know it includes mindful reflection and anticipation. At its most sophisticated level, this mindfulness 179

comprehends life itself. We are, in other words, because we are aware. Now, I take it as another associated logical necessity, that if it is true of one form of life it is true generally.” “Bugs have mindfulness,” Grier surmised. “Not universally agreed to among human beings, bent on being unique and superior, but we can observe bugs planning and suffering. What else is mindfulness?” Before being dismissed Grier had one final question. “Is this all possible, this universe, without consciousness?” “Impossible, totally impossible,” Cho insisted. “Integral to it all is every dimension of reality. They are all linked and indispensible to one another, all nine of them. Consciousness is as eternal as reality, and as infinite and powerful.” Grier wished he could have a sip of that floral-smelling beverage, but he had enough for one night to cause his mind to swirl.

180

Last of the Mengers

Gevglockus Menger stepped out of a narrow alleyway, which was no wider than a man would need to carry a can of trash, onto Highfern Avenue, and paused. There were three people walking away from him along the row of town houses where he was standing. A young man in a yellow sleeveless shirt was coming toward him, pedaling his bicycle while punching text messages on his cell phone. A small lorry was parked quite a distance away, from which a man was carrying boxes. Menger relaxed a bit. He was aware that he was hardly inconspicuous, but there was nothing he could do about his gnarly features, long scraggly hair and larger than average build. There had been no time to change clothes, either. He still wore leather boots that came nearly to his knees and a long coat reaching the tops of the boots. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Charles Dickens novel. Highfern Avenue ran along the side of Ruebeck University with old town houses now converted to student housing, and therefore deteriorating, on Menger’s side of the street. He walked toward a busy intersection in the distance at a pace indicating he didn’t care very much about getting there. Halfway to the corner, across from a pedestrian gate into the university, a deep violet limousine pulled over to the curb just ahead of him and a rear 181

door opened. Menger instinctively felt for his wand in his pocket although he had expected the limo. Bending to look into the open door he began a greeting, “Dame Agatha ….” But the occupant was a young man he did not recognize, patting the vacant seat invitingly. Gevglockus Menger was an extremely cautious man by nature and given his circumstances but the passenger was wearing a Wizard’s robe, and the driver said, “Greetings, Menger.” So he sagged into the car and pulled the door shut. “I am Robin Astor,” the young man said, seeming even younger than he had first appeared. “Menger.” There was no handshake. “I was expecting Dame Agatha,” he said, trying to keep suspicion out of his voice. “She was detained on the farm and sent me to fetch you,” Robin replied. “Where are we going, Scathmore?” Menger asked the driver in a tone of voice indicating they knew each other but were barely cordial. “Pickering,” the driver replied. Robin thought he had never heard the driver called anything but Ronald. Of course he had a surname. Robin chastised himself for having never wondered about it. “Pickering,” Menger repeated as if trying to place it in his mind. “Pickering,” Robin confirmed. Pickering was home to three Hardy sisters, Zamoa, Epithal, and Prunicia. Not coincidentally, it was the site of an encampment of wizard soldiers during the Fourth Elvin Uprising. Menger might have been better prepared for what was to follow if he had known the wizard army was called Mengerites. Fermoley Menger (1637-1694) was a fiery preacher of a theory of enslavement of Elves and extermination of Goblins. This form of supremacist ranting was popular with the masses of witches and wizards who felt the elite were trying to build an empire in league with “sub-human forces” as Menger called them. “We are being swallowed by Lay-VEE-thin (Menger had heard a Muggle priest rail about the great sea monster Leviathan, but had only a vague idea about it). But we say NAY!” “Say Nay! Say Nay!” the crowds roared and then went looking for a Goblin upon whom to vent their wrath. Within a year the “SAY NAY” campaign had turned into a revolution. Goblins moved back underground. Elves were turned into slaves if they refused to leave for “German-land” as Menger re-named all of Europe except 182

France and Spain. “We shall clean our island of sub-human filth or make them lick our hairy toes,” Menger thundered. Within two years the Elves rebelled. The rebellions lasted, one after another, for nearly a century. By the fourth uprising in 1693 Fermoley Menger had enough power to recruit an army of wizards. Menger and his Council of Ten had become elite and could send others to die for them. They retired into their red brick palaces thinking they had won. The Empire of elites and Elves had fallen in the Battle of Pickering Fields. It is the nature of revolutions either to exterminate the fighters on both sides, or to replace one set of privileged elite with another. Eventually, the somehow tolerable excesses of the new elite become intolerable and another campaign is launched. So the Battle of Pickering Fields is no longer celebrated. A third evolution of powerful elite run by the Ministry of Magic has taken over. The Mengerites are remembered only by the likes of Bathilda Bagshot and the late (but still teaching) Professor Binns – and by students of Hogwarts right up to the moment their final exams are over. Gevglockus Menger had not lasted at Hogwarts long enough to hear about his distant relative or the scene of his most famous victory, which he was about to visit under rather trying conditions. “He comes,” Epithal Hardy announced to her sisters busily stirring a large kettle that hissed and gurgled. “Three to the right, one to the left,” Zamoa counted strokes of her long oak paddle while Prunicia prepared to empty a flagon bearing the red Astorwold crest. “We will need THE LAST THING to finish it,” Zamoa commented, putting an ominous emphasis on the word “thing” as if she detested mentioning it. As Epithal had promised, the deep purple Rolls Royce swished through a swirl of mist into the long-gone village of Pickering. All that remained were the tumble-down stone walls of an oblong stockade and the sprawling cottage of the Hardy sisters. The cauldron simmering over a low fire under an ancient Yew tree was between the cottage and the stone rubble. Ronald parked the limousine a safe distance away and opened the door for Menger and Robin. In this setting Menger did not look so out of place, but he was again tense. His wariness increased when Epithal said to the other two witches, without so much as glancing at the new-comers, “He’s the one.” Menger had never laid eyes on these witches before. “Menger,” Epithal said as if addressing a child, “we need some drops of your liquors.” She used an archaic word for a rich fluid. 183

“Wha’…” Menger exclaimed, reaching for his wand, too late. It careened into tall grass. “Pee will not do,” Zamoa informed him. “Blood, bile, mucous, what have you.” She handed him a sharp pin and a glass disc. “Blood is easiest, unless…” Menger threw the disc at the iron pot where it shattered. He turned to flee, but turned to stone instead. “This will hold him,” Prunicia said, sending silver cords out of the end of her wand to wrap around the frozen wizard. “Can’t have him messing things up if he comes about before they’ve risen.” Robin gasped, drawing Epithal’s attention for the first time. “Ah, the new Lord Astor,” she crooned. It was unclear whether she was approving of this title she had bestowed or not. “Come here, lad,” she said. “There’s work to do before the sun sets. Come, come! Why do you think Dame Agatha sent you? To spectate?” Robin couldn’t take his eyes off of the petrified wizard. Epithal snorted, “Fah, he’s not dead. That wouldn’t do at all. He’ll recover. But prick him so he’ll bleed. He’s bled before, I dare say. We need just a few drops. But I wouldn’t object to a cupful or all he’s got.” Robin tried pricking the wizard’s finger, but the tiny drop got a scowl of disapproval from the nearest witch. “Stab him,” she commanded. The second jab got better results, which Prunicia scraped up with a silver spoon and shook energetically into the bubbling cauldron. “Three to the left, two to the right,” Zamoa counted, giving the paddle a little twirl each times she reversed directions. Epithal looked at the simmering cauldron and then at the sun, just five hand-widths above the surrounding hills. “No time to let it cool,” she said. “Now, Robin Astor,” she turned full attention on him, “it’s your time to rid the curse.” She said it as if anyone would know what she was talking about. Meanwhile, Zamoa was dipping the brew into garden watering cans. Epithal went on, “Menger may be the last of that cursed name, but we three are Mengerites. So you, whose blood is pure, can do the job.” “I’m Muggle-born, not pure-blood,” Robin mumbled. “But not a Mengerite,” Zamoa explained, “so you will have to be the one to water the fields before sunset.” Robin’s job was simple enough. He took two watering cans and sprinkled an area of about 5 acres. It took several refills, the last at a full trot with the sun inching behind the hill. “Now we eat,” Zamoa suggested, as Ronald brought a hamper out of the boot of the limo and they settled onto a blanket as if waiting for fireworks to 184

begin on Guy Fawkes Day or the Fourth of July. It took an hour to become completely dark. “They arise,” Epithal announced, licking smears of chocolate off her fingers. In the field that Robin had sprinkled, sprigs of mist emerged from the ground, slowly growing larger and more distinct. Robin thought they were similar to the ghosts in Hogwarts castle. These ghosts, however, were all in military array, muskets, swords and pikes in hand, some with round helmets, some without. No few were missing body parts and showing wounds that had killed them, 320 years before. While they were emerging Gevglockus Menger revived and finding himself bound hand and foot, began to howl. Neither the three witches nor the hundreds of ghosts paid him the least bit of attention, although Ronald stuffed a rag in his mouth. “There, see that little one,” Epithal said to Robin, pointing to a small ghost. “Go as close as you can to him without stepping onto the field and cast a spell on him with the word “Retreat”. She demonstrated a tapping motion with her wand. “Say it sharp, so they all hear it.” After a moment’s hesitation to practice the wand motion, Robin moved to the edge of the ghostly warriors. “Retreat!” Robin pointed his wand at the little soldier, who turned to show he was carrying a drum, which he began to tap, rat-a-tat-tat. He was joined by drummers at a distance, and then pipes began to skirl and wail. The field of ghosts shuffled into ragged ranks. Menger, bound in silver ropes, was now spellbound as well. The militia began to tramp to the beat and then follow the fifes and drummers. They made no ceremony of it, but beat an orderly retreat. “Where will they go?” Robin asked the closest witch. “Where they should have gone before,” Prunicia answered, “before Fermoley Menger cursed them for dying!” “I thought soldiers who died on fields of battle were honored,” Robin said after a moment’s reflection on war memorials he had visited. “Not among the Mengerites,” Zamoa responded, shaking her head vigorously. “Nor among Voldermort’s Death Eaters,” she added from more recent memory. “They that failed were cursed. Cursed to wander and wreak havoc and mayhem and never ‘go on’ but come back endlessly to the scene of their failure.” “How come we can now release them?” Robin asked. Of the three old witches Zamoa was the teacher. “There was no cure to the curse of the Status Quo. One cursed like that needs to go back or go on. If one 185

is alive one goes back to being authentic, what you really are, and start over from there. If one is dead one goes on to the next part of the journey.” Prunicia looked at Robin in a strange way. Robin felt a bit uncomfortable under her gaze. “Dame Agatha is a mighty witch,” Prunicia extolled. “She found the formula to dissolve the curse.” Prunicia nudged the empty Astorwold flagon with her toe. She was wondering if this boy was up to the task of being Dame Agatha’s successor, which was a question the haunted Robin nearly as much as the Mengerites had haunted Pickering Fields. Turning to the trussed-up wizard, Prunicia asked rhetorically, “What shall we do with you?” Menger began to squirm and tried to howl some more. “Give him a bath, I think,” Epithal suggested. “What will it do to him?” Robin asked nervously. “Clean him up. He can use a cleaning, after all his thievery, treachery, trafficking of Elves and Gnomes, and far worse,” Zamoa replied calmly. She dipped the last of the watery potion into a sprinkling can and handed it to Robin. “Douse him good,” she ordered. “Don’t worry if you get some on you, you’re not a Mengerite.” Menger’s eyes bulged and he intensified his struggles, to no avail. Robin showered the wizard until he was thoroughly drenched. After a long moment it looked like he was choking on the rag in his mouth so Ronald pulled it out. The bath was having a far greater effect on the last of the Menger bloodline than the Hardy sisters or Dame Agatha had expected. “Wha-wha’s he becoming?” Robin stammered hoarsely. “Whatever he mostly was,” Epithal said, just as surprised as the rest were at what was happening before their eyes. Menger had lost a third of his bulk by then. His transformation was taking all his energy and attention so he no longer tried to shriek and grimace. As he shrank still more, the silver cords dropped off. Finally, the changes ceased. “Who would have dreamed,” Zamoa said, as Gevglockus edged away and then scampered across the Pickering fields and into the woods beyond, “that the last of the Mengers was mostly Elf!”

186

Explaining Arthur Arthur Thurston had not meant to kill Derrick Roach, and he had not done so, but it looked as if he had tried. Not that Derrick wouldn’t have deserved it, and it would have been a relief for most people in Lesser Ainsley. Derrick was a bully and a clever delinquent. His delinquency label came from a judgment in juvenile court, but his cleverness came from watching his father who was the only person Lesser Ainsley residents would rather have been rid of than Derrick. When Derrick tripped Arthur in front of the fish and chips cart and then “accidentally” stepped on his head it was suddenly Derrick who lay rigid on the ground unable even to move his lips. The vendor and two customers hadn’t actually seen Arthur do whatever he had to have done, but Derrick was paralyzed and Arthur was the only one near him. The idea that Arthur had intended murder was spread by Derrick’s father yelling the idea about. Why the Roaches had immigrated back to England from India was never known, but Derrick made it clear he hated the whole village and would rather be anywhere else on earth. Meanwhile, he concentrated on making people as miserable as he could. For half an hour or so Derrick was stiff as a petrified log. His father bobbed around hysterically. The doctor came and declared there was nothing wrong with the boy – except that he was petrified. It was ageless Aunty Bea who brought Derrick out of it and quietly whisked Arthur away. “Now, boy,” the old woman demanded, “tell me all about what happened.” Arthur gulped, “He tripped me and stomped on my head. Next thing I knew he was laying on the ground beside me.” “It was Petrificus Totalus that did it,” she said. “What?” Arthur exclaimed, alarmed. “I see,” Old Bea sighed. “The magic just showed up. It works like that when you’re young and know no better.” She sat up straighter and stared distractedly toward the distant horizon. Arthur was too young for the constable to take Alex Roach’s claim seriously that Arthur had tried to kill Derrick. Besides the boy had recovered and “no harm done” the policeman concluded, ignoring the abrasions on Arthur’s head. Sensing his loss of status from being bested, Derrick resolved to get revenge. Not just any revenge would do. It had to be public. Derrick saw his chance one Saturday when Saint Gibbitha’s Church sponsored a cross country 187

bicycle race to St. Loo’s Church in Greater Ainsley. St. Loo was what the children called a local martyr whose name none of them in Lesser Ainsley could pronounce. As the 9 to 11 year-olds were gathering, Derrick managed to let the air out of Arthur’s front tire. Thanks to alert race officials the flat tire was seen in time. Back-up plans to run Arthur off the road were thwarted by the fact that he was in the lead for most of the race and Derrick never caught up to him. Frustrated by failure, Derrick waited for Arthur to receive his medal and then he yanked the shiny coin from the ribbon around Arthur’s neck. Arthur yelled in indignation but it was drowned out by Derrick’s screams as he hurled the medal into the sky and licked his blistering hand. The silver medal had turned red hot, but it was strangely cool by the time it fell back to the ground, although the somber image of St. Loo seemed now to be grinning. Old Bea decided, “Time to get this under control.” “The boy’s got more magical power than anyone his age I ever saw,” she commented to Amanda Hawkins a few days later. “Does he know?” Amanda asked. “Hasn’t got a clue. He doesn’t even realize he’s the one causing these things to happen to the Roach boy. Luckily no one else picks on him so he’s never seen what would happen to other bullies who might threaten him. He hasn’t had the chance to put 2 and 2 together.” “How old is he?” “Ten, he says. Birthday will be in a month.” “He’ll get his letter then. Somebody from Hogwarts’ll be visiting him. Can it wait?” Then Amanda had a better idea. Later that day Alex Roach got a phone call from his cousin in New Delhi. A day later a pair of plane tickets arrived by messenger and by the end of the week the two Roaches were gone to India for a month. “How’d you do that?” Bea asked, next time she saw Amanda. “The British Empire’s not as extinct as you might think,” was all she’d say. Lesser Ainsley had a peaceful month, but it was interrupted for Arthur Thurston and his Uncle Mortimer when a strange little man showed up at their door a few days before Arthur’s eleventh birthday. “I am Filius Flitwick,” the stranger said. “I have something to explain to the two of you.”

188

189

Wand Maker

Lucretius Romanescu, some say, was suggested by Charlie Weasley. There was a serious shortage of new wands. Garrick Ollivander’s collection was far from exhausted, but it was becoming more and more difficult for young witches and wizards on their shopping trip to Diagon Alley for their first school supplies to find a wand that was eager to choose them. Sometimes the sparks were less than enthusiastic or just a languid glow for a moment, promising poor results. For those who were steeped in magical history the Romanescu name was synonymous with magical devices, some of which were known outside magical circles. Certainly the ‘holiest’ was a silver caldron used to this day to brew Holy Muron once every five or seven years at the See of Holy Etchmiadzin in Armenia. By far the most famous was a set of brass oil lamps used to entrap jinn. Aladdin had acquired one of them. The Romanescu family had resided in the same Carpathian mountain valley since Marcus Aurelius had expanded the Roman Empire and built a fortress there. Like Hogsmeade, Bukonita was an entirely magical village and was deucedly hard to find, even by owls. Romanian gypsies use the term 190

“went to Bukonita” to mean “got hopelessly lost”. They trade for magical goods made by Bukonita craft-makers by going to a certain farmhouse outside the village of Frasin, or on a Thursday night to a particular shop in a ski resort in Vatra Dornei. The reason Bukonita was so difficult to locate is that as it was being looked at by someone, it changed into whatever form the observer might be least attracted to. It could look like an abandoned Communist prison camp, or an overgrown peasant cemetery. Once in a while it might even appear as the Roman-era fort or the Orthodox seminary it had once been from the time of the Black Plague in the 14th century (1346-53). One hunter swears he found a nuclear waste dump there, complete with transmogrified squirrels the size of dogs, covered with welts and glowing red eyes. Most hikers coming close to the trail that would bring them down to Bukonita simply got over the idea of going for an explore, and stayed on the main trail. The only way into the village was to Apparate from a hunter’s cabin in the forest of Slatioara. Bukonita had become a village of refuge from the witch hunts that followed the outbreak of the plague. Seeing no need to leave when the hunts and burning of witches died down, the inhabitants of Bukonita carried on their magical handicrafts as if the 14th century had never ended. About the time Harry and Ginny were expecting their first baby, the Ministry of Magic decided to search for someone to carry on wand lore and production of wands. Quintillus Dean followed Charlie’s directions and appeared in the middle of Bukonita one frosty morning. No village in Europe had a more magical feel about it, not even Germelshausen or Brigadoon, which appeared one day every century. In the very middle of the village square a pool poured steam into the air creating mist with a pungent odor. The buildings were tall but small and close together with only two or three alleys, each leading to just three or four doors. It did not appear that the massive front gate of the village had been opened in modern times. Although visitors were rare, and even the residents seldom traveled, they were friendly in the Romanian manner. The village had no sign boards since everyone knew where everything and who everyone was. Dean had been instructed to sit under a beech tree by the hot spring and wait for someone to bring Romanescu, the wand maker, to him. After they had exchanged their Roman sounding names, Lucretius and Quintillus fell silent and stared at each other for quite a time, wondering how they might be related despite their different appearances and surnames. They 191

broke the silence by blurting out, at the very same moment, “Ollivander is gone.” It was mutual recognition of the issue for the morning. “So are Gregorovich and Xian Xu, dead,” Romanescu announced. Dean did not know anything about Xian Xu, although he had heard of Gregorovich, who died trying to escape Lord Voldemort when the Dark Lord had recalled his Death Eaters on the night the Triwizard Tournament concluded. Dean rallied, “Are there many wand makers?” “There are few,” Romanescu replied, with a suspicious shadow crossing his face. “There could be more, if the ones who look for underground water knew more wand lore than how to use their wands as dowsing sticks.” Dean did not know that dowsing sticks were used by Muggles to find where to dig wells. He wondered for a moment about pursuing the idea of training some of these talented people. He would have been even more interested if he had known their work was called “witching for water” in the United States. Instead, Dean got to the reason for his visit to Bukonita. “The Ministry of Magic in England would like to invite you to make wands for us.” Dean waited to see how this idea had been received, and Romanescu waited to see if there was more to the proposal than that. “We do not make wands like Ollivander did,” Romanescu said, at length. He thought that might be the end of the matter. England would want Ollivander products as they had for twenty-four centuries, since 382 BC. Dean had caught Romanescu’s point that Ollivander wands were different from Roman ones. Indeed, even the Roman wands of the Republic and Empire were not what they had once been. In ancient times Ferula was sacred. Ferula is closely related to the plants that yielded hemlock poison that Socrates was forced to drink, as well as frankincense presented to the baby Jesus and burned on the incense altar in the temple in Jerusalem. Ferula was the powerful fire stick Promethius used to bring fire to humans. A thousand years later (or was it ten thousand, or a hundred thousand?) the Romans bound Ferula rods into bunches called Fasces as a symbol of Roman unity carried in public ceremonies by twelve Lictors, who did not know, apparently, they were carrying powerful magic wands. Romans also used sacred Ferula stalks as walking sticks as well as whipping rods to turn school boys into angry, stiff, brutal men and therefore into disciplined soldiers. To this day the Pope’s staff is called a Ferula.

FASCES 192

Romanescu cleared his throat to interrupt Dean’s silent historical rumination. “We use sacred wood for wands. It is magic to begin with and needs no magical core of phoenix feather, unicorn hair, or dragon heart-string.” “Do you have magical animals?” Dean wondered, looking at the high protective walls of the village. Romanescu was beginning to doubt that Dean had been briefed by the Ministry before they sent him to find the wand maker. “Do you know Charlie Weasley very well?” “Well? Yes. Fairly well,” Dean blustered. “His scars were from handling wild Romanian dragons,” Romanescu reminded him. “These very mountains are the native habitat of the Romanian Longhorn.” Dean recovered his composure and also the train of thought he wanted to pursue. “But you do not use animal parts in your wands.” “That is correct. A good magic wand can be made without an exotic core.” But the wood is exotic,” Dean guessed. “Beech, fennel, willow…” Romanescu began. “But they are common!” Dean interjected. “What makes the magic work, uh, like magic?” “How do Ollivander’s wands work?” the Romanian quizzed Dean. Dean shifted on his seat as if his feathers had been ruffled. “There is a kinship between a wand and its master,” Dean began with what he hoped was the most important point. “Then the witches and wizards learn the words and gestures to bring about certain effects.” Romanescu picked up a stick from a pile of similar ones lying beneath the beech tree under which the two wizards were sitting. He pointed the stick at a bird in the tree. Immediately the bird tumbled into Romanescu’s outstretched hand. Then he pointed the stick at the bird again and it stood upright on his finger and began to sing. A few moments later the bird flew back to the tree, but chose a different perch farther up and out of sight of the wizards. Dean reached over and picked up a beech stick, asking, “Can I charm birds with this?” “Anyone with the gift of magic can use that very stick to charm birds,” Romanescu assured him. “And to Apparate back to the cabin in the forest?” “And from there all the way back to London, by stages, of course. You are wondering if this stick is as powerful as your lovely polished persimmon one with its rare Roc pinion core.” “All right, yes.” 193

“That stick you are holding comes from this beech tree right here. Not all beech trees are powerful. Most have been disempowered. But it was with good reason our ancestors preferred beech and fennel.” “What about oak and mistletoe? They are sacred in Celtic lore.” “If you find an oak with magical power it will produce fine wands, I am sure,” Romanescu nodded. “How do you know which tree is full of magic power?” Dean was beginning to feel like a Hogwarts first-year. “You have to pay attention to it.” “How long?” “Centuries.” Dean thought the expedition to find a new wand maker had led nowhere if Romanescu wands were so different from Ollivander ones. But he was curious about how the bird had been made to fall out of the tree. “There are three parts to a spell,” Romanescu said patiently, “the wand made of magical wood, the one wielding magical power holding the wand, and a clear magical objective.” “There are no magical phrases that must be said, no special ways to hold or wave the wand?” Dean was amazed and skeptical. So much of Hogwarts education was about learning those words and perfecting how to use a wand. In fact, without a wand there was no need for further study at Hogwarts, and without study there was no further use of a wand. If a student was expelled, his wand was snapped, as Hagrid’s had been (although the two parts had occasionally been put to use inside Hagrid’s pink umbrella). “I believe that those magic spells, charms and curses you British trust so highly do help make the objective very specific,” Romanescu conceded. “Exactly what you want to happen is very clear when you say ‘reparo’ or ‘protego’. Here in Romania, instead of learning magic words we spend time learning how to focus and how to keep our mind from fluttering between alternatives.” “Expellaramus!” Dean said, without warning, aiming his beech stick at Romanescu’s stick. It spun into the air and landed back on the pile. Romanescu reached down and picked up another. “Try it again,” he said. “Only this time focus on having my stick fly into your hand rather than wherever the stick might like to go. And be clear about when you want this to happen. So, when you are ready say, ‘Now’ instead of ‘Expelleramus’.” “Now!” Dean demanded, and deftly caught the stick as it left Romanescu’s hand. “I think only a wizard who has had lessons in charms and curses as you 194

have had could manage the Romanian method so quickly,” Romanescu said. “There’s more to it than this, isn’t there?” Dean wheezed as if coming up a stairway. “Indeed. Your British way, shall we call it, has another advantage. What you want to accomplish with your wands is automatically limited by the magic words you have learned. You may be frustrated by not knowing the phrase to make your desire happen, but you are never confronted, as our young are, by attempting the totally impossible.” Remembering his lessons back in this early days, Dean responded, “Oh, it is frustrating getting the pronunciation just right for something like ‘wingardium leviosa’.” “Yes, I am sure. It is ironic that you Anglo-Saxon-Celts have to learn so much Latin when your language now has so little, while we Romanians have so much Latin but we need not use it in doing magic.” “One last question,” Dean said. “Will one of your wands obey all the commands we have learned?” “All of them and more. It depends on the witch or wizard as much as the wand.” Dean stood and so did Romanescu, who took Dean’s arm and said, “Before you disappear back to the forest cabin on your way home, please carry my regards to your Ministry of Magic and inform them that I would be much happier to have an apprentice come here to lovely Bukonita than for me or anyone from here to endure the misery of life in Diagon Alley. I have been there once, and that was enough.”

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Vergeugnigg’s Grotto

YGGDRASIL Aeron Finchfinder fell in love with trees. Perhaps trees had an affinity for him, too. By the time he was in his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry he knew all the trees on the Hogwarts grounds; that is, he was on a personal basis with them, and knew the meaning of the heart of the Dark Forest, although he had never been there. In other words, Aeron was not a fledgling botanist but was well on the way toward exploring the magic of life itself. More than once he had coaxed Hagrid to tell of his trip to find the giants in the mountains beyond Minsk. Since Hagrid and Madame Maxine had been followed by spies for Lord Voldermort they had taken a long circuitous 196

route to the giants. In peaceful times there must be a shorter way. Too bad Dumbledore wasn’t around to tell how to get there. It was not the giants that Aeron wanted to find. He had become obsessed with the notion that in the middle of the land where the giants had hidden and spent their time murdering one another was a giant tree. It was not just large, but was the Mother of All Trees. “You know that Yggdrasil was burned down in the great battle of Ragnarok, don’t you?” Professor Verbal asked Aeron when the boy had admitted he planned to find the famous “World Tree.” “But the world is still here,” Aeron replied, reasonably. “So that can’t have happened yet.” As far as Aeron was concerned, that was the end of the matter. The final battle was still to come. Meanwhile, the great ash tree was calling to him. His problem was how to get to it. It was a matter of logistics. Aeron was too young to apparate and he didn’t know exactly where the tree was, so broom-flying was out. He thought about borrowing Robin Astor’s flying carpet. “If you have a destination clearly in mind the carpet could take you,” Robin agreed. But Professor Verbal urged caution. “You are not sure what dimension of time and space the tree is in. It could be in the seventh dimension, which a friend of yours calls ‘connectivity’ between parallel realities. We have no way of knowing whether Robin’s flying carpet or any flying carpet can travel into the seventh dimension.” “I’d like to explore that,” Aeron said. “Why?” “I want to bring back an ash stick from the Mother of All Trees,” Aeron admitted, saying this for the first time. It was, of course, just one of the reasons he wanted to visit the World Tree. Verbal was almost dumbfounded by the idea of retrieving a stick with the power that Odin’s spear had. Gungnir had a shaft covered with magic runes for which Odin paid dearly, and it had a head forged by the dwarf Dvalin. Nobody for centuries had considered doing anything like Aeron was suggesting. The wonderful things wood from Yggdrasil could do were legendary. Then Verbal got hold of himself. “You agree that the tree is the Mother of All Trees. Then why wouldn’t the wood from a descendant be just as good? Wands of those trees work quite well.” Verbal waved his blue wand and created a glowing smoke dragon in the air. Aeron was mildly amused, but he had no answer for Verbal’s more challenging question, “What kind of power 197

might be released if a stick from the World Tree were moved through spacetime from there to here?” That was something to be concerned about. Surprisingly, it was Hagrid who had a suggestion about the logistical issue. “Begin at the grotto,” Hagrid said. “What grotto?” Aeron asked. “Oh, I can’t say his name. Don’ask me ter,” Hagrid declined. “Ye’ll find it there on the hairs of the chin of Sweden.” It took a while, but Aeron finally deciphered Hagrid’s riddle to mean the southernmost tip of Sweden, because he thought the map of Norway, Sweden and Finland looked like the head of a horse with its mouth open ready to devour Denmark. The Institute of Nordic Ancient Legends and Lore, called IN ALL by the students, was one of the new institutes being established around Europe to expand research about witchcraft and wizardry. They gave Aeron his most important information. “The Grotto of Vergeugnigg the Treacherous is gone. There is no trace of it except a centre of magical emanation near the Sandhammaren lighthouse. The area is entirely sand dunes and pine trees.” Professor Verbal insisted on accompanying Aeron. They decided to fly on SAS to Copenhagen and take a ferry to Ystad and figure out how to get to Sandhammaren from there. Everyone assumed they were summer tourists going to the beach for a vacation. Verbal took a backpack to make this seem credible. The Baltic was very attractive along the “bottom of the chin”. Aeron, however, was too excited to appreciate the view or the opportunity. Finding the lighthouse was no problem, and from there it was a matter of plowing through the dunes 500 paces to the ESE and then 300 paces straight S. To their surprise there was a tent there and it was occupied by Niels Carlsson, a graduate student at INALL. “We were expecting you,” he said. “I would have met you in Ystad or Copenhagen if you had let us know more about your plans,” he sounded an accusatory note, but changed it quickly. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Finchfinder,” he said, extending his hand to Professor Verbal. “I am Virgil Verbal. This is Aeron Finchfinder.” Niels did an embarrassed double-take. “I … just assumed…” he stumbled. “I am looking for the Mother of All Trees,” Aeron jumped to the main issue on his mind, which was the reason for this trip. “Yggdrasil,” Niels and Verbal said in unison. “This is the place to start,” Niels said, recovering his wits. “This was the 198

grotto of Vergeugnigg the Treacherous during the era of Middle Earth. He was a hermit on the island that was here. I suppose if you excavated you’d find his cave home. He came here to escape when Ragnarok was being fought. The Frost Giants were gone but the Mountain Giants were at large. Vergeugnigg was of the era before that. His birthplace was in the roots of Yggdrasil.” “Why do we have to begin here to find Yggdrasil?” Aeron asked. Niels considered his answer for several minutes as they paced around finding the magical center with their wands. “Yggdrasil is not in our … realm,” Niels stammered. “We need to be here to get there. Professor Luns at the Institute has said this is, how do you say, the port.” “Portal,” Verbal guessed. “Did Professor Luns think we could go through this portal? Would it lead directly to the tree?” “No one has ever dared,” Niels responded. “Then I shall be the first,” Aeron declared. “And I shall be the second,” Niels asserted. “It is why I have been camping here amid the scrub pines and mosquitoes waiting for you.” “I will go with you,” Verbal said. “If you go too, who will know we have not returned? Who will send a search party?” Niels added, glancing anxiously at Aeron. “We will be explorers, then,” Aeron said, “as the Vikings were.” Niels did not reply, but he thought it showed how little the English boy knew about the Vikings. “How will you get to Yggdrasil?” Verbal repeated. “We will step into it, I think,” Niels said. “Tonight there is little moon. It will be very dark quite late, but not for long here in the North. Professor Luns had arranged for the light in the lighthouse to be out for half an hour tonight so we can see the glow. It should be here,” he said, pointing to the place they had been circling. It was nearly midnight before a faint orange glow could be seen just where they were expecting it. Aeron was not as nervous as he should have been. Without even glancing around he stepped into the middle of the shimmering spot and simply disappeared. A couple of seconds later Niels followed him. The journey, if that is what it should be called, was far more horrible than apparating. Aeron had once done that with his father. It had felt like being sucked through a narrow tube. This felt more like he was being turned inside out, his exterior being peeled off his interior like the skin of a grape. He felt an instant of intense, indescribably pressure; and then he found himself extruded onto the ground. He couldn’t avoid thinking about pinching a pimple until it popped, and he was the blob of white pus. He vomited before open199

ing his eyes. Moments later Niels was crouching by his side, just as sick. They found themselves in a wild environment. The air was different, more raw. The light was sharper, no hint of mellow pastel colors were anywhere in sight. Then Aeron looked up and gasped. Niels followed his gaze. Overhead was the silhouette of an immense tree. Its leafy perimeter was in sharp focus, but the rest was a dark blur. Their gaze was hindered by the blazing sun just coming or going at the edge of the shadow. They were on the ground looking up at the tree. The tree was floating in middle space. There was nothing where the trunk should be, or was there? Impossible to tell, after all. Professor Verbal felt engulfed in profound doubt as Niels disappeared from the same spot that had swallowed up Aeron. For a moment he considered stepping there, too, but pushed the notion away. Niels was right. Someone needed to stay here and keep watch. This was a portal, after all. It would never do to have this spot blocked, unlikely as the chances were. A short time later the spotlight began to revolve again in the lighthouse, reminding Verbal that there were others who had a clue about what was going on. If Aeron and Niels did not reappear by this time tomorrow night he would contact Dr. Luns at the Nordic Institute. He checked his i-pad and was grateful to see there was a signal if he moved a few feet away from the spot where the boys had vanished. Niels’s little tent, as expected of a wizard, was much more spacious inside than it appeared from the outside. There was a cot equipped with a mosquito net beside a little fireplace.

Before going to sleep he tried a couple of the ways he used in his Enchantment classes to see if he could get a view of Yggdrasil, but it didn’t work. He 200

would have been surprised if it had worked. “Is this place real?” Aeron gasped. “The puke is real,” Niels replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Just then a magnificent squirrel scampered by. It was definitely a squirrel, but it was the size of a golden retriever. The squirrel was in a great hurry and paid no attention to them. “Let’s follow it,” Aeron said, taking off at a run. Niels could do nothing but rush to catch up. As they ran it became clear that they were not on level ground. It was a ridge. The surface was something besides dirt. There was moss and occasional rocks and debris. Beneath that it was bumpy and irregular. The squirrel was faster than the boys and before long it had disappeared. It had not gotten far away or become hidden by bushes or grass. It had just grown vaguer, with its appearance becoming something between misty and immaterial. There was no point in running after the squirrel. It was gone. Niels had a strange look in his eyes. Aeron noticed. “What’s wrong?” “I think that was Ratatosk!” Niels exclaimed. “It carries insults from the dragon Nidhogg to the eagle in the topmost branches.” “What does that do?” Aeron asked, warily. “It enrages the eagle and keeps the enmity going between the dragon down among the roots of the tree and eagle in the heights.” “Is that really necessary?” Aeron wondered. They were walking now, rather than chasing the squirrel. “That conflict between the dragon and the eagle that the squirrel stokes reflects the strife between the residents of Hel and gods in Asgard … their palace at the top of the cosmos,” Niels said, repeating what he’d learned at INALL. Niels was fastening on the notion that down below them was a voracious dragon who feasted on the dead and below that was the blazing region of Hel. It was dawning on Aeron, however, that all this meant that they were right underneath the sacred World Tree, Yggdrasil. Come to think of it, they were walking on one of the three great roots of the tree. Somewhere above them were the lands of the Dark Elves and the Light Elves, Midgard – the land of the mortals, and the land of the Frost Giants, intractable enemies of the gods. Best not to think about all those realms and their inhabitants, any more than to think about how all this fit together. If the whole universe was nestled in the branches of the tree overhead, it was a lot smaller than expected. Per201

haps it was all an illusion or a shadow realm. No, the squirrel had been vivid enough as it went by. Where had it gone? Niels said it was going to the top. How would it get there? Best not to think too much about it. “How shall we make the most of this?” Aeron voiced his question out loud so as to include Niels in it. “Well, tell me this,” Niels responded, “What did you come for?” “I thought I wanted a stick from this tree to use as a powerful wand,” Aeron explained. Here and there were ivy vines, but no branches emerged from this root on which they were walking. “Do you think the magic can be transported from here back to Sandhammarin?” Aeron took out his Ollivander wand and began to wave it. “Stop!” Niels shouted urgently. “We can’t take chances until we know more. Who knows what manner of being you might awaken?” “I want to show you that I have already brought magic wood from there to here. So perhaps we can take some back.” Niels was unconvinced. “What are you doing down here, mortal boys?” a voice demanded right behind them.

Aeron and Niels both shrieked, turned, and stumbled. “You surprised us,” Niels gulped, trying to recover, but still trembling. “Your being here is a surprise,” the stranger responded. “Why aren’t you up there?” He waved his hand toward the tree-shaped silhouette overhead. “Mor202

tals are supposed to stay in Midgard until they die. Then they rise into Valhalla if they are heroes, or they become dinner for Nidhogg. I think I’ll make you dead and see if you rise or fall,” he said grinning and breathing faster. Aeron was watching this strange character who had appeared so unexpectedly. There was something imprecise about him. He looked like an ordinary Scandinavian farmer at first glance, but his outline shimmered just a tiny bit and his eyes were opaque where a farmer’s eyes might twinkle or show some depth. Aeron decided that this farmer could be something or someone quite different if he wanted to be. “Who are you?” Aeron asked quietly, as if he really wanted to know and doubted the evidence he was seeing. Niels used the moment Aeron had the stranger’s attention to pull out a tool from his back pocket. It looked like a small two-headed hammer. Aeron thought about waving his wand to show that they both were armed, but he felt Niels’ free hand give him a restraining brush.’ The “farmer” was more impressed than Aeron was at the sight of the hammer. “And who are YOU?” he retorted. “We have come from beyond, through Vergeugnigg’s Grotto,” Niels replied, unable to suppress a little quiver in his voice. “Invaders!” “Explorers,” Aeron countered. Still keeping an eye on Niels with his shiny hammer, the stranger shifted his shape, noticeably growing taller and then twice as tall as he had been. “Give me your toy, little boy,” he demanded. Niels merely responded, “Are you Lesovik or Lesiye?” The Leshy, for that is what he was, was impressed despite himself, and he shook his head, bringing into view a long green beard that came down to his knees. “I am Vergeugnigg,” he announced. “And before that?” Niels countered. “Clever intruder! Before that I had many names and afterward even more.” Then the Leshy seemed to consider something. When he spoke again Aeron heard a hint of craftiness that put him on alert. “You are wanderers,” Vergeugnigg-Lesovik said. “Let me show you the way.” THOR’S HAMMER 203

“Show me first your club,” Aeron replied. Vergeugnigg lifted it threateningly. It was a heavy, knobby, wooden bat covered with writing that, here in this place, Aeron could read with magical speed and understanding. “Leshy Lesovik,” Aeron addressed him using the name on the club, “we want to go home.” “I will show you,” the Leshy said eagerly. “And when you do, we will become hopelessly lost,” Niels challenged him. Niels remembered there were two Lesheys; they were forest spirits capable of helping but prone to play tricks and lead travelers astray. Most of all they were capable of reducing themselves to the size of mice or extending to the height of the tallest tree. Then Niels began to bluff. “What I offer you is this ‘toy’ of mine. I will refrain, Leshy, from revealing my true identity if you cease your game. Lift us up to the branches of Yggdrasil and give us two of your fingernail clippings.” Aeron was inspired by what he’d read on the club. He added, “Help me get a stick like yours from the ash tree.” Lesovik regarded the fellows carefully as if seeing them for the first time. “You ask a lot but give only a little.” Niels brandished the shiny hammer, temptingly. “Amuse me,” Vergeugnigg ordered. “If you are amusing I will lift you into the realms above. That will be amusing as well, to see how you fare in the land of the Frost Giants! Ha! Two amusements in one day. Old Lessy can hardly wait!” Niels dropped the little hammer onto the giant’s toe. For such a small object barely as large as Niels’s hand, it made an astonishing impact. Lesovik howled at the pain and then began to dance on his other foot while trying to hold his foot with the bruised toe in his hands clasped against his chest. He was totally out of control. Only luck and a bit of magic saved the boys from being trampled. In the commotion Niels retrieved the hammer and they waited for the giant to calm down. Instead, he grabbed them, one in each hand, and inflated himself until he was tall enough to toss them over the icy rim of the lands above. At great risk, Aeron managed to snap off a leafy branch about the size of a broom handle as they rose through the leaves. “Your toy, boy, or I will awaken the giants!” Vergeugnigg threatened. “Two clippings first,” Niels reminded the Leshy. Angrily Vergeugnigg bit off the gigantic ends of two of his fingernails and 204

spit them out onto the ice. Niels pitched the hammer toward the giant, who managed to catch it two-handedly, as a man might catch a gnat. The place where they had been dropped was as frozen and desolate as could be. All they had was their thin jackets and pants and two fingernail clippings the size of beds. “Now what?” Aeron asked, beginning to shiver from the incredible cold. “Now we wait for help, or we freeze to death,” Niels replied matter of factly. “What help?” “Light Elves from Alfheim. Professor Luns said that if we returned the hammer to Yggdrasil we’d get help from the Light Elves to get home by boat made from finger nails.” Aeron wanted to question this promise, but his teeth were chattering so he could barely speak. Both of them were stunned by the devastating cold. In mere moments their minds grew numb and they fell onto the ice. “Poor lads,” they dreamed, “stranded here.” Their dream changed. They found themselves floating in a small boat on a warm sea under a fair, blue sky. As they floated they remembered they had been sleeping the sleep of the drugged, dreaming fantastic nightmares of ugly dwarves fastening two giant fingernail clippings into a canoe for them and a squadron of Light Elves setting them afloat on an estuary that carried them onto the sea. Finally, they dreamed that their boat melted and they were cast adrift. The sun was coming up over the Baltic Sea when Niels and Aeron woke up, soaked to the skin, lying like driftwood at the water’s edge on a sandy beach with ripples of the tide lapping at their legs. Professors Virgil Verbal and Harold Luns were bending over them with stricken looks on their faces that turned to relief as the two travelers opened their eyes and struggled to sit up. Aeron gave their circumstances no thought, but began to scramble around frantically, looking everywhere. “Is this yours?” Verbal asked, catching Aeron’s shoulder in a firm grip. In his other hand he held a long stick with a single tattered ash leaf still attached.

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Wand Maker’s Apprentice Aeron Graduates from Hogwarts “Since this stick is still fresh,” Neville commented while slicing off an end at a very sharp angle, “it is worth trying to graft it onto this living tree to see if it will grow.” Professor Longbottom then made an identical cut onto a broomstick size branch of an ash tree growing near the Black Lake on the Hogwarts grounds. Aeron Finchfinder handed his teacher lengths of string to bind the two sticks together, wrapped in what Neville called “nutritious shavings” and he encased the wet lump with tape. As they stepped back to admire their work Aeron was almost certain he felt the young ash tree shiver. A bird nesting above may have felt it, too. She flew off the nest with a call of alarm. Aeron took a flash picture of the graft with an old camera he had gotten from his grandfather. Modern digital cameras wouldn’t work in the thick magic of Hogwarts. Neville regarded the camera sadly. “Reminds me of a brave student who loved taking pictures. He idolized Harry Potter. Died in ‘The Battle’ and his parents had him buried right over there. That beech tree is growing out of his grave,” Neville recalled. Aeron took a shot of the beech tree without yet knowing why it would be important before long. Taking a closer look at the tree Aeron saw a small engraved sign that said: In Memoriam Colin Creevey 1981-1998 As they walked back up the hill toward the Hogwarts greenhouses Neville casually asked, “What are your plans for the other two parts of your precious stick?” Neville was sure most boys Aeron’s age would have turned the wonderful branch into the highest performance broom England had ever seen. Clearly, Aeron was not like “most other boys.” “My dream is to have a wand,” Aeron admitted. “A Wand of Yggdrasil,” Nevil exclaimed. “That’s an outstanding idea. Well, Quint Dean is the one you need to know.” “I tried Ollivanders,” Aeron said, “but they were afraid of my stick. They considered the idea of inserting the hamstring of a Centaur as a core, but when they laid a sample on the stick to measure it, the muscle fiber ex206

ploded.” Neville laughed at how he imagined that looked. “After that they wouldn’t touch the stick and hustled me out of the shop,” Aeron said. Neville laughed again. “Ollivanders has gone downhill.” Neville commented. “The very idea, Centaurs, horrible. I’ll send an owl to Dean at the Ministry.” Aeron was alarmed. “The Ministry?” “Aeron, Quintillus Dean knows everything there is to know about wands.” “I have no idea what to do with wood as powerful as that,” Dean admitted. “But I think there is one wand maker in the world who might. Are you interested in a trip to Romania?” “I, I’m in school,” Aeron sputtered. “For a short while longer,” Dean agreed. “Then what?” “Then my father will find a job for me,” Aeron said, sounding doubtful at the same time. “Perhaps a request from the Office of the Minister of Magic will persuade your father to delay your career for the time it takes to go to Romania.” Dean extracted a letter in elegant script on thick parchment sealed with a red wax stamp and signed by Hermione Granger-Weasley, Minister. Aeron was thunderstruck as it dawned on him that even the Minister of Magic was interested in his acquisition from the World Tree. It was a glorious day in June when Aeron and his classmates finished their NEWT exams, attended the end-of-year feast, and were graduated, making their final departure from their beloved school the next morning by the boats that had brought them that September first, seven years earlier. Wilburt Finchfinder and Quintillus Dean were waiting on platform 9¾ as the Hogwarts Express pulled into King’s Cross Station. “Good job, son!” Aeron’s father greeted him more affectionately than Aeron could ever remember him having done so before. Aeron thought his father blamed him for what happened to his mother. When Aeron’s magic had become obvious, she took it hard. She was a Squib, failing to inherit any magical powers from her ancestors, but married anyhow to Wilburt who loved mythology more than magic and much more than his family. Anesta Finchfinder died when Aeron was in his second year in Hogwarts. His grandparents claimed she died of neglect. “Well, he’s yours,” Wilburn announced, clapping Dean on the shoulder and patting Aeron once, lightly on the back. What molecule of affection Wilburt displayed came from the vague awareness that his son had somehow 207

managed to have a more intimate experience of the Nordic mythological world than he had with his doctorate from Oxford. The spark of affection faded as Wilburt strode away, getting ahead of the crowd, making his way towards the barrier into the main part of King’s Cross. Dean was perplexed by this chilling encounter and realized Aeron was being abandoned to his care. Aeron, on the other hand, was relieved to be rid of his father so effortlessly.

Apprenticeship Begins Dean and Aeron spent the night in the Leaky Cauldron. Aeron joined two classmates for a night of celebration, while Dean wrote a series of notes, sent off by owls, changing his plans for the next three weeks. “We will take the scenic route to Romania,” he announced when Aeron got back, having imbibed a bit too much Ogden’s Old Firewhisky, supplied by one of his more affluent classmates. “Once in your life,” they reminded themselves several times. “To life,” they toasted, trying one language after another. “I have taken the liberty of sending your trunk to your home. Here are a few of your things for the journey,” Dean said, trying to sound helpful. He had graduated once. He understood. A stuffed backpack was leaning against the bed onto which Aeron tumbled. For two weeks Quint Dean led Aeron on a tour of the magical capitals of Europe, at least the capitals that were on a wavy line between London and Romania. They arrived at last, one hot day in July, at the Romanian ski resort town of Vatra Dornei. “Lovely in summer, crowded in winter,” Dean commented. They had a fine “Carpathian repast,” Dean called their dinner at the resort. The next morning they Apparated to a hunter’s cabin in the forest of Slatioara and from there to the walled village of Bukonita, arriving in the village square. Aeron did not need to be told this was a magical village. Even though it was entirely different from Hogsmeade, it had that “feel” of implanted magic. They had barely seated themselves on a bench beneath an ancient beech tree that Aeron was scrutinizing with wonder, when a girl about Aeron’s age came over to them with two chalices of Merlot wine. She was dressed in a costume that was definitely of a previous era, perhaps a millennium earlier. 208

Before long a gaggle of children were crowded around as Dean showered them with paper butterflies and birds that came to life in mid-air. Aeron gathered that Dean had been here before. The children scrambled away with their treasures when an elderly gentleman came across the square past the pungent, steaming fountain in the center. At sight of him, Dean bounced to his feet. They greeted each other by first name. “Quintillus,” said the Romanian. “Lucretius,” responded the Englishman. “So, have you honored your promise?” the Romanian asked Dean while looking at Aeron from head to toe as if examining him for some elusive characteristic. “You will have to decide that, the two of you,” Dean answered. “This is Aeron Finchfinder, a brand new graduate of Hogwarts. And this is the world’s most eminent wand maker, Lucretius Romanescu.” The Master, as Aeron was soon to find he preferred to be called, extended his hand for Aeron to shake. Then they all sat on the bench. The smiling maiden returned with another crystal chalice and a jug. She curtsied and left without a word. Aeron stared at her until she was out of sight. Dean noticed. “Before anything else, Aeron has something to show you.” Dean nodded toward the backpack. Aeron found the stick in a separate side compartment where Dean had put it. Romanescu gazed at the stick, making not the slightest move to touch it even though Aeron was holding it out for him in his open hand. Romanescu reached over to his side and picked up a twig from a pile beside the bench. He pointed the twig at Aeron’s foot-long stick from Yggdrasil. The stick in Aeron’s hand laid there motionless but the twig in Romanescu’s fingers wiggled frantically. The Romanian wand maker seemed to consider this a not-surprising result. After a while he touched the stick in Aeron’s hand and then picked it up with his fingertips. He weighed it and twirled it, watching intently. Then he waved it at the beech tree and produced a whole flock of small birds that performed a syncopated Arabesque in the air before skittering back into the foliage. Romanescu handed the stick back to Aeron and then asked, “What will you do with it?” Aeron found his voice after two attempts. “I want a wand. The wand makers in London want to stuff it with the hamstring of a centaur,” Aeron said. “And you?” 209

“I do not know what to do. I hope you can tell me,” Aeron said, his voice almost sounding plaintive. “Where did you get this powerful wood?” Romanescu wanted to know. “Yggdrasil,” Aeron said quietly. Nothing up to this point had surprised the Romanian wand-smith. It was clear he had been impressed, but at the name of the mythic World Tree he looked startled, perhaps shocked. Unlike the skeptical new proprietor of Ollivanders in Diagon Alley, however, he did not doubt or question this information. He regarded Aeron anew as if trying to spy his aura or some indication of how such a boy, just becoming a man, could have survived a trip to the Seven Lands. Shortly, Romanescu dismissed the question as irrelevant to the matter at hand, which was no longer how to turn the stick into a wand, but whether to turn the young wizard into the next great wand maker. For the next two days Dean and Aeron were cared for by the “Fair Maiden” as Dean teasingly referred to her. They found out her name was Melina and she was a grandniece of the wand maker. On the third morning in Bukonita, after a breakfast of goats-milk yoghurt, sausages and an herbal tea found nowhere outside that mountain valley, Dean prepared to depart. It had been agreed that Aeron would stay on as an apprentice to the Wand Maker. It was tacitly understood that Romanescu would get a Yggdrasil Wand when at least two had been produced. How to do that none of the three yet knew. Nor did anyone venture a guess as to how long the apprenticeship would last. As Dean was about to Apparate back to the hunter’s cabin, the shy maiden gave him a last cup of tea. Romanescu declared it would enable him to Apparate from Romania all the way to Zurich. He was handed a pouch with enough herbs to get him on to London in one bound. “Take good care of Melina,” Dean whispered to Aeron and then, pivoting on the spot, he was gone. By the time Aeron could take his eyes off the retreating Maid Melina, the Master, as Aeron was now to call him, had vanished as well, back into his workshop to oversee the simple conversion of the loft into a place for Aeron to share with a vast collection of assorted sticks. Now that Aeron was the Wand Master’s Apprentice, the mysteries of magical Bukonita began to unfold to him. It was not a large village, but more complex than it seemed at first sight. Each of the three or four residences on 210

the three or four short alley-ways off the main square was large enough for whole families of several generations. Each family specialized in one of the crafts for which they had been renowned since Roman times. The Master’s family produced magical glass objects. Members of the clan were referred to by name with the addition “Crystal-blowers” if necessary to distinguish one from another. “Modern” Romanians thought they needed surnames, Aeron learned, so the craft of the clan became their family name when needed. Only the Master made wands. The Brass-makers clan made magic lamps and cauldrons as well as locks. It is said their forge never grew cold. Aeron got as used to pounding and tapping as he did to roosters crowing. Right away the Master brought Aeron to the modest Great Hall. It had been the refectory when Bukonita was a monastery and an armory when it had been a Byzantine castle. Nine elders heard Master Romanescu administer the oath to Aeron. They were already impressed because Aeron was the Master’s first apprentice after decades working alone. Then they initiated him into the village society. From then on, he was Aeron the Novice. This brought a whole array of rights and duties. The most immediate benefit was access to the outside. Anyone who was not recognized by the protective walls of Bukonita had to Apparate from and to the hunter’s cabin several miles away, but residents had another way in and out. “Come with me,” the Master said as soon as the initiation was over. There were two fireplaces on opposite sides of the Great Hall. One had half-burned logs and ashes, but the other was swept clean. The Master stepped onto the hearth, into the fireplace, and walked right through the back wall just as Hogwarts students did at platform 9¾ in King’s Cross Station. Aeron followed close behind. All around the walled village were fields and pasture. The valley was ovalshaped, surrounded by forested hillsides with formidable mountains in every direction. As they walked toward the thickest patch of trees the Master commented, “The hardest job of a wand maker is to recognize which trees are right. Most of them have been stripped of magic centuries ago and any descendants of non-magical trees will also be ordinary.” As if reading Aeron’s mind, the Master continued, “In England the wand makers prefer to get magic from a magical object in the core of the wand. The wand can be made of any wood at all, although certain types are traditional. What’s your English wand, Novice?” Romanescu asked, using Aeron’s new title. (Novice is the Romanian word for a beginner or apprentice.) 211

“My wand is floating in the Baltic Sea,” Aeron guessed. “It was hawthorn with a unicorn hair core.” “Good for charms, as Ollivander used to say,” the Master remembered. “Yes, I got it from Ollivanders and they did say that. You knew Garrick Ollivander?” “Ollivander, Gregorovich, Abdul, Xu, the guild of wand makers has always been small. Now there are only a few of us. One in Mongolia, another in Bolivia, Abdul, of course, perhaps one in Haiti – she never travels, me….” “You are the best,” Aeron repeated what he’d been told by Dean. “There is no competition between us,” the old man replied simply. Then, returning to the subject at hand, the Master commented, “Wand lore varies from culture to culture. So, the craft of wand making is very different from one culture to another. But most wands do not know that. If a wand is imbued with magic it will respond to the wishes of the magician or witch in whatever form the wish is expressed. Only one thing seems to be common to them all. The wand is best which works best.” “The wand chooses the wizard,” Aeron surmised. “Quite right,” the Master agreed, satisfied his novice was paying such close attention. “Any wand will perform magic if the magician has inherited magic, but wands respond best to the magician the wand has chosen. Ollivander was a master at finding those matches.”

The trail had begun to be steeper as it worked its way above the pastureland. When the trees became thicker the trail became easier, but the Master kept the same leisurely pace. After what must have been an hour, the Master paused and asked, “What have you noticed?” “Oaks, beech, lots of juniper and large sycamore trees,” Aeron replied. He could have commented on anything. The scenery was outstanding, their weather was perfect, they had seen several types of wild animals including 212

a brown bear thought to be extinct from those mountains. But the Master approved of the fact that the boy had been noticing the trees. “Which ones were magical?” he asked next. That stumped Aeron. “How can you tell?” “Only by observing them for a long time.” “How long?” Aeron wondered if it was something one could perceive in a few minutes or with a test of some sort. “Centuries,” the wand-maker responded with his standard answer. What he meant was that certain trees had been kept track of for many years and were well known to witches and wizards, as were certain caves and certain phases of the moon and stars. It was the only way they knew to judge what certain things were powerful for. It was complicated by the fact that almost all those magical things were powerful or accessible only at certain rare times. Sticks from a particular juniper tree were said to yield excellent wand-wood on the day the first thistle blooms appeared on the slopes of the Elk’s Horn – which the Bukonita villagers called one of three mountain peaks nearby. The casket maker kept watch for goat foot prints of a rare type under a grove of oak trees, to know when to gather wood for his best magical chests and boxes. On the other hand the potion maker family could harvest most of their powerful herbs whenever they needed some. The Silver-smith clan got silver and gems from a source they rarely mentioned. “Dwarves,” Dumitru finally confided to Aeron. In no time at all Aeron realized that the rarity of essential resources is what limited the production of magical goods in Bukonita, and kept the village poor.

First Test Every Bukonita wand was a unique work of art. Some were special orders. “A count in Transylvania wants a wand that doubles as a dagger. He has need for it to be sharp enough to stab his dangerous enemies through the heart,” the Master commented as he slowly turned an oaken peg in the heat of a charcoal fire. Aeron shuddered as the use of this dual-purpose wand became clear to him. It had taken many months to heat-harden the oak stick until it was strong as iron and sharp as a scalpel. “The case to keep it in is to be lavishly decorated,” the Master added, as he poured out a hand-full of glittering jewels from a leather pouch. “We’ll get help from the Silver-smiths with the sheath.” 213

“How do you know when a wand has chosen a witch?” Aeron asked as he was handed a juniper stick to fashion into a wand that could be used to stir potions in bucket-size cauldrons for a witch in Armenia. Aeron was referring to the fact that the sticks they were working on for various orders weren’t wands yet. He thought only a finished wand might be fully magical. “Ah, but they are magical sticks even before they are shaped,” the Wand-maker replied. “That one you are going to carve leapt out of the pile into the witch’s hand. It was her wand-to-be. She could have used it the way it was, but that would have been cumbersome.” Aeron had to agree. The stick was twisted, about 80 centimeters long, and weighed at least 2 kilograms. “Whittle away the parts that are not necessary,” the Master told him. Aeron stared at the formidable juniper root he had been handed. All the instructions he had been given so far were to whittle the little log into a wand that would also stir a sizeable pot. That seemed to mean cutting a great deal of the wood off. As Aeron stared at the twisted stick he began to imagine the Armenian witch leaning over a cauldron stirring a bubbling potion. She’d need to scrape the bottom from time to time. No, she’d have a paddle to do that. But her hand wouldn’t want to be in the steaming vapor. The wand should be a bit bent. Aeron turned the stick over a few times until he thought he spotted the wand hiding inside the thick root. “There you are!” he muttered. On the other side of the shop the Master stopped pretending to be busy sorting the count’s gems, and settled down to see what his Novice would do next. With the Novice’s first cut the master would know whether to intervene or let him go. In truth, this was a very unorthodox approach. The tried and true way of training an apprentice was for the boy to watch the master do things, then to be allowed to help in small ways, followed by being allowed to do simple tasks on his own, and finally – after a long time without mistakes – the apprentice would be permitted to produce full copies of the Master’s work. Lucretius appeared to be thinking about skipping all those steps, which amounted to the whole apprenticeship. What Aeron was doing after just a few days amounted to a journeyman’s task. More than that, the point was to show if he could successfully innovate and make a wand that was satisfactory as well as unique. This was the level of a master. There was only one reason the Master had decided on this way of judging the novice wand maker, and that was because Aeron had broken a stick off of Yggdrasil and lived. There were two trees right there in the Forest of Slatioara that an ordinary magician 214

could not do that. The outcome of such audacity would be, “hit by a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky,” or “the branch just crashed and he never knew what hit him.” The Master had thought from the first moment he heard where Aeron got his stick, “If Yggdrasil has given this boy a stick for a wand there is no doubt he is to make a wand out of it.” Simply put, Aeron had been chosen by no less than the World Tree, the Mother of All Trees, to make a Yggdrasil wand. One who made wands was a wand maker. Even though Aeron had “seen” the wand buried in the heavy juniper root he did not rush to try to get it out. It occurred to him that there could be more than one wand in this magical wood. The Master had said “whittle” which meant cut slivers off, creating an object and a pile of shavings. That seemed wasteful. “Where is the other wand?” Aeron muttered. The old Master’s hearing was very good. He barely suppressed a smile and a grunt which might have broken the boy’s concentration. Aeron slowly turned the juniper rood end to end and rolled it over. He found the second, third, and fourth wands, but they were not as clear as the first had been. Much later Aeron would attribute that to the fact he had no final configuration or use in mind for the other wands. They remained mostly hidden with only their location showing. An hour had gone by in which Aeron had not uttered another sound, and the Master had not shifted his gaze, still waiting for Aeron to make the first cut, which would tell him everything he needed to know about the potential of Aeron Finchfinder as a wand maker, whether he would be great in the line of Mercury, Moses and Merlin, or just the owner of the only Yggdrasil stick in modern times. It seemed to Aeron that the juniper root was now ready to release its four wands. The temptation was to begin by “cleaning” the root by scraping its feeder roots and peeling off the outer layer of bark. Some impulse restrained him. His hand would not move to do that. What his hand wanted to do, Aeron realized, was to grasp a green stone cutting tool called an adz that was laying neglected under a pile of leather polishing cloths somewhere on the workbench, while his other hand “longed” to grip his Yggdrasil stick. The Master was briefly disappointed when Aeron seemed to abandon his chore at the critical moment. Aeron climbed up the pegs in the wall that served as a ladder to the loft and returned with his stick. Then he searched around on the long workbench until he found the stone tool. The Wand-master held his breath. This was turning out to be far more revealing than he had thought. The old man had no idea Aeron knew about the green stone cutting-tool shaped like a hatchet head. He was pretty sure the 215

boy hadn’t ever seen it before, but he had searched for it and he was holding it. Aeron turned the root over very slowly until he appeared to have found the precise crack he was looking for. Then he positioned the cutting edge of the adz exactly where he wanted it and tapped the stone tool just once with his stick. With a sharp snap the juniper root was rent in two from end to end. The Wand-master wiped his sweaty forehead with a cloth while Aeron coolly sliced each half of the root into two pieces. Laying three of the pieces to one side out of the way, Aeron then began to extract the witch’s wand he had seen inside the stick. The project took three days. It amounted to getting rid of the unnecessary chips and splinters, just as the Master had said. Throughout the project the Master tutored Aeron in basic wood-carver’s skills. The first skills every apprentice needed to learn were how to keep the carving tools sharp and how to use them without losing much blood. The workshop had chisels, knives, gouges, drills, plains, picks and larger tools like saws, wedges, mallets, draw bars, clamps, three vices and a lathe. Some of the tools dated back to medieval times and deserved to be museum pieces. Still others, like the little green stone adz, were only found in a magical woodworking shop. The Master never had to repeat an instruction twice. Most of the time Aeron just knew which rasp or chisel to use and how to make the cut he wanted. Toward the end, the Master had many artistic suggestions, including the right phrase to inscribe on the witch’s juniper wand. As far as the Master was concerned, the matter was settled about whether Aeron Finchfinder was a wand maker. The Armenian Witch’s wand was waiting for her to test its power, but it was already proof to the Master that the boy had the gifts. The Master sent messages to the Guild to gather. Master Lucretius of Bukonita (he really did not like his government assigned surname, Romanescu) was ready to send his Novice back to England with assurance to the Ministry of Magic that they had their wand maker to replace Ollivander. Aeron, however, was not ready to go. There were four matters that detained him. First, he still wanted to learn a lot more from the Master. Aeron had gifts but not all the skills. Second, his Yggdrasil stick was a clumsy thing to wield. It was still not the wand it ought to be. Third, he wanted more time with shy Melina. And fourth, he needed a magical adz. It all turned on the need for an adz.

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Carvel’s Crime Carvel Conroy grimly endured the first three weeks of his second year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry while Aeron was extending his apprenticeship in Bukonita. It was only a matter of time before the teachers at Hogwarts would agree that Carvel had derived all the benefits of magical education he was likely to get. Slytherin and Qidditch were the two aspects of Hogwarts that made life tolerable for Carvel, while Herbology was the subject he hated most, even more than he hated Care of Magical Creatures. Ironically, it was in Herbology that Carvel overheard something that changed the course of his miserable life. Professor Neville Longbottom was going on about various ways to produce magical plants. When he got to grafting he mentioned the branch of the ash tree that was prospering phenomenally. Carvel’s girlfriend, Wanelda Thornwill, leaned over and whispered, “the stick was brought back from Norway by that Huffelpuff kid.” That’s all she could remember. The idea that Professor Longbottom was thrilled with the way it was growing was enough to make Carvel want to get hold of it, but he would never dare disturb something a Hogwarts teacher was extremely interested in. Still he couldn’t get it out of his mind. The next evening while Neville was in the Great Hall at the faculty table Carvel found a note in Neville’s log book in the greenhouse that explained more of the mystery: “May 19, grafted Finchfinder’s stick onto ash. Finchfinder has two more segments.” It clicked. Carvel remembered that Aeron Finchfinder of Hufflepuff House had been on a trip to Norway one weekend in May and all he came back with was a stick. Another Huffelpuff student told Carvel he had seen Aeron pack two pieces of the stick from Norway in his trunk as he was graduating from Hogwarts. The Centaur Firenze was first to perceive Carvel’s dark side, not that the boy tried to hide it. “Conroy is dangerous,” Firenze confided to Filius Flitwick. “He is incompetent,” Flitwick replied, doubtful of serious danger. “It is his competence that concerns me,” Firenze mused. “Incompetence is a mask he wears. He is actually cunning and seething.” “That is a bad combination,” Flitwick agreed. Faculty consensus was still building when Carvel suddenly disappeared from Hogwarts. Hogwarts did not like losing students but an owl came to the Headmistress with a note that said simply, “Carvels home for gude. He want be kummin bak to yer.” 217

Although the letter was suspicious it was good enough for most teachers who did not relish expelling a student. Everyone there quickly lost interest in him. For a while. There was rarely anybody at home in the Finchfinder house on Prestone Drive. Aeron was in Romania and Wilburt was doing field research about invisible inscriptions on temple cobblestones in Carthage. Carvel took the precaution against being noticed for underage use of magic by having his older brother Dexter perform the Alohomora charm to unlock the front door and then keep watch. Aeron’s trunk was still where the delivery had dropped it, just inside the front door, the day Aeron left for Romania. It was not locked but looked rifled through since Dean had not been careful as he removed clothes for Aeron and got one of the sticks from the bottom of the mess. Carvel was hoping to find the sticks where he had heard they were. He only found one, but it would have to do. Carvel closed the trunk and resisted the temptation to search the house for other treasures. He and his brother were gone within three minutes. He had not touched a thing with his bare hands and left no footprints. He had been seen by no one. Except Sarun the Maltese cat.

Young Love and a Good Friend It was hard for Aeron to tell whether he was making any progress toward gaining the affection of Fair Melina. She was as attentive and shy as ever. She frequently brought him flagons of this and mugs of that. It looked like she made up reasons to come into the Wand Maker’s workshop when Aeron was there, but never when he was there alone. Aeron wondered if it meant anything that Melina was the one who did his laundry sometimes, although Aeron washed his own clothes most of the time. She never spoke unless spoken to, and responded to Aeron’s English in the old Transylvania dialect still used in Bukonita. Social customs in Bukonita were conservative to the point of being archaic. A swain of 1310 would know more how to woo a fair maiden than Aeron did in 2010. It was village social events that were most useful. Throughout Medieval Romania, especially the Saxon part of Transylvania, wine festivals in 218

October are nights made for dancing. Despite the fact that Aeron knew none of the dances, he was pushed into the lineup of men facing women for one dance, and locked in arms of men in a circle for another. He moved as he was shoved, clapped when others clapped, and somehow Melina was across from him a lot of the time. It was a night to remember and dream about. Almost everything about Aeron’s longer-term dreams involving him and Melina were out of his hands. Matches were made for young people, not by them. Young people’s wishes were not irrelevant; they were noticed, certainly, and considered as one factor among others by elders. More important than anything were Aeron’s qualifications and qualities. On the negative side, he was an outsider and had no important ancestors. On the positive side, he was an outsider; fresh blood was not to be ignored. On the positive side, he was the Master’s one and only apprentice. On the negative side, he was an apprentice without standing or wealth. Whether Aeron knew it or not, these things mattered and his dreamy, wistful attention to the maiden did not matter. Dumitru was Aeron’s only friend in Bukonita. Being an apprentice did not leave much time for friendships, and being an outsider made it worse. But the Silver-smiths lived in the house next to the Crystal-blowers. Their workshops were essentially on top of one another in the confined conditions of the magical village. The boys were often at the well, in the community toilet, or in the vegetable garden together. Both of them were novices. Dumitru taught Aeron to recognize the entrances to the gnomes’ warrens, and to stay away from the dung of the Romanian Longhorn. “Dragon dung has many uses,” Dumitru informed Aeron. “It is toxic poison unless mixed with euthetis.” “What’s euthetis?” Aeron immediately wanted to know. Dumitru laughed, “Stuff that tames the dragon manure, stupid boy!” The word for manure that Dumitru had used was an impolite word that Aeron easily translated in his mind into a four-letter English “S-word” that little boys would be spanked for using. The two of them slipped into guy-talk often. Since the length of Aeron’s stay in Bukonita depended on how long it took him to find an adz like the Master had, his time was longer than it would have been if he had let Dumitru know sooner about his search. For some reason the Master was secretive about a few of his tools, the green adz most of all. Aeron finally got desperate enough to ask him point 219

blank. “Master, if I am to make the best wands in Britain will I not need a stone like this?” Aeron brandished the adz. The Master winced. “None of the wand makers in Britain make wands like these,” he responded on his way quickly out of the shop. It was true enough. Bukonita wands, as the magical world called them, did not have a magical core. Aeron already knew that Ollivander wands had been made with either a hole bored the length of the wand for the magical core to be pulled into place and the ends plugged, or the wand was cut into two slices for the magical item to be laid in place and the halves sealed together. The wands were usually bonded by the Reparo command, as Harry Potter had done to fix his wand with Dumbledore’s elder wand before returning it to the tomb. Another time, Aeron told the Master, “When I was making the juniper wand I had to use the magical adz to make the first cut. No other tool would have worked as well.” The Master nodded his head at this disclosure, which he already knew, and suddenly remembered he needed a sycamore branch from the lee side of the Elk’s Horn. Discreetly, Aeron found that none of the other workshops had a green stone adz, or any other tool made of the same stone. The closest he found was an obsidian knife used to skin dragons. The Tanner clan insisted the knife was the only thing that would do the job. Their knife had been passed down through the generations. Word got back to Dumitru that Aeron was asking about magical stone tools. “No one wants to admit they do business with the little people under the hill,” he explained. “Their goods come at a high price and they are tricky to deal with. But our family gets its best new silver and jewels from one of them. Only Uncle Radu knows how to contact Zworn the Dwarf. But you will have to have something really valuable to trade for anything from him.” It was quite late a few nights later when Aeron was startled to hear voices in the wand maker’s workshop down below his bed in the loft. There were three voices growling in a language Aeron did not believe he had ever heard. He peeked over the edge of the loft and found three sets of eyes looking up at him. He recognized his Master even in the dim, flickering light of the little candle stuck into a loaf of bread on the workbench. Another man was Radu the Silver-smith. The third being was obviously a goblin. Aeron had seen them in Gringotts Bank. Aeron was about to learn that goblins and dwarves were the same beings with different names. “Come down, Novice,” the Master ordered. “Bring your stick.” Aeron would have preferred more light, but this was not his event to 220

manage. As it was, the dwarf would have been happy with less light. It soon became apparent that the Master and the dwarf knew each other and treated each other with very cautious respect, being extremely careful not to antagonize or offend. The Master held his hand out toward Aeron, wordlessly wanting him to give the Yggdrasil stick to the dwarf. Aeron handed it to him gently. Would this be the price for an adz, Aeron wondered. How would he dare refuse? But agreeing was unthinkable. The Master and Zworn growled quietly, and then the dwarf began to roll the stick between the palms of his hairy hands, examining it with his long black fingernails seeking cracks or grains in the wood, plotting them. Satisfied with this, Zworn commenced an unnerving set of gestures in which he swiped the stick over Aeron’s head and between his legs, looking intently first at the stick and then at the boy. About the time Aeron was going to object to his, Zworn handed him the stick and made a swiping gesture. Aeron imitated it, to no effect he could see. “Put out the candle,” the Master ordered. Aeron pointed the stick at the candle and focused his intent on the candle being extinguished in the Romanian way, rather than using a magic word as Hogwarts taught. The room went dark. “Relight it,” the Master commanded. When the candle light resumed Aeron saw that Zworn was holding the green stone adz. The dwarf carefully placed the tool into Aeron’s free hand and in a guttural, very difficult form of English he said, “Touch stick. Zee vhat?” After two tries Aeron gathered he was to put the cutting edge of the adz onto the Yggdrasil stick and see what happened. A vision in Aeron’s head objected that nothing would happen, nothing could happen, no power in the cosmos could make anything happen from this futile exercise. Still, Aeron did as the dwarf had instructed … and nothing happened. This appeared to be just the outcome both the Master and Zworn had expected. It had been a test. The Master and the dwarf growled about this, using a substantial amount of animated gestures. When they paused, Uncle Radu interpreted, “Zworn agrees with Master Wand-maker that no adz will work on that stick of yours except one that belongs exclusively to you. Your stick is yours alone. It was relinquished by the Great Tree to you alone. It cannot be carved except by you. It is to be made into wands. That is what you went for and that is what was granted.” The Master and the Dwarf growled and grimaced a while longer. Radu said to Aeron in a soft voice, “Anything you do to produce wands from that stick must be done with magical tools of great power. The wand for you 221

is within the stick, but it can only be extracted by your very own A Woomat, like that green hatchet-head you are holding. Zworn can get one for you and the power of the world Tree will bond the tool to you for life, so you will have the cutter you need to remove your wand from the stick. Every cut you make with any other tool diminishes the power you began with. The stick you hold is already a third as powerful as it was when you got it. Those cuts were not fatal to you or the stick because they did not try to make a wand or transfer ownership of the wood. With your own A Woomat you can make as many wands as the Great Mother Tree intended, without further reducing the power of the magic. Each wand will be equal to the others.” This was a little unnerving. Aeron gathered that the Yggdrasil stick could read his mind. It could tell what he intended to do every time he handled the stick and it was programmed to allow the production of magic wands with his own magical tool and no other. “What price does Zworn want for an A Woomat?” Aeron asked. The Master answered, “He wants a wand.”

Mortal Peril Carvel was greatly disappointed with his illicit acquisition. He could not, for the life of him, figure out what was so good about this stick that Finchfinder had gone all the way to Norway to get, and why Longbottom was so enthusiastic about growing more of them. That, at least, Carvel could attribute to the “Greenhouse Idiot”, as Carvel and a couple of his friends called Neville. Nothing the herbologist talked about mattered to Carvel, who grew up in an industrial wasteland in which plants were weeds to hide in. The stolen stick would not perform as a wand for him. His own cheap wand back in his trunk in Slytherin House was better. The stick would not even do most things a normal stick of wood would do. It wouldn’t float. It wouldn’t burn. But if Carvel had been paying attention he would have noticed that it was growing increasingly aggressive. It had started out obstinate and stubborn. If Carvel tried to make it float, it sank. Carvel hadn’t tried to make it sink or he would have found it was buoyant enough for an elephant to use as a surfboard. Carvel regretted having gone to the trouble to steal the stick; and then he threw it under his bed. Failing to get the thief ’s attention, the stick became more persistent. Carvel Conroy was in mortal peril. Not having a clock like Molly Weas222

ley’s, and not being in the habit of learning from experience, he did not see the signs.

Waiting for Zworn If Aeron Finchfinder had been a few years older or born in a more traditional magical household, he would have been appalled at the very idea of giving a wand to a dwarf. There were laws against it and he would be consigned to Azkaban if he broke them. But Aeron was not so conservative, and he was not in Britain where those laws applied. Uncle Radu assured Aeron that several dwarves in their region had magical sticks and most of them had magical mining tools. “How many wands will come from this stick?” Aeron asked. The Master repeated what Uncle Radu had translated, “As many wands as the Mother Tree has set for it. We cannot know.” Aeron looked at the stick. It did not appear big enough to yield very many wands. Aeron spent his time making wands as the Master ordered. Although the Master was convinced his Novice was gifted and just needed practice to make wands that looked good he easily became the taskmaster he thought he was supposed to be. Aeron didn’t object. He assumed all master craftsmen demanded perfection. For days he ground out beech-wood wands on the lathe. It was fun and almost magical. Aeron had a gift for that, too. As a stick spun it was cut with a chisel in a way that could produce convex gouges or concave ones. Lengthwise cuts were done with the wood held in a vice. The Master showed him a pattern chart of various inscriptions and incisions. At night Aeron copied all the Master’s patterns he could get his hands on. Attaching gems or inlaid silver or gold took another set of skills. “Wands work without these geegaws,” the Master snorted. “But they sell better if they look impressive.” At the painstaking rate the Master worked it was no wonder to Aeron that he stayed poor. An Ollivander wand sold for 7 or 8 Galleons and a Bukonita wand sold for the same if they were special orders and the customer supplied the jewels. Most wands were 5 gold coins or less. The Master turned out no more than one a week. Aeron was alone in the wand-maker’s workshop a few days later. The Mas223

ter was gone to Vatra Dornei for the day and Aeron had ground a handful of beech-wood wands into fanciful shapes, adding nests for gems or a bird’s head or serpent skin texture to half of them. The village was quiet for a change on that mid-autumn sunny afternoon. Romanian hillsides were at their colorful peak. Aeron lapsed into daydreaming as he stared at his Yggdrasil stick. He was so familiar with it he was calling it Ygg. After a while he saw his wand buried in the wood, just as he had seen the Armenian witch’s wand and three others in the juniper stick. The wand was tantalizingly clear, but it was not ready to come out. Aeron felt his hand tingle. It craved the feel of a DZUMAT. Nothing else would do. The time he had “just known” he needed a green stone A Woomat he had know it was on the bench under a pile of leather polishing cloths, but this was not going to be so easy. The glowing Prussian blue Dzumat blade he needed to work on the Yggdrasil stick was still buried deep underground. Aeron groaned. “Vell?” a voice demanded, breaking into Aeron’s hazy consciousness. It was so near, Aeron fell off his stool. Standing over him with his long nose pointing at Aeron’s much smaller one was Zworn, the dwarf. Aeron looked around for Uncle Radu, but they were alone. “Vell?” Zworn repeated. Aeron understood the dwarf was asking for an answer, and the only question that had ever been suggested to him was whether he would pay Zworn a Yggdrasil wand for an A Woomat. Aeron realized he did not now need a green stone A Woomat adz, but a blue stone Dzumat shaped like the blade of a meat cleaver, broad as his hand and flat as a butcher knife. It was hard to believe stones could be shaped like that. “Dzumat,” Aeron said. At the word Dzumat Zworn stared hard at the boy still on the floor. “Dzumat,” Zworn repeated, backing off a step so Aeron could sit up. “Dzumat” Zworn said again, making it clear he knew what it was, but could not quite believe he had heard Aeron say the word. Not knowing what else to do, but prompted by an inner urging, Aeron got up and handed his stick to the dwarf. Zworn took the precious stick cautiously and moved toward the door, waving his free hand in a “come” gesture without looking back. Zworn crossed the narrow back alley and pushed open a wooden door that looked untouched for generations. Aeron had to duck under twisted vines to follow his short guide. The tiny room they entered was impossibly filled with 224

vines, toppled stones and a stump. It looked as if the woods had invaded this unused space. So filled with vines living and dead was it, Aeron could not see if there was a roof overhead or not. Zworn was only a step ahead of Aeron, but with one more step the dwarf disappeared down a hole in the floor. The last thing Aeron saw was Zworn’s hand waving “come”.

Hex or Allergy Back in Sheffield, Carvel Conroy was not sleeping well at night. It was not that his cot was uncomfortable. He was used to his lumpy, infested bed. The one thing he missed about Hogwarts was the clean comfortable beds in the Slytherin dormitory. And the food. He missed the food, too. He often woke up for no reason, haunted by dreams he couldn’t remember or awakened by the sound of wood cracking as if his floorboards were disintegrating. Sleep deprivation has an unpleasant cumulative effect. His nerves were jangled and his face looked unnaturally bewitched. He would soon look back on these as his better days and nights.

Stones from the Mine Only the fact that Zworn was carrying the magic Yggdrasil stick with his wand embedded in it persuaded Aeron to step into the black hole into which the dwarf had disappeared. Those who have done so, and they are not numerous, find it hard to tell whether they float through open space or sink effortlessly through the distinctly un-solid ground. They cannot remember anything about it. Apparating is memorable. This is not. Aeron reckoned that they were certainly underground, however, not somewhere else. This underground region was quite unlike the cavern beneath Gringotts bank. For one thing it was not illuminated. Aeron had heard countless accounts of trips down the shafts of Gringotts, although he had never had gold enough to need to go there. If Aeron had had a wand he would have said Lumos to get a little light, and it would have been the wrong thing to do. Zworn gave Aeron time to adjust before ordering him to “kum”. They were on a downward track. They walked down the uncluttered path without seeing or needing to see what was to the sides. Aeron had impressions that 225

they were in a tight tunnel, and then going through a larger cavern. Once he would have sworn he heard sounds in the far distance on both sides, and for a while wondered if there were not steep drop-offs immediately on either side of them. He was glad not to see for sure. Their footsteps make it clear that they were treading on rocks. After a while Zworn took Aeron’s hand, the first time the dwarf had touched him, and guided him through a short, narrow maze. Aeron held his free hand in front of his forehead, thinking how painful it would be if he hit his head. The maze led into a chamber. To one side was the sound of digging and chopping rocks. This was a dwarf mine shaft. Few humans had ever been inside one. Aeron waited for Zworn to signal what to do. Zworn was waiting for a group of dwarves who soon surrounded them. They were all talking at once in the growling, guttural language Uncle Radu had used with Zworn when they first met. Aeron wished Uncle Radu was with them right now. In a little while Aeron heard the first word he recognized, “Dzumat” somebody said, probably Zworn. The word instantly silenced the group. Only the sound of distant digging could be heard. And then “Dzumat” rattled around the circle of dwarves, followed by a deep-throat sound somewhere between the grr of a bear and the prr of a cat. Zworn handed the Yggdrasil stick back to Aeron and signaled for him to wave it around. When the Novice did that the dwarves all ducked and hovered with hands over their large ears and bulbous heads, afraid of a cave-in, from the looks of it. Zworn grabbed the stick again and showed him how to pass it more cautiously over rocks all around them. It reminded Aeron of a science lesson in Muggle school about using a Geiger-counter. Aeron realized the stick was to help him search for something, a Dzumat presumably. Zworn pointed here and there for Aeron to gently pass the stick. They slowly surveyed the contents of the chamber for half an hour by Aeron’s reckoning. He had no idea what would happen until it did. Finally, the stick began to respond. It quivered or vibrated and as Aeron passed it more cautiously over the area causing this reaction the stick was pulled toward the rock wall, hitting it with a firm “plunk”. Four or five of the dwarves responded immediately. They began to gouge at the rocky wall with pick axes and bare hands as if a child were buried under an avalanche. Zworn pulled Aeron back out of the way. As they watched, Aeron realized he was “seeing” with another new form of sight. His eyes had grown used to the dim light, as eyes do when they are in 226

darkness, but then his eyes had grown used to pitch blackness. The only light was an occasional spark made by a pickaxe striking a stone. Yet Aeron could see tolerably well. He didn’t have long to ponder this phenomenon. In not many minutes a gnarly dwarf presented Zworn with a jagged stone the size of a cantaloupe. Everything was colorless in that environment but when Zworn convinced Aeron to touch the stone with his stick, the stone glowed a faint blue. It was only as bright as starlight reflected off a dew-covered leaf, but it blinded the dwarf miners. When the foreman touched the stick to the stone nothing happened. All the dwarves had to try, then. But the stone they had dug out remained dark. One of them put the stick back into Aeron’s hand and urged him to have another go. The stone glowed again, even though it was barely tapped. The dwarf miners gave a growling cheer and then wandered back to wherever they had come from. Their job was done. Zworn took the stone, which weighed what the British could call “twostone” (28 pounds). He tucked it under his arm as if it were a volley ball. Aeron did not need to be told it was time to leave. They did not, however, go back to Bukonita. The Master came back from the ski-resort town of Vatra Dornei before dark. He found the handful of beech wands on the bench, but was surprised not to find Aeron anywhere. Dumitru had no idea where his friend had gone, but Uncle Radu had a hunch. When he and the Master found the door ajar into the abandoned cistern chamber and the vines showing someone had plowed through them, the two elders went back to the village center and waited for shy Melina to bring them a foaming jug and two mugs.

Uncle Daster to the Rescue Mortell Daster scrutinized his nephew suspiciously. The boy was not even of age, yet he was beginning to look like a haggard man four times as old. The boy’s hair had turned prematurely white. Conroys were proud of their auburn hair and bushy sideburns. Carvel’s face was still bare as a baby’s butt. That was the only thing about Carvel that betrayed his real age. His eyes were bloodshot and lack-luster, with black rings that would do an Egyptian Pharaoh proud. It was the tremor at the corners of his eyes and lips and the twitch of 227

his fingers that were most ominous. Carvel had spent his last 15 Sickles taking the Knight Bus from Sheffield to the Leaky Cauldron. Uncle Daster was Carvel’s one hope. Daster was a cranky, shady character with a shop on Knockturn Alley that seemed bare but smelled like chicken feed. There was no visible clue as to what Daster & Son sold, maybe it was chicken feed and they were fresh out except for some ground into the wooden floor boards. However, no respectable chicken farmer would have dared enter Knockturn Alley. Daster was unmarried and had no son. The name had come down from an ancestor who founded the firm in the 1830s. Owing to his status as a shopkeeper, Daster was elite in the family, who clustered at the bottom of the British magical hierarchy. Carvel’s parents were politely called “absent”. Carvel and his surviving brother shared a room in an abandoned warehouse. When Carvel got admitted to Hogwarts and actually went, Daster had a briefly sputtering hope that his sister’s youngest son might amount to something. News that the boy had failed at Hogwarts was disappointing but not unexpected. “Wa’choo hooked on?” Daster demanded. “Nuthin’, Uncle. Honest! Ain’t got no money for Bozo.” The answer made sense, but didn’t tell why Carvel was such a mess. Twenty minutes of relentless interrogation got no better answers. It boiled down to the bare facts that Carvel was desperate and destitute. The twenty minutes he had spent inside the wooden confines of Daster & Son made a huge impact on the boy and the effect was obvious to the old man. Another twenty minutes and he’d be dead. Grabbing his tall, pointed hat and his beaver-skin cape, Daster guided and carried his nephew out of the shop, flipping a “closed” sign in the window as they passed. It took a few minutes for them to stumble back onto Diagon Alley. It seemed even the dank air of Knockturn Alley helped Carvel recover a bit. Daster propelled Carvel toward a shop named Janus Galloglass, but instead of going into it they took a set of recessed stairs up to the second floor. They were admitted into a formerly elegant sitting room where a very old woman was waiting for them. Neither Daster nor the woman seemed glad to be meeting one another. Inside the pre-Victorian house, Carvel began to relapse. He was soon gasping and unable to stand. He landed on a horsehair sofa with oak arms and legs. When he reached for one of the arms, he missed the padded armrest. Grasping the bare wood felt like he had grabbed a red hot poker. He screamed and fainted. 228

The old woman peered into the boy’s vacant eyes rolled back so only the bloodshot whites showed. “He’s been cursed,” she said. “Who done it?” “’E just came to me shop,” Daster said. “’E seemed better outside,” he added. “We gotta get’im to Saint Mungo’s. He ain’t got long.”

Colored Stones Although Aeron developed subterranean sight, he never became oriented enough to have any idea where he was. He couldn’t guess where Zworn was taking him in relation to the mine where the glowing blue stone had been found. He had no notion of the way out back up to Bukonita. There was no time to worry about that. Zworn took a circuitous path from the mine. He later explained that a shortcut would have been dangerous. Aeron was grateful for any consideration his handicaps were given, and he certainly did feel at a disadvantage to the dwarves. Aeron began to appreciate how the Goblins in Gringotts Bank had to adjust in order to merely live in the outer-world. Zworn brought Aeron to the Mill and the Mall in the heart of the Bukonita Dwarfish kingdom. The Mill, was where the dwarves manufactured tools they were famous for, and the Mall was a plaza where their lodgings were. As Aeron heard later from Uncle Radu, Dwarf legends maintained that the little people were once fully at home in the outer-world as well as the under-world. That was before Peple arrived. Once the Peple had developed what they arrogantly called civilization the little people still traded and co-existed with them for a time. Interestingly, the Peple had a taste for the totally impractical crafts the dwarves had developed as decorative arts. Only the witches and wizards appreciated the main dwarfish products. Of course, these witches and wizards at first were thought of as the leaders of the Peple because they could secure and use the dwarves’ weapons and tools. Long after these superior leaders were gone, the dwarves’ legends say, the leaders were thought to have been divine, not mere mortals. They could do powerful things with dwarf tools, everything from slaying monsters to hurling bolts of lightning. For the most part, the mortals’ legends fostered the belief that the divinities’ great successes were due to their being born divine. Dwarves’ contributions were forgotten and appreciation for the dwarves diminished while suspicion and mistrust took hold. 229

The Mill was by far the most amazing underground place Aeron ever saw. It had many chambers, some hot, some freezing cold, some blazing with furnaces going full blast with workers casting metal, and others where dwarves sat hunched over work benches cutting and polishing glittering jewels. In one cluttered chamber Zworn dropped his blue rock with a resounding “clunk” onto a stone table. He and two other dwarves began chipping the magical stone into a Dzumat. Aeron guessed it would take weeks working by hand, but the dwarves had tools that made the job as easy as carving a potato. When they were done they had the makings of a Dzumat with stone left over. The Dzumat “rough” was scoured and refined. Much later, Aeron was allowed to hold the tool for the first time. It was immediately snatched away to be scoured some more. Then it was buffed. Only when it was so perfect that it felt like a part of Aeron’s hand was the blade sharpened. It was sharp enough to dissect a hair before the craftsmen grunted their approval. Aeron had been so intrigued with this effort, he had not noticed the work chamber filling up with dwarves, some of whom wore symbols of high rank and were treated with deference. They said nothing. Their attention was rapt. Zworn moved Aeron to the work bench that had hastily been swept clean of stone chips and dust. A young dwarf even washed it with water. Then Zworn spoke a few English words that sounded like, “Van, dice.” Van meant wand. Aeron never learned what dice was supposed to mean, but Zworn’s hand signals told Aeron to use the new Dzumat to slice his Yggdrasil stick. Aeron was almost paralyzed with dread. Taking his stick in his left hand, he gazed at it with his subterranean vision and was surprised at how clearly he could see his wand embedded inside the stick. His hand “wanted” to have him hold the stick upright with one end firmly on the stone table. That felt right. Then he was to GENTLY lower the blade of the Dzumat onto the top end of the stick to be ready to slice it from end to end. As the Dzumat touched the Yggdrasil stick the stone glowed Prussian blue and the stick turned warm. The dwarves murmured “grr-prr” and grew tense. Aeron patted the back of his hand holding the Dzumat. *POW* The results were deafening in the close quarters. Aeron nearly dropped the precious Dzumat. He stumbled backward and was steadied by Zworn. The dwarves had not stirred. For them the drama was not over. 230

When Aeron regained his composure and focus, he saw the Yggdrasil stick had been severed into three perfect pieces, with one single cut. They were lying on the table. The stick had divided itself as Mother Tree had ordered. Aeron recognized his wand in the raw and picked it up. The dwarf foreman from the mine placed a chunk of stone on the bench and when Aeron touched it with his wand it glistened with an inner fire. The foreman could not get the same reaction with either of the remaining sticks when he tried. Only Aeron holding his wand could ignite the chunk of stone. Still the audience waited. Gingerly, Zworn reached for the two sticks. Holding one in each hand, he touched the stone with the stick in his left hand and it shot out of his grip and landed on the floor. Zworn was shaking as he moved the other stick toward the stone. The whole audience held their breath. They knew what was at stake. Aeron was only just beginning to catch on to the full meaning of the wise phrase “the wand chooses the wizard” when applied to a donation from the World Tree, the Mother of All Trees. Zworn touched the chunk of rock on the table and it ignited within. The dwarves went wild with glee. There was no longer any doubt in Aeron’s mind that Zworn was meant to have a Yggdrasil wand. The World Tree has said so. The whole Dwarf community knew the Tree had promoted them into the ranks of regular magical beings equal to Peple, whether snobs in the outer-world thought so or not. That night they celebrated. Aeron Finchfinder would be remembered in the annals of Dwarfish legends as a courageous champion of Dwarf equality, who, guided by Zworn the Wizard, had given Dwarves in Romania their due. It was only a matter of time, the legends promised, until Dwarves resumed their rightful place as the highest and mightiest. Celebration in the Dwarves’ Mall went on for quite a long time with Dwarves coming and going. Some came from kingdoms as far away as Lithuania and Lebanon. One visiting dwarf stopped in on his way to London. They all wanted to try their hand at Zworn’s magic wand to see if they could make the fire gleam in the dark rock. King Garlant IV entered with a cadre of officials and presented Aeron with a red stone Gromat that would make incisions on any surface, as well as the Dzumat that had been custom made for him. Zworn tucked the chunk of stone in Aeron’s pocket as a souvenir. His Majesty made what was no doubt an eloquent speech. Aeron again wished Uncle Radu had come with them. 231

Then Zworn and he were escorted to the King’s own transporter that looked to Aeron like an over-sized fruit basket. Aeron was allowed to wave good-bye and warned to crouch as low as possible. He and Zworn were very, very soon back among the tangled vines in Bukonita. It was nearly midnight two days after the Master had returned from Vatra Dornei and Aeron and Zworn had gone down the cistern into the underworld. The Master, Uncle Radu and half a dozen Silver-smiths and Crystal-blowers were roasting a pig in the village square when Zworn and Aeron ambled into the circle of firelight. It took a while for Aeron’s eyes to adjust to the glare. Nobody rushed to have them tell where they had been for the last two days and nights. They were handed buns stuffed with roast pork. After two bites, before he lost his nerve, Aeron took out the two Yggdrasil wands, his and the extra. Zworn touched Aeron’s pocket to remind him of the souvenir rock. It looked quite black and unimportant. Aeron tapped the rock with his wand and the stone glistened with inner fire. Zworn got the same results. Then Aeron handed the Master the third wand. When the Master touched the Yggdrasil wand to the stone the mystery of the third wand was solved. The stone gleamed. For the rest of the night Zworn regaled the witches and wizards of Bukonita with an elaborate account of their adventure. Uncle Radu embellished it in translation. But Aeron fell asleep for the first time in nearly three days.

Busy Days Aeron woke up in bed in the Crystal-blowers House. The Master and Dumitru both had news that would not wait. “The Guild will be here on Monday,” the Master announced. “What day is this?” Aeron yawned. “Thursday, nearly suppertime,” Dumitru told him. The Master patiently explained how full the next three days would be. It had been nearly a century since the Guild had last gathered to test an apprentice. The Master thought it was his duty to inspire a little anxiety. Aeron responded appropriately. When the Master departed, it was his friend, Dumitru’s turn to tell him news. 232

It took the Novice Silver-smith a dreadfully long time to go round and round before getting to the point, “Melina and I are going to be engaged.” Strangely, both Aeron and Dumitru needed to wait to see what Aeron’s reaction would be. Aeron wasn’t immediately sure how he felt. He had been infatuated with the shy maiden. He had wondered if he was in love. He had daydreamed romantic scripts for hours. He had come to terms with the reality that in Bukonita the families decide, at least they have the authority to agree or disagree. Aeron would never find out that in this case the families had decided on the marriage of Dumitru and Melina not only because the two had been matched since childhood but also because they wanted to prevent a match between Aeron and Melina which would not work out. Shy Melina was a flower that would wilt in the world beyond the walls of the most protected village in Romania. “What happened down there, uh, it changed … things,” Aeron stammered. He meant he had been changed by his sojourn among the Dwarves. Things had probably not changed. He had just found out what the “things” were. Now his life was changed. His destiny was clearer and very unlike he had imagined it would be. Then Aeron remembered his friend Dumitru was waiting for a response to his announcement that he and Melina were going to be engaged. “That’s wonderful!” Aeron managed to say. “I am happy for you,” he added. “I want to be your best friend at the engagement party. There will be a party, won’t there? When will it be?” Aeron was really getting enthusiastic as he put the picture together in his mind. “We will do it before you leave,” Dumitru said. This stunned Aeron. He hadn’t yet confronted the fact that he would, of course, be leaving very soon. He had to find out what Yggdrasil had in mind for the other stick in his trunk back home and how the stick was doing, grafted to the ash tree at Hogwarts. He had wands to make. “Sunday,” Dumitru said. “We’ll get engaged on Sunday.” “You will need to show the Guild your skill,” the Master informed him. “They will see what you have done, but they will want to see you doing it as well.” The Master laid the Armenian witch’s juniper wand on a flat black pillow on the workbench. Then he laid a snake-shaped beech wood wand Aeron had made beside it. “Finish your ash wood wand,” the Master suggested. “Three’s enough.” There were several other wands Aeron had fashioned for the Guild to look at if they wanted to – and the Master had no doubt they would want to see and handle everything. “You need a raw stick to turn into a wand 233

as they watch. That’ll be your test.” Aeron thought the wand should be impressive, but he did not think he knew how to impress the Guild of Wand Makers. By afternoon he was out of ideas. “I need to go for a walk,” Aeron said. “I’ll go with you,” the Master offered, thinking it might be their last chance to do that. The village hall was empty as Aeron and the Master walked through the back wall of the fireplace out into the bright fall sunshine. Aeron had intended to head for the mountain, but he turned toward the path going down to the river. The two hikers disturbed a flock of geese grazing on the weedy flood plain. Ahead was a grove of willows and brush. A waterfall glistened in the distance. Aeron knew most of the trees in the valley by now, but he had never paid attention to one or two in this grove. The trees were stunted and unspectacular.

PHOTOGRAPH BY ANDREW DOBSON They were walking briskly, Aeron swinging Ygg at his side. Ygg was his nickname for his still unfinished wand. Ygg suddenly lurched, jerking his arm to the side until he was aiming directly at a bush which was not a tree at all. The Master was fascinated. He took his new wand out of his pocket and barely kept hold of it as it, too, swung toward the bush. 234

The Master cautiously reached into the center of the bush and snapped off a foot-long branch about the size of his thumb. Remarkably, this seemed to satisfy Ygg, which went back to being inert. “Here’s your wand.” The Master handed it to Aeron without tearing off any of the twigs or leaves. “How do we know it’s a wand?” Aeron asked. “Do you have any doubt?” Aeron waved the leafy branch back toward the patch of weeds. Nine geese rose gracefully into the air in a cork-screw spiral, protesting riotously. “No doubt,” Aeron said. “Do you know what this means?” the Master asked rhetorically. Aeron thought it was too obvious that it meant he had his demonstration stick to turn into a wand for the Guild. “It means,” the Master continued, “that we have cut centuries off the time it takes to identify wand-wood.” Their walk was just beginning to reveal all the things Yggdrasil had in mind for her gifts to Aeron. “I wonder…” Aeron began and then formed another quest in his mind, the image of a magical box that would temporarily transform valuable items into worthless ones so they could be hidden in plain sight. On the other side of the river was a stand of oak trees. Ygg pulled Aeron’s arm in that direction. “Tarquin the Casket-maker uses trees from there after he has seen the footprints of a three-toed deer,” the Master commented. “Sometimes he has to wait for years.” “One of the trees is ready now,” Aeron replied. Aeron supposed this impressive feature of their wands was because the wood had come from the Mother of Trees. Perhaps only wooden magical sources could be identified this way. To test it, he concentrated on dragon dung. Ygg was unresponsive. When he told the Master his theory, the Master suggested, “Try for Satyr hair.” Ygg pulled them to a clump of thorn berries, and then directly to a tuft of gray and brown hairs caught in the brambles. “Madame Yeva, the Gipsy witch of Siret, will pay for that,” the Master reckoned. “You just have to know what magic you’re looking for,” Aeron figured. The Master was already dizzy thinking of possibilities. “This makes a LOT of difference!” he exclaimed. Throughout the evening and early Sunday morning Aeron patiently shaved hair-size strings from Ygg with the Dzumat and dug saw-dust size chips away 235

with his red stone Gromat, until the stick was a perfect copy of the wand he saw inside the raw stick. The Master mixed pumice and talc and showed Aeron how to polish the wand with this powder and a leather strap. “Don’t breathe that stuff,” he warned. Ygg was not to have an exotic figurehead or flashy gems. It was to resemble nothing fancy, nothing to betray its awesome heritage. On Sunday afternoon the clans of Crystal-blowers and Silver-smiths (with a lot of other villagers) gathered in the Great Hall. Shy Melina and her sister stood in front of the Crystal-blowers. The girls were dressed in colorful Romanian peasant dresses. Aeron and Dumitru stood awkwardly in front of the Silver-smiths, while a petitor (match-maker) for each clan went on rather too long about the qualities of their candidates. Finally, gifts were promised as had already been agreed upon and the couple was instructed about the importance of abstinence until marriage a year hence. The engagement was sealed by a form of unbreakable vow. The engagement dinner was still going on when the first two members of the Guild popped into the village square from the hunter’s cabin in the Forest of Slatioara. Altogether, four master wand makers gathered. On Sunday evening the Master from Mongolia, who came farthest, arrived first along with the Master from Haiti, away from home, she said, for the first time in 139 years. “Wouldn’t miss this!” she added enthusiastically. Abdul, the Master’s closest colleague, arrived early on Monday. The Master made four. It was enough. They were about to begin when Zworn came into the shop. The three guests gave their host a what’s-he-doing-here look. But both the Master and Aeron greeted the Dwarf cordially. “There will be two demonstrations,” the Master explained, by way of getting underway. “First the Novice will show his skills as a wand maker by making a wand from this branch he has found.” The three judges, as they thought of themselves, strained to see the branch with withered leaves on the work bench. They were skeptical. None of them recognized that type of branch as ever being good for anything magical. After a nod from the Master, Aeron grasped his Dzumat confidently. In less than a dozen deft strokes he had stripped the stick clean of twigs, leaves, and bark. This last was untraditional. Custom said bark was to be polished away, not cut or peeled. The wand inside the stick needed very little shaping, but Aeron subjected it to a series of complex Celtic inscriptions with his Gromat. The inscriber worked as effortlessly as a Muggle dentist’s drill, although very 236

much quieter. Almost as soon as he could roll the wand along the bench he had the vine pattern etched. Three rolls down and back, and he was done. For good measure he bonded silver foil onto the surface, melting it in place with magic fire from Ygg. The three judges revised their skeptical judgment of the Novice when Ygg blasted the extraneous foil into smithereens. The wand was finished. It looked elegant. Both to test the new wand and to show his Hogwarts background, Aeron waved the wand and called out, Expecto Patronum. A silver unicorn bounded from the end of the wand and galloped around the air in the shop before disappearing. Aeron laid the silver-plated wand and Ygg onto the flat pillow beside the juniper and snake-shaped wands. His first demonstration was over. The Guild adjourned for lunch in the main dining room of the Crystal-blowers house. At long last, the witch from Armenia arrived in the village center next to the steaming fountain. She had been to Bukonita only once, to order her wand. She had been chosen by the juniper stick from which Aeron had extracted four raw wands. The one for the witch had been finished without her having seen it or having had a chance to comment on it. Aeron, the Master, Zworn, and the other Guild members waited for her estimation of the Novice’s craftsmanship. For a long time she stared at the wand. Her expression was impossible to read. Then she s l o w l y extended her open hand toward the wands laying on the flat black pillow. As if drawn by strong magnetic pull, the juniper wand sprang into her hand. The wand recognized its witch. It zapped static and an exuberant fluorescent burp. “Tell the Guild about making this wand,” the Master coached his Novice. “Leave nothing out.” What was this about, Aeron wondered. The Guild had seen him make a wand. Aeron decided this recitation was in place of a written exam, but the Master had something else in mind. Aeron finished retelling how he had seen the wand hidden in the juniper log, seen that it was to be removed using a green stone A Woomat and his Yggdrasil stick, and seen what the finished wand would look like to stir Armenian potions most successfully. Aeron did not realize that nowhere in the world were magic wands produced in that way. Every single thing Aeron did had never been done quite that way before. No other witch or wizard in the Guild except the Master owned an A Woomat or any other Dwarfish stone carving knife. Aeron had two. The news that Aeron’s wand was from mythic Yggdrasil was astounding. But most immediately impressive was the news that Aeron 237

had “seen” those things. The three Guild members from afar drifted off to the side and put their heads together. The Master let them go. He winked conspiratorially at Aeron. Folks from Bukonita could no longer contain their curiosity. They began to fill the town square. Everyone in Bukonita knew this was the Novice’s exam. They were crafts people. They knew how this worked. For a moment, a Novice’s whole life hung by a thread. Very few were given a second chance to pass from apprentice to journeyman. Only three in Bukonita had gone on in old age to be recognized as masters. Novices that did not pass, stayed as laborers the rest of their days. In Bukonita that was not a disgrace. Nor was it an honor. There was always hope for their children, or grandchildren. In any case they lived in the family house and undertook crafts happily, for they were in Bukonita, the best place in the world. While the three judges discussed their foregone conclusion, Zworn told Uncle Radu he had an announcement. Uncle Radu did not know how to get the crowd to pay attention. Aeron saw the problem and touched Ygg to Uncle Radu’s throat and said, Sonorus. When Uncle Radu next said, “Attention, please,” the sound of his voice filled every crevice of Bukonita. Zworn spoke and Radu translated. “I am here in behalf of King Garlant the Fourth. The Council of The Wise and Wondrous of the Kingdom of Dwarfish Bukonita has decided to bestow on Illustrious Aeron Finchfinder a Star of Honor.” None of this made sense to the folks of Bukonita but they recognized the word King as meaning Aeron was getting something royal. It turned out to be a red jewel with a glittering seven-pointed star inside, mounted on a gold disc as big around as a tea cup, hanging on a rope-shaped gold chain. “Little people the world over will recognize this symbol of honor and will be duty-bound to help you however they can,” Zworn said. Then in a whisper he added, “And it makes you an honorary dwarf.” Abdul had been chosen to speak for the Guild. He was in the habit of long, loquacious, flowery speeches, but this time he restrained himself. “The Guild of Master Wand Makers is pleased to welcome Master Aeron into the Guild.” The people of Bukonita clapped and began to usher Aeron to the feast they had prepared. The Master, however, was stunned. “Into the Guild,” he stammered, “as a master and barely of age to perform magic in England! Will the wand makers accept him?” Abdul patted the Master on the shoulder. “Calm yourself. The wand 238

makers will recognize magic when they see it coming out of the wands Master Aeron produces.”

St. Mungo’s St. Mungo Healer Maxiba Jorst mistakenly believed that Carvel Conroy’s older brother, Sinister, really cared whether Carvel recovered or not. Actually, he was hoping to be shed of the little creep. He didn’t feel this very passionately because the two brothers rarely crossed paths even though they shared a room in an abandoned warehouse in Sheffield. But Sinister felt put upon to even look in on him in the hospital Uncle Daster had demanded Sinister come to London if he didn’t want to repeat what had happened to his twin, Dexter. No, Sinister did not want that. “We’ve had to isolate him in a glass box,” Maxiba explained. “He’s either been cursed or he’s allergic to something and we do not yet know what it is.” Sinister gravitated toward the “cursed” theory. No Conroy that he knew of had avoided being cursed at least once. Dexter worst of all. “Bring us everything he owns,” the Healer ordered. “We need every last stick and stitch to test. Something is killing him but doing it slowly.” Sinister didn’t like being ordered to do anything, but this job wouldn’t take long and he favored the idea of having their dilapidated room back for himself. Carvel had very little stuff, except the clothes he’d been wearing when Uncle Daster and Granny Og had brought him to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Carvel had been admitted to the fourth floor marked, “SPELL DAMAGE – unliftable jinxes, hexes, and incorrectly applied charms.” Within an hour Carvel had been put into an EIU with a warning sign that read, “Extreme Isolation Unit” and tags that added, “Nothing by mouth,” “Nothing at all by any other opening either,” and “Use extreme caution”. For simplicity’s sake, Sinister swept under Carvel’s cot and wrapped all the dust, clutter, rat droppings, dead roaches, two rotten socks and a foot-long stick the size of a broom handle, into the moldy sheet Carvel had slept on, and sent the bundle COD by Knights Bus to St. Mungos.

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Farewell On Tuesday morning Quintillus Edward Dean, whom everyone in his family called Eddie and everyone else called Dean, Apparated back to Bukonita full of apologies. “I am so sorry,” he vowed. “I couldn’t make it in time for your big day.” Dean assumed the big day was all about the test which he guessed Aeron had passed. This was confirmed by the evidence of a party that had apparently gone on too late for a clean-up. Aeron nodded and welcomed his sponsor. Dean was in for one surprise after another. First, when Melina came with two mugs of tea, Aeron introduced her as Dumitru’s fiancée. Dean tried to look congratulatory but actually looked puzzled. He did not know who Dumitru was, but knew he was not Aeron. Things clearly hadn’t worked out as they seemed they might, early on. The second surprise was that Bukonita would not hear of Aeron leaving that day. They needed at least another day to get ready. It was a clue that Aeron had won the community’s favor, which might help soften the blow Dean was expecting to hit Aeron. The third surprise came from the Master, whom Dean insisted on calling either Lucretius or Romanescu. “The boy was voted into the Guild,” the Master announced, clearly not over his elation and amazement. “The Guild?” Dean persisted. “The Wand Makers Guild,” the Master explained. “What other guild would a wand maker be in?” “Of course,” Dean tried to recover. And then it hit him. “Aeron was voted into the Wand Makers Guild! Never …” “Never in 2000 years,” the Master finished the sentence. “The youngest …” Dean stammered. “The youngest in 2000 years.” “Egad! He must have been impressive,” Dean gasped, even sorrier he had not gotten back in time. He had been trying, fruitlessly, to bring good news. He had no good news. But wait, if Aeron was a Master Wand Maker it might change everything. Dean and the Master had been talking as if Aeron were not sitting right there. Dean turned to him, “Where would you like to go next?” “Home,” Aeron replied. “I need to unpack my trunk. And then I guess I look for a job.” The Master glared at Dean, “You said the Ministry was looking for some240

one to replace Ollivander. Here he is.” “Yes, well there is a problem now,” Dean confessed. “The wand makers of Diagon Alley are certain they can meet the demand for wands for new Hogwarts students. Very few witches and wizards will need a replacement wand. Ahem, there are no job openings.” The master looked at Dean scathingly. Both Dean and the Master knew most of the wands being made after Ollivander and Gregorovich were killed were inferior. The Master quoted Master Abdul’s advice, “The witches and wizards of Britain will recognize magic when they see it coming out of the wands Master Aeron produces.” Aeron muttered, “The Little People will be our customers.” Dean looked as if he had not heard. That look faded and was replaced by a look of horror. “It will never be allowed! It would bring on a new war! The Ministry will have anyone in Azkaban who breaks the embargo!” Each protest was an octave higher and 20 decibels louder. “You’ll be killed!” “No,” Aeron and the Master declared in unison. “You will have to stay here,” Dean decided. “He’d be welcome,” the Master hummed. “No,” Aeron said. “Yggdrasil has things for me to do.” “Merlin’s beard!” Dean swore, “You’ve become a pagan.” Compared to Monday night’s festivities the dinner and ceremony on Tuesday night were sedate and subdued. Aeron Finchfinder had become a Bukonita son. Every house presented him a going-away gift. The Potion-maker clan had a packet of rare and powerful herbs and seeds. Aeron guessed that Neville Longbottom would treasure those seeds. The Silver-smiths had worked all night to finish a silver basin that could do all the things Professor Trelawney could not do; ask it anything, as long as the question was clear and precise. “Be Clear and Precise” was the main lesson that Aeron took with him from his weeks in Bukonita. Dumitru handed Aeron a medal inscribed with glyphs that Dumitru insisted would send messages to its twin which he would wear almost constantly. From his own Crystal-blower house the Master’s wife presented Aeron with a cut-glass chalice that would fill with the choicest Romanian vintage at his command. By the time they were done, the gifts were more than Dean and Aeron could carry. “I will bring the rest,” Dumitru promised. Last was the Master. He stood up empty-handed. “Master Aeron,” he began as the crowd hushed, “in the Forest of Slatioara are two trees no one 241

has ever been able to approach. There are only two of their kind in the world. They stand side by side. Once every 99 years they flower and produce one nut which drops to the ground beneath them. They have never permitted a sapling to survive. Their next nut is due one year from tomorrow. In the name of their mother Yggdrasil,” the Master waved his wand, “I will request that nut for you.” Stories about the two trees were part of the Bukonita story cycle told to children to warn them about dangers in the magical universe. At dawn the next morning, armed with fortifying herbal tea, Aeron and Dean Apparated to the hunter’s cabin, on to Zurich, and then to Attlee Castle.

Ranklin and Sarun Solve the Crime Attlee Castle is the permanent home of Professor Virgil Verbal. Aeron had taken a couple of his courses at Hogwarts and enjoyed them, for the most part. By the end of Advanced Enchantment, Aeron was beginning to see how untraditional Prof. Verbal was. Verbal never became obsessive about it, but he was a strong advocate of Elf rights. This was reiterated from the moment Aeron and Dean rang the bell at the castle gate. They were met by Ranklin, the loyal house Elf of Attlee Castle, not wearing the traditional servant’s rags, but on this occasion wearing nothing at all except a thick coat of hair. Ranklin bowed and Aeron automatically bowed in return, causing his red Dwarfish pendant to fall out of his shirt and dangle right in front of Ranklin’s bulging eyes. “Welcome,” Ranklin growled. “Master Virgil is at Hogwarts as the school term is underway. He sends his greetings and welcomes you to stay here as long as you are able.” “Thank you, Ranklin,” Dean replied. “We will intrude on your hospitality only long enough to make longer-term arrangements.” Ranklin stepped aside and swept his hand toward the interior. “I was expecting you. I hope an English lunch will be acceptable.” Aeron had forgotten to factor in the time difference between Romania and England. Even though they had paused to recover between each leg of the trip, they had made it in time for lunch. When lunch was over Dean said, “Be honest. Would you rather stay here 242

or at your home?” Aeron needn’t think about this, “Here. But I need to go home as soon as we can to get the other part of the stick from Yggdrasil.” “Yes,” Dean said, “I left it in your trunk and had it sent to your father’s house.” “I wonder what she has in mind for it,” Aeron said. The Finchfinder home on Prestone Drive looked deserted. Aeron doubted his father had been there at any time. What could be so fascinating about invisible inscriptions on temple cobblestones? Dean was surprised that the front door could be opened by a simple Alohamora charm. “Your father is a wizard, isn’t he?” Dean asked. “Yes,” Aeron answered. “He tries to ignore that.” The second the door was opened a Maltese streak flashed between their legs. Sarun was making a break for it. Aeron called after him, but Sarun was gone. “Cripes!” Aeron complained. “Now we’ll have to wait for him to come back.” Aeron’s trunk was right inside the front door where it had been deposited when Dean sent it. Aeron’s remaining clothes were in a jumble on top with his school books and supplies. The bottom layer was the unbreakable things – where the third section of the Yggdrasil stick was supposed to be. But it wasn’t there. Aeron became frantic. Item by item he threw everything out onto the floor. Last to fly were a pair of trainers and Qidditch socks. The trunk was empty. Dean was flabbergasted. “I saw it there. I left it there,” he stammered. “I took one and left the other! I swear!” Aeron flung himself down on the couch. Who could have done this? Not his father. His father never touched Aeron’s things – nor did he touch Aeron himself, for that matter. Not the neighbor who had a key to the back porch to feed the cat and change the litter box, but could not get into the house. Nobody. Dean was looking around. “Anything else missing?” The house had museum-quality treasures and even a few magical items from the Alchemy Cult of Prague, along with Wilburt’s collections of ancient cobblestones and 19th century matchboxes. Nothing had been touched. Aeron’s search of the house was interrupted by Sarun wanting back in. The cat behaved very strangely. He jumped into the empty trunk and meowed; 243

then he jumped out and looked expectantly at Aeron. Twice more he did this, pacing four steps to the door and back. Finally, the cat gave up and gave Aeron a narrow-eyed, disgusted look. Dean was ordering his owl to come to Attlee Castle while Sarun and Aeron were failing to communicate. They never got along very well, Sarun and Aeron, even though the cat had been his pet at Hogwarts for four years. “I think being alone too much is not good for him,” Aeron said at last. “I wonder if Ranklin likes cats.” “We should try to avoid showing up right at meal time,” Dean commented as they popped onto the drive at Attlee Castle a couple of hours later. Ranklin glanced at Sarun and said nothing, but as the Elf ambled toward the kitchen the cat followed him as if he were right at home. Dean’s owl, Potemkin, was waiting for them in the solarium which had vents open since the autumn afternoon had been unusually warm. Dean greeted Potemkin fondly and apologized for sending him off to the Ministry with a message for the Aurors. Potemkin had just flown out through the roof when Ranklin came in wiping his hands on his chef ’s apron. Sarun padded after him. “Sarun has informed me of a theft at your house,” Ranklin announced without preface. “He believes the thief was a Hogwarts student because his clothing bore familiar traces of the school dungeons. The thief took just one item, a stick from your trunk.” Ranklin paused to let this message sink in and see if there was to be a response. When there was none, he asked, “Shall I serve tea here?” Aeron managed to nod. “Elves never cease to amaze me,” Dean confessed. Now with two good reasons to visit Hogwarts, Dean called for a ministry owl to inform Virgil, Neville, and the Headmistress that they were coming. Aeron glanced at a calendar on the wall and shrieked, “We’ll be at Hogwarts on Halloween!” “Much as I hate Apparating, I’ve been doing a lot of it,” Dean retorted. After a night in the tower room that had imprisoned the Viking raider Harald the Horrible, there were two owls waiting for them in the breakfast room of the Attlee wing. Potemkin brought word that Auror Ronald Weasley would be assigned to the case. “He’s the husband of the Minister of Magic,” Dean commented. Aeron and every other witch and wizard born in the last seventy years knew that. The other owl brought an invitation from the Head244

mistress of Hogwarts, “Use the Floo Network. Just say, ‘McGonagall’s Office’ and I’ll be waiting for you at ten a.m.” “What a shame,” Aeron teased. “No pull through the guts of the universe and steep uphill hike from quaint Hogsmeade.” In addition to Prof. McGonagall, Professors Verbal and Longbottom were also waiting for them in the Headmistress’s office at the top of the tower with the spiral escalator. “What brings you here?” McGonagall asked as soon as greetings had been expressed. She wanted to delay the usual exchange of recent personal histories which she had no doubt would be extensive. Dean looked at Aeron and then said, “Master Aeron has errands here.” “Master,” Neville repeated, being first to catch on. “Congratulations.” “Another plaudit for Hogwarts,” Virgil added. “What have you mastered, Aeron?” McGonagall asked, using his given name for the first time. “Wand making,” Aeron replied. “I suppose you would like to see how the ash tree graft is coming along. You’ll be amazed,” Neville said. McGonagall glanced at a sundial outside her window. “Lunch is light, but you’ll stay for the Halloween feast, of course,” she said matter-of-factly. McGonagall rarely wasted time discussing certainties. Sensing they were about to leave, Dean said, “A second errand bringing us here is to inquire if there might be a Slytherin student who has recently acquired a stick or wand of extraordinary power.” Virgil looked shocked as he might if Dean had asked if anyone had been seen butchering a Hippogriff. McGonagall was more sanguine. “Lost one, have you?” Aeron responded, “Yes, one is missing.” Neville guessed what it was, but he swallowed hard rather than exclaim, “Not the Yggdrasil stick!” After lunch Dean and Virgil began discussing the problem presented by the refusal of the wand merchants on Diagon Alley to accept Aeron. At the same time, Aeron and Neville went for a walk to look at the ash tree with the graft. The tree was easy to spot. It was the only tree not shedding leaves. The grafted foot-long stick was now three times as long in just five months and there were three sworls of three stems each sticking out with new leaves despite the season. 245

“It looks busy making wands,” Aeron quipped. “Whippy, good for charms,” Neville laughed. “Now, what about the other stick?” Aeron told what he knew. When he’d finished his rather short recitation Neville echoed Dean’s comment, “Elves never cease to amaze me.” “We hardly know anything about the Little People except the wars we’ve waged against them,” Aeron said. “The Minister was a champion of Elf liberation in her years here,” Neville remembered. “The Elves were pretty firmly lined up against her. That’s changed since the Battle.” Neville waved toward the castle on the hilltop towering above, still showing battle scars to those who knew where to look. Aeron steered the conversation back to the missing stick. “I wonder which Slytherin student the cat saw?” Neville had no idea but he said, “Every house has produced heroes and great leaders, but it certainly is easier to name Slytherin’s scoundrels.” Verbal and Dean had not come to an agreement about how to get Aeron established on Diagon Alley. After a few minutes listening to them, back in Virgil’s third floor quarters, Neville suggested, “Why not start out at Astorwold?” “No customers come all the way out there,” Dean said. “Half the shops on Diagon Alley are customers of A-Brand products,” Neville argued. “Robin and I were in Huffelpuff,” Aeron added. By then it was time to join the fun in the Great Hall. The smell of pumpkins baking in the kitchens below was intoxicating even in Virgil’s apartment. The hall was full of students having a great time. Hagrid had grown another gigantic pumpkin which he had carved into a grinning jack-o-lantern with three teeth. Some thought it looked a lot like Hagrid without the beard. Medium-size pumpkins carved with fanciful faces floated overhead. A guest table had been set up just below the head table. The Hogwarts ghosts were putting on a skit they hoped would terrify the crowd but succeeded in entertaining them, while the guests were being seated. The sumptuous meal got underway almost immediately. About midway through the courses a student stalked over to the guest table and glared at Aeron. “I know you,” she snarled. “You’re that kid who brought the sticks back from Norway. Where’s my boyfriend?” she demanded. “What happened to Carvel?” 246

Aeron was about to protest that he didn’t know Carvel or anything about him, when the student got scared, realizing she had said way too much. Without another word she hurried away and left the Great Hall. Dean watched her leave and whispered to Aeron, “Now we have more to go on.” Wanelda’s hysterical message sent to Sinister was illegible but he was able to gather from it that “the boy who got stix from No-way” was back at Hogwarts. Sinister was not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but he got the point that he’d been hasty to send the stick from under Carvel’s cot to St. Mungo’s. He was first in line when visiting hours began the next day. Carvel was holding his own in the glass box which had been enchanted to prevent any influences from reaching him. It took only a moment for Sinister to locate his brother’s locker. All that was inside were his clothes and the moldy sheet now freshly laundered, and the stick. The healers had not thought dead cockroaches and rat poo were sanitary for a hospital and had thrown almost everything away. Unconscious as he was, Carvel began to breathe easier the moment Sinister touched the stick, and he was beginning to stir by the time the older brother was emerging through the dirty plate glass window of the empty department store that hid St. Mungos from Muggle eyes. By evening Carvel was awake and demanding food. Sinister, however, was just beginning to wish he had never been born.

Gringotts Bank and the Ministry of Magic November 2 dawned with skies overcast but no precipitation was predicted according to the BBC. “That means we can expect rain, sleet and snow,” Dean said. Ranklin suggested they let Gerald take them to London by limousine. “First I need to go to Gringotts,” Aeron suggested. “I have too much expensive stuff lying around.” He was planning on trying to get a small vault to keep his most valuable items, except Ygg … and the silver medallion from Dumitru. He was unsure what to do with the Star of Honor. Maybe he should wear it. Quintillus Dean was recognized as a Ministry Official by the Goblin at 247

the front door of the bank. He eyed Aeron’s leather sack suspiciously, but let them enter without examining its contents. There were several customers but many free Goblins sitting on tall stools busy at this and that. Aeron was escorted to a desk with a brass plaque signifying “New Accounts”. The Goblin performed his chore perfunctorily, rather bored, by the looks of it. He took Aeron’s name and inscribed it in a ledger. Aeron Farley Finchfinder. Type of account: “smallest vault available”. Identifying wand …. That’s when matters began to become interesting. Aeron handed Ygg to the Goblin who juggled it like a hot potato before hurriedly handing it back. Things came to a stand-still in the bank when the Goblin wanted to itemize things being deposited. Aeron decided to ask if he should deposit the Star of Honor jewel with the seven-pointed star imbedded inside. It was dangling on its gold rope around his neck where Zworn had hung it when bestowing the medal in the name of King Garlant IV. As Aeron pulled the chain from inside his shirt the Goblin gasped. His reaction attracted the attention of clerks on either side. They both moved like zombies under a spell, slowly getting off their stools to shamelessly gawk at the medal. Several clerks abandoned what they were doing and one even stood on his counter to get a better view. A dignified looking Goblin tried to appear composed as he hurried to Aeron and said, “Please accompany me.” Every eye followed Aeron as if he were being led out of the Great Hall in Hogwarts to be disciplined in Filch’s dungeon and then expelled. There was dead quiet. Dean was being ignored and not included in the invitation to follow the bank Manager to the inner regions of the bank, but he wasn’t going to let his young protégé out of his sight. Behind the large main room was another room with Goblins at work on piles of jewels, coins and treasure. All stopped as the manager marched straight through with Aeron looking at the floor and Dean swiveling his head in every direction taking in the rare sights. Three imposing doors stood shut behind the big inner work room. The Manager marched up to the center one and rapped once, softly. The door opened of its own accord. The Manager entered first but when Aeron hesitated he extended his hand invitingly. Dean hustled close behind in case the door should decide to shut quickly. When Aeron looked up he found himself several meters away from the most massive desk he had ever seen. It had a surface the size of the drawbridge at Attlee Castle, Aeron thought, but it 248

was about the height of a coffee table. Behind the desk was what could best be described as a throne. Coming around the desk was no doubt the most important Goblin in Gringotts Bank. He wore an old-fashioned pair of spectacles pinched onto the bridge of his tremendous nose. His face betrayed no emotion at all. His attention was riveted on the gleaming Star of Honor now hanging on the outside of Aeron’s shirt. The manager handed President J.F.R. Gringotts a small card. Glancing at the card the President said quietly, “Mister Finchfinder, how did you acquire that jewel?” His tone of voice expressed curiosity more than accusation but Aeron assumed some consequences were riding on his answer. Aeron had no notion whether Dwarves in Romania and Goblins in Britain honored the same values or even knew about one another. Chairs had been put into a circle with a little table in the middle. The President, the Manager, Dean and Aeron were seated. A clerk stood behind holding a quill and pad of parchment. “It was presented to me by His Majesty King Garlant,” Aeron said rather softly. He was not sure how to identify the kingdom over which King Garlant IV ruled. The President did not indicate he needed any more information about the medal, although he could scarcely take his eyes off it. Forcing himself to move on to business at hand, the President said, “Illustrious Aeron, what other items would you be depositing into our care?” Dean was startled. He wanted to ask, “What on earth is going on here?” But he bit his tongue and held his peace. Aeron opened his leather sack and took out the blue stone Dzumat and the red stone Gromat. Even in the well-lighted room the Dzumat looked almost black although its razor-sharp blade glittered dangerously. The Gromat was deep maroon color with an inner luster. The President nodded to the Manager who took a magnifier out of his breast pocket and asked to look more closely at the Gromat. For several moments he resembled Louis Pasteur pondering bacteria with a microscope. The Manager slowly lifted his head and removed his ocular. He glanced meaningfully at the President. The other contents of Aeron’s sack were of little interest to the bank officials although the clerk busily recorded them on his pad. As an afterthought Aeron included the chunk of stone Zworn had stuck in his pocket as a souvenir. In daylight the rock had a quite different appearance than Aeron had remembered. He had thought it was just a chunk of the rock from which the Dzumat had been cut, but it was obviously an entirely different type of stone. 249

The President and Manager both sat back in their chairs as they gazed at the collection. After a moment the Manager blinked himself back into the present. “Our clerk in New Accounts had trouble identifying your wand. Perhaps you would be so kind as to describe it for the record.” Aeron did not know where to begin. “I call it Ygg,” he said. “Yig,” the Manager repeated. “Would you spell it for our secretary?” “Well, I suppose the whole name would be Y-G-G-D-R-A-S-I-L.” He had not gotten all the way to the end of his spelling before the bank officials were looking at each other. The President felt he had to confirm the implication of that name. “Would you touch your wand to the stone in your hand?” Aeron laid the stone on the small table with the other items he wanted to consider depositing. Then he pulled Ygg out of his sleeve where he kept it and touched the rock. It appeared to ignite deep within. Its surface glowed but inside there were fireworks flickering and flashing as if the heart of the stone were alive with magic fire. The President took a deep breath. “Illustrious Aeron Finchfinder, may I suggest one of our higher security vaults for your deposits?” “Sir,” Aeron gulped, “I cannot afford an expensive vault.” The President waved this objection aside. “We would be honored.” The interview was over but the Manager himself went with Aeron and Dean on the long ride to the deepest recesses of Gringotts. At the end of the cart ride they walked past a cavern where heavy chains lay abandoned. The Goblins had not replaced their dragon, but trusted other security measures. On the far wall were a number of wooden doors. The Manager chose a small one and when he pressed his hand on it, it melted away revealing a room about the size of a bathroom. “If anyone besides a Goblin were to try that,” the Manager warned, “they would be drawn inside with no escape.” After a moment he added, “I do not think your status as an honorary dwarf would enable you to enter your vault unassisted. You may make your deposit now.” “Shall I leave this here, too?” Aeron asked, dangling the Star of Honor by its golden rope chain. “I highly recommend it,” the Manager replied. “Your rank is now on record with the bank. It will not matter, I suspect, among Peple.” The manager enunciated the word people as Uncle Radu had done in translating Zworn’s recitation of the Dwarves’ legend. “Most of all,” the Manager said, “I recommend leaving your ‘Eye of Lorin’ here until you need it – until you realize its potential, I might add.” Aeron dismissed his temptation to be offended. It was true he did not 250

know until this minute the stone “souvenir” even had a name and could not tell one thing about it except that it glowed with inner fire confirming the rightful ones to wield Yggdrasil wands. There were many things he would like the Manager to tell him, but standing in the deepest recess of Gringotts Wizarding Bank was not the right time. Quint Dean felt he had been patient, but, “We need to talk,” he said as they were leaving the bank. For all of his honor and treasure Aeron was Knutless. All he had were a few English pounds he had picked up at home. His dependence on others was beginning to bother him. He would like to at least look around Diagon Alley, but without funds he didn’t want to torture himself. Dean wanted to keep Aeron out of sight of any of the wand venders. So they quickly came back to the Leaky Cauldron. It was lunch time but toothless Tom was not busy and the pub-grub smelled good. “Let’s eat,” Dean said. Dean didn’t wait long before having the talk he thought they needed to have. “Before we go to the Ministry, please tell me what I’m missing about you and the Goblins.” “What do you want to know that I haven’t told you?” Aeron retorted. “I only know you plan to sell forbidden wands to the ‘Little People’ you call them. Now they’re calling you Illustrious and giving you VIP treatment at the bank.” “I didn’t ask for that,” Aeron barked. “But you took it calmly as if you weren’t surprised by it.” “I was surprised and I am in the dark. I don’t know what they meant by calling that stone an Eye of Lorin, or anything.” “Have you or have you not made deals with the Dwarves?” Dean demanded. “I don’t like your tone of voice,” Aeron snapped. “Aeron, we are going to the office of the Aurors. They investigate crimes like breaking the law.” “I have made no deals. I have nothing to deal with.” “Don’t be funny. You have the wand of wonders. You are a Wand Master. In a week you’ll have wands worth more Galleons than I have ever held. What are you going to do with them?” “I thought I was going to sell them from a shop on Diagon Alley, but…” “But you can’t. OK. Let’s not argue. The future is still before you. What we need to do now is try to trace the missing stick.” 251

“And see what the Tree wants me to do with it,” Aeron added stubbornly. Dean sighed. “Look,” he said after a long pause, “I got you into this by taking you to Bukonita to learn wand making. The Ministry is concerned with the quality of wands. They sent me to find a Master-mentor or to recruit one to come here. You can have a great future. The field is wide open. You’ll swamp the competition. They’re afraid of you. That’s why they won’t give you a job that’ll get your foot into Diagon Alley. So we’ll use the back door.” “Through Astorwold,” Aeron said. “Correct. First we solve the mystery of the missing stick, and then we get you working.” “As the Tree tells me what to do,” Aeron said, petulantly. “Have it your way. You’ll do as you are told what to do’.” To signal a truce with his sincere helper, Aeron said, “Let me tell you something I have never told anyone. When I decided to try to find a bridge connecting Earth to Middle-Earth, getting a wand was only one of my reasons. The main reasons were to know how we are connected and what dimensions we live in. I wanted to know where we came from because how else can we know where we’re heading? I thought that if I could bring back a wand from the other realm I would know these things. But I found out that will be only the beginning.” Dean was dumbfounded. The longer he knew Aeron the less he understood him. Auror Weasley was all business after greeting Quint Dean and Aeron. “Let’s review,” Ron said. “You, Aeron Finchfinder, accompanied by Niels Carlsson of Norway brought a stick back from the World Tree. That stick was cut into three sections. One section was grafted by Neville Longbottom onto an ash tree at Hogwarts. The second section was taken to Romania by you and divided into three wands which are accounted for.” Aeron noticed that no mention was made of the fact that one of the wands was given to a Dwarf. “The third section has gone missing and is presumed stolen. The alleged theft was witnessed by a cat belonging to you. The cat has told the Attlee Castle house elf that the thief smelled of the dungeons of Hogwarts and may therefore be or may have been a Slytherin student. Do you have anything to add?” Aeron spoke first, “On Halloween night a student accused me of being involved in the disappearance of her boyfriend.” “Carvel Conroy,” Dean added. “Yes,” Aeron said. “I don’t remember Carvel. He would have been a firstyear when I was a seventh-year. The girl mentioned my coming back from 252

Norway with the sticks.” “Then she ran out of the Halloween feast,” Dean said. Ron stopped writing. “Carvel Conroy,” he said. “Wonder how you spell it.” Dean wrote it for him. Within an hour the report came back. “Carvel Conroy is a patient at St. Mungo’s, fourth floor, recovering from an unknown curse, allergy, or poison.” “Well, let’s go to St. Mungo’s,” Ron said, catching up to Dean in his office of Assistant to the Associate Undersecretary of the Minister of Magic. Aeron had just been pelted by a paper bird with the message, “The Minister would like to have you visit her in her office at your convenience in the very near future. Please make an appointment” etc. Aeron showed the message to Ron. “Hermione will wait,” he said. “We don’t want Carvel to get away from us.” Carvel was sitting up in a bed in the fourth floor ward eating his third meal of the day after being deprived of food in the glass box. “Ron Weasley, Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Ron introduced himself. Carvel looked up, mouth open, potatoes dripping. “You’re Ron Weasley,” he exclaimed. “Yes, I am and you’re Carvel Conroy. Glad we have that straight. We’re here investigating a theft.” Carvel looked at Aeron and blanched. “You’re Aeron of Huffelpuff.” “Yes,” Aeron admitted. Ron said, “You have a real gift for names, don’t you Carvel. How’s your memory of events? Do you remember entering a house on Prestone Drive and taking a stick from a trunk inside the front door? Uh, uh, no, no! Before you answer, we have a witness.” “There was nobody there!” Carvel blurted out without thinking. Well, that makes it easier for us. Just one more question for the moment. Make things easier for yourself. Where is the stick?” “It was junk,” Carvel sneered. “Wouldn’t do a thing. Wouldn’t even burn.” “You tried to burn it?” Aeron gasped. “Wouldn’t, would it! I threw it out.” “Now be very careful what you say,” Ron warned, “or Azkaban may be your next address. Where. Did. You. Throw. It?” “Under me bed.” 253

Healer Maxiba Jorst came in just then to check on her patient and tell him he could go home. She heard a bit of what Ron and Carvel said. “Your brother sent everything from your bed for us to check, and I do mean everything.” “Was there a stick, about this long,” Aeron held his hands a foot apart. “There was. It’s all in the patient’s locker.” Ron went to the locker and dumped the contents on the foot of Carvel’s bed. There was no stick. Carvel smirked. “We examined the stick and it didn’t do anything. It acted like a stick,” Maxiba insisted. “The wand chooses the wizard,” Aeron muttered, becoming aware that wands from Yggdrasil could choose not to behave at all, in the wrong hands. “Looks like a dead end,” Ron said, “but we need to find your brother. What’s his name?” Carvel was staring at the ward door where assistant healers were wheeling a new patient. “Sinister!” Carvel cried, trying to get out of bed. Ron bound Carvel to the bed with a full body hex. “Don’t go anywhere while my back is turned,” Ron said. Maxiba was frantically working on Sinister. “We couldn’t decide whether to bring him here or second floor,” the rescuer said. Ron remembered the second floor was where his father had been treated for bites from Lord Voldermort’s snake. “When we got to him he was being beaten to a pulp by two tree limbs,” one of the rescue team said to the Healer. “Who was controlling the tree branches?” Maxiba asked while she was ordering emergency equipment, “stat”. The word “immediately” worked faster in St. Mungo’s than it did in the Muggle General Hospital down the street. The equipment was rattling to rest beside Healer Maxiba before she had lowered her wand. “That’s the strange part,” the rescuer said. “He was all alone. There was no one else in sight.” “You might want to leave,” the Healer advised Ron and the others. “This is not going to be pretty” They didn’t take her advice. She began cutting Sinister’s clothes off to get to the wounds. “Internal injuries,” she groaned. “We’re losing him,” a nurse said in an urgent voice. Maxiba hurled Sinister’s pants aside which had been cut from cuff to belt up both legs in the accepted emergency room fashion. They fell at Aeron’s 254

feet spattering him with blood. But he only noticed that Ygg was quivering violently in his shirt sleeve. He pulled the wand out and it jerked his arm straight to the pants on the floor. Out from the bloody rags sprang the stolen stick. Ron caught it with the reflexes of the Qidditch Keeper he had been at Hogwarts. He handed it to Aeron. When Aeron’s hand came into contact with the stick it showered them all with sparks. “Glad to be back, are you?” Dean joked. Nobody laughed, because their attention was being drawn to Healer Maxiba pulling a sheet over the battered corpse of Sinister Conroy. Back in the Ministry waiting for the Minister to send for them, Aeron was pensive, Quint Dean was sad, Ron was puzzled. Dean commented, “It was tragic what happened to Sinister Conroy, not that he was innocent. But he hadn’t done anything to deserve being beaten to death.” Ron responded, “We don’t know that. Justice, Karma, Consequences – call it what you like. It’s inevitable.” Aeron, as usual, was thinking of a distant horizon. “We are probably lucky to get the stick back before even more damage was done. Looks like the stick was becoming desperate and recruiting help.” Ron looked at Aeron quizzically. “You sound like Neville going on about trees having consciousness.” “Connectivity,” Aeron said, as if that explained why those tree branches had pummeled Sinister Conroy to death because he had failed to pay attention to what the Mother of All Trees was trying to communicate to him. Happily, from Dean and Ron’s points of view, this conversation was interrupted by a cute witch announcing, “The Minister will see you now.” One of the reasons Hermione Granger-Weasley had been selected to be Minister of Magic is because she had an amazing memory, aided by an ability to synthesize information. Her compassion was a bonus, although some wizards and witches doubted it was an asset. But it served her well and she served the Magical World better because she had compassion as well as power. Of the four people in the Minister’s office suite, Aeron was the only Ministry outsider, and by far the youngest. He had graduated from Hogwarts barely five months before. Hermione had his hastily prepared file on her desk. She had memorized it, of course, including the latest information from Gringotts Bank about the decision to open a VIP vault for Aeron. There were some blanks in the story. 255

Normally, the Minister of Magic was not expected to turn attention to trivial matters like stolen wands or career appointments. It was the Yggdrasil involvement that made the case of Aeron Finchfinder special. Hermione lost no time. “Aeron, the Ministry is interested in two things today. I intend to ask for your help on these matters which pertain to you. I think, however, we can get to the heart of the matter faster by an indirect route as long as you promise to answer my questions completely and truthfully based on trust that I want to help you achieve your vast potential as a Master wand maker.” No one dared respond to what Hermione was saying directly to Aeron. She continued, “What the Ministry is interested in is how you can be enabled to produce outstanding wands.” Her second revelation nearly blew Quintillus Dean off his chair. “The Ministry is also interested in your role in promoting equal rights and status for the Little People.” She paused and added to Ron, “We need a more inclusive term for that.” “How about SPEW?” he said. “So typical of you,” she feigned exasperation. Then she turned to Aeron again. “Don’t be alarmed, Aeron, by what I’m going to ask you. It may help for you to believe I hope we are already on the same page about these things. What does it mean that you have been elevated to the rank of the Illustrious?” Aeron looked hard at Hermione who was smiling warmly. “Zworn did not tell me what it means when he gave me the jewel,” Aeron said. “Yes the Star of Honor, the bank President called it.” Hermione said. She knows, Aeron thought. “Zworn said it made me an honorary dwarf.” “You must have performed an outstanding service for them to bestow such a unique tribute,” Hermione remarked. Dean squirmed. This was it, the moment of truth. Hermione had not demanded that Aeron say what he had done, although she hinted she knew. “When the dwarves of Bukonita made the magical cutting tool for me …” “Dzumat,” Hermione said. “…yes, Dzumat, it was time to cut my wand out of the stick from the Mother of All Trees…” “Yggdrasil,” Hermione said. “…yes, Yggdrasil. When I cut the stick it split into thirds.” “One cut, three equal sections,” Hermione deduced. “Yes. One of the sections was my wand.” “How did you know that?” “Well, I don’t know how to say … uh … I saw my wand in there. Uh, I 256

see wands, sometimes inside a piece of wood if it is meant to be a wand for somebody.” “And that is why the Wand Makers Guild voted you to be the youngest Master Wand Maker in 2000 years,” Hermione said. “Yes, they did.” “But what about the other two wands? Did you see who they were for?” “No. But Zworn wanted one as his price for guiding me down to the dwarves to get Dzumat.” “So the wand was payment.” “Actually that was not sure. He’d asked for it but we had to see if the Mother Tree agreed.” “How did you do that?” “There was a test we discovered. I think the dwarves knew about it before. If the wand belonged to Zworn it would make a rock light up when he tapped it with the wand. Nobody else could get that reaction. That’s how we knew the wand chose Zworn. And we know the Mother was the one who decided.” “So the Romanian dwarf Zworn has one of the wands from Yggdrasil, the Mother Tree,” Hermione noted. It was a statement, not a question. “Yes. The dwarves have all sorts of magical tools. Some of them are sticks.” “But this was their first wand?” “I don’t think so,” Aeron replied with a hint of doubt about his answer, “but this was the first from the Mother Tree; and the dwarves in Bukonita believe that being awarded this wand means their legends about the Little People are proven. They are equal to people.” Ron choked and Dean shivered. “I believe the King of Dwarves in Romania awarded you a Star of Honor for two reasons,” Hermione said. “First, as you said, they think you gave them proof they are equal. Second, they think you AGREE they are equal and will be promoting that belief. Do you believe that?” “Yes, I do,” Aeron said with no hesitation whatsoever. “I do, too,” Hermione affirmed. “I have for a long time. Equal but different.” Hermione gazed at Aeron as if trying to read his mind. Perhaps she was reading it. She continued, “So you will be willing to make wands for Little People? How about Big People, giants, centaurs?” Aeron considered this. It might be a trick question to trap him. “The wand chooses the wizard,” Aeron finally repeated. “That’s a truth that saved Harry Potter’s life and saved us all from Dark Lord Voldermort,” Hermione remembered. “What have you found about 257

different ways of making wands that might be related to this?” “Bukonita wands have no magical core. They are made of wood that is magical all by itself.” Hermione nodded. “You are the Master Wand Maker, and I am just a wand-waver. But I would like to suggest you do more study of this very thing. Doesn’t it seem conveniently strange that none of the wands we make here up to now DO choose anybody but ‘people-type’ witches and wizards, but a wand without animal parts in its core chose Zworn the Dwarf? That must mean something. It would be worth looking into. In fact, if you become as interested as I hope you will become, the Ministry will provide support for you to study this, as well as wand-lore around the world. “There is one more thing,” Hermione said, fixing Aeron in her gaze. “Here in Britain providing wands for Elves and Goblins is against the law.” “They don’t need wands,” Ron objected. “They have other ways.” “Yes, Ron. Perhaps they don’t need wands as much as we do. But it seems peculiar that these laws preventing them from having wands would be necessary if wands had no benefit for the Elves and Goblins. My point is that they have no choice. So, Aeron, when you have a valid customer come back to me and we will work together to get the Council of Magical Law to change this discriminatory law. “By the way,” Hermione added, “I got an owl from Dame Agatha that they are eager to have you come to Astorwold where they constantly push the limits, to improve lives. You might even get a flying carpet out there. Or maybe your Ygg will teach you to fly without anything to sit on.”

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Christmas at Astorwold Robin Astor Havorford gave up the idea of flying on his carpet from Hogwarts in the north of Scotland to Astorwold north of London when snow began to fall. He took the Hogwarts Express with the rest of the students going home for Christmas. Sorg and Wendy chose the same compartment. Sorg was in Huffelpuff House. Wendy had been sorted into Griffindor. They rode through the snow storm unable to appreciate the beautiful winter scenery because of heavy frost on the windows. Sorg and Robin were the same age, but Sorg had delayed going to Hogwarts for two years so he was a first-year along with Wendy, while Robin was a fourth-year. Wanelda Thornwill rode with other Slytherin students on the Hogwarts Christmas Express from Hogsmeade to King’s Cross Station, London. That part of the trip was enjoyable enough. It was the rest of it she dreaded. She felt more acutely alone on any trip home than she thought other students would have a right to feel. She had no “home” to go to, no Christmas to look forward to, and would have stayed at Hogwarts over the break if it had not been for an owl that Carvel sent. The note said simply, “Spend Christmas with me.” Her wayward boyfriend had run away from Hogwarts in September. He had been a patient in St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries on Halloween. His brother, Sinister, had died, beaten to death, and Sinister’s twin, Dexter, had been cursed into limbo and captured by a dreaded demon monster, or so Wanelda heard and believed. What this meant is that she and Carvel would be alone in Carvel’s room in Sheffield. She let her imagination work on what that might entail, she and Carvel alone in his apartment. Had she known that Carvel’s room was in a derelict warehouse without heat or water, with a bonfire on the concrete floor next to his pest-infested bed, she might have been less enthusiastic about the vacation idea. As it was, all that dampened her eagerness was the trip from King’s Cross to Sheffield. She’d be stuffed into a carriage with crowds of Muggle shoppers heading home. She dreaded it. Knockturn Alley was probably the only street in Muggle or Magical England that looked as grim and was as dangerous on the days before Christmas as it was any other time of the year. There was not one clue to be seen that happiness was awash elsewhere. Not one window even held a candle. Daster & Son gave every appearance of being deserted. Uncle Daster kept 259

to a small room in the rear where he met with what few clients he had. Most of them chose to enter and leave by the back door, even though they had to deal with rats and tread on small animal carcasses to go that way in order to maintain their anonymity. Mortell Daster figured his days were numbered. He even thought he knew the number was 347. He had until December 3, nearly a year. That was foremost in his mind when he sent an owl to Sheffield with the simple message, “Spend Christmas with me.” Wanelda was very surprised to find Carvel on platform 9¾ when the Christmas Expressed pulled in, filling the platform with steam and then a flood of students. “What are you doing here?” Wanelda shrieked. “Quiet!” Carvel cautioned, unnecessarily. The platform was so noisy even her shriek was drowned out. Carvel was in a hurry to get away before anyone recognized him who cared or wanted revenge. Carvel’s last days at Hogwarts in September had been a bit reckless. Uncle Daster showed no reaction when his nephew Carvel came in with a girl. Mortell had been younger than Carvel when he’d entertained his first girlfriend. For her part, Wanelda had been acutely disappointed to find out they would not be staying alone in Carvel’s room in Sheffield. She needn’t have worried. None of her schemes were thwarted. As Wendy emerged through the barrier from platform 9 ¾ into the main part of King’s Cross Station, her older brother Reginald waved to her energetically. Sorg and Robin followed Wendy shyly, but Reginald recognized them from a visit in the summer and would have none of their reticence. “Ronald is waiting at the curb,” Reginald told them, urging haste. Dame Agatha’s luxury limousine looked as it had not been out of the garage since summer, but it had been used extensively. It was one of Ronald’s jobs to make it always look as if it had just arrived from the factory. Robin was the next Lord Astor, but in Astorwold or any of Dame Agatha’s other properties he deferred to those who knew more about what was going on. Today, that was Reginald and Ronald, sitting in the front seat of the purple Rolls Royce as it eased its way through holiday traffic onto the A-12 going north. Ronald knew that Aeron Finchfinder was anxiously, even nervously, waiting for his Hogwarts colleagues at Astorwold, where he had been since the day after meeting with the Minister of Magic. Reginald knew, and immediately informed the students, that Dame Agatha was planning a Christmas 260

Ball. Nobody knew the things that were about to happen that would make this their most memorable Christmas of the decade. The Astorwold Grand Christmas Ball was to be on the Sunday between Christmas and New Year’s, still a few days away. The train from Hogwarts had arrived on the day before Christmas Eve. So, they were not in so much of a hurry that Ronald could not be persuaded to stop at Ipswich so the students could do some shopping. They had their lists ready. Reginald supplied Muggle money for the fellows, eager to exchange it for Sicles and Knuts to give to his sister now that she was a Hogwart’s first-year. Reginald had news he was withholding. After 3 years as assistant to Mr. O’Fallon, the butler at Astor Estates, he was to be given a new job at Bermridge House, the only remaining non-magical property Dame Agatha owned. She inherited it from a distant aunt on her mother’s side of the family, so it was hers alone. Astor Estates in London had belonged to Sir Edward, her late husband, and she had now officially relinquished it to his heirs to fight over. She had given all the staff bonuses and choices about their positions, but only Reginald had wanted to leave Astor Estates. In the meantime, Reginald was to pay his first visit to one of the magical enterprises he had recently learned existed. The first necessity to gain access to a magical location is to know that the place exists. Then, presumably you can get in, although in most cases you have to also know how and in some cases you need a magical key or combination. Muggles never entered the Leaky Cauldron because they didn’t see it or know it was there. They could not get into Diagon Alley without going through the Leaky Cauldron, and because they knew nothing about Diagon Alley, but also wouldn’t know how to find its entrance, which brick to tap, nor did they have a magic wand to do the tapping. Maybe a Muggle could get onto platform 9 ¾ if they hurried forward with someone magical, as Hermione’s parents did at least once. Reginald was about to become one of the few Muggle initiates into the magical world. That is what would set this Christmas apart from all of Reginald’s other Christmases. Robin was anxious about many things, but the closer they got to the inconspicuous, rocky farm lane leading to Astorwold which he felt was home, the more his anxiety subsided. He imagined his dog, Star, waiting for him, tail wagging, and that helped, too. After his times in Astorwold he had begun to realize he was never going to know all that was going on there. The arrival of Pegasus the flying horse with a family of flying foals would no 261

longer surprise him. Certainly he could handle a Christmas party, no sweat. How wrong he could be about that, was what would make this Christmas his second-most life-changing, after his Christmas in Attlee Castle where he first met Dame Agatha. Aeron was waiting for them in the carriage port, along with Sorg’s family and Dame Agatha’s attendants. As soon as Star caught Robin’s scent he was uncontrollable, bounding and licking wherever he could reach, which was just about everywhere on Robin. “Elma is farrowing,” Sorg’s father said, explaining why Dame Agatha was not there to greet them. The city kids had no idea that “farrowing” meant giving birth to a litter of pigs, and most of the newcomers didn’t know that Elma was a sow. Perhaps none of them knew that she was the main reason Astorwold existed in the first place. In fact, even Dame Agatha didn’t know much about Elma except that the sow was happier if the old lady was there to help take care of her newborns. Rugmor was the only one who knew pretty much all about Elma and Jorosh, the elusive boar responsible for the piglets. Rugmor was about to be the biggest Christmas surprise of all. Aeron and Ethel led the way into the manor house for Reginald and Wendy, with Robin tagging along. The brother and sister were told to leave their things in the Maple suite and come to dinner. “Will you be staying in the Apricot room again?” Ethel asked Robin. He looked at Aeron and asked, “Where are you staying?” “I have been given Briar Cottage because it has a small workshop,” Aeron replied. Robin knew Briar was among the cluster of cottages for Astorwold residents. “Is there room for two?” Robin asked. Aeron brightened. “It’s the size of our dorm at Hogwarts. We fit eight guys into our room, first year.” “Would you mind if I stayed with you a night or two? We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” Nothing Robin could have suggested would have helped Aeron more. He had felt like an interloper at Astorwold. It was foolish, he knew. But he had not been able to dismiss the thought that the reason he was being sent to Astorwold is that he had nowhere else to go. Robin was the “heir.” He belonged here. Everyone else was born here, except the Berber carpet makers from Morocco. And Emily and Giselle, Dame Agatha’s attendants. Oh, and the interns from Paraguay. And a few others. But mostly these people were insiders, Aeron told himself, and he felt like an outsider. Robin and Aeron were a few years apart in age. Aeron had been a third262

year when Robin entered Hogwarts, grabbed off the streets of London, just about, disowned by his Muggle family and forbidden to ever contact them again. In Huffelpuff the attitudes between classes were different from other houses. In Griffendor, older students rarely even bothered to learn the names of little kids. Robin and Aeron had had a lot more chances to get to know each other. Nevertheless, the next few days drew the two Huffelpuff “brothers” closer together than they had ever been. Star, of course, insisted on sharing Briar Cottage with the two young wizards. Granny Og laid 16 cards on the table in front of Prunicia Hardy. They were in 4 rows of 4 cards per row, face down. “What’s your question?” Granny Og demanded. She wanted to be sure the question was clear and the answer was a number. “What day of next year is best?” Prunicia said. Mortell Daster’s question had been, “How many days do I have left?” Granny snorted, “Prunicia, we’ve known each other for … well, let’s say it’s been a long time. The best day for what?” When Prunicia refused to tell “what” and just got red in the face, Granny Og relented. “All right! Keep your secret, you wicked witch. But you’ve got to be concentrating on it. You want to know what day of the year. Now, use your wand or just your hand and find one, two, or three cards that have your answer. You can ask each one, “Do you have my answer?’ if it helps. Take it slowly. Make your first choice.” Granny Og usually stayed away from tea-room junk like crystal balls and tea leaves. Reading palms of hands was only done to confirm some result derived by better means. But she had a gift for numbers and runes. She could read runes like bus drivers read street signs. Prunicia picked two cards, letting her hand roam over the table before feeling satisfied and sitting up straight. Granny Og said, “When I turn a card over you’ll see a compound figure made up of a few over-lapping numbers. Pick one number. Just one. The first one you see would be best. Ready?” When the first card was turned over some people would have seen 3, 9, 4, 7, 1. Other people might not have seen any numbers right away. “Nine,” Prunicia responded immediately. When the second card was turned over Prunicia stared at it before deciding, “Two.” After a moment of hesitation she was sure. “Yes, two.” “Nine-two or two-nine?” Granny Og asked. “What order?” 263

“Nine-two, ninety-two. Yes. Ninety-two.” Granny consulted a chart. “Your question was ‘which day next year would be best?’ and your answer is day ninety-two, which is April second.” Prunicia dropped five silver Sickles onto the table and moved her chair back. Granny Og bristled, “Never, Prunicia Hardy. Not a Knut nor an English penny. Have you ever taken coin for some recipe I needed? Never. But you can buy us a glass of amber beverage from Toothless Tom, if you want.” They were sitting at a dark corner table in the Leaky Cauldron when Carvel came through with Wanelda. “Survived this time, did he?” Granny Og commented under her breath when the young couple had gone out the back door. Christmas Eve dawned bright and crisp on Astorwold. A winter storm was wrapping Hogwarts in its freezing embrace which would cover the hills and castle in a fantasy blanket until long after the students returned. There was no snow falling in Suffolk. The pond was not frozen hard enough for ice skating. On the other hand there was nothing to prevent an expedition to find the perfect Christmas tree and Yule log. Sanye Leflin, Sorg’s uncle, was the Astorwold forester. Like Hagrid at Hogwarts, Sanye preferred woodlands and forests to any other surrounding and he lived most of the time in a remote cottage close to the habitat of Astorwold’s enchanted deer. As the days grew short he reluctantly migrated back to the farm center to be ready for the expedition. “Ye big pine fell yonder,” Sanye announced, in one of his rare public speeches. Sorg’s father, the brew-master, reckoned it was the most words Sanye had uttered in any single day in the last five years. The pine tree was a giant and only the top twenty or thirty feet had fallen in a lightning storm in July. The trunk was still standing as tall as a five-story building, although its decaying center decreed the tree was beyond its prime. The top had crashed some distance away, so the sound of the axes and saws extracting a Yule log did not disturb the brown “She-Bear” hibernating in the hollow trunk with her uninvited companion. Jenny and Jerry were hitched to the Yule log to drag it back to the manor house, while Sanye and the remaining members of the expedition set about finding this year’s perfect Christmas tree. Its specifications had been settled over many years. It needed to be 3 meters tall and perfectly symmetrical, with no bare, open spots. Sanye helped this along every summer by pruning and shaping a few candidates as they grew. 264

Not very far away was the Christmas tree Sanye had groomed for this year. Gaird and Sort’s father agreed the tree “would do.” Gaird was the maintenance chief for the farm, and therefore the designated engineer to erect the tree in its place of honor in Oak Hall. Cutting the tree was a job for only a few, so Aeron drifted back away from the pines toward another grove. Standing in the center of a wide opening among the trees was one surpassingly beautiful oak tree. It was standing alone as if the rest of the trees were giving it space. Aeron noticed that Sanye had made a wide swing around this area. It looked like the forester had been steering clear of the tree as well as the surrounding open ground.

NOBLE OAK There was something impressive about it. And there was something forbidden about the treeless circle around it. Aeron walked completely around the edge of the clearing. When he got back to the place he had started, Sanye was waiting for him. “Ne’ye?” Sanye asked. Aeron just stared at the tree. “He-gru ‘fth’grave o’the ‘M-pur Buck,” Sanye explained. Had Sorg’s father been around, Aeron would have asked him to interpret. Since they were alone, Aeron guessed. “The Emperor Buck,” he repeated what he thought the forester had said. “Of the enchanted herd?” Sanye pointed to some deer droppings in the clearing. They formed a com265

plete circle all around the noble tree. Aeron withdrew Ygg from his sleeve. In the still of the morning the tree rattled its branches as if there had been a draft of wind. Dried sticks had fallen here and there inside the circle of deer-dung. Aeron pointed his wand at one of the sticks and commanded, “Accio oakstick.” The stick flew into Aeron’s free hand. He collected a total of four sizeable sticks before the Christmas tree team came back, lugging and dragging the evening’s star attraction. Aeron, however, had his first thrilling Christmas presents. Oak Hall of Astorwold Manor had probably been designated by Baron Algernon Astor in 1841 for this very season of the year. Ropes of evergreen created an appealing set of aromas and lacey shadows. The fireplace was never used for any other purpose than to burn the Yule log. The tree had a place of honor at the opposite end of the hall from the fireplace. At 3:30 the Moroccan Berbers made a grand entrance into Oak hall. They had grown in numbers since September, Robin noticed. Dame Agatha had been so persistently requested to be available at that hour that she had taken to calling it a command performance. Word had gotten around and most Astorwolders dropped whatever they were doing to come to the hall. Much to his disgust, Gaird had been instructed to delay putting up the tree. In came the Berbers, led by Udat Ayt Udat, followed by his wives. Eight husky men were bearing a rolled-up carpet on their shoulders as if it were a coffin. Inspired by a story in Virgil Verbal’s Enchantment class, Aeron wondered for a moment if Cleopatra would emerge from it. Udat Ayt Udat made a speech which Giselle translated. The Carpet-master declared that although the Berbers were Muslim, they wanted to be full participants in the Astorwold festivities. So, they had prepared a community contribution to help decorate the hall. The eight carpet bearers reached for hand-holds of carpet fringe, and stepped backward into a circle, revealing a magnificent round carpet designed around a ten-pointed star. They proceeded to dance while rotating the carpet. The women and children sang and clapped rhythmically. As the carpet was rotated its background seemed to switch from silver to black. Birds appeared to fly and fish leap. At the conclusion of the song, the men heaved the carpet into the air and it descended onto the floor with a thick “poof!” Robin regretted not having been here to see how they had woven the carpet in the round. He asked the carpet-maker if they planned to do anoth266

er. “No,” the master declared in his broken English, “There ever shall be only one!” The carpet was a marvel and became known amongst carpet fanciers as the Astorwold Berber. By sunset, which came early (at 3:47 p.m.) just after the shortest day of the year, Astorwolders began to decorate the tree. Everyone was magical except Reginald, so the decorative contributions they brought tended to be spectacular in some way. Old timers brought the same thing year after year. One was a wooden Russian nutcracker looking like a soldier, who would sing “Lesu Rodilas Yolochka” if asked. One family always brought ever-glo candles that never went out or dripped wax. Newcomers were introduced to the delicious art of decorating sugar cookies, unless they preferred to pull and twist red and white sugar canes. An endless supply of food materialized on a buffet table next to a large keg of spiced apple cider and a vat of egg nog. Sorg, flush with the confidence of a Hogwarts Transfiguration student half-way through his first year, announced to a group of young family members that he would transform a pine cone into a singing angel to match the nutcracker. Brandishing his wand dramatically, he commanded, “Angelomorphos” or something that sounded about like that. The transformation was in one sense complete. Nothing of the pine cone remained behind, but instead of a melodious angel there was a rambunctious Cornish pixie that proceeded to tear around the room pulling down pine rope and mistletoe before settling in to devastate the decorations on the tree. Sorg was spattered with sugar icing, but helpless to stem the havoc. Aeron came in at that moment and put an end to the pixie with a casual wave of mighty Ygg. “Peskipiksi Pesternomo! is the hex you need to remember, Sorg, if you’re going to invite these fellows to a party,” Aeron suggested. Father Christmas rambled through the cluster of cottages on Christmas morning accompanied by a team of well-dressed Astorwold gnomes, pulling a wagon loaded with presents that were distributed to each cottage. Owls were busy that day, too. Robin Lord Astor got nothing from his family in London and darkly, but accurately, suspected they had refused to accept the basket he had sent. His littlest sister, who was born after Robin had left for Hogwarts never to return, realized the basket contained a package for her, and when her father had refused delivery of the basket, she somehow set it on fire so the delivery man dropped it and left in a hurry. This sent her father into a rage so that he locked her outside the council flat. As soon as he slammed the door, the 267

basket stopped burning and she rescued most of the contents. Aeron’s father sent a cape from Libya that he vowed was an exact copy of one that Hannibal had worn crossing the Alps. The note thanked Aeron for his gift of A-Brand condiments and herbs, indicating that his forgetful father had only remembered it was Christmas when the delivery from Astorwold had arrived. Aeron had learned long ago it was best to keep reminding his father of things like birthdays. Oxford University, where his father taught and worked in the museum, was decorated for Christmas and carolers roamed the streets, but Wilburt never seemed to connect that with the need to buy anything, unless he was reminded. Everywhere in Astorwold the day began with gifts and food. Robin and Aeron carried packages into the community dining room, hoping to find people they were looking for. Reginald and his sister Wendy were there and so were all the Leflins except Sanye. Aeron was disappointed not to see the reclusive forester. After a few minutes, Dame Agatha came in dressed appropriately for feeding pigs, which she had done. Ethel prevailed on her “just on Christmas morning” to change from her soiled, one-piece, canvass work suit into a long black robe with a sprig of holly pinned on. Breakfast was supposed to be cocoa and muffins but the array of muffins was imposing. Agatha came over to the corner table where Aeron, Robin and Sorg were eating. “Three Musketeers,” she declared. The old lady accepted a chair shoved behind her. “Now boys,” she proposed, “it’s Christmas. Suppose you could have one wish each. What would it be?” Robin thought about his family, but it was not a Christmas thought. “To make you happy,” he proposed chivalrously. “And you have,” she responded, leaning over so he could peck her on the cheek. Sorg followed Robin in this area of discourse. “To make you prosper,” he said, thinking of his own future as foreman of Astorwold’s farms. “And you shall,” she replied, leaning toward him so he could, for the first time since he was a baby, be kissed on his forehead. Dame Agatha looked expectantly at the most recent resident. Aeron hesitated, finally deciding his idea was ripe. “What would you wish for, Master Aeron?” she repeated, using his title as Wand-Master. 268

“I should like to have your wand-staff,” Aeron said. The other boys were shocked, alarmed, and embarrassed. No wizard ever asks for the wand of another, except in combat or to reduce them to nothing as Voldemort had done to Lucius Malfoy. Dame Agatha’s wand was unique, serving as a walking stick she thought befitted her advanced age and resembling a scepter signifying nobility. The wise old witch regarded Aeron carefully, much as Hermione had done. Then she asked, “What would you do with the staff?” “Replace it with one better for you,” he replied. “This staff has served me well for 9 decades,” she said. “I have never wanted another one.” She reconsidered, “How can you be sure some new wand will be better?” “The Mother Tree will tell us,” Aeron said. Aeron’s boldness and audacity was matched by impressive confidence. There was one thing Aeron Finchfinder was sure about, that he was right about wands. “I will confess something I have never said to another living soul,” Agatha sighed, looking from face to face, including all three boys. “My staff was a wedding present from Sir Edward’s mother. She gave me this monstrous wand to ridicule my low status as I married her high-born son. It was like the crown of thorns the soldiers used to scorn Jesus. As a wand it is unwieldy; as a walking stick it is awkward, but I have done magic with it and built all this,” she waved her hand in the direction of the labs and barns where A-Brand products were manufactured. “Where will you procure my new wand?” Agatha was thinking how far they were from the wand shops of Diagon Alley. Even though Aeron was a wand-maker, there were no magical animal parts to use. He had not yet begun to produce wands in England. “I may have it for you here,” Aeron declared. Unceremoniously, he dumped four sticks from the noble oak onto the table. They had been brushed clean of deer manure, but were otherwise just as nature had produced them. Aeron arranged the sticks radiating away from Dame Agatha. She studied them, and then leaned over the second from the left to get a better look at it. The third from left began to vibrate. She picked it up. It felt like a club to her, but it reacted marvelously. She stood and waved the heavy stick with two hands over the heads of the boys. “Expecto patronum,” she shouted. A magnificent iridescent stag with 14-point racks of antlers charged out of the end of the stick and was last seen heading for the enchanted herd. 269

The whole dining room erupted with applause. “How would you like your new wand to look?” Aeron asked. “A bit more graceful, I would think,” she giggled like a school girl. After breakfast, before the Christmas feast, there was a lull in activity around Astorwold. The animals had been fed, the snakes milked of their venom. The kitchen staff was waiting for roasted parts of the feast to be done. Dame Agatha had decreed that the dinner was to be modest, since the Yule Ball was coming. Still, it would be on a par with the British Royals at Sandringham. While they waited, Robin asked Aeron, “How did you know?” “The wand never belonged to her,” Aeron said simply. “How can you tell? You have only seen her use it once or twice. She hardly ever takes it around with her,” Sorg said. “That, too,” Aeron replied, turning the pine branch over in his hand. “It’s a burden to her. Imagine lugging that heavy staff around all these years.” “She’s a proud witch, that she is,” Robin said, admiration showing. “There you are,” Aeron said to the wand he had spotted in the pine branch. “I wish I had a lathe.” “There’s a lathe in Gaird’s maintenance shop,” Sorg remembered. Gaird was in the shop enjoying a Christmas libation with Sorg’s father and an intern from Paraguay. After two drinks, the maintenance chief was agreeable to anything. He changed the lathe from settings for metal pipes to wood and settled back to watch the boy destroy his stick. Aeron’s expertise was disappointing to the mechanic who had expected a show of blood. Instead, in half an hour Aeron had shaved away more than ¾ of the oak stick, leaving the hard center intact with three ornate discs separating the handle from the graceful shaft. A figure-head for the end of the handle was still just a knob. Very carefully, Aeron excised two gold rings from Dame Agatha’s old staff and dug out two small blue diamonds. Before leaving the shop he asked Gaird to help him cut the gold rings and fit them into the grooves between the wooden discs. Time was up. Everybody was being summoned to Oak Hall. Dexter Conroy woke up on Christmas morning, beginning to doubt he was a black bear hibernating until spring. The doubt passed in a moment and he relaxed again in slumber, snuggled against the furry comfort of his “sister” in the rotten hollow of a centuries-old pine tree. The Christmas feast at Astorwold was international as well as traditional. 270

The interns from Paraguay had ordered and helped the cooks prepare four South American Christmas specialties, including Bori Bori (corn and cheese soup) for which the interns had longed. The Moroccans had other additions to the menu. British tradition dictated roast goose, turnips and a boar’s head. There was no boar’s head. It was long past dark when blazing plum puddings arrived. Carvel and Wanelda would have missed Christmas entirely if it had not been for Uncle Mortell Daster doing something so out of character Carvel thought the old man might be losing his mind. He announced that they would eat at the Leaky Cauldron. Diagon Alley was as bright and cheerful as they passed through, as Knockturn Alley was dark and dreadful. Carvel was further amazed that Daster had made reservations for four, and Granny Og was waiting for them. Bigger surprises were still to come. “Thought’ye might not come,” Mortell commented. “Thought it’d aggravate ’ye more if I did,” Granny Og retorted. That was settled. Granny Og turned to Carvel. He was younger and healthier than she had imagined. Carvel couldn’t actually remember his collapse in Granny Og’s parlor. He had no idea he owed his life to her quick action. Tom, the bartender and proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron, was busy. Every table was full and his private dining rooms upstairs were, too. But he managed the occasion by offering no choices, just one Christmas menu, drinks extra. The food was brought when the help got around to it. For “Daster party of 4” the food arrived quickly owing to Daster’s foresight in requesting a table near the kitchen. “This the boy?” Granny Og asked. “Him,” Daster nodded. “He was cursed,” Granny Og said. “All Conroys a’been cursed,” Daster argued. “W’abo his brother?” “Dead, isn’t he,” Daster stated flatly. “The other one,” Granny Og disagreed, shaking her head. “Gone,” Daster said. “N’fer long,” Granny Og said. This bald statement took Daster and Carvel by surprise. Nobody who was abducted by the Earth-giant Rugnor was ever heard from again. Daster was all the way through his turkey and giblet dressing before he decided, “Makes 271

no nevermind. This is the boy.” Daster leveled his gaze at his nephew. “I was hopin’ Hogwarts’d slap you into shape.” “Hate the place!” Carvel exclaimed with such feeling witches at the next table stopped chewing to stare. “I wanted ye’ta amount t’somethin’,” Daster retorted with an undertone of resignation. “Well, that’s by the by. Next year I’ll be dead. My days is numbered.” “344” Granny Og reckoned. “December 3rd I conk,” Daster explained. Wanelda was flabbergasted that those two old people could talk about this subject so unemotionally. Her, she’d be having a bawling fit. Carvel was mystified, sensing this was all leading somewhere. “Tonight,” Daster declared, speaking the words with deliberate distinctness, “the shop on Knockturn Alley is yours. Yours.” He repeated the declaration as if it was a hex. “See how you like it, you with no education, little magic, and a cursed past.” “Don’t forget his brother,” Granny Og coached him. “And a cursed brother that’s been et by bears or giants.” “Carvel has me,” Wanelda interjected, loyally. “And a witch without nothin’,” Daster added. Granny Og considered this, looking past Wanelda’s pimples and crooked teeth. “Don’t be so quick,” she remonstrated. Daster just snorted. “You go out the back door and I go out the front door,” Daster proclaimed nodding to the doors of the Leaky Cauldron. “I have 344 days to spend and I ain’t spendin’ another one of ‘em here.” With that declaration and a far-away and somewhat frightened look in his eyes, Mortell Daster stood up and stomped to the door of the pub and left, out onto Charing Cross Road. Carvel was stunned. It hit him that he’d been given a place of his own. Before the idea took root, however, Granny Og pulled it up. “Look at that witch at the third table. Know who she is? Course you don’t. But she knows who you are and she’s seen Daster leave without you. Do you know Gravel Nash? Course you don’t. You two can’t survive an hour alone in Knockturn Alley. Daster & Son is not your destiny, it’s your death trap.” Granny Og changed her tone and became more confidential. You ain’t got no future the way you are. You, girl, get what you can at Hogwarts. Learn magic and maybe you will get by. Boy, there is one idea I have for you. It’ll be risky and take work, but you ain’t got nothin’ to lose. 272

You hate Hogwarts so this ain’t Hogwarts I’m thinkin’ about. “On March 31, you go to Pickering and find the house of the Hardy sisters. It ain’t hard. It’s right by Pickering Fields.” “Battle of Pickering Fields,” Wanelda commented showing she was probably the only Slytherin student who had paid attention to the ghostly Professor Binns’s deadly lecture on the Elves Rebellion in the 1600s. “On day one,” Granny Og continued, “you walk up to the cottage of the Hardy sisters and find a broom and rake and you rake up leaves and sweep the paths. Find something to be busy all day. Then you go away. “On day two, you go back like you worked there and look for things to make yourself useful. Cut wood for the wood pile, but cut no weeds. They ain’t weeds at the Hardy sisters Alla-them weeds are for potions. Fix things up, wash the pots and cauldrons and hang ‘em up neat. The sisters’ll show themselves. Tip your hat. Ask for nothing. Work so they notice. That night curl up on the porch like a dog at home. “On April 2 … mark you … on April 2 work as usual but toward evening be there on the porch when one of the sisters comes back. She’ll be lookin’ dejected, rejected, and ee-jected. She’ll be disappointed and disgruntled. Don’t let her get inside before you say to her, in a clear voice, ‘Prunicia Hardy, this is your best day. It begins right now.’ “Got that?” Granny Og quizzed Carvel. “April 2 I’m to say, “Prunicia Hardy, this is your best day. It begins right now.” “Y’ll not be the answer to her prayers she was hopin’ for, but you’ll be the best she’ll get if you are there, sharp like I told you.” “I don’get it,” Carvel confessed. “Them old witches are getting’ too old to handle their chores livin’ way out there. They need a man, but they’re silly old women an’ don’ know one when they sees him. You do it right an’ they’ll let you stay to do chores. You stay sharp an’ ye’ll learn to make potions ain’t nobody left knows how to make. By the time sissy here gets through Hogwarts, you’ll be a potion maker.” Robin, the Lord Astor, was busy on Boxing Day. He was also more sure, this second year, of how to keep a fine balance between being a lofty patron and a lowly comrade. Dame Agatha accompanied him and helped him with names. There were boxes for every family on the farm and for a score of trades-people who dropped by. Aeron had the day to himself. Wishing he had his wonderful chisel, Gromat, he made do with a metal set he had received as a Christmas present. He 273

was determined to finish Dame Agatha’s Christmas present. He tediously inscribed the Astorwold motto, CAELUM SURSUM TERRA DEORSUM, on the handle. The knob at the end became a boar’s head with two blue diamond eyes and mother-of-pearl tusks. The wand shaft was not thin and delicate, easy to break, but its thickness, the size of a fat fountain pen, meant it could be incised with a Saxon pattern. Aeron was satisfied with the wand, but he meant to polish it to a glowing finish. December 27 was preparation day. The Astorwold Grand Christmas Ball was Dame Agatha’s social “swan song.” She considered bringing in an orchestra and dancers to do Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Dying Swan” ballet to make the point, but decided it was too sentimental and a Mummer’s Play would be more appreciated. Aeron, Robin and Wendy were told to make themselves scarce. The Paraguayan interns took care of the farm animals, but everybody else was assigned to a work division. Robin and Aeron wandered through the manor house and found Sir Edward’s personal library. Before long Robin came across a hand-written volume called, “Legends of Astorwold.” Aeron was immediately excited. “What can we find about the Emperor Buck and the Lonesome Pine?” Lonesome Pine was Aeron’s name for the tree standing alone in the center of the pine forest, so it wasn’t mentioned, but the “Legend of the Emperor Buck” had a chapter: The magik farm came about thus: One day in his 43rd year Baron Algernon Astor was ahunting wilde boar when he past threw a misty glade and came upon a lovely meadow with thicke woods beyond. The Baron felte the presence of his porcine prey. The partye stole into the woodlands with greate stelth e quiet. Using his hands the Baron sent his men five to the left and five to the right, whilst the Baron with his mighty crossbow crept forth silent as a sunset. Lo, the breze was into the Baron’s face and he came upon a great wild sow ruttin among the trees. She smelt him not until he was in range. The Baron brot his bow uppe slow as a shadow and was about to loose the arrow, when frum nowhere a mighty boar charg’d to gore the hapless Lord to his certain death. The Baron barely shriek’d Woe! When a second great beaste appeared betwixt the Baron and the boar, a stag with antlers of 14 prongs. The deere was so imposing and so near, the 274

Baron dropt his crossbow and knelt. The deer lookt upon the trembling man and spake, “You have ventured into our forest.” So said the deere, I vow it’s true, for I am the Baron writing thus. Saith the deere, “The beestes in these woods are enchanted. The sow is Elma and the boar is Jorosh. They have been here since before men came to this land and they will be the laste to leave. You must swear by the hairs on your head to become their protectors now you have seen them, or you die here. I am the Emperor Buck.” So, I sware, and calld the ten men to sware with me. We call the lande Astorwold and we are its protectors. Manny years passed. I grew old. But one day word came to me that the Emperor Buck had died. The olde tradition was to burn the dead bodye of a king, but the enchanted deere would not allow it. So we buried the Emperor Buck and I planted an oak tree on his grave. Each night the enchanted deere come to enrich the soil around the tree in honor of the Emperor Buck. So the tree has endured and all enchanted beestes in the forest have prospered as far as the magik extends. Aeron was solemn. “That explains the wand.” “What does?” Robin asked. “The tree is growing out of the grave of the Emperor Buck. It is a tree full of powerful magic. So even here in Britain if the wood of a wand has powerful magic it doesn’t need a hair, or feather, or dragon heart string to make it powerful.” “I wonder how many other powerful magic trees are in the Astorwold forest.” Robin said. “Sanye might know,” Aeron replied. At early breakfast on the day of the ball, Dame Agatha turned into an Army Colonel, issuing orders and directing operations in military style. There was a guest division to make sure the visiting dignitaries were housed and pampered. The food division was to be ready for the next three meals, the evening one being most special, but not a banquet. “Balls and banquets never go together,” she had ground into them over many past events. “Buffets are for balls.” They knew what she meant and already had things roasting, rotating, or ready. The entertainment division was the most problematical. There was to be music, but what sort? Two dance areas, one 275

for millennials and another for, well, Dame Agatha’s sort? Three, one more for North Africans? They settled on Moroccan music for everybody. The Mummer’s troupe was another challenge. Few people were left who know enough about this raucous folk tradition to put an authentic Mummer’s play on, but Dame Agatha had located a witch months ago who recruited a group from right there in Ipswich. Alas, the great Christmas tree had to go. Oak Hall was just not big enough. The Mummers would cavort on the Astorwold Berber carpet in lieu of a stage. Lights were rigged accordingly. Candles yielded intimacy to an event, but for this, Gaird and his crew had produced banks of carbon-vapor lights with lenses and colored gels. They even had a powerful follow-spot that Gaird himself would run since it was prone to small, exciting explosions. Sanye came for the Christmas tree and nodded hopefully when he examined it after having stood 2 ½ days inside the hall. Aeron followed as Sanye dragged the tree back to a grove that seemed to be made of rescued Christmas trees. The forester accepted Aeron’s help to plant the tree. Reginald acted as butler, since Astorwold Manor had no butler. He looked the part, but Ethel and Giselle told him what to do. Astorwold was a farm and ran with a very small manor house staff of two highly competent witches. Well before they were expected, guests began to arrive. Virgil Verbal came alone from Attlee Castle. Pomona Sprout, retired teacher of Herbology, was brought by Neville Longbottom and his wife, Hannah Abbott. Granny Og came from Diagon Alley; she hadn’t been back home in Newcastle Upon Tyne for more than a fortnight. The owners of Slug and Jiggers Apothecary and proprietors of three other places on Diagon Alley with whom Astorwold did business, arrived as a group. Hagrid from Hogwarts sent his regrets; he was in France. He needn’t say where, since everybody knew. He would be missed before the night was over. Some guests were staying overnight but most would leave when the party was over. As circumstances unfolded those leaving in a hurry would include some who had not planned to leave until morning. There was no precise starting time for the Astorwold Yule Ball. The weather cooperated well, even providing a spectacular sunset as guests arrived who wanted to see a few of the views. The first sign that the evening would not go as smoothly as the coronation of Queen Elizabeth, was when Sorg’s father came in from the swine house to tell Dame Agatha, “Elma is gone.” “How did she get out? Who left the gate open?” was Agatha’s first reaction. But immediately she revised it. “The gate was not open was it?” 276

“No, ma’am,” the brew-master said. “The door was shut, too. And all the piglets are accounted for.” “She’ll let me know if she needs me,” Dame Agatha sighed, although her scowl added a measure of perturbance. Buffet tables provided the guests with tasty diversions as the local magical gentry arrived by carriages gliding from the highway to the manor house carriage port. The Moroccan musical group turned out to be the farm’s very own carpet-makers. They kept up a steady flow of perfectly fetching melodies. Four hours after sunset the Mummer performance began. Thanks to a more than adequate budget, they had fantastic costumes that sometimes included special effects. Their play was a montage of traditional folk lore and Christmas stories, mixed together and served fresh. Some innuendoes were bawdy, tending to make fun of staid English stiffness by exaggerating its opposite. After poor St. Michal had slain the dragon, but been wounded and then ridiculed by the doctor (a main stay of a Mummer play), and just as the story was promising to get around to events at Bethlehem, as King Herod in a ridiculous get-up was belting out his pompous self-introduction, the travel spot on him flashed. Several of the stage lights popped and carbon smoke made people cough. King Herod fled “stage left” and in his place there was a small giant stepping onto the Astorwold Berber carpet. On his shoulders he had slung a fairly young and very scruffy young man who seemed to not realize where he was. The intruder flung his burden down onto the rug. Normally, in a hall full of witches and wizards there would be wands waving and volleys of hexes by now. But no one except the witch from Ipswich knew this was not a scene in the play. Everything in a Mummer’s Play is unpredictable. When Dame Agatha saw the intruder grab Robin and expand to a height of about 12 feet she screamed, “A WAND!” Aeron threw his nearly finished gift to her, but by the time she had it in hand the stranger had smashed through the doors leading from Oak Hall to the outside and had disappeared, holding Robin tucked under his arm like a rugby ball. “A Leshy, here in England!” Aeron exclaimed. Not Lesovik who had been called Vergeugnigg, but another Earth-gremlin. Pandemonium ensued. The ball was over. Many things happened at once. Sanye plowed into the hall through the gaping doors ripped off their hing277

es and announced, “Rugnor!” Wendy and several others screamed at the mention of the Earth-giant who was a child-eating demon in their most terrifying fairy tale. Granny Og had caught a glimpse of the fellow Rugnor had exchanged for Robin. She came for a closer look. Leaning down to stare at his unshaved and filthy face she snarled, “Dexter, ain’t ‘ya?” Dexter yawned after what felt like a month-long sleep. When he could finally focus his eyes he wished he hadn’t. The vision of Granny Og a foot from his nose was not what he wanted to wake up to behold. “Where you been?” she demanded, even though Rugnor bringing him back confirmed the story that Rugnor had abducted him to feed to the giants in the Forest of Fierce Bears. Dexter did not know where he had been for the past weeks, but he knew what happened the day he left Sheffield. “Imperiused by Gravel Nash,” Dexter declared and then threw up on the priceless Berber carpet. Meanwhile, Agatha charged full speed to the hog barn to see if Elma had come back, knowing that, of course, she hadn’t. Sanye, Sorg and Aeron ran after her. By the time Agatha had confirmed that Elma was nowhere in the barn, Verbal, Wendy, Neville and a gnome named Terry had joined them. “Nae,” Sanye said as Agatha charged around. “Nae,” he said again as she wiped her hair away from her eyes and turned to leave with others preparing to follow her. “Nae,” Sanye said a third time, finally getting through to her. She turned and gave the forester her full attention. Being a man of extremely few words he just put a squirming piglet into her unsuspecting arms, and then proceeded to catch the other 7 five-day-old pigs and pass them out among each of the surprised volunteers. Still without a single additional word, Sanye strode out of the hog house and led them down a path to the forest. It was night and there was a cloudy sky blotting out even the faintest starlight. But Sanye knew the way. The others had to jog to keep up and their motion seemed to calm the piglets. They stopped squirming and squealing. The trip into the heart of the woodland, where Aeron now knew they were going, took less time than he remembered it had on Christmas Eve. There was a pale light through the last trees. Sanye bent down and released his little pig. It tore away. Almost immediately the others realized they had lost control and let their pigs go, too. Somewhere in front of them there were welcoming, deep-throated grunts. In a few more steps the witches and wizards were at the edge of the trees. 278

Sanye stopped just behind the last tree and signaled for the others to do the same. Wendy was too short to see anything so Neville picked her up and perched her on his shoulder. Agatha clutched her new wand, ready for anything, expecting the worst. She was, uncharacteristically more unnerved about what was taking place than anyone else. She was always ready for anything. But the scene before her caught her completely by surprise. The glow they had seen through the trees came from a larger than lifesize deer made entirely of light and shadows with an amazing rack of antlers. He was walking around the tree Aeron had dubbed the Lonesome Pine. He

was followed in this stately circumambulation by a great boar, with Robin sitting on its back, grabbing shoulder bristles to keep from slipping. In the open space between the edge of the trees and the path being taking by the Patronus and the Boar, the herd of enchanted deer placidly chewed their cud and watched. Elma had lain down at the base of the tree and was nursing her eight offspring. Aeron spotted Rugnor in the shadows on the opposite side of the clearing. The Earth-spirit had grown to the height of the pine tree by which he stood. After a moment he caught sight of Wendy on Neville’s shoulder and he winked and waved his pinky, instantly depriving the girl of her childhood 279

boogy-man fantasy. The whole scene would have had to be called pastoral if it were not for the eerie, awesome procession around the tree. After another circuit the enchanted flock of deer joined the Emperor Buck for the last cycle. A gigantic shadow passed overhead nearly unseen, but felt, sending shivers through the crowd. From out of the wood came more magical beasts to view the solemnities, the great, brown She-Bear aroused from her sleep an hour ago, the long-haired sheep from which flying carpets were made, a Hippogriff and then some other beings only Hagrid could have named – shame he wasn’t able to be there. Scores more lingered out of sight among the trees. Eventually, the walking stopped and wandering around became random. A flock of owls dived in an avian salute and flew away. Animals in the shadows drifted back into the forest. The deer resumed grazing on the grass beneath them. When the boar got back to Elma he paused and grunted. 7 of the 8 little piggies stopped their suckling and went to meet their father. Elma nuzzled the last piglet to join them. Robin slid off Jorosh by then, landing on his hands and knees. He fell on a stick which he picked up. There was no sleep in Astorwold that Sunday night. Before the group had returned from the forest, Granny Og had “persuaded” Dexter Conroy, fairly against his will, to take the Knight Bus back to the Leaky Cauldron and hide out in Daster & Son until she had alerted the Aurors to arrest Gravel Nash for suspicion of inflicting an unforgiveable curse. Aeron looked around for Sanye, but he had gone away. “What about the pigs?” Sorg asked Dame Agatha when he got a chance. “Oh, they’ll be out there in the woods,” she said. “They always do that. Elma comes in to have me help her have ’em but after a few days she goes away with ‘em.” Sorg and Wendy wanted Dame Agatha to explain what they had seen in the heart of the forest. Virgil Verbal was sitting very nearby leafing through Legends of Astorwold. He quoted aloud for them, “Whenever a new Lord Protector of the enchanted land of Astorwold is declared, whether or not a blood descendant of Baron Algernon Astor, the Emperor Buck and the Cosmic Boar carry him around the Axial tree that connects heaven, earth, and under-earth of the fiery demons.” The professor gulped and coughed before going on, “If the new Lord of Astorwold is allowed to live by the Earth-giant, the She-Bear, and the Roc, 280

the guardians of the land, the Cosmic boar and sow, will accept him as Lord Protector.” “Perhaps we should wait a while before telling Robin this,” Verbal suggested, closing the book, to hide it back in Sir Edward’s library. “Then I was never the Protector,” Dame Agatha mused. “Fiddlesticks,” Virgil retorted. “Who does Elma depend on? What is your Patronus? Wasn’t that what we were just looking at out there?” The thought pacified Dame Agatha, but it made her wonder whom Elma had relied on before, and who would be next. Over the next few days, things returned to “normal-for-Astorwold”. The unexpected was expected at any time. Elma and her 8 pigs defied Dame Agatha’s pronouncement and came back to the warm barn to spend the cold month and be pampered by their old Protector. Reginald left for his new job at Bermridge House on the southern seacoast, after finally getting the courage to warn Dame Agatha that heirs had heard there might be property not yet turned over to them and they were looking for ways to get it. The magi from Paraguay finished their internship and departed. Verbal bought the first of three wands made out of the stick Robin had fallen on when he slid off of Jorosh. “Now I am officially in the wand business,” Aeron remarked as he took the 8 gold galleons. By the time Ronald drove the students back to King’s Cross Station for their train trip back to Hogwarts, some snow had fallen on Astorwold, giving the meadow a lovely coat of white. “The meadow has four seasons,” Sorg commented as the Bentley glided across the stones and potholes, “white, yellow, green and brown.” “Oh, the farmer is becoming an artist,” Wendy teased. Robin made a mental note to suggest that the long-haired sheep be allowed to graze on the meadow. It could be called his first agricultural directive as he transformed himself from the concrete city to the rural countryside where he belonged.

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Organizing Astorwold Dumitru’s Surprise Visit The month of May had turned the Astorwold Enchanted Forest green and the front meadow into a great field of yellow flowers. The long-haired sheep flock was multiplying. Astorwold labs were operating at full production capacity. It had been a year since Aeron Finchfinder had brazenly gone in search of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, the Mother of All Trees, and returned with a stick to be turned into wands. A third of the stick had been successfully grafted onto an ash tree in the woodland next to the Dark Lake at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A second third had been converted into three wands by the use of tools provided by the miners of the Dwarfish Kingdom of Bukonita, one wand for Aeron, one for the Master Wand Maker of Bukonita, and one for the Dwarf Zworn. These designations had been confirmed as the will of the Mother Tree by a powerful magical stone called The Eye of Lorin that Zworn had slipped into Aeron’s pocket. The proof that Yggdrasil had given a wand to the Dwarves verified their legend in their minds that they were equal to Peple and would once again reign at the top of the magical hierarchy – and have their palace on the World Mountain. Aeron had been awarded a Star of Honor which made him an honorary dwarf. Hermione Granger-Weasley, “Minister of Magic in Great Britain etc. etc.” had challenged Aeron to develop his knowledge of world-wide wand lore and get ready to make a case before the Magical Council to provide wands for “little people” in Britain if they wanted them, as dwarves had in other places. The wand dealers in Diagon Alley were afraid of Aeron, so he had set up shop in Astorwold, which turned out to be the right place to be. The final third of the Yggdrasil stick was waiting. Aeron sent an owl to Professor Neville Longbottom at Hogwarts asking when might be a convenient time to visit him and the trees at Hogwarts. Before a reply arrived his silver medallion signaled there was a message from his Romanian friend Dumitru, saying that he was on his way to Astorwold. Dumitru arrived in time for tea. The Silver-smith looked more than 6 months older, much more. There was time for a short walk around before the labs closed down for the day. Dumitru was impressed with the wands on display in Aeron’s cabinet. “I’ve shipped a few,” Aeron said modestly. “Word is getting around.” There were plans for a “First-year’s Department” in Slug and Jiggers Apothecary in 282

Diagon Alley, which had never before sold wands in competition with Ollivanders. An article in The Daily Prophet had increased interest. The Quibbler broke a story that Aeron Finchfinder’s A-Brand wands were effective for hunting Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. “Exclusive for a select few Hogwarts Firstyears” Jiggs declared in an advertisement. What was not mentioned is that those wands had not been produced yet and Aeron had been unavailable for comment about what magical strands were at their core. “Mystery abounds,” Rita Skeeter sneered in her gossip column. At the end of pudding, while they sipped A-Brand Alderberry Cordial, a new item being developed by the Astorwold Brewery Division, Aeron commented, “You look frazzled.” “Frazzled?” Dumitru repeated. “Beat. Worn out,” Aeron expanded. “Do I?” Dumitru responded, absent-mindedly. Then he blurted out, “Melina’s going to have a baby.” “She is?” Aeron exclaimed, and then quickly amended his comment, “I mean, that’s wonderful!” When Dumitru showed no happiness, Aeron added, “Isn’t it good? I’m very happy for you. OK, what’s wrong?” “The clans are shunning us,” Dumitru reported. Aeron was not sure what that involved, but it sounded like the families were unhappy. Aeron considered his next question for a while before asking, “When is the baby due?” “October,” Dumitru said somberly. So that was it, Aeron realized. Dumitru and Melina had been engaged last October and were supposed to get married this coming October, but they were going to have a baby then. “When we are around, the families pretend we aren’t. When we say something, they don’t hear; so we don’t talk to them anymore. Melina says it doesn’t matter, but it does,” Dumitru said, his voice unsteady. “Does anyone talk to you?” “Her mother talks to her when nobody is around. That’s all.” “Doesn’t the Master talk to you either?” Aeron couldn’t believe the old man would be “that way.” Dumitru shook his head. “He doesn’t talk to anybody. He talked more those few months you were there than he probably talked his whole life all put together.” Aeron suddenly felt guilty for leaving the Master and his friend so quickly after getting what he wanted. He felt selfish. After a night’s sleep in Briar Cottage, before breakfast, Aeron announced, 283

“I have an idea.” As they walked to the dining hall to join the Astorwold workers, Aeron outlined his preposterous fairy-tale idea. They agreed it would never work, but Dumitru was buoyed up by Aeron’s exuberance. “I will be there for the christening,” Aeron promised. “We’ll see if your families can resist THIS!”

Cynthia Snatched Robin Astor Havorford, who still went by the name Havorford at Hogwarts, was sitting with a group of Huffelpuff students at breakfast in the Great Hall when the morning flight of owls arrived. An owl he did not recognize came over him and dropped a note onto his toast with strawberry jam. The strawberry coated note was from Amber Morehead in London. She was the witch that took Robin to the Hogwarts Express the day he first departed for school and last saw any of his family in the council flat. Amber’s note brought shocking news. “Your littlest sister Cynthia is a witch. Your father has tried beating it out of her, but that tends to backfire. Recently he has been locking her out of the flat, which is very dangerous in your building as you know. Actually you probably do not know things have grown rather worse. You might be able to help Cynthia who is 5 and still has years before she can go to Hogwarts. Your mother works in the coffee shop on the corner from midnight to 8. I have tried to be friendly and have gained her trust. Send an owl telling when you can come.” Robin talked to Professor Verbal about it. “Take your carpet is what I would suggest, and go straight to London. I’ll have Gerald drive you from there.” “Amber says my mom has a job from midnight to morning in a coffee shop near home. Do you think the Headmistress will let me go on Saturday” Robin asked. “Count on it,” Verbal assured him. Ethel Havorford could not have been more overwhelmed when she saw a silver Bentley pulling up in front of her “24 Hour Coffee” shop. Luxury cars drove miles out of their way to avoid that neighborhood. Ethel wouldn’t feel safe without a can of mace in her apron pocket alongside her pad and pen, particularly not at 4:30 in the morning. She was alone in the shop. Ronald got out and scanned the deserted street for anything suspicious 284

before opening the car door for Robin. Her son had grown into a tall young man since Ethel had last seen him on the morning of September 1 nearly six years earlier. At first she didn’t recognize him until he said, “Mother!” She threw her hands in front of her face, peering through her fingers, her blue eyes wide and her mouth agape. As if there had been no time lapse at all and Robin had last talked to her the day before, she cried, “O Robin, I’m so glad you’re here. Cynthia’s been snatched!” Robin was still reeling from his mother’s announcement that little Cynthia had been abducted, when Amber strolled in chewing gum loudly. She sized up the situation and seated herself at a small table to wait for details. It was a minute before either Robin or his mother realized she had come in. “My daughter’s been snatched,” Ethel finally said to her frequent customer. “When d’it ‘appen?” Amber asked, raking long blue fingernails adorned with red and white stars through her stiff pink spikes of hair. Amber was as far from a stereotypical witch as Granny Og was close to it. “Las’night!” Ethel cried. Amber suspected Robin’s father of being the instigator, until Ethel said, “Wilbur’s been at the cops’ all night. ‘E’s gone mad, ‘e ‘as. ‘E’s swearin’ Robin’s-like is done this t’get back at ‘im. ‘I’ll kill the bastar’ wen I get’s me ‘ands on’im,’ Wilbur swore.” Robin was somber and trembling. Amber saw him flick his fingers toward the liveried driver standing beside the silver car. She wanted Robin to hear a little more. “’Ow’d it ‘appen?” Amber probed. “Wilbur, ‘e locked ‘er in the ‘all again. Caught ‘er watchin’ a witch cartoon on the telly. When ‘e calmed down I wen’ta get ‘er back in, but she was gone. I knew it wasn’t ‘er to run away. She always stayed by the door. “Er Tammy was thrown down the stairs. Tammy’s ‘er doll. They’re never separate. She’d lose ‘er arm before she’d lot go’a Tammy. That’s when I knew.”

Estate Settled, Like It or Not Sir Edward’s Muggle heirs had finally to get the deed to Astor Estate and all his stocks and bond. His noble title expired when he died without a son or daughter. The nearest family were children of cousins who might have inherited nothing except for Dame Agatha. 285

The meeting of the heirs in the Board Room was a disappointment to Rose, the Astor Estate resident. She had presumed that the chateau in Mayfair would be hers and then both she and the more distant cousins would divide Sir Edward’s other real estate and business interests. Dame Agatha was backed up by a pair of lawyers and a bank vice president when the meeting with the 6 cousins took place. “I have had a pleasant visit with all the Astor Estate staff,” Dame Agatha began “Indeed it was pleasant for them. She gave away a fortune of OUR money,” Rose fumed in a stage-whisper to her daughter Rose. Dame Agatha continued, “I returned the retirement funds to each of them for them to invest as they see fit, since Astor Estate is being dissolved as a legal entity.” Rose gasped as if this were news, which it was not. “I gave them each a severance bonus equal to their last month’s salary for every year they were retained,” she announced. This was news. “I have offered positions to any current staff who wish to transfer to my own seaside cottage. Reginald has accepted my offer. The rest of the staff have indicated they are available to be re-hired by whichever of you takes over the chateau. “Now, nieces and nephews, for the business at hand: the chateau has been appraised by three firms, and I am relieved to inform you they are in substantial agreement. As Sir Edward told you before he died and as he has made abundantly clear in his will, he intended you to divide his legacy equally. Cousin Rose has had benefit of living here rent-free for the past decade and a half and has not had to pay for staff, taxes, or utilities. That shall be considered her entitlement as the primary heir. As of this moment you are on equal terms. Conveniently, the value of Astor Estate is one fifth the value of all other assets. So there are six equal parts to the legacy. One of you can take the chateau and the rest divide stocks and bonds. Or if none of you want the chateau, there is a buyer on record who has made a firm bid and our banker is ready to prepare a bank draft here and now for the amount. The stocks and bonds are in these five packets for your examination. There is just one stipulation,” Dame Agatha added in a more aggressive tone of voice. “This estate will be settled and final before you leave the room today. “You see,” she added over a murmur, “I am not dead. I still have legal control over everything. If you sign this agreement” – a lawyer laid one before each heir – “you will leave wealthy and I shall depart happy to be free of this burden.” “What about the other properties and the factory, the shipping company?” 286

Rose demanded. “Sir Malcolm,” Dame Agatha addressed the senior barrister. Sir Malcolm cleared his throat. “Sir Edward liquidated his assets months before he died. His entire legacy is in stocks and bonds before you. The deeds and records are here for you to examine, or your solicitor may make an appointment with my secretary to have copies made as you may require.” After squabbling for half an hour they all signed the agreement and accepted the packets. Rose signed for the mansion. The meeting ended. “Do you think that’s the end of it?” Ronald asked as he eased the Bentley toward Bulgravia. “Rose seems to have gotten a hint of the other properties.” “They do not exist,” Dame Agatha responded. “To exist, a property has to appear on government records. Nothing in Merry Old England is as thoroughly recorded as real estate. Even if Rose should stumble into Astorwold and see it with her own eyes, she could not take that to court without documentation.” “Rose will try,” Ronald guessed. “Then she will wish she had not,” Dame Agatha replied. There was no mistaking the threat. It was not for nothing Dame Agatha was known in the magical world as the most fearless witch in Suffolk and all of Anglo-Saxon England.

Investigation Begins The Department of Magical Law Enforcement assigned Auror Pent Burl to investigate disappearances of 12 different children, including Cynthia Havorford. Pent’s first report was brief. “The investigation has determined the following: (1) All the magical children were 5 years old. (2) The parents all knew or suspected their children were magical. (3) There is nothing consistent about location, time of abduction, or family status. (4) There has been no further contact with families requesting ransom or terms. (5) There are no witnesses. The children were alone at the time they disappeared. (6) Our investigators have accessed records of Scotland Yard and find no helpful additional information. (7) Auror investigators are attempting to gain access to Muggle family members to seek further evidence the Muggle police may have overlooked.” Pent talked to Robin about his sister’s disappearance. “How can I get to visit your family?” 287

“I can’t help you there,” Robin confessed. “My father hates me more than ever. He thinks I took Cynthia to get revenge on him for his treatment of me. Actually, I was on the way to see if my mother would help me get her away from his beatings and abuse. But there is a witch in the neighborhood who Mother trusts a little. Amber told Pent, “I can get you inside their flat if you will pose as my boy friend.” Pent guffawed. He was wearing a suit with white shirt and tie, while she had a rainbow Mohawk, 9 inches tall, and 7 rings and beads piercing her face. By the time Amber was through with him he looked more like a minor musician in a back-street rock band. Wilbur was out of the house. Ethel was delighted her customer and boyfriend had an interest in “this horrible thing.” She showed them the outside hallway where Cynthia had been expelled for watching a witch cartoon. Pent noted that Wilbur had recognized Cynthia’s interest in witches. “’Er dolly was threw down the stairs,” Ethel pointed out. “Can I see the doll?” “It’s Tammy. See her arm is tore. Cynthia musta hung onto it dear!” Pent asked for a drink of water. “Where’s my manners!” Ethel cried. “Lemme get tea.” While Ethel was boiling water and fussing with cups, Pent scanned the doll with his wand and dark polarizing glasses. There were two lingering auras. He collected them with his old Kodak. Then he asked for a peek at any of Cynthia’s clothes. “’Er bed is that one,” Ethel pointed to a cot in the corner. Pent got a picture of that, too. Back at the Ministry Pent endured teasing for his purple sideburns and “Love you Mom” tattoo. “It’ll wash off,” he insisted, but didn’t test the idea while they were looking. A day later Pent showed the pictures and negatives to Ron, his supervisor. “There’s traces of two auras on the doll. One of ’em matches the aura on the bed and one doesn’t.” “Did you get the doll?” Ron asked. “The girl’s mom wouldn’t give it up. Said it was all she had of her baby. I think we can get it if we need it.” “Any new ideas about who’s doing this?” Ron asked. “I’m calling him or them ‘The Squid’,” Pent said. “Like in the movie, he 288

pulls the kids down out of sight without a trace.” “Horrible,” Ron said, with a shudder and a thought about how glad he was his kids were older than five.

Visit to the Vault Dumitru has brought a considerable load of presents that had been given to Master Aeron by craft families of Bukonita, which had been more than Aeron and Dean could carry when they bid the folks in the magical castle farewell. There were magical items of great value and unique design made by the Bronze-smiths, the Weavers, the Casket-makers, the Portrait-painters, and additional gifts from the Dwarves and from the Witch in Albania. The gifts from the Dwarves, although small in size, were large in all magical ways that mattered. “We should put these in my vault in the bank,” Aeron commented. “I can show you Diagon Alley as we go.” The two fellows made their way through the Leaky Cauldron to the back wall outside and into the magical marketplace of London. Dumitru was impressed. He was easily impressed after spending his growing-up years confined in the four walls of Bukonita Castle. The farther down Diagon Alley they went the more impressed he was. Then they came to Gringotts Wizarding Bank. “Is that the King’s Palace,” Dumitru asked. “No, it is the bank,” Aeron replied, thinking how nearly it was the place from which the magical world was ruled. Aeron was given VIP treatment from the door to the passageway leading to the vaults far underground. It was all Aeron could do to keep from having the Bank Manager accompany them on the carts to the high security vaults. “No, no need to interrupt your work,” Aeron insisted, at last getting a senior clerk instead. “I now need my tools,” Aeron explained, both to the clerk and to Dumitru. “We will be depositing these items,” Aeron showed the precious gems and gifts Dumitru has brought. “I have made a list of my deposits and withdrawals to save your secretary the need to do it.” “You are too kind, Illustrious One,” the clerk said, meaning, “You have a lot to learn about being an honorary Dwarf.” When they saw the small stash inside the vault, Dumitru immediately noticed his family’s silver bowl. “I don’t believe I had a chance to explain what the bowl does,” Dumitru 289

confessed. “It shows you what someone is seeing if they are thinking of you sometime in the future. You have to mention them to the bowl and if you catch them thinking about you, you see what they are looking at.” “What good is it?” Aeron wondered. “Well you might catch an unfaithful lover being unfaithful,” Dumitru suggested. “Great Aunt Alia did that.” “Did she get revenge or change what was going on?” Aeron asked. “Oh, no!” Dumitru cried. “You get in terrible trouble changing the outcome of what you see. But she knew what Uncle Bo was doing. It’s like evidence of a prophecy. It clears things up.” Aeron didn’t think this explanation cleared things up, but he decided to take the bowl back to Astorwold and study it. Outside, after a treat at the ice cream store Dumitru said, “I must get back. Melina worries if I am gone too long.” He asked for a pot of hot water and made an infusion of the Bukonita herbs to sustain him on his Apparition all the way back to Bukonita. “I’m going to try to make it in one jump,” he explained, “even if it kills me.” Aeron shivered at the horrible thought, but said nothing. He would have tried that, too, if he had Melina waiting anxiously for him.

Tomte Bonde’s News Tomte Bonde was Dame Agatha’s most trusted financial wizard. The Astorwold gnome was the treasurer, accountant and comptroller of A-Brand Enterprises, the corporate name for the company that manufactured and marketed the products made by Astorwold Labs. All those business names were Tomte Bonde’s ideas, as well. Robin had been surprised to learn that not all the little people were so very little. Gnomes, for example came in various sizes and types. Those that infested Molly Weasley’s garden were the size of squirrels. They were thought of as pests, although it was hard to see what damage they did besides being pestiferous and persistently pesky. Gnomes had a reputation in Scandinavia for being mischievous, but what would Christmas be without them? Santa Claus was nothing but an inflated gnome. Otherwise, they were not very well known, and that led to a lot of misconceptions and confusion. None of this applied to Astorwolders. The Astorwold gnomes were herbalists, without which Astorwold would have remained an unknown, enchanted wildlife preserve. 290

Year by year the line of A-Brand products expanded and profits increased. Beginning with just a few previously unrecognized herbs, a whole range of magical pharmaceuticals and household items were developed using snake venom, magical creature dung, spider silk, milk from Himalayan goats, hair from Saharan long-haired sheep, and scores of fruits and berries that no magical clinic or better home could do without. Dame Agatha left it to others to inflict violence to get spleens, livers, heart-muscle fibers, and other internal organs, as well as whole salamanders, slugs, bats, bugs and worms. She decreed that production of Astorwold goods would be sustainable and non-violent. Manufacturing and merchandising were two business challenges Dame Agatha had struggled with for decades and which would soon fall to Robin, Sorg and Aeron and the younger generation. “Tant Aggy,” Tomte Bonde called as he trundled across the barnyard toward the stables where Dame Agatha was watching the pinion feathers of her secret team of flying horses be preened and oiled. The gnome was waving a ribbon as if it were a grand prize. The ribbon turned out to be a message from his relatives in Norway and Sweden. “We have a market!” the excited gnome announced. “The Magic Nordic Market Network will take all the Berber carpets we can supply. MNMN wants the first ones by mid-summer.” “The first ONE,” Dame Agatha retorted. “There’s just one, so far.” “Production has increased since they finished the big round one. They now have six and two more almost finished. What price shall I quote?” “How should I know?” Dame Agatha replied. “No one has sold a flying carpet for ages. Exactly!” she said as if replying to herself. “We should have your relatives hold an auction. We’ll get the word out, all over. If we can’t sell them here in Great Britain we’ll sell them where we can,” Dame Agatha said, warming up to the idea. “Where would your relatives have the auction?” “Stockholm,” Tomte Bonde responded without hesitation.

Wands and Darts Aeron got a reply from Neville Longbottom the day after Dumitru went back to Bukonita. “Come before the students leave,” the letter said. “Next Wednesday Hogsmeade will be crawling with Hogwarts students on their final outing of the year. About 10 at Dervish and Banges?” After a short conversation to catch up, Aeron and Neville set off for the 291

woodland next to the Dark Lake. “I am curious about that memorial tree,” Aeron said. Neville nodded. “Colin Creevey. Yes, the tree is planted in his memory. In fact, he was buried right there and the tree transplanted as part of the ceremony. It was a sapling, but how it’s grown!” “And I’d like to show you the picture I took of the graft from Yggdrasil,” Aeron added. “It has some curious bits.” The memorial tree was nearly twenty years old, so it had the appearance of being mature and fully developed. Aeron stared at it from all angles, flicking Ygg at it idly from time to time. Finally, Aeron said, “I wonder if anyone would object if I collected some sticks from this tree.” Neville was certain nobody would object. “We can get Hagrid to help, if you like.” Neville nodded toward the familiar hut in the background. Aeron already had his folding knife out and was carefully cutting small branches from here and there. To complete his bundle he climbed onto the lower limb and up into the center of the tree. “How many do I have?” Aeron called down. “You have 25,” Neville called back. Neville helped Aeron trim twigs and leaves off his collection and then tied them with a boot lace. Their next stop was the ash tree. Aeron tested the splice with his Ygg wand made from the same stick. There was something like a magnetic reaction. “Seems they recognize each other,” Neville observed. “Those sworls,” Aeron pointed to small branches radiating like spokes of a wheel at four intervals up the spliced branch, “are they typical of an ash tree?” “Hmm. Now that you mention it, no,” Neville replied. “There are 5 in every sworl, where there is usually one branch,” Aeron commented. “I believe that is not an accident of nature. Let’s see.” Aeron closed his eyes and gradually aimed Ygg toward the first sworl of 5 spokes. Neville was completely spellbound. One of the spokes bent toward Aeron holding Ygg at arm’s length. The stick was about the size of Aeron’s big toe, but about a foot and a half long. All five spokes were the same diameter and roughly the same length. It was a little hard to tell because of their thick leaves. In a moment the bending spoke snapped and flew toward Aeron. Neville reached out and caught it. “Wand,” Aeron said, mysteriously. “Graft,” Aeron pronounced as the next spoke snapped. Wand and wand were how the next two were dedicated. The fifth spoke stayed attached to go on growing. 292

Aeron turned his attention to the next sworl. Again, one spoke was left to grow. Two were for grafts and one for a wand. The fifth refused to respond until Aeron thought of darts. “Darts?” Aeron exclaimed with alarm. “Darts!” The third sworl was all darts. The fourth sworl at the tip was still too young to be bothered. Neville had carefully collected the sticks into three piles. There were 4 sticks that Aeron had called wands. 3 were for grafts. 5 were for darts. “Maybe we should do the grafting while the sticks are still fresh,” Neville suggested. “No,” Aeron said. “Let’s wrap them and you can graft one to another ash tree. I’ll take two for Astorwold.” As an afterthought Aeron added, “Darts? Why darts?” He knew nothing about making darts. The whole idea bothered him. As they were walking back to the greenhouses to prepare the cuttings properly for travel, Neville said, “What is curious about that picture you took of the splice?” Aeron had forgotten this reason for his trip back to Hogwarts. “Here look at this print,” Aeron handed a somewhat battered photograph to the professor. “Nice clear picture,” is all Neville could think to say. “Compare it to the negative,” Aeron suggested, handing over the film. First impression was that the colors were strange and reversed. There was a lot of orange where the photo was blue. Light places were dark. Then Neville saw what he’d been overlooking. All around the splice was a halo that had not shown up in the print. It could be called a black glow. If the colors were reversed it would be white or very light. “What is it?” Neville asked. “I’ve studied it a little. There is a branch of Muggle photography called lomography. These halos could be auras. They would be radiating power, very faint. Some people swear they have a gift for seeing them with the naked eye. Others use polarizing glasses.” “Do you have any idea what this aura around the splice means?” Neville asked. “No idea at all,” Aeron confessed.

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Geddes Goes To Camp Geddes Waring had little chance to try out the protection his magical tattoos presumably provided. Aside from bumps and bruises, and injuries Madame Pomfrey easily fixed, Hogwarts was free of dangers now that the Dark Lord had been subdued by Harry Potter. All the Death Eaters had reportedly been rounded up and trials kept the Wizengemot court busy for months – all before most of the students in Hogwarts had been born. Geddes graduated in June, wondering what work he should pursue. He had been a good student, earning 5 OWLs in subjects that were important. Without anything at hand, Geddes agreed to a summer internship in Italy. “This summer we will be having magic camps for children in Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Israel and Egypt,” Wilhelmina told the interns and volunteers. She pointed to flags of those countries hanging on walls around the room. “Our goal is to teach vulnerable children survival skills and cover them with a coating of protection until they can get to their school in Capri or Timbuktu. The school on Mount Sinai was discovered and destroyed. It was a great tragedy for students and a loss of an immense treasury of scrolls going back to the first dynasty.” Geddes felt the protective tattoo on his back tingle at the mention of a coating of protection. Wilhelmina, who had graduated from Hogwarts just the year before, and Augusto from Florence were co-directors of the camping project. “We will divide into 4 groups of 4,” Augusto announced. “Move to the flag of your choice. If you don’t divide evenly we will draw straws.” Geddes was torn between Turkey and Egypt, but both of those teams filled up before he could make up his mind. He found himself under the white and blue banner of Israel with two witches from Denmark and a wizard from Ukraine. It didn’t matter, Geddes decided; everybody would have an adventure, wherever they went. Gorgeous Antonio announced, “Each team will be accompanied by two natives from the country. They have been working for weeks to identify children at great risk, to come to camp. You will be the ones to conduct the camp and on the final night we will send a pair of powerful old crones to do the web-spinning.” Geddes looked around to see if anyone else was as mystified about web-spinning as he was. He couldn’t tell. For two days the interns and volunteers stayed at TIMAT, the Italian magical college, and got acquainted with each other and with the camp program 294

they were to conduct three times, during the next month. The first thing that Geddes learned is that the Tuscan Institute of Magical Arts and Tradition was one of several institutions of higher education springing up around Europe. Geddes felt this was worth thinking about. Then on the third morning his team headed across the Adriatic and Mediterranean to Tel Aviv.

Flying Carpet Auction The Flying Carpet Auction in Stockholm was as big news in Europe among the magical communities as discovery of a forgotten painting by Rembrandt would be for art museums. Every major wizard family planned to send someone to check it out. Cautious witches and wizards reckoned, “If they can make these again, they’ll make more and the price will begin to fall.” Excitement tended to over-ride thrift, especially among those for whom gold was no problem. Conservative witches scoffed they would rather be dead than seen riding on anything but a broom. Thrill seekers were disappointed when they found test rides would not be permitted, but successful bidders could return a carpet within an hour for full refunds if dissatisfied in any way. “Test rides!” Tomte Bonde wailed. “They’d be gone in a flash.” There would have been no flash, but the point was well taken. Every leading witch and wizard in Europe soon heard of Astorwold products. As far as Tomte Bonde was concerned, the sale was a success no matter what happened in Stockholm. Inspired by all the publicity, Udat Ayt Udat sent for another dozen Berber carpet weavers and began round-the-clock shifts at 3 looms. He obeyed Dame Agatha’s orders not to smuggle in a few old carpets made in Morocco, but he imported bales of un-spun wool. The Ministry’s Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office fumed, but there was a loop-hole in the law that permitted this. So, on the weekend before the auction, 4 three-by-four and 4 five-by-sixfoot carpets were ready to send. Robin, home from Hogwarts for the summer, was sent with his own carpet to do a demonstration flight. Two Berber weavers set up a little loom and produced a hot pad to fly around with a kitten aboard. An hour before the actual bidding was due to begin, a blond young man came up to Robin and said, “Hi, I’m Niels Carlsson.” Before he could say anything else, Robin exclaimed, “Aeron has told me all 295

about your adventure in Middle-Earth! How’s it going at INALL?” “Fine,” Niels said. “I’m about to graduate, but I may have to delay because of a family crisis. I was wondering if I could send back a letter with you. I don’t trust the owls to fly over the North Sea these days.” “What’s wrong with the North Sea?” Robin asked. “We just came from England and nothing happened.” “I’d suggest you take a longer route back,” Niels said grimly. “Nord, my little nephew was kidnapped and we traced him to the North Sea. Then the trail got scrambled.” Robin was so shocked he turned white and began to wobble. “What’s the matter?” Niels asked, taking hold of Robin’s shoulder. “My little sister was snatched in May. Your story hit me,” Robin admitted. “Sorry,” Niels said. “Well, thanks for taking this request to Aeron. If anyone can help, I think he might be able to.” The auctioneer accepted silent bids from those who posted a deposit. Bidders were to bid on individual carpets and submit a bid for the whole lot if they wanted to. Whichever amounted to the most, would win. When bidding time ended, the bidders watched Robin fly around the parkland and drank A-Brand Alderberry Cordial “from the Enchanted Forest of Astorwold.” After an hour the auctioneer whistled and announced, “The winning bid of 9000 British galleons for the lot of eight magic carpets has been submitted by an anonymous bidder in Antwerp. The payment has been made in full, so that concludes our auction. You may collect your deposits at your convenience. Thank you for your interest and attendance.”

Magic Camps ‫ג‬

‫אב‬

Magic Camp Aleph in Israel was held in Masada, the ruined fortress-palace of King Herod the Great. It had literally been carved out of solid rock hundreds of feet above the arid plain. Masada had been the last hold-out for Jewish rebels opposed to Roman rule. In the year 125 the Romans besieged the fortress and found the rebels all dead, preferring suicide to capture. In the modern State of Israel, Masada is both an archeological wonder and patriotic shrine where army recruits are taken to swear that conquest of Israel shall happen, “Never again!” When it was build, Masada had lavish chambers for royalty, luxurious Roman baths, servants’ quarters, and facilities for the royal guards, as well as an elaborate water storage system. 296

MASADA It was easy to “borrow” some of the seldom-visited chambers for the camping group of 10 children with the 4 volunteers and 2 Israeli counselors. The location added a sense of dramatic adventure to the very serious purpose of protecting these vulnerable children. Four of them had magical parents, four more were born in mostly-Muggle families, and two were not sure where they had come from. For three days and two nights they played games, sang songs, heard stories and found out they were magical, that it was all right to be magical, that they had a lot of magical company, and that they would be going to a wonderful magical school when they were 11 years old. Then on the third night they had their cocooning ceremony to wrap them in Count Prothero’s protective covering. The next morning as they were hiking down the old Roman siege ramp, the Ukranian volunteer who was Geddes’ partner commented, “I wish I’d gone to a camp like that when I was their age. My magic ran wild against my bullies and I was always getting blamed for turning them blue or for hiding in the church bell tower.” Geddes realized that, “This camp was sure worth doing for those kids!” The program for Camp Bet was similar but the campers were Bedouin and Palestinian children. Their camp was really a couple of large Bedouin tents under a grove of date palm trees with a little spring and pool. Geddes thought 297

he’d enjoy spending the whole summer in this one place. There were 9 campers from Palestinian tribes of Bedouins and from long-term refugees in Gaza. Surprisingly, the children were the happiest and easiest group of any magic camp conducted by volunteers from TIMAT. Magic Camp Gimel was being held in an olive orchard on a kibbutz on the shores of the Sea of Galilee now known as Lake Gennesaret. The two Israeli counselors predicted there would be 12 campers. They would include ethnic East European immigrant children, plus two whose families had come from New York, as well as a boy from a Bahai family in Acre, and a Jordanian run-away, street kid. Only 10 campers came to the meeting place, however. Last minute dropouts were not that unusual, but in this case it was disturbing because they were the two youngest, both 5 year-olds from magical Hasidic families. One of the Israeli counselors went to see about them while the camp got underway. They were playing a rousing game of “Who am I? I’m a witch!” when Yael came back with alarming news that the families of the two missing children thought they were at the camp. The polzi (aurors in Israel) were turning the town upside down. When the polzi came to the kibbutz the game of “Who am I?” was suspended. The disruption was brief. The camp program continued as planned, except that the two Israeli counselors were joined by another, whom everyone guessed was a polzi in disguise. The protection ceremony on the final night took on an air of added urgency. The next morning, after breakfast the 10 campers and 7 staff joined in a circle to dance and sing, “Hava Nagila” before the bus arrived. Geddes Waring was a different wizard by the end of July. He was, he thought, “infused with purpose.” He imagined carrying protection to the Ukraine with his camp partner and then throughout Europe. He and Wilhelmina discussed this enthusiastically back at the de-briefing in Mantua. Before the interns left for home, however, an alert was called that redirected purposeful Geddes.

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Flying Carpets Fly Again In September the Wizengemot ruled that owning and using a flying carpet manufactured or purchased in another country was not illegal as per the ruling in 1732 in the case of “Pots and Cauldrons” and numerous other cases involving magical devices. Later in September the Magic Council passed a law making the manufacture and sale of flying carpets legal for domestic and personal use in Britain. Dame Agatha consulted her Berber carpet makers. They were unconcerned. “The only real flying carpet makers are here,” Udat Ayt Udat assured her. “We have them all working for us,” his nephew Ibn insisted. Ibn suggested a contest sponsored by Astorwold. Ibn had graduated from the University of Paris, so he was acquainted with a wide range of topics, including international marketing. But his idea of a contest came from his love of driving Formula One race cars. He knew that an academic conference on flying carpets would establish benchmarks for quality assessment that might be useful when the Ministry got around to regulating and licensing carpets, but a race would generate real clients and fanatical fans. “There is no need to panic,” Ibn told Tomte Bonde. “Those rugs from India and China will never have a chance. They do not actually have magic carpet makers making their carpets.” “It looks like they do,” the gnome argued. “In a race it is only performance that matters,” Ibn countered. “Sponsorships help bring in cash,” Tomte Bonde suggested, warming up to the idea of a Flying Carpet Grand Prix. Ibn let that thought be the last for this round, which he had won.

Mariora’s Fairy-Tale Christening Mariora was born in Bukonita on October 23. The birth was proof to most people in Dumitru’s Silver-smith clan that the parents had produced a cursed child. What else could it be? Dumitru made secret plans to move away, but first the christening … and Aeron’s “impossible” plan. Melina’s family demanded the christening be a small private affair that amounted to nothing more than registering the baby’s name and declaring who were her parents. Then she would be cursed. No need to wait for a spinning wheel on her sixteenth birthday. 299

On the day of the christening, however, Master Aeron returned to Bukonita. He was amazed to find he could still come through the back wall of the fireplace in the Grand Hall, so he was still recognized as a member of the village. Aeron did not come alone. He had recruited help to turn Mariora’s naming ceremony into a fairy-tale event. First to arrive after Aeron was Angela Pavone, a classmate from Hogwarts as well as an Etruscan Vestal Virgin, the oldest order of witches in Europe, maybe the oldest in the world. Angela was dressed for the part in an off-theshoulder white gown with a golden chain belt. Before the Bukonita villagers could get done being amazed at this appearance in their village center, Crown Princess Garlanda of the Dwarfish Kingdom of Bukonita arrived in a fruit basket in the vine-choked cistern room behind the Wand Master’s shop. She was accompanied by the Dwarf Zworn and a couple of little Dwarf children acting as page and handmaiden. For the occasion she had borrowed her grandmother’s tiara and heavy jeweled necklace. As if that were not impressive enough, Princess Garlanda’s first words to Aeron were, “Call forth Ion, the Jinn.” Only Dumitru knew that this was on the script. He and Aeron had exchanged a hundred messages by their silver medallions. Zworn, the Dwarf Wizard and Wand-Keeper, had passed word from a Dwarf Elder called “The Ancient” that a Jinn from Persia had been brought to the Roman army camp at Bukonita and buried, imprisoned in a brass urn sealed by a royal magi. The Jinn was to have been released, but the soldier died in battle before he could do it. The Ancient thought Aeron’s Ygg wand combined with Zworn’s would be powerful enough to break the seal and call the Jinn out. By this time, despite the shunning, every soul in Bukonita had come to the christening of baby Mariora. Neither Zworn nor Princess Garlanda had any idea where the Jinn might be buried, but the magical beech tree in the village square seemed a good place to begin. For a moment Aeron panicked when he realized he did not know what to say to call forth a Jinn buried for 2000 years. Then he got hold of himself and remembered what the Master had taught him about clarity and focus. He needed no magic word. He needed only to think of the Jinn coming, and mean it. For dramatic effect, Zworn and Aeron stood on opposite sides of the tree and aimed their Yggdrasil wants at the roots. The village crowd grew tense and quiet. After several minutes they grew restless. A little murmur began to rustle though the crowd. 300

Aeron had no idea what to do next. Was the plan ruined to turn the baby’s christening into a memorable magic moment? Just as Aeron was about to give up, Uncle Radu came from the Crystal-blowers and Silver-smiths alleyway tugging the Master Wand-maker by his sleeve. Without a word Uncle Radu reached into the Master’s pocket and pulled out his Yggdrasil wand which was the third of the set of three. As Zworn was still doing, the Master pointed his wand at the base of the tree, from which he had made hundreds of wands. Aeron hastily resumed his pose and concentration. The combined effort of the three of them seemed to enable the Jinn to emerge, first as a stream of vapor from the ground, then congealing into a ghost-like shape, and finally taking on color and form. The Princess took over. She moved to the right side of Ion, the Jinn, and Angela took a place on his left side. Melina’s mother had at last grasped what this was all about and shoved her shy daughter forward, holding not-so-tiny Mariora in a traditional Romanian christening gown. Dumitru hurried to join his wife and daughter facing the three formidable guests. Getting a poke in the back from Aeron, Dumitru blurted out, HERNAMEISMARIORA. It all came out as one word but the Dwarf Princess was not confused. “Mariora of Bukonita, we have come to bestow three blessings,” she announced with the same solemn tone of voice she might have used to crown an emperor. Ion gave the princess a look that said, “We have?” It was all Angela could do to keep from giggling. This was too “Walt Disney” she said to herself. But the Bukonita villagers were thrilled. “As an Etruscan Vestal Virgin, I bestow on you a lovely character,” Angela managed to say, remembering the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty and hoping there would be no irritated fourth fairy show up. Ion cleared his throat of 2000 years of dust and said in a voice that sounded like thunder, “Mariora, I bestow on you a powerful will.” Then he gave the Princess a “can I go now” look. She shook her head as she said, “As Crown Princess of the Dwarfish Kingdom of Bukonita, I give you esteemed wisdom.” Then the three deposited small gifts handed to them by the helpful Dwarf page boy and handmaiden. They were three jewels that gleamed as they landed on the baby’s christening gown. “Am I free?” Ion asked the Princess. “Jinn,” she affirmed, “in Bukonita we keep no slaves. Go in peace.” 301

He gave her another look that said, “No slaves? After 2000 years in a bottle here you could have fooled me,” but he vanished in an impressive cloud of smoke. The Crown Princess made her regal way, accompanied by her niece and nephew, back to the cistern room which four young men had been working feverishly to make clear of vines. She thanked them as she stepped into the black hole, dragging the two small dwarves with her. Zworn, Angela and Aeron stayed for the unplanned christening dinner being conjured up by any means available in the great hall. As they ate, the Master came over to Aeron. “The nut fell yesterday,” the Master announced. “The Mother Tree persuaded the pair of trees in the Slatioara Forest to let me gather it.” The Master held a green orb the size of a tennis ball in his outstretched hand. “But the great wonder is that this year they produced a second nut.” He held it in his other hand, which trembled a bit. “Am I to … to …” Aeron stammered, unable to finish his question. The Master finished it for him. “You are to plant them side by side a tree width apart on enchanted land. Of that I am sure,” the Master said. “This is too great an honor,” Aeron dissented. “It is a grave duty, yes,” the Master agreed. “An honor, yes. But not too great. You have been chosen to do this or you would not be doing it. Your trip to Middle-Earth and your escape carry such duties as these,” the Master said. “Not all duties are delightful but they are needful.” Thinking of onerous duties reminded Aeron of the letter from Professor Luns Niels had sent to him. Aeron asked, “Do you know anything about making darts?” “The sharp part is at the front,” the Master said. “What else?” “That is all I know,” the Master conceded.

Rose Upsets the Fearless Witch Rose Evergreed was both stubborn and desperate. She had got the Mayfair mansion, Astor Estate, which had been her aim, but quickly found she could not afford it. Taxes, utilities, maintenance, and insurance, were continual expenses. The swimming pool alone cost several hundred pounds a year for chemicals and cleaning, even when she turned off the heater. Within weeks she had to dismiss the staff. Mr. O’Fallon and his wife both retired and then 302

found they were being invited to consider positions with persons connected to “Number Ten”. So Rose had the 34-room chateau all to herself. It was admittedly easier to clean after Dame Agatha had removed the furniture and art she wanted and sold the rest, making a generous exception for Rose’s own apartment where she and her daughter, Rosie, lived. After a few weeks, Sir Malcolm contacted her with a “sweetened” offer from a client in the USA to purchase the mansion. Rose redoubled her resolve to keep it, but in order to pay the bills she had to take out a bank loan with the mansion as collateral. Her one idea was “the old witch has cheated us.” She used the term witch, never thinking it might be literally accurate. Had she thought that, she might have hesitated to do what she did next. Dame Agatha’s violet Rolls Royce limousine was not exactly inconspicuous. It was the type of automobile that stopped traffic without flashing lights. People assumed it was being driven by wealthy Middle-Eastern royalty, but they stayed out of the way and stared just the same. So it happened that Rose spotted the vehicle while she was standing at a bus stop. She hailed a cab and asked it to “follow the prince so I can make his tea without being scolded.” The taxi driver felt sorry for the poor woman and managed to keep the Rolls in sight until it turned into the alleyway behind the row of townhouses on Bulgravia Square. She paid the cab fare and watched the limo enter the garage for #14-15. Rose knew Dame Agatha could have nothing to do with the Chemical Industrial Society, whose name was on the electric garage door, so she must be the owner of this impressive address. Now, with her suspicion confirmed, Rose decided she needed some solid evidence that the old lady had withheld part of the legacy. The following day, Rose called at the front door of the Chemical Industrial Society, posing as a chemistry professor who had been invited to meet a person who had failed to give her name, but promised to be there in time for tea. She got as far as the front entryway, where she was told that there must be some mistake. Everyone in the society was in Geneva attending a conference all week. Giving it one last go, Rose said, “Surely you are wrong about my contact. I saw her purple Rolls come here yesterday.” She was escorted briskly back out onto the street with definite suggestions about asking for her contacts by name in future. “Astor,” Rose called, as the door shut with finality a heavy mansion door can make. From French windows on the second floor Ronald saw her come and go. 303

A solid coin of the realm coaxed his colleague in the front staff of the Chemical Industrial Society to tell how the woman had tried to gain access to the building. “Well,” Dame Agatha retorted, “Rose needs firmer persuasion.” “What shall you have me do?” Ronald volunteered. “Allow her to discover the Buttercup,” Agatha said.

Aeron’s Special Training Zworn, the Wand-wizard of the Dwarfish Kingdom of Bukonita, came over to Aeron as the christening dinner for Mariora was winding down. “The Ancient would like to have a talk with you, Illustrious One,” Zworn said. Aeron could barely understand the groaning accent the Dwarf was using, trying valiantly to speak English. Uncle Radu had consumed too much Romanian Merlot to be of help as an interpreter. Zworn had to repeat himself three times before Aeron got it, that “the Ancient and a Goblin from Britain are waiting for you in the Dwarves’ Mall.” Aeron had only an inkling about how amazed Zworn was that the Ancient had sent for a human and that a Goblin from Britain was with her. Zworn and Aeron startled the four young men sweeping up the last of the twigs and leaves from the cistern room. This neglected chamber had become a major passageway after decades of neglect. Zworn stepped into the black hole and Aeron counted to three before leaping over the rim after him. The four curious sweepers immediately converged around the cistern rim to see where everybody had been going, but there was only thick blackness. Aeron closed his eyes and moved by instinct for a while, following Zworn’s faint sounds two steps in front of him. The Mall was not as far from the portal as the mine had been. But by the time they got to the plaza where the Dwarves of Bukonita lived, Aeron’s second sight was working. “Illustrious One,” croaked two voices in unison as Aeron was ushered through a low archway into a courtyard. Facing him were two little people. One was wearing an immaculate three-piece pin-stripe suit with a diamond stick pin in his gray cravat. Aeron assumed it was gray; all colors were shades of black in the Dwarfish Kingdom of Bukonita. Aeron recognized this welldressed dwarf from Gringotts Wizarding Bank. His companion was coming into focus by then. She was an old dwarf who reminded Aeron of Jedi Master Yoda in a “Star Wars” re-run he had seen on Muggle TV in Denmark while 304

he and Professor Verbal waited to catch the ferry to Sweden. “You must be wondering why we invited you here, Illustrious Aeron,” the Goblin said. Aeron had, indeed, begun to wonder what urgent business impelled this extraordinary meeting. “It is about the Eye of Lorin,” the Manager continued. Aeron was about to confess he had taken the stone. He imagined Zworn might be in trouble for slipping it into his pocket that day. But the Ancient began a growling discourse that seemed not to be accusing anybody of anything. She was monotonous. No one tried to help Aeron understand what she was saying. They were honoring her vast seniority Aeron realized. After many minutes she paused and was handed a stone cup of beverage to sip while the Goblin banker explained. “Elder Gamella wants you to know about the Eye of Lorin. It goes by many names, as such things do which possess great magical power and spiritual significance. In the Muggle world an Eye of Lorin could be known as the Eye of Horus, or the Evil Eye. The Ancient has heard you are seeking knowledge about the nature and destiny of life. Listen carefully. “The Eye of Lorin is a symbol as well as a tool. You have discovered one of its uses, to test that which is derived from the Mother Tree. As a symbol it tells of awakening to immortality through an act of self-divestiture. “In an Egyptian story, the son of Osiris and Isis, the boy Horus, gave up his left eye in battle with his uncle Set to avenge his father whom Set had murdered. But the Eye which Horus sacrificed gave Osiris a second life that was eternal, as god of the underworld. The one thought to be dead, then used the eye his son sacrificed to see that he was in fact alive eternally. All who manage to acquire the vision of the Eye of Horus will also see that the dead father is transfigured into the eternal realm, and that the Son is also living, and so is the uncle, for the three share indispensable roles in the saga of death and resurrection, so they co-exist.” “There is parallel-ness, the Seventh Dimension,” Aeron said to himself. The Ancient resumed her discourse. After several minutes she paused again and the Goblin took over. “The Eye of Lorin is a symbol of the mysterious power that transforms those who are blind to their immortality and potentiality. But to achieve this powerful insight they must undergo a great relinquishment. They must divest themselves to self.” Aeron was startled to be told, “Come closer to me.” He had not heard the old woman’s command with his ears, but in his mind directly. He moved to sit in front of the eminent Dwarf. “Now clear your mind,” she ordered. 305

Aeron decided the best he could do was to concentrate on the Dwarf. A blank mind was beyond his ability. Ancient: TINYNIT Aeron: Tiny nit? Ancient: Try harder. Aeron: Ohm. Ancient: Better. Again. Aeron: Ohm. Ooohmmm. (The resonating sound resonating filled his skull). Ancient: Who are you? Aeron: Aeron Finchfinder. Ancient: TINYNIT Aeron: Tiny nit? Ancient: Try harder. Aeron: Wand maker. Ancient: TINYNIT Aeron: What is ‘tiny nit’? Ancient: A minute irritating nuisance. (Aeron saw it as a small flying insect, rather than heard of it in so-many words). Aeron: (Tried again) Son. Ancient: Better. Again. Aeron: Son of the Mother of All. Ancient: What does it matter? Aeron: I am, who I am. (He meant, I am the sum total of all that makes me). Ancient: How do you know? Aeron: (Truth dawning) I see. Ancient: What shall we call your inner eye? Aeron: (Suddenly knowing) INEMENI Ancient: Or? Aeron: Lorin. The Goblin left Bukonita sometime soon after that, his mission accomplished to help Aeron begin to appreciate the stone he had deposited in his vault in Gringotts Bank. Aeron’s return to Astorwold was delayed for a while for him to have two more sessions with the Ancient. Each was unlike any instruction he had ever had. In the second session all that seemed to happen is that the Ancient took 306

the two nuts from the twin trees in the Forest of Slatioara and Aeron’s Ygg wand and laid the three items in various configurations for Aeron to contemplate. At first Aeron saw only two green seeds laying with the wand between them. The wand was touching each of them, connecting them, crossing the gap between them. But then he remembered the seeds were from a place no one had been able to go, before. The seeds represented an area that was remote, mysterious, maybe sacred. Yet he had gone to the place they had come from, inaccessible Middle-Earth, and he had brought back the bridge that connected the two realms. He was the agent that had made it happen. He was the bridge. Next, the Ancient laid the two green nuts closer together with Ygg on top of them. “Very well,” Aeron thought, “let my imagination run with this.” For no reason that he could think of, he developed the concept that this configuration represented himself in a physical way. It was a picture of him. The two green orbs were his chest, his breast -- no, all of him, heart, lungs and all. This time the wand stood for his shoulders, the bones of his shoulders and the muscles wrapped around the bones, by means of which he moved things within his reach and controlled them. He was composed of these bones, muscles and blood, and they were made of the same material as his dead mother, but also the same as the Mother of All. He, his mother, and Yggdrasil were one. The ancient rearranged the three items this way and that, never saying a word, never giving any indication that she knew what Aeron was thinking. However, she always changed the arrangement after he had seen a filled-in picture in his mind that the two seeds and the wand inspired. He couldn’t control the pictures his imagination generated. They just came. One of the arrangements reminded Aeron of the breasts of a woman. Another made him blush as he saw his own “private parts”. After a while Aeron got to the real purpose of this entirely non-verbal exercise. Each figure was suggestive of his relationship with the world Tree, and therefore with the cosmos. In each figure Aeron was able to see himself in a new way. So he expanded his identity beyond such things as his home address, his physical appearance, and his job as a wand maker. He began to reflexively understand those things in terms of his relationship to the cosmos and his distinctiveness in it. This impacted what he was supposed to be doing with his life. Even though he had only his wand and two large seeds, they were symbols, at last, of how he would live and make a difference in the lives of other. 307

Aeron’s last session with the Ancient was all about the Eye of Lorin which was named also INEMENI. “The names of the trees in the Forest that produced those nuts are NOGON The one on the sunrise side is NOG. The one on the sunset side is GON,” the Ancient told him. Their whole session was done through extra-sensory communication, mind to mind. Aeron thought the Ancient had a real love of palindromes. “Now pay attention,” she scolded him. “The seeds are GON and NOG. They are meant to be inseparable, GONOG. They are one, made whole by each other, GON on the north and NOG on the south.” “How will I know which is which?” Aeron wondered. “Yggdrasil will tell you.” “Where should I plant them?” “Yggdrasil will tell you.” Aeron hesitated to ask when. He was sure “Yggdrasil would tell me.” But the Ancient said, “INEMENI will tell you when to plant the seeds. It will depend, of course, on auspicious influences.” “What auspicious influences?” “Why, the dead Lord acquiring immortality, TINYNIT!”

Market Slump Tomte Bonde was beside himself. “Here’s another order for six cases of cordial,” he announced, waving a ribbon from Copenhagen. The price per bottle had doubled over the weeks since the carpet auction had introduces the newest beverage fad to the Scandinavian magical world. Robin and Dame Agatha sat on the sidelines as Sorg’s father, the Brew-master of Astorwold, thrashed this out with the gnome. The problem was that Alderberries grew wild and until a few years ago were thought to be poisonous. Sorg’s father had figured out how to isolate the toxins and distil the juice to make the cordial. The berries were gone by late summer and the supply had sold out. They were no farther along with rug weaving. The production bottleneck was the long-haired sheep which the Berbers curried for their wool. As fall was in the air, the sheep were not shedding. There was only enough wool to keep the three looms going one shift a day. Dame Agatha then decreed that the Berber children would go to school rather than continue working on the back sides of the looms, as they had been doing. A few of the Berbers, with 308

nothing to do, went back to Morocco for the winter. Of the new production lines, only Aeron’s wands were showing immediate potential. Back in mid-August Aeron moved to the Leaky Cauldron for a couple of weeks, where Hanna Abbott was now the proprietor. Slug and Jiggers Apothecary had a display of wands along with their standard supplies for Potions students and healers. At first, only a few parents were willing to have their children try out one of the ash wands from the Colin Creevey memorial tree. Many prospective customers lost interest as soon as Aeron told them these wands were magical without a powerful core. Aeron’s first sale was made to Samantha Spink, who had been brought to Diagon Alley by her sister, Shirley, rather than a parent. Samantha was a lively 11 year-old, who was thrilled to be on her first Hogwarts shopping spree. She had to touch everything. As soon as she picked up a wand from Aeron’s table it whizzed with a noise that filled the apothecary and brought two curious witches in from the street. Samantha had never felt anything like it. It was like waking up on Christmas morning. It was like being handed a life-long lollypop that changed into her new best flavor every ten seconds. Samantha would no more have put the wand down than she would have given up her beloved cat, Shaggy Girl. “How much?” Shirley asked, counting her precious coins. Aeron glanced at the small handful that would have to cover robes and books. “For the first five Hogwarts first-years,” he said, “five Sickles.” It was a ridiculously low price for a wand. Students were being charged eight or ten gold Galleons for wands down the street at Ollivanders. Shirley was grateful for their good luck as she handed over the five silver coins before Aeron changed his mind. Word got up and down Diagon Alley that A-Brand wands had shown promise. Older witches and wizards were not impressed. When any of them picked up one of Aeron’s wands it was less than adequate. Only new students going to Hogwarts could get a thrilling reaction. Long before the 25 wands were all sold, Aeron gathered that wands from the Colin Creevey memorial tree were designated for that particular group. Even though he knew that Tomte Bonde would be unhappy, Aeron sold the last twenty wands at only two Galleons each. When Hannah heard what he was doing, she reduced his bill at the Leaky Cauldron so he could break even.

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Geddes Joins the IAA “Look at this!” Wilhelmina shouted to Geddes as they were meeting in the middle of the TIMAT campus on the way to lunch. She waved her weekend International Edition of The Daily Prophet. The article she had seen exposed a new terror against … “Now get this!” … she shouted, even though they were only two feet apart … “Five-year-olds!” Geddes read the story: “The earliest cases were in May, Auror Pent Burl said at a press conference in Brussels yesterday. “Kidnappings continued throughout the summer.” Burl reported, “There have been no new cases since September 1.” The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has joined an international effort to find out who is trafficking in children so young. “Fifty children from nine different countries have disappeared,” said Inspector Jac Clueso of France, using more reserved language than Auror Burl at the news conference. But the French head of Magical Law and Order was enthusiastic when he announced, “We believe our newly formed International Auror Agency will give us the communication channels and coordinated effort we need to bring those children home.” None of the panelists would answer your Daily Prophet’s reporter’s question, “How can you bring them home if Rugnor has eaten them?” Famous investigative reporter Rita Skeeter writes, “Rather than face grim facts honestly, the new IAA is being used to try to divert attention from their failure to come up with even one solid lead.” The IAA announced in a printed hand-out that they are seeking new recruits. “We will be hiring “THE FEW-THE BOLD”. Geddes threw the newspaper down on the table. “Let’s go,” he said, forgetting all about his spaghetti marinara. “I think you should pack first,” Wilhelmina reminded him.

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The Suffolk Grand Prix Just four days after the Wizengemot’s ruling that British witches and wizards could own flying carpets, and the Magic Council’s rescinding the law banning manufacture of them, a law which Arthur Weasley had championed, The Daily Prophet ran a half-page article announcing:

Suffolk Grand Prix “Dame Agatha Astor is letting no dust gather on her new carpets, now that the Ministry of Magic has laid down a red carpet for the carpet makers of the world. Dame Agatha is offering a cash prize of 500 Galleons for the winner of the fastest carpet to fly a circle route from Suffolk to Hogsmeade, then on to Iceland, and back to the Scottish island of Iona, and ending at the site of the Qidditch World Cup Stadium. The Department of Magical Games and Sports will supervise the contest and provide judges at all locations.” As with Formula One race cars, emphasis would be on speed rather than appearance. The Daily Prophet article continued, “The race will test the rug-weaving capability of the manufacturers. But rugs specially woven to race may be competing against flying bath-mats and carpets from the Palace of the fabled Scheherazade. There are no barriers. Any carpet powered by magic may enter. Reserved seat tickets for the finish line and award ceremony are on sale now for 1000 spectators only at the stadium site. Standing room tickets will be free as space permits.” There was only a month to get everything lined up. Ibn was to be the Astorwold flier. Robin’s carpet was the only one that had not been sold. Ibn had an aerodynamic body suit made with advertisements for their two sponsors, A-Brand Enterprises and Ogden’s Old Firewhisky. The afternoon of the race came sooner than some teams were ready. Next year there would be more lead-time. Altogether 12 teams registered. Because flying carpets can be seen by Muggles, the race was to begin at dark, 6 p.m. Spectators were to take their seats in the stadium at that time, where a num311

ber of rock bands would provide entertainment while the fans waited for the racers around midnight. Starting line judges examined the rugs as they were presented, and then scanned the fliers for any magical assisting items. “In future this check-in ceremony would be a good time to have the press corps present and let the fliers and sponsors be seen,” Tomte Bonde thought. Ibn, flying for Astorwold, passed the inspection easily. The flying carpet from Londonderry was found to have a flying broomstick sewn inside a false lining of their rug. The team happily withdrew to the courtesy bar Old Ogden’s had graciously provided. All the rest of the entries passed, one from Iraq, one from Beijing, one from Bagdad, two from France and four others. The last entry, just as the judges were closing down, was a team from Antwerp. The flier wore an all-black body suit somewhat like Ibn’s. He registered his name as Knight, first name, Black. Ibn was startled. He hurried to his father and the Astorwold team with the news, “They’re flying one of our carpets!” The Astorwold strategy had been designed to get maximum benefit from the race. There was never any doubt they would easily win … until now. The race was to take about six hours and be over in front of a large crowd. That’s when the Minister of Magic and Dame Agatha expected to present the awards. Robin had been at school and got home at dusk. It had been a long, cold flight on a borrowed broom, since his carpet was being entered in the race. The judges were calling for contestants to come to the starting line when Robin landed behind the manor house. He expected an entirely different atmosphere than he found. “What’s wrong?” he asked Sorg. “One of the entries is a Black Knight from Antwerp. He’s flying a carpet we sold at Stockholm. Ibn is worried.” Robin ran to the starting line and pretended to be giving Ibn last minute good wishes. But what he said was for his ears alone. “Let them go first. Trust me.” Ibn was difficult to convince. Dame Agatha, however, was very persuasive when she wanted to be. So, whether he wanted to or not, Ibn had to delay his start and listen to a change of strategy. “And they’re off!” the starter announced. None had jumped the gun, so to speak. It was a fair start, the judges ruled. Ibn was five and a half minutes 312

behind the others. Black Knight had broken into the lead before the pack got to the Scottish border. At Hogsmeade they all had to land and have a tag attached to their rugs. Fliers were rechecked for wands, which were not allowed, to prevent anyone Apparating instead of flying. Then they left for the jump across the North Atlantic to Iceland. Ibn was behind the others, but not far enough. Two fliers had seen him arrive. They were more spread out when Iceland came below them. All the fliers were in good shape. The Black Knight arrived and left ahead of all others. Ibn was still dead last but it was time for his burst of speed. As soon as the others had gotten out of sight, Ibn lay flat on Robin’s carpet. As they had practiced just one time from the manor house to the Noble Oak and back, Ibn concentrated on his goal. Then he quietly said, “Iona NOW.” He reached the island a second later, collected his carpet tag from surprised judges and took off normally, leaving them wondering how they had missed his approach and landing. They told him he was the first to show up. It was a quarter to eleven when Ibn on the Astorwold entry swooped into the stadium lights in front of the stage, where he interrupted a rousing number by the Weird Sisters. Many minutes later the Iraqi flier arrived on her exquisite Ardebil carpet. One by one the fliers landed, except for the Black Knight. He had flown over the stadium grounds ahead of the witch from Iraq and saw that Ibn already had landed. He swore a serious oath is Flemish and headed west, hoping to get to Nova Scotia before he was missed. For the Board, it was always win or die. Ibn was actually disappointed. The idea of Astorwold Berber Carpets winning the Grand Prix in #1 and #2 order was not bad. Judges demanded an explanation about how Ibn had jumped into the lead between Iceland and Iona. To prove only the carpet’s inherent abilities had been used, Ibn demonstrated by bounding from one end of the stadium to the other. A judge wanted to try, just to make sure. Ibn explained to the enthralled crowd of racing fans, “This is the advantage of a carpet made to fly over one that has been enchanted to fly.” The judges conferred and were satisfied no rule had been broken. Astorwold flying carpets had one huge advantage, flown in the way only they were capable, they could go anywhere day or night. Carpets at the Stockholm auction had been sold for 48 Galleons per square foot. Before Ibn and Dame Agatha left the stadium grounds they had 313

orders and down payments for ten “Astorwold Grand Prix Racing Rugs” at 75 Galleons a foot. What’s the difference between an Astorwold Grand Prix Racing Rug and mine?” Robin asked. Ibn giggled. “Price.”

Rose Finds the Buttercup

The harbormaster at Hartlepool would tell anybody who inquired that the good ship Buttercup lay in four fathoms north of the breakwater not too far from the monument commemorating a bombardment of Hartlepool during the First World War. She had lain there since she sunk in a storm in 1904. Her crew could be found listed in the obituary records of St. Hilda’s Parish Church. Included on the list of those drowned aboard the Buttercup was the Captain Sir George Edward Astor, owner of the Buttercup. The harbormaster called the Buttercup a yacht, by which he hinted it was Sir George’s plaything rather than a working or naval vessel. This was just about to be the end of a long, exhausting hunt Rose had unwittingly been set upon. Ronald and Dame Agatha had sent Rose on a merry chase before letting her finally learn of a hidden bookshelf right there in Astor Estate. Step by step Rose had grown firm in her conviction she was finding a vast fortune hidden from her. Her quest had now led to information she found in her own library. 314

The library had been cleaned out, but Rose had been helped to discover that if a certain bit of scroll-work were slid aside, the top shelves of the central bookcase would rotate and hidden shelves contained the life history of Sir Edward’s father, Sir George Edward Astor, who was supposed to have died in a storm in the North Sea. But, the thin sheaf of papers said, he had actually gone to a town called Begonia on the African coast where he engaged in a lucrative, clandestine shipping trade. “A smuggler!” Rose gasped, excitedly. In fact, the handwritten journal suggested, the ship was part of an entire, secret mercantile enterprise.

The rarest tidbit in the journal was how to contact an old sailor in Hartlepool who knew where the Buttercup was, now re-christened something else. To find this sailor she was to look in St. Hilda’s death records and take the letters of the names of the Buttercup crew in a certain order: the first letter of the first name, the second letter of the second name and so forth until she had ten letters and spaces. That would give her the name of the man who would take her aboard Buttercup if she showed him a scrimshaw sketch of the ship. The engraved whale’s tooth was conveniently right there on the hidden shelf. She not only had the passkey, she had a picture of the two-masted schooner. Rose was exuberant. On the list of properties liquidated in the estates of the last 3 Lords Astor was a record of Buttercup with a Lloyds of London receipt for its insured value. If she could sail up the Thames in the bloody thing she would have proof that could force an investigation of all the other liquidated assets. All she had to do was find the yacht. Rose Evergreed finished decoding the name of the man who would show her the Buttercup on which she would sail to riches and revenge, for, by the end of the quest, she had expanded her objective to include humiliating Dame Agatha as well as reclaiming the inheritance hidden in far-off Begonia, wherever that was. 315

ST. HILDA’S PARISH CHURCH, HARTLEPOOL There in the church records of squat, solid St. Hilda’s Parish Church was the list of ten sailors who died on November 10, 1904. Poor Rose was so excited she overlooked the rather newer sheen of that page of the ledger. The list began with Mate Charles Brown. “C”, Rose wrote. Then “L”, the second letter of the second name, Blythe Thomas. Her hand was shaking as she came to the last two names she needed, the 9th letter of the ninth name, Seaman Everett Roth. Was she supposed to write R or O? “No”, she chided herself, she was to count names and spaces, names and spaces! “R”, she wrote. Then she finished with K, the tenth letter of the name of cabin boy Claude Nikolas. She counted it all twice, even though she had the name: CLYDE YORK. Licking her lips, she closed the heavy church record book and slipped the note into her purse beside the scrimshaw. Somewhere in Hartlepool she needed to find Clyde York or his heir. Nearly the first thing she noticed as she left the church and walked toward the harbor was a sign over a small shop, Clyde York North Sea Adventures. Again she failed to notice that the sign was of cloth, covering another sign. Nor did it seem peculiar to her that the shop looked as if it sold fishing supplies. Sitting at a table with a rack of pamphlets was a man of about Rose’s age. “Are you Clyde York?” Rose inquired. “Well, Clyde is dead, you see,” the man replied. “I’m his grandson Rodney, at your service.” “I want to see the Buttercup,” Rose said, leaning across the table toward the man she now was sure she was supposed to contact. “You’d need diving gear for that,” he replied. Rose pulled out the whale tooth. “It looks like this,” she said pointing to 316

the schooner etched on the tooth. Rodney stood up. “This way, ma’am.” Rose had not told him her name. They walked down to the harbor area where yachts and pleasure boats were docked, although most had been stored for the winter. Floating in the midst was a two-masted schooner, one of less than a dozen ships with sails, and the oldest. Rodney was careful to let Rose see the ship’s name painted on a panel on the stern.

BATTER U CUP Tampa Bay

Rose was not deceived. She could see where a C had been rubbed out of a space between the R and the U. “A clumsy job,” she snorted to herself. “That’s the Buttercup,” she said aloud. “Let’s call her the ‘Batter Up’,” Rodney suggested, “and let Buttercup lie on the bottom.” He succeeded in convincing Rose he was shifty. “I want to charter her for a trip to London,” Rose said. “When?” Rod asked, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Tomorrow.” Rose knew nothing about sailing or she would have known that December was not the season for a lengthy pleasure cruise aboard a two-masted schooner. She also had no idea that it took a few days to round up a crew since most of the men in Hartlepool had other things to do that time of year. Rodney, however, had been expecting this charter. The wizard going by the name Rodney York collected his crew as soon as Rose Evergreed left. Rose was planning to spend a leisurely afternoon and evening at The Marine Hotel. Ronald had told her to be back aboard the Batter Up by 10 p.m. so they could take advantage of the tide. The crew was certainly unusual, Rodney, alias Yancy McVie, was going to serve as captain. He had a skeleton crew, which included three sailors and two skeletons. The cabin boy was none other than Claude Nikolas, full-time ghost, glad to leave his cabin in four fathoms of offshore brine for a North Sea adventure. The rest of the crew was dressed for their parts in the drama they had planned. “Aren’t you overdoing it?” Dame Agatha’s driver asked Yancy when the banshee trio was brought aboard. “Better overdone than underdone,” Yancy responded. At 9:30 Rose came with her daughter. That was unexpected. 317

“Too late,” Yancy decided. They’d have to scare both Roses. A trip from Hartlepool to London would probably never lose sight of land off the starboard side, but Rose was no sailor. Yancy never intended to even get near Middlesbrough, much less the Thames. With any luck they’d be back in port by 02-00. They sailed straight out into the North Sea. The first dramatic effect Yancy and Ronald had planned was after only 30 minutes at sea. The Batter Up creaked ominously as pirate ships should, even though the sea was calm. One of the skeletons made a brief cameo appearance. Then off to port there appeared a (another) pirate ship. The full moon helped show a big skull and cross-bones, but the ship glowed green as well. Rose was caught up in the drama as the sailors hauled out a high wheeled cannon – strangely identical to one missing from a civic memorial in Middlesbrough. She assumed that such field artillery was always on sailing ships used for smuggling. Little Rosie had never seen such weaponry on any of the computer games she loved. The crew fired the cannon and the pirate ship dramatically burst into flames from stem to stern and sank from view. Then it was time for Rose to retire to their cabin where spectral Claude waited to entertain them, briefly, if the script was followed. Little Rose was suspicious. She had not felt the gun was right and then when Claude the ghost came through the wall into their cabin she was sure he was a special effect. Very much against her mother’s better judgment, the child threw a chair at poor Claude. The damage was entirely to the chair and to Claude’s pride, but when Rosie rushed at the ghost she was bathed in a most convincing bath of cold air. Mother and daughter decided to spend the night on deck rather than listen to Claude’s rendition of sea shanties. Just a league farther on was Yancy’s dramatic effect number three. Before the third drama could be staged, one of the sailors noticed a trawler without lights in their path. In fact, it was apparently at anchor there in the middle of the North Sea. Fishing ships were expected. Oil companies were in operation in the area, but nothing was supposed to be going right there, late at night, in the dark. The schooner was approaching silently except for the creaking, and the crew on the trawler was busy offloading what looked like building supplies. Two cranes were lowering triangular plastic panels overboard. Then, without warning, a shot was fired from the trawler. To be exact, it was a red streak that caught the Batter Up’s jib on fire. Another streak of flames rolled over Little Rosie. The fires were extinguished by Yancy’s sailors using their wands and yelling Aguamenti! This use of magic brought green 318

streaks from two sailors on the trawler, with the cry Avada Kedavra echoing across the water. Yancy sent the banshees screaming toward the trawler to take their minds over there off any further unforgiveable curses. Then he turned the schooner as quickly as his magical powers would do it. They escaped back to port without further incident. Rose was hysterical, however, and Little Rosie was ready to admit this was unlike movie special effects. She never got her Little Kitty backpack scorched and all her Mars bars melted in a movie. Rose had enough. The next day she contacted Sir Malcolm to accept the offer of the American to buy Astor Estate. She repaid the bank loan, and the two Roses moved to Ipswich, “as far away from the old witch” as she could afford while still having easy access to London.

Poachers “Poachers!” Sanye yelled as he galloped toward the breakfast crowd in Astorwold’s dining hall. “Send them packing,” Dame Agatha yelled back. “Many, many!” Sanye waved his fingers to suggest 20 of the illegal hunters. “This would be a challenge for you,” Agatha said to Robin, the fully-installed Lord Protector, home from Hogwarts for Christmas, on the second day of the holiday. She meant, of course, that Robin would organize the Astorwolders to defend the Enchanted Forest creatures, not that he would do it single-handedly. Within minutes the Leflin clan, several of the Berber weavers, and about ten farm hands were joined by several Astorwold gnomes. Everyone had magical armaments of some kind except the gnomes. Without thinking what a revolution he might be setting off, Aeron passed out his supply of ash-wood wands from the branch grafted onto the tree in Hogwards, and oak-wood wands from the Noble Oak in the Astorwold Enchanted Forest. Sanye led the way. At the last minute Robin decided to supervise this operation, or at least help it out, from above. He ran back to the Apricot Room in the mansion and boarded his carpet. Fixing his mind on the Noble Oak he whispered, “Now!” 319

One second later he was floating above the great oak tree, well ahead of the Astorwold brigade coming on foot. The forest below was fairly easy to scan since most of the leaves had fallen. The open area around the Noble Oak was clear. A band of “many” hunters would not be that hard to spot. It occurred to Robin that this was, after all, an enchanted forest protected by enduring charms and hexes. The only poachers who would be able to penetrate the barriers would have to be magical. They would not be normal Muggle hunters out for grouse, partridges or venison for the holiday dinner table. These poachers might be quite dangerous. Robin gained altitude so as to have a wider field of vision. He scanned the horizon for any others in the sky. The sky was bare except for a flock of birds scattering up from a point along the river on the south side of the forest, farthest from the fields and manor house. Keeping his shadow in mind, Robin flew toward this disturbance. Surprise was their best strategy, but Robin wanted to know how urgent the situation had become. The question he dreaded to think was, “Have they killed any of our creatures yet?” Robin knew he was vulnerable from the air. He still couldn’t see the poachers, but he was near enough to see the birds swirling and dark shadows rushing around on the ground in all directions. This area of the forest along the river was claimed by a sounder (the correct term for a herd of pigs) of Elma and Jorosh’s full-grown offspring. Then Robin spotted four or five row-boats pulled up onto the riverbank. They were unattended and empty. This was final proof the poachers were not hapless Muggles. These boats had neither motors nor oars. Keeping well out of sight, Robin willed himself back to the Astorwold brigade with Sanye well out in the lead. Using hand signals and shouts he suggested they converge on the poachers from three directions. Before the Astorwold attack could begin, the Poachers had rounded up half a dozen hogs and two deer. The animals were being enclosed in a tightening ring of hunters. The gang planned to disable the animals with paralyzing curses. They didn’t want them to die. They needed to deliver them to their new habitat alive. Robin landed on the riverbank and quietly as possible dragged the boats back into the water and watched them float downstream out of sight. Then, regretting his muddy feet, he got back on his carpet and flew just skimming above the water to a point upstream where he could gain altitude and watch the Astorwold brigade get into place. Waiting as long as he dared, Robin sent a red flare into the sky that screamed as it rose. The attack began, and almost immediately ended. 320

The poachers ran for the river and were trapped there, except Gravel Nash. He hid in a log until the Leflin men had passed and then took off running downstream to the first branch. He followed it until he was in sight of Attlee Castle. Aurors were summoned to collect these poachers. Illegal hunting was usually not considered a very serious offense unless the hunt had been successful. What interested the Aurors was that these hunters did not look the part. They were older than most hunting parties and they had a wild and desperate way about them. Finally one of the Aurors recognized one of the poachers as a Snatcher in the time when bounty hunters were rounding up mudbloods and witches with Muggle parents, before Voldemort was defeated. The interrogation turned more intense after that. One or two of the group was not as tight-lipped as he might have been. Two of them had the dark mark of Death Eaters still visible on their arms. Since this was no longer a routine matter, Auror Pent Burl took pictures of the suspects with his old Kodak. “Look at this and tell me what you think,” Pent handed his young inductee a couple of negatives. The investigator-in-training was Geddes Waring, who had been accepted by the IAA as a recruit from Italy even though he was British and a graduate of Hogwarts. He was registered as a student at TIMAT. Geddes was “1000% committed” his file said, “to protection of magical children.” Geddes studied the pictures, knowing he was to compare the halos that surrounded the subjects. One of the pictures had a halo around a man about 45 years of age in bad need of a shave and needing orthodontics. The other picture was a rag doll with an arm almost ripped off. It had traces of two auras, one a bit brighter and a faint one that Geddes matched on a chart of “700 shades, hues, tints and radiances”. I’d say the match is 90% certain,” Geddes replied. Pent then handed Geddes the picture of Cynthia’s cot. The trace of aura was strong. “99% match with the other aura on the doll.” “Well, that may be our first break,” Pent said. Then he quilled a note that said, “Bring suspect 13 for further questioning.” He folded the note like an origami bird and sent it flying out of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to the Temporary Remand Facility many floors below.

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Gravel Heads for Argentina Gravel Nash knew it was only a matter of time, very little time, before the Aurors would be looking for him. He should never have allowed himself to become linked to that party hunting for magical beasts. The only kind of hunting he had ever done, and he wasn’t good at it, was tracking down mudbloods and Muggle-born old witches and doddering wizards. That had resulted in disaster, too, when he had been summoned by the Dark Lord to join the Battle of Hogwarts. When Voldemort fell, Nash had made a run for it and then been caught in Gilfinning, of all hopeless places, by a bloody novice school teacher. It had taken a year of his life to get free, and, of course, it had taken the life of the luckless real Gravel Nash, whose identity he had taken over. He’d expected to be Gravel Nash just long enough to get out of the country, but Gravel Nash had been such a nobody that he never seems to have been missed. For more than a decade he had walked around magical Great Britain posing as Gravel Nash without once being questioned or noticed. He thought his luck had changed for the better when he’d fallen in with the group planning to re-colonize Doggerland. In 16,000 BC there was no North Sea. The area between England and Denmark was all land. Scientists have labeled this Doggerland, named for Dutch cod-fishing boats that began to pull in evidence of human presence on the sunken land. Around 8000 years ago an immense Norwegan avalanche occurred, sending 120 miles of shoreline into the Norwegan trench, causing one of the greatest tsunamis of all time. When it was over, the people of Doggerland were gone and then even the swamps and islands were sunk as sea levels rose at the end of the ice age. The idea of building a hidden colony underwater had a romantic ring to it. But for a group of magical masters it was not merely a story, it was doable and worth doing. The masters were now a second generation, although they were as hidden as the first generation had been. They were never seen and only referred to as The Board or collectively as Die Meister. Gravel had been hired for one purpose, which he did not fully understand. He was to form one of several separate groups contracted to provide “supplies”. He was never told and was not curious to know, what the supplies were for. He assumed they had something to do with the secret underwater Doggerland colony. Orders came and he filled them. Other groups got other orders. He was not stupid enough to let anyone think he knew anything. He was quite aware, however, that the orders were for increasingly risky 322

commodities. One more thing he knew is that he was trapped again into an organization he would either serve or die. The little stream he had been following – how long, 2 or 3 miles – led to a small square castle that reminded him of the Tower of London. Gravel couldn’t believe his eyes. This was Attlee Castle where he’d been brought in a full body hex from Scotland on the night after the Battle of Hogwarts. The wizard he hated most owned that castle. Gravel Nash walked the last half mile in a daze. He had an escape plan after all. Before the Aurors learned very much from the poachers, he would capture the wizard in this castle and get away to South America. He heard the weather was fine this time of year in Argentina. Attlee Castle was both magical and historical. It wasn’t hidden from Muggle eyes, but few Muggles bothered with it. It was out of the way and not in plain sight from any highway. Gravel checked his wand and walked in. The drawbridge was down and the portcullis looked like it was rusted open since at least the time of Elizabeth I. Virgil Verbal was collecting holly when Gravel slipped into the courtyard garden. Before the professor could drop his shears, he was being wrapped in silver coils. “How droll,” Gravel commented, “that you should be my ticket to Buenos Aries.” Awakened from a nap on a second floor window sill by the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Sarun lay stone still until Verbal, wrapped like a mummy floating at the point of the intruder’s wand, had been taken by his captor out of the courtyard. Then the Maltese cat yawned, arched his back in a leisurely stretch, and hopped onto the bathroom floor to go find Ranklin the Attlee Castle Elf. Prisoner 13 had been identified as one of the four snatchers who earned 15 minutes of fame when they captured Harry, Ron and Hermione and delivered them to Malfoy Manor. “Still in the snatching business, are you?” Pent Burl said by way of getting serious about questioning this suspect. “We caught nothin’ did we?” he responded with a sneer. “Recognize her?” Geddes said, holding up a small photograph of Cynthia Havorford. The suspect swallowed hard but refused to say anything more. He realized he was implicated in far greater crimes than rustling magical pigs. 323

“Prisoner 9, alias Stark Ravel, alias Mark Stark, has been quite helpful,” Pent said off-handedly. “For a 16 year-old street kid he has an excellent memory for dates, names and places.” Pent let this sink in. “Young Stark wishes he could have been there when Lord Voldermort got to Malfoy’s to collect the prisoners you caught, only to find they had escaped – again.” The suspect winced at the memory but said nothing. “So we have come up with a name for you,” Pent continued. “We’ll call you ‘Loser’ until we sort out what your mother called you.” They were still holding this one-sided conversation when two Aurors came in with Gravel Nash.

Robin Sees Cynthia Robin leaned over Aeron’s silver dish from Bukonita. For the hundredth time he intoned the name of his little sister. There was hardly any chance of a response. The magical device would have been marvelous to Professor Trelawney, who loved using house ware to divine the future, but it had a major drawback. Robin had to be looking into the silver reflective basin calling for his sister while she was simultaneously thinking about him in the future. How often would his little sister be thinking of him, Robin wondered. She never knew him. Perhaps she didn’t even know his name. But on this Christmas Eve, Robin Astor Havorford was definitely thinking about Cynthia Havorford. “Cynthia,” Robin said in a tone that sounded like a resolute sigh. A hundred times the silver had just shined back at him, but this time there was an image on it of a five-year-old girl with the same dusty brown colored hair and brown eyes as his. Then the view moved inside the little girl looking out. They could not hear each other and the view was only one-way, but as long as she kept thinking about him he could see whatever she was looking at. He could see through his little sister’s eyes. How far into the future had he penetrated? Where was she? As Cynthia thought about her brother she looked around her. There were other children there. They were alone in a group. The circumstances were not clear. Then Cynthia looked upward. The view was complicated. It looked like she was seeing a sky filled with brown and orange clouds. Behind the clouds were the outlines of moons or planets, two or three. No sun or moon in a deep blue or velvet black sky. Cynthia’s sky was much more colorful. There were tall green plants around. The place seemed moist, humid, but Robin 324

couldn’t tell why. Perhaps it was tropical.

PHOTO BY ANDREW DOBSON “When is this? When?” Robin cried, despite himself. Cynthia heard nothing and did not even know she was being eavesdropped upon. Little children were with her there, eight or ten of them, but one of them had a package in her hand, a Christmas package wrapped in green paper, which she was opening. That got Cynthia’s attention and she stopped wishing her brother would rescue her. The silver basin gleamed again, empty and frustrating. “Tomorrow,” Robin said to Aeron. “I saw her tomorrow. That means she’s still alive on Christmas Day.” “I wonder how that other child got a Christmas present,” Aeron said. “Maybe the owls get through,” Robin suggested. “How else do things get sent between witches?” Aeron asked. “Highly irregular and extremely risky,” Harry wrote on the note that had come from the IAA in Brussels. “They suggest we open a Portkey between here and the kids,” he said to Auror Pent Burl. “There are several big problems with that. We need someone to prepare the kids. We need to have an exact time for the movement, down 325

to the second, and we need to have all the kids in physical contact with the transport object.” “Our first problem is knowing exactly where the kids might be, so we can get to them,” Pent put in. “And there we were out in open water and what did we come across but a trawler dumping great plastic triangles overboard in the dark of night with no lights on. Good thing there was moonlight. They sent fire onto us, that’s how I knew they were witches or wizards. When we put out our fire with Aguamenti they sent Avada Kedavra curses our way. I should’a fired back but I sent my screaming banshees to keep’em busy and got outta there.” “Where was this?” Hannah Abbott asked her talkative customer. “Out of Hartlepool. I know exactly. I still have a ghost ship floating just a league from that exact spot. In ten minutes Hannah was filling Aeron in on this. He was staying at the Leaky Cauldron in order to do last minute Christmas shopping and to help “his Lordship” as he sometimes teasingly called Robin. Aeron was on his feet instantly. “Niels says that is where Nord, his little nephew, disappeared. Aeron, Geddes and Pent were having Christmas breakfast in the Leaky Cauldron, preparing for their trip to Attlee Castle for a feast. Hannah waved to Geddes. There was someone at the door despite the “Closed, Merry Christmas” sign. “Madeleen Fortisque would like to see you,” Geddes announced to his supervisor. “She says it can’t wait.” “My Colleen, she got her Christmas present!” Madeleen exclaimed triumphantly, even before she got to their table. It being Christmas morning, that was hardly unusual. But Colleen Fortisque was one of the twelve British fiveyear-olds that had been abducted. Her whereabouts were unknown. How, then, did Colleen get the gift? “Did you send it by owl?” Pent asked, preparing to take notes. “No, no! The owl came back with it yesterday. But this morning it was gone. The present, not the owl. Well, the owl was gone, too. She got it, I know she did. The present, I mean.” Pent signed. The case of the missing Christmas gift was less than promising. “Describe the gift and the way it was wrapped,” Pent said dutifully. “Well it was a Christmas pudding, you know,” Madeleen began, her eu326

phoria undampened by Pent’s skepticism. “It was packed to keep, so it’d not be spoiled. I wrapped it in green paper stamped with smiley faces. We had no Santa Claus stamp, you see,” she said, sounding almost apologetic. “How do you know she got the present and that nothing else happened to it?” Pent inquired. “Well, I taught her Accio, you know,” Madeleen admitted. “Colleen is a powerful little witch. She could retrieve things that way, you know, er, without my having to run around after her all the time. She could, you know, just call for them.” “Yes,” Aeron said. “Robin saw her get her package in green paper. She looked fine, she and the other children. Madeleen took this confirmation differently than Pent did. “Call the team,” Pent said as soon as excitable Madeleen was out of the door. “The pieces of the puzzle are falling fast. We need to get these kids home for Christmas. Ranklin’s turkey will have to wait.” None of the Aurors showed that they had any objection to being summoned back to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on Christmas morning. The same thing could not be said of Yancy McVie who planned to sleep in on Christmas. He was aggravated at the pounding on door #9 in the Leaky Cauldron, but decided to get up when he heard, “Open up, McVie, Aurors here. We need your help.” A glass of firewater and a mug of something resembling coffee in one or two small ways, were enough to get Yancy functioning. “Pent laid out the plan. “First we Apparate to Hartlepool. Then we take the fastest boat we can to the spot McVie saw the dark trawler. We hope it is the same place Niels Carlsson last saw traces of his nephew, Nord. Waring will go down and see what’s down there. If we’re lucky we will find the children and bring them back by Portkey.” Pent looked around the table at the four Aurors, two IAA agents from Brussels including Geddes, Aeron and Yancy McVie. “Any questions?” “This’ll cost you,” McVie submitted.

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No Time to Spare The Chairman of the Board was not happy. “This delay is unacceptable,” he said coldly. The man across from him began to perspire. “It is Christmas …” he began. The chairman exploded into a storm of invective, concluding, “‘non-stop’ is an order of two small words. Which one confuses you, professor?” “If the trawler leaves Middlesbrough this morning it will attract attention. Nothing commercial happens on Christmas in Britain.” “That is why we need to be finishing TODAY, Luns!” the Chairman shouted. “TODAY!” Professor Luns looked at his watch. It said 11 a.m. “Yes, sir,” Luns said. “Right away.” Outside the shiny steel and glass tower in Antwerp, Luns tapped a name on his phone screen and moments later said, “Meet me at the pod.” Then the Distinguished Professor of Magical Futurism of the Institute of Nordic Ancient Legends and Lore turned on the spot and disappeared with a pop. The marina at Hartlepool Harbor was far from deserted. Christmas Day was unusually sunny and the cold north wind was blowing at only two knots. Waves were less than a meter. Many boat owners were going to spend Christmas afternoon at their favorite leisure time pursuit. “No!” Pent declared as Yancy led them up to the two-masted Batter Up. “We want to be there before dark!” “Nothin’ faster in this marina,” Yancy replied confidently. “She’ll outrun anything Her Majesty’s Coastguard has. But it’ll cost you!” The Batter Up sailed serenely past the end of the breakwater and then it seemed the wind caught her sails. Somehow the two-knot wind moved the schooner at about 45 knots. Even so, none of the cabin cruisers and yachts noticed. One little girl pointed and said, “Look Daddy, the old ship’s skipping!” Her father laughed and took another swig of his gin and tonic. Had anyone besides the little girl paid close attention, they might have agreed that the Batter Up was here and next blink she was on ahead. “Hop, hop, hop,” the little girl sang out, until the Batter Up was out of sight, lost in the haze. “Dead ahead,” Yancy called, as they approached the spot. Yancy glanced at his watch, 11:05. Not all was normal, however. There was a submarine of some sort floating where Yancy had meant to be. As they looked at it the 328

hatch opened and a blue flag with yellow cross of Sweden was stuck up into the air. Next a head appeared. “Professor Luns,” Aeron called, delighted to see the man who had pulled him out of the Baltic. Just behind Luns another head appeared, eliciting another cry from Aeron, “Niels!” “Helluva place for a reunion!” Geddes laughed. As soon as Luns and Niels were aboard the schooner, Luns said, “We have less than an hour!” The Aurors and IAA agents wanted to know why Luns was so sure of their limited time and what he was doing out here in the first place. Luns ignored them. Turing to Aeron he asked, “Did you make them?” Aeron opened a bulky leather shoulder bag and pulled out a foot long stick about as big around as a broom stick. It had a hole drilled from end to end and one end had been shaped like the mouthpiece of a trumpet. Luns took the stick and felt it grow warm. “Darts?” he asked. Aeron pulled out a leather belt into which about 20 wooden pins were stuck. They were shaped like golf tees, but with narrower blunt ends. Luns pulled one of the darts out and fit it into the stick. His face broke into a wry smile. “I will go below now,” he said. Geddes spoke up, “I will go with you.” Luns’ smile faded. “You have no idea what is down there. I do. What’s more, I will be recognized and have the advantage of surprise.” “What is down there?” Pent demanded. “We’re here to rescue kids. Who’s got them down there?” “Not who, what,” Luns said grimly. “No time. We must be gone before the trawler gets here at noon.” Yancy looked at his watch. 11:15. Luns tucked a green lump into his mouth and jumped overboard. Niels handed Geddes another lump and waved him to follow. Geddes got out of his shoes and shirt and turned his back to Aeron. “Activate my ‘success component’, snail, eye, hand, eagle,” Geddes said. “Snail, eye, hand, eagle,” Aeron repeated. Then he pulled Ygg out of his sleeve and tapped the glyphs on Geddes’ tattoo in that order. Geddes stuffed the wad of greens into his mouth and gagged, swallowed, grabbed a large plastic hula hoop, and jumped into the frigid North Sea. The water was far from clear. Geddes bumped into a solid barrier in a couple of minutes. Getting his bearings he saw he was standing on what looked like a geodesic dome. It had to be miles long. It seemed to stretch forever, but 329

the top, very near where he had landed was unfinished. The triangular grid seemed to be in place but the final few hundred panels were missing. Geddes let himself over the edge and dropped within. Movement caught his attention, off to his right. Through the murky water he could see Luns being surrounded by six or ten large cubes. Remnants of one of them was pirouetting downward leaving a trail of angry bubbles boiling toward the top of the dome and finding their way to the surface. When Luns blew a dart at the next cube, the remaining ones changed their attitude and began to whirl like tops and to emit strings of oil. Geddes had seen a smaller dome below him by this time. It was solid like a translucent bubble, hemispheric, seamless. It seemed to glow as if there were illumination inside. The surface may once have been clear but it was now covered with a coating of colorful gunk. The whole thing looked like it was about 100 yards across. Geddes wondered (accurately) if it were a sphere with the lower half buried. The top was impossible to look into, but down toward the sandy bottom Geddes hoped it was clearer. Geddes swam slowly trying not to attract the attention of whatever Luns was dealing with. Turning again to the bubble, he thought he might find a gap to see inside. The whole inside was covered with mist. He couldn’t see through. Then to his horror he realized his Gillyweed gills were shrinking. He’d have to try to get to the surface. Would he make it in time? He was beginning to feel faint, moments from drowning. The oily streaks were swirling around him. “Geddes, get a grip!” he heard himself say. “Are you a wizard or a fish? Apparate. Do it!” He took a chance and willed himself inside the bubble. Luns discharged his last wooden dart and it punched through the protective charms and thin skin of the robotic guard. He was out of darts, but the guards in the sector were all gone. The oil was beginning to take its toll, however. Luns nearly cried in anguish as he lost control of his webbed hands and feet. He floated helplessly to the surface belly up. He had to stay in the water until his Gillyweed lost its power. But that was only a few minutes. Yancy looked at his watch as they pulled Luns aboard. 11:55. Right on time, the trawler appeared off to the west. Geddes and the kids had not appeared. This time Pent decided he’d had enough mystery. He clutched the professor’s pale white shoulder and wheeled him around so they were nose to nose. 330

“Are the kids down there?” “Yes. In the biosphere,” Luns said. He gave in and dissolved into sobs. “I wanted to save them. I tried. Too late.” Pent didn’t allow this to divert him. “Why is it too late?” “They will seal the dome today. I tried to get them to slow down. The kids will die.” “Why will they die, how will they die, when will they die?” Pent’s questions poured out. Luns was beyond answering. He was nearly hysterical. Niels, however, was more helpful. “They are building a domed city down there. They plan to rule Europe from there. The children are in an experimental biosphere, a sealed sphere that is supposed to sustain life forever if everything is in balance. The kids are the highest form of animal matter. The test is over when the dome is sealed today.” “Are we to fight or flee?” Yancy yelled. The trawler was almost in range and this time it was armed with a pair of 5-inch guns as well as a patrol on brooms overhead with wands drawn. “Any sign of Geddes and the kids?” Pent shouted to the aurors keeping watch off both sides. “No.” “His Gillyweed has expired,” Niels said. “I hope plan-A works,” Pent said, and then he shouted, “Let’s move it!” The Batter Up hopped and skipped, heading south toward late afternoon turkey at Attlee Castle. Geddes popped into the biosphere. He really hated Apparating. He was inside what looked like a botanical conservatory. The air was humid and there were thick plants everywhere. He saw a few birds in tree tops but no kids. He was beginning to wonder if they’d made a big mistake, when he caught sight of a little boy peering at him from behind a clump of broad leaf plants. Rather than try to make friends with the boy, Geddes called in his loudest voice, “Cynthia, Colleen, Nord!” It felt like the plants soaked up his words. There was no echo, no sound except steady dripping from the colorful dome high overhead. Looking up he thought it resembled nebula with halos of planets beyond. He guessed it was constantly late afternoon inside here. “Cynthia, Colleen, Nord! Merry Christmas!” Geddes improvised. “Then he began to sing ‘Here comes Santa Claus ….” That got results. Half a dozen little faces began to show among the plants. “Colleen, your mother has sent me to bring you home. Cynthia your 331

brother Robin has Tammy for you.” Shyly the children began to show themselves. Geddes tried not to panic when he heard stamping of feet on top of the bubble high overhead. He calmly sang, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” as he activated the big hula hoop. Portus, he said. This was the Portkey to get them all out of there. It glowed blue for a moment and then turned pink again. It took an agonizingly long time for all the kidnapped children to come close enough for Geddes to show them how to get a grip on the hoop. They had no idea why they were supposed to do this. He thought to make a circle game of it. There was noise of drilling going on above. Geddes nearly panicked again, but then got hold of himself. He was a hero. He had fifty lives to save RIGHT NOW !!! He was 1000% committed. Water began to cascade from the orange and umber sky. “Omigaw, they’re going to flood this place!” He kept singing, “Here we go round and round, round and round.” 3 seconds to go. 2 1 Geddes felt like a hook had grabbed him just behind his navel. The sand under his feet disappeared. The colorful nebulae multiplied. The children bumped and jostled each other but none could let go of the hula hoop. And then they met solid ground. The little children tumbled everywhere. Half of them were crying in terror. The other half were crying because they imagined they were hurt from a great fall. The plastic hula-hoop landed on their heads. “How good to see you! Welcome, bienvenue, valkommen,” Verbal called out, picking this one up and then that one. He had a way with children. But Sarun rubbing against their legs was just as good. Grier Hardee and Robin were among the welcoming party that included Christmas dinner guests. None of the parents had been called since there had been no certainty the children would be found or rescued. Grier was busy using his five languages to try to collect names. An agent from the IAA compared them to the list of 50 missing children. It seemed Geddes had gotten back with only 49, but then Ranklin came in, arm-in-arm with a giggling little fellow from Switzerland. It was nearly two hours before the passengers from the Batter Up arrived 332

in Lowestoft and were driven to Attlee Castle. By that time the children had been given baths in a pool set up in the garage. Some of them had not had a bath since May. As they were fitted with new clothes conjured up who knows how, a nurse from St. Mungos made notes about their state of nourishment and apparent maladies. They were not yet starving and had no diseases that could be easily spotted. For fifty five-year-olds left on their own for half a year or more they were in remarkably good shape.

Charges Mount “Level 9, Department of Mysteries” a cool woman’s voice announced as the metal gate of the lift rattled open. Two Aurors escorted Gravel Nash to a heavy door where they paused. Presently, a clerk opened the door from the inside and the Aurors walked into the room over to a heavy chain-laden chair. The encouraged “the accused” to be seated, apparently against his will.. The chains instantly wrapped around Nash’s arms and ankles. This was one of the smaller court rooms in the Ministry. Just nine members of the Wizengemot would decide if there was enough evidence to bring Nash to trial for major offences. The nine judges sat on a long bench behind a desk that hid them from view except their shoulders and heads. Witnesses and those with a valid interest in the case sat in chairs behind the accused (he would become a defendant if the court decided to bring him to trial). As the hearing began, only a few of the spectator chairs were occupied. Gravel Nash was mildly confident he could avoid conviction. He was only accused of a failed attempt to capture hogs and a couple of deer in a private forest preserve. There were no witnesses who had come forward except a 16 year-old who was also charged, and would get a lighter sentence for his testimony. The affair at Attlee Castle was all in the words of an Elf. He had yet to hear of anything else they had hard evidence about. Testimony about colored auras was weak. Nash went over these things in his mind. The presiding judge, an older wizard wearing thick glasses, called the room to order. There had not been much chatting, so silence quickly reigned. Order, however, fell apart almost before the hearing could get underway. The presiding judge looked at the accused and asked what had always been a routine question in every other trial he had ever conducted, “What is your name?” “Gravel Nash.” 333

One of the validated spectators rose and said, “I object.” The judge was surprised almost as much as Gravel. The judge asked, “On what grounds do you object?” The spectator replied, “That man is Rob Morgannan and he killed my family.” “For the court record, are you accusing this man of murder?” the recording judge asked. “I am not sure of the words. I am saying that on the evening of May 2, 1998 this man led a band of wizards using magical weapons to attack our house in Gilfinning, and they killed all of our family but me and my grandma.” “What is your name, young lady?” the judge asked. “Maggie Kitner.” “Is your grandmother available to testify?” “She died, these two years hence,” Maggie replied. “What was her name?” “Tira Kitner.” Another of the judges leaned forward and asked, “The broom maker?” “Yes.” “Are there other witnesses?” “Lord Virgil Verbal apprehended him that night.” Nash relaxed. Verbal was in no condition to testify about that. “My name is Gravel Nash,” he insisted during a moment of quiet. “No he ain’t,” said an old witch from the spectator’s chairs. The judge withheld a comment about the number of people who did not think the accused knew who he was. “Your name?” he said. “Everybody calls me Granny Og,” she said. “The court will need your full name, Yepsiba, but this is a hearing to decide if there are reasons to bring charges against this man. So tell me how you believe he is not Gravel Nash.” “I put magical marks on Gravel Nash and he ain’t him,” she replied. “Can you describe the marks, please?” “It were a tattoo,” Granny Og said. “It were a magical square with a circle around with all the numbers of his date and time of birth. I have it in my notebook here. I keep all them designs. And I have them sign their names.” “Let’s see that!” Gravel-Morgannan demanded, trying to get up. “Not yet,” the judge said. “A judge at the end of the bench brought a quill and pad to the chair. Tap334

ping the chains on his right hand with her wand she said, “Sign your name please.” “I’m shakin’ so hard it’ll not look right,” he blustered. Then he deliberately shook so the signature was a mess. The judge standing beside him didn’t seem concerned with this. She went back to her place and pulled a file out of her briefcase. “These are the accused’s signed testimonies as he was questioned,” she said. “Now Ms Og, if you please, may we see Gravel Nash’s signature from your notebook?” The notebook, signed testimony, and the messed-up signature were passed down the line of judges. At the far end the judge brought them for the accused to see. They were vastly different. The judge returned Granny Og’s notebook to her and went back to his seat. “Let the record show that the signatures do not match,” the chief judge declared. “Would you like to amend your testimony?” “Fah!” “Now,” the presiding judge said, “as to the allegations on record. There are two: that you did kidnap a magical child born of Muggle parents and that you engaged in attempted theft of magical beasts from the Astorwold Forest. Are there witnesses who wish to testify for or against the accused with regard to either of these allegations?” “I would like to testify on both matters,” Robin said. “State your name.” “Robin Astor Havorford.” “Any relation to Dame Agatha Astor?” “She is my godmother. I am her heir.” “I’d like to see the old girl,” the presiding judge commented to the judge sitting beside him. Robin answered as if he had been addressed, “She is not well. But she is receiving friends at Astorwold.” “Hmm. Yes. Well, what would you like to say in these matters before the court?” “First, I am the brother of the girl he kidnapped.” “Allegedly kidnapped.” “Allegedly kidnapped. The girl, Cynthia Havorford is available to tell what she knows. She is outside waiting your decision about whether she is a valid witness or not.” “This is a hearing, not a trial. I’m sure we’d like to hear what the little girl remembers.” The judge looked encouragingly up and down the bench trying 335

to get nods of agreement. “Shall I get her?” Robin asked, not sure what the rules were. “Yes, yes,” the judge nearest the door said. “Here, I’ll help you.” He tapped on the lock and it snapped open. Robin waved to his little sister to come in. As she entered the room all she could see was the man who had snatched her out of the hallway in their building and took her to the big bottle with the other kids. Ignoring the judges, she glared at him and then said in a loud, clear, angry voice, “Bad man!” She pointed toward him. “You tore Tammy and threw her down the stairs.” Several of the judges looked amused. One commented, “Couldn’t imagine clearer testimony than that,” she said dipping her quill into an inkpot. The rest of Cynthia’s story was all about being inside the bottle. One judge wondered if it was relevant. The chief judge had heard a little bit about the recent rescue of the fifty children from the North Sea. The more he heard, the more appalled and alarmed he was. “What was your role in that?” the judge asked Nash-Morgannan sharply. After a minute of silence the judge said, “Speak in your defense or I shall rule there is sufficient cause to charge you with the crime of kidnapping trafficking children internationally.” “Weren’t international,” he retorted. “We have a sea captain and witnesses that the children were rescued in international waters,” Robin said. “There is also the matter of the kidnapping for ransom of Professor Verbal.” “One matter at a time,” the chief judge said. “I’m an old man and might become confused if we got too many charges going.” He chuckled expecting some of his colleagues to disagree. The most he got was a few chuckles in return. “We are deciding if the accused is involved in serious law breaking. At the moment we have the testimony of little Cynthia. Is there any other evidence linking Cynthia and the accused. The record says there were no witnesses.” Pent Burl stood to be recognized. “We have evidence linking the accused to the scene of Cynthia Havorford’s abduction.” “You are?” “Auror Pent Michael Burl.” Pent went on without being invited to do so, “We have a lomography print to enter in evidence.” “What is lomo-whazzit?” one of the judges asked. “Pictures of auras,” another judge said. “Can you state that this lomo-thing is fool-proof?” the Chief Judge challenged him. 336

“We now have thousands of cases and we can produce qualified experts …” “Yes or no!” Nash-Morgannan broke in. “Yes.” No,” Nash said obstinately. “No court has accepted testimony about auras.” “You seem to have given this some study,” a judge commented. “Magical courts in Norway, France and India accept auras as distinctive as fingerprints,” Pent replied to the statement about “no courts accepting auras”. “We have an expert from the Institute of Nordic Ancient Legends and Lore who is available to speak about auras and their relationship to the child trafficking case.” “Both? Well let’s hear a little. The more we hear the worse it gets,” the chief judge said. As soon as the door opened Morgannan lost it. “Luns!” he shouted lunging at his chains. “This witness is under the Ministry’s witness protection program,” Pent said. “May I request that we address him as Professor A?” “Luns!” Morgannan shouted again. A judge waved her wand and Morgannan choked but was silent except for threshing about causing his chains to rattle. “Sit still,” the judge said, waving her wand threateningly. The Chief Judge cleared his throat. “Despite my preference for one topic at a time, “I’d rather hear about the children than anything.” “Your lordship,” Professor Luns began. “In the Wizengemot we do not represent the crown, so just call us judges,” the chief judge instructed him. “Thank you. The information I have is highly dangerous for the time being. It concerns an international effort to overthrow the magical organizations of Europe and establish an Empire,” Luns began. Morgannan rattled his chains trying to get at Luns. The judge who had silenced him now said, Totalis. Morgannan froze. “Clear the courtroom,” the chief Judge ordered. “Auror Pent may remain,” he added. Then turning to Professor Luns he said, “Proceed.” “I will tell you what I know and then how I know it,” Luns said. The judge nodded. “There is an organization known as ‘The Board’ with an office in Antwerp. ‘The Chairman’ is Belgian. They have members here in Britain. Their plan is to re-colonize Doggerland.” 337

Judges looked at one another with puzzled expressions. Luns explained what Doggerland was. “They are building a geodesic dome to reclaim the land under the sea. To test their plans they installed a biosphere. It was a large, round ball with a balance of plant and animal life. The plants die and produce fertility for new plants. The animals breathe in oxygen and expel carbon dioxide which the plants need. The plants expel oxygen. All liquid is recycled. The last phase of the test involved putting children into the sphere in place of the animals. The children had to be small because the sphere was only 100 meters in diameter. The biomass of 50 children, five-years-old was determined to be the right amount. The experiment was monitored. But it ended on Christmas Day after seven months. The dome was to be closed-in that day.” Luns breathed hard, swallowed several times and wiped his eyes. “They were going to flood the sphere and then remove the children to dissect them ….” “Dissect!” the Chief Judge roared, very unprofessionally. “Cut ‘em up?” “To gather information about how to run the big dome,” Luns said. “And now, how I know all this. I was the project director until Christmas Day. My field of study is called futurism. I was fascinated with the idea of building a colony on old Doggerland. It would be the largest sunken land ever reclaimed for use. Imagine the possible uses as lands above water get more and more uninhabitable. I was enthusiastic and we made progress. Little by little I learned that the aim of these Meisters was to use the new colony as a place from which to rule a super empire. That’s when I contacted your Ministry asking for help. I was requested to continue as long as possible and find out as much as I could. A month ago I found out children had been kidnapped and put inside. I thought that was enough. But we were still getting more data about the Board and their plans. I stole a file that said the kids were doing OK. After a couple of days they had settled down. They played with each other. They found the food left for them and they had a place to stay out of the falling rain. They are some amazing little witches and wizards. “A week ago I was ordered to push the dome to completion. Quite by accident I learned what Dr. Seegler had in mind for the biosphere. They were planning to flood it and drown everything inside to study, just as they sealed the dome. That’s when I knew it was time to rescue them and get out.” “Do you know how the kids were captured?” the judge on the left of the Chief Judge asked. “Nash caught his 6 with his small team. You’ll have to ask him how. The other 6 from Great Britain were brought in by another agent who worked with a team. I have given the Department all I know. That team is still at 338

large.” “We called these teams ‘The Squid’ because the kids just vanished without a trace,” Pent said. “We did not know they were literally being sucked into the ocean.” Luns continued, “Each country has its agents. They are called ‘Biomass collectors’ by Dr. Seegler and the Chairman.” Most of the judges were certain that they had enough testimony to put Morgannan on trial with a great chance of conviction. Before Professor Luns left he mentioned, “Robin Astor has some information about the kidnapping for ransom of Professor Verbal.” “Oh, yes,” the Chief Judge said resolutely. He was getting tired. “Well, bring the witnesses back in. Let’s get this over with.” To the judges’ surprise, the Minister of Magic came back in with Robin, Aeron, and two or three others. “Now about the incident at Attlee Castle,” the Chief Judge said. “What do you know about it Sir Robin?” “On the day the poachers were caught trying to get our pigs and deer, we captured all but the leader. He eluded us. It seems he went from our forest to Attlee Castle on the edge of Astorwold. He was in the process of kidnapping Professor Verbal when he was subdued and captured by Ranklin, the Attlee Castle Elf.” “What weapons did the Elf use to overwhelm the Wizard?” one of the judges asked. It was commonly held that this could not be done. There was also the law against providing wands for Elves and Goblins. “Ranklin used a wand of Professor Verbal’s,” Robin said. “The professor bought it from Aeron Finchfinder.” “Wasn’t the Elf using the wand illegally then?” the same judge asked. The Minister of Magic stood to be recognized. It seemed the Chief Judge just realized she was in the courtroom. “Why, Minister. What an honor. You may speak, of course.” “The question the honorable judge has raised is what brings me to this court,” Hermione said. “There are several questions pending. First, is it legal for an Elf to use a wand to protect and defend a wizard in his own residence? We know, I am sure, of the Elves’ code of loyalty. They are duty-bound to obey, we have been taught. Second, is it necessary for an Elf to use a wand? Don’t they have their own ways and means? Third, is it permitted for an Elf to testify before the Wizengemot? If it is permitted, we should hear from Ranklin. His account is very informative.” Hermione sat back down. The judges talked among themselves. Morgannan’s eyes swiveled wildly but 339

he remained unable to do anything but listen to what was going on. The Chief Judge then spoke. “This is a hearing. Not a trial. We are not sure if testimony of an Elf in a criminal trial is permitted or not. Times are changing. Maybe even a Muggle could testify these days.” He laughed dryly, alone. “We would like to hear from the creature,” the Judge said. The judge nearest the door opened it and Robin went out and came back with Ranklin. He was clad in a resplendent Roman toga with an emerald green band. Robin had talked him out of wearing an olive wreath crown. He was carrying a wand made from wood of the Noble Oak. Ranklin had lost all his obsequious, fawning deference to witches and wizards, but he treated them as equals rather than inferiors as Goblins tended to do. “I am an old man,” the Chief Judge said, trying one last time to be humorous, “so humor me and let us attend to one matter at a time. State your name, Elf.” “Ranklin, judge. My only name is Ranklin.” “Thank you, uh, Ranklin. Please tell us what happened at the time Professor Virgil Verbal was allegedly kidnapped.” “Ranklin was in the kitchen preparing lunch for the Professor. We were expecting guests. Sarun, our Maltese cat, came in and informed me an intruder had come into the courtyard garden where the professor was collecting sprigs of holly. The intruder bound the professor with magical ropes, levitated him, and called him ‘my ticket to Buenos Aires’. Then Sarun and Ranklin went to impede this intruder. Ranklin knew that there were many things Elves could do to defend our castle as members of the ancient line of Lares and Penates, but Ranklin did not think he would be a match for the wizard who had captured the professor. As Ranklin was following Sarun, we passed the library. On a small table, among books on wand lore being studied by the Wand-Master, was this wand.” Ranklin held it up for the judges to see. None asked to hold it. “The professor was the Wand-Master’s first paying customer when he bought this. Ranklin was just walking by and the wand flew from the table into his grasp. Moments later Sarun and Ranklin came upon the intruder and the professor. They were about to cross the moat. Ranklin thought how fine it would be if those silver ropes came off of the professor and wrapped around the intruder instead. When Ranklin pointed this wand at them, that happened. Then Ranklin summoned the Aurors to arrest the intruder. That is my story,” Ranklin concluded. Before the judges could begin to argue about how a mere Elf could do that and what chants and charms he must have busied himself learning, Hermione stood up again. 340

“Chief Judge, if I might. I would like to draw attention to certain details of this testimony. We have heard that the professor was being abducted. Ranklin has said that it was the wand that enabled him to rescue Sir Virgil and that without the wand he probably could not have done it. Then, most importantly, I believe, we heard that the wand flew from the library table into Ranklin’s hand in the hallway. “Ranklin, have you ever used a wand before?” Hermione asked. “Oh, Ranklin would never touch a magical wand belonging to a witch or wizard. Never.” Ranklin shook his head vigorously, looking alarmed. “And yet you touched, held, and used Professor Verbal’s wand to rescue him, and you have it at hand right now. Am I right?” a judge asked. Hermione interceded. “That is the key point. Allow me to state it clearly. To whom does the wand in Ranklin’s hand belong? Is it Professor Verbal’s because he bought it and paid for it? May I suggest we address this question to the one who made and sold the wand?” Seeing no objection, Hermione turned to Aeron. “This is Aeron Finchfinder. He has been inducted into the Wand-maker’s Guild. He is a Wand Master.” “So young,” the Chief Judge murmured. “The youngest Wand Master in 2000 years. Master Aeron, to whom does that wand in Ranklin’s hand belong?” “The wand chooses the wizard,” Aeron said. “Professor Verbal paid me 8 Galleons for it, but he was paying for my skill and effort. The wand belonged to no one until it chose Ranklin.” “Let’s demonstrate,” Hermione suggested. “Let’s put Ranklin’s wand on the desk in front of the Chief Judge along with about ten other wands.” That took a minute as some in the courtroom overcame their reluctance. “Now, Ranklin, from your position here on this side of the room, summon your wand.” Ranklin raised his hand and his wand flew into it from the judges’ bench. A few others tried it, but only Aeron’s wand came to him without a spoken command. “Accio wand,” one of the judges said, and got her wand. At that, they all did the same. “Now for one more test,” Hermione suggested. “Here on the railing in front of me is my wand, Aeron’s wand, and Ranklin’s wand, plus a stick carved to look like a wand. If one of you judges would be so kind, call Accio to my wand from Ollivanders on the day I purchased my supplies for Hogwarts. The skeptical judge stood and pointed her wand toward the four wands on the rail across the room. “Accio Minister’s wand,” she said. The wand obedi341

ently flew to her. “Now get Ranklin’s wand,” Hermione directed. “Accio Ranklin’s wand,” she said expectantly. Nothing happened. Nothing she said could get Aeron’s wand to fly to her, either. One wand remained. “Now get this one,” Hermione pointed to the last wand. “Accio wand,” the witch said. It did not move. “Try calling it a stick,” Hermione suggested. The witch pointed her wand and demanded, “Accio stick!” It flew to her. “It is not a wand although it looks like a wand,” Hermione explained. “Now Master Aeron, please tell us why those wands behaved in that way.” Aeron stood and spoke, staring at the space above the judges’ heads to keep from being so nervous. “Wands with a core inherited from the Mother of All Trees, the World Tree, will respond only to the true owner for whom the Mother Tree intends it. In any other hands the wand is either inert or a curse.” It was the answer he and Hermione had rehearsed. They used the word “core” to keep the judges from being distracted from the main argument. It was not the right time to say some wands did not need a core. “Did the wand choose Ranklin the Attlee Castle Elf?” Hermione asked. “The Mother Tree designated Ranklin as the owner of the wand at that moment of need. But it obeys him now and only him.” As they had planned, Aeron added, “Yggdrasil, the Mother tree, has given us three wands. One she designated for Zworn, a Dwarf of Bukonita, Romania.” “Scandalous!” the skeptical judge retorted. “Is it?” Hermione responded, including all the judges in her sweeping gaze. “What is scandalous about Ranklin using a wand that flew into his hand to rescue Professor Verbal? Is it not perfect behavior for an Elf to defend the residents of his castle? I suggest it would be more scandalous for Ranklin to have refrained from using every device within his grasp to assist the Lord of the Castle.” “No, what is scandalous is to say the Mother Tree designates who wands shall belong to,” the judge replied, somewhat chagrined, but still defiant. “We have fought wars to keep wands away from creatures.” “Whether those were necessary wars is not a question for this appellate court,” Hermione said, aware she was taking over the Chief Judge’s job. He looked rather asleep at the moment. “I believe, Chief Judge, that your court can make a decision that will set a legal precedent. All you need to do to start a new day of equal justice and dignity is to rule that Ranklin acted correctly to accept the wand to rescue Lord Virgil Verbal.” “Yes,” the Chief Judge said, relieved to be seeing the end of this long pro342

ceeding. “All in favor raise your hands.” The vote was 7 to 2. “The court rules that Ranklin acted correctly,” the Chief Judge said. “I shall appeal to the whole Wizengemot,” the skeptical judge announced. “Excellent,” Hermione replied, “that will settle it once and for all that the little people are entitled to equal magical rights and powers, and shall be judged on their actions rather than their accidents of birth.” The Chief Judge wanted to take over again. “It has been a long day. Please an old man by deciding whether to deliver this accused for trial. Let me see. We will be voting on whether to bind him over for trial on these charges, not whether we think he is guilty, although I believe him to be guilty of being the bad man little Cynthia said he was. “As to the matter of the massacre of the Kitner clan, will he be charged or not charged?” The vote was 8 to 1. “He is so charged,” the Chief Judge declared. “As to the matter of the abduction of Cynthia Havorford, will he be charged or not charged?” The vote was 9 to 0. “He is so charged.” “As to the matter of the abduction of the other five children, will he be charged or not charged?” After discussing it, the judges decided to wait and let the charges come as the five children were brought to court to testify in Cynthia’s case. That would give time for the IAA to act against The Board. “As to the matter of attempted theft of magical creatures from the private property of Astorwold, will he be charged?” The vote was 6 to 3, some judges wanting to just forget this small matter. “He is so charged,” the judge ruled. “As to the charge of attempting to kidnap Professor Virgil Verbal, will he be charged or not charged.” The vote was 8 to 1. The stubborn witch did not want to yield an inch about Elves being unacceptable witnesses and not quite people. “Little people!” she scoffed. “Absurd.” Ranklin cast a look of dignified disgust at her. “He is so charged,” the Chief Judge announced. “The accused having been charged with multiple crimes and having shown a desire to leave for Argentina, and with a repeated history of endangering lives wantonly to his own benefit, he shall be sent to Azkaban to await trial. Court’s over.” “What about Professor Verbal’s memory?” Robin asked Hermione as they rode up in the clattering lift together. “He will never remember having met Morgannan. All memories of that day in Gilfinning and the day in the castle garden have been wiped out. There 343

is no reversal of Obliterate. That is why it was important to get Ranklin recorded as acting correctly. He was a hero there on that day of heroes. It will be much easier to get the Wizengemot to accept him as a valid witness than if he were guilty of being a law breaker.” A paper airplane bumped into Robin’s head. He turned white as he read the message. “Come at once. Dame Agatha is failing.” Hermione glanced at the note. “Use the fireplace flue in my office,” she offered.

The Next Great Adventure “Failing?! I’m SUCCEEDING!!” Dame Agatha declared, propped up on pillows in her Emperor-size bed in the Cedars of Lebanon suite. Everything around her looked larger than life-size. She had always been diminutive, but somehow shrunk in a remarkably short time, or perhaps it was just her surroundings. Her voice filled the room, although she seemed to have waves of strength. “Listen to me, you three,” she said in a more normal volume, looking sternly at Robin, Sorg and Aeron standing stiffly in a row. “I do not want to begin a new year I won’t finish. I am going to leave with this old year and turn the new one over to you. I’m 140 years old,” she announced as if it were an indisputable, record-setting accomplishment. “I have done my farming. It’s time to fly. I began on the streets and I’m quitting in these sheets. It’s been a helluva wild, uphill ride and the thrilling downhill part is just about to begin. “Look at you,” she chided. “Until you three came along I had no idea how to get off this farm. The farm had me. Now you have the farm. Maybe, with the three of you, you can keep it from owning you like it tried to own me.” She looked at them standing glumly by her bedside. They were once so young and now so grown, so strong, and so ready, but so unaware they were grown, strong and ready. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Shoo,” she said. “I need a nap.” “The bad thing about lingering,” Dame Agatha declared, as soon as Granny Og appeared at her bedroom door the next morning, New Year’s Eve, “is it gives people time to come and be dramatic.” Granny Og cackled, “I just come to see if they wuz lyin’, said you wuz dyin’.” She grinned toothlessly. “Always thought I’d go first. Been leadin’ in 344

the race all along.” “Yepsiba Og,” Dame Agatha said, her voice coming in a wave of clarity, “You love playing the Old Woman but I’m older than you and you know it. I’m a hundred and forty to your …” “Numbers! Jist numbers,” Granny Og snorted. “Where would you be without your numbers?” Dame Agatha came back at her. “On your charts, in your books, in your head, and all over your shriveled up body.” “How do you know about them tattoos?” Granny Og cried. “Ha! I was right. But don’t show me. The way I imagine ‘em is too entertaining.” The old friends were quiet, remembering, being there for each other. Finally Dame Agatha sighed. “Just one thing still bothers me. Who’ll help Elma when her time comes? It’s any day now. She’s called for me every time for over a hundred years.” Granny Og took the old woman’s hand. “I thought you knew,” she said, quite sincerely reluctant to mention it before now, “Robin is out there in the barn sortin’em as they pop out. He said Elma told Rugnor to come an’ get him. Ain’t that much to it, just keep the old sow from wallowing on ‘em until it all settles down.” “Robin,” Dame Agatha repeated, thinking about it. “He’s a city boy. What’s he know about birthing pigs?” “Seems to come easy to ‘im. You wuz a city girl an’ you got it,” Granny Og commented. “Elma sent for me,” Agatha said, nostalgically. “Now she’s got him. Well, that’s it then. Everything’s organized.” She looked startled, gave Granny Og’s hand a squeeze, and said in a hoarse whisper, “It’s time to fly.” Early New Year’s Eve Aeron walked to the back end of Astorwold, into the Enchanted Forest. After an unseasonably warm Christmas week and busy days just following, he thought he needed to regain his balance, even though the weather had turned bleak with a promise of snow. The forest was serene. The Noble Oak had shed its leaves and was even more imposing with its intricate lace in view, so unlike the tangle that vines get themselves into. Three enchanted deer looked up and then went back to grazing when they recognized Aeron. Aeron thought he knew every part of the Enchanted Forest, but when he wandered onto a rise he was enraptured by a new vista he had never seen. There was a low stone wall partly fallen over and inside was a depression in 345

the ground before him as if a sink-hole long ago had nearly filled in. Across from that was the valley by the river. Aeron knew the great pine where Mother Bear hibernated was off to one side. The depression cut off the sharp breeze creating the illusion of shelter.

Aeron’s euphoria was interrupted so abruptly that he had to sit down to keep from falling down. He was caught up in a vision. He saw thousands of creatures converging. The trees in the forest bowed. The Noble Oak nodded its regal boughs. Light changed hue and the sounds of shifting dry grass and miles of fallen leaves were transformed into a mysterious rhapsody. From the midst of this ecstatic confluence, Aeron saw what looked like an eruption, a geyser of dark light ascended into the heavens. INEMENI, his inner eye comprehended this and informed Aeron, “Behold, the Lady of the Land has escaped mortality.” “What am I doing here?” Aeron cried aloud. “Dame Agatha has died!” Behind him, even before he could get up, a deep voice like thunder rumbled, “Here.” Rugnor was shuffling up the rise toward him. Beside him came Sanye who managed to make Aeron understand the first time he said, “You here.” Then, together, the Forester and the Leshy repeated the important word, “Here.” Granny Og gently closed her old friend’s eyes, and sat by her on the bed wishing she could go with her. An almost-forgotten quote appeared in her head, “To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” Where’d I hear that? Granny Og wondered. Then she remembered someone 346

had quoted it at Dumbledore’s funeral. “My mind ain’t that well organized,” Granny Og thought. Then she guessed she’d better go tell somebody about Agatha. By mid-afternoon the funeral was ready. “This is the strangest funeral procession of all time,” Robin thought. He was not that familiar with the fact there had been some very, very strange ones. First of all, the procession was haphazard, more like a mob than a parade. Rugnor, risen to the modest height of about two stories, blazed the trail through the weed field and across the pasture where the long-haired sheep gave way and then joined behind the Berbers. The women were making their distinctive ululation cry and the men beat drums in a solemn, syncopated rhythm. Elma was not far behind Rugnor, her ten new piglets carried by eager members of the Leflin clan, even though Robin insisted, from experience over the past 24 hours, “Pigs are born ready to run.” Gnomes popped out of their burrows. Witches from Suffolk came through the meadow and over the trees on broomsticks. Professor Verbal in a fir cape and Ranklin in his winter Roman toga arrived by a little boat from Attlee Castle. Neville and Hannah made it just in time. In the middle of this moving magical mass, Dame Agatha’s body swathed in the sheets from her bed, floated comfortably at about the altitude of Rugnor’s eyebrow on Robin’s flying carpet. When they got to the bowl, a wide array of magical creatures was waiting. The mob filled in between flying horses, magical deer and six or eight sleepy bears. Dame Agatha’s carpet floated behind Rugnor and Robin down into the basin where Sanye and Hagrid, clutching his pink umbrella, waited beside a hole in the ground where Yggdrasil had guided Aeron to have them dig it. Ygg had refused, so far, to show where GONOG was to be planted. The carpet floated to its place beside the grave. One thing Dame Agatha had made quite specific is that she was to be buried and done with before the magical world could turn her into something she wasn’t. “Let them raise their wands wherever they are,” she had said many times. “Nobody is to say a word. After a few moments, Rugnor and Hagrid lifted Dame Agatha’s body off the carpet and gently lowered it into the hole. The crowd braced itself for the thud and shock of the dirt pile being magically dropped in on top of the corpse. Instead, the Astorwold gnomes came cascading into the bowl. Each of them had an armload of herbs and grasses which they tossed into the air, where it all formed a blanket as it fell. Then they began to take hands-full of 347

the dirt. Rather than tossing them into the grave, they tossed them, also, into the air over the grave, where the clods crumbled into dust that drifted down. As the last hands-full of dirt settled onto the mound, all the witches and wizards raised their wands. The Muslim women wailed again and beat their breasts. The animals paid their respect as each deemed right. Ygg demanded attention. Aeron had been expecting it. The wand pointed Aeron to a space several paces from the head of the grave and to a spot on the ground. Aeron held out the two green nuts from the twin trees in Romania. As the Ancient had instructed, he let Ygg pick which one was GON. He laid this nut on the spot and Sanye came over to plant it. NOG, of course, was taken to a place the same distance from the other end of the grave. Since Sanye was still busy, Hagrid planted NOG. Rugnor clapped his hands with a sound loud enough to echo off distant hills. Out of the surrounding Enchanted Forest in every direction birds flew into the sky and then swooped down, dropping mouths-full of water onto the seeds in the ground. People began to turn back toward the manor house and the animals back to their wintertime survival pursuits. Elma and Jorosh ambled in the opposite direction from the departing crowd. They descended into the bowl. Rugnor cast them an affectionate smile when he saw them coming with the ten little piglets wiggling along behind. Elma tromped across the bowl to the mound of soft powder and flopped down on top of it, grunting softly for her latest offspring to come for a meal. That night Astorwold was blanketed under a foot of snow.

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