The Journey's First Step
(From "The Adventures of Mad-Eye Moody")
Chapter One – The Bucket and the Ram
The morning sun had begun its weary climb over the eastern horizon and into the cloudless sky of late spring. The red-gold rays of daybreak slowly crept into every corner of the little village of Upper Flagley, spread across the verdant fields with their gray borders of stone fence, and began the daily ascension up the green fells, weathered rocky tors, and onward up the peaks of the Pennines.
The small town was slowly bestirring from its slumber; birds began the morning quest for food or adventure, windows were raised to catch the first breezes, and several old gaffers were crossing the cobbled town square to the pub for a spot of breakfast.
From the settlement, with its mushroom clusters of whitewashed, tile-roofed homes, the main road wandered in its serpentine fashion off to the west, twisting among hedgerows and rock walls and across the stone bridge that spanned the placid, blue river. At the bend where the thoroughfare turned determinedly southward, a narrow dirt road began its unhurried way into a petite valley nestled between two towering hills, dotted with boulders. About one mile into the valley, a graveled lane led to a quaint farmstead nestled on the feet of the south fell.
Smoke issued from the stone chimney of the one-story farmhouse, chickens were patrolling the well-kept yard, and the sounds of livestock filled the air. Although this farm didn't appear particularly prosperous, it gave off an air of neatness, cleanliness, and tender, loving care.
The buildings looked freshly dressed in coats of whitewash, the thatch of each roof appeared fresh and evenly laid, and the stone fences were smooth-topped with no breaks or gaps. No gates hung despondently on their hinges, trees stood at attention and in inspection order, and the small vegetable garden was weed-free and blooming.
At the west end of the yard stood a one-story byre, sufficient to hold a half-dozen cows. From the door, a boy emerged and started across the yard. Although still a week short of his eleventh birthday, he was solid and powerful-looking. He strode purposefully, his worn work boots making dull, thudding echoes off the walls of the buildings, counter pointed by the swish of his canvas work pants. A faded flannel shirt completed his ensemble, straining to contain his arms, shoulders, and chest. His face was well-formed, though not handsome; his most striking feature being his dark, penetrating eyes. A mane of red-gold hair crowned his appearance.
As the boy stalked to the well standing in the morning shadow of the farmhouse, he moved easily, promising vigor and energy as befits an existence used to strenuous physical labor. Yet, he had a contemplative air as well, as though he were continually revising and reviewing some endless mental list.
The boy reached the well and dropped a worn, oaken bucket on a long rope down into the depths. As he began cranking the winch to retrieve his prize, a small black and white Border collie approached him, wagging and smiling a greeting.
The boy glanced at his companion, gave a quick smile and said "Just got to haul water to Achilles, Patch. Then, we'll have some breakfast afore we chop wood for the day".
The bucket having reappeared, the boy unclipped it from its tether and began hiking up the side of the hill towards the higher sheds, Patch trailing in his wake. Although a series of steps had been cut into the side of the hillock and topped with smooth river rock, hauling the heavy bucket up the hill required considerable effort. The long, arduous climb was taking its toll, the boy showing signs of obvious strain and discomfort when he reached a flattened area about fifty yards up from the yard. He switched the bucket to his left hand to rest his right and headed for the stone pen adjacent to the first shed.
The boy unlatched the wooden gate, stepped through, and secured it with practiced ease. "O'Reyt', Achilles. How are yeh, then?" he called to the lone resident of the pen: a huge, wooly ram sporting double-curled horns on either side of his broad head. The massive sheep paused in its attack on a free-standing haystack in the pen, eyed the boy and grunted a low-pitched greeting.
The boy set his bucket on the ground, strode up to the ram, and began scratching it under the chin. "Aye, Ah know it's lonely in here, all on your own" he purred to the sheep as he scratched. "But, we'll soon be marketing the spring lambs and then, you'll be back out in the flock where you belong. So, stay patient, old lad."
Having paid his respects, the boy turned back to the bucket, lifted it and walked towards the low stone trough next to the shed wall. He stopped at the trough and began to pour when, suddenly, a great weight pressed against the backs of his knees, knocking him to the ground and sending the bucket flying. Achilles, apparently deciding the greeting had been lacking, had approached the boy from behind and rubbed against him for more attention.
"Achilles, yeh great, stupid bugger!" the youngster roared, pushing the offender away "Look wat yeh done! Now, Ah've got that bloody hill to climb again." The boy scrambled to his feet; fists clenched, red-faced and breathing hard. The ram, nonplussed, pushed in for attention and was again unceremoniously rejected. "Get out of it, yeh daft clown, out!" As the ram wandered back to his fodder, the boy blew out a snort of disgust, turned for the bucket . . . and stopped dead in his tracks.
The bucket stood upright, next to the trough, filled to the rim with fresh, sparkling water. The boy studied the bucket a moment, reached out a tentative finger to verify its solidity, then, straightened and looked about; apparently searching for the Samaritan who had saved him another climb up the steep hillside. He was alone.
The boy silently dumped the water in the trough and exited the pen, bucket hanging limply while he was furiously ruminating.
It had happened again; just the latest in a bizarre series of incidents that he could not explain. All he knew was: they happened to him if he lost his temper, he was the sole witness, and each in itself was inexplicable. He disliked the mingled feeling of confusion, frustration, and (being truthful) fear that coursed through him.
He descended the hill, accompanied by the dog, completely absorbed in his musings. At the well, he reattached the bucket, shook himself, then, let out a loud, harsh bark of laughter. "Well, Patch" he addressed the collie. "If I'm goin' round the twist, I couldna picked a better day for it." He took a deep lungful of air, barked another laugh, turned to the house . . . and for the second time that morning, stopped dead in his tracks.
A strange man was strolling up their lane to the front gate. This was in no ways unusual as country folk often visited each other, but this man was like no one the boy had encountered before. He was dressed in a suit that appeared to be made entirely of purple velvet, set off by a gold-yellow tie. The tall, thin visitor had long auburn hair tied in a ponytail that hung halfway down his back, balanced in front by an equally long beard of the same color. Both accessories were sprinkled liberally with silver. Seated on his sharp, crooked nose was a pair of gold-framed half-lensed glasses that fronted for the sharpest blue eyes the boy had ever seen.
The stranger stopped at the gate, studied the boy in a speculative manner, and then spoke in a deep, pleasant voice: "Good morning. Am I right in guessing that this is South Fell Farm, the home of the Moody family?"
The boy momentarily continued his gaping, and then remembered his courtesy. "Aye, we are the Moodys."
The man's face beamed at the news. "Capital!" he exclaimed. "Then, I take it, I'm addressing Alastor Moody?"
"Yessir that is my name."
"Well, I'm delighted to meet you, Alastor. My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore."