The Descendants
The edge of the forbidden forrest glittered as the soft canopy of leaves swayed in the gentle breeze, allowing only slender rivulets of the golden sunshine to pour down through the places where the clusters of leaves did not quite touch. However, the expanse of thorny-stemmed undergrowth and towering trees was anything but dark. The very heart of the forest seemed to have it's own rhythm, its own heartbeat from which it sustained life, and even beneath the momentous, gnarly-trunked trees, I could not say I didn't feel altogether safe.
As I was accustomed to doing most afternoons, had spirited away during the interim between my final course and supper for a stroll through the woods. I'd discovered early on in the year the great coppice less a dwelling of dark magic and more of a green haven in which I sought out solitude and silence, and found solace in both. Some of my favorite locations to take a moment to myself were spots such as the great overturned oak, the decaying corpse of an olympian tree that today was blanketed in a thick, velveteen mat of moss and peculiarly colored fungi. The once rugged bark had softened from the endurance of hundreds of pummeling rainstorms and the plants that continued gradually gnawing away at its splintered flesh.
It was here, on this particularly humid October hour, that at last I decided to stop for the day, hoisting myself onto the fallen trunk from a foothold presented in the form of a small boulder. Scrambling onto the side of the thing, I tucked aside the voluminous curtains of my thick, brunette-black hair so that I could properly see, seating myself with a vexed huff of finality upon the log and swiping the filth from the knees of my already torn pantyhose. As I slid my tote-bag off my weary shoulder, I took a moment to consider the beauty of the peaceful afternoon, the clearing bathed in the amber glow of the late noon sun, a fairytale image reminiscent of all those bedtime stories told of the witches and wizards of old.
The thought of these wizards and witches of old brought my mind back to the troublesome tote's contents, and I peeked into the bulging insides to see the several archaic tomes from which students were supposed to study, all stuffed hastily into the bag and so tightly pressed against each other a slight aura of displeasure was resonating from the mere sight of them. Pushing the impending assignments to the back of my mind beside other troubles I wished not to think of, I delved my hand deep into the sea of textbooks and notebooks lying amongst pencils and miscellaneous objects until my fingers grasped a familiar, paper-bound item.
Smiling distantly to myself, I pulled from the bag a paper-back volume that, although it had seen a great deal of years, was not nearly as decrepit as the novels expected of the students to purchase. The edges were frayed, the true white flesh of the book peeking from beneath the wrinkled sheen of the cover at each of the crinkled corners; the once alabaster sheets of thin paper had yellowed to a browned-mustard color over time, and the aged sheets smelled sweet as cinnamon with the oils from nameless fingertips that had sifted through each page before me. Eagerly, I plucked through the previous chapters until I reached the page number I'd hurriedly memorized when my furtive reading had nearly been discovered at an inopportune moment.
Engrossed entirely within seconds, the forbidden forrest pulled itself around me like a velvet cloak, tucking me within the cozy cocoon of its warmth and earthly scents as the immaculately woven plot ensnared me in its web of events. Inundated in the equally vibrant language, the hour of which I was meant to spend drifted into the early hours of the evening. It was only when the sun had sunken far enough behind the thick canopy that there was too little light to read by, and a touch bleary in my return to the realm of reality, I blinked at the silky shroud beginning to veil the pinkish sky, which was slowly slipping into the glowing indigo of night. Shoving the novel that had enthralled me so effortlessly back into it's niche within the burdensome bag, I attempted to dexterously hoist myself off the trunk and onto the ground, only to lose my grip on the deteriorated bark-flesh in my descent and land squarely on my behind, sending a cloud of dust floating around me.
My wits reaching their well-earned end, I cursed angrily and loudly, spatting several phrases my mother would have severely scolded me for saying if she'd been around. The tote-bag had tumbled to the forest floor as well, and in a wide arc all the innards of textbooks, notebooks, pencils, a vial of mistletoe ash, a pair of gloves, a notepad, a pouch of thorns, three novels, an untouched agenda, and an emerald earring that had been separated from its partner. Snatching up my spilt belongings from the ground and dusting off each sullied surface, I ignored the eerie presence that had settled around me with the advent of the nightfall. Never before had a student remained within the boundaries of the forest after the early evening hours, not that I could recall in my brief months of attendance at least, and the silvery glaze glossing over everything transformed the golden haven of the daytime into an exotic nightly paradise. Although the moonlight brought to mind the romantic evenings poets wrote about, the inky-black darkness pressing around on all sides conjured up images that didn't nearly fit the idea of romance.
Finally I stood, all my things more or less in order, and began to retrace my path back to the castle in which students of witchcraft and wizardry lived, Hogwarts. Some months ago, following my twelfth birthday, over breakfast I'd received a peculiar letter addressed to me in a slanted, eloquently written hand. My mother, placing the letter beside the jar of grapefruit marmalade, had quizzically peered at it for a long moment before she allowed me to lay eyes on the mail she'd been so bemusedly eying.
"For me?" I'd asked, mildly excited at the prospect of having a letter addressed solely to myself, for mail was rarely on my behalf sent.
Mother, softly chuckling at my evident astonishment at the parchment in my hands, responded over a steaming mug decorated in interwoven Celtic knots, "Well, if you happen to be Miss Lisette Croix, then yes."
Pushing aside my bowl of cinnamon oatmeal and a crumbling raspberry scone, I eagerly turned the letter over in my hands, feeling something oddly homespun even in the envelope's burnt gold varnish and calligraphic title. Flipping it over to the back, I ran my fingertip over the crimson seal, tracing the stamped H that had been pressed slightly off-center onto the mound of vermillion wax. Tentatively, I prodded at the seal with the edge of my butter knife until the blade wedged itself beneath the waxen dollop, and at that very moment, I felt a tiny, exhilarating burst of energy tingle through my fingertips. I lifted the freed envelope edge to reveal an ivory paper primly folded inside, the scent of freshly printed ink greeting me. As if the paper were as precious and fragile as excalibur, my fingertips cautiously plucked it from it's sheath, and setting it upon the plaid placemat still warm from the underside of my hot bowl, I read the delicate scrawl, absorbing each word carefully.
Dear Miss Croix,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
"What on earth. . ." I murmured perplexedly beneath my breath, furrowing my brow and fingering the letter before me, half caught between fascination and a mild sense of distress as I referred to the envelope for the validity of the address, pondering the queer title of "Hogwarts".
After the outlandish excitement had evaporated seconds later from my brow, I met the end of the emotion with another of absolute indignation. How dare someone send me this letter as some sort of cruel, wicked joke? I was by no means deserving of this sort of treatment, especially on my own birthday!
My crossness must've either taken a moment or two to settle into my face, or I was still too numb in the mouth from shock at being thus hoaxed, for my mother spoke before I could utter a single staccato syllable in my anguish.
"Lisette, honey," she began, the green streaks in her hazel eyes stark from beneath the bejeweled rims of her glasses, and running a hand through her cropped, raven hair in annoyance at her inarticulacy, she continued with difficulty, her words emerging mangled from her lips, "Do you. . .do you remember anything about your father I might've told you?"
My mind was hurtling with the bizarreness of the situation, and the fact I'd been the object of someone's ridicule even before I entered the schooling realm of the sixth grade, and I was far too disgruntled without bringing up the rather painful subject of the person who had fathered me and acted briefly as a parent, "I cannot believe-"
"Lisette, I need you to listen to me," her gaze was soft and gleaming with something I couldn't name as she reached nimbly across the kitchen table, grasping my hands in her own nutmeg palms, stroking my own knuckles with her thumbs calloused from long hours of book-binding.
"A long time ago, when I was sixteen, we moved from Florence to a place in England called Elmbridge. As you can imagine, the sudden uprooting wasn't exactly fun, so I was very upset," I hadn't heard this story before. I was well aware my mother was half-Italian, and my grandparents did their best to better acquaint me with my heritage that had become London-tainted beneath my mother's parenting, but Mom didn't really like talking about Elmbridge much (or anything past her first apartment, that is).
"However, I made a few friends, and to acquaint me with the area, they took me to a carnival in Bexhill-on Sea, in east Sussex. They had this gigantic ferris wheel, but unfortunately we had an odd number of people, so I ended up as the only girl who didn't have someone to ride with. Then," my mother cleared her throat, "A really handsome guy came up and offered to be my partner."
It was then I realized whom the hero in this tale must be.
"We talked a long time, he and I, and he told me all about his life. He was a student like me, loved literature and sports and music. We kept getting back in the ferris wheel over and over until the park was closed. We had such a wonderful time, he gave me his number."
My mother's hardened expression had now relaxed, a grin of distant amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth, her previously drawn eyes brightening as she chuckled softly, "Before I knew it, we were dating. I thought I had found the person I wanted to grow old with. He was that wonderful," I smiled to myself. I'd never heard her speak about someone like this before, "About a year into the relationship, things got a little more intimate, a bit more serious. . .and well, I was just a kid. I found out I wasn't ready for that kind of attachment yet. Things pretty much fell apart, and we split for good."
My mother's overcast expression returned, her content smile dissipating as she lightly traced the rim of her mug with steely eyes, "So, we returned to our normal lives."
A grueling churning of guilt began in my stomach.
"Then you got pregnant with me, right?" I said softly, diverting my gaze and plucking at the roughly textured fabric of the placemat.
Often, especially now, I'd wondered how my mom's life had been like as a teen mom. I knew she'd been a little young when she had me, but it was only recently I'd realized that she'd started raising a child when she was only a few years older than me. She'd been as much a kid as I am.
Mom grasped my palms, and enfolded them in her palms, giving them a strong squeeze that brought my attention to her face, where I met glistening eyes devoid of even the slightest pretense of regret, "Lissy, you are the world to me. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise, alright?"
I nodded obediently, and gently my mom folded me into her arms, and in return I embraced her tightly. As she petted my head, I relished in the warmth a mother always offered, in the smell of paper and ink she always carried with her, in the fleecy sweater that tickled my nose and itched my cheek.
"About a week after you were born, I got a sudden visit from your father, who I had't told just yet-"
"What? Why not?" I inquired in stupefaction, feeling a sting of dismay in my chest. People were supposed to have happily ever afters, especially good people- like my mom.
She shrugged, pressing her her mouth curling languidly into a thin-lipped smile, "We wouldn't have been happy, Lissy. Your father had cold feet, and he definitely wasn't ready to be a father."
Pensively I pondered this as my mother continued, her gaze a faraway one as she stared into her mug, a gleam to her eyes that told me she was no longer in our two-bedroom flat, "I never contacted him, but about a month or two after you were born, he showed up looking terrified," she drew herself out of her journey into the past, directly meeting my eyes, "He had some rather disturbing news to share with me."
Arching my brows at her final words, she took my hands in hers, "Your father, Lissy, he isn't. . .he was no ordinary boy."
I began to scoff, "You can't possibly-"
"Lisette," she intervened sternly, her voice taking on that motherly tone that concisely advised I remain quiet, "Your father is a Wizard."
Silence acted as the preamble into my horrified tirade, one which my mother to her best abilities tried to impede as I staggered to my feet, nearly upturning the mugs and jars of jelly placed upon the small circular table as I clumsily bumped into it, clutching my chest as I stumbled around the cramped kitchen in a dumbfounded stupor that sent my distressed thoughts spilling unhampered from my mouth. Only when my mother firmly grasped my arms to force me to stop pacing around our cramped kitchen did I finally shut up.
"Lisette," Mother spoke sternly, firmly grasping my shoulders and ceasing my befuddled prattle so that only short breaths could ebb from my mouth, her eyes riveted to mine without a single glint of good humor in them, "Honey, I promise you, I am not joking around."
She petted my hair soothingly, leading me into the parlor and nudging me toward the ratty velveteen sofa, pushing aside several unread newspapers and loudly-patterned, threadbare pillows. Still holding my hands in her own, she arranged herself on the cushions, "When your father visited, there were several matters that he discussed with me. I'm not the best person to ask obviously, and since he wouldn't be around to tell you everything himself, he left us a few things." Mom seemed to be growing more disconcerted at the mention of my dad, and shaking her head slightly, I could tell she was banishing memories from her clouded mind.
Mother got up, crossing the littered space of our parlour until she reached the farthest bookshelf, for there was a set of three my mother had won at an auction of antique book-keeping items, and after deciding they were too fine of pieces to be placed in the bookshop below, she promptly set them in our parlour, and in no time they were congested with all sorts of novels and texts. Tall and of pale wood, they were carved with delicately curling, vine-like swirls that emerged gracefully from the pallid frame, tiny buds of sprouting blossoms speckled across the winding carvings. Each came with slim-handled doors that were fit with real glass to keep moisture and earwigs safely at bay from the archaic volumes inside, and although my mother rarely strayed to the shelves, today she unlocked the bookcase with a countenance similar to that of the bookcases, and digging around for a moment in the dust-blanketed stacks, she retrieved a small envelope similar to the one I'd received today, except the paper was of a deep, burnt-sienna, yet as I laid eyes on it, I felt another aura enter the room, and suddenly I felt chilled in the dank room that never before had bothered me with it's icy, knowledgeable atmosphere.
Sitting beside me, she handed the envelope to me, and I found that it too was labeled with my name, except the hand on this was anything but neat. Addressed to me in a scrawl that appeared hastily scratched across the surface, I took the outstretched item, and although my fingers trembled, I was able to tear away the tightly glued back, ripping away the papyrus-textured paper to reveal a clump of letters, all appearing to be assigned to me in the same scrawl in which my name had been written. Carefully I sifted through the cluster, pausing when mom plucked one out for me, offering it out to me.
"This was the first," she motioned for me to take it, and tentatively, I took the letter in my own hands.
Dear Lissy
Blinking momentarily, for an odd haze had come over my eyes, I looked back up at my mother, and then back at the note, my hands trembling as I held the thin parchment that had once been held by my dad. Tentatively, I began to read.
If you are reading this, then that means I am not able to tell this to you as your mother had predicted. I hope that, as I had predicted in return, she did not misplace this note, but I have enchanted it so that it is hard to lose. I must inform you that you are not like other children your age. Like myself and many before me, you are a Witch of my line, and a descendant of some very important witches and wizards. Like all witches, you have special abilities (such that you may have already discovered). These powers can get out of hand occasionally, which is why it is necessary you leave public school so you don't harm the other kids. You must attend a special school so that you can learn to maintain your power as well as how to successfully exercise it. This must all sound very strange, but I assure you, someday it will all make sense.
With Love,
Dad
There was no way to express how unreal this entire scenario was. For once, my tongue was quite beyond tied in my slack-jawed mouth, and rendered speechless by the stone that had accumulated in my throat, I allowed my mother to say the words that were attempting to ebb out.
"He wrote some other things, there," she said, eying the envelope in a sort of mild curiosity that mingled with sorrow, and from her blanched countenance I knew that I'd been somewhat inconsiderate in not heeding how all these memories were opening up wounds previously bandaged.
"Go on and read them. . .I'm sure they'll explain better," with quavering fingers, she took a gulp from her steaming mug, and some faint rosiness returned to her ashen face.
Swallowing down the final dregs, she spoke so quiet her words were not even entirely lucid to me, "I'll leave you to it."
I attempted to stop her, but swiftly she returned into the cramped kitchen, and from the clinking sounds of china and the sound of my mother banging a spatula against the ancient stove, I knew she was brewing her favorite tea.
Although I kept to myself in the parlor for the following hours, I did consider getting up and trying to comfort my mother. Peeking from behind the doorframe, I saw her at the table, fingering the yellowing table doily and watching the steam arise from her cup, I then acknowledged she was far out of London already, treading down a lamppost-lit lane in Elmbridge.
During the remainder of the day, I'd perused each document over and over despite the number of times the note had previously been read. I searched for my father's face in the tilt of his scrawled messages, the way he'd attempted to rub away an ink splatter then held the corner of the paper, leaving the ridges of his thumb imprinted in his wake. Yet, no such image emerged as I sat numbly in the center of the knit rug, surrounded by a wide arc of miscellaneous memorandum and not knowing quite what to do with myself. A few facts about certain spells here. A description of a magical creature there. Mystical content beyond anything I'd ever before imagined enveloped me, and tracing the letters of my name in my father's hand, I felt more disconnected from the world than ever.
I hadn't heard her amble in, but my mother knelt beside me on the carpet, wordlessly offering out a plate atop which a moist slice of chocolate cake stood, a mouthwatering sight that reminded me of the human appetite and that today was, although bizarre, indeed my birthday.
I took the present gratefully, eagerly delving into the rich, icing-slathered chocolatey goodness. In minutes I'd inhaled the delicious cake, and after I'd gulped down the last of the milk mom had poured me, I suddenly became conscious of her amused gaze. Retrieving a napkin from beside her, she gently wiped away the streak of milk smeared above my upper lip.
"Ready to open presents?" my mom asked quietly, tucking some unruly curls back behind my ear and looking deeply into my eyes with her own wearily warm ones.
I put down my plate, "Yeah, sure. But, first. . ." I blushed, again meeting her eyes, "Do we have any ice cream?"
Mom chuckled, and giving my shoulders a brief squeeze, she nodded, "Of course!"
After I'd gobbled down some ice cream, we curled up on the couch while I tore open various parcels wrapped in vibrant paper, laughing and marveling at the gifts. Later in the evening, my mom put on my favorite superhero movie, and all the while, with my dad's envelope tucked beside me on the cushions, for the first time I felt as if I had both my parents beside me.