Mountains of the Moon
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The girl sighed and looked at the map once again, trying with all her
soul to find out where she was and how far it was from here (wherever here
was) to there (wherever she was going). She stood in a foggy, damp street
somewhere in London, England, for a reason she couldn't possibly explain to
anyone normal. Then again, this girl was not normal.
She folded the map and turned to look back into the fog, where a
rather busted-looking Chevy drove away, an American woman driving on the
American side of the English road. She sighed. Would her mother ever
remember to drive on the right side? Probably not. The car, old and rusty,
disappeared into the fog, leaving the girl feeling quite alone and cold. She
sighed again and shifted her backpack, and adjusted her sweatshirt that only
fended a little protection from the chilly London fog.
She turned back to the brick wall she faced at the end of an alleyway,
no one around for at least a mile. She shivered, feeling even more alone. She
set her face and walked towards the brick wall, feeling along the sides, then
put her hand on a brick in front of her. "Three up, two across....." she
murmured. Then she said, "Aha!" and pressed down on a brick that seemed to
have been worn smooth, as though many other people had rubbed or touched
it. Then she stepped back uncertainly. A loud scraping noise resounded
against the trash cans, then the wall, to her great amazement, slid away and
back to reveal another street! She gasped. "So, this is Diagon Alley." she said
with satisfaction. She shifted her bag and entered the street, the brick panel
closing behind her.