No, I don't own The Bartimaeus Trilogy or any of its characters (ah, how I wish…). Nope, they belong to Jonathan Stroud. Just thought I'd put that out there.
The Many Uses of Snow
The invasion began sometime around midnight, so not many were around to witness its beginning. A few icy flakes, drifting lazily through the dark and cold, seemed to appear as if by magic from out of the sky. No one really noticed. For now they slept on, oblivious. And the snow kept falling.
By the wee hours of the morning, a delicate blanket of white had draped itself over London, the work of the silent invaders from the night. The skies slowly lightened from deep ebony to a wholly unremarkable grey, and yet still the snow continued coming, silently and efficiently. The streets were coated; buildings transformed; parks, backyards, and public areas turned into wintery wonderlands; and everywhere as the city came alive once more, the results of winter's work quickly became apparent. Children hurried to peek out at the seeming miracle then scrambled to get dressed, haphazardly donning boots, coats, hats, and mittens and dashing out to revel in the chilly, slippery, wet, delightful gift. Adults were obliged to dress similarly, albeit to partake in the less enviable task of shoveling. Snowmen popped up all over. Screams of delight could be heard as sleds were sent down gradients or artificially-made slopes. People laughed, played, romped around, had a good time. So struck the snow, the first one of the year.
John Mandrake was reclining comfortably in the chair of his study, a steaming mug in his hand. Said chair was swiveled around to face the window, away from the desk littered with unsigned papers, unapproved posters, and unopened envelopes. In all truth, he should have been working. Issues piling up in the department were being siphoned off to him; threats to the government and unrest amid the commoners was on the rise, if anything, and he of all people was expected to deal with them; and to top this off was the fact that his rivals were constantly breathing down his neck, looking for the perfect chance to take him out of the equation. Indeed, Mandrake should have been slaving away behind that desk of his, but the allure of the snow was proving too great. Hence his complete lack of productivity.
Fragile crystals went on with wandering down. Some joined the heaps that lined the ploughed streets or the layers that masked the withered grass with a smooth, pristine façade. Others spun away and clung briefly to the window, proudly displaying their complicated symmetry to the magician before they melted away into oblivion, only to be replaced by others. It was a dizzying, tantalizing spectacle that instilled a feeling of tranquility. It was something new. Pleasant. Welcomed. Even if it was only a temporary respite, John embraced it eagerly.
Finally, steam ceased to curl from the vessel in his hands. Looking down, he found that he'd finished all of its sweet, chocolaty contents, and for a brief moment he frowned as he found himself wishing for more. The frown promptly vanished, however. Why scowl now when it was an activity he did practically every day? Like the old wives' tale said, one's face was prone to sticking itself in some bizarre way should one not put on a pleasant expression. As much as Mandrake severely doubted this, the saying still had a point: pouting like some child wouldn't get him anywhere. Then again, considering the mode his mind had gotten himself into, he probably wouldn't be able to get anything done today either. So, with a bit of hesitance at first, John alighted from the chair and, only pausing to leave the mug on the desk, slipped out the door.
The air was chilly, but not biting. His breath puffing out in front of him, the magician trudged across the virgin snow of his walkway and headed off down the street, drawing his coat a little more tightly around his thin frame. Everywhere, the snowflakes went on with their tirade, whirling down gently. Soon, they had found their way into John's hair and onto the surface of his coat, and at points sent cold little pinpricks into the exposed skin of his face and neck. He didn't mind. It was a rather pleasant feeling, especially after being cooped up in his study for so long. Peace. The word formed in his thoughts, making him smile slightly. He really was having quite the moment.
Which is where I come in.
Well, would you expect any less of me? After all, making a mess of things, especially nice, serene things, seems to have become a specialty of mine.* So as soon as I saw Mandrake headed for the door, I dropped what I was doing (namely nothing) and popped right out after him. It was still snowing, as it had been for hours now, and the interesting part was that Natty-boy actually seemed to be enjoying it. Well fancy that. You'd think that he wouldn't be one for all that nature-y stuff. But that aside, he didn't really seem happy as he wandered down the street, and then around a corner into a grassy common-area. More… melancholy. Like he had things on his mind that even the snow couldn't shake away.
[*As demonstrated on a variety of occasions, all too numerous to mention in one single footnote. Unless, of course, you'd want that footnote to take up a whole page or two, which I kind of doubt. Or do I? Because who doesn't want to hear from a witty, charming, handsome rogue like me?]
For a while, a lone little sparrow hopped along after him, sometimes stopping at little ledges or alcoves, sometimes hiding in one of the footprints he left behind. This quickly became tiresome, though, so I eventually came to the point where I morphed back into the guise of Ptolemy, and for the sake of blending in, threw into the ensemble some winter attire and an ear-flapped hat. That done, I continued on my merry way, snow crunching noisily underfoot as I pursued him at a distance. Finally, he seemed to get bored of walking and stopped, just like that, before proceeding to stare up into the sky. This behavior was a bit disturbing to say the least. Usually, the Mandrake I knew was either annoyed, or frustrated, or angry, or some combination thereof. Now all these lively emotions were lacking in a way that didn't really strike me as "good." At least an angry Mandrake was better than an alarmingly somber one. So what to do?
I quickly ran through my options. On the one hand, I could just slink away now, going back to his house and waiting until he could come back to send me off on some other mind-numbingly boring, not to mention unworthy, task. On the other, I could also go up and try to reason with him, see what was up, maybe try out the whole "I'm there for you" spiel.
Or, I could make things interesting.
Bending down ever so inconspicuously, I scooped up some snow into my hands and quickly shaped the matter into a roughly spherical projectile. Mandrake still had his back turned to me, which was somewhat heartening as he would have less of a chance of dodging.* Then, with some careful deliberation, I took aim.
[*You can probably see where this is going…]
Bulls-eye.
Amidst a messy, splattering sound, the snowball made contact with the back of Mandrake's head, just as I'd intended it to. He gave a little yell, keeling forward slightly, and then went along to do a slight hop-skip when some of the snow made it down the back of his shirt. It was all rather comical – until he turned around with a look of bloody murder in his eyes.
"Bartimaeus?" he tried to pronounce in an imperious tone, although it came out as more of a squeak. "Just what was that for?"
"What? Who? Me?" I tried to look as innocent as possible. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Mandrake. "I can see the snow on your gloves. It was you who threw that!"
Whoops. Points to Mandrake for observance.
"Well, I kind of figured you needed it," I told him. "You had that kind of 'forlorn' look going there, and, well, the opportunity was just too good to pass up… You've practically got a big red target painted on the back of your head." I threw in a carefree grin, which contrasted with the return of Mandrake's scowl.
The angry magician considered me for a moment, while I withered slightly under his gaze. For a minute or so, it remained this way, just the two of us staring at each other like idiots. Then, ever so carefully, his face went blank, the kind of blank that comes around when someone's up to no good.
"Remain where you are," he said in an icy voice, though it cracked ever so imperceptibly in the middle. "Thanks to you, I seem to have dropped something important."
Without specifying what, Mandrake then went on to lean down and inspect the snow in search of the object he'd lost. Losing interest, I turned my attention away from him and up to the skies, which were still churning out little snowflakes. It was kind of hard to believe that every single one was unique, as there had been so many to fall onto Earth, over such a vast period of time. But who am I to argue? I'm just a-
WHAM!
Out of the corner of my eye, I'd just managed to catch sight of something speeding towards me. With no time to react, I could only watch helplessly as the object came closer and closer until it noisily connected with my face and sent me sprawling. Such a simple thing, and yet one that flabbergasted me greatly. He couldn't have… Had he really…?
Oh yes he had. All the signs were there, from the telltale traces of a certain substance on his hands, to the air of smug triumph that he positively exuded. It was nigh on impossible to wrap my brain around, but the evidence was irrefutable.
John Mandrake, esteemed magician of the British Government, had just lobbed a snowball. At me.
The smirk he wore deepened as he beheld the look of disbelief etched into my snow-encrusted face.* "What's the matter?" asked the magician when I emitted no snide remarks. "Lost for words?"
[*There you have it. I'm not usually one for surprise, but this here was a pre-tty darn hard situation to get down. In fact, thinking about it, this turn of events might have been even more unnerving than his aforementioned behavior.]
I blinked. Several times. Just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. Or hearing things.* After a moment of silence, it became clear that despite my prolonged exposure to Earth, everything was still functioning properly, which then gave me some time to really get me thinking. And then suddenly, I was beaming so brightly I could have dazzled the sun.
[*Although I daresay it's rather hard difficult to blink your ears, but you get the point.]
"You call that a throw?" I managed to say without too much awe coloring my voice.
"Maybe not the best in the world," admitted Mandrake, "but at least I could have dodged it."
A challenge. Hanging right there in between us, plain as day. This just kept getting better and better.
"Dodge?" I scoffed. "I totally pasted you in the head earlier!"
"That was a cheap shot!"
"Cheap shot? Listen, bub, in the intense world of snowball fighting there's no such thing as a cheap shot!"
"In that case…"
He bent down again, dug his hands into a large drift, and sent a large wave of snow splashing right onto me. My arms came up to shield most of my head from the onslaught, but when I opened my eyes again I saw that Ptolemy was covered from top to bottom in white, and Mandrake was rapidly retreating.
"Oh no you don't!" I yelled, leaping up and sending several snowball zooming in his direction. In return, several more came in mine and before I knew it, Mandrake and I were embroiled in an all-out snowball war.
No, that's not quite right actually. The gloomy, stone-faced workaholic of a magician had vanished. Instead, the stupidly-grinning youth with flushed cheeks and not-so-terrible aim was none other than Nathaniel. It had taken awhile, sure, and it probably wasn't going to last either, but all pretenses of being a mature grownup had been cast off. And you know what? He didn't seem to care. Neither of us did, not when I lost the hat somewhere along the way, and he a boot. Not when I dumped some more snow down his shirt, and he smushed some into my ear. Not when his assistant happened to pass by and gave us both an incredulous look. We didn't give a hoot, because the snow had actually done a miraculous thing. An age-old feud between spirit and magician had been halted in its tracks. A more recent dispute between Mandrake and I had been similarly stopped. All of this was moot point as the two of us, the 5003-year-old djinni and the magician, mucked around like a couple of kids.
We'd been brought together by a bit of snow. If just for a little while.