The Magix's-Chapter One

The Beginning

Disaster. That was the one word that described my life. It was the only thing that seemed to repeat in my life. First was my birth. Second, was when my brother left to join the U.S. Army. Third was when my parents divorced. Fourth, my mother moved to go live in North Dakota. Fifth, my father was killed in broad daylight in Manhattan, New York. Sixth, my brother was killed in action while in Afghanistan. Last, I was to move in with my mother in Danesville, North Dakota.

I was only eight when my parents divorced. My brother had already left to join the Army. He told me about his idea of running away ever since I was six. He said he needed to leave and to find his own path and not follow his parent's ambitions. Both my parents were both very pro American, except when it came to war. They hated the army and any other military service that meant war and killing. My brother went anyway. His name was Ryan.

I remember the first time he wrote after he disappeared. He was already in the Army and started boot camp. Even my father, a lawyer, wouldn't be able to get him out of the Army. I wrote to him as often as I could. He would write back saying boot camp was hard, but he loved it. The sergeants drilled him hard, but he knew they did it out of love not hate, like mom and dad. Unlike mom and dad they fought out of anger and being in the same room. It was when they got the letter of recognition that the fights began. They fought about anything from the T.V. to their work. She wanted to be out of the concrete jungle and into some real hemisphere. My father being stubborn as always refused to move. He was going on his fifth year as partner in the Law Firm he worked for the past twelve years. So, she left him.

I spent four summers in Danesville. Wanting to be back in that concrete jungle she hated so much. I loved that jungle. It was familiar to me. Every year after those summers spent in North Dakota I would go back to live with my father in New York. He did have full custody of me, but couldn't bear with himself to take a young girl away from her mother. I felt like a freaking' ping-pong ball trying to keep up with my brothers letters from Iraq. That's where he was, Iraq fighting in the war. Though I hated to play tennis with my parents I hated to leave them every time. Even if they are weird, I mean 'were'.

My mother is a gardener. She owns the only greenhouse in Danesville, which is believable. And the only flower and seed shop as well in that small town in North Dakota. Her favorite flower is Queen Anne's lace, which isn't even considered a flower only a weed. She differs on that definition and claims it is a flower. I believe her, to a certain extent. And her favorite color is dark pink not hot pink or baby pink, but dark pink. Her favorite hobbies are gardening (of course), archery, and cooking anything that is on the Food Channel. Here is the weird part she owns guns. Six to be exact, three rifles, a 44. , 45. , and a shotgun. All are spread throughout the house one in each room. The other thing she was obsessed about were fairytale creatures from fairies, ogres, vampires, werewolves, witches, wizards, gnomes, elves, and I think smerfs as well. She kept trying to get me to read and almost memorize all the original stories like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White. I think this quirk of hers was one of the reasons why they fought, along with millions of other things to fight about.

My father believed in reality: taxes, people, history, the law, congress, the President, and whatever came to his mind that was real in this world. I agreed with him most of the time. Agreeing with him and staying with his beliefs might be another reason why he got full custody of me, until those summers. His favorite color was a blue suit. His favorite flower would be a red rose and loved reading books on history of the U.S.A. He was your normal almost everyday Lawyer that lived in New York. He did the times crossword everyday and weekend. He always knew what the stock market was going to be like throughout the week. And he always finished or won a new case every week. As normal as he could get he did have his quirks. He only ever took cases if he thought his client wasn't guilty, which pissed off his bosses a couple of times, and he was right most of the time as well. He had those really long closings like Alan Shore did in the TV series of 'Boston Legal'. I even think that was his strategy, talk so the jury members and/or judge would get bored with the information he was giving. And believe or not he won most of his cases. He was considered one of the best lawyers in New York. Though even being the best lawyer in New York didn't change him being dead.

I said a few paragraphs ago that he was killed in broad daylight in Manhattan while going to work one morning. It was around 7 o'clock when he left home and I was leaving with Paul, the chauffer, to go to school. My father decided to walk that day to work and get coffee at the new coffee shop on the corner. Stupidest thing he ever did, I thought when they told me.

They found him in an alleyway, two knife stabs in the back and one in the front. There was no trace of the killers. NYPD thought it was the work of serial killers from Maine. There had been five more killings before his death in Augusta, Maine and in Washington D.C. I wasn't sure what to think when they came to the doorway and tried to explain all this to a sixteen-year old girl, who just came back from school. The maid, Alma, cried for mercy on his soul and had a prayer for him in her room. Paul took me to the city morgue.

It is an odd feeling looking at someone you once knew look up at you from a cold slate. I don't know why in the movies they always close the eyes of the dead ones because his wasn't. I don't think you really can close their eyelids after they die. Seems weird to think of this, doesn't it? I, his daughter, confirmed it was he, my father. Three days later we had his funeral.

Mom never showed.

She called to tell me she was trying to get there, but didn't have enough money to fly to New York and back. Plus she didn't have any one to watch the store for her and take care of the greenhouse and the chickens. I asked her if she could borrow the money from dad's bank account. My grandparents didn't seem to like that idea. They froze all his accounts and I, to my own thinking, to do everything in their power to keep my mother in North Dakota. They always thought it was her fault that my mother and father separated. But, in the back of my mind, I think she didn't want to come. They're hate to each other might have been that strong. So, I stood there alone with Paul taking in the "I am so sorry', "sorry for your loss", "I knew him well", "He was a good man", "What a horrible death", and more of those disgusting sayings people always give you when a loved one dies. I came close to punching a lawyer friend of his from his sneer he gave me. You can guess from my description that he was rival of my father in the firm.

After he was buried, I went through what everyone like I was going through had next, the will. My father was a wealthy man and worth millions in New York. About half of his money went to the USO, funny huh? Another third of it to the Children's Hospital and the last third went in the bank for me to have and use for college. None of his money went to the other family members or my grandparents. Man, were they pissed.

Unfortunately I didn't leave from New York City to Four Bears Village, I left from Washington D.C. Five days before my father's funeral two uniformed men arrived at my father's penthouse. My brother was killed in action in Afghanistan. He died from an IED (Improvised Explosive Device). In one week my life crashed into smithereens, as I said before, disaster.

As the same as my father's funeral my mother never came, in fact I was the only one of my family that went to Arlington Cemetery for his funeral. The Army buried him there for dying in action. It would seem from his death he saved his platoon and one of his buddies, who was still in the Middle East. Since my grandparents didn't like him at all, my father was dead, and my mother never came, Paul and Alma took me to D.C. I stood before his coffin in the same dress as my father's funeral. Being the only female member and only member of his family, I was given his American flag along with a silver star. He had been promoted to a Sergeant two weeks before his death, he had written me about it. I left Washington D.C. with one of my bags and my brother's old duffel bag with his things in it. Paul and Alma said their goodbyes and I walked away from them into the airport.

And now I am on a plane 2,000 feet above the ground waiting to land in North Dakota. Four Bears Village was my destination, after that Danesville. A town that only had a total population of 1,670 people. After my arrival the population would be 1,671. A New Yorker girl to go live in a town that is 20 miles away from Four bears Village and 60 miles from Alexander. On this plane I wonder about Manhattan, New York, my friends, and my father's death.

I was a young girl getting ready to have life change and another disaster. I waited to be picked up by my mother and drive into a world I wasn't sure I was ready for. Would I be able to coup with the town? The people there? The land of forests and plains and no concrete jungle? And to arrive there not in the beginning of summer, but in the beginning of Autumn? Was I ready for any of that, the world for that matter?

My name is Lily, Lillian Quaker.