3 July 1987, 06:33
We finally made it to France, in the home of an alchemist who has also been an informant in the muggle world. Enrique is sleeping inside one of the rooms with the door locked, but the whiskey's effects had not yet wore off on me, so I decided to write what happened yesterday.
It is true of what they say about the first jump being the hardest. After drinking the whiskey and writing that final paragraph, and also taking a moment of prayer, I went to the flying machine and held onto its grips. It turns out that the black cloak Walcott gave me had some sort of magnetic pull to the machine. It constricted both the front and the back parts, and it felt rather tight around the stomach area. The machine itself felt light, and it was retractable to some extent, so I can walk with relative ease.
We then headed slightly further east, near an opening in the mountain which was heavily guarded. And by heavily, I mean Buckingham Palace or The Pentagon level of security. Apart from the stone guard towers and walls, I saw trench lines, catapults, ballistae, cannons, and a lot of wizards, all in position to defend a cave opening only about the size of two school buses. From the security level here it looks like they are preparing for an all-out war.
Walcott: "The reason why the paths between the inner and outer wall are empty is because all the wizards who are supposed to be on patrol are gathered here at the gates. If those spies can poison our supplies that easily they must have considerable skill, so I'm not taking any chances."
We walked slowly to the mouth of the cave, where I was told to jump off. At first, I looked down and tried to see how far I was from the ground. Before I got a chance to ask for a running start, I felt a sudden gale behind my back and was pushed off by it. I think Walcott did it, but I can't really know as everyone else was standing a good distance away. Immediately after that happened, the wings sprang open, and I began to glide.
The experience itself could not be put into words, but I can still describe what happened. After a while, I levelled my heading, and began gaining altitude too. The wings in the flying machine did not stay static. They can flap at times, giving me some lift. The flaps made no sound, but after every flap, I can feel a breeze on my legs and feet. The cloak from Walcott is very good in keeping the air from my body, like a motorcycle jacket would.
"How does it feel, Platt?"
As I looked back, I saw Enrique flying behind. His broomstick looked rather different than regular broomsticks. The handle was wider, and on its front side I saw what looked like a scope. Now that Enrique's asleep, it may be a good opportunity to inspect his broomstick after I finish writing.
"It feels liberating. I feel like I'm a bird."
"Good. Now, do you see a piece of rope near both your arm rests? That is connected to the wing crossbow."
"Wing crossbow?"
"Certainly you don't think we will be leaving you completely defenceless, right? If you examine the wing closely, two of the wooden frames on each side are hollow. That is called a calamus. Inside of it is a mechanism that allows it to shoot bolts. Normally they don't have any specific element, but I have bought fire-element bolts to deal better damage against larger enemies we may encounter."
"Larger enemies?"
"Flying carpets, sky caravans, air chariots, even flying ships of any size. If the death eaters, I mean, the evil wizards know where you are, they will send men to hunt us down. Keep vigilant, Platt."
"I will."
Throughout the journey, we were flying low enough that we can see the lights from wizard settlements we crossed. Some are no more than a dot, others are big clusters and can give a general impression of the cityscape. Enrique has pointed to me the names of the places we flew through so I will write them down in place of the regular timestamps in this entry.
Also, I will use the information given to me by this map to write down the names of the towns.
-River Tweed (Flavia Tuidi), Territory of Lanarkshire, Provincia Caledonia Valentia
"Hey, Platt, look down there. What do you see?"
"That's the river which marked the start of my tale."
*laughs* "Platt, your English appears to have been tainted by the past. I think you spent a little too long inside that base."
*laughs back* "Well, maybe you are correct in that regard."
At this point, I have begun to get a good grasp of the controls. You steer by tilting your legs slightly to the direction you want to go, but you must make sure they're stretched straight. The hands control altitude and speed. By pulling the wings closer together, I can gain speed at the cost of altitude. Enrique led me to fly under the bridge where the train was. I had a near-collision, but it felt thrilling. The sound of the water under the dimly lit bridge only adds to the suspense.
-Newcastle-upon-Tyne (Pons Aelii), Territory of the Eastern Borderlands, Provincia Maxima Caesariensis
"There, by the coast. Can you see it?"
"A large town indeed."
Newcastle in the wizard world is a large port city which is still part of the Danelaw. It is also the main trading hub between England, Scotland, and the Viking Principalities in Norway. There were many wizards flying overhead, mostly on broomsticks or carpets, but I also saw a large Viking longboat which flew without a sail. The wizards also have ships on the water. They number little, but their size was considerable. They appear to be cargo ships.
"Hey, Platt, I think we're being followed."
"Should we land then?"
"No, there's no time. Let's try flying a bit west for now."
-Leeds (Leodensia), Territory of West Yorkshire, Provincia Maxima Caesariensis
"Little bastard's been following us."
"Where? I don't see anyone."
"I don't blame you, Platt. It is dark around here. Let me handle this. Do you see that town over there? Keep flying to that direction and circle around it once you're there. I'll be back soon enough."
After saying that, Enrique turned to the back and flew away. I did exactly as I was told, flying to the town and circling above it. This town was quiet, unlike Newcastle. A third of the town was brighter than the other parts, so I decided to descend and see for myself. It turned out that the town had a massive abbey, which had soldiers wearing uniforms similar to what I saw at the church last Sunday. I circled around the town for about six or seven times before Enrique returned.
Also, when Enrique returned, his eyes were glowing a pale grey colour.
"Sorry for the minute mishap, Platt. That rat has been dealt with."
"I see, but, where are we now?"
"We're over Leeds. It is the site of one of the largest monasteries in all of England. I assume you have flown over it?"
"Yes."
*chuckles* "It's a good thing they did not pull you down for questioning. The Cistercians can be very touchy with their land and anyone flying above them. We now continue south to Leicester, then we swing east again to London."
I intend to ask him about his glowing eyes when I have the chance.
-Leicester (Ratae Corieltauvorum), Territory of the Central Shires, Provincia Flavia Caesariensis
"That walled city. There can be no mistaking it. That's Leicester. Now we head east along the Roman road."
Apart from the walls, I could not make out any other details because we did not fly any closer to the city. Instead, we flew over a stone road lit with many torches like a runway. Both on the ground and on the air, I saw numerous wizards using the road as a guideline for their travels.
"Enrique, can I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"What do you know about Martin Smith?"
"Him? He's a stern but reliable man who always gets the job done, one way or the other. As he grows older he has softened up a bit, but you shouldn't let your guard down even when you're on his side."
"What do you mean by that last part?"
"To put this in a gentle way, rumour has it that Martin is losing his sanity. He's not at the point of absolute lunacy, but his actions are very unpredictable. Not even his closest of allies know of his schemes until he has put them in motion. Rest assured, however, that he will get the job done. Just do what he asks of you and everything will be fine."
I don't think a loss of sanity justifies his unpredictability. I believe he just has trust issues. Then again, I will need to see for myself.
-London (Londinium), Territory of the Thames River, Provincia Britannia Australis
"We're finally here already."
"Is this London?"
"You will know this place better than I do, that's for certain."
In the wizard world, London was predominantly medieval, but several districts appear to have been built in the Victorian era. In fact, upon closer inspection, London was a patchwork of architectural styles of the past 500 years up to the 1970s at the most recent. Some buildings were still made of wood, while others were clearly made of concrete.
"London looks so, well, mixed up. It's like the architects can't decide which style to adhere to."
"Yes, I know."
"Why was London built like this?"
"Here's the thing, Platt. You know that there are a lot of gates which link the wizard world and the muggle world, right? Now, let's take King's Cross Station as an example. Up to the mid-1800s, there was a village there known as the Battle Bridge, which was the site of Queen Boudicca's last stand. The gate worked until the muggles decided to build a train station which demolished their side of the gate and rendered our side inoperable. In order to activate a new gate, we need to enchant a segment of the structure we want to use as an entryway, but King's Cross is enormous, so enchanting just one door or one wall will look silly. Therefore, we enchanted the entire structure, made a copy in the wizard world, and then we activate the new gates.
We've even installed the first railroad in the wizard world because of it, and it helped us a lot more than we had expected. When all flights are grounded due to bad weather, the trains will keep on rolling. A mere four years after the Britannia Railroad was established, Paris followed suit, and our informants in the muggle world began to aggressively lobby for the construction of new railroads and stations just so that we could use them for our own needs in the wizard world."
We flew through the north side of the city first, through Barnet, Camden, Islington, and over St. Paul's Cathedral. Interestingly, the buildings around the cathedral mostly appeared to be of Roman origin.
"This quarter wasn't modernized."
"This is the old quarter. The 2000-year-old Roman settlement. We maintained it as such for historical reasons. Look there, that's the Tower of London."
"Is it still used as a prison?"
"Prison? Platt, muggle buildings will not keep wizards locked in for long. That tower is used as the administrative headquarters for the Thames river patrol."
"Administrative?"
"It's a long story. Let's just say that it's a customs office."
We flew south over the Thames until we were near the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, but suddenly, Enrique began slowing down until I caught up with him. Then, as we were flying side by side, he said, "Platt, is something wrong? You aren't flying straight."
"No. The flyer looks fine for me."
"I'm not asking about the flyer, I'm asking you."
Enrique then turned around and began flying in the opposite direction, slowly descending closer to the ground while I kept tailing him.
"You can't hide your emotions, Platt. You seem sad. It is evident in the way you fly. Tell me, is something wrong?"
"Very well. You've got me on that one. It's that..."
"You wish to see your family one last time before we go? Very well. You lead."
We backtracked along the Thames again, following every curve and bend and flying over ships of all sizes, from the tiny yachts and rafts to large wooden frigates. We crossed the river wall into the Roman quarter, then out its other side near Westminster Abbey. From there, we flew past Vauxhall Cross, Battersea Park, Chelsea, and into Fulham, where I told Enrique to turn south. There, I used the River Wandle to guide my flight further south. However, I was caught unprepared for what came after.
Merton, although still part of London, was a piece of land owned by the clergy. While the rest of the town constantly evolved to mimic its muggle counterpart, Merton was exempt due to its status as ecclesial property. The reason for this was the Merton Priory, which no longer existed in the muggle world but still does in the wizard world. As a result, while some of the neighbouring houses have been modernized to the 20th century, Merton kept its late medieval look across the entire borough. In addition to that, in medieval London, it appears that the Merton Priory and several mills on the Wandle were the only buildings that were present. The remaining land was a foggy bog, the typical setting of horror films.
"You live here?! Merton?! Of all the vici (boroughs) in this munipicium (city) you just had to live in the one place south of the Thames where we could not land!" *sigh* "Well, maybe I can still do something."
"No. That's enough. A bird's eye view is enough. We need to reach Berlin, remember? I do not wish to trouble you further here."
"If you wish it so, then so it shall be. Let's continue to Dover."
…
A few minutes after we left London, we were attacked by a group of three wizards. Enrique tried firing back, but his bolts missed. For both sides, it is difficult to fire at a target flying so quickly.
"Throw a grenade, Platt!"
I threw a random grenade to the back. The air behind me then began to sparkle white, reflecting the moonlight. Upon seeing so, the group of wizards chasing us immediately stopped. One of them, who flew ahead of the group, suddenly looked like he choked on something before he vomited and fell down from his broomstick. The other two wizards then dived down sharply after him, cutting off pursuit.
"That must be the poison gas grenade."
"What did you put in there?"
"Aztec Datura, also known as Toloache. Some nasty stuff is contained in that plant. I also mixed it with the poison found on frogs from Transatlantica and other ingredients I best keep secret. If there is one thing I learned from the 1985 campaign, it's that the tribes across the Atlantic are masters at making poisons. Of course, adding import costs, that gas grenade is the second most expensive grenade I have.
Don't worry. Equipment costs are on me. Just don't use the blizzard grenade without warning."
Dover (Portus Dubris), Territory of Ashford-Canterbury, Provincia Britannia Australis
"And on the bottom there you can see the castle, still used and repurposed over the years. There's a stone lighthouse near that. Don't fly too close, the fire is hot. To the right, you can see the White Cliffs."
In the wizard world, Dover is still the main port to reach France as it is in the muggle world. The completion of the tunnel in the muggle world may change this, but for now we still need to use ships and hovercrafts to cross. Because of its importance, a castellum (fortress) was constructed not far north, near where Richborough is supposed to be. Dover itself had buildings almost entirely from the Roman period, with gleaming white walls on houses and stone roads lined neatly to ensure optimal flow of goods from the harbour.
"It's all Roman here. Do any Englishmen live here?"
"A few. Remember what I said yesterday, about the fact that the Republic had numerous trading posts? Dover is one of them. This port is still under control of the Republican senate in Rome. The English operate another port on the west: Folkestone."
"So everyone here are considered Roman citizens?"
"Yes."
"What's the difference between the two?"
"Dover links trade from Ireland, England, Wales, Scotland, and Cornwall to Spain and Italy, which are mostly Roman controlled. Folkestone links trade to France and Belgica."
"Are there any ferries operating in this location?"
"To Spain or Norway, mostly. If you want to head to France you can just fly there on broomsticks."
Crossing the Channel (Fretum Gallicum)
It is one thing to fly over land, it is another to fly over the seas. In addition to the salty air, the winds over the sea were wild and unpredictable. If I recall my father's stories, although Dover to Calais was only 40 km apart, the unpredictable weather in this place made the Allied command switch the landing zones to Normandy instead. As we were flying, the cloud cover overhead obscured the moonlight, and the wind would sometimes change direction.
And as if that's not enough, I had an unfortunate accident over the water. It all started when we saw this small wooden sloop on the channel sailing alone, away from all the hustle of wizards flying in the air, with no torches or oil lamps or anything that can give away its position. I would have missed it, if Enrique didn't decide to do a bombing run.
"Hey, Platt, follow me. You see that ship over there? We will dive down on it. During that dive, fire as many bolts as you can."
"Wait, where's the ship?"
"No time to explain. Let's go!"
Enrique fired a white bolt like that of a flare to the direction of France as we approached from England. It was a diversion intended to make the ship's crew look the other way. Only then can I see the ship. As soon as they turned, Enrique dived sharply down and dropped around a dozen bombs from his pouch.
"As that muggle Pedro would say, Diga boa noite, p-a."
The boat went up in flames in a matter of seconds. The flames didn't only burn, but white sparks also flew everywhere, which exploded once they hit the water. I followed behind and pulled the strings quickly, firing around 10 bolts or so, but I did not know if they hit. The strings were stiff and hard to pull, so I couldn't fire any faster. As I descended further, the air pressure to my head was so intense that I struggled to keep my eyes open. I also began losing consciousness, feeling light headed and sleepy all of a sudden. I used the last of my strength to try and level the flyer again. Only then did the air pressure lower down far enough to the point where I can open my eyes again.
When I finally did, I found that I was much closer to the ship than I had hoped. Even though I had levelled the flyer, I was flying straight to the burning ship's hull, skirting less than 1 meter above the water's surface. Immediately, I pointed the flyer upwards and lurched for altitude. It was a near miss. I was probably only 30-40 cm above the burning masts, and the left wing caught fire like a twig to a candle.
"Platt! Get off that flyer!"
"How? This cloak is strapped to the flyer!"
"Take off your cloak!"
It was difficult for me to take off my cloak, as it was rather tight. However, I did manage to escape after the left wing blew up. The shockwave from the blast ejected me from my cloak, and I fell straight to the water, bleeding in the left arm. The cloak also fell from the flyer not long after. The flyer itself, however, spun around like a top and blew up to pieces when the fire reached the right wing. Debris fell over the water near the French coast, while Enrique came down and circled near the water around me.
"Well, that was a close call. I'm glad you got off on time. Sorry for that, but I had no other choice but to blast the wings off. Are you injured?"
At that point, I was in some sort of trance, feeling somewhere between shocked, angered, and hurt. The salty water washing the wound added insult to injury.
"Bleeding like this. Let's see. You should stay alive, though not for long. Sonorus. *unintelligible Latin speech*"
I still gazed emptily and did not answer, trying to hold the pain of the seawater mixing with the blood.
"Just hang in there. That white flare should attract the garrison of the forts from both sides of The Channel. They will be here soon."
I waded in the water for about five more minutes, with Enrique flying nearby and repelling any hostile wizard that came in. Then, a wizard flying overhead on a flying horse swept down and signalled his friends. It could be "her," I don't quite know. My memory of what came next was hazy at best. I remembered being carried on a hard, flat surface, maybe on a cart. I remembered that at one time there were six wizards around me, one wearing a Roman soldier's uniform and another wearing late medieval armour. By the time I came to my senses, I was sitting in a meadow on a plateau overlooking the Channel on the French side, holding a glass bottle quarter-filled by a red liquid inside. The time was 4:11 AM.
"I see you're back. You're quite a handful, Platt."
"My apologies."
"No, I should be the one apologizing. You did not have any mastery of flight, yet I ordered you to follow me to dive down on that sloop. Inadvertently I had put yourself in danger, and nearly got you killed. The pull of gravity can increase to great amounts when you are diving down like so."
"What should we do now?"
"The informant should not be too far away. Can you walk?"
"Yes."
"Very well. He should be there."
Looking back at this entry, I noticed that I forgot to ask Enrique on who Pedro was. I'll ask him when he wakes up.
Calais (Portus Caletum), Territoire de Thérouanne, Provincia Gallia Belgica
We walked through the meadow in the middle of the night. My arm was still bleeding somewhat, but the pain had mostly subsided. The meadow was mostly empty apart for a few huts further inland. Then, we came across a house which looked out of place for its time. It was a muggle house made of cement and brick instead of wood, and looked like it was built sometime slightly before WW2.
The insides of the house were slightly more modern. From the windows, I saw the walls were painted light green and light blue. There was a bookshelf filled with military records and photo albums, and there was a gramophone on a small end table. The floor tiles were similar to the one in my childhood home in San Francisco, and I can see early colour photographs of several people.
"Gustave!"
I placed my shoes on the porch overlooking the sea and stood waiting atop a black mat, waiting to be let through the small wood-and-glass door into the house. The porch had little on it, apart from a wooden chair and coffee table, there just wasn't anything else. I'm getting a feeling that whoever lives here doesn't get too many guests. Then again, this house is pretty far away from town, and even if it were in town it would look odd to the local villagers. It would be like having that one nerdy neighbour whose house looks like something out of a sci-fi film set in the 25th century.
"Qui va là?"
A few moments later, an old man came out who looked older than Enrique. He wasn't wearing Renaissance era clothes like regular wizards, but instead he was wearing muggle clothes from the 1950s: A grey coloured polo shirt, slightly baggy black trousers, and a pair of oval glasses with metal frames. His face and skin were scarred left and right. He looked similar to my cousin Abel, but with a longer face and less distance between the eyes and the nose. Also, as expected, his hair was completely white.
"Oh, the muggle. Bonjour to all of you. Come inside quick, I've been expecting you."
The air was slightly warmer inside, and it felt calming to finally sit down after being strapped to the flying machine all this time. We also treated ourselves to some warm water, cooked on a gas stove reminiscent of the 1960s. He talked with Enrique for a time in Latin, but then he glanced at my face, and began staring at me. Then, he stood up from his chair and walked to the sofa I was sitting on, and started to examine my face meticulously.
"Is there something you want?"
"Muggle, have we met before?"
"Sorry?"
"I'm asking, have we met before. Your face is awfully familiar."
"No, I can assure you, this is our first encounter."
Enrique grabbed Gustave's wrists and said, "Gustave, this muggle is tired and the sun will soon rise. Can you show us our quarters?"
"Hey! Don't be so hard on my old bones! Yes, I'll show you. Follow me downstairs."
Gustave rolled the rug on the floor halfway, revealing a trapdoor. Beneath it was a stairway which led to a small but well-lit concrete corridor, lined with yellow electric lights. It was like being inside a bunker.
"Do not feel secure around these walls. They will not help you once the war begins."
The rooms were also military-grade. Floor, wall, and ceiling, all were made of concrete. The only place to sleep was on a sleeping bag like the ones used by the Japanese in the Pacific War. The door was made of iron, secured with two locks, and had a small eye slit which can be opened or closed. There were no tables, no toilets, no place at all to put your belongings save for a line of ten hooks protruding out of the wall to hang clothes. The lighting was provided by a small electric light on the ceiling, connected directly to a circuit board and not a switch. To turn out the light, I had to cut power to the circuits.
Where did this old man get his electricity from?
I wonder if my father went through the same thing during the war, sleeping in bunkers like these.
…
After sitting on the sleeping bag for some time, I must admit that it felt comfortable, not unlike the beds in my house. The room was also warm and dry, ideal for a good night's sleep. Yet, I'm still not sleepy thanks to that whiskey. I might as well see what kind of broomstick Enrique was using.
Also, it gets pitch black when I turn off the light. I need to use my flashlight to avoid tripping on my bags.
'
3 July 1987, 07:09
My suspicion was correct. The front side of this broomstick concealed a miniature telescope. I don't know why Enrique would need something like this, considering how inaccurate wizard guns are, but I suppose he has his reasons. Maybe it is used to scout ahead before making an attack.
'
3 July 1987, 20:09
I'm not afraid of the dark, but sleeping in a cold, dark, quiet room like that would make anyone feel uneasy. Back in London, there will still be some form of noise in the night, normally from cars, but here, it is completely empty. Desolate. In horror films, you know that the killer is close from the sounds in the night. Here, the silence becomes a horror in itself. Will anyone hear you when you scream? How do you know you're alone? Are you being watched without you ever knowing? It took me a while to get to sleep that dawn. I haven't felt this restless since Okinawa.
I woke up at 4:33 PM, or, more exactly, I turned the lights back on at 4:33 PM. Since the room was so dark and quiet, I couldn't tell whether or not I was "up" and I may have repeatedly fallen asleep again. I only found that I was up when I reached for my flashlight which I placed beside the sleeping bag. When I came back upstairs, I saw Gustave outside, inspecting a cart filled with wood and fabric.
"Mr. Gustave?"
"You're up already, Anglaiser? Oh, right, muggles sleep less than we do. Well, see here, Platt, the flying machine you used broke over The Channel, and I don't think I can build a new one quickly. Are you in a hurry?"
"It appears so."
"Please, answer more firmly."
"I don't know what you mean, but I am going to Berlin to help in the Russia issue."
"Berlin? Are you, by any chance, assigned to Martin Smith?"
"Assigned? Yes, probably. He sent a letter for my arrival."
*sigh* "I had hoped that it did not have to come to this. It will take me days to build a new flying machine but considering the circumstances you are facing there doesn't seem to be any other way. I'll talk with Enrique about this."
"About what?"
"You're part of the war against the Russian evil wizards, right? They operate directly below the Great Council, and so if I want to intervene I need to ask that Spaniard's permission."
"Intervene? Permission? What are you talking about?"
"You don't know?! Don't they tell you that during apprenticeship? Wait, when were you recruited?"
"Just a few days ago."
Gustave kicked the cart and appeared to be swearing in French as he walked back into his house. I followed him inside, but as I walked through the door and looked to the left, Gustave had already pointed his wand to my direction.
"Accio."
A white bolt then whizzed past my hair. Before I could react, I saw one of the wooden chairs in the dining room fly towards me. The seat hit my knees and I assumed a sitting position almost outright, stopping right in front of Gustave.
"Locomotor Mortis."
This time, I did not see any bolt shoot out of the wand, but I felt a chill around my legs, as if they had been chained by cold steel. As a result, I could not move away from the seat.
"Your story sounds vague, Anglaiser. Recruited a few days ago? I will need to inquire further. Answer my questions properly, or I will dismiss you as a spy and end your miserable existence here."
"What are you doing?!"
"First question! Who sent you here?"
"Theodore Walcott! The base commander in Scotland!"
Gustave took out a scroll similar to the map scroll I have, but in a smaller size. He panned the map to get information about Scotland, and slowly nodded his head.
"Second question! If you are a muggle, who brought you here?"
"Arthur Trelawney! He oversees the production of food in the underground farms!"
"Third question! What is your business in Germany?"
"I am told to seek out a man named Martin Smith in Berlin! He will tell me what to do next."
"Fourth question! The Scot's invasion plans. Tell me everything you know!"
"They plan to attack Riga, then to capture Tikhvin before the end of August. Next, they will either take Lake Onega or Lake Beloye, to be used as a staging ground before reaching the Dvina River at September. From there, they will mount one last attack to the Ural Mountains, and to the Ob River if possible, before ending the campaign in November."
"Yes, yes. Très bon, Anglaiser."
Suddenly, Gustave pulled out a rapier from his cloak and pointed it straight to my throat.
"Or, trop bon would be more appropriate, I believe. The information you just shared is something no wizard from the Caledonia Front should know, save for several select base commanders who are involved in the planning. Both General Matthew and General Auguste had explicitly mentioned to all of them to keep it a secret until a few days before their deployment, which is still about two weeks away at the fastest. If you have such extensive and detailed knowledge of their plans, it either means that you have a very active imagination, or you have stolen them somehow. Considering the amount of detail in your story, the latter explanation appears more logical to me."
"!"
"Normally I would just drive this deeper into your throat, but I'm curious as to how you managed to retrieve such priceless information. Therefore, I have decided to spare you, on the sole condition that you work for us. But first, I need to put you away for a moment."
Slowly, with his left arm, Gustave raised his wand to eye level.
"Join us, or die. I'll look forward to your answer. Choose wisely. Stupefy."
…
That was the last memory I recalled of that evening. When I came to my senses, I was lying on a bed in Gustave's bedroom. I did not know it at the time since it was very different from the rest of the house. To put it simply, it looked frozen in 1850, about 100 years behind every other part of the house. It was like a typical bedroom you would find in paintings, fitting somewhere in the Victorian era but with a heavy French tinge. The walls were plaster, painted with a light blue colour, and the furniture were primarily made of veneered wood, metal, or a mix of both save for the carpet on the floor. The floor itself was polished stone, similar to a ballroom, which is cold to step on.
For a moment, I thought that I was brought to another place, until Gustave showed up at the door with Enrique. This time, Gustave was wearing a French soldier's uniform from WW2, with the Cross of Lorraine emblazoned on his upper left sleeve.
"Platt, I'm sorry for what happened earlier. It was a big misunderstanding."
"No, it's fine. Wait, how did you know my name?"
"It was in your transfer orders," said Enrique.
"Enrique told me everything. You were fortunate he woke up not long after I dragged you downstairs."
"Fortunate? Gustave, I may be a heavy sleeper, but I can always sense trouble when it comes my way."
"Well, you're slightly correct in that regard. You are one of those "specially trained" units to begin with."
"Don't dig up the past, Gustave. Shouldn't it be time to properly introduce yourself to this muggle?"
"Very well."
Gustave went inside, stood straight, and gave me a salute. Then, with a loud voice, he said: "Je m'appelle Gustave Marier, du 48eme Regiment d'infanterie de la 1eme Armée. It shall be my duty to protect you until we reach Berlin."
"Um, thanks."
"On the contrary, Platt, I should be the one thanking you."
Before I had the chance to speak, Gustave pulled out a photo of him on a stretcher, shot in the left arm. On his side was my father, Hector Platt. Immediately, I was stunned. The photo was dated 25 May 1940, so it should be around the time of the Dunkirk evacuations.
"You know him, don't you? Now I remember why your face was so familiar. When Enrique told me your name, I immediately recalled this picture from years past, when I was still an active informant for the West Francia Defence League. In 1940, I was shot in the left arm, and since there were muggles everywhere I couldn't take my potions. It was at that time, that a lance corporal named Hector Platt came in and dragged me back to friendly lines. We talked to each other throughout the day, and he forged an oath of friendship where we promised to each other that we will meet again if we both survived the war. According to the transfer orders, you were born in 1949, so that means he survived the war.
If you had not arrived here, I would have forgotten about that promise. Now, pray tell, is he still alive?"
"Yes, but he moved to America in 1947. To San Francisco."
I told him the address of my childhood home.
"Wait, if your name is Irving, then that means you were Hector's firstborn son, right?"
"Yes, but how did you know?"
"Hector told me about your family's naming convention. It was a tradition started by Chester Platt, your ancestor who was born in 1772. The firstborn son's name was always one alphabet letter following the father. This resulted in a chain of names from Chester, David, Edward, Franklin, Gilbert, Hector, and finally Irving to represent the letter I. I assume this means your son's name starts with J?"
"Yes, I named my son Jeffrey to continue the tradition."
"Sorry to interrupt, but are you done?" asked Enrique. "We need to reach Berlin before dawn, remember?"
"Right. Follow me, doctor."
"Do we have a new flyer already," I asked.
"No, I've got something better."
…
We walked outside of the house, where I saw an old car from the 1940s. It was a Citroën 15CV painted with camouflage colours, and the spare tyre at the back of the car was replaced with a set of hooks. It had several bullet holes in different parts, but the entire thing looks clean, as if it was frequently washed. As I walked closer to the door, I found that it still had a new car smell.
"This car has served me well during my time in the French Resistance. I lost count of how many NAZIs we shot up during our great escapes, with me at the wheel and the others at the back. I liked this car so much that, in 1950, I brought it back to the wizard world with me and enchanted it so that it can fly. It cost me my old house, but in the end it was worth it."
I wonder when we can have flying cars in the muggle world. People would kill for them.
"It looks as if it was built only weeks ago."
"That's the power of our restoration spells. Now, before you get any ideas, no, it doesn't work on humans or living beings. Though, the spells are of the same family as necromancy, I'll tell you that. Let's fly."
I opened the door on the car's front, but Gustave stopped me before I had the chance to enter.
"No, you sit at the back. That way, you can shoot left and right."
"Shoot?"
"Yes, shoot. Platt, meet little Tommy."
On the back seat, I saw a violin case. Anyone who has seen enough gangster films would know what to expect. Inside of it was a Thompson SMG, with multiple block magazines.
"Now you see it, now you don't."
Gustave then closed the violin case and opened it again, this time revealing a real violin.
"How did you do that?"
"A magician never reveals his tricks, but since we're at war, I'll show you the trick on the condition that you do not write it down in your petit journal book except for two words: secret switch."
The real violin displaces as much volume as the gun, so I assume that it was built similarly to the wizard bags which can contain items far larger than the bag itself, provided that it can fit into the mouth. Inside the gun compartment, I also saw a piece of paper containing a step-by-step picture guide on how to assemble the gun and fire it.
"Some members of the French Resistance were illiterate, or in some cases they came from other nations and spoke little French. I had to draw a picture guide to help them."
"Do you have a gun of your own?"
"This car is a weapon in itself. You'll see what I mean if we encounter several of those death eater ships. Accursed Anglaisers. It's not enough for them to terrorize their tiny island. They need to raid the continent too. Ironically, it is the Vikings who now serve as a vanguard against them."
"Vikings?"
"Normans. They reside in the coastlines of what I like to call the 3C region: Cherbourg, Caen, and the Pays de Caux, all linked by a Roman road and no more than 25 km from the sea. They've been here since the time of Chief Rollo, and if you saw them today they don't look too different from an average Frenchman. However, they still follow Nordic traditions, and their anti-raiding measures are the best in France. They are one of the oldest constituent members of the West Francia Defence League. Oh, and their language is also different. It's like a mix of Danelaw Norse and Old English. Some don't speak French so we had to communicate in Latin."
Gustave started the car's engines by opening the hood and using some sort of glowing blue stone on it. Slowly, I can hear the engines start, but it didn't sound like a car engine. It sounded more like a fan.
"Has the car warmed up yet?"
"Warmed up may not be the best term to use here, but, no, it's not ready yet. Just a little more."
"How can you tell if this car is warmed up?"
"It will stop humming."
As time goes on, I noticed that the fan-like sound is slowly fading away. About 1 minute later, it had faded beyond audible range. A few seconds later, Gustave asked: "Platt, is the sound gone for you?"
"Yes," I replied.
"You were born in 1949, so you're 38. That means we need to wait 68 more seconds."
"68 more?"
"It's a rule of thumb. My hearing has gone worse as I age older. If I am driving alone I would wait five full minutes after the sound has faded away before flying. But, I think we can go now. Let's fly."
'
4 July 1987, 03:51
And happy treason day, America, as my father used to say.
My sleeping schedule is wrecked thanks to yesterday's whiskey and it may take me a few days to normalize. I am now writing this in muggle West Berlin, in an old rundown tenement in Kreuzberg which appears to be built over 100 years ago. This place is modest enough to sleep in for the night, but if I were to be given ten thousand Pounds to live here for a month, I think I'll pass.
Damn, the last time I stayed up this late was during my university years. I know that it's bad for health, but homework must be done no matter what. Maybe I'll send some of the whiskey to Isaac, who is currently studying in Oxford.
I best write what happened during this second phase before I forget any information.
Dunkirk (Portus Dunquerka), Territoire de Thérouanne, Provincia Gallia Belgica
The car lifted off like a helicopter, only with no noise at all. It was so silent inside that you can hear a pin drop. Enrique was flying outside on his broomstick while I was busy assembling the gun.
"800 km to Berlin. Let's go."
There were three speedometer needles, coloured white, blue, and green, all of which can glow in the dark. The white speedometer needle increased slowly from 0 to 100, then it stopped and the blue needle started moving, slowly increasing from 0 to 50. I assumed that means this car is going at 150.
"Can this car go faster than 150? It has another needle, right?"
"Yes, but if I go that fast your friend there won't be able to catch up. Broomsticks can go up to 150 on average, and military-grade ones can go to 200. The fastest one commercially available is the Firebolt Broom, clocking at slightly above 225 if I wasn't mistaken. Some experimental ones can go even faster but the main problem there is ensuring the rider can still hang on."
"What is the maximum speed of this car?"
"I forgot. The enchantress told me decades ago but I never drive above 200 so I don't know."
"Are there any faster means of travel aside from broomsticks?"
"Numerous enough."
We began flying along the coast, over a medieval town which looked somewhat like Venice. Half of the houses were on the land, and the other half was on water.
"See that town, Platt? That's Dunkirk. A fishing village here in our world. If we had that many ships back in 1940 maybe both the French and British troops can be rescued. Maybe. But alas, if I went on the boat to England, I wouldn't have been able to write a book about the French Resistance. It was a modest hit in the wizard world. Reached the top ten in Paris and stayed there for a month."
"So you are a writer?"
"Partially correct. Informants need to publish reports about the muggle world to the local ministry, but they still hold, um, what's that muggle term for that again? Intellectual Property?"
"Yes."
"Alright. We still hold the intellectual property, and we can publish it if we want to. After hiring a scribe to assist me with the wording, I began publishing it in 1951. Wizards are often curious about the muggle world, and tales of war or scientific advancement in particular will certainly attract their attention."
Brugge (Bruccia), Territoire de Tournai, Provincia Gallia Belgica
We continued along the mostly dark coastline for nearly an hour until we reached another town larger than Dunkirk. It was situated on an inlet, and slightly further north I saw a small wooden fort or camp. Most of the town was made of wood and thatched roofs, and the buildings appeared to be clustered very closely together. There were a lot of wizards flying in the air, but our headlights should suffice as a warning to adjacent flyers.
"Welcome to Brugge. As you can see, we did not let the Zwin silts hamper trade."
"I know. I've read about the rivalry between Brugge and Antwerp. But, why did they build a fort made of wood up north? Richborough and Dover both had stone walls.
"That's a museum. It was built by Julius Caesar before he went to Britain, and the structure and layout is thus very obsolete. It can defend well against muggle attacks at the time, but these days, cannons will tear the walls apart quickly and musketeers will make quick work of those pouring out of the gates. In addition to that, with a small squadron of well-trained wizards, an air attack would cripple it within minutes like what happened to Eben Emael. It would be best to convert it into a tourist site for extra revenue."
"Roman history is very well preserved here."
"Well, up until the time of Merlin, the Romans were the ones who advanced the science of magic the most. It would be reasonable for us to keep some structures intact so that we will not forget."
"Is this the same Merlin in the legend of King Arthur?"
"Yes, but the muggles highlight Arthur's achievement and only wrote about ten percent of what Merlin did. I'll make it short. Merlin was the one who decentralized the world of magic. He pulled it away from the Roman academic elite and quite literally gave it to the masses. He developed the concept of practical magic, and laid the foundations for an educational system still in use to this day. Furthermore, his methods revolutionized the way we thought about magic itself, which I would not go into because it will take a long time and you, as a muggle, probably wouldn't understand anyway."
Antwerpen (Andoverpis), Territorium van Cambrai, Provincia Gallia Belgica
"Down there, you can see the trade town of Antwerp."
"You wizards certainly spend a lot of time trading."
"Yes, but we don't only trade for money. Information and knowledge are also best sought in these cities, patronized by the city council. Science is a commodity that is greatly valued, and maybe arts too. Antwerp houses one of the largest artisan quarters in Europe."
"Such as painters and sculptors?"
"Not just that. Alchemy thrives there, and if the wizards have knowledge of modern science Antwerp may have the capacity to develop nuclear weapons. You should know that we have two classes of alchemy: academic and artisan. Antwerp's research hall is one of the best places to learn academic alchemy and the artisans can also teach you about theirs."
"Aren't nuclear weapons a bit of a stretch?"
"Once this war is over, you should take a look inside a research hall for once. Then you'll see what I'm talking about. They look modest on the outside, but their insides are enormous. It's like walking into a different city altogether. Rows and rows of scrolls that appear to go on forever, but you will, strangely, always feel at home. Now, we move further west."
Eindhoven (Eindovia), Territorium van Lidje, Provincia Germania Inferior
"And down there, you can see what happens when a trading town is left to rot."
Eindhoven has had a troubled history in the muggle and wizard world. It was built between two streams and a trade route runs through it, which should have ensured modest prosperity. Unfortunately for the wizards, the town was burned down by Spanish forces in 1583 before they managed to make a duplicate. It was then decided that the wizards would just build a new town from scratch as a farming settlement instead.
Only to have it burned down twice more in 1756 and 1881.
"First one was because of an accident. Second one was because death eaters took over the city and didn't want the Dutch Ministry of Magic to take it back intact."
"You don't just burn an entire city by accident. And even if it was, couldn't you douse the flame?"
"Not if it was infused with dark arts. Sure, if you're alone and the magic is weak, you can just step on a withered snapdragon to break the curse, but that wasn't the case in 1756."
We flew over the fields and the mostly wooden town, past a stone castle a little north, and continued heading west to the Meuse River.
"Should we get Enrique in here?"
"He insisted on staying outside."
"You mentioned earlier that Enrique was specially trained. What do you mean by that?"
"I'll answer in his words: Don't dig up the past."
"Alright. I don't think this next one counts as digging up the past. When we were flying over Leicester, I saw that Enrique's eyes were glowing."
"Say no more. You are going to Martin's unit, right? You'll find out how to make your eyes glow. Trust me. Anyway, want some amandes?"
Gustave tossed a small pouch with no warped space filled with almonds.
"Is this all for me?"
"Yes. I don't get guests very often and these amandes are about to spoil. I needed someone to get rid of them. I offered them to Enrique earlier but he refused."
"Well, thanks."
The almonds were unlike anything grown in the muggle world. It was hard on the outside, soft on the inside, and also sweeter.
"They're as sweet as chocolate."
"Chocolate in the wizard world is as bitter as muggle coffee, just for your information. Only saying "chocolate" implies that you are referring to the fruit. But, yes, they're like bon-bons."
Wesel (Castra Vetera/Ulpia Traiana), Territorium van Kleve, Provincia Germania Inferior
"From the Rhine! There! Open fire!"
"They are still too far!"
A classic pirate move. Three wagons flying Roman banners suddenly raised black flags and some twenty raiders flew outside. Gustave later claimed that they must have seen his flying car and thought that he was rich, and decided to rob him. Enrique detached to call reinforcements from the legionary garrison, while we tried to hold off the attackers. I tried shooting them, but all my shots keep missing as I couldn't line up the sights.
"Then hold on tight!"
Gustave sped the car up to 200 and started flying in circles. Then he slowed down to 30 and descended slightly above the tree line. When the raiders got close, he deployed a smoke screen, shot a bolt outside, and landed the car in the middle of the forest.
"That was anticlimactic."
"What were you expecting?"
"I thought we are to fly away at 300 or something."
"Fly? No chance, Platt. There are too many of them and we shouldn't take unnecessary risks."
"Didn't you say that broomsticks can't catch up at that speed?"
"The problem isn't with the brooms! The car's engines may explode like a firework if we go too fast for too long! I've seen it happen before. Maybe I'll do it if I'm driving alone, or if the car was still brand new, but Martin will kill me if he knows you died on the way. Now follow me."
Gustave climbed to the top of the forest canopy with relative ease, gripping and leaping from branch to branch like a monkey. I struggled to keep up, but I did finally managed to reach the top. From there, we can see a massive walled fortress with what appeared to be searchlights. Upon closer inspection with Gustave's binoculars, I saw that those searchlights were braziers covered with mirrors.
"Good. They've been dispatched."
"Who?"
"The Republican Thirtieth Legion. That massive fortress is their primary garrison. Those brigands have just signed their own death warrants, attacking not just any Roman citizen, but a Centurion Princeps in the Home Army. He outranks every centurion garrisoned in this exclave."
"Home army? Exclave? At this rate, I will need a book to keep up with this new info."
"Short version: The New Republican Army consists of the Home Army and Foreign Legions. The legions are kept for novelty's sake and are usually only garrison troops like the Tirailleurs, but the home army undergoes constant revision and reorganization to keep it as one of the best in the world. Home army commanders usually have higher authority than the foreign legion commanders. Long version: Visit a library."
We waited atop the tree for a few minutes, watching the fortress from afar. I saw at least 100 troops dispatched from the fortress, wearing uniforms similar to British Redcoats but with more yellow and white colours present. Some were wearing capes, cloaks, or metal helmets. They spread out in groups of ten and began searching for the raiders. Once they found one, they shot a white bolt to the sky, and the fortress would send more men to the site. At one point, one group flew over our position. Gustave shot a green bolt towards the direction of the fortress before they managed to shoot a white bolt, and they immediately dispersed and formed a defensive perimeter on the ground and on the air. A few seconds later, Enrique rejoined us.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. We should leave now, Platt," said Enrique. "This time we'll take the Rhine Highway."
"One more thing, beyond the Rhine River is the Holy Roman Empire, with its thousand baronies and convoluted borders. We couldn't count on the Republicans to defend us anymore like what happened here," added Gustave.
We climbed down the tree and returned to the car, waited for another three minutes for it to warm up, and flew away eastward, leaving the Rhine river behind. Enrique was injured during that attack, suffering from a burnt arm, so he opted to stay inside the car with us. At that time, I thought that the worst was over, but it turns out we still had many surprises that night.
Haltern am See (Aliso), Territorium von Westfalen, Provincia Germania Magna II
"The Weser branch of the Rhine highway…"
"Is something wrong, Enrique?" asked Gustave.
"Hey, muggle, do you know about the battle of Teutoburg Forest?"
"No, never heard of it."
"It was a shameful defeat in the early days of the First Empire almost two thousand years ago, with the total loss of three legions. To avenge that defeat, we attacked the Germans again five years later. The highway we're flying over was the old invasion route."
I may need to add that a "highway" in the wizard world isn't a physical road. Rather, it is a set of braziers placed on the ground with some watchtowers every few kilometres. The metal on the braziers was similar to bronze and very reflective to light, making them easy to spot in daytime.
"65% copper, 30% zinc, 3% iron forged in a blast furnace with dolomite rocks, traces of lead, arsenic, charcoal, and gold. These metals are to be forged with draconic levels of fire, then quickly cast and frozen over. We call it Carolingian Orichalcum. They are resistant to heat and cold, they do not rust, and if made into armour it can take on blunt and sharp weapons."
We then flew near a fort which looked like a smaller version of the Legionary fortress at Weser. It lies in the middle of a large farmland, but I didn't see any houses on the field. The fort itself was also dark, as if it had been abandoned.
"What's that fort over there?" I asked.
"That appears to be an old outpost," said Enrique. "I don't really know why it was abandoned."
"Could they have been attacked?"
"Attacked? This close to the highway's watchtowers? No chance. It appears to be a storehouse for the farms around it, and perhaps also as the home of the peasants," said Gustave. "Rather than waste money to tear down old defensive structures, some counts prefer to just give it to the peasants."
Hamelin (Idistavisus), Territorium von Weser-Minden, Provincia Germania Magna II
"Look on the left. That's Hamelin."
"Look to the front. What's that ship doing?"
I did not manage to get a good look at Hamelin because of that flying ship, which, mere seconds after Enrique pointed it out, fired off its cannons.
"Grapeshot incoming!"
"Protego Anterius!"
Enrique opened his door and fired a pale blue bolt which formed a shield on the front side of the car. When the shrapnel came in contact with the shield, it immediately burst into flames and likely vaporized.
"You are quick with your hand, Centurion. Muggle, take the wheel for a moment. I'm taking the cannon."
Gustave slowed the car down to 20 km/h, drank a small vial of yellow-coloured potion, pulled out a rope from a compartment underneath his chair and climbed up to the car's roof as I moved to the driver seat. I can then hear him crawl to the back of the car, followed by the trunk opening and the sound of something being strapped to the back of the car. Suddenly, the car slowly tilted upwards.
"Muggle, keep the car level! The pitch can be adjusted with the lever on your right. Push it upwards a bit!"
I pushed the lever upwards just enough so that the car flew straight again. Suddenly, Gustave popped up on the front windscreen. He was carrying several lengths of rope and wearing a pair of earmuffs.
"What are you doing down there?"
"Not now, Platt. I can't hear you right now. We'll need to burn that ship first. Can you turn the car around 90 degrees to the left? And, make sure that all the doors and windows are tightly shut. This will get really loud."
I turned the car left so that our side was facing their side. At first, I doubt that a single cannon would be able to take down a ship that large, as it was roughly 40 to 50 times larger than our car and there was no water to help it sink. However, I suddenly felt the car shake and saw an artillery shell fly straight to the ship. When it struck, I saw a magnificent flash of yellowish white, followed by fires raging on the front end of the ship. Thanks to the fire, I saw an odd looking cube at the centre of the ship. I took the binoculars that Gustave left on his front seat, and saw that the wizards were frantically trying to prevent the fires from reaching that cube, using a multitude of spells. While I was looking, I felt another shake and saw another shell fly. The second shell struck near the cube, and almost immediately, fires broke out on every gun deck, forcing the wizards to abandon the attack as they scrambled away from the ship.
"I'll take that back, merci."
Suddenly, I saw that Gustave was sitting on the back seat, holding a yellow piece of string.
"When did you come back?"
"I climbed back in before firing the second shot."
"What kind of cannon was that?!"
"A British 4.5 inch medium gun, using white phosphorus shells. I salvaged it in the Netherlands in 1945 and brought it back for repairs, then I got the instructions manual in 1946.
"That thing weighs 5 tons at the very least. How did you get it into place?"
"With the ropes."
I stuck my head out the window and looked down. There, I saw the gun barrel sticking out a fair distance away from the car, tied with multiple lengths of rope. The ropes appear to sling to the front and back sides of the car.
"So that's what the hooks are for. But, what was in the potion you drank?"
"It was a special concoction made of herbs from Asia to keep me warm in the air outside. At this age, I shouldn't be exposed to the night wind for too long."
"I thought it was a strength potion."
"It's not necessary. The rope and hook positions have been calculated to optimize mechanical advantage and my diet has kept me strong over the years."
"So, should I give the wheel back to you now?"
"No, you drive. I mean, you would likely not get an opportunity to drive a flying car again, right? We'll switch again in Berlin since landing the car is a little tricky. Just follow the highway and try not to collide with any night flyers."
"You will need to change lanes in Tulisurgum. Make sure you note that," added Enrique.
"Brunswick! Use English names, please," commented Gustave.
"I can't help it, I'm Roman. Besides, that map the muggle brought can translate it for me. Would you like some chocolatine?"
Gustave appeared crossed by that remark and began arguing with Enrique, stating the word chocolatine repeatedly in a berating tone. At one point, he took the almond pouch from my hand and sprinkled it on the bread, pointing to it and referring to it as an amandetine.
"What are you arguing about?"
"Stay out of this, Anglaiser," said Gustave. "Domestic French problems."
"No, present it to him. Muggle, what do you call this bread?"
Enrique presented me with a small piece of bread with chocolate filling. On top of the bread were the almonds Gustave sprinkled on earlier.
"This piece of chocolate bread? You're making a fuss over this?"
*sigh* "Right, they did not have this debate in England. This piece of bread is known as chocolatine in the southern parts of France, but everywhere else it's called pain au chocolat."
"I had assumed someone your age would at least be wiser than this."
"My apologies, monsieur…" said Enrique in a condescending tone.
"Monsieur? Enrique, how long are you planning to hide it?"
Enrique replied to that question with a rather long rant in Latin. I couldn't make out the full sentence, but he did mention the words "homo laeti" multiple times. After that little argument, Enrique asked me to slow down and then took off on his broomstick again, leaving us both inside the quiet car.
Braunschweig (Tulisurgum), Territorium von Niedersachsen, Provincia Germania Magna III
Driving in a flying car was actually rather boring, not too different from a normal car. I kept my speed constant at 200, but even at that speed I had no trouble avoiding other wizards. I should mention that night flyer wizards hardly ever fly alone. They fly together in formation like birds, and their broomsticks will often have lanterns to show their position. Occasionally, I would come across a flying motorcycle, a glider, a flying stagecoach like the one in the old Cinderella film, and even what appears to be a stone raft. The wizards appear like they are able to make everything fly. It reminds me of that Peter Pan film I watched decades ago. I was lost in thought and wonder, when suddenly, Gustave asked: "Hey, Platt, do you have anything else to talk about?"
"What's wrong?"
"You've been very quiet ever since you started driving, from the Weser River to where we are now. It's too quiet. I know it's odd for someone my age to say this, but, I'm, afraid of the silence."
"Afraid?"
"Picture yourself this way, Platt. One night, you run into a NAZI supply depot teeming with guards, and you have a squad of battle-hardened partisans. You give the command, and the massacre starts. There will be shooting, gutting, screaming, shouting, gasping, more shooting, and your blood races on. You split up to cover more ground. Building after building, murder after murder, blood flowing everywhere, and suddenly, it stopped. As quickly as it began, you find that you're done. And what remains of it all? Silence.
Oui, that's right, silence. You take a moment to pause amidst the scenery around you. Inside of that warehouse that was once a farmer's barn on that dark night. You recall what had happened just minutes earlier. From the roof, the slaughter began. Jumping in on a rope like a firefighter, you took the Tommy gun and shot the Krauts closest to the skylight. Three of them were playing cards, now scattered on the ground, with a bullet hole in the Ten of Diamonds and Five of Hearts. One was smoking his last cigarette, and now the tar poisons his blood in a more direct manner after you shot his neck. Next to that pool of blood? Another one dead. A snapped neck, fallen face first. He nearly got you, you know. You were reloading at that time. Across the barn, two bodies. Thirty-two shots fired in total, twenty-one hits, with four in the head. Seven lodged in the crates, giving the bread within them an extra dose of lead. Three went through the wooden planks that made up the barn. One struck the cable connected to the electric lamp hanging at the centre of the barn. It fell down, spreading glass shards over a minor area. Now the barn looks like a Baroque painting: light in one side and darkness on the other. Beneath that lamp, another death. A knife you threw killed a kid, aged 16 according to his diary. He had likely faked his age like some of the younger partisans in your team, searching for glory, yet death found him first. C...d pulled the knife out of his chest and worsened his bleeding, choked on his own blood as a result. He was shaking like a fish out of water in his final seconds. Just outside was the last one. He sounded the alarm to no avail, as your friends have cut the power. He tried to shoot back, but the rifle jammed so he charged instead. Again, to no avail. Poor Boche, I almost pity him. Almost. Screaming like a little girl as you stab him with knives in both hands. Eyes, arms, guts, and a gash at the neck. Entrails spilling out, eyeball on the hay, stomach acids slowly dissolving his uniform. And the stench, m...é, the stench, all that thick, viscous pools of blood and bile, you would have thought that it can be sniffed all the way in Berlin. But no. That's not what gets to your mind. It's the silence.
You see, Platt, it's not the noise, carnage, and mayhem that destroys your brain, it's the silence. Couldn't you imagine how much of a stark contrast it was? One minute ago you were fighting for your life, and in your heightened state of alertness, it stopped. Like when you are playing a record on a gramophone and the needle goes click. Then what do you do? You wait, you kneel, you reflect, and you begin to contemplate. I just killed some NAZI bastards! They were kids, but that doesn't matter, does it? Well, does it matter, Platt? To be honest, I had no real motive to kill them. I was just an informant wizard, taking a side in a muggle war. The France I fought for is not the France I live in. The Germany I fought against, doesn't even exist in the wizard world. How am I different from a bandit, a butcher, or a knave? Then, your conscience speaks out: "Gustave, Gustave, Pourquoi tes habits sont-ils rouges, et tes vêtements comme les vêtements de celui qui foule dans la cuve? Regarde, tout vêtement guerrier roulé dans le sang, Seront livrés aux flammes, Pour être dévorés par le feu." Slowly, you begin to crack a little, but you can't show any weakness. You need to get up and go, now, levez-vous, marchez, before the garrison knows what happened. So, you take some of their gasoline, douse some walls, and set the barn alight. You need to keep it all in, keep it as poison in your mind. A phantom to haunt your dreams for decades to come, even carried over to another world. Imagine the numerous moments of vivid silence you have to endure. Every raid, every assassination, every SS retaliation. Imagine all that piling up at the deepest corners of your mind. You know that it's there, coming back in the silence of the night, and over time, it chips away at your soul again. Like a leech feeding on blood that does not stop feeding until you are dry. For this is not a silence of tranquillity, but the silence of thought, which is the loudest silence of all. One that screams within your mind, telling you that it's wrong. This silence, I have learned to fear, and as I age, it gets even worse. I am now afraid to drive alone. This car that I bought, it has become a curse to me now. I can't sleep at night. Those faces of those kids, the soldiers, all that blood, I just want them to STOP!"
As I looked behind me, I saw that Gustave was crying, repeating the phrase "I want them to stop" over and over again in French and English. A textbook case of PTSD. I left him be for a moment, then when he had sufficiently vented out, I called his name.
"Monsieur Gustave?"
"Ah, where am I? You are, Platt? Oh, right, thank you for listening to me. That was, very unbecoming."
"My father went through the same problems, but he kept saying to me that we shouldn't run away. Instead, we are to acknowledge and confront them. That is what courage is called."
"That sounds like the Hector I knew. The one who ran through no man's land just to drag me to safety. He got an award for that. The Military Medal, if I'm not mistaken. You've inherited your father's kindness."
"Well, maybe that's why I became a doctor."
"Again, sorry for that unbecoming behaviour."
"I've seen worse. Far worse. You are mild in comparison. At least, you did not go mad and try to shoot me."
I stated that sentence so Gustave would feel less guilt. Indeed, Gustave was taken aback by that statement.
"Someone tried to shoot you?"
"Yes. He went mad because of the war. His shots missed because he was overwhelmed with emotion and twitched left and right, so I tackled and restrained him afterwards."
(He was also using a single-shot musket, so running to him mid-reload was easy.)
"My, I should have interviewed more medics when writing my book. Your stories sound nearly as interesting as front line action."
"Pray that I survive this war, and we'll meet again someday. I'll tell you my story then."
Berlin (Berlinum), Territorium von Berlin, Provincia Germania Magna III
"Well, Platt, how should I put this? Welcome to NAZI-town."
Berlin was a modern-looking city like London. More exactly, Berlin looked like it was stuck in the NAZI era. The mapping period for the modernization was mostly from 1938 to 1939, ending weeks before the start of WW2.
"In 1937, a group of informant wizards managed to convince the city council to modernize everything. They claimed that a great war was looming over Europe, and that Berlin may be razed to the ground during that war. If that happened, they argued, then the city would not have another chance to modernize for at least another fifty years. Well, they were right, and thanks to them my memories would act up every single time I visit. How is Berlin in the muggle world?"
"It did end up razed, and then when it was rebuilt, it was divided in two: West Berlin and East Berlin. But, why did they stop modernizing in 1937?"
"Loans. They are still paying interest for the 1937 modernization to this day. Of course, since this is the fiftieth year, it should be their last payment. However, subsequent modernizations will take more time, money, and mapping, so they will likely not change the appearance of Berlin until 1992 at the fastest. Now, we should change, we're landing soon. Wait. The gun! Platt, just circle around town for a moment. I forgot to put away the cannon."
Upon closer inspection, like London, some parts of the city weren't modernized. A few medieval cathedrals still stand, and the buildings around them also remained medieval. There was also a merchant quarter near the river which appeared to be built during the 1800s, as well as the palace near it. However, there were swastika flags, EVERYWHERE, including within the medieval districts.
My dad and all his siblings may have an aneurysm seeing all this. It's as if the Germans won.
"Platt! Lower the pitch a little!"
I lowered the car's pitch with the lever, and felt the car pitch downwards. Then, I felt a shock from the back of the car raising its pitch, likely caused by the cannon. A few moments later, I handed over the wheel to Gustave, who landed the car on what appeared to be a government building like a helicopter. However, Enrique immediately objected.
"You aren't supposed to land here! We need to get Platt across the Spree!"
"Why? Is this government property?"
"No! I don't know why, but Martin had emphasized on the fact that you need to land on the south side of Berlin. He stated something about an American sector, and that you must not land on the wrong side of the city. Do you understand what he means?"
"Yes. Now may be a good time to explain. In the muggle world, Berlin is divided by a wall into the west and east regions, and no-one can get through that wall without permission from the army. And by army, I mean the generals. Anyone who as much as tries to scale the wall without their authorization will be killed immediately. To further complicate matters, the west and the east are controlled by different nations who are on the verge of war with each other. Unless if you are on good terms with both sides, you won't get to pass."
"What?! Not even the Pomerium in Rome retains rules that strict! I mean, we did, but those rules were abandoned centuries ago!" said Enrique.
"Different nations controlling Berlin? This is absurd! Who would want to maintain an exclave this far inland, where no cargo ships can dock?" said Gustave.
"Let's just say, Berlin carries a symbolic meaning. Enrique, you can ask any muggle above the age of sixty about it. They would know."
We flew again back to the sky with Enrique flying in front. Then, we slowly descended on a rooftop of a tenement which looked at least 100 years old. Enrique landed shortly after. He helped me carry all my belongings off from the car. As he was carrying the bags, he said:
"That look on your face… Muggle, I know you have doubts about this war, but right now, you must focus on your duty. Martin will be waiting for you tomorrow night. You must return to the muggle world now. I'll prepare the portal. Once through, you need to go to room 401. There, you should find a note containing further instructions."
"Platt, the violin case. Don't forget it."
"Wait, you're giving this to me?"
"You will need it more than I do. Trust me. It's war out there, Platt."
Enrique spoke something in Latin to Gustave, then he turned to the door and held a blue stone against it. The door then began glowing, and then it opened by its own, revealing a staircase downwards to a rundown tenement hallway.
"Beyond this door is the muggle world. And, I think I'll stay with you for the night. I'll be in room 402, just across yours."
"Why would you want to stay with me?"
"I'll be direct with you, Platt, I want to see Martin in person."
How famous is this Martin Smith? From what I can see, he seems to be about as famous as Michael Jackson or Madonna is to teens these days.
"Don't worry, Platt. I'll just view you from afar. Gustave, do you wish to follow?"
"What? Me? No. I'll just find an inn and return to France tomorrow night. My days of adventure are long gone, and I do not wish to be dragged into another war. Unless, of course, if this expedition is defeated, but that's very unlikely considering that the Sicilian is the one commanding this operation."
"The Sicilian?"
"You should ask more about him from Martin. He is a controversial figure within the high command whose rapid ascent to power and strong-arm approach has alerted many, but the rank and file consider him to be a Messiah of this war, like Joan of Arc. In fact, in this war, Martin answers to him only."
"I'll be sure to do so."
"Ah, don't spoil everything for this greenhorn outright. Let him grow like a little sprout, not too fast, and not too slow. We bid you adieu, Gustave," said Enrique.
Gustave replied with a simple nod, and drove away west to the direction of the moon.
"Well, muggle, shall we get going? Here's your keys." *sigh* "The muggle world. How many years has it been since I last visited this place? I should change into my muggle clothes before I go out."
…
I believe I should conclude my entry here. Drowsiness is starting to kick in so I'll write more about the tenement tomorrow. Whoever this Martin Smith is, I guess I'll just have to find out on my own.
