Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling
Part 3/Chapter 5
Bellamy spent his next birthday alone, living in a small hut, close to a National Park in America. Every day, he went out, walking the tracks of the national park, and talking to the birds and the animals. Every evening, he was writing. The book was not deep or significant. It was a story about merpeople, presented as a fictional children's book.
When he finished the writing, he made the illustrations, and had his writing machine make eight copies, in Italian. One was just wrapped and sent home for his own library. On the others, he put a picture of his own face on the inside cover, and signed them. These special copies of his little book were sent to Esta, and to those six warm men with whom he had once shared a cabin. The manuscript went to an ordinary publisher, who would take a lot longer to publish the books.
It took a while for the package of individually wrapped books to arrive at their destination. And when it did, Mario said to the others, "See, I told you he was a bit magical! And it's like the other one, the one about horses. I think he really did write it, just like he said!"
Taddeo and Silvio looked at each other, almost convinced, but Angelo wore half a smile on his face. He said nothing, but he didn't think that a magical being would have allowed himself to be used as Bellamy had been used. Now he was safely out of the way, he allowed himself to think about those times in the spa-room quite often. They were his favourite fantasy.
Bruno and Nino enjoyed those remembered scenes, too. But for Mario, what came into his mind most was the remembered feel of holding his boy cuddled close to him at night. When he thought of Bellamy, he thought of holding him like that - with tenderness, and with love.
Meantime, Bellamy started writing a book about eagles. He could call birds from the skies, and know their minds. And the book he wrote about eagles had more truth in it than any written by a scientist, no matter his qualifications. But like the book about the merpeople, it was presented as a beautifully illustrated children's book.
By the time this book was finished, early profits from the first book were starting to trickle into his account, and there was no more need to use money from the moneybelt that he still mostly wore. There was another thing he was doing. Without working at it, his past was gradually coming back to him. He chose not to push it, but each day, he knew more of who and what he was. One day, he finally detected the tiny location device attached to his glasses, and rendered it inactive. He checked then, and did the same thing to two others he found among his things. He took no notice of the sensor device on his left wrist. The apparent watch covered an embarrassing scar.
After the second book of the series about animals, he moved bases to Western Australia, and wrote a story about dolphins. Then to Europe, and the fourth and fifth of the series were about otters and squirrels. The sixth was about wolves, still living wild in Northern Europe.
Six manuscripts, with illustrations. The writing machine had a memory, and he went back and translated the books into French. He was going to use a French publisher. And while it was being organised, he lived in a small town in France, and started another project. The memory of a sad and broken roundabout had come into his mind. It took a couple of weeks, but he was able to find it again. He assumed he'd seen it sometime during his wanderings. This time, he wasn't going back to the wizarding life until he was fully himself. He was positive that he would only fall to pieces again if he didn't do the work he had to do. But it was like Graham said, it needed to be a little bit at a time.
The rundown house in which he now lived had a vacant block next to it. He hired a widow called Gabrielle to come in every weekday, to tidy and clean. She also made sure he had at least one good meal each day. After the first week, she suggested that bed would be nice. Bellamy was happy to oblige.
The children of the small town watched in fascination as the half wrecked roundabout was set up on the vacant block. A large workshop was there one morning, and there was always activity within. Bellamy had not often worked with his hands, but this time he did. The frame of the roundabout was renewed where necessary, Bellamy not hesitating to use magic in parts when he needed. He wasn't that clever that he could do without.
And then he started painting. The townsfolk raised their eyes at the vividness of his chosen colours, but the children loved it. After a while, all the children of the town knew him, and he knew them. It took longer for the adults to adopt the strange man, but that happened, too.
And then he started on the horses. Each of the horses had names, and each was different. The carving was done in his inner workshop, and no-one was allowed in. But the painting was done in an undercover outside area, which was also just there one day.
The roundabout was a little like his book, the one with Mischief and her foal on the front cover. Life went around and around in a circle, with minor variations. His favourite horses became roundabout horses, looking like roundabout horses, but each also looking like the horse he remembered.
The children learned them by name, as he worked on each new horse, and told them its story. Pinto was there, who undid catches, and wriggled under gates, in order to mate with mares that he wasn't allowed to mate with. Tambo, a brown gelding from a very long time ago, who loved to buck and play with him, and became very lonely when he went away. Kildare, and when the wooden figure of Kildare was added to the roundabout, another wooden figure was added, a black and white dog that ran at his heels, and whom he said was called Tammy. There was Forrester, who had been to the Olympics. When little Mischief was added to the roundabout, he called the local mechanic for help. Mischief had to buck, but only gently.
He spent a long time on the figure of Sheba, and even the children became tired of his stories about her. The very last was a figure of a fat sheep, whom he said was called Milly.
And then he wrote a very little book, with pictures of his animal friends as he remembered them, and the stories of their lives. And his friends, the children, were each given a copy of that little book.
Meantime, every day now, Graham checked his monitor. He had still not told the aurors that Bellamy was close, and gradually, continually improving, according to the LV levels.
For ten weeks, Bellamy played with his completed roundabout, enjoying the happy music, and entertaining the children of the small town. But then one morning, he strolled into the mayor's office, and told him he was giving the roundabout to the town, complete with the house next door, and the block of land on which it stood. He was leaving now, he said, and congratulated the mayor on having such a nice town.
The mayor still had his mouth open, and was very relieved to see a solicitor later, who assured him that some essential paperwork had already been completed. The children had known that he'd be leaving soon, and were not surprised when he was gone.
Gabrielle had known, too. But she'd always known that he was different and strange, and not for her. But she smiled secretly to herself. He'd left her with something, though he would have been astounded to know it. He worked the spell, religiously, every time. And Gabrielle had her own methods, of course. Contraception was excellent in that day and age. But Gabrielle was pregnant, and Horst had wanted her long enough that he was thrilled to have her, already pregnant or not.
Publishing of the six animal books was well under way, and negotiations were already proceeding for its translation into other languages. But, as agreed from the first, a different publisher would handle the English version, and Bellamy would translate it himself. Bellamy wanted that one to be special.
Graham, back in London, knew the day that the LV measure finally read at Bellamy's normal, 294, when normal for every other wizard was 100, a little less for Medjkind. He happened to be actually watching when the readings blinked out. To have gone so abruptly, it was almost certainly a disapparation. Again, Bellamy was out of range. It was the middle of November. Bellamy was a hundred and forty-nine.
Not wanting to go to England, Bellamy took his manuscripts to a Sydney publisher. They were thrilled at first, as the books were already becoming very profitable in other languages, but had not yet been translated into English. But Bellamy was specifying many additional illustrations, a fine quality binding, and insisting on a low final retail price. They had to be affordable, and they had to be special, as he wanted to send books home to his family, he said. But to publish the books of Henry Bellamy was already felt to be an honour for the small publishing house, and Bellamy was perfectly willing to subsidise the expenses of the extra illustrations, and the quality bound book. He would have his way.
As soon as he was satisfied, he left his book for others to look after, and embarked on the final part of his journey to recovery. He had learned to live in the present, he had finally managed to know and understand his past, with the exception of those years in which he had wandered in confusion. That part of his life might always be hazy, he suspected. He had yet to do some real thinking about the future. He had to know and fully accept that all those whom he saw around him, would grow old and die, while he remained the same, unchanging, forever young.
It may have sounded good, it may have even been good if one didn't care for others, but Bellamy had found it too difficult. There was one thought that had him smiling wryly. What if he worked hard, had all the wisdom he could acquire, and then suddenly died anyway? What a waste of effort! No-one else had ever appeared not to age at all, and when he studied himself in the mirror, he still saw not a single sign of ageing. He noticed the whip marks on his side, and shook his head. He couldn't remember the details still, but a memory came to him of a sudden blinding knowledge that he'd done wrong, and returning a whip to a very angry man, who wanted to punish him.
Bellamy became a beach bum. He walked methodically around the coastline of North America, first the Eastern coastline, and then the Western coastline. He had plenty of money for food, and plenty of money for shelter, although sometimes, he'd simply curl up on the beach instead. There came the day when he walked past the walls of Zefron school, and wondered whether Adrian still taught there. He even looked at the gate through which he'd passed so often, but then shook his head and went on. Soon, it would be time, and if many of those whom he'd cared for, had died, then he would accept it. He was finally beginning to acquire the serenity of spirit that he needed.
One day as he walked, he thought about Mario and his friends. They'd been so important to him. He'd sent them each a merpeople book, thinking they might like it, remembering a time when they laughed at him because he told them about merpeople.
His memories of his cabin-mates had remained patchy, sometimes very hazy, long after other things had become clear. But they were connected in his mind with so much warmth, Nino playing with his hair, Taddeo and Silvio, as they romped with him in the swimming pool, and Mario's big furry body curled around his. He was still human though, and he stopped dead as something else came to him, and his face flamed. He couldn't have! Surely not! It was so alien to himself. It was not that he condemned man to man sex, whether true homosexuality or the sort of expedient acts of homosexuality he'd taken part in. But he thought he would never have submitted voluntarily.
Bellamy explored his contradictory memories of his time on the Costa Rivera for weeks before he realised what was important. First they'd seduced him, and he'd been in such need of the loving contact, that he'd only objected right at the end, and even then, had never made any real resistance. And then they stopped for a while, and then - and he shook his head, trying hard to remember. Had they drugged him? And yet, each time Nino combed out his hair, and each time Taddeo hugged him or Bruno squeezed him closer, it had helped him begin to defeat the pain within, that had been too strong for him to defeat alone.
And Mario. It had been so good to feel the warm comfort of that furry body wrapped around him. He wondered if it had been just Mario who'd had sex with him, rather than all of them, would he have stayed with him?
He took days to answer that question. The reason he had fled was that it was the wrong way for him. He had needed to escape. And even if it had just been Mario, he would still have fled. But his eyes were wet. He thought now that maybe he really had loved Mario, even though Mario could not have loved him, because he didn't know him. And after more days, as he methodically walked the shoreline, he came to the realisation that there was a core of a person that was always the same, even if he appeared different on the outside. It had been himself on the Costa Rivera, as much as it was himself that walked the beaches. Mario had indeed known him, and had indeed loved him.
And after even more days, he admitted to himself that the sexual contact in the spa-room had been connected with so much loving warmth, that it, too, had helped him defeat the confusion that affected him. Mario, Bruno, Taddeo, Silvio, Nino, Angelo. They'd wanted him enough that in the end, they'd drugged and raped him. And he knew that if it hadn't been for those six men, he might still have been wandering in the wilderness.
Bellamy never remembered a man called Uberto. Maybe he wasn't important enough.
During his travels, many people had been very good to him, trying their best to look after the simple boy who'd wandered their way. Most he would only ever remember vaguely. Some were so long ago that they'd be very surprised that, in his appearance, he was exactly the same. A visit would not be good policy. But there was one who came back to him, again and again. One who'd helped him in his deepest need.
Bellamy walked in Rome a while, before sufficient memory came to him that he found Father Tarzia's shelter for homeless people. He leaned against a wall for a long time, trying to think, before he finally knew that it was only a few years before that he had known Father Tarzia. And vaguely, blurrily, there came to him a picture of a little cat, that had kept him company when he'd been too weak to walk. And a kind face that had looked at him and taken pity. The priest had called him Jean, and had given him food.
Bellamy didn't know whether to approach him, or not. But Tarzia tended to watch the street outside his shelter. Sometimes, the men who came to him for help, seemed half wild, reluctant to come into the warmth of company and help. In the end, it was Father Tarzia who went to Bellamy.
At first, the priest didn't recognise him, and asked if he needed help. Bellamy looked at him, and the memory finally came back more clearly. "Father Tarzia?" not quite knowing how to begin.
With the additional prompt of a voice, Tarzia questioned, "Jean?"
Bellamy reddened a little. For all his years, for all his time spent fighting for wisdom, he still blushed. "I came to thank you."
For Father Tarzia, it was a miracle that restored his spirit. The homeless men he helped were seldom grateful, and hardly ever did his aid seem to make much difference to their lives. They were plagued by addictions to alcohol or drugs, or by mental illness. But this one had come back to thank him. And he took this one in his arms, and cried over him.
Bellamy didn't only help his morale. He organised a regular payment from his royalties from his merpeople book to go to him, so that Tarzia would no longer need to rely on small and unpredictable donations in order to run his shelter.
Bellamy never remembered Francesca. But although he hadn't remembered to work the spell that instantly vanished semen, and although Francesca had no knowledge of contraception, and little understanding of the risk she'd run, there was no baby until twelve months after her wedding. Her father may have thought she was 'spoiled' because she was no longer a virgin, but the sexuality in her nature made her husband a very happy man.
***chapter end***