CHAPTER TWO: The Letter
The motel, with a vacancy sign blinking hopefully at the edge of the highway, was a place to sleep, nothing more. The pool was empty, the bottom blanketed with years of fallen rotting leaves. The "continental breakfast" consisted of a loaf of almost-stale bread and a pot of coffee that was obviously only freshened when it was empty. The stained carpets and bedspreads spoke, and smelled, of an uncounted number of others who had stayed here since last they had been cleaned.
In the light of the bedside lamp-the only light in the room that worked- Roxanne sat cross-legged on the bed, the trunk (still locked tight) in front of her, a bottle of beer in one hand, and the manila envelope in the other. She stared at the envelope, hesitating to open it-she'd had enough bad news for one day. She'd rather avoid more. Despite her show of shock and disappointment at the reading of the will, she knew she didn't deserve anything. Once in a while she felt a stab of guilt at her abominable behavior-she'd begged for, demanded, and gotten plenty of her father's money. Each time she'd gotten into trouble he had, with sagging shoulders and great sighs of exasperation, bailed her out (literally on more than one occasion).
But she quickly swallowed her guilt and eased smoothly back into her familiar attitude of selfishness and disdain for her loathsome family-a brother who had detested her for as long as she could remember, a father whose attentions had been focused on that brother, and a long-dead mother who had become little more than a dull yearning ache. It had been then, when her mother was still alive, when she was a child, that Roxanne had last felt wanted, had last had a guiding beacon that lit her way through the confusion of growing up a freak.
She'd even had a close relationship with her father then. They'd play chess almost daily, he'd read her fantastic stories, teach her Latin, and share his knowledge of the stars with her. But everything changed when, at 10, her mother died suddenly. Then her oddness seemed to glare ever brighter for all to see, and to mock. She'd found no peers and few friends. Her teenage years were unbearably isolated. Her father seemed at best unsympathetic-at worst completely ignorant. The one time he'd seemed to care was when he'd forced her to enroll in Latin Club and Chess Club in an effort to keep her out of trouble-"Yeah, that's it Dad. Throw the freak to the freaks and see if she can figure out how to be normal." But he always responded when she asked for money, as if throwing it at her would eventually make her go away. So she did everything she could to get him to respond, continually getting into trouble and begging him to bail her out, which he always did.
But now, well, her lifeline had snapped. There was no one to take her lashes for her. Allan was hopeless-he detested her too much to even consider throwing her so much as a dime. All her hopes lay in that trunk, and its prospects seemed fairly bleak.
Taking a long draught of beer she set the bottle atop the trunk and finally opened the envelope. She turned it up and poured out the contents-a small silver key, a sheaf of papers folded and sealed with a large blotch of red wax, and a smoothly polished black stick. Roxanne immediately picked up the key and pointed it at the trunk, but it quickly became obvious that the key was much too small. Next, she picked up the stick, holding it between the tips of her index fingers. It was about 10 inches long, dark and shiny, tapered, and finely carved with snake-like figures and an obvious handle. Here she spotted a small silver medallion etched with "L.A.Stewart." Trying to imagine what it could possibly be for, she gripped the handle.
She let out a small cry and dropped it on the bedspread. The handle had become unbearably hot as she held it, as if it were a branding iron. She expected her hand to show an ugly burn, but the palm was clear and cool. She stared at it, wide-eyed, puzzled. Though now the wand lay quietly in the lamplight, she felt as if it held life, some tenuously concealed power that felt at once frightening and familiar.
Taking the bottle from the trunk she drank again, draining it. Then, without taking her eyes from the stick, she reached for another bottle from the bedside table, opened it and sipped the cold beer. She reached out hesitantly to touch the stick, changed her mind and, snatching up the sheaf of papers instead, backed across the room to the green-cushioned chair in the corner.
"I've been drinking too much," she said aloud, glancing at the half-dozen brown bottles perched here and there throughout the room. Shaking her head and vowing to order a pot of coffee from the front desk, she cracked the wax seal and opened the papers.
A large parchment envelope spilled into her lap. Its faded green ink clearly bore her name, and an address from long ago. The back of the envelope bore a large seal of purple wax, faded and cracked with age, stamped with a large ornate 'H.'
Her curiosity urged her to open the envelope, but her experience with the stick taught her caution, and she turned to the papers in her hand instead.
It was a letter, handwritten in her father's small, neat script.
My Dearest Roxanne,
("My Dearest?" It was a phrase she hadn't heard from him in a very long time.)
I regret having pulled the rug out from under your feet-but it seemed the only way to save you.
You are reading this because I am dead. You've seen your Hogwart's letter then. I trust you haven't opened it yet. But, if you have, what I am about to tell you won't come as quite so large a shock.
I am a wizard. . .
("A wizard?" she breathed.)
I am a wizard, as Merlin and Gandalf whose stories I told you often as a child. I was born to a wizard family, attended a wizard school, and lived a wizard's life-until I met your mother. I left it all behind for her. The idea of losing her over who I was I could not bear. So I locked away all tokens of my life as a wizard, left them in England, and came to America with her.
I was confident with my decision-until you were born. Moments after your birth I held you in my arms, and you looked back at me with "old eyes"- eyes that knew me for what I was. Only a child gifted with magic has eyes like that. Your brother Allan failed to inherit even so much as a magic hair on his head.
("Well, that's obvious," Roxanne snorted.)
I realized that I held a young wizardess, and that changed everything.
I began planning and preparing for the inevitable day when I would risk losing the love of my life for the happiness of my daughter.
But, as so often happens in life, circumstances interfered with my plans. Your mother died. A year later your Hogwart's letter arrived inviting you to attend the wizard school there. And I knew that what I wanted for you did not agree with what I knew must be done. My desires to give my daughter an opportunity to find her place in the world were exterminated by my obligation to provide some semblance of normalcy for my muggle son. Allan would never have been able to adjust.
(Pausing to wonder what 'muggle' meant, Roxanne read on:)
So, I hid your Hogwart's letter, and despaired. I did my best to teach Allan life in the muggle world-although I never felt I was doing it quite right. Still, I believe he turned out adequately. But in my struggle to do for Allan, I'm afraid I neglected you. I was too ashamed to look at you some days, knowing what I had taken from you.
As you grew and became aware, painfully aware, of your uniqueness, my despair deepened and I turned away from you. I justified it in my mind by reasoning that you would become wiser and stronger for your hardships. But the opposite became true. In your confusion and anger you fed upon my guilt, as well as my money, and became weaker and more foolish.
And so, I have left you. I, as most wizards do, left at a time of my own choosing-but only after planning and preparing for you once more.
I have contacted the headmaster at Hogwart's, Albus Dumbledore-he was a teacher when I was a student there. He has agreed to take you on as a student, beginning immediately.
I'm afraid you don't have much time to decide. Mr. Orcrist will wait for you at the airport in the morning to escort you to England.
If you decide to stay in America, Mr. Orcrist is instructed to pay off all your debts, and that is the last help I will be able to provide for you.
If you do find yourself at the airport, go with Mr. Orcrist and accept your place in the wizard world. I cannot guarantee that you will succeed-that will be up to you. But for the first time in your life you will be among your own kind. As to happiness-I can't guarantee that for you either. You will have to make your own way and find it for yourself. But you will not find it where you are headed now-certainly not in a filthy motel room, or in that next bottle of beer.
(Roxanne started, spluttering and choking on her last mouthful of beer. The tiny hairs along her spine sprang up and a chill ran down her back. It was like he was there talking to her, in his stiff British accent. But how? She set the bottle on the floor, wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and continued, more eagerly now.)
On to business then?
You have no doubt discovered my old wand and the key to my trunk. I don't know if the wand will function for you-a wand has almost a life of its own and chooses the wizard to whom it will belong. When I first tried the wand as a lad in a wand shop in Hungary, it felt as though my hand were on fire. I was declared 'chosen' and the wand became mine. Although wrought by dark wizards for dark purposes, the wand served me faithfully in my honest and honorable studies at Hogwarts-and beyond. I was quite a disappointment to my parents, purveyors of the dark arts themselves. I don't think they ever truly forgave me for being sorted into Hufflepuff.
(Roxanne felt she had just read something written in a foreign language. But the letter offered no explanation. She supposed she'd have to meet Mr. Orcrist at the airport if she were to ever find out what it all meant.)
Take the wand firmly in your writing hand.
(She'd done that, and experienced something very like what her father had described when he had received the wand.)
If nothing happens, it is likely the wand will not function for you. But no matter, the trunk can wait until you reach London.
If something unusual does happen, the wand is yours. Use it well. And for starters, we'll get that trunk open. Point the wand at the key and say "Engorgio." If all goes well, the key should grow to its original size and you will be able to unlock the trunk.
Roxanne hesitated before stepping reluctantly across the room and picking up the wand again. This time it felt merely warm in her grip. She laid the letter atop the trunk and scanned it again to be sure she remembered the wording of the spell. Then, with a skeptical shake of the head and a sigh, she pointed the wand at the key.
"ENGORGIO!"
Unfortunately her aim was lacking and instead of the key, the bed instantly grew to twice its normal size, knocking her off her feet and sending the wand clattering against the dresser. It was several seconds before she realized her mouth was hanging open. Clamping her jaw shut, determined now, she retrieved the wand. The bed was now nearly as high as her armpits and it took some climbing to get back up to where the key lay, nearly in the middle of the bed and very tiny-looking against the expanse of the filthy bedspread.
'If I miss this time I'll be squashed against the ceiling,' she thought. So, placing the tip of the wand carefully on the widest part of the key, she said the word again. This time the key grew and her father's initials could now be seen clearly etched into the silver. Snatching up the key and sweeping the letter aside, still hoping that the trunk really was full of money, she fumbled with the lock, her hands trembling, and turned the key. The lock snapped neatly open and the lid lifted easily with a faint growl from long-unused hinges. Indeed there was no money. And indeed it was full.
On top of a deep soft layer of black cloth lay an airline ticket, one way, to Heathrow airport. The flight, she noted, was scheduled to leave at 8 a.m. There was also a passport, complete with unflattering passport picture. She'd never applied for a passport, let alone had her picture taken. It wasn't some old picture her father had dug out of a drawer. It was recent. It was as if it had been taken yesterday, right down to the short sun-bleached hair and the tattoo of an old-English lion she'd had done on her collarbone.
Still puzzling over what kind of magic he'd used to get her picture-and signature-into the passport, she began digging through the objects in the trunk. Pulling back the black fabric (which turned out to be several robes and a long hooded wool cloak) she found a large round pewter cauldron filled with bottles and vials, several quill pens and bottles of ink, a large roll of parchment paper, and other items she figured must be wizarding gear. Tucked in at the side was a large musty-smelling book entitled "A History of Magic." There was a note sticking out of the top. It read: "A little something to read on the plane."
"A little something?" she said, hefting the book in her hands.
Next to the book, she found a small black box, inlaid with silver snakes, each with a tiny emerald eye. It contained a set of chessmen, intricately carved, with sharp, threatening looking edges, from gleaming black stone. They looked very much alive, though they did not move. She fingered them for a few moments, remembering the days when her father had challenged her at a very young age, teaching her the intricacies of the game until she had become a young master in her own right. Her father remained the only person to ever have beaten her. That was along time ago.
Looking at her watch, she realized that she had only a few short hours before she would have to leave for the airport--still an hour away by highway in Great Falls. She dumped everything back into the trunk, dressed, and packed her few belongings into her small duffle bag. The wind of a late spring storm yawned at the windows-a warm restless wind. She picked up her open beer, and sat in the chair again, staring at the ticket, thinking, weighing her options.
Finally, with a resolute nod of the head she walked outside into the wind and held the bottle to the sky.
"OK, Dad!" she called into the dark night. "You're on!"
The motel, with a vacancy sign blinking hopefully at the edge of the highway, was a place to sleep, nothing more. The pool was empty, the bottom blanketed with years of fallen rotting leaves. The "continental breakfast" consisted of a loaf of almost-stale bread and a pot of coffee that was obviously only freshened when it was empty. The stained carpets and bedspreads spoke, and smelled, of an uncounted number of others who had stayed here since last they had been cleaned.
In the light of the bedside lamp-the only light in the room that worked- Roxanne sat cross-legged on the bed, the trunk (still locked tight) in front of her, a bottle of beer in one hand, and the manila envelope in the other. She stared at the envelope, hesitating to open it-she'd had enough bad news for one day. She'd rather avoid more. Despite her show of shock and disappointment at the reading of the will, she knew she didn't deserve anything. Once in a while she felt a stab of guilt at her abominable behavior-she'd begged for, demanded, and gotten plenty of her father's money. Each time she'd gotten into trouble he had, with sagging shoulders and great sighs of exasperation, bailed her out (literally on more than one occasion).
But she quickly swallowed her guilt and eased smoothly back into her familiar attitude of selfishness and disdain for her loathsome family-a brother who had detested her for as long as she could remember, a father whose attentions had been focused on that brother, and a long-dead mother who had become little more than a dull yearning ache. It had been then, when her mother was still alive, when she was a child, that Roxanne had last felt wanted, had last had a guiding beacon that lit her way through the confusion of growing up a freak.
She'd even had a close relationship with her father then. They'd play chess almost daily, he'd read her fantastic stories, teach her Latin, and share his knowledge of the stars with her. But everything changed when, at 10, her mother died suddenly. Then her oddness seemed to glare ever brighter for all to see, and to mock. She'd found no peers and few friends. Her teenage years were unbearably isolated. Her father seemed at best unsympathetic-at worst completely ignorant. The one time he'd seemed to care was when he'd forced her to enroll in Latin Club and Chess Club in an effort to keep her out of trouble-"Yeah, that's it Dad. Throw the freak to the freaks and see if she can figure out how to be normal." But he always responded when she asked for money, as if throwing it at her would eventually make her go away. So she did everything she could to get him to respond, continually getting into trouble and begging him to bail her out, which he always did.
But now, well, her lifeline had snapped. There was no one to take her lashes for her. Allan was hopeless-he detested her too much to even consider throwing her so much as a dime. All her hopes lay in that trunk, and its prospects seemed fairly bleak.
Taking a long draught of beer she set the bottle atop the trunk and finally opened the envelope. She turned it up and poured out the contents-a small silver key, a sheaf of papers folded and sealed with a large blotch of red wax, and a smoothly polished black stick. Roxanne immediately picked up the key and pointed it at the trunk, but it quickly became obvious that the key was much too small. Next, she picked up the stick, holding it between the tips of her index fingers. It was about 10 inches long, dark and shiny, tapered, and finely carved with snake-like figures and an obvious handle. Here she spotted a small silver medallion etched with "L.A.Stewart." Trying to imagine what it could possibly be for, she gripped the handle.
She let out a small cry and dropped it on the bedspread. The handle had become unbearably hot as she held it, as if it were a branding iron. She expected her hand to show an ugly burn, but the palm was clear and cool. She stared at it, wide-eyed, puzzled. Though now the wand lay quietly in the lamplight, she felt as if it held life, some tenuously concealed power that felt at once frightening and familiar.
Taking the bottle from the trunk she drank again, draining it. Then, without taking her eyes from the stick, she reached for another bottle from the bedside table, opened it and sipped the cold beer. She reached out hesitantly to touch the stick, changed her mind and, snatching up the sheaf of papers instead, backed across the room to the green-cushioned chair in the corner.
"I've been drinking too much," she said aloud, glancing at the half-dozen brown bottles perched here and there throughout the room. Shaking her head and vowing to order a pot of coffee from the front desk, she cracked the wax seal and opened the papers.
A large parchment envelope spilled into her lap. Its faded green ink clearly bore her name, and an address from long ago. The back of the envelope bore a large seal of purple wax, faded and cracked with age, stamped with a large ornate 'H.'
Her curiosity urged her to open the envelope, but her experience with the stick taught her caution, and she turned to the papers in her hand instead.
It was a letter, handwritten in her father's small, neat script.
My Dearest Roxanne,
("My Dearest?" It was a phrase she hadn't heard from him in a very long time.)
I regret having pulled the rug out from under your feet-but it seemed the only way to save you.
You are reading this because I am dead. You've seen your Hogwart's letter then. I trust you haven't opened it yet. But, if you have, what I am about to tell you won't come as quite so large a shock.
I am a wizard. . .
("A wizard?" she breathed.)
I am a wizard, as Merlin and Gandalf whose stories I told you often as a child. I was born to a wizard family, attended a wizard school, and lived a wizard's life-until I met your mother. I left it all behind for her. The idea of losing her over who I was I could not bear. So I locked away all tokens of my life as a wizard, left them in England, and came to America with her.
I was confident with my decision-until you were born. Moments after your birth I held you in my arms, and you looked back at me with "old eyes"- eyes that knew me for what I was. Only a child gifted with magic has eyes like that. Your brother Allan failed to inherit even so much as a magic hair on his head.
("Well, that's obvious," Roxanne snorted.)
I realized that I held a young wizardess, and that changed everything.
I began planning and preparing for the inevitable day when I would risk losing the love of my life for the happiness of my daughter.
But, as so often happens in life, circumstances interfered with my plans. Your mother died. A year later your Hogwart's letter arrived inviting you to attend the wizard school there. And I knew that what I wanted for you did not agree with what I knew must be done. My desires to give my daughter an opportunity to find her place in the world were exterminated by my obligation to provide some semblance of normalcy for my muggle son. Allan would never have been able to adjust.
(Pausing to wonder what 'muggle' meant, Roxanne read on:)
So, I hid your Hogwart's letter, and despaired. I did my best to teach Allan life in the muggle world-although I never felt I was doing it quite right. Still, I believe he turned out adequately. But in my struggle to do for Allan, I'm afraid I neglected you. I was too ashamed to look at you some days, knowing what I had taken from you.
As you grew and became aware, painfully aware, of your uniqueness, my despair deepened and I turned away from you. I justified it in my mind by reasoning that you would become wiser and stronger for your hardships. But the opposite became true. In your confusion and anger you fed upon my guilt, as well as my money, and became weaker and more foolish.
And so, I have left you. I, as most wizards do, left at a time of my own choosing-but only after planning and preparing for you once more.
I have contacted the headmaster at Hogwart's, Albus Dumbledore-he was a teacher when I was a student there. He has agreed to take you on as a student, beginning immediately.
I'm afraid you don't have much time to decide. Mr. Orcrist will wait for you at the airport in the morning to escort you to England.
If you decide to stay in America, Mr. Orcrist is instructed to pay off all your debts, and that is the last help I will be able to provide for you.
If you do find yourself at the airport, go with Mr. Orcrist and accept your place in the wizard world. I cannot guarantee that you will succeed-that will be up to you. But for the first time in your life you will be among your own kind. As to happiness-I can't guarantee that for you either. You will have to make your own way and find it for yourself. But you will not find it where you are headed now-certainly not in a filthy motel room, or in that next bottle of beer.
(Roxanne started, spluttering and choking on her last mouthful of beer. The tiny hairs along her spine sprang up and a chill ran down her back. It was like he was there talking to her, in his stiff British accent. But how? She set the bottle on the floor, wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and continued, more eagerly now.)
On to business then?
You have no doubt discovered my old wand and the key to my trunk. I don't know if the wand will function for you-a wand has almost a life of its own and chooses the wizard to whom it will belong. When I first tried the wand as a lad in a wand shop in Hungary, it felt as though my hand were on fire. I was declared 'chosen' and the wand became mine. Although wrought by dark wizards for dark purposes, the wand served me faithfully in my honest and honorable studies at Hogwarts-and beyond. I was quite a disappointment to my parents, purveyors of the dark arts themselves. I don't think they ever truly forgave me for being sorted into Hufflepuff.
(Roxanne felt she had just read something written in a foreign language. But the letter offered no explanation. She supposed she'd have to meet Mr. Orcrist at the airport if she were to ever find out what it all meant.)
Take the wand firmly in your writing hand.
(She'd done that, and experienced something very like what her father had described when he had received the wand.)
If nothing happens, it is likely the wand will not function for you. But no matter, the trunk can wait until you reach London.
If something unusual does happen, the wand is yours. Use it well. And for starters, we'll get that trunk open. Point the wand at the key and say "Engorgio." If all goes well, the key should grow to its original size and you will be able to unlock the trunk.
Roxanne hesitated before stepping reluctantly across the room and picking up the wand again. This time it felt merely warm in her grip. She laid the letter atop the trunk and scanned it again to be sure she remembered the wording of the spell. Then, with a skeptical shake of the head and a sigh, she pointed the wand at the key.
"ENGORGIO!"
Unfortunately her aim was lacking and instead of the key, the bed instantly grew to twice its normal size, knocking her off her feet and sending the wand clattering against the dresser. It was several seconds before she realized her mouth was hanging open. Clamping her jaw shut, determined now, she retrieved the wand. The bed was now nearly as high as her armpits and it took some climbing to get back up to where the key lay, nearly in the middle of the bed and very tiny-looking against the expanse of the filthy bedspread.
'If I miss this time I'll be squashed against the ceiling,' she thought. So, placing the tip of the wand carefully on the widest part of the key, she said the word again. This time the key grew and her father's initials could now be seen clearly etched into the silver. Snatching up the key and sweeping the letter aside, still hoping that the trunk really was full of money, she fumbled with the lock, her hands trembling, and turned the key. The lock snapped neatly open and the lid lifted easily with a faint growl from long-unused hinges. Indeed there was no money. And indeed it was full.
On top of a deep soft layer of black cloth lay an airline ticket, one way, to Heathrow airport. The flight, she noted, was scheduled to leave at 8 a.m. There was also a passport, complete with unflattering passport picture. She'd never applied for a passport, let alone had her picture taken. It wasn't some old picture her father had dug out of a drawer. It was recent. It was as if it had been taken yesterday, right down to the short sun-bleached hair and the tattoo of an old-English lion she'd had done on her collarbone.
Still puzzling over what kind of magic he'd used to get her picture-and signature-into the passport, she began digging through the objects in the trunk. Pulling back the black fabric (which turned out to be several robes and a long hooded wool cloak) she found a large round pewter cauldron filled with bottles and vials, several quill pens and bottles of ink, a large roll of parchment paper, and other items she figured must be wizarding gear. Tucked in at the side was a large musty-smelling book entitled "A History of Magic." There was a note sticking out of the top. It read: "A little something to read on the plane."
"A little something?" she said, hefting the book in her hands.
Next to the book, she found a small black box, inlaid with silver snakes, each with a tiny emerald eye. It contained a set of chessmen, intricately carved, with sharp, threatening looking edges, from gleaming black stone. They looked very much alive, though they did not move. She fingered them for a few moments, remembering the days when her father had challenged her at a very young age, teaching her the intricacies of the game until she had become a young master in her own right. Her father remained the only person to ever have beaten her. That was along time ago.
Looking at her watch, she realized that she had only a few short hours before she would have to leave for the airport--still an hour away by highway in Great Falls. She dumped everything back into the trunk, dressed, and packed her few belongings into her small duffle bag. The wind of a late spring storm yawned at the windows-a warm restless wind. She picked up her open beer, and sat in the chair again, staring at the ticket, thinking, weighing her options.
Finally, with a resolute nod of the head she walked outside into the wind and held the bottle to the sky.
"OK, Dad!" she called into the dark night. "You're on!"
