Today

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Snowdonia Cottage, Brechenridge Village, Mt Timpanogos

Memcasting is a bit of theatre, really. That’s what Helena would say 49 years later, when she was being interviewed on the 50th anniversary of the new medium. It’s theatre because it is, first and foremost, storytelling—with actors, a stage, and props no less. And that’s why Priya watched the front door as Helena walked into Erastus’s home, took off her coat and scarf, hung them with care on a peg by the door, then faced Priya with her “audience smile”, while artfully pulling a stray lock of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

“Hello everyone. I’m Helena Barthus, and this is The Evening Star memcast, episode 19. Our producer for this episode—our literal eyes and ears—is the inimitable, ineffable Priya Lestrange.”

Helena stepped into the sitting room and stood by a comfortable armchair, opposite where Erastus sat, one leg carefully draped over the other, holding his mug of Kowalski’s hot cocoa—Kowalski’s, America’s most wanted pastries, coffee, and sipping cocoa.

“And our guest, today, is Erastus Q. Powell, spellcrafter—and the mind behind an entirely new field of magic.”

Priya turned to look at Erastus and to take him all in, while Helena sat down, and picked up her notebook and quill.

“Thank you, Helena. Welcome to my home!”

“No, Erastus… thank you. It’s such a treat—and what a beautiful home it is!” Helena smiled warmly. “So let’s start right there… your home. Where are we, exactly?”

“You’re in the Wizarding village of Brechenridge, on Mt Timpanogos, which is just a stone’s throw from Salt Lake City, Utah. And this is my home, Snowdonia Cottage.”

“So tell us a little bit about Brechenridge and Snowdonia Cottage…”

“Well… the Cottage came first. My grandfather, Myrddin Powell, was given all the lands you see—from Barenton Springs to our south”, Erastus made broad gestures with his hands, pointing as he spoke. “spreading northward to the Fells and then bounded by Mahogany Mountain, at 9000 feet, to our west and Timpanogos, at about 12,000 feet, to our east. All of this land was a gift given to my grandfather as a token of Brigham Young’s gratitude.”

Erastus chuckled softly to himself and shook his head.

“Anyway, after my father, Emrys Powell, came of wand age, he would spend a lot of time up here. When he was little, it was usually with his father—often with his father and his father’s circle of friends—which, at the time, included Abe Smith (who’s a central figure in all of this, mind you). So, by the time he was a teenager, my father knew every inch of this mountain. Now my mother, Eugenia Snow, and my father grew up next door to each other in Salt Lake City, and their families had schemed from the start to get them married off to each other. But father didn’t really take notice of Mother until he was 16 or 17… and then, when he was 18 years old, he got it in his head that he was going to woo and marry her.”

Erastus warmed his hand in the steam rising gently from his mug, as it sat on the side table.

“And he decided that the best way to do that was to build her a cottage in the middle of nowhere. And two years later, on May Day 1882, he consecrated this house and christened it ‘Snowdonia Cottage’, after my mother.”

“What did your mother think of all of this?”

“Well, she thought he was handsome, and clever, a hard worker…”

“Yes, yes… but what did she think of the Cottage?”

“Oh, well…” Erastus smiled. “She’s a strong woman—independent—and she wasn’t about to be bought off, as she tells the story, with ‘a bouquet of edelweiss’.”

Helena snorted.

“Oh. That’s rich! But I wonder if you wouldn’t mind unpacking that saying a little for our friends at home?”

“Of course, of course.” Erastus coughed into his fist. “So, first of all, edelweiss is this delicate white flower that grows in the Alps, on high cliffs. And it’s said that young shepherds would gather these flowers to prove their undying love to the objects of their affection. And, well, you see… as this little Cottage sits up here among the cliffs, Mother thought it the perfect metaphor for a boy trying to demonstrate his love without actually expressing it.”

“Your mother sounds smart.”

“Very. And stubborn.”

“Well, apparently she eventually gave in?”

“Yes. Four… maybe five years later?”

“Are your parents still with us?”

“My grandparents have all passed—though Grandmother Snow was with us until just a few years back. My mother, too, is still with us, of course… but my father died in an avalanche—not far from here—on a Christmas Eve when I was very young. He and my sister Roxcy were out looking for a Christmas tree to cut down. Mother, my three other sisters, and I were here, at the Cottage, getting ready for that night’s festivities.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Erastus looked over at his mug of hot cocoa, picked it up again… and ran the tip of his finger around its rim, lost in thought.

“It’ll be 101 years, this Christmas… but you know? the loss is still here”, Erastus paused. “hiding among my memories… and sometimes I stumble upon it in the strangest of places.”

“It sounds like it was a great loss?”

“It was… He understood me better than my mother did. And, well, my mother lost a companion… a confidante… a lover. And my sisters lost their anchor and, in many ways, their innocence. Father’s death was the black hole our family orbited for many years… and even as we each spun off on our own personal trajectories, we could feel the gravity of father’s and Roxcy’s deaths tugging at us.”

* * *

A Good While Back

Saturday, December 19, 1908

Powell House, Haxton Place, Salt Lake City

Powell House was large and had plenty of good places to hide. And when Erastus was very young—when the House still loved him—it would create whole new spaces for him to hide in. A new closet might appear out of nowhere, a new clump of hydrangeas might sprout afresh, a second basement might wedge itself under a never before seen set of stairs… all for Erastus’s amusement. But even with all of these options, Erastus’s favorite place to hide was under his parents’ four-poster bed—where the Persian carpet was virgin soft and where Emma, Zina, Roxcy, and Hope would never think to look.

Though a few months earlier, Mother’s house-elf, Neige, had found him lying there under the bed…

“Master ’Rastus, sir… mistress Eugenia be asking everyone where Master ’Rastus be hiding. It be time for tea and mistress Eugenia be in a mood.”

“Oh please, Miss Neige, don’t give away my bestest hiding spot!”

“Neige be finding you… in the garden”, she said with a wink.

And in an instant, young Erastus and ancient Neige were crouched under his father’s favorite yew… then Neige marched Erastus into the House, announcing for everyone to hear—“Under the yew tree! Neige be bringing Master ’Rastus in from under the yew tree for mistress Eugenia’s afternoon tea”—not that anyone cared.

The next time he found himself under his parent’s four-poster bed, he was delighted to find that someone had enchanted the underside of the bed to look like the night sky. It was as though the sun had been winked out, and he could see the stars and planets as they were at that very moment. So whenever Erastus found himself there, he’d while away the hours, exploring the constellations that his grandfather, father, or Abe had told him about.

And on this night—just a few sleeps before Christmas—he found himself tracing out the constellation Pisces and imagining that Saturn was caught up in the fisherman’s net—along with the starry fish—when the door to the room slammed closed and the fwoom! of a silencing charm interrupted his play.

Erastus very nearly rolled out from under the bed to surprise them but didn’t want to give up his favorite hiding spot. Yet it was the hurried whispers which ballooned into loud and angry words that kept him firmly planted in place.

“…I will broker no argument, Emrys”, yelled his mother. “That man will not be joining us at Snowdonia Cottage for Christmas Eve. Not to help with the tree, not to shovel our walks, not for one single thing!”

“Abe is my closest friend and has been a constant in this family for decades”, Erastus heard his father say.

“This is our first Christmas without our families in, what, ten? eleven? years—and I want it to be just us. Just you, me, and the kids. Don’t begrudge me some quality time with the family!”

“You’re the one who insists every year that we stay here on Haxton Place, that we strengthen the House magic through family gatherings—which, I’ll remind you, I love! So what is this really about, Eugenia?”

“The triplets turn 18 this year. Who knows if this won’t be our last Christmas without sons-in-law! Or worse, the last time we’re all together. Who knows what this next year will bring!”

“Inviting Abe up to help me find a tree will not interfere with any of your plans with the children—any more than bringing Neige up, would. In fact, if Abe can’t help, that means I’ll need to take one of the triplets with me. Roxcy? She’s always loved daddy time—“

“You are not holding Roxcy hostage!”

“I am not going tree hunting alone. It’s too dangerous! So you have a choice: Abe or Roxcy. Which do you value more? Despising Abe or time with our daughter?”

Eugenia struggled to find words.

“Your friendship with that… confirmed bachelor …is unseemly, Emrys. Your father’s friendship with him was unseemly, too, until he had the good sense to distance himself from that problem.”

“And there it is. Laid out bare.” Emrys looked at Eugenia, tears welling up in his eyes. “My father and you would be better served by not giving heed to town gossips.” Emrys stepped to the door and looked down at his hand on the knob, his voice low and soft in defeat. “Well, you’ve made your choice clear. Roxcy and I will get the tree this year. I’ll let Abe know tomorrow, at church.”

Erastus had never heard his father sound so small.

After Emrys left, Eugenia sat at her mirror and brushed her hair for an hour. Long, careful strokes, punctuated by great sobs.

Late that night, Erastus snuck quietly from his parents’ room and padded down the hall to his own. There, in his bed, lay his father, sleeping.

Erastus put on his bedclothes and climbed into bed, next to his father. He ran his small hands through his father’s chestnut locks and watched as a small shock of silver hair bloomed at his father’s right temple.

* * *

A Good While Back

Tuesday, September 19, 1922

Powell House, Haxton Place, Salt Lake City

Eugenia Powell loved hosting parties. They were seldom grand, of course. She had only the one house-elf, and her eldest two daughters were distracted by their husbands. Hope was good in the kitchen, but she was too fidgety for the sorts of foods that a proper party demanded. Still. Eugenia Powell loved hosting parties.

This week, she suspected, was going to be extra special.

Every year, at Autumn Equinox, the House hosted the Powell family reunion. It was a chance to reconnect with the Utah Powells and to enrich the reservoirs of House magic. And this year? This year ten (ten!) Powell families from abroad were in attendance. Seven from back East and three had come all the way from Wales. Grandfather Powell had said it was the first time since they’d arrived in Utah that they’d hosted such distant clans. Up and quitting New York with “that upstart Joe Smith”, had closed so many doors for them. And then, out of the blue, ten families had decided this year was a good year to reestablish family ties.

Her prayers had been answered.

Emrys would be so proud of her. Eugenia ran her thumb, gently, over her and Emrys’s wedding bands, both threaded upon a fairy-light gold chain hung discretely around her neck. And they hummed in reply. In the back garden, beside the beehives, the ward stone hummed as well.

Members of the extended Powell clan had been arriving since Monday, and the House groaned (and purred) under the load. It was the largest Powell gathering for Autumnal Equinox in anyone’s memory. The House would be filled with Powells the whole week through and it had expanded to accommodate all of them, however modestly—extra rooms, an entirely new floor, a second basement to store the extra food, charmed tents in the garden.

Tonight was a formal dinner. Family, friends, and local dignitaries were all invited. Many of Eugenia’s own family came, of course—the Utah Powells and the Utah Snows were thick as thieves. And several of her friends from the local Relief Society had come with their husbands. Grandfather Powell and Grandfather Snow were both close to the Mayor of Salt Lake City, and Eugenia had extended an invitation to his Wizarding staff to attend, but they had sent their regrets.

Eugenia looked around the foyer—three, maybe four times as large as it had been yesterday—with a discerning eye. Portraits of family members who’d crossed over to the other side had been pulled from their preferred hanging places around the House, cleaned, and rehung here. From their perches on the walls, they easily had the best views, and all of the subjects were in their frames, eager for the festivities to begin. And when it was time to eat, they’d each pop over to their corresponding frames hanging in the dining hall.

Eugenia, herself, was arrayed in her finest formal black robes, and her hair was freshly coiffed. She looked at her family gathered to receive the evening’s guests. Grandfather and Grandmother Powell were to her right, conversing quietly with each other. To her left, were her children who still called Powell House home—Zina, Zina’s husband Leopold, young Hope, and finally Erastus. He looked so much like his father.

She smiled at them all and raised an eyebrow at Hope, who was humming to herself rather loudly.

Even Grandmother Powell had smiled warmly at Eugenia. No doubt happy that Eugenia had decided to continue the tradition of playing a widow in the receiving line—even though Eugenia’s husband of three years, Luca DeJong, sat in an upholstered chair to one side, playing with their one-year-old son, Epke.

Everything, Eugenia decided, was just as it should be.

With a roll of her hand and a voiceless incantation, the doors swung wide and the foyer was bathed in the reflected and dappled light from outside.

“Please accept a token of my appreciation, vegrandis tamen utpote, quod in usitas locum”, the older gentleman at the front of the queue intoned. “Veneratio et gratia, dear cousin”, she replied, before he made his way down the receiving line and into the dining hall. “Please accept a token of my appreciation, vegrandis tamen utpote, quod in usitas locum”, said the next guest^[1].

And so it continued. Eugenia lost count at two hundred guests—though she was certain Neige would know the exact number. She reminded herself to ask, the next time she saw her house-elf.

The last guest stepped into the dining hall and members of the receiving followed them in and took up their places at the head table. Eugenia paused, briefly, as Luca handed little Epke to a young cousin to take to the back garden, where the children were being entertained and fed. Luca then took Eugenia by the arm, escorting her into the hall under everyone’s soft and approving gazes, and seated her before seating himself, beside her. The lights in the hall dimmed, and a moment later Eugenia stood. Her robes transfiguring from black to a beguiling emerald green, which matched Luca’s robes beautifully. Eugenia raised her glass, “Dinner is served!”, she announced and suddenly the tables—chargers, plates, goblets, and all—were filled with food and drink.

The room erupted with applause.

Eugenia smiled, then sat again, glowing with pride. Luca leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Hartenkoningin”, he whispered, kissed her again, then turned to his left to chat with Zina.

Out of the corner of her eye, Eugenia watched as Erastus stood, gathered his plate and goblet, and walked to the table where the Welsh Powells had installed themselves. Watched, with interest, as she saw his good manners on full display—how he waited to be invited to sit, how he bowed ever so slightly, how he kept his hands above the table. And then he sat and was folded right into their discussion.

Between bites of roast rabbit and sips of beet tonic, she thought forward to the week’s end and to Equinox. The bone fire^[2] would be at sunset on Saturday—Equinox—and she was looking forward to the parade of bones and letting loose a bit with the family. And to Sunday morning, of course, and the worship service they’d hold. It would be a proper ending to a wonderful week. But what she was most excited about would occur at sunrise, Saturday morning. Eugenia had arranged to hold a proper Bleeding^[3] for the ward stone, to celebrate and further enrich the House’s reservoir of magic—the first Bleeding since Emrys’s funeral. All the heads-of-family had agreed, even the New York and Welsh Powells. It would be good to knit the house back into the old lines of magic.

Eugenia looked out at Erastus, again. Of course, the House magic had not forgiven Erastus for that night, eight years back when he’d shaken the House to its foundations in a fit of magic. He couldn’t really cast around the House, so he absolutely wasn’t invited to stand in the circle that morning. A shame, really. It would have been his first act as a Powell adult.

Some doors just remain closed, she thought to herself, resignedly.

* * *

Equinox dawned bright and a little warm.

Erastus stood quietly in a corner of the back garden, watching his young cousins playing tag, his older cousins gathered in small clumps, catching up, and all the rest making the rounds. Seven generations! The House and yard were alive with family magic, and he couldn’t help but smile.

When Mother had given him Snowdonia Cottage, it was a consolation prize for having lost her trust, if not the trust of the whole clan—not to mention the rights to Powell House. But Erastus wasn’t interested in consolation prizes. By right or righteousness, he had responsibilities to the family. And, by God, he was going to do right by them. Mother had been gracious enough to cede him a few hours between the Bleeding and the bone fire to show the family around his new home on the mountain… and he was going to make the most of it.

Erastus wasn’t surprised at the turnout, of course. He’d spent the better part of the last year writing to his far-flung family, re-establishing lost connections, healing brittle or burnt bridges, reaching across the pond to cousins who remembered his father from a trip to Wales in his youth. And slowly, ever so slowly, he’d convinced them to come—and they’d even brought bones for the fire!

Erastus ambled over to the ward stone, no sign of the blood from that morning’s Bleeding. Not that he’d expected any. It had gone beautifully, with each of the heads-of-house—even the New York and Welsh Powells—participating. After the ceremony, the House magic was properly knit back into the larger Powell ecosystem. It was a good thing. A beautiful thing, he thought to himself.

Erastus knelt down and cleaned away some longer grass and a few dandelions around the ward stone’s perimeter.

“You know it was me. I was the one who brought the New York Powells and the Welsh Powells. I brought them here because I love my family and as a kindness to you”, he whispered matter-of-factly, before standing and continuing his loop around the garden.

His youngest sister, Hope, stopped him and put a raspberry spritzer in his hand, with a smile. She didn’t say anything, but the smile was welcome. His sisters weren’t much better than the cousins, blindly channeling their parents’ concerns about the boy with the frightening history. The triplets were twelve years older than Erastus—practically strangers. But Hope? She was only five years older, and the two had been playmates even after Erastus was breeched. Emma and Zina’s husbands, too, were kinder than the others. They suspected that the stories had been blown out of proportion, and did their best to warm the coolness of their wives’ affection toward their baby brother.

It was warm for a September morning, and the spritzer was refreshing. Erastus sipped on it as he made his way over to where his wands were buried. “Rest in peace”, he whispered, dribbling out a bit of his drink on their small, obsidian headstone. He called to one of the children to bring him a chair, and then he sat there, in the shade, looking at the kids playing, humming a song to his fallen wands.

The youngest cousins hadn’t been warned about him yet, so he was happily flocked by them in courses—asking to see Frith, touching his shock of silver hair, sitting in his lap, bouncing on his knee.

Courses of cousins, he smiled to himself and sighed. This was what the good life could look like. And he’d happily be the good uncle, the confidante, the bringer of gifts—if his family let him. Maybe they would, if he played his cards right. Eventually.

Erastus looked down at his pocket watch. It was time. He stood, raised his glass, and tapped it with his wand. The House wouldn’t let him cast sonorus, but his young and healthy lungs were up to the task, regardless…

“It has been an amazing week, with family coming from all over”, he raised his glass to his Welsh and New York cousins, in turn. “to celebrate Equinox with us, here, in our mountain valley home. It’s been good to see everyone and to renew old promises. As you probably know, last year I was gifted Snowdonia Cottage—the home my father Emrys built as a token of his undying love for my mother. Well, over the last year I’ve been working to make it my own. So, I’d like to invite all of you to join me at my new home, as we wait for the sun to set and for the bone fire.” Erastus smiled warmly at his family and then made his way to the garden gate.

“How do you plan on us traveling?”, one of his great aunts asked, barely suppressing her disbelief.

Neige apparated to his side, with a large basket. filled with small, black boxes.

“By portkey.” Erastus bent down and picked up a box. “One for each household.”

Everyone looked around, wondering who would be the first to bite—who would brave this boy’s magic.

“Quickly, now”, Erastus urged. “We have some guests who’ll be joining us on the other side.”

A queue began to form.

Each box was embossed “Powell, Equinox 1922, We are Stronger Together”. Inside, lay a folded scarf in lilac, and a polished black stone heart, engraved with runes. A small card read:

The scarf is your portkey to Snowdonia Cottage, and will safely transport up to eight persons. The activating phrase is “salt water taffy”. The stone, when held, will keep frosty fingers warm. It’s chilly up on the mountain, do up your coats!

Love and affection,

Erastus Q. Powell

Erastus and Neige popped over, appearing atop a small stage that he and Abe had constructed the week before. Six high-backed chairs sat there, and Neige was in the crowd, inviting the special guests to the stage. Eugenia and Luca sat quietly in the center chairs—though she shot Erastus a stern look; she did not like surprises. To their right, sat her parents. To their left, sat Emrys’s parents. Luca’s parents and the rest of his family were still back in the Netherlands.

Erastus greeted his grandparents and Luca warmly. Then paused, and took his mother’s hand.

“What is all of this, Erastus?” Eugenia pressed. “What are you doing?”

Erastus kissed her hand, then looked her dead in the eye.

“Do you remember that night? The night the House stopped loving me—and the awful things you said? I’m proving you—and most of the people behind me—wrong.”

Erastus turned, strode to the front of the small stage, and faced the growing crowd. His family was there, many of them sporting lilac scarves. He and Neige and Abe had made 53 portkeys, enough for all their intended guests plus a handful of others. A swoosh of his wand told him 52 had been activated, another flick told him the lone holdout belonged to Frankie—Franklin—Udall.

In that moment, a pain that he was familiar with brushed up against his psyche, but he wasn’t in a place to entertain it, so he ushered it into another room, then closed and locked the door behind it…

Erastus breathed deeply and raised his wand to his throat.

Sonorus

“Welcome, everyone!” His voice was warm and clear. “Welcome to my little corner of Paradise, here in the top of the mountains. Welcome, especially, to my family and friends who were able to be here. And I see that Salt Lake City’s Mayor Bock sent a delegation, as did President Harris of The Brigham Young University. Welcome!”

“A little over a year ago, my family gifted Snowdonia Cottage to me, in hopes that I might spread my wings. And spread my wings, I have… After Father christened Snowdonia Cottage, he and Grandfather Powell subdivided the land and began to build what would eventually become Brechenridge Village. But my father’s untimely death and the difficulty of the magic involved meant that Brechenridge has never enjoyed the protective charms most villages do—nor has it been connected to a port-all network. But as a steward of my father’s legacy, I thought it was time to change that… so for the last year, I’ve been busy preparing for today. And that started with building out the final two parcels in the village—bringing it from a respectable 149 to a ripe 151 Wizarding households. And the two newest members of the Brechenridge family are with us today: Patagia Snow, my mother’s cousin, whom most of you know… and Dewi ap Howell, my father’s cousin who is moving here all the way from Wales with his young family.” Erastus flicked his wand and small colorful starbursts appeared above Dewi and Patagia, the crowd clapped warmly. “Welcome!”

Erastus looked at his pocket watch.

“Now the sun is about to cross its meridian, so the moment is upon us… to bless the town’s brand new ward stone—“

Erastus flicked his wand, and an invisibility cloak slid off an obelisk in the center of the crowd that was easily twenty feet tall and hewn from local black basalt. The crowd turned with a rustle of approval as he leapt from the stage and strolled toward the towering stone. “Make way! Make way!” He called, his wand still at his neck. “Would those I’ve invited to join me in the Circle come forward?” The crowd parted here and there, and twelve stepped forward—a full and proper Circle with seven witches and five wizards—moving quickly into place around the base of the obelisk. Once they were in place, Erastus flicked his wand again and a white chalk circle appeared with a radius of thirty feet or so centered on the obelisk. “I’m going to ask the crowd to step back from the obelisk and to stand clear of the circle.” The crowd complied quickly, and an air of heady anticipation settled on them. When the chalk circle was finally cleared, Erastus leaned toward the crowd, conspiratorially and whispered: “Time to begin!”

Erastus turned and faced the obelisk then stepped into the spot the Circle had left for him. Erastus raised his wand, white and glinting in the sun, and began what might be called a symphony of incantations—his arms swaying to a song that only Elohim could hear, but a rhythm that pulsed low and slow in the hearts of all who looked on. As Erastus worked his own magic, the Circle began the process of pricking their ring fingers and slowly filling a Bleeding cup—just a dribble of blood each—as it was passed clockwise around the obelisk.

His first movement revealed a storm of runes carved into the obelisk, like a great fingerprint. As Erastus continued to incant and sway, short strands of runes began to glow faintly in silent reply, strands connecting to strands until the entirety of the inscription effervesced. The runes glowed brighter then dimmer in concert with the rhythm the crowd felt, as though the heart of the obelisk beat for all to see.

At last, the Bleeding cup came to Dewi, who pricked his finger and milked a few great drops of blood into the cup as it was held by the witch to his right. Dewi then took the cup and turned to his left where Erastus stood, incanting. He hadn’t expected the Bleeding to be such a large affair—but Dewi couldn’t help but confess that he could feel it tugging at his magical core as he waited patiently for Erastus to complete the incantation. A moment later, Erastus turned to his right and raised his wand, then hung Frith mid-air, so both of his hands were free. The crowd, as enthralled as Dewi had been, gasped softly at the sight of a wand hanging, as it were, from an invisible hook in the sky. Erastus pricked his right ring finger, then milked it as each of the Circle had before him—but his heart was beating so strongly, that a good deal more blood flowed than even he had expected. His blood alms made, Erastus took the cup from Dewi with his left hand, reached out for his waiting wand with his right hand, then levitated the blood out of the cup and flung it at the still-pulsing obelisk, spraying it with great lashings of the commingled offering. At Erastus’s mark, the rest of the circle stepped back. Erastus incanted again then flicked his wand, and sealed the blessing upon the obelisk.

The runes glowed brightly, then dissolved from view.

The Bleeding was done, but the wizard was not… In a single graceful movement, Erastus launched Frith high into the air, caught them, fell to one knee, then drove the wand partially into the soft earth at the base of obelisk… at which point the very ground beneath his feet and the gathered crowd rumbled to a crescendo, and a great shimmer of magic pulsed out from the obelisk, passing over and through the crowd, rushing northward—enveloping Brechenridge in protective charms.

“To a renewed Brechenridge!” Erastus called out.

“To a renewed Brechenridge!” the Circle replied.

The crowd erupted in applause, and Erastus whooped, swung Frith in a great circle above his head, and a flurry of delicate white flowers drifted down on everyone gathered, pooling at their feet, and dusting their shoulders—replacing the headiness of a religious observance with the conviviality of a family gathering.

Great drops of sweat pooled on Erastus’s brow and he felt a little lightheaded. “Easy there, ‘Rastus”, a warm Welsh baritone urged him from behind. Erastus turned and placed a hand on the other young man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Dewi.” He cupped the base of Dewi’s neck, and they touched foreheads, briefly. Then he turned and kissed Dewi’s wife on both cheeks. When he stepped back, Erastus peered across the way to his mother, who looked back at her son—the faintest of smiles escaping her lips before she turned to help Grandmother Snow down from the stage, and the two disappeared into the crowds queueing for the buffet.

And that’s when it dawned on him: all of his belongings had been cleared from Powell House; he had officially moved out. And tonight, he’d be returning to the bone fire as a visitor. Erastus could imagine his sadness testing the strength of his resolve to keep it locked away. And just as he was faltering, Abe appeared and laid his arm across Erastus’s shoulders, giving them an encouraging squeeze. Abe went to turn away, but Erastus grabbed him by the wrist.

“Stay, with me. Stay, please.”

The two stood there a moment, in silence, then Erastus raised his wand, once again, to his throat.

“Friends! Family!” Erastus cleared his throat. “Your attention one last time… I hope everyone enjoys the food, which was lovingly prepared by Mother’s house-elf, Neige—who, no doubt, is hiding around here somewhere in embarrassment. Please give her a warm round of applause…” the younger members of the crowd clapped enthusiastically, but Erastus noted that more than a few of his aunts and uncles had rolled their eyes at the notion, and were now feigning the barest of appreciation.

How soon they forget.

“And now, a word of caution: With the village’s protective wards now activated, your portkeys will no longer work.” Erastus paused for it to register with folks, before continuing, “But don’t fret! I don’t expect you to walk home.“ The crowd laughed nervously. “Which brings me to the last of my surprises—for today, at least—the Circle and I will be leaving you in a moment to christen the port-all, which I’ve installed over at Barenton Springs. And we’ll be traveling there in style…”

Erastus put his fingers to his lips and gave a short, loud whistle. And around the bend ambled the full kenning of Brechenridge’s seven ridgeriders.

Someone yelped.

“Don’t be afraid; they’re well-behaved. And you know what? It was Abe’s runework that made these carriages possible.” Erastus turned to Abe and smiled at him, but kept a firm hand on his wrist. “As many of you know, Abe was a close friend of my father’s and he’s been my mentor and friend ever since we lost Father and Roxcy. Abe is a fine barber. But he is also an exceptionally gifted Wizard; a rare master of runes… and we have, for too long, underestimated him.” Erastus breathed in, deeply, and discretely wiped a budding tear from his eye. And let Abe’s wrist go, then patted him on the back as the old man stepped into the crowd and made his way toward the kenning and Dewi, who was there to greet them. “Anyway, I do hope everyone will stay awhile and enjoy the fine food and the good company. The Circle and I will return shortly. Then, when you’re ready to depart, make your way over to Abe, who’ll summon one of the ridgeriders to take you and your party down to the port-all.”

After returning with the Circle from Barenton Springs, Erastus mingled for an hour—making certain to speak to the Circle members and their invited guests and to make time for the political delegations. He soaked it all in, hungry for the chance it gave him to belong, if only for a moment. An hour later, as the crowd started to thin, a warm hand rested gently on his shoulder.

Frankie—Franklin—Udall.

“You made it.” Erastus dared not look at him, emotion caught in his chest.

“Of course I did. I was just a little late.”

The two young men had leaned against the Cottage garden wall and gazed up at the great mass of Timpanogos, there before them.

“I thought you had changed your mind.”

“Nah. I was just delayed”, Frankie confided. ”You’ve done something amazing here, you know.”

“Thank you. It’s just the beginning, I think. Good things will come of this.” Erastus paused, not knowing what to say. “You know… you could do amazing things, too.” Erastus looked down at his feet. “It’s not all laid out in front of you—you know, the simple life and all that.”

“Oh, I don’t know… I’m not cut from the same strong cloth you are, Erastus.”

“You’re stronger than you think.”

So much was left unsaid. Novels could fill the pauses.

“Mother has arranged for me to marry Miss Bennion.”

“Clarise?”

“Yeah. That’s the one. It’s to be a Samhain wedding.”

“That’s a short engagement.”

“No use in waiting.”

“That’s equally true said of Paradise as it is the gallows, Frankie.”

Franklin stood and patted Erastus on the back, but said nothing. “Wait up!” he called out, running after Minerva and her new beau, as they made their way to the queue for the ridgeriders.

Erastus’s soul shuddered, threatening to give out. So he opened the door to the room where his pain had been waiting, and he invited it out to keep him company while he disassembled the stage and set things right around the cottage. Erastus welcomed an hour or two of emotional clarity, before rejoining the family at Powell House for the bone fire.