The Lake at Sunrise

The Lake at Sunrise

Before sunrise, the castle grounds are quiet and grey. The air is chilly, but the sky is clear and the day promises to be a warm one.

Professor Kettleburn walks slowly away from the castle. The forest is awake and filled with birdsong; the unicorns and their foals make soft noises of greeting as he passes. He follows the stone path from the stables toward the cliffs, stepping away from the walkway at the narrow staircase that leads to the harbour. His boots scrape on the moss-covered stone then whisper through the dewy grass.

At the top of the cliffs he stops and looks toward the east. The sky is golden and bright; the sun will peek over the mountains in a few minutes. Below, a faint mist blankets the lake, shifting and flowing, obscuring and revealing the dark water beneath. Distant sounds of splashing and high, odd laughter carry on the damp morning air. Through the mist, he sees the outlines of three or four mermaids at work in a small cove, dragging stones and logs from the shallows into the deeper water. He wonders what they are building; the village at the bottom of the lake is always changing and growing as the lake sediments shift with the seasons.

*

Dear Kent, Mum says I have to write you and so I am writing you to say thank you for the fudge and the peppermints and the drawings. I put the Quidditch drawing on the wall but I accidentally put a pin through the Seeker and so now he makes a lot of unhappy faces and the other players are mad because he won't play anymore. I ate all the sweets already except for one peppermint toad which I lost because it jumped out of my hand in the garden and a gnome got it before I did. Mum says when you come home for the holidays you will tell me all about the dragons in the drawing and I hope you do because that's the one I like best. I like the green dragon best because he looks very nice even with his teeth. From, Tim.

*

Exhaling slowly, Kettleburn reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small stack of envelopes tied up with an old, ragged string. He holds the letters but does not look at them. He knows the writing on each one, the large, careful, childish letters that morph in a young man's hurried scrawl. He knows the words, the addresses, the creases in the paper and smudges on the envelopes. He knows what each letter says. He knows exactly how many there are.

*

Kent,

I have no idea what you said to Mum and Da, but it seems to be working. Mum still leaves pamphlets and books all about the house, but at least she isn't putting them under my pillow anymore. I've never seen such rubbish in my life. Nonsense about special wands and potions and spells to cast over your bed before you sleep.

Da made a big fuss over my marks from last term, going on and on about how important maths and sciences are for the world. I didn't have the heart to tell him that it's 'chemistry' not 'chemicalistry'. Mum keeps talking about buying some proper Muggle clothes, but she hasn't yet. I don't like the way she looks when I remind her. I haven't told them that I wrote to those American universities. When I first mentioned it they both got very upset. They said it was because I would be so far away, but I think what worried them most was having to go to Gringotts and change all that money -- not just to Muggle currency, but to American Muggle currency. They don't want to admit how embarrassing it would be for them.

It doesn't help that Gran is still telling Da that I'm just a late bloomer and telling that story about her Uncle Geordie who didn't cast a single spell until he was twenty-three and caught aboard the family fishing boat in a late spring storm. I'm afraid if I were left alone with her for more than a hour she would drag me off to Lewis and put me on a boat just to scare the magic out of me.

Thoth has just returned from Aunt Artemesia's, so I'd better send this before Mum sends him off again. Good luck at the Quidditch match this Saturday. Don't let that smarmy little Gryffindor captain escape without a few solid Bludgers in the head.

T.

*

A shadow glides through the water at the base of the cliffs.

Kettleburn watches it intently, following the slow, graceful motions until the creature sinks out of sight. He stares into the dark water for a long time, willing it to reappear, but beneath the surface the lake is still and empty.

When he looks up, the sun has risen, and the forest and grounds are glistening with morning light.

*

12 July 1936

Woods Hole, Mass.

Kent,

Thanks to you, I was the talk of the institute for a full week. Everybody wanted to know why an ordinary barnyard owl decided to fly through my office window in broad daylight, upsetting my coffee and startling the wits out of Dr. Jerome. He may be very clever when it comes to circuitry, but he doesn't know much about birds. I believe he thought he was being attacked.

I must admit, I had to read your letter several times before I fully grasped what you wish to do. You do understand that nobody has ever caught a giant squid, don't you? I had lunch with Lionel Masterson yesterday. He's considered the world's expert on cephalopod biology, and even he has never seen more than a few pieces of dead specimens. He did tell me several stories about squids that have attacked whales and ships, so it seems that a bit of your information is correct.

Magical defences? That sounds rather far-fetched to me. I do hope you trust these blokes you're working with. But that is just the problem, isn't it. Mum and Da scarcely tell me anything anymore, even when I ask directly, but I gather that the Ministry is still fumbling and failing to do anything at all about those wizards who are causing all that trouble?

I don't see how so many wizards can be so blind, with the way the world is today. All across Europe nations are building weapons, amassing armies, spouting declarations. Italy is marching through Africa, Germany lining the River Rhine with fortifications, Spain threatening to rend itself it two. Even here, in quiet New England, we hear the rumbles. The Yanks are sometimes worried, sometimes indifferent. Cape Cod is so very small, such an insignificant place in all the world, all quiet beaches and tree-lined streets. Sometimes it seems that nothing will be real until the wind carries the scent of gunpowder across the ocean.

And what do you ask? Only for the means to capture a giant squid. Magical defences, you say.

I know I will regret this, but I have spoken to some people and learned that the Atlantis is sailing from Inverness later this year on a twelve-day expedition in the North Atlantic. I have managed to find myself a spot aboard the ship to test my new echo-sounding equipment. I am told that there is interest in inviting British researchers (besides myself) to join the cruise, as a show of scientific good will. It does amuse me how little use your magical world has for us hapless Muggles, until one day you discover the need for such curiosities as ocean-going vessels and experienced sailors. But there may be a way to carry out this outlandish plan of yours.

I trust I will hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Timothy

*

The sun burns the mist from the lake. The mermaids are gone; they are rarely visible during the day, shy of the students and protective of their home. It is the last Saturday before the end of the term. Most exams are over, and in a few hours the shores of the lake will be swarming with relaxed, laughing children.

The lake sparkles with sunlight, and the surface is opaque. Lifting his eyes and staring across at Hogsmeade on the far shore, he feels suddenly, irrationally angry that the water should hide its secrets so well. There is no depth, no bottom, nothing except a golden light so bright it is nearly painful.

Kettleburn fingers the knotted string around the letters. He slides the last out from the bottom of the bundle and examines it carefully, as though he has never seen it before. It bears the marks of the Muggle post. Thick black lines cover anything that might indicate from where it originated.

If he inhales deeply and closes his eyes, he can imagine that it still smells of mud and smoke, blood and sweat.

*

18 May 1944

Kent,

This may be the last letter I am able to send for a while, and of course it will be a quick one. Please tell Mum and Da that I am not angry with them anymore, in spite of everything. I don't know if they are right and I am wrong. It's not something I think about, in this place. Perhaps it would have been wiser to stay in small, closed magical England after all, rather than in this war that will last forever. Perhaps, but it's too late for regrets. What's done is done.

I must say, every day I wish more and more for a good, strong German-repelling Charm. Don't suppose you and your mates could fix the British army up with one of those, could you? You never did tell me how your experiments with the squid ink faired. Say hello to our creature of the deep, would you, for surely he's still alive? I am surprised the fellow lasted a single season in that freshwater lake. Tough bugger. It seems he'll outlast us all.

Give my love to Eliza and the girls.

Timothy

*

Just as he turns away from the lake, Kettleburn hears motion in the water below. A shadow separates from the base of the cliff and grows, approaching the surface in one long, clean line. As it nears the surface, the shape becomes more distinct, the pointed mantle and trailing tentacles, alive with grace and swiftness.

The squid breaks the surface and rolls playfully. Kettleburn can see the intelligence in one massive golden eye, alert and alien. The briefest pause, and the squid dives again, an arrow more then eighty feet long vanishing into the deepest part of the lake.

Kettleburn watches the lake for a few more minutes, not searching for shadows, not squinting in the light.

Then he tucks the letters into his pocket and walks back to the castle.