To Speak and to be Silent

Chapter One: Wednesday

Yesterday the odds were stacked in favor of my expectations
Flying above the rest
Never falling from the nest

Tuesday came and went and now I’m in a little situation
Maybe it’s for the best
I can live alone I guess

Maybe I can stand alone
Maybe I’m strong as stone
Even though the bird has flown
Maybe he’ll fly on home
-- ‘Maybe’ by Alison Krauss and Union Station

Christmas Day dawned, reluctantly.

Muted Scottish sunlight filtered through the ragged scraps of gray cloud that hung despondently in the sky, halfheartedly dodging obstacles such as trees and birds, until it came to a window; it seeped through the glass stained with dust and mud, providing a faint, washed-out gray light.

This particular window was set in the wall of room #12 of the Black Magick Inn, in McLeod, Scotland. The minuscule town was named after a local clan; with its quaint town square and small houses built in old-style Scottish tradition, it was the ideal place for a Christmas vacation.

The dirty window blotched the light, but it struggled through anyway. Its pale rays fell on an immaculately made bed, on a dresser with two nondescript photos on the top, on a small table with a single, stiff-backed chair facing it -- empty.

The room was, in essence, empty, and yet a woman stood in front of the mirror over the dresser; and hers was the only movement in the room. Slowly, with long, precise strokes, the woman was brushing her hair.

She must have been doing it for a long time. The blank light gleamed dully off of the fine brown tresses, glinting with that morning’s routine shampoo-and-conditioning. The dampness from the shower had dried out almost an hour ago, and her hair was as clean and beautiful as it would ever be. Eventually the woman realized the futility of her brushing, and she lowered the comb, staring steadily at herself in the tarnished mirror.

The room was not the distinctive, sterile sort of a chain motel, and it was certainly not new -- the inn had probably been here for a century or longer -- but it was as clean as such an old room was likely to be. Still, the woman swept imaginary dust off of the dresser with one hand as she picked up her tiny, yin-yang earrings and put them on.

She held her expression calm and steady, but she could not stop a tear from rolling over the tender, swollen bruise around her eye and down her pale cheek; nor could she control the small tic at the corner of her mouth that was the only outward sign of how much she wanted to just put her head down and sob her heart out.

No. She had done that too many times in her life.

Allan. Oh, Allan... he had been a four-month-long disaster, but he was the only thing she’d had to live for. And now even he was gone. Her parents, her sister, her first husband... they had all betrayed her. She should have known she was due for another spurning.

Helen’s parents were devout, and somewhat overzealous, Catholics. Helen didn’t have any grudge against them for that; it was just that she had never wanted to be a Catholic. She had some personal problems with their teachings that all magic was evil and Satanic; Helen liked the idea of paganism, and she understood very well that there was a difference between black magic and white. Helen had never acted outright against her parents’ beliefs -- she had simply joined a Wicca group once to see what it would be like.

Her parents had disowned her for it.

Margaret, Helen’s older sister, had also grown apart from their parents, but in a very different way. She rebelled by drinking, taking drugs, doing all the things those emotional anti-abuse commercials tell you not to do. Margaret had died of liver failure at the age of 31.

Helen’s first boyfriend, Michael, hand dumped her unceremoniously when she was fifteen, but only after stealing something that Helen could never replace -- her virginity. When Helen was nineteen, she had gotten married -- rashly -- to a man seventeen years older than her, named Lewis. Three years of unhappy marriage had led to an abortion, followed by a big, ugly lawsuit that ended in nothing but pain and divorce.

They all seemed nice enough at first, men. All you saw in them was what you wanted to see. But once you made any declaration that you were theirs -- calling yourself their girlfriend out loud often did it -- they no longer cared for your rights or your opinion. You were merely something else they could control.

Helen had finally learned this lesson, but only when it was too late. Because, after fourteen years of celibacy, she had met a man named Allan. And she had fallen for him. Hard.

Their relationship was not built on the stuff that lasted -- trust, friendship, real love -- but rather lust and passion. There had been a spark at their meeting that Helen could not ignore, and it had soon risen to a roaring flame; but such a fire won’t last if it isn’t fed stronger fuel. For four months Helen’s bed had been frequented by Allan, but her heart had not. After... last night... she realized that she held not a single scrap of real emotion for the man.

But true love or not, Helen had always been cooperative with him, so she had deemed that for once he wouldn’t mind if she rejected his advances because she was too tired from that day’s hike. But Allan was not so easily dismissed; when he wanted something, he took it -- a fact that Helen hadn’t learned until now, because she had always given willingly before.

Helen stared steadfastly at her reflection -- the black eye; the bruising bite mark on her lower lip; the second fist-shaped purple spot lower down on her cheek, with a gash in it where Allan’s skull-shaped ring had torn into her flesh. Her thighs, abdomen, and everything in between ached with a fiery throb; she daren’t even look at it, so she had put on her ankle-length flower-print dress this morning to cover it up. A long-sleeved red cardigan over the dress had hidden the finger-shaped bruises on her wrists, and a pair of white gloves completed the look. Helen knew she looked like she had come straight out of a Hallmark movie, but she didn’t -- couldn’t -- care.

She didn’t know where Allan was. He had not been in their room when she’d woken up that morning. She knew she should call the police -- but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to it. If she had felt any anger, or fear, she might have been motivated to go downstairs and use the phone in the common room to ring up the McLeod Police Department... but she felt nothing at all. She looked at the window and saw only the dirt and grime blocking the light’s path, instead of the determined way the light itself struggled through in spite of being rejected. A metaphor for life -- but she was blind to it.

No. She cared nothing for Allan. She should find him -- tell him it was over --

What good would that do? If Allan actually listened to her when she made declarations like that, he wouldn’t have done what he did to her last night. He would have heard her telling him to stop...

Helen looked around at her packed belongings -- every last thing she owned, all crammed into two suitcases and a backpack. McLeod was just a vacation. They were supposed to go back to Gloucester today, that’s why Helen had packed everything yesterday morning, before they had gone on their final hike in the snowy woods.

But Helen wouldn’t need the suitcases where she was going...

She had finally come to a decision. She had found nothing except deceit, betrayal, pain, and suffering in this world; so she would see if the next one had anything better to offer.

Helen took her backpack and one of the suitcases, and opened them. She took her white purse out of the suitcase; then reached into her backpack, felt around, and came up with the one item she owned that Allan did not know about -- a shiny, unused silver pistol with a black grip. Helen checked that it was loaded, rewrapped it in its ragged cloth covering, and tucked it in her purse.

She zipped up her backpack, closed and latched her suitcase with a detached sense of finality and resignation, and left the inn for the last time.

Ignoring the innkeeper’s concerned questions, Helen walked through the common room with her head down, trying to hide her disfigured face. She pushed open the font door with a muttered, “Need some air.” Walking quickly down the street, she watched only the ground in front of her, ignoring her picturesque surroundings and limping slightly with the pain in her thighs.

She wasn’t stopped on her way out of the small village of McLeod; no one questioned her hunched poise, or the distinct black eye that couldn’t be hidden by looking away. She almost wished someone would take her by the shoulder, spin her around, and march her off to the police headquarters, where she could spill her whole story -- how he’d held her down when she’d tried to push him off, how he’d hurt her more when she begged him to stop... She knew she didn’t have the strength to turn and walk there herself. It was the law of inertia. A moving object will continue moving in a straight course for eternity unless an external force intervenes. She recited the lines in her head, scientific facts she had learned in boarding school. E=mc squared. Force equals mass times acceleration. Two plus two equals four...

Helen took the north-bound road out of McLeod, walking mechanically, in time with the numbers flashing through her head. If she froze to death before she tired enough to stop walking and take out the gun, then so be it. It was only a different escape route -- it led to the same place.

The road was snowed in further north, she knew -- but it had been cleared out up towards those castle ruins. They were such a great tourist attraction that the City of McLeod paid personally for the roads to be kept open; the profit margin of the tourist business all but overcompensated, especially in the holiday season. The site of the ruins themselves would be crowded, but Helen could turn aside onto the walking path in the woods nearby -- where she and Allan had taken their hike yesterday -- and hopefully, if she went deep enough into the trees, no one would hear the shot.

By now Helen was quaking with the cold. She crunched through the snow in nothing but her nice, indoor sandals, and her dress whipped all about her legs in the frigid wind, stinging. The weak sun was dimming even further, smothered by the dark clouds that heralded another snowstorm. People would be leaving the ruins by now, not wanting to be caught by the storm; and anyone in their right minds wouldn’t have come to the walking trail at all today, recognizing the beginnings of a blizzard earlier that morning.

Helen trudged on, as the dark pine canopy started to thicken, blocking out what very little light there was left. She started to feel her profound claustrophobia taking over -- she was trapped -- all dark -- tunnel of evergreen needles -- no way out --

She stopped, feeling her joints stiffen instantly in the freezing wind, and took several deep breaths. This was why she had been so tired yesterday afternoon, after she and Allan had walked the length of the trail. It wasn’t all that long in and of itself, but her heart pounded furiously with the thought of being trapped in an enclosed space, and her muscles tensed, making it feel as though she had exercised far more than she really had...

She had an instant of doubt, of hesitation. What if she went to Hell when she died -- what if there was an eternity of this? An eternity of cold, tight, small spaces, where she couldn’t breath; where she felt like she might die if she moved... if she shifted her weight and felt the walls against her, preventing movement, preventing freedom....

So she stood there and took deep, calming breaths, scorching the back of her throat with cold; and when she tried to move again, she found that there were no walls in front of her, or on either side of her; and she had perfect freedom of movement.

Except for the fact that she was frozen in place.

Stifling a cry of fear, she bit her lip -- and instantly cried out in pain instead, having forgotten about the... the bruise there... when he’d bitten... no. No, she wouldn’t think about it. Just try to ignore it. Forget it, stifle it, conceal it -- that was the only way she’d be able to move on. She couldn’t bear to tell anyone about it -- and besides, who would she tell? She knew no one else... Lewis would have a good laugh; her parents would tell her that it served her right and that the pits of Hell were being prepared for her coming... Margaret... Margaret was silence. What could a corpse say to comfort a dead woman?

In that instant, Helen made her decision. Moving her creaking, unwilling arms with all the strength she had left, she reached into her purse and felt the muzzle of the gun... it was cold, so cold... even her pale, blue-tipped fingers felt the cold of the hard metal, and Helen blanched. But now was not the time for second thoughts. She moved her fingers until she found the grip, and letting her fingers stiffen around it, she lifted it with waning determination out of the bag.

A mist was gathering around her, but she paid it no attention, taking it for the beginning of the storm. As she hefted the gun to her head, she felt -- no, it couldn’t be, it must be the adrenaline pumping through her frozen veins. There was no way she could have felt a breath of warmth, not in this chill.

Helen was not an expert with guns, but she did know there was a safety latch you had to undo, so she unbent her thumb enough to pull it back. There was a click that made her flinch. She wondered if it would hurt too much. She didn’t like pain, but she had had enough of it now not to mind another discomfort, especially if it served to end all the other aches, bruises and burning flashes of liquid fire...

She closed her eyes tight, feeling a few flakes of snow weasel their way through the overhanging branches and land on her eyelids...

Something indescribably warm and comforting touched her hand, and if her fingers hadn’t been frozen stiff in a death grip, she would have dropped the gun. A hoarse yell of surprise and fear burst out of her struggling lungs, and her eyes wrenched open.

The mist had become undeniably hot, but not unpleasantly so. It was formless, pale, and shifty, as if it were nervous -- or maybe as though it were looking her over.

Then a voice spoke, a mild, musical voice that seemed to ebb and drift with the flow of the mist as it swirled around her. Helen wondered if perhaps she had already shot herself and had no memory of it -- if, against all hope, this could be God, come to take her to the Heaven her parents insisted existed...

But the disembodied words seemed to put a stop to those thoughts. Helen’s blue-tinted mouth creaked open in vague, distant astonishment as she heard someone distinctly say, “Oh, dear. I would be much obliged if you would put that weapon down -- you shouldn’t put yourself through this. I’ve seen it far too often, and it never solves anything. You’ll only be reincarnated after the appropriate amount of time -- and suicidals usually get stuck as ants, or frogs.”

Helen’s mind registered that someone was speaking, but even if she could move, she wouldn’t have. The voice sounded male, but it had such a soothing, whispery, clarinet-like quality to it that Helen simply could not imagine a face to go with it.

“Helen Corana Levine,” said the voice, musing on her name, swirling around her in untold contortions of the fabric of reality itself. The mist seemed to be more visible now; more real.

“Where are you?” was all she finally managed to croak out.

“Nowhere,” said the voice. “You see me more clearly now because you are closer to me.”

“But --” she said, confused.

“You might call me a god,” whispered the voice. “God is a name of human invention. We are manifestations of consciousness.”

“You’re God?” she breathed, and her thoughts turned again to her parents. Though her voice had not even been loud enough for Helen herself to hear it, the formless voice seemed to understand, and there was a rhythmic whispering that might have been laughter.

“I am not the god you are thinking of,” said the voice.

Helen was positive she was either mad or dead at this point.

“I would tell you something,” said the voice, in a tone of voice that commanded her attention, no matter what state she might be in. “It is something that very few mortals know, and when I release you from this audience, you will not remember any of my words, because they are not for the average mortal’s ears.

“But, Helen Corana Levine, you are not an average mortal; so I bequeath this knowledge to you in the hopes that some day we may meet again, when you have grown into yourself -- and you may be allowed to remember.

“Yours is not the only reality, Helen Levine. Existence is infinity squared; this universe that you live in extends for forever in every direction, but so do all the other universes in this myriad of imagination you would call life. And there is a catch -- for every thing that is real in one place, there is another world, another universe, where that thing is fictional. Fiction and reality are opposites, and as is the case of all opposites, one cannot exist without the other; light cannot exist without dark, nor love without hate. Consciousness, imagination, is the only bridge that will span the gap between the two sides; imagination is the gray area between the stark contrast of the opposing sides. We are in that gray area now, Helen Levine. As I told you, what you call ‘gods’ are manifestations of consciousness. We are made of the gray stuff. We are the shadows between dark and light.

“Somewhere, in some other world besides your own, someone is telling your story; and they believe it to be fictional, they believe that they just ‘made it up.’ They did not. They merely strayed into the gray area, and saw you here. Have you never thought of strange people? Dreamed of them, perhaps? Even the dullest minds will dream -- gods will visit you in dreams, Helen Levine, and whisper stories into your mind.”

Helen felt somehow free of her troubles and her pain, here in the presence of a ‘god.’ She lifted her thawed-out hand to try and touch the mist, but it remained gray and impenetrable. The words he spoke she barely heard, but somehow they were seeping into her mind, like a healing salve, warming her thoughts as the heat warmed her flesh. His speech was more than just spoken word; through his straightforward explanation she felt the birth of an idea, like the dawning of a new day. There was no way to describe the way it made her feel, but suddenly she didn’t understand why she had not wanted to live. If this was what living truly was, she wanted it to go on forever.

“Why?” she whispered -- or perhaps she didn’t even speak out loud, she couldn’t tell.

“Why am I telling you this? Why am I speaking to you at all? Why do I want you, and what are my intentions?”

“Yes,” said Helen.

“You are special, Helen Levine. No, you do not have superpowers -- and you will not save the world. You are not a celebrity, nor do you have the makings of one. To those you know, and those you thought you loved, you are nothing. You have lost yourself, Helen Levine; and you are special because you are being given a second chance.

“Long ago, the mortal figure I was based on made a promise; and he broke it, rashly, in a crude and violent way. It was unforgivable, and it remains so. The responsibility for this infidelity was passed on to me, because that is how I was imagined. I intend to make amends for my ‘predecessor’s’ break of faith; and you, Helen Levine, are to play a vital role.”

“Why me?” she breathed.

“Because you have been rejected by your own universe,” said the voice quietly. “I would send you to another.”

“You can do that?”

“I bridge reality and fiction,” he said simply. “I may help a mortal cross.”

“But what must I do there?”

But Helen received no answer to her last question. The voice of the nameless god swirled into a more powerful tone, whipping up into a full-blown gale instead of his normal whispering breeze.

“I will let you choose,” said the voice.

To Helen’s mind there was not even a choice to make -- but she was appreciative of the god’s fairness. “I choose to go where you wish me to go,” she said, crying out into the swirling wind of the mind’s eye.

She braced herself for some great show of magic, for a tornado of power to sweep her off into the sky and dump her in this new world she had been promised; but nothing of the sort happened. The wind began to die down, and the mist that had completely enveloped her was now spreading out, thinning... just as slowly as it had crept up on her, the god was creeping away.

As much as she struggled to remember what that strange voice had told her, it’s words were dying away with the mist. She knew she had a purpose now, and she no longer felt the urge to kill herself; but she longed for the return of that blanketing warmth, those clarinet-voiced words...

It was still cold in this new place, but there was no snow or wind; Helen staggered when the pains of her violation stabbed back with full force, but she put on the bravest face she could, turned, and began walking out of the forest in the same direction she had come into it. She had to go by feel, because there was no longer a path. The sun was free here, and broke through the chinks in the forest roof with no trouble; it cast a bright silver, wintry glow all on the bed of frosty pine needles that covered the ground. With every step she took Helen felt more and more able to forget about Allan, and about everything she was running from. Her fingers loosened, and she dropped the pistol on the ground, instantly forgetting about it.

So she worked her way back through the woods, somehow understanding that something was different, though she couldn’t place her finger on it -- though she knew that the town she was heading towards was called McLeod, she found that it was difficult to remember what it looked like.

She counted her blessings that she had a good sense of direction, when she emerged from the trees near the ruins. A wooden hut stood perhaps fifty meters away to her left; she was sure she didn’t remember that being there. Shrugging, Helen headed for the exit from this run-down tourist trap.

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Helen’s newfound feeling of purpose and determination dwindled as she walked along the road towards McLeod, driven out by the piercing cold and the terrible pain of all her injuries. When the town came into sight, she was barely able to stumble along towards it, looking forward to the nice, warm inn. She didn’t realize that her face was almost completely blue now, and her aching bruises had become so unbearable that her mind had just blanked them out. She felt numb all over.

She staggered past the outlying houses at the edge of town, oblivious to the fact that they were completely different from the houses she had seen in McLeod before. She followed her unerring sense of direction towards where she knew the inn to be, keeping her eyes half-shut.

In this manner, she walked headlong into someone else on the sidewalk.

“Oh,” said the person. “Excuse me.”

Helen said nothing, but continued limping on, afraid that if she stopped, she wouldn’t be able to move again.

The person she’d bumped into watched her go for a moment over his shoulder, frowned, and turned back towards her, catching up with her in only a few steps.

“Miss?” he said, trying to take her arm. “Is everything all right? Do you need any help?”

“No, I’m fine,” chattered Helen. She tried to hold her jaws still, but they shivered away, making her teeth clack.

The man frowned further; he took off his heavy, fur-lined cloak, and settled it over her shoulders. In any other state, Helen would have taken aback by this kindness; but right now all she wanted was to get to the inn.

“Where are you going?” asked the man. “I won’t ask what happened to you if you don’t want to talk about it... but you shouldn’t be out here in this cold.” He lifted her face with one hand under her chin, and drew in a sharp breath when he saw the injuries given to her by Allan. “Good Lord,” he muttered under his breath.

“I-I was g-g-going to the B-Black Magick I-Inn,” she stammered through her chattering teeth.

He frowned in thought. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard of it,” he said apologetically. “I can take you to the Three Broomsticks. They have some lodging there -- it’s limited, and you’re supposed to have reservations, but I think they can make an exception.”

She tried to protest, tried to say she didn’t need his help; it was something you learned as a small child, not to accept help from strangers.

“W-Who are you?” she rasped finally.

“Hush,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “You’re in no condition. Come on, I’ll get you to the Three Broomsticks... it’s very close... and I’ll try to find a mediwizard, if there are any left who haven’t been drafted...”

He put his arm around her shoulders to steady her, and walked her down the streets to come to a stop in front of a large, two-story building, where a hanging sign proclaimed it to be the Three Broomsticks, Best Butterbeer North of the Thames. Just as the name would indicate, an image of three broomsticks crossing each other was carved onto the sign.

Helen could see very little, and frost was forming on her eyelashes; but she could tell that her rescuer’s face, though fairly young, was drawn and worried as if from constant stress. His hair was almost the same shade of brown as hers, but his was streaked and flecked through with gray. With a faint jingle of bells somewhere inside the building, he opened the doors; Helen’s thoughts were fading out along with her sight, and she couldn't really see the stairs she was led up, or the room she was taken into. She thought she remembered lying down on a warm, soft bed, but after that, everything was black.

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Helen woke to the sound of a woman’s voice, murmuring to herself as she mopped Helen’s forehead with something cool.

“My, you’ve had a nasty time. I’d like to know who put you through this... why, I think I should forget all about the Ministry rules; I’d give that man a piece of my mind, I dare say... and I’d get him thrown in Azkaban, what’s what. Hmm. Oh, I say, I believe she’s coming to.”

Helen squinted at the brightness of the room, thought it was only lit by dim candle light. She could make out the blurry form of someone sitting by her bed; a woman, rather short and plump, in what looked like a black dress.

“Hello, dear,” she said in a low voice. “Do you know where you are?”

“I...” Helen coughed once, trying to clear her throat. “I... was going to McLeod,” she muttered hoarsely. “A man brought me here...”

“Yes, Remus found you wandering about in the cold,” said the plump woman kindly. “He came and got me as soon as he could. My name is Poppy Pomfrey, I’m the school nurse at Hogwarts. I’m afraid that I’m the only doctor around at the moment; every other licensed mediwitch or -wizard has gone off to help in the war.”

Helen’s mind whirled. Wizards? Hogwarts? “What?” she asked, confused. “Where am I? What is this place?”

“You’re in Hogsmeade, dear,” said Poppy Pomfrey. “You’re probably just a bit confused right now. You’ve been feverish for a full day -- that nasty cut on your cheek got infected. I’ve healed you all up, now; bruises and cuts are far easier than broken bones, and even those I can fix in a few hours. I don’t mean to brag, I merely say that I can. You have to be quite good to work at a wizarding school -- what those children think of, these days -- falling off their brooms at fifty feet, dueling in the middle of the night, I say. Hmph.”

“But...” Helen tried to sit up, but Poppy pushed her back down gently.

“No, dear, don’t try to move. You’ll be a bit sore and dizzy for a day or so, and I’d recommend staying in bed for a few days more. It can never hurt to be cautious.”

“What’s a wizard?” Helen blurted stupidly. Of course she knew what a wizard was, but why this woman was talking about them as though they were real, common, everyday things...

Helen’s vision was clearing, and she could see that the woman looked startled. “Oh, my goodness, don’t you know? I hadn’t thought -- oh, dear. Well, for a Muggle you certainly have something special about you, if you were able to find Hogsmeade. It’s Unplottable, for heaven’s sakes!”
“A Muggle?” said Helen weakly.

“Oh, that’s the wizarding name for non-magical people... oh, this complicates things... I’ve already owled the Department of Domestic Services, but if you’re a Muggle... well, I doubt they’ll come, anyway. Not for a while yet. The entire Ministry is wrapped up in the Dark Lord business.”

Helen gave up. She was too exhausted and confused to try and get any proper answers from this Pomfrey woman. She felt herself slipping back off into the dark realm of sleep, but before she went, she was determined to ask one more thing.

“Where... where’s the man who brought me here?” she said, her mind slowing to a sluggish pace as she drifted off.

“Remus? He had to leave yesterday -- off to deal with the Ministry again. I told him I’d help, but he said he could handle it... he always has tried to take on too much... he’s had a hard life, you know.” Poppy saw that Helen’s eyelids were flickering, and lowered her voice. “Go on back to sleep, dear. Sleep’s the best thing a body needs to heal.”

Helen gave a weak nod and fell asleep before her eyes had closed all the way.
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