Childhood's End

3. Flight

Instinctively Minerva pulled up on the head of her sweep and shot past the village, barely missing a hill on its outskirts. The broomstick got caught in a gust of cooling air and plunged towards some very uncomfortable-looking boulders. Once again, she grasped it hard with her knees and jerked its head upwards, but this exposed the tail-end to other currents rising off sun-warmed rock, and made it buck like an angry centaur. And the Braking Charm was just not there. She bent closely over the stick and coaxed it into a course parallel with the slope. Better that than an abrupt meeting with the ground.

But now she found herself accelerating down the mountainside. Her feet began to brush against the tops of evergreens. Their shadowy depths held who knew what dangers: briar patches, outcrops of granite, beasts with fangs and horns and claws, the kind, magical or not, that Jacko Gwynn populated his stories with.

She could hardly see at all now in the gathering dusk, and wondered in a moment of panic if it might not be better just to slide off her broomstick and hope wandless magic would set her down in the top of a friendly fir. But McGonagall grit and a horror of abandoning her fag won out and she clung on. The suppleness of that stick, so useful on the Quidditch pitch, was a positive liability out here on the mountainside. The wind plucked at it as at a harp string, and it responded with a strident whine that rose steadily, ominously in pitch. So she wrapped her arms and legs around it, trying to damp the vibration. At this rate her broom would shortly blast into splinters. And Minerva's energy was draining away along with her courage.

Ahead of her, the darkness, which had been punctuated by pine and fir crowns, became smooth and unbroken like the surface of a great loch. Somewhere below, water rushed, echoing as in a hollow, and Minerva felt about her limbs the cold, sluggish down-draft of a deep valley. The wind, which had pushed her down the slope, now followed a new angle, an almost vertical drop over a precipice. It plunged Minerva and the withy-wand broomstick into that narrow darkness.

~*~

She woke in the same cold dark on a gentle slope of spongy turf. She was among trees too, not the tall firs that had punctuated her ride, but stunted Scots pines, with needles like hair, long and fine. These had embraced and slowed her as she rocketed through them, their pliant limbs dragging at her like so many soft fingers. She'd come to ground in thick brush, rolled a way, and then fainted. But as she took stock of her injuries, she realized she had come through it with little more than scrapes and bruises. It was the shock of the impact and stark terror as had likely caused the black-out. But something had wakened her.

She did not feel fit to travel a long way tonight, only enough to find her broom and shelter until daylight came. The flora and terrain of this area were much like that of her own valley, and she felt home couldn't be far away. She could make out the familiar shapes of whin and heather in the moonlight and smell them too. Moonlight. How long had she lain there oblivious under the pines? Moonrise the night before had been just after sunset. And there it was, a big white disk, just coming in sight over the trees.

Full moon. She froze. Something was nudging her brain, a memory, recent, the sound that woke her. What was it? There it was now, again, a screaming howl, off to her left. How far away? And what was it?

But she knew without seeing. It must be a werewolf. Jacko's stories notwithstanding, she knew enough of witching lore to ken that sound, an almost human scream, rounding into a snarl. She had to get away and quickly. The Wolf's sense of smell was legendary, no matter which way the wind was blowing.

Now there was the noise of movement far off in the trees on her left. She felt about for her broomstick. It would take her far from danger. But there was no salvation near to hand, and, though she wished and wished, she could not Summon it. Underage magic was a whimsical force. One never knew what form it would take, if it took. She saw a shadow in the trees that hadn't been there a moment ago. And a glint of something in the moonlight. What? Pale fur? Eyes? Fangs?

She was scrabbling on the slope, then running full out, away from the glint, the movement, the screaming howl. She was fast for her age, but she didn't know her surroundings. One false step and she'd be on the ground and easy prey. No sense hiding, her scent would give her away in a second. She could hear behind her the whirr and creak of pine boughs being thrust aside. She imagined the fanged muzzle gulping breath, the sharp claws renewing themselves on flinty rock, the hackles bristling with anticipation of the kill.

She ran headlong into a spinney of low-hanging willows and alders. Overhead, wide-fanning branchlets dimmed the moonlight and, in the heart of the thicket, blocked it out completely. Would this be an advantage or a liability for her? Would the absence of light, would the inability to see her, cancel out the creature's thirst for her blood?

Apparently not. As she crashed through the darkness she heard with dismay, ever nearer, the sounds of slavering, foaming breath, and imagined a lolling tongue and drool-flecked muzzle. And the beast could likely see in the dark.

Her arm bumped against a tree she hadn't seen. It staggered her, but for an instant only. Seconds later a low-hanging branch whipped across her face stinging her eyes. Now half blinded, she hesitated, her stride shortened. It wouldn't be long before she was stopped entirely by a full collision with a trunk, or tripped up by a naked root, or tangled in thorn bushes, trussed and splayed for the coup de grace.

Then it was that the trees, dark threatening shadows against a deeper dark, began to develop an edge, a form, against some kind of light behind them. What was happening? Was it dawn so soon? No, the light was tinged with green, like an effusion of verdant life from the trees themselves or the onset of a fierce mountain storm. If this was not an illusion, a mirage of hope to numb the certainty of doom, she could now pivot, dodge, run full out without fear.

But her earlier hesitancy had closed the gap too much. The creature was right behind her. Something sharp brushed her back near her shoulder, a claw or the dreadful fangs. She closed her eyes, gulped and gasped, prayed wordlessly, and lunged onward.

What does one wish for at the end of hope? Minerva was never clear afterwards what her last thoughts were before it happened.

~*~

They found her at sunrise, curled up under a hairy pine, bruised and dirty, her clothing in tatters.

"You hardly stirred when Robbie MacDonald found you," her father murmured, bending over the great old feather bed, stroking her hand, her hair, as if to reassure himself that she was really there, safe and whole, and no illusion. "When you didna come home by sunset, I started to worry. Then I got an owl from Brobdingnag Bones. His fool of a son---och---we had the whole valley out searching. Found your tartan in a briar patch. You must have lost it trying to get free." His brow puckered. She couldn't tell if he were on the verge of tears or a tirade.

Minerva tried to think back past the crash. She had only disjointed memories of intense pleasure at a sky plump with clouds and dismay at the pink of sunset.

Goodie broke into the silence. "Ah, a good lang bath'll mak ye feel better. Then ye can tell yer yarn, an a barrie tale it will be."

She bustled about, Accio-ing the big iron tub and water from the laundry room as she chivvied Da out the door. "Tak aff yer claes, child, and we'll hae a look at yer wounds, then into the tub wi ye and forgit yer tribble." She started a small blue fire under the tub and ran more water in from her wand-tip. Minerva jumped down from the high bed and got out of her shift, eager for a bath and rub down. She felt so sore, and not only from the bruising of the crash. Surely fearful rigor had caused a lot of her muscular soreness. Even her jaw felt clenched…and her shoulder hurt. Her shoulder. . .

"Goodie!" she screamed and the scream tapered to a whimper. "Oh Goodie, my shoulder. I'm---I'm a---" She suddenly dropped to a crouch and hugged herself as if to ward off the memories of the night before, which now came pouring into her conscious mind.

"Whit is it, child? Yer not hurtit. Juist knurles an scarts. Tho mony midgie bites..." Knurls an scarts. Bruises and---scratch marks! This set off a fresh bout of wailing and Goodie had to reach down and pick her up about the shoulders. She drew her sweet 'babbie', already growing into a great gangling girl, over to the ancient nursing chair with its willow frame and seat and arm rests, which had over the years molded itself to the old nurse's ample requirements. Goodie settled into the chair and gathered Minerva close, clucking and patting, rocking her in a gentle rhythm, like a boat turned sideways to a current of small lapping waves.

"Wheesht, child, calm yersel. And look here." She reached down next to the chair and pulled up the withywand broomstick. "The MacDonald lad, he wis wi the search party. He found it in a bush. Only twa-three broken faggots. . ."

But Minerva would not be comforted by the sight of her trusty sweep. "Goodie, last night—--it was full moon."

"Aye, ma dearie, I knaw. Lucky it wis to hae a good, strang licht to see by."

"No---Goodie---The Wolf!"

"Naw, naw, there been nae wolves in the Hielands in a lang, lang time."

"No, Goodie, no. I don't mean an ordinary wolf."

"What are ye sayin, child? You didna meet a werewolf."

"I did, Goodie, and he scratched me or bit me, just here." She reached up and touched behind her right shoulder.

Goodie squinted at the spot. "There's naught there Minerva. Nae scart, naethin."

"But I felt it, Goodie, I feel it now. It makes me shiver to think the creature was close enough to touch me. And then—--oh Goodie—--I changed."

"Changed, child?"

"I changed into a wolf, a little one. Oh Goodie, darling, I'm a---a---" She searched for the dreaded grown up word. "A Lycatrope. I shall be locked up or banished from the clan or hunted down and a silver stake driven through my heart!" The tears were streaming down her face as she clung to her last refuge, her Nursie, whom she would soon have to leave forever.

"Bletheration! There be nae werewolves in these pairts, only pine martens and red deer. An orra black draigon mebbe."

"Then how come I changed? Changed, Goodie. I swear it. I was running, on my last breaths and strength, and it was dark in the wood, so dark, you couldn't see the wand in front of your face, and the creature so close I could feel its breath on my neck. It scratched me. I know it did. And suddenly I was thrown forward onto my hands. Only they weren't hands, Goodie, they were paws, hairy and clawed. My whole body changed. I was fast Goodie, ever so fast. I dodged the wolf. I feinted and turned, just like I was on the pitch, and the wolf wasn't fast enough. It scrabbled about and started gaining again, but I had my energy back and to spare, and I outran him like he was standing still. I lost him in a beech grove and—--oh, Goodie—--" She dabbed at her eyes, searching for words to continue the terrible story.

"Ye maun dreamt it, child. ‘Tis only natural. When ye fell, ye dinged yer head---"

"You don't understand. I felt my body change, my back legs crook like a hound's, my teeth go to fangs, my ears prick up to the top of my head. And after the chase was over, I felt hungry, so hungry, and I—--oh—--I sniffed the air and smelt blood."

"Ye whit?"

"I saw something moving in the grass. I chased it. It was little and fast, but not so fast as me. I cornered it and---I played with it first. I threw it up into the air and carried it about. It was so scared, I could feel it quivering in my—--my mouth. " She shuddered. "Then when I was sure it was dead, I ate it, head and tail and all! I remember the crunch of its little bones, the fur, the warmth and---and the blood. Augh! I must be a Wolf, Goodie, I must!" She buried her head in the ample bosom and wept uncontrollably.

"Hark, child, gif ye did cheenge into a beastie, and I'm not sayin' ye did or ye didna, it wouldna be from the touch or even the bite of a werewolf. The first cheenge niver comes til the neist full moon. That I ken."

"The next full moon? But are you sure, Goodie? Are you dead sure?"

"Sure as my auld mither tellin' me so in a chair very like this ane."

"I can't believe it was a dream, Goodie. It was so real." Minerva dried her eyes on the back of her hand. "Promise me you'll lock me in the barn next full moon, just to be safe. I wouldn't want to bite you or Da or any of our friends."

"Aye, dearie, I promise." There was more clucking and patting and rocking. And then: "Intae the tub wi ye nou, before that dirt yer coated wi hardens ye intae a stone golem."

~*~

Thankfully, there were no repercussions over Minerva's flight through the mountains, no Muggle witnesses to be memory-wiped, even though she had gone much further than Brobdingnag Bones intended her to. Petey Macnair took the opportunity to tease her about the possibility of being brought up before the Wizengamot for breaching the Statute of Secrecy. And Da did give her a long lecture on Magical Law, including, not only the dangers of flying over Muggle territory, but also unauthorized wand use.

"Having yer own wand will be a big responsibility, Minerva. And there are good reasons why the Ministry forbids underage mages to use one out of school."

"But Petey casts spells all the time, Da."

"Let Petey's parents take care of it then."

"He says no one at the Ministry of Magic can tell who's using magic up here anyway."

"Aye, he would say that. But the Ministry knows, child, take my word on it."

"Then his father does have influence---"

"I'm not saying he does or he doesn't. The law's the law, Minerva. We've always upheld the Statutes, and no daughter of mine will be the first to go against them."

Nor would Minerva willingly disobey her father's dictum.

Da was the youngest of seven and the only son. Her aunts all lived close by and when Da had started making the rounds of Healers with Ma, Minerva had stayed with each of his sisters in turn. Minerva knew well the feelings each had for her father, and she would rather be beaten raw with her own broomstick than give them cause to brand him a poor father and disciplinarian.

In fact, women dominated the McGonagall clan throughout its history, and their portraits held Minerva's attention for hours on end. The gallery ran around three sides of the first floor above the Great Hall and paintings of her famous antecedents lined the walls from the Master Bedroom door around to the top step of a wide curved stairway. Minerva's room was in the corner opposite her parents' near the pictures of a lively group of Medieval and Renaissance relations.

Today, as she passed them on the way to breakfast, she could hear Hortensia of Argyll, muttering between her teeth. Hortensia had saved the life of one of the Bruces early in the national history, and never let anyone forget it. And she smoked a pipe incessantly.

"And where, I ask you, is this mistress of ours? It's been months---months!-- since she's gone to the Healer's and not a word about when she'll be back. It's wrong to leave the lord of the manor alone so long to deal with all these problems."

"What problems, Tensie?" This from Jenny Blair, Hortensia's nearest neighbor, who sat in a frame delicate with carved roses. She had a heart-shaped face and a sweet, soft voice, which she used sparingly. It was hard to believe she had once single-wandedly defeated a band of drunken warlocks who were trying to re-route the river Tay to flood a Muggle village. But Goodie swore it was true.

"Dry rot, Mistress Blair, dry rot. The entire place is falling to pieces about us."

A whispery voice two frames down, charged, "And I foresaw it, did I not?"

"Eh?"

"Did I not predict ruination for this house if the Master married that Mudblood? The Keep is cursed, I tell you."

"Oh, cork it, Meg, you haven't been right since our King James succeeded the Tudor hussy. I was perhaps exaggerating a little. It's dry rot, or worms, no more than that. But we need the Mistress to come back and see to it.That is what a Laird's wife is for."

Meg of Dundee bristled. She was the only known Seeress to come out of the very pragmatic McGonagall clan, and she took herself extremely seriously. She had correctly predicted the ascendancy of the Stuart line, though Minerva couldn't remember any other prophecy of hers that came true. She certainly hoped this latest one was not.

"It doesn't take a Muggle gypsy to see what's causing your problem," hissed Meg. "It's your pipe! It would take a powerful Shield spell or anti-drying charm to protect any surface from that smokestack of yours." And Minerva could see it was true. The paint at the top of Hortensia's picture was badly blistered and the entire frame coated with ash.

There came a great shout from further down the row. Minerva knew that voice well. It was Anne McCutcheon. Lady Anne was a spirited witch, who had allied herself with 'the Tudor hussy,' Elizabeth the First. She felt Muggle women had little enough power in the world as it was and had helped to conjure the gale that prevented the Spanish Armada from invading Elizabeth's realm. She was usually to be found pacing restlessly back and forth, using up all of her portrait and several others, her long auburn hair streaming behind her as if caught in a perpetual wind. Her laughter would ring out up to the battlements whenever a storm hit the Keep.

Minerva rushed over. Lady Anne was seated for a change and holding a hand of cards. The table in front of her was littered with coins, and another chair had been drawn up to it. She recognized the person in it, although his back was to her. Black curls flowed over his collar, and a strong brown hand threw playing cards into the air, then slashed at them with a dagger as they came down.

"Game to you my lady. Again," he growled.

"Oh, don't take it so hard, Rowdie. It's only Leprechaun gold."

"It's not the money, Madam, it's the principle of the thing. I let Mistress Blair cheat because she blushes so prettily when she wins, but you, Madam, have the most irritating way of rubbing it in."

This was Minerva's favorite ancestor: Ralph Guthrie Flynn, whose portrait hung by the stairs. 'Rowdie' Flynn had, in his youth, turned his back utterly on his magical heritage to join the infamous Scots buccaneer Rory MacNeil, adventuring on the high seas. It was a favorite family boast that Rowdie had given the name 'Galleon' to the gold coins used by mages in honor of a particularly wealthy Spanish ship he had captured. He always swore the life of a Muggle was much more exciting than that of any wizard and described it in his journal:

‘. . .with naught but my Compasse and a Blud Staned Dirke, and the thinne Plankes of this oaken Vessell betwixt me and a waterie Grayve.'

He was the ultimate in courage, thought Minerva, but at this exact moment, the bold swashbuckler was whining like a child.

"And the worst of it is, I can't see how you're doing it."

"Nor will I enlighten you, you rogue. See what you've done to my favorite deck. The King of Cups is bleeding all over the table."

But she waved a hand over the ragged fragments and turned them back into cards.

"Odds bodikins, woman, wandless magic? You should visit Hortensia over there and help her with her dry-rot."

"It's not dry-rot, it's that pipe of hers. Filthy habit! Why you ever introduced her to it. . ."

They continued their argument, moving out of the frame to join the others further down. Rowdie broke into a chorus of Come Sirrah, Jack, Ho, his favorite song. Minerva knew it to be about smoking and other adult pleasures. Goodie had once caught her singing the naughty refrain, and threatened to Scourgify her mouth if she caught her at it again. She sighed. The other ghosts would welcome Rowdie and Lady Anne. They would argue, josh, gossip for hours, but they always ignored Minerva utterly.

"Why, Gudgie?" she'd asked once, in a fit of temper.

"Yer no proper witch yit, lass. Whan ye hae yer wand an learn twa-three spells, than they'll tak notice o ye. The nou, yer naught but a Moogle tae them."

And soon, for the first time—no, the second, counting the day of her birth—she was going to visit the tombs of these hallowed ancestors in the family Crypt that was carved out of the mountains' roots at the north end of the estate. It was a long-established custom for the clan chieftain to bring his newly born child to the Crypt, together with all the relatives he could muster, for the ancestral Blessing and Binding Charms. And although Minerva could not remember this happening to her, she knew the way to the Crypt, because her father invariably pointed it out on their walks about the estate. It was guarded by a great bronze door under a stone outcrop with markings etched through some long-forgotten craft into the smooth slate façade. Anglian they were, or perhaps Scandinavic runes. And always in his rumbling bass, Jupiter John Cadwallader McGonagall would intone direst warnings about the curses that would be inflicted on any stranger who tried to enter, the least of which had something to do with their insides being turned out and their heads set ablaze with Gubraithian fire.

And, in under a week, she'd be visiting it safely with Da to pick out her wand—or rather, to let one of her ancestors' wands choose her to be its mistress.