The Visits

Part 1: Lean Friar.

"When first of these letters came, I thought it was one of our neighbours' stupid jokes. I even thought so when the second one came. I opened the third and now it seems it's a serious matter."

"So what shall we do now?"

"I don't know. You don't know what maniacs are going around nowadays."

"You shouldn't have opened it." Mrs. Aronson looked at her husband reproachfully.

"I had to know what it was. Shall I throw it in the dustbin or call the police?"

The Aronsons looked at the sheets of parchment spread on the table. All bore the same crest, were written with the same green ink in the same pointy handwriting and signed by the same person, Minerva McGonagall.

"Let's not panic. Let's think calmly."

Michael Aronson was a sensible and reasonable man. He took his life seriously, but didn't mind sharing a joke (with the exception of lewd ones). He made a good living for his family and was utterly devoted to his son, Mark. So the joke - supposing it was a joke - bothered him all the more, because it was aimed at the boy.

The first of these strange letters came with the regular post two weeks ago. The large envelope contained three sheets of vellum: one being a letter of acceptance for Mark Aronson to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; the second a list of schoolbooks and equipment; and the third, a letter from one McGonagall, styling herself Deputy Headmistress, with short "explanations", namely stories about magic and "Muggles" and a note asking them to answer by regular mail to a given address in London. There was even a phone number, also a London one, which they could call in case of doubt. Michael Aronson didn't have any. He congratulated the pranksters on their ingenuity and threw the letter away. The next letter accompanied the phone bill and was identical to the previous one. The third one differed only in that "please call the London office, they'll explain everything" had been scribbled in the margin. Hmm, the jokers were obviously losing their patience and were waiting to have their laugh on the phone.

Then came two letters, one by post, one just lying on a window sill. On the inside of the closed window, to be precise. This was scary. And today, in addition to the yellow envelope with the other post, there was another one under the door, one propped up against a flower-vase in the sitting room and one - for some mysterious reason - in the microwave. Now this was really scary.

"How am I not to panic, when somebody has apparently broken into our house!"

"Maybe it's like we supposed in the beginning, a practical joker ."

"Then he went too far. Break-in is not a joke. And if he got in and painted me a mural in the sitting room I'd understand. But these letters... Bloody hell, they're addressed to Mark!"

"So what do you want to do? Call the police?"

"I've thought about it. Maybe I'll do it. But they'll ask us about our suspicions. Who might it be? First I thought it was those kids hanging out around the corner. Bit too elaborate for them. Some of the chaps from work? They could do it, they'd even arrange a friend with a telephone in London, but they wouldn't break in, for goodness sake!"

Mr. Aronson was often the butt of his colleagues' jokes, as he didn't swear, drank no more than one pint at a sitting and considered dirty jokes offensive to women.

"Well, sometimes I've been sore about them, but they're good chaps. Jake and Eddie may be angry with me, 'cause I voted to sack Francis, but he really deserved it. He was a lousy worker and behaved... Ah, never mind. I pity that girl, not him."

"So do you think it may be one of them?"

"Not likely. They are what they are, but they have kids of their own. They could imagine how they'd feel if somebody was targeting their son."

"But that leaves us with..."

"...psychopaths or religious maniacs. But why us?"

The Aronsons were good members of their parish, even if not very active. They didn't write letters to the BBC complaing about foul language in the films and didn't hand out leaflets. But in their calm, almost unnoticeable way they kept true to the principles: don't steal, don't covet your neighbour's house, respect your parents, observe the holy days. Basics, really. Still it sometimes earned them the name of "prude", which they shrugged off with a smile. Until somebody started to target them, or worse, their son.

"Dad? Mum?"

"Quick!" Mrs. Aronson swept the letters from the table into a plastic bag, which she threw, for the lack of a better place, into the potato bin.

"There you are!" Mark Aronson poked his head into the kitchen. He waved a large, yellow envelope. "Look what I found! It's a letter and it says... Mum? Dad?"

"So... you opened it?"

"Yes... What's wrong?" He looked at their pale faces, "I didn't know I shouldn't. I thought it was you who left it under my pillow."

"Under your pillow?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Nothing, nothing. It was addressed to you, there was no reason you shouldn't open it." Michael Aronson realised that his panic was affecting his son, so he tried to calm down, but didn't quite succeeded.

"I really didn't know." Mark was on the verge of tears "There's a letter for you, too. But it was my name on the envelope. I thought it was my letter."

"Yes, it is your letter," said Mr. Aronson, "or rather a letter addressed to you. There was no reason you shouldn't have opened it." Except for the fact there should be no letter like this in this house and especially not under your pillow, but he didn't say this aloud.

Mark calmed a bit. "I thought you were playing a joke on me," he said, "like in a story."

"A story?"

"Or a book. Like when Lucy found the door in the wardrobe and went into the magical land. Only it's a letter, but it looked like it was a real school and I was a real Wizard. And there's a list of books, just like the one Mrs. Patchinson gave me before the holidays."

"Yes, very realistic, isn't it?" said his father.

"And then I thought about that cat who ran so fast and Frank couldn't catch it and I thought maybe it was magic and I'm really a Wizard like they say here". The boy had regained some of his humour, unlike his father. Damn, damn those jokers, I haven't done anything to anybody. Why can't I be left in peace to raise my kid as I want, without some new-age idiot playing pranks on him and toying with his mind for the fun of it.

"Oh, I know there's no magic like in the books, but it's fun, isn't it? Like talking horses or genies and flying carpets...."

Why did he have to mention carpets? He was too small to remember. Michael Aronson pinched his nose. He wasn't so narrow-minded as to doubt that there are things which can't always be rationally explained. He had seen some of them himself and they did happen around his son on occasion. Like when he was three and watching Sinbad cartoons on television: the small carpet he was sitting on had lifted and hovered two inches above the floor. The kid hadn't noticed, focused on the telly. Unexplained phenomena occur, for sure. The problem is what do we do about them. Do we take them calmly and research them and remain in doubt, when necessary? Bah, miracles are also "unexplained phenomena", just sanctioned by the Church. Or do we run and embrace them excitedly, and look for "spirituality" and sooner or later get into trouble with the Cunning One? Who is patient and clever and his ways are usually easy and alluring... Probably somebody else had seen the suffering cat, which in front of Mark's eyes had picked up super-cattish speed and managed to escape its tormentors. And heard about one or two other curious accidents which happened when Mark happened to be present. And decided to play his cruel joke... If it was a joke and not something more sinister. But there will be time to think about it, when he calls the police.

"But why is there a note for you?"

Michael plucked?] the note from his son's hand. "To add a touch of realism," he answered, but he knew he was a bad liar. Lack of practice.

The note was very similar to the previous ones. Congratulated them on their son, asked them not to worry, just to phone the number in London and they'd be provided with all the answers. He didn't want to worry the kid by calling the police now. He could do it tomorrow at lunch time.

"So I guess we should call and ask them if you are a Wizard?" he said.

"Will you?" Mark was half worried, half thrilled. Drat, children are so gullible. When he gets the guy behind this, he'll do all the things he's never done. The guy will be sorry he came to this world.

"It's after five," he said looking at his watch, "there'll be nobody at work. I'll call them tomorrow from work."

"Cool! Can I go and play football now? I told Steve I'd come."

"Sure, go ahead. But, Mark! If anybody you don't know talks to you, come straight home, okay?"

The child looked at his father and then nodded. "Okay."

* * * * *

"Good afternoon, father."

The tall priest standing at Aronsons' doormat was not from their parish. The wide belt on his black robe identified him as a Piarist. He was quite lean and had an intelligent, if not handsome face. Mr. Aronson, who instinctively disliked obese monks, felt a tinge of sympathy.

"Good afternoon. Mr. Aronson, I presume?"

"Yes, it's me. What brings you to us, Father...?

"Severus. Sebastian Severus," he added quickly, "May I...?"

"Please come in, Father Sebastian."

"Thank you." The priest wiped his shoes carefully, although the weather was dry, and he entered the house.

"Would you like a cup of tea or a coffee?"

"Tea would be very nice, thank you."

"Are you new to our parish, Father?"

"No, I haven't joined the parish. It's just a short visit. Thank you very much. No, thank you, I don't take sugar. Especially not with Earl Grey."

Mrs. Aronson beamed. It's not easy to guess an unknown person's taste, but Father Andrew also liked Earl Grey. Maybe all clerics drink it in the seminary?

"You are probably wondering why I've come to you," said the priest. "I believe that during the last week you've received quite a lot of... correspondence? Addressed to your son?"

The Aronsons stiffened and Mrs. Aronson glanced towards the door, as if making sure that the way to the phone and the exit was clear.

"No, I'm neither a practical joker, nor a psychopathic paedophile," smirked Father Sebastian. His unpleasant grin did give him a psychopathic look and the Aronsons froze in their seats. "However I work at the institution which sent the letters. It's very unfortunate, although understandable, that you chose not to phone the London office. Your worries would have been much more short-lived."

"I've had enough... Get out of my house, Father...Impostor! Get out!"

"Calm down, Mr. Aronson. We need to talk."

"No, we don't!" Mr. Aronson's restraints broke. "You damned bastards! Leave us alone, you twisted sonovabitches! Out of my house or I call the police!"

"Call. I'm not afraid."

Mr. Aronson grabbed the priest's hand, making him spill the tea on the tablecloth.

"I got, you, you... arsehole. Jane, call the police. I won't let him escape."

"You have no way of stopping me and you'll make an ass of yourself when they come. And when they leave, I'll come again."

"You won't talk yourself out of..."

There was a cracking noise, Mrs. Aronson stopped half-way to the phone and Mr. Aronson looked at his hand, which a moment ago had been clutching the impostor's wrist. It burned and looked as if he had scratched it on a grater. He heard footsteps on the stairs and Father Sebastian appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Aronson crossed herself. Mr. Aronson stared.

"I hope we can talk now and you'll not make troubles? Shall we...?" he directed Mrs. Aronson to the sofa. She sat down and squeezed her husband's hand.

"This was not a trick or hypnosis. And no demonic influence whatever. I'm a Wizard and so is your son. The letters are genuine and the invitation is serious. He must accept it; otherwise he may become dangerous to himself and others."

He waited for a reaction and, seeing none, continued.

"You must have observed some strange occurrences when your son was worried or very happy. If he doesn't learn to control his power he may hurt somebody... or himself. That's why he has to go to the school."

The priest took a wand out of his sleeve and waved above the table. Tiny droplets of spilled tea leaped into the air and dissappeared. The tablecloth was clean again. Mrs. Aronson gasped.

"Vgha..." Mr. Aronson wanted to say 'Father', but his throat refused to obey.

"Father Sebastian," his wife recovered first, "what you propose is impossible. He's in the middle of his schooling, he has friends... And don't we have a say in this? We may not wish for him to become..."

"...A Wizard? I'm afraid you don't have much of a say in that matter," the priest grinned. "He was born a Wizard. With a magical ability. It's usually hereditary, but occasionally happens among Muggles, non-magical people. As for the school - ours is the best in Britain; and he'll make new friends."

"One basic question, Father," Mr. Aronson regained his voice, "how can you be a Wizard if you're a priest? It's very clearly stated, that the witches and necromancers..."

"'...And those counselling with familiars are the abominations unto the eye of Lord,' yes, yes, I know, Deuteronomy 18, around line 10. I'm not a necromancer and I certainly do not counsel with familiars of any kind in any way, so my being a Wizard is no problem. And I strongly advise against trying to interpret too literally Exodus 22, verse 18 right now."

"But..."

"The official position of the Church, Mr. Aronson," Father Sebastian started talking slowly as to a not very bright child, "is that magic can be of two kinds. One is a belief that one can influence nature by the power of thought, which is impossible, ergo there's no such magic. Otherwise it would mean that our souls can connect with and directly influence the material world. This would lead us to pantheism, which is against the teachings of the Church. The other kind is consorting with evil spirits and selling one's soul to gain extra power. This is a mortal sin. Now, there exist people who have additional power, undoubtedly bestowed upon them by the Lord; they have the ability to do magic. By doing so they commit no more sin then you by walking - although for somebody who was born paralysed, your ability to move at will may appear magical. Is it clear?"

"So why... why is Church so against magic?"

"Because of people's stupidity, Mr. Aronson, which is the source of many, many sins. Stupid people would do anything for power, join the Wiccans or sell their souls to the Devil, whichever comes first. Magic, as an inborn quality, sets Wizards apart from other people and the Church follows this division. Many unscrupulous people would lure Wizards with money or other things to do some dirty job for them. And since people are weak, Wizards as well, many would succumb to the temptation. So it's better to keep magical abilities secret and save many souls from committing grave sins."

The Aronsons were silent for a long while. Finally Mr. Aronson spoke again.

"I'm still very uneasy about this idea. It goes against everything I've learned. And I'm not happy with the idea of Mark going away from home in the period when he'll need our advice most. I understand his abilities can be dangerous... if uncurbed. But isn't there a possibility of suppressing them? Erasing?"

"Did I hear you right, Mr. Aronson?" Father Sebastian stopped smiling and Michael Aronson, although not a coward, curled in his chair. "You want to destroy your son's magic ability? Would you gouge his eyes out if you were blind and he was born with the ability to see? Or cut his legs down to your size if you were a midget and he was of a normal size? Are you mad or just plain stupid?"

"But it's not normal..."

"Because you don't have it? You don't have black skin either, but I hope you're not proposing to bathe every African in this country in chlorine, to make him 'normal'. Yes, Mr. Aronson, there were times when 'normal' people burnt witches on stakes and unfortunately the Church played a big role in it. I know it. I'm ashamed of it. But kindly do not tell me I'm not 'normal'."

"I was not going to...."

"Oh, yes, you were and you did. I'll remind you, Mr. Aronson, of a part of the Bible you seem to forget. The Gospel of St. Matthew, chapter twenty-five. 'One man, leaving his house, left five talents to one of his servants, two to another and one to the third.' I hope you're not going to suggest that your son, who received a special talent from our Master, is to bury it in the earth, never to use it. Because you know what happened to the servant, who did so? He was thrown into outer darkness: there was the weeping and gnashing of teeth." Father Sebastian leaned in his armchair, very pleased with this mental image.

"So what we are to do?" asked Mrs. Aronson

"Do what you should have done a week ago. Call the office in London. They'll give you all the information, set you up with a meeting with another teacher, provide you with materials and so on. And don't make such faces. Your son hasn't been diagnosed with terminal cancer, he's going to an excellent school."

"Well, that's true... Schools are your Order speciality. All right, we'll call this number. Could we contact you, Father, in case we need something more?"

"I may be rather busy, but there will be another teacher in touch with you. Ask him whatever you need to know. Well, it's good you've reached the right decision. I have one more future student to visit today, so I'll say my goodbyes."

He got up and the Aronsons followed to see him to the door. Almost at the exit he turned, smiling in a way that made Michael Aronson feel his blood stopping dead in his veins.

"I hope you're not going to change your decision," his purr sent shudders down the man's spine, "I'm a very busy man and do not feel like coming back."

He was at the gate to the road, when Mr. Aronson recovered.

"One more question, Father. Will you be counselling Mark?"

"Counselling?"

"I suppose you'd call it 'providing spiritual advice'."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Aronson, he will be provided with all the advice he needs. There will be somebody to talk to twenty four hours a day. I can guarantee you this."