14. MINERVA’S VIGIL

Her father shrugged off the insult (an oversight, he called it) and went back to his work. It was just as well as far as Minerva was concerned. The Macnairs' party was set for the full moon, and on that night she was going to be locked away in the hay barn, waiting to see if she would transform into a werewolf. She was adamant about this, though Goodie continued to scoff and tried every five minutes or so to talk her out of it.

“But we can’t be sure, Goodie, and I’d never forgive myself if we didn’t lock me up and I ended up attacking someone.” So Goodie just rolled her eyes and got on with the preparations.

The big night came, and the old nurse escorted Minerva out across the fields to the barn, waving a burning oak branch and mumbling favorable enchantments. Goodie had made the place as comfortable as she could. The floor was strewn with fragrant herbs. There was a blanket and fleece spread over a hay pile, and a basket of treats and a flask of pumpkinade nearby. Minerva herself thought this a fruitless exercise. If she indeed turned into a werewolf, it would make a mess of the bed and the picnic, which would only have to be cleaned up the next day.

The great room echoed hollowly with the sounds of Goodie triple-locking the doors and Minerva’s own footsteps on the raised planking of the floor. She’d brought only one book with her. She had thought of reading some of the texts she’d been assigned for school to beguile the time before the Change. But then she thought what might happen to all that expensive binding if the Wolf did indeed take over her body. So she searched some boxes in the undercroft of the Keep and dug out a stained and backless copy of Adventures in Transfiguration by someone whose last name she could just make out as beginning with a D. It was clearly intended for Vanishment, along with a lot of other accumulated trash, so Minerva felt no qualms in sacrificing it to raging claws and fangs. She settled herself back on the fleece with her book, a gingersnap, and the pumpkinade.

While reading she kept an eye on the open haying doors high up in the loft, whence she would get her first glimpse of the moon. It was inaccessible without a ladder, and Goodie had removed that earlier in the day with a Leviosa Charm. This made her think briefly again of Petey. She was glad he was better. He had looked near death when Da carried him out of the Crypt and considerably thinner than she remembered him.

The book was an engrossing read, even though the vocabulary was quite advanced. Minerva knew nothing at all of Transfiguration, but she had once witnessed her Aunt Donnie turning her pet raven into a writing desk and back again when she needed to send an urgent letter. She found the writer organized his points so well that the theory seemed no mystery at all, but eminently logical and easy to follow. After reading the Dedication, which was addressed, curiously enough, to the entire Puddlemere United Quidditch team: ...for insights into the transformative effects of Bludgers on the human skull, she skipped to the chapter on human Transfiguration, which she fully expected she would be experiencing in a few hours. D wrote:

Human transformation is a difficult and risky business and should not be attempted without first practising a bit on lesser life-forms--although said life-forms will likely object if they have the wit to do so.

A word needs to be said about wand use and free will in effecting these changes. Of course, a Lycanthrope changes automatically into his animal form at the full moon with absolutely no say in the matter. Metamorphs, and it is believed, some Animagi, can change by mere thought. The other transformations in general require a wand. (CAUTION: There is an inherent danger in Self-Transfiguration. I wonder if you see it, dear Reader. If you change yourself into an inanimate object or a creature that is physiologically or mentally incapable of wielding a wand�”Horklumps come to mind�”and if there is not another mage present to change you back, well, you are stuck. You can’t change back. That’s all there is to it.)

At the bottom of the page there was a footnote to this:

For a cogent object lesson, see my monograph: Natural Disaster: The Hairy McBoon.

Minerva knew well who the McBoons were, a quarrelsome family of mages who had either changed themselves or had been changed by some other mage into Quintapeds, fierce five-footed creatures of no brain whatsoever. They dwelt on the Isle of Drear to the north�”a favorite locale in Jacko Gwynn’s stories. She shuddered and continued to read:

Both Self- and Involuntary Transfiguration and Lycanthropy involve some pain in the transforming process, as the victim’s bones are elongated or shortened, bent and twisted, and the skin and musculature stretched to fit over its new framework. The simultaneous casting of a Narcosis Spell seems to help in the first two instances, but nothing short of being Stunned into oblivion appears to relieve agonies of the nascent Lycanthrope. It has been reported by at least one Animagus that they feel little pain during the change, but since such persons are secretive about their talent, meaningful data are difficult to come by. The main discomfort for a Metamorph is in straining to alter a small portion of his anatomy while holding adjacent features unchanged. This has been known to cause unwanted side-effects, such as nose-bleeds, blood-shot eyes, and haemorrhoids. (I understand that Sleakeasy’s All-Purpose Ointment helps greatly in relieving that last condition.)

There are also artefacts and potions that can effect physical changes. Glamours, which are actually a kind of all-encompassing mask or camouflage placed over the physical form, are not considered true Transfigurations and, although very useful, are not treated in this book.

She read until it got too dark to see, then got up and took off her kilt and plaid. It couldn’t be too much longer and there was no need to ruin a perfectly good outfit. She found a place to hide Adventures in Transfiguration from the Beast; she had grown rather fond of the book and its author. She lay back, her hands behind her head, waiting for a splash of moonlight to touch her bare skin, willing herself to relax, trying to quell her racing heart. She was mortally afraid of the Change if it be to a werewolf because that would be painful as the book said, but worse still, it would mean leaving her family, and being hunted, or at least hated, for all her life. And the idea of being out of control of her actions once a month and possibly attacking an innocent person was too horrific to contemplate. But as she strained to remember her transformation, it came back to her as a not unpleasant experience… certainly a life saver…and exciting even…except for that sick hunger…

The moon rose and its light crept towards her down the walls of the old barn. As the light bathed her, she waited for the heightening of senses that signaled the Change. But none came, though she stood up, and removed even her shift and trews. She turned about and about, her face staring up into the face of the full moon. She was relieved, but at the same time disappointed, and most of all, puzzled. What had really happened in the alder spinney? Had it all been, as Goodie said, only a dream? She lay back down, covering herself with the fleece, and went to sleep, vaguely unsatisfied.

~*~

The next morning she dressed quickly, arranging her kilt on the ground in the customary pleating. She rolled herself into it, buckled the skirt into place and pinned the sash just in time to hear the barn doors unlocked and opening. Gig burst in, in front of Goodie, full of first-hand news of the McNair party and eager to hear about Minerva’s vigil.

Goodie invited Gig to breakfast, and after Minerva described her evening in about two sentences, she and Goodie sat back and munched toad-in-the-hole and Selkirk bannocks and drank tansy tea as Gig took stage with her own account.

It was quite a decent affair with mages from all over the county and even a few Hogwarts teachers and notables from the Ministry of Magic. Goodie questioned her closely about the table. Was the bread fresh and hot? What of the fish? Was it properly cleaned and boned? Stuffed with Dungeness crab was it? Oh, the Thane surely paid a pretty penny for that. And the haggis? The McNair cook’s recipe was a closely guarded secret. Was it as good as everyone said? As to the potables, was the Brose properly strained or did it seem a rush job? Gig was too young to have sampled it herself, but she described the silky froth of the brew as it was poured out, and Goodie was satisfied that the McNairs had done proper homage to the stomachs of their friends and neighbors.

But, oh, said Giggie, they had the wonderfullest entertainment: all kinds of fireworks (‘wire firks’), dancing fwoopers (‘fwancing doopers’) and an exhibition of troll bloodball, a sport Lord McNair hoped to introduce as an entertainment at Quidditch matches.

Throughout this exchange, Minerva sat, patiently waiting for Gig to tell them about the most important part: how Petey looked, what he said, whether he had gotten back to being the same obnoxious pest they all knew and loathed--and missed. Finally, after Gig completed a description of the decorations: festoons of curling undularia and trailing arbutus, and the many fabulous desserts--Tipsy Laird, creamed scones, and chocolate gateau among them--she could bear it no longer.

“Gig,” she whispered, while Goodie was accioing dishes to the sink and leftovers to the buttery. “How was Petey?”

“What?”

“How did he act? Did he seem--recovered?”

“I hardly saw him, ‘Nerva. He was all right I suppose.”

Hardly saw him. That was most unlike Petey, who loved being the center of attention and usually ran around at parties being that center in as many places as he could manage at one time.

“When you did see him, what was he doing?”

“Well, when we came in, he was there with Milady and the Lord, saying hello to everyone. And later they went up on the gallery and we all toasted him…”

“Did you talk to him at all?”

“He only head sello when we first came in.”

This only troubled Minerva the more.

“Did he say�”is he going to be able to go back to school?”

“I non’t doe. Why shouldn’t he?”

Minerva told her about Petey’s revelation. Gig’s eyes got rounder and rounder. “Oh, ‘Nerva, you didna kill the Erkling at all. But who was the other man?”

They looked at each other.

“That knapsack,” said Minerva.

“The stindle and baff,” said Gig.

“Yer chores, Minerva,” said Goodie, looming over them.

~*~

They met later that day at a little-used calving shed at the edge of the McGonagall fief. They tackled the bindle first. It contained a raggy shirt, a cape, a wooden bowl and a hunk of that stale gray bread, spotted with mold. No clues there�”except that its contents probably belonged to the Erkling. The knife yielded little more. It was double-edged and one side of the cross-guard was longer than the other and had a hole in it, perhaps for attachment to a belt-hook. Gig opined that one might thread a rope through it and swing the blade around one's head in a circle, perfect for fending off a horde of bloodthirsty trolls. There were some letters and numbers on the blade--G.R. 11 14 WILKINSON--but neither of them knew anyone of that name.

The bindlestick and staff bore no distinguishing marks either, although the staff, they decided, was much longer than would have been appropriate for the elf. Probably it belonged to the wizard. That left the knapsack. Under a coating of dust, it still looked to be brownish, and had two straps criss-crossed over the flap. Inside was a hooded cape and, at the bottom, some crumpled Muggle-type paper and three small vials. The vials were empty. Gig wanted to try the cape on, but Minerva forestalled her. Her Aunt Gerry had once been injured by enchanted clothing, a pair of gloves sent to her anonymously in the mail. When she put them on, they started to shrink and bent her fingers painfully backwards. Bobbie managed to save her from permanent damage by doing a quick Skinning Charm, such as they used when helping the twins dress a sheep carcass. They never did find out who sent it, although they suspected Gerry’s estranged husband, Arestor Filch, who was angry that she had refused to subsidize one of his Muggle-baiting schemes.

The papers they unfolded and smoothed carefully. Most looked like drawings of scenery: rocks and ferns, and several of a big tree. Some were inside paper pouches that Gig said were called envy-lopes. They were supposed to protect the contents while they went through the complicated Muggle postal system. The writing on one caught Minerva's eye:

“That’s�”that’s my grandma’s name, my mother’s mum,” she breathed. What could a letter addressed to her be doing inside a magic-user’s backpack? Inside was a single sheet of paper in the same handwriting, well-formed and unrushed:

I've bought something. At least, there was this old man offering some paintings to the troops. He looked to be very down on his luck--not surprising really, given the state of things. He didn't mind that I only had a few coins on me, and English coins at that. So now I have a real French painting for you. Thought you might be tired of my amateurish drawings. It’s very small, just fits in my kit, but it’s pretty for all that. A farm house with a tree by the door. And in the shade of the tree, a chair. It’s called La Chaise Vide. The fellow actually spoke a little English. As far as I could make out, he said the chair will always be empty because its owner, who was a soldier, went missing in the war. I told him if I had painted it, I’d have added a big black dog like our Tessie sitting there waiting faithfully. I got the feeling there was something personal to it, like he had lost someone, a son perhaps, though he didn't say. I hope it survives tomorrow's 'meeting.'

Bill

“That’s funny,” said Minerva, when she’d read it out loud to Gig. “The letter is in blue ink, but there are underlinings in green.”

“Which parts?”

Minerva showed her. “Something about a tree--and the name of a wizard. I wonder...”

“Who’s Bill?”

“Who’s�”oh, my grandfather.”

“The Muggle one?”

“Yes, my mother’s Muggle-born. I think I told you.”

“And your grandma doesn’t much care for fagical molk.”

“No, ---um�”I think we make her uncomfortable.”

“Is she jealous? Of your ma?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’ve only met her once or twice, when I was small. She was always nice to me.”

Yes, she thought afterward. Grandma Wallace liked children. But there was something between her and Ma. Of course, it must be scary to find out your own child can move heavy objects around with just a word. If Minerva had to put Grandma Wallace on a scale of liking (with Ma and Da and Gig and Aunt Donnie at the top and Aunt Charlamaine and her children at the bottom) she’d fall somewhere between Petey and maybe aunt Gerry and her little boy Argus. She never knew Grandpa Wallace. He had died before she was born. Some people whispered, Aunt Charlamaine among them, that it was a spell gone wrong as caused his death. But Da and Ma never talked about it.

~*~

Gig took the cape they found to Jacko, and he did some tests that showed it did have some mild and highly practical magical properties. It was self-heating, water-repellant, self-hanging, self-cleaning, and wrinkle-resistant, which meant it would keep you warm and dry, and itself neat and tidy, and it would hang itself up on the nearest hook if you dropped it on the floor. Minerva let Gig keep it, as she was clearly dying to.

“Thanks, ‘Nerva.” Gig waltzed about in her new cape, then stopped. “Oh, I forgot. I have some bad news.”

“What?”

“Petey won’t be coming back to Hogwarts. The Laird is sending him to a place called ‘Storm Drain’ or ‘Dorm Strain’�”something like that.”