Chapter 5
Closing Time
After what felt like hours of waiting, the store lights finally clicked off. The owner stepped outside, locked the doors, and, at long last, left for the night. After waiting a few more moments, Kalama crept out from her hiding place behind a large stack of garbage cans, keeping her head low as she snuck across the alley, even after she reached the door. Kalama must have checked over her shoulder a half dozen times before she finally felt safe enough to pull out her wand.
“Alohomora,” she whispered, hearing the locks shift and the latch open.
Gingerly, Kalama pushed the door open and stepped inside, walking slowly and carefully as though waiting for some sort of alarm to go off. But her surroundings remained quiet, cast in shadow and unfamiliarity.
For all the times Kalama and her mother had visited this particular alley, she had never been inside this store before now. All the other stores in the alleyway sold cheesy Hawaiian souvenirs make from coconut wood, moldy seashells and plastic that Kalama and her mother would laugh at. This store, however, was an antique store. Not one of those junk stores that reeked of stale smoke and where spider webs laced the ceiling beams. No, this store seemed filled with real treasures. Oriental rugs shown brightly against the gleaming hardwood floors, while jade statues and silk paintings graced the spotless walls.
As Kalama’s eyes passed over the lovely relics, she found her mind beginning to wander, eventually leading her back to her back to the actions which had led her here in the first place. When she ran from Will and Ewa, Kalama really hadn’t had any plan of what she was going to do once she actually got away. She couldn’t really see Will calling the Muggle police on her, especially after the outburst which had led to her flight. Will just didn’t seem like the type who could easily explain away a missing daughter while the other one had glass cuts all over her face without divulging the involvement of magic Magical Law Enforcement didn’t seem very likely either; Kalama doubted Will would know how to contact them, that is if he even knew such a thing existed.
Every child thinks about running away from home at some point in their lives. Childish fantasies are one thing, a child actually putting logical thought into the process of running away is another entirely. Kalama had been able to survive one day by herself solely by running around the marketplace. Whenever any tourist began paying too much attention to her and seeing Kalama for what she was”a child running through the city all by herself, she would hide behind one of the booths and pretend to be the bored daughter of whichever vender owned it. And not one of the venders ever noticed her, all of them far too busy advertising their wares to notice the half-grown girl hiding in the corner.
Money hardly seemed an issue. A desperate father from Nebraska had paid her twenty Muggle dollars for being able to tell him the way back to his hotel, and then another ten for pointing out the nearest restaurant when his three chubby children began to whine that they were hungry. With the cash, she had been able to buy herself a wonderful feast from a food cart owned by a man with a missing front tooth with enough left over that Kalama was sure she would be able to feed herself for the rest of the week. And the spell she had used to unlock the door of the antique store was the first magic she had used since she ran.
So Kalama decided that this would be her life for the rest of the summer: living in the market, moving from booth to booth during the day, finding empty stores to sleep in at night, making money by acting as a guide to the thousands of clueless tourists that were sure to pass through the city. And once she finally did get back to Kailani, as soon as the boat reached the shores of the school, Kalama would track down Professor Kim, the dean of students, and tell him what had happened with her family that summer. Then he would find a way for Kalama to live at the school during summer vacation or find a wizard family to board her during the school breaks. And the school would become Kalama’s home until she was old to live by herself.
And she would never see Honolulu or her old home again.
Kalama felt her eyes begin to sting, but in such a polished place, she could hardly blame it on dust. As much as she had tried to distance herself from Will and Ewa in these past few weeks, she still could not ignore the fact that they had, in essence, been her only family for the past two years. Even before then, they had been a part of Kalama’s life just as much as her mother had been.
And as many faults as Will had, Kalama admitted to herself that he had been a good father to her for all these years. A five-year-old is hardly capable of any true manipulation, and yet Will fell for every single one of her little tricks. But time went by, and as clueless as Will had been about kids when he had first met Kalama’s mother, he had certainly proved himself capable of learning on the job, even more so once Ewa was born.
And then there was sweet little Ewa, who Kalama could never have forced herself to be angry with, no matter what the circumstance.
In many ways, Ewa had proved to be the link that eventually connected them all as a common family. This time, it was both Will and Kalama that proved to be clueless. Kalama’s mother was the only one in the equation who knew anything about babies, and she became their teacher: in how to care for an infant, and how to unite a group of otherwise strangers as a family.
All of them somehow connected to Kalama’s mother.
But Kalama had more to think about than just the family she had come to call hers in the part few years.
Kalama rubbed at her eyes in an attempt to cure her blurring vision as she wandered back further into the store, behind an entryway where "Employees Only. No Admittance" was written is bold red.
Kalama had barely passed through when a shiny glint caught the corner of her eye. But even after her eyes became sharp and focused once again, she still found herself confused by what she saw behind the mahogany counter, blocked away from any wondering customer.
Swords, samurai swords stuck into the plaster of the wall, at different angles and at different depths. It nearly resembled a piece of modern, obscure art more than a display belonging in a fine antique store. Only one was low enough for Kalama to reach. She reached up slowly, as though the red jasper handle might snap back and bite her. Gingerly, her fingers stretched forward, just barely brushing against the polished stone.
Suddenly, Kalama felt a hook-like sensation grab at her naval and tug her at a rapid speed through the rushing air. It startled Kalama at first, but she soon forced herself to relax and went with the flow. As adrenaline rushing as the sensation was, it was hardly a new feeling to her.
The sword she had touched was a Portkey. Unlike other markets on the mainland, the Hawaiian wizarding market was scatted across every island, each story nowhere near one another, geographically speaking. Hawaii had several dozen islands beside the main islands, and the state’s witches and wizard were spread across every one of them. They were simply all too scatted with too many wandering Muggles running all over tha place to have a huge amount of land dedicated to a large single market.
Not to mention a large city with Muggles from all over the world who could spot incidents of magic and run off before the Department of Magic could track them down wasn't terribly good place for wizards to live.
And so the Portkey System was devised. People would walk in through the front door; the store would appear Muggle and mundane in every sense of the word, because that’s exactly what it was. Store owners would operate a legitimate business directed to Muggles with a Portkey located somewhere in the store, normally behind the counter or in a backroom for employees only where very few customers would wander past by accident.
And it would figure that the only sword low enough for her to reach would have been the entrance into the true store.
Upon further examining of her surrounding, Kalama began to see why she had never been in this particular shop before. Like the fine antique that had been on display in the cover store, all the wizarding devices in the true shop were foreign to Kalama, but obviously of very fine quality. Dangling from the rafters, fine wiry instruments of gold shifted slightly from side to side, even though there was no wind or draft to do so. Other heavy metal items cast darker shadows over the floor and glass materials glimmered on high shelves. The store had no windows, and there was no natural light to cast shadows, just the way there was no draft to shift the objects hanging from the ceiling.
But it was one item, tucked away in the corner and out of site to most customers, however, that caught Kalama’s attention and would not let go.
Even though Kalama had never seen one of these things in real life, she didn’t need anyone to tell her what it was. This was a Pensieve: a device that could be used to peer into a person’s deepest memories and have them played in front of you as though you were there yourself, even if the person whose memories you were viewing wasn’t able to recall the scenes themselves. It was common knowledge around Kalama’s school that there was a Pensieve hidden in the dean’s, and that lots of other magic schools in the world had them too. Although, exactly what all these schools needed these things for remain a mystery.
Slowly, Kalama traced her fingers around the cauldron-like rim of the object, her still-lingering child-like curiosity wondering how she could go about making it work. Kalama had heard some of the older students at Kailani talk about how the teachers would sometimes go into the Dean’s office late at night so they could use the Pencieve, although none of them had ever seen one used either. So even if Kalama did want to use it, she still wouldn’t even know how to start it. And then, thoughts about memories only brought Kalama back to thinking about her recently broken family…
Then, before Kalama could wipe her watering eyes, a tear dropped into the device, more silvery than she had ever seen a tear appear before. The silver drop rippled in the Pencieve, giving way to images that first appeared in front of Kalama. As though she were years younger than she actually was, Kalama reached down into the mist-like liquid to touch it as though examining some strange new creature. The moment her fingers touched the surface, the still-forming images in the Pensieve rose from the surface and swirled all around her, as though she were actually there.
Soon, Kalama found herself standing on the front porch of her house. The sun was just going down, casting the valley in a brilliant, scarlet glow. The creaking sound of rusted metal drew Kalama’s gaze to the right where she could see the peeling red porch swing, along with her mother and herself at ten years old. Kalama could have recognized this scene anywhere, even if she hadn’t have known what a Pensieve was. This was the scene that had taken place two years ago, just after Kalama had made her promise to her mother, the one where she promised to honor her family legacy. The conversation had been much too heavy for the little girl at the time, so as soon as it was over, Kalama had jumped off the swing and left the house through the kitchen door to go after Ewa, just like she was doing now right before her own eyes.
And now Kalama’s mother sat on the porch swing alone, kicking slightly against the floor. Silently, Kalama walked over to her mother, eventually taking a seat on the swing beside her. Her mother did not look at her. Nora Jameson’s eyes remained on the setting sun and the growing amount of color that was spreading over the horizon. Before Kalama even knew what she was doing, she reached out her hand to touch her mother’s cheek, only to watch her fingers pass right through her, the tips of her fingers rising up through the red silk scarf that covered her mother’s head.
“Joseph.” Kalama heard her mother speak out onto the horizon, eyes not focused on any particular object. “You were always so much better at these kinds of things than me.”
Suddenly, Kalama’s mother began a loud coughing fit, hunching over and clutching at her sides as though every breath were pure agony. Desperately, Kalama wanted so badly to hug her mother, even though the logical part of her brain reminded her that this was impossible, that she would only pass through her just like before.
But slowly, the scene around her faded away and the picture once again became just an image in a cauldron resting in front of her eyes. Two more tears plopped into the Pensieve.
The same woman from before, younger and healthier than she appeared previously, but shaken by grief this time. She stood dressed from head to toe in black, her thick hair bound up on top of her head. In her arms, she held a small child, also dressed in black, but the adult emotion of sorrow was absent from her expression. Instead, the small girl appeared confused, the events surrounding her and the feelings they generated all to much for her little mind to grasp.
Every now and then, another human body would drift past the two of them, sometimes touching Nora Jameson’s shoulder or smoothing Kalama’s hair, mumbling words of condolences. Kalama’s mother would nod, but never made eye contact, clinging to her daughter the way a small child would hold a rag doll.
Suddenly, Kalama found herself back in her family’s old house, a smaller house that she could almost remember on her own. The floors were covered nearly wall to wall with vases of colorful flowers. Kalama’s mother was still holding the younger version of Kalama as she took a seat on the moth-eaten sofa.
“Kalama,” she sighed as she spoke, rubbing the child’s back. “Kalama, Kalama, Kalama. How am I supposed to raise you as a witch when I have no idea what it even means to be one.”
Once again showing her oblivious nature towards the events, young Kalama reached over backwards to grab one of the brightly-colored blooms off a flower arrangement resting on the coffee table.
“Here’s a present,” the small child spoke to her mother in a soft voice. “Be happy, Mama.”
With a smile on her face, Nora Jameson took the flower from her young daughter. The real version of Kalama stood off in an entryway watching a memory she couldn’t quite recall. These old memories of her mother were all well and good to watch, but Kalama couldn’t understand why exactly she had made herself decide to see all this. What was the point?
Before Kalama could have this question answered, the scene faded away once again to yet another suppressed memory.
It was her mother again, even younger still, sitting on the same sofa, appearing newer and less faded this time. Beside her, a man with long black hair seemed to be arguing with her, his hands moving expressively: a man Kalama had only seen clear pictures of in photographs, but still recognized as Joseph, her father, her real father. The vases of flowers had now been replaced with brightly-colored baby toys and dirty dishes and clothes. On a patchwork blanket, a dark-skinned baby rested off to the side, laying on her stomach and doing some sort of push-up movement in an attempt to scoot across the floor.
“Nora, they’re your parents!”
The young woman beside him shook her head in an almost joking manner. This was a version of Nora Jameson that Kalama had never seen before: young, energetic, healthy, sorrow completely absent from her expression. This was a Nora Jameson who had yet to feel the grief from a dead husband or the pain from a wasting disease that would devoir her from the inside out.
“It’s a package deal, Joseph.” Kalama’s mother gestured towards the baby with the crown of her head. “If they want me and Kalama, they have to take you too.”
It took the real Kalama a few moments to entrench herself into the conversation, but eventually, she did know what they were talking about. Kalama knew her grandparents on her mother’s side were very much alive, although she had never met them that she could remember. Whenever Kalama would ask her mother why, she would always give her some sugarcoated answer about how they just weren’t close and would leave it at that. Kalama always had a feeling that there was more to it, but she had never found reason to push for more information.
“Well, it is hardly a secret that your parents do not approve of my…condition.” Understanding finally dawned on Kalama: Joseph was talking about the fact that he was a wizard. “Ever since you told them. Most parents throw parades when they find out they’re going to have their first grandchild. Yours offered you a small fortune to leave your husband.”
And now she knew. She never thought she would ever her such a callus response from members of her own family. It was no wonder that Kalama’s mother had never allowed her to meet them. She had been so hard on Will whose dislike for the world of magic only stemmed from a desire not to see Kalama hurt: her own grandparents’ dislike for magic came from pettiness for something they had never even seen. Someone they had never even met.
And as much as it pained Kalama to hear these words said about members of her own family, she planted her feet where they stood, as though this would somehow stop another memory from shifting into play.
“And if that is their reasoning,” Nora said, “it’s only going to be a matter of time before they decide they don’t like Kalama for the exact same reason.”
On the blanket, baby Kalama took a few deep sighs, the kind of sounds infants made just before baby talk.
“There’s no middle ground in this decision, you know,” Kalama’s mother continued. “Leave you husband, and we’ll take care of you for the rest of your life. Don’t, and as far as you and I are concerned, you don’t have parents anymore. That is what they are saying to me, Joseph.”
Joseph shook his head and sighed, appearing very defeated. His posture gave the image of a man of much greater years than the rest of his appearance would suggest.
“But at the end of the day, you still have to play their game,” Joseph explained. “You’ll pick one choice, even if you never tell them what that choice was.”
“I’m not being forced to make a choice, Joseph,” she told her husband. “They are.”
The infant Kalama gurgled on the floor and then somehow rolled onto her back. She lay there, struggling like a turtle rolled onto its back, until Kalama’s mother finally pushed herself up of the sofa and picked up her daughter. As she bounced and patted baby Kalama’s backed, she looked back to her husband.
“I’m going to stay with my family here, Joseph,” she told him, hushing her daughter before she could start to cry, “but I’m also going to try and maintain contact with my parents too. If they decide not to acknowledge me, that is up to them. Ultimately, if we no longer have a relationship, it will be because they made the choice, not me.”
The last word of her mother’s sentence seemed to give an unearthly echo in the tiny room. Eventually, while still holding the infant version of Kalama in her arms, Nora Jameson looked up, her dark eyes meeting with the real version of her daughter. Kalama was not certain in the images in Pensieves could see the people who were looking in on them, or even if they were capable of intelligent though. But that did not stop Kalama from recognizing the familiar, knowing gaze in her mother’s eyes; a look that she seemed to reserve only for her eldest daughter during the years she was alive.
Finally, the memory began to fade away, taking far longer than all the others had. This, however, allowed Kalama time to reflect on her mother’s philosophies. Nora Jameson’s life had been one all about love. Despite when those around her left or even refused to see her, she would go on loving them, even if they never knew it. And she did it on her terms, leaving no rooms for regret.
Kalama rubbed her eyes, wiping the tears against her arm and clearing her vision. The liquid had gone clear again, and Kalama could see how red and bleary her eyes had become in just a short amount of time. But even such a mundane image as her own reflection saddened her, for it only reminded her of everything she had done, everything she had caused, and everything her own ignorance and pettiness had caused to happen.
Suddenly, a rush of air against Kalama’s back informed her that she was no longer alone in the store, that the Portkey had been used once again. Her Defensive Magic teacher would have dropped dead if he had seen Kalama turn to a stranger without drawing her wand, but Kalama couldn’t have cared less what any of her teachers thought of her at this point. She felt so ill and shaky, even more so now than she was sure her mother had ever felt.
But the person who stood in the store with Kalama now hardly cast an aura of being dangerous. He had not been in Hawaii for very long, or at least he was not planning to stay. Kalama could tell all this from his clothes: dark brown legging and a long trench coat-like robe. It was enough so that Kalama was sure he would not draw any attention from Muggles, but anyone of magical blood looking at him could tell that he was not one of the mundane.
“Kalama Jameson,” he spoke in a calm, collected voice, “gather up all your things. I’m here to take you home.”
Kalama nodded in a resigned sort of way and walked over to the stranger, not even putting up a fight. And when he offered her his hand, she took it.
War Torn by OliveOil_Med
Chapter Notes: Kalama stumbles upon a Portkey which takes her to the American wizarding shopping district. While there, a certain device allows her to recall some words of wisdom from her mother.
And, once again, Anna, you're the best!