by Trevor Veale
Harry hesitated a moment. “Revello!” he said, pointing to the top of a page. They both looked hard and Godfrey saw what looked like a tiny map. He peered closely. “It’s a map of Mania,” he said, “where the church of Our Lady is located.”
“You see, Harry said. “There’s more to this book than meets the eye. Every page has a clue that’ll help me find my way into the Mountains.”
“All right, Mr Potter. What’s your offer for the book?” Godfrey suddenly said. Letitia gasped.
Harry rubbed his chin. “What about ten thousand moons?” he said.
Letitia snorted. “Mr Trotter, an antique book like this would fetch at least fifty thousand at Southeby’s!”
Harry looked pained. “Ten thousand is all I’ve got saved up,” he said sadly. Then his face brightened. “Unless you’d like me to throw in a prophecy as well!”
“A prophecy?” both monarchs said at once.
“A prediction, something that’s going to happen within the next year.”
Letitia gave Godfrey an old-fashioned look. “Well, I’ve heard some cute conman’s spiels in my time,” she said abrasively, “but that takes the biscuit! You’ll be telling us that you can forecast the weather next!”
Harry looked like he’d reached the end of his patience. “I don’t have to do it this way, you know. I could’ve put on my Invisibility Cloak, walked into your palace, taken the book, tucked it under my arm and made off with it!”
In spite of doubts, something about the confident way the young man spoke made Godfrey think he was genuine, or at least had something positive to offer.
“Well, we’re glad you didn’t do that,” he said, “and I for one am willing to see what’s in your bag of tricks, so to speak – ” he smirked at Letitia “ – before I give my final decision.”
“I think you’re both potty!” Letitia said. “And I don’t have time to sit listening to all this nonsense!” She got up and strode to the door, which Hughes hastened to open for her. She turned to address Godfrey before leaving: “Don’t think I’ve let you off the hook. You’d better talk to that minx before lunch!”
She strode out and Godfrey motioned to the servant to leave. After their departure, he leaned forward and tapped Harry’s knee. “Now, Mr Potter, why don’t we begin with one of your magic tricks?”
Harry smiled. “Sir, please call me Harry. It’ll be my pleasure. If you’ll just hand me my rucksack, please…”
He began rummaging in the empty rucksack and reached right into its depths. Godfrey watched his arm sink right up to the armpit, and then he pulled at something. The edge of a gilt-framed mirror slowly appeared. When it was all the way out it was easily as big as the rucksack itself. Godfrey gasped. “Harry, that’s the best bit of conjuring I’ve seen in a long time,” he said.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet!”
“What exactly is that mirror?” Godfrey inquired.
“It’s an enchanted mirror like the one my godfather gave me,” Harry said. Godfrey could detect a catch in his throat.
Harry propped the mirror against the table and they both sat in front of it. Harry took his wand from the table and pointed it at the mirror like a TV remote. “Let’s see if I can remember this one,” he said and uttered the word: “Startupio!” The mirror’s bright surface at first reflected billowing silver gray clouds, as if a skylight had opened behind them. Then the clouds cleared away and Harry’s heart missed a beat. A much-loved, long-bearded face smiled delightedly up at him.
“Professor Dumbledore!” he could hardly contain his joy.
“The very same, Harry. It’s wonderful to speak with you again – and with your royal host,” the sonorous voice proclaimed, nodding at King Godfrey.
“Who’s that?” Godfrey asked in a hushed voice.
“It’s my ex-headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.”
“Is he a wizard?”
“He’s the best,” Harry said reverently. “Listen, the prophecy is about to begin.”
The sonorous voice became heavy with foreboding. “These events will take place in one reality or another before one of your years has passed,” Dumbledore said. “At this moment, with the momentum that has been created, they are highly likely to occur in your time.”
Godfrey felt his throat go dry and gave Harry a tense glance.
“Firstly, the weather patterns are set to progress from freezing mists in December, to storms and blizzards starting in January and reoccurring until late March. In February the weather will become too cold for snow and a hard frost will descend. Then in late February a great snowstorm will blanket Melloria, causing much disruption of daily life. Further storms will follow well into March, when the first thaw will begin. The shortages and deprivations occasioned by the severe weather will cause a great deal of social unrest and provide the impetus for an uprising that will have severe consequences for the monarchy.”
Godfrey’s fear and anger burst out of him. “Who are the ringleaders of this uprising and where can they be found?” he asked.
Dumbledore paused to accommodate this interruption.
“The ringleaders are those who are convinced that the only course of action open to the powerless is to storm the palace, seize its treasures, distribute them to the masses and imprison its occupants. They are to be found wherever the feelings of resentment and powerlessness are strongest.”
“You’re talking in riddles – I want names!” Godfrey snapped. Harry gave him a disapproving look.
“You want to stop the uprising?” Dumbledore asked.
“Of course!”
“Then give the monarchy to the people. Open your palace doors to them and let them share your good fortune.”
Godfrey’s mouth went slack, and he narrowed his eyes as if he were gazing at the sun.
“What you ask is utterly impossible!” he said to Dumbledore’s placid face. “For one thing, the monarchy isn’t ours to give. As king we are appointed by God and the law of the land to occupy our palace in furtherance of our duty – which is to rule our subjects. We don’t own anything.”
“Yet you enjoy lives of wealth and luxury of which most of your people can only dream,” the image replied.
“Those are merely our working conditions. You can’t expect the king and queen to live like paupers – for one thing, the law won’t allow it. Do you know that by law we’re supposed to eat two kilos of venison a day? What I’m saying is that nobody owns the monarchy. It’s held in trust for the people, in perpetuity.”
“Then the people are about to wind up the trust and distribute its assets among themselves.”
“But that’s anarchy!”
“Actually it’s unity,” the professor said simply.
“Professor, please,” Godfrey’s voice rang out. “You have information that we need to safeguard our country. Who is behind this uprising?”
“Look inside your mind.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“I patiently await your return,” Dumbledore said, smiling. And to Harry: ”Look closely, Harry, we are all here – those you have loved and those you have not!” He chuckled. “That doesn’t matter to us. Over here there is no evil and no enemies!” At that, he stepped aside and Harry gasped at the sight of people who had passed over greeting him with warm smiles: his parents, Lily and James Potter, Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, Fred Weasley, Ted Tonks and Bathilda Bagshot, old Mad-Eye, his eye fully restored, Gregorovitch, the wand maker, and even long-dead wizards like Beedle the Bard. Dead enemies, along with the redeemed Severus Snape, also appeared: Dolores Umbrage, Mundungus Fletcher, Bellatrix Lestrange, even Voldemort - no longer snake-faced but looking more like a radiant King Cobra – , all smiled and waved at him from the shining mirror. Finally, Dumbledore appeared for the last time.
“We are leaving now, Harry – in this form at least. But we all look forward to seeing you, Ron and Hermione again in the Magic Mountains!”
The images faded and the mirror resumed its glassy blandness.
Harry’s jubilation at seeing his old headmaster and his parents could hardly be contained. Even Godfrey, who now had things to ponder, was aware of the young man’s joy and told him he could have the book.
“Thank you! Thank you!” Harry shouted and punched the air. As a gesture of gratitude he reached into his rucksack and drew out an exact replica of the purple-bound antique book. He walked over to the bottommost shelf and slid it into the gap left by the other book. The only difference between them was that the replica did not contain the tiny hidden clues.
Godfrey watched in amazement as Harry placed the extremely large mirror, with the antique book and his other things, back in his rucksack, which afterward showed no bulges and only a faint clinking as he hoisted it onto his shoulders. “How did you manage to do that?” Godfrey asked.
“Undetectable Extension Charm, a trick I learned off a friend of mine,” Harry said. “Talking of which I must dash. I’m meeting my two best friends in half an hour.”
The king shook Harry’s hand, walked him to the palace entrance and said farewell. The sight of the young man, swinging jauntily across the courtyard with his whole life ahead of him, lifted his spirits somewhat. He did not feel so happy about Professor Dumbledore’s warning of dire consequences if he didn’t allow the people to share some of his privileges. He wanted to discuss with Pest and Fatsi how he could maintain his centuries-old monarchy in a country seething with poverty, but he knew what their reaction would be if he told them the origin of his concern. He wanted his wife to know about the extraordinary experience she’d missed by flouncing out of the library like a ballerina with a hole in her tights. I’ll have a chat with Lettie about it after lunch, he thought, and if she thinks I’m bonkers, so be it.
Chapter 22
Simpkins’s Other Life
On a cold, misty day in December, Sharon Keeler threaded her way among the stalls of a crowded street market in East City. All around her red and green lightbulbs twinkled – Christmas lights – as she scoured the meager display of artifacts each vendor was touting. She had been saddened that morning to hear of the death of Queen Gloriana, the dowager Queen, who had been gravely ill for several months. She could still recall the distraught face of her former page, Rupert, telling the TV cameras how much he missed his queen. She was looking out for a game console for Craig. Her son was crazy about a game called Thrones of Glory that he played with his friend at his friend’s house. She was hoping to buy him his own console, though she couldn’t afford a fancy Xbox like the one his friend possessed. Nor was there much on offer in this noisy, smelly market sprawled across a junction of four streets. The hawkers’ shouts, the stench of goat meat in the cold air, the scurrying and babble of voices made her feel tired.
Glancing at another tawdry stall, she was suddenly aware of a figure watching her. She looked up and saw Simpkins, looking slightly shifty and wearing a black leather jacket and jeans.
“Hello, Sharon,” he said, “doing your Christmas shopping?”
“That’s right,” Sharon replied. “I’m looking for a cheap game console for Craig.”
“No worries, Shaz,” Simpkins said roughly. “I can get you one of them Xboxes dirt cheap – or would you like a PlayStation?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Where do you get stuff like that dirt cheap?”
Simpkins tapped the side of his nose. “Ask no questions, my girl,” he said. “What else you got on your shopping list then?”
She shrugged. “Only odds and ends. I’m getting dad a big bottle of Bullet Premium. No brandy for him this year.” “And I thought I’d send the king and queen a card,” she added, “even though we didn’t get no Christmas bonus.”
“Ha! I wouldn’t give ‘em a hit of my last spliff!” he snorted. “Bloody scroungers, the lot of ‘em. Listen, seeing as you ain’t got much shopping to do, fancy a cuppa tea in that caff across the street?”
Sharon hesitated. “I don’t know, Sim. Us palace workers ain’t supposed to get too friendly outside working hours.”
“Oh yeah?” Simpkins laughed. “We was getting very friendly inside working hours though, weren’t we?”
Sharon sniffed and watched people in rags moving through the cold, misty streets. His coarse manner wasn’t very appealing, but she’d just about had enough of tramping about this bloody market and her feet were cold.
“Okay,” she said.
In the steamy cafeteria they queued for cups of tea. “And I’ll have a custard slice,” Simpkins said to the woman behind the counter. Sharon couldn’t get over how different he looked off-duty. The suave palace butler wore a shabby leather jacket over a dingy sweatshirt, faded jeans and scuffed sneakers. He looked like a down-at-heel street vendor, his face pale and pudgy as he munched his custard slice. He wolfed it down in record time, too.
“Hear about the Old Queen?” she said.
“Yeah, sad,” he said, licking his fingers, “Poor old cow… still she’s better off now, the way things are going.” His eyes flitted about the dingy room.
“What you doing round here then?” Sharon asked. “You don’t live in East City.”
“Nah, I got a place in North City, but I got some business to attend to down here.”
“What kind of business?” He was lighting up a cigarette now with a flashy silver lighter.
“This and that,” he said. He held out the pack of cigarettes to her. His smoking fitted right in with his altered image. Sharon shook her head at the offer, although she couldn’t help staring at the cigarette in his mouth. She was dying to lean forward and take a puff.
“How’s that son of yours doing?”
“All right. He’s got a remedial class today.”
“Seems to me he’s always got a remedial class, poor sod!” He snorted smoke from his nostrils. “Perhaps he needs a helping hand with his education.”
She looked up sharply. “Chance would be a fine thing.”
Simpkins drained his cup and stubbed out the cigarette.
“Well, if you need a bit of extra cash, I can help you out. I’m doing some business for a couple of toffs in West City. They live in a fantastic place – it’s got everything: swimming pool, tennis court, huge LD screens on the walls, Dolby surround in their movie theater. Your kid would love it – he could play computer games like you wouldn’t believe. Anyway, they’re looking for a daily help who’s honest and reliable. Wanna see their house? I got the key.”
Sharon sipped her tea and reflected. She was hung up on the smoldering cigarette in his saucer. She felt the smoke in her lungs. It was six weeks since she stubbed out her last butt. In addition, strange feelings were rising in her, ones she enjoyed yet didn’t want to acknowledge.
“You got a boyfriend now?” he asked suddenly.
“What’s it to you?”
“What’s it to me? That’s a good ‘un. We were an item once, if you remember, and we could be one again – if you play your cards right.”
The cup she was sipping from froze centimeters from her lips. “I can’t believe you said that!”
“Why not?” He looked almost offended. “You were happy enough to meet me in the butler’s room, the linen closet, the conservatory and anywhere we could do it when we was – ”
“– I was stupid then, and anyway – as I found out - you’re married!”
She felt dizzy. Her hand holding the tea cup began to tremble.
“Listen, things are different now,” he was saying. “The wife and me have split up, so I got more breathing space. Come on, let’s pick up your son from his class and go look at this house.”
“How do I know you’re not bullshitting me?”
Simpkins flashed her a smile and reached in his pocket. He produced a key-ring and dangled it under her eyes. “Come and have a look at the merc. I’m parked across the street. You’ll see who’s bullshitting.”
Sharon crossed the street with him, the damp cold air wrapped around her. She reflected that she really had nothing better to do. Sh
e didn’t relish going home where her dad would be sitting in front of the telly with bottles rolling around his feet and the food cupboard empty. The need she had thought she’d dispensed with was still spreading all over her like a rash, and she watched with curiosity the scratched, sapphire-blue Mercedes with the shaky fender roll up to the curb. Simpkins leaned out the driver’s window and blew her a kiss.
There’s one thing about Simpkins, she remembered. He is good with kids – probably because he’s had three of his own. Three that I know of, anyway.
They waited for Craig outside the school gates, while streams of children passed in and out. When Craig came out, Simpkins staged an elaborate show for the boy’s amusement, chasing him along the sidewalk, bent over, arms dangling like an ape. Craig was almost hysterical with laughter. He eventually slid into the Mercedes next to Simpkins and they drove off to the westernmost edge of West City.
All the way to the fabled house Simpkins kept trying to impress Sharon with his influential connections. He told he had been given the merc by a grateful client and said he used it to drive to Slobodia ‘on business.’
“But the border’s closed,” she protested. “We’re still technically at war with Slobodia – you’d be interned if you went over there.”
“Not me, my girl – I got contacts in high places, here and across the bloody border. The Slobodians turn a blind eye to the business I do. I don’t have no trouble with our lot, either.”
Sharon immediately suspected something illegal, probably drugs. The scruffy clothes, the shiftiness, the evasive answers to her questions about his business – it all pointed one way. She shifted in the back seat, mindful of Craig, and kept her suspicions to herself.
“So are these people gonna be home when we get there?” she asked.
They were winding around a pine-tree forested mountain. Craig sat in the front listening to Simpkins’s bragging, and she worried that he would start to get interested in what he heard. “Nah, they go abroad a lot.”
She continued to feel apprehensive and began to wonder if she’d made the right decision. Perhaps her drunken father wasn’t such a bad old sod after all.
