Chapter 2

At six o' clock in the afternoon both Arthur and his mother sat motionless at the dining room table. The house had been cleaned, or at least cleaned as well as it could be in a few hours, and Arthur was wearing his Sunday best. Neither had spoken to each other since the letter, and Arthur preferred this, as he was still reeling from the event earlier in the day. He had never seen his mother so flustered before- this was the same woman who had raised him alone since he was a baby, who had fought off schoolyard bullies for him, and who had diligently held down two jobs as long as Arthur could remember. Not once through all this did she show a single side of weakness, yet the sight of a single envelope had caused her to melt like candle wax. Whoever had sent this letter was the last person Arthur wanted to meet, yet it was the very same person he was waiting on the sofa for.

As six o' four, the door knocked, which was odd, because no truck had come up the drive. Arthur stood up straight in his seat. He expected the visitor to be some angry drunk, a knife-wielding murderer, or worse. Who else could have caused mother to break down the way she did? But when Arthur's mother opened the door the man who walked through was none of those things. He was an older man who wore a light blue jacket with faded gold epaulettes on the shoulders, had long gray sideburns, and carried a simple wooden walking stick. He appeared to be right out of one of Arthur's history books.

"Abigail," he said, giving a small bow in the direction of Arthur's mother.

"Hello Mr. Adinson," she replied, standing fully straight while taking his hand in a firm shake. "Please sit down. I have a pitcher of tea in the kitchen, if you'd like."

"I would like that mighty fine," the man replied in a thick Georgian accent. "I do hope it's sweet, they say un-sweet is better for you but that just takes the fun out of it. And you can call me Elijah." While saying this the man walked to sit down in the ancient wooden rocking chair in the corner of the living room. He was silent for a few moments while Arthur's mother busied herself in the kitchen. Finally, he said "You must be Arthur."

Arthur barely heard him. His mind was racing. This man didn't appear to be an angry drunk or murderer, but in a way that was even more terrifying. Was he the tax man? No, the tax man wouldn't care about him. Or would he? Were they taking him away? Did mother miss so many bills that they were taking him as collateral?

Barely able to speak, Arthur mumbled "yes sir" very quietly. Mr. Adinson didn't speak in return, so finally Arthur worked up the courage to ask "are you the tax man?"

The old man chuckled. "Arthur, I have to disappoint you. I am much more dangerous than the tax man. And I'm afraid I ask for an even greater price." It was at this moment that Arthur's mother re-entered and handed the man a large glass of tea. "Thank you for the tea, Abigail, but could I trouble you for some ice? I don't take my tea warm, it gives me indigestion."

As Arthur's mother left the room once again Arthur couldn't help but wonder if Mr. Adinson was trying to keep him alone as long as possible. If he was, he wasn't spending his time wisely- he was still mildly staring at Arthur, as though he were a bass he had just caught and was wondering whether to keep it or throw it back.

"I've been told that you're a reader, Arthur. What have you been reading lately?" Mr. Adinson asked.

"The Hobbit," replied Arthur, wondering how the man could know this. "I've read it three times already."

"Good book," replied Adinson. "In fact, the author was an old friend of mine. I know you like to read on the porch- I understand why, these Georgia summers are best spent outside. Thank you Abigail, this is marvelous," he said he took the iced tea from Arthur's mother and took a sip.

Arthur thought he knew what was going on now. He had taken Stranger Danger classes at school. He knew that old men who watched young boys were not to be trusted. But why would his mother invite the man into the house? Why not call the police? And what connection did this have to Mr. Adinson being an old friend of his dad's? Finally, Arthur's mother sat down next to him on the sofa, which made him feel much more safe.

"I just put some meatloaf in the oven, Elijah," said his mother. "You're welcome to have supper with us if you'd like."

"Thank you Abigail, but that shouldn't be necessary," the man replied as he took another sip of his tea. "A good meatloaf takes forty minutes to cook, and I need to be back by sundown- I have a new assistant who gets nervous if left alone too long. In fact, I thought about sending him in my stead, but often the personal touch is best." He took another sip of his tea. "I do find it incredible, Abigail, that you never told the boy."

"Some things don't need telling," replied Arthur's mother. Arthur himself was completely silent- rather than being afraid, he was now curious. "I've read Leviticus, Elijah. Since Marshall's death I've come to the Lord. My boy will not walk the path his father walked."

"It may surprise you to know," replied Mr. Adinson, "that I've read the good book as well. Many times. And yet I sleep easy at night. I am no medium or necromancer. In fact, I fight against such folk. We all do at the Academy. You should know that."

"I know who you fight," replied Arthur's mother. "You've been fighting the same war for over a hundred years. It won't end, Elijah. Arthur will die in it just like his father, and I will be left alone. What good does it do any of us?" She rose to her feet, and Arthur noticed the same spirit he saw when she scolded him for not cleaning his room. "Arthur is a good boy. He's no soldier- he's a reader. He will be a lawyer, teacher, or something even better. And he will be a man of God."

"Mom," said Arthur finally. "You never said Dad died in a war." Arthur's mother was silent for a moment. She took her seat again and turned her face to him. Before she could speak, however, Mr. Adinson interjected.

"Secrets do us little good, Abigail," he said. He turned to face Arthur. "Yes, Arthur, your father did die in a war. His death was my fault, and your mother has every right to be angry at me." He then turned to Arthur's mother once again. "This is your decision, Abigail. But I will not be the last to knock on that door. Our enemies will come as well. Arthur will never live in the muggle world- it is impossible. You know this to be true." He then stood up from the old rocking chair and walked towards the door. "It will be best for him to leave as early as possible. A carriage will be waiting tomorrow morning to take him. We will not force him from your home, but others will not be so kind. Please make the correct decision." He then opened the door, stood on the porch, and with a loud crack he vanished.

Neither Arthur nor his mother spoke for several moments. The dog came up to Arthur a few times to lick his hand, but Arthur was too shocked to even pet it in return. A few mosquitoes flew in through the open screen door and buzzed around the living room, but Arthur's mother did not bother to close the screen.

Arthur had many questions, so many that he couldn't decide which to ask first. He had just seen a man disappear into thin air. He had also just learned that his father died in a war, while all his life he had been told his father died from smoking too many cigarettes. And finally there was the question of the Academy- what was this place, and why was Mr. Adinson so adamant that he go there? Arthur was a good student, but hardly the best; he had trouble with multiplication and was massively disorganized, as his teachers so often reminded him. Why would a school go out of the way to recruit him?

Before he could ask anything, Arthur's mother got up from the plastic-covered couch. She walked towards the door, and Arthur thought she meant to close it. But instead she walked outside. Before Arthur had time to feel deserted, she walked back in, this time with a wilted yellow flower in her hand.

"Take this, Arthur," she said.

Confused, Arthur took the flower in his hand. Immediately the flower straightened, no longer wilted, and the streaks of brown along the flower's petals disappeared. It was as beautiful as the day it had bloomed.

"I saw you with the bellflower yesterday at church," his mother said. "I knew at that moment that this meeting would come, I just didn't expect it so soon. Honey, I always tell you that life ain't like what you read in your stories- that there's no wizards, goblins, or dragons, no heroic adventures or grand battles. I tell you that because I wish it were true, that life was nothing but our little gravel road, the grocery store, and the church. But it ain't true. There's a whole world out there, and not just what you see on the TV. Another world. You're part of it, your dad was part of it, and I'm not. I don't know nothing about it other than that it's dangerous." She paused for a moment. "Arthur, honey, what do you want to do?"

"I don't want to leave you," replied Arthur.

"You're going to have to leave me eventually," she replied. "Elijah was right. Others will come. You're special, Arthur. Being special causes trouble." She took Arthur's hand in hers. "See this flower, Arthur? It was withered and dead, and you healed it. Make me one promise. Don't be a killer like your father. Try to heal this world a bit, because Lord knows it needs healing." She then walked towards the hallway cupboard, re-appearing moments later with an old shotgun. "I'll be keeping an eye out tonight. Tomorrow morning you better go. There's meatloaf in the oven. Help yourself."