The Pukwudgie
ina found herself in a drab hallway that led to a dreary waiting room, where an old man sat in the corner, looking anxious, while a few seats down a teenage girl cooed softly, cradling a sleeping baby in her arms.
Nurse Norton was standing next to Rusthorne and Whitewolf with a bemused expression, and his tired eyes — like a pair of fireflies above his pale blue mask — lit up with glee when he noticed Jina.
“Well, Miss Dare! I’m so glad you’re feeling better. And I’m sure you’re glad to be going home on such a fine, bright morning!”
“Uh, thanks,” said Jina, confusedly looking over Norton’s shoulder to the window beyond, which featured a starry night sky.
Nurse Norton seemed to be acting rather strange ever since Rusthorne and Whitewolf’s arrival, and Jina wondered why. Perhaps they had put him under some kind of spell. And if so, what if they’d done the same thing to her? Could they be tricking her into leaving the hospital?
This new thought occurred to Jina a moment after she’d followed them into an elevator compartment and the doors slid shut. Feeling suddenly nervous, she fiddled with her hair for a moment, then mustered up a dollop of courage and said, “Um, Mister Rusthorne, sir?”
“Actually, it’s Professor Rusthorne, Miss Dare. I am also a schoolteacher, like Professor Whitewolf.”
“Oh,” said Jina, her worry subsiding a little at the tone of reassurance in Rusthorne’s voice. “Well, I’m wondering if maybe I already do know who you are — or that I already should — I mean, if I could remember . . . and that you already knew who I was, even before you read my name on that clipboard.”
“Yes! You are correct on all counts, Jina,” said Rusthorne encouragingly, and he raised an eyebrow. “Or should I say: Hecate?”
Jina scrunched up her brow, wondering what on earth the word “Heckedy” meant and why Rusthorne thought he should say it. Then, an awkward realization dawned as the elevator doors slid open once again.
“You mean, my name — my real name . . . is . . . Hecate?”
It felt odd to say the name aloud. She couldn’t decide whether it really suited her or not — and that, in and of itself, just seemed weird.
Rusthorne made a polite gesture for her and Whitewolf to exit the elevator compartment ahead of him. “Yes. Hecate is your given name. You are, in fact, known entirely as Hecate Oldretch Venin Grimwar.”
Jina choked as a gasp and a laugh collided with each other in her throat. Oldretch? Venin? Grimwar? Now she was sure she didn’t like the sound of any of those names!
“After you,” said Rusthorne, motioning again for her to exit the elevator. Professor Whitewolf had already stepped through the doorway, but Jina was glued to the spot. After a moment of pure bewilderment, she shook her head and walked out of the elevator compartment.
“A rather funny term, however, isn’t it?” Rusthorne reckoned as he followed. “I do wonder: what becomes of a given name, if one — respectfully — declines to take it?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Jina awkwardly, having just experienced a very similar thought, though rather less eloquently. “If I could, Professor, I think I’d rather keep using the name I just made up. I mean, no offense to my mom and d—”
She stopped dead in her tracks as a sudden wave of grim reality washed over her. At once, she began seeking desperately for any shred of memory, trying to recall anything she could about her parents — their names, what they looked like, where they might be now — but once again, nothing surfaced. The only thing that came to mind was an image of two dark silhouettes — two featureless faces, hidden in shadow.
But if her parents were nearby, if she would soon be reunited with them, perhaps they could remind her of all the things she had forgotten — perhaps they were the key to shining some light on all that darkness.
“Hang on,” she said, a mixture of excitement and apprehension rippling through her. “So — So, if you know me, does that mean . . . you know my parents too?”
Rusthorne exchanged another sideways glance with Whitewolf.
“Yes, we do.”
“Where are they?” Jina asked excitedly. “Are they okay?”
“I’m afraid we don’t know much of anything for sure,” Rusthorne admitted, “but I assure you: we do intend to find out, just as soon as we leave this place.”
The news (or lack thereof) made Jina worry. What had happened earlier that evening that had landed her in the hospital? Had her mother or father been with her at the time? Was it possible that they were injured . . . or worse?
She bit her lip as they slipped out into the warm night air, and her sense of dread only increased as they moved farther away from the artificial light of the hospital. Everywhere she looked, something wicked seemed to be lurking in the darkness, just out of sight.
After walking a few blocks, Rusthorne steered them down a deserted alleyway, and Jina’s anxiety gave way to confusion when he began talking to a trashcan.
“This young lady is Jina Dare. Would you kindly escort her to New York whilst Professor Whitewolf and I attend to other important business? A nice, leisurely red-eye flight should give both of you a well-deserved night’s rest.”
A plump little man — or something like a man — then appeared out of thin air, standing right in front of the garbage bin that Jina had thought Rusthorne was addressing. He was very short and squat, no more than three feet tall, and nearly as wide; his powdery, salt-white skin appeared dry and coarse and seemed to be glowing slightly; his nose and mouth and pointed ears were all much larger than a human’s; his fingers long, with claw-like nails; and his eyes (which now gave Jina a suspicious look) were beady and black.
“Jina Dare, huh?” the creature croaked. “Am I missing something here, or did you guys not get the right kid on purpose?”
“Miss Grimwar has lost her memory, Fenowith,” said Professor Whitewolf. “Although, in doing so, she seems to have found a whole new identity.”
“We’re not sure how or why, but she doesn’t seem to remember anything that happened more than twenty minutes ago,” Rusthorne added.
“Oh, I see,” said the creature — his voice was high-pitched and coarse, and he seemed to be very annoyed about something (or perhaps this was just his normal personality). He plodded over to Rusthorne and handed something to him, but Jina didn’t see what it was. “Here, that’s all I could find.”
Eyeing Jina again, he said. “So then, what exactly is the deal with Little Miss What’s-Her-Name here? You’re saying she can’t remember anything about . . . anything? But you still want me to take her back to New York so MACUSA can grill her for the next two weeks about all the stuff she maybe used to know but clearly doesn’t know anymore? Well, that’s just great.”
Jina felt as though an ice-cold hand had just gripped her by the neck. Why would anyone ever want to “grill” her about anything, let alone for two whole weeks?
But Rusthorne only smiled. “I assure you, Fenowith — and you too, Jina — that I will do everything in my power to ensure the members of the Magical Congress behave themselves.”
“I sure hope so,” said the creature, seeming to take the words right out of Jina’s mouth. He waddled over to her and thrust out a hand, which was grubby and had copious amounts of dirt caked under the fingernails. “The name’s Fenowith, as you should already know, if you’ve been paying attention. Or did you forget that already too?”
“No, I, um — Hi.”
Awash with a crippling sense of foreboding, Jina could think of nothing better to say as she shook Fenowith’s hand, finding it much cooler to the touch than expected.
“I’m a pukwudgie, in case you hadn’t noticed. I hope that doesn’t bother you,” said Fenowith, speaking twice as loud as what was called for, which appeared to be normal for him.
“Oh,” said Jina, somehow managing a polite smile. “No. Why would it?”
Fenowith grinned at the professors and pointed a thumb at Jina. “Hey, what do you know? I like her already.”
“This is where we take our leave, Miss Dare,” said Rusthorne, giving Jina a nod as a broom drifted out from behind a dumpster and into his outstretched hand.
“What? But I thought —”
Professor Whitewolf gave Jina a warm smile as she swung her crooked staff sideways and sat down upon it — to Jina’s surprise, the staff took her weight, and she just hovered there a few feet off the ground, before waving goodbye and drifting upwards into the night sky. Rusthorne then tipped his pointy hat toward Jina, and he followed Whitewolf into the air, sitting atop the broomstick that had just flown into his hand from somewhere in the shadows.
“Until we meet again,” he said. “Probably sometime tomorrow, I think.”
Jina’s fear and apprehension was suddenly displaced by a feeling of wonder and excitement at the sight of the duo drifting skyward and flying off into the darkness.
“Wow!” she whispered, relishing the thought of flying, without quite knowing why. Then she turned excitedly toward Fenowith, thinking of what Rusthorne had just said about the two of them flying somewhere. “Are we going to fly to — um, wherever it was we’re going — like that?”
The pukwudgie snorted. “Ha! Who needs a broom when you can do this?” His body swirled like a mini tornado, in seconds assuming the form of a big ugly grey vulture, which flapped its great wings and squawked in Fenowith’s grainy voice.
“Whoa, cool!” said Jina. “But, will you be able to carry me?”
The bird swirled into another mini tornado, which spun in the opposite direction as the first, and Fenowith reappeared a second later — once again in pukwudgie form, although his skin seemed a touch darker now.
“Ugh,” he said. “Nah, I hate to say it, but if old Rusthorne wants us to get to New York by air, I guess that means we’re going to have to use — yeesh,” he shuddered, “public transportation.”
“Oh,” said Jina, disappointed, as this didn’t sound at all like a very exciting way to fly, judging from Fenowith’s reaction. Looking around the dark, deserted alleyway, she began to wonder where on earth they were and just how far they had to travel.
“Um,” she said. “So, New York — is that where I live?”
Fenowith began walking up the alleyway toward the street. “No, it’s where the President lives . . . and all the other bigwigs in the government.”
A vague recollection of white marble buildings drifted into Jina’s mind. “Hmm. For some reason I’ve got it in my head that the President is supposed to live in Washington D.C.”
“Well, sure, if you’re a Wonk,” he said, eyeing her with sudden suspicion. “You’re not a Wonk, are you?”
“I — um — I don’t think so,” said Jina, having no clue as to what a “wonk” even was.
“Oh, that’s right, you don’t know. No, you’re not a Wonk. Just a bad joke on my part.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
“That’s right! And what I say goes!” said Fenowith, shaking a finger at Jina. “For example, you’re going to want to cover up a bit more.” He snapped his fingers, and the hood of her robes billowed up over her head.
“Um, sure,” she said, lifting the brim a few inches so she could see.
She followed the pukwudgie out of the alleyway and under a streetlamp. Somehow the darkness didn’t seem quite as scary in Fenowith’s company. She wasn’t at all sure why, but walking alongside the crotchety little creature just made her feel safe and put her mind at ease.
“I must admit, I had my doubts at first,” said Fenowith, “but I think you and me are going to get along just fine. Sucker?” He offered her a lollipop that was half-yellow and half-green, with white pinwheel stripes.
“Uh, thanks,” said Jina, feeling a bit wary of accepting sweets from a near-stranger. She took the lollipop and sniffed it.
“It’s lemon-lime — a double-whammy of flavor,” said Fenowith, popping another lollipop into his mouth. “The stuff on top is a lot like the stuff on the bottom, but they both work so much better together as one thing. Go on, try it!”
Jina licked the lollipop, which did taste quite good. Then, without warning, two jets of green and yellow slime began shooting from her nostrils, spattering the front of her robes and falling onto the sidewalk with a thick wet splat.
Fenowith exploded with laughter. “GAH-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Oh, man, I love those!”
Feeling sickened and alarmed, but also strangely amused, Jina spluttered, “What — sniff — What the — snort — What the heck was that?”
“Sinuscidal Snot-Shooter!” cried Fenowith, wiping tears from his eyes. “One of Tri-W’s best new joke candies. That was my last one. Don’t worry, it’ll all disappear in a minute or so. Hoo-hoo! Ah, those are great.”
Jina chuckled stiffly and wiped her face.
“Anyway, as I was saying: no, you’re not a Wonk,” said Fenowith. “That’s just common-speak for an old MACUSA designation for kids from Muggle families: Witches and Wizards of Officially Non-magical Kind. That’s MACUSA for you — all their stupid little acronyms. This one used to give ’em an excuse to pull kids out of homes, back in the days of Rappaport’s Law.”
Jina frowned. The more she learned about these high and mighty MACUSA people, the less she liked them, and the more anxious she felt about meeting them. She followed the pukwudgie as he made his way toward the alleyway’s entrance.
“They say that’s where No-Maj came from — MACUSA always going on about Non-magical this and Non-magical that. It’s pretty messed up when you stop and think about it. That’s why I’m with old Rusthorne and Whitewolf on the whole Muggle thing, even though it makes me sound like an old Yankee Doodle Dandy. I’m only a hundred and twenty, by the way.”
Jina raised her eyebrows.
“You know,” Fenowith went on, “the fact that you’re walking around here talking to me is kind of a dead giveaway that no, you’re not Wonky. Most Mugs can’t even see guys like me unless someone points it out. They just don’t look at stuff the right way, those guys.” He scanned up and down the street a few times before stepping out onto the sidewalk. “But we still gotta be careful — you know, stealthy-like — when we’re in Muggle territory. Just in case. It’s the law.”
Fenowith stood on the curb and began waving a hand in the air. “Of course, we pukwudgies have never been that big on laws and stuff, but, you know, since MACUSA started cracking down a couple centuries ago — aah, come on!”
Jina grinned unsurely, having no idea what Fenowith was talking about. “Uh, right. And, so, who are all these MACUSA people anyway?”
“Oh, those are the guys that make and enforce Wizard Law. Argh! Come on!” he said, waving his hand through the air with more vigor. “Their main job is to make sure the magical world stays hidden from the Muggles.” He began to hop up and down now, waving both hands and growling.
“Why does the magical world need to stay hidden from the Muggles?”
“GAAGGGHH!” Fenowith screamed and grabbed his head, as though it was about to explode. “That’s it! I’ve had it! I can’t take it anymore!”
The extreme reaction took Jina by surprise. “Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t — I know it’s a lot of questions.”
“Eh, I don’t mean you, kid. You’re okay,” said Fenowith, his sudden agitation evaporating just as quickly. “It’s just — Say. Maybe you can help me out with this.”
“Help you out with what?” asked Jina, quite relieved to learn that Fenowith was not upset with her. It seemed all too clear to her that a pukwudgie (or at least this pukwudgie) was the kind of creature it is most unwise to upset, if one could help it.
“We need a cab,” he said. “Ever hail a cab before?”
“Uh, no. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“It’s easy. You just stand on the curb, like this,” Fenowith demonstrated, “raise your wand hand, like this, and wave it around a bit, like this.”
Jina looked up and down the deserted road. “But there are no cabs.”
“And Muggle brooms are made for sweeping, sweetheart. Just stick out your wand hand.”
“Okay. Um, which one is my wand hand?”
Fenowith rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t know. It’s probably whichever one you write with.”
“But — But I don’t know which hand I write with.”
Fenowith slapped a hand over his face and pulled it down, muttering under his breath. “Doesn’t know what hand she writes with — Okay. Just try it with whatever hand feels right, and if that doesn’t work: try the other one!”
“Oh . . . oh, right,” said Jina, feeling herself blush.
“Let me tell you,” Fenowith grumbled, “the only thing more futile than a giant trying to fit into dwarf clothes is a pukwudgie trying to hail a cab. It just doesn’t work!”
Jina stepped up to the curb and put up her left hand, just as Fenowith had shown her. Within seconds, a bright yellow taxicab came screeching around a corner and skidded to a halt in front of them. The passenger-side window opened halfway, and a greasy looking man behind the wheel leered out at them. He glanced back and forth between Fenowith and Jina a few times, seeming a bit torn. Then, in a gruff voice, he asked, “Where to?”
“We need to get to the nearest airport,” Fenowith said in a tone just as gruff, although Jina was beginning to realize that this was more or less his normal voice.
“You got money?” muttered the cabbie.
“What do you take me for, an ogre? Of course I got money!”
“Hey, you got a problem with ogres? My cousin’s an ogre.”
“Oh, well, that explains a lot.”
Jina smiled nervously. She could tell Fenowith’s temper was rising again. His skin color was now a stony sort of gray, having just darkened several shades along with his mood.
“Look, I’m sure your cousin’s a real fine fellow and no doubt rolling in dough and other stuff. Yes, we’ve got money too. See?” said Fenowith, holding up a small leather sack and shaking it to make it jingle.
The cabbie narrowed his eyes and sneered. “Okay then. Six silvers up front. Pay the rest when we get there.”
Fenowith exploded. “WHAT? And just how dumb do you think I am? I’m not shelling out any stinking deposit to you or any other one-Knut crook.”
The cabbie rested a hand on the steering wheel and stared up the street, as if ready to drive off. “You want to get to the airport or what?”
“Argh! Fine, fine,” said Fenowith, through gritted teeth. He drew some coins out of the leather sack and held them up to the cabbie. “Here’s three Sprinks. You’ll get the rest when we get there.”
The taxi’s rear door opened, and the cabbie flicked a switch on the dash. “Meter’s runnin’.”
Fenowith shoved Jina into the back seat and clambered in next to her. “Okay, go. And no funny business either, Jack! I’m warning you: I know these streets like the back of my hand.”
Jina could tell he was lying, and she suspected the cabbie could too.