Acknowledgment: Howl's Moving Castle, the story and its characters, belongs to Diana Wynne Jones.
Welsh Pronunciation Note: "Mam" Mom; "Tad" Dad.
Warning: HMC book ending spoilers.

—o—o—o—

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

—John Donne, "The Sun Rising"

—o—

He'd always heard it felt like an elephant standing on your chest.

But there was no elephant. The thing that filled the castle room with anguish and terror was unnatural and far more monstrous: a demonic spirit wearing a humanoid body. And she—it—was squeezing his heart like a dishcloth, wringing the blood from it, the life.

He heard neither his own scream, nor Calcifer's. Even before he hit the floor he knew it was over. He'd lost.

And soon he would be gone—gone beyond remorse or grief for those he left behind: Sophie and Michael, Calcifer, Mari, Megan, Lettie, Mrs. Fairfax, Ben Sullivan, Prince Justin, the King and all the good people of Ingary; even Gareth and Neil.

You always knew you were going to let them down. Well, you did.

The mist was rising. The light was fading.

Hell's teeth! No! No, he was not going to go gentle into that good night. Not this time. No more slithering out. He was going to fight it, heart and soul—

Not bloody likely. Not with the enemy sinking claws like knives into his heart. And who knew what was left of his wretched soul, if he'd ever had one to begin with? But he had to keep fighting. He had to. If he didn't, it really would be all over.

The light shrank to a pin-prick. The next instant would be extinction.

When the next instant failed to occur, he realized that time had stopped, just there. His final moment was before him, stretched into infinity. The light shone endlessly past him, no longer a point but a dazzling beam. He was moving along it, yet perfectly still. For thirty seconds—or thirty million years; who knew?—nothing happened.

His soul—by all the gods, he had a soul!—soon got bored and was fidgeting, shuffling its feet, looking for something to do with its hands. Behold, ye suns and stars of space: Howell Jenkins, hyperkinetic even at the brink of eternity.

"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it—"

Poetry, always bits of poetry popping into his head at the crisis points of his life—or, in this case, bits of poetical prose:

"—but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains."

That Raleigh fellow again? No, Howell had got it wrong too many times. It had to be Donne.

"I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars."

He saw that he could move closer, dip a toe in, discover where in memory that sliding current took him.

—o—

i.

Mam was dead. She had died about a month since, in ghastly pain from the cancer. For weeks before that she hadn't even known Howell, or Meg, or Tad. After they lost Mam, they lost each other. Meg grew silent and bitter. Tad grew loud and violent. In drunken rage he struck out at God, the church, the National Health, the Queen—and at Mam, for leaving him.

Worst of all, he struck out at his children. He never laid a hand on Megan, though; Howell always put himself between her and Tad when Tad was going on like that. So Howell bore the brunt of their father's madness: the kicked-in doors, the shattered china, the shouts, the blows.

He was eleven years old.

Things were better at school. During that same term Howell had discovered rugby, and rugby had discovered him. He was thin and light, but he played with a toughness born of desperation. And with his broken nose and knocked-out teeth, he fit right in.

When the winter holidays came, the darkness and sadness returned. Without Mam there was no Christmas—no tree, no pudding, no presents. Thankfully, Tad was unconscious much of the time. That left Meggie, but she hardly spoke. She was fifteen, tall and slender like Howell, but careworn, growing hunch-shouldered like an old woman. She spent Christmas night in her room with the door shut. Howell was utterly alone.

In the cold and wet he walked sadly to the churchyard, his darkish-brown hair flattened to his neck and shoulders by the drizzle. He gathered some greens and a sprig of mistletoe, and tied them with a bit of soggy red ribbon he'd fished from a dustbin. It wasn't much to give Mam for her first Christmas in heaven, but it was the best he could do.

She was there, silent beneath her white stone:

In Loving Memory
Anna Caridwen Elizabeth Powell Jenkins
Beloved Daughter, Wife, and Mother
Departed This Life 11 November 19–

He placed the pitiful wreath against the stone and sank to his knees in the cold wet turf. He remained there for a long time. His heart ached so horribly he wished he could wrench it from his chest and be done with it. How could the world hold so much loneliness and pain without bursting right open?

He got up at last to go, drenched and half frozen. "'N ddedwydd Nadolig," he said. "Happy Christmas, Mam. I love you."

He turned toward home, only to find that the churchyard and the dim Welsh evening had vanished. He stood at the edge of a jolly Christmas-card village, with pine trees and falling snow and people ice-skating on a pond, laughing and shouting. Their coats and hats were spots of colour amidst the white softness.

Howell wanted badly to join them, to be part of something cheerful on this cheerless night. "But this old thing is all wrong," he said, looking down at his sodden black wool jacket. "You ought to be red, trimmed in fur," he told it. "Cut a bit old-fashioned, like those folks. And instead of these ugly boots I should be wearing silver skates—"

And suddenly, he was. It was like magic. He didn't pause to wonder at this, or at the warmth and joy that surged through him, because he was already gliding out onto the ice.

The other skaters smiled and called out greetings. "Welcome to Market Chipping!" they shouted. There was a great bonfire on the bank, and he was offered cakes and sweets and warm spiced cider. Then he was swept up into a game of some sort, rather like snap-the-whip. He quickly caught on.

But even in that enchanted place it grew late, and one by one the skaters went home to the lamplit cottages that lined the pond and the streets beyond. Reluctantly Howell turned back the way he had come, toward the unhoused, unlit shore.

The moment he touched the bank his skates and fur-trimmed finery vanished, and he stood at Mam's grave once again. A bitter midnight wind was blowing.

—o—

ii.

For years afterward, hard though he tried by wishing or imagining, Howell could not summon that magical place. He would have written it off as a grief-induced hallucination and forgot it, had it not been for the hours he spent reading Y Gododdin, Pwyll and Pryderi, The Island of the Mighty, and other stories of magic and myth in Welsh tradition. At the same time, he was studying in school the more far-out aspects of chemistry and physics.

There was some theoretical basis for this spontaneous alteration of his clothing at the edge of the enchanted pond. Such transformations required quantities of energy pretty well impossible to muster—in this world, at least. But if you could travel back down the fractured quantum trajectories of the universe through time, tweaking the laws of nature as you went, alternate dimensions became not only possible, but probable: worlds alongside our own, in which matter could more easily be transmuted. It was exactly what the old alchemists had attempted.

But for Howell the experience had had a quality not completely reducible to Matter. Like the alchemists, he had felt it to be mystical, almost spiritual. At dark moments, and there were still plenty of those, he remembered the pond, the village, and the silver ice-skates, and longed with all his heart to find that place again.

—o—

iii.

When Howell was thirteen, Megan came home one day to find their father on the floor, dead.

Tad's liver had long since given it up, and now his heart had quit too.

It was horrible and shocking how all the grief of losing Mam came soaring back. Badly though Tad had hurt them, he was their last connection with her. Howell remembered how it had been when he and Meggie were little, when Mam was well and Tad was jolly and loving. It terrified him to think that they were orphans now. But there was no knowing how Megan felt about it; she had become a stranger. The events of the past two years had driven brother and sister apart.

They soon learned, to their surprise, that a little money had been left to each of them. As the elder, Megan, now seventeen, was executor. Within a month of Tad's passing she was married to one Gareth Parry, a schoolmate. Howell didn't much like him; he was beetle-browed, surly, and not intelligent. In other words, he was completely unworthy of Megan.

"All right then, Howell," Megan said, one morning not long after the wedding. "The house is going. Gareth says we should sell it."

"And just who's Gareth to decide what's done with our house?"

"He's my husband, Howell. He says the place is old and charming enough to fetch a good price from those twee city sorts who are always through here, cooing over the dear little cottages."

"What about the roof?"

"Their problem. Gareth says they're buying quaintness, not working plumbing."

The place did sell, and to the exact sort of buyers Gareth had predicted. Then they learned that before he died Tad had taken out a ruinous mortgage. After the sale there was hardly anything left. Even added to Megan's inheritance, it was not going to go far.

Nevertheless, the three of them spent days touring builders' models in the hills outside Swansea. Megan at last found the sterile suburban villa of her dreams, though at a price that took their breath away—but she was not to be talked out of it.

Well, they were his family, the only family he had. It was going to take most of his own funds added to theirs to make the down payment, but he wanted his sister to be comfortable and happy—all the more so since Megan, silly girl, had forfeited her immediate prospects by getting married before she got all her education.

Howell, on the other hand, was doing brilliantly at school and was well along the university track. And he had his own dream, born of his rugby triumphs: one day he was going to play for Wales! So how could he refuse?

And so they moved in. In a moment of hope—and irony—Howell christened the new house 'Rivendell,' a name that was none the worse for having been done to death. He felt they all could use a place of peace and refuge—and respectability, which Megan desperately craved now that the degradation of Tad's alcoholism was behind her.

Neil's arrival six months after the wedding was not at all helpful in this regard.

—o—

iv.

Megan quickly discovered that she hated motherhood. She tried nursing only twice, and both times Neil clamped down so hard she screamed. Then he started screaming, from hunger and frustration, because Megan (not surprisingly) had no milk.

She sank into a post-partum funk in front of the television downstairs. Gareth fled to the nearest pub. Because someone had to do it, Howell bought the necessary equipment at Sainsburys and took over the feedings.

At first he felt clumsy and idiotic, terrified he would drop Neil, or squeeze him too hard, or worse. But when with trembling hands Howell finally managed to get the bottle to his angry little mouth, Neil seized it ferociously. He nursed for twenty minutes, then abruptly fell asleep. Howell carried him upstairs and carefully laid him in his crib. Then he stood beside it recovering, shaking all over.

He didn't know what to do next. Megan had been asleep for hours, and Gareth was still out. Howell had always heard that new babies kept everybody up all night, so he thought he'd better stay awake. He had school in the morning, but never mind. He stayed by the crib, doing counting rhymes in his head to keep from dropping off.

At about two, Neil woke up for his middle-of-the-nighter. Gently Howell lifted him from the cradle and put him to his shoulder. It was getting a little easier.

"All right then, mate," he said. "Downstairs we go." He managed to get the bottle nicely warmed with one hand while he held Neil with the other. So far so good.

But suddenly Neil whimpered and gave an unhappy gurgle. In a spate of projectile vomiting his last evening's supper ended up all over the kitchen, all over Howell, and all over Neil himself, who was wailing bloody murder because now, of course, he was really hungry.

Dutifully Howell began again, pouring the now too-cool formula down the basin and preparing a new one.

"Let's go slower this time, shall we?" he said, thinking maybe that Neil's spell of sick had been set off by gulping air. Neil wasn't having any of that. He drained the bottle in two minutes flat. Then his little face got bright red until Howell remembered that babies needed bubbling after they dined.

"And I suppose you're going to want changing, too, and bathing," Howell said as he gently patted Neil's little back. "Then how about getting nice and drowsy again, so that Uncle Howell can catch a kip before school?"

No such luck. Neil fretted and fretted, almost till dawn. Howell had to be at school in two hours. He hadn't done his lessons yet. The kitchen was a disaster. He wondered why anyone bothered with babies when it was clear that looking after them was overwhelming, exhausting, and unending.

But just then Neil made a little sound of contentment and took a hank of Howell's hair in his tiny fist, and Howell forgave him everything.

Of course now, along with the thousand other things that needed doing, he had a wide-awake baby on his hands. He supposed he could try reciting it some poetry, or—God forbid!—singing it a lullaby. "Si lwli, lwli," he began tentatively, then couldn't remember any more. He tried another, one Mam used to sing:

"Huna'n dawel, heno, huna, huna'n fwyn, y tlws ei lun;
Pam yr wyt yn awr yn gwenu, gwenu'n dirion yn dy hun?"

Tuneless though it was, his singing worked like an enchantment.

—o—

v.

When next he found that other place, Howell was riding a wave not of grief but of exuberance.

Although he was not quite sixteen, he had been accepted to university, both for scholarship and for rugby. He was so happy he thought his heart would burst.

He turned to take a farewell look at his old prep school. "So long," he said. "And thanks for all the fish," he added, wishing he could hitch-hike his way through the galaxy. The next moment that wish almost came true. The iron gate clanged shut behind him and he stepped out—not into the Rhondda Road but into a jewel-coloured city with golden domes and towers. The air was heavy with flowers, and the fronds of exotic trees rose high into the dazzling clear blue sky.

People were hurrying about looking important. They were sumptuously dressed, in cloaks and robes and long flowing sleeves, like something from a Renaissance tableau. Howell looked down at his undone school tie, his rumpled shirt, his worn trousers and scuffed shoes. No good.

Well, if he had done it once, he could do it again. He took a moment to study the smorgasbord of finery going past. "I should have a deep blue velvet suit like that one," he said aloud, "with lace cuffs like this one, and cut-outs trimmed with silver thread like that fellow over there has on those sleeves of his, only more of them. And trousers to match, tucked into new shiny black boots."

And it was so. He studied his reflection in a nearby window. He looked good. He looked marvellous, in fact. But he ought to do something about his scruffy mud-coloured hair. He lengthened it and gave it an elegant medieval sort of cut. He darkened it almost to black, against which his eyes blazed intensely green.

His nose was still ugly, though—could he possibly alter living tissue? He passed a hand across his face and felt skin and cartilage stretching, reshaping themselves, settling with a snap. There, now it was even better than before Tad broke it. His teeth, too, though they had been repaired, could use a bit of straightening. And there he was—glam, good-looking: a regular rock star. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel ugly. He smiled at his reflection and it smiled back at him, his newly beautified teeth gleaming whitely. He was gorgeous.

He decided to set out at once to explore this place—and to see whether any of the local girls would give him the time of day, now that he was such a dashing specimen.

Reluctantly turning from his glorious reflection, he found himself face to face with a tall old woman. Had she been there all along? She was proud and upright and dressed as royally as a queen. Howell thought she must surely be one, and not knowing what else to do, he bowed politely. "My lady," he said.

The lady inclined her head almost imperceptibly. "I am Mariah Pentstemmon," she said. "And you are—who?"

"Howell Arthur Morgan Jenkins, my lady."

"I like your gift, Howell Jenkins," she said, slowly looking him up and down. "You give beauty to things, not least of which is yourself."

"That's—thank you," he said uncertainly.

"You're very welcome," she replied. "I would like to talk to you, Mr. Jenkins. Will you join me for tea?"

So the first girl I meet is eighty years old, he thought ruefully. Just my luck. But no, clearly this was about business. And with any luck the lady would explain where he was, how he got here, and what to do about it.

She placed a gold-lettered card in his hand.

Mrs. Mariah Pentstemmon,
Instructor of Spellcasting.
Number 11, Crystal Court,
Highgate, Kingsbury.

Spellcasting? He looked up in amazement. The old woman was gone.

He found Crystal Court around a corner, not far away. It was well-named; the setting sun glittered in the facets of an endless line of tall mullioned windows. Howell had to pass through an iron gate and down a long wide street. Number 11 was on the left. There were splendid rose trees in brass pots on either side of the tall door, which opened before Howell could reach for the bell.

"Good evening, Mr. Jenkins," said the butler, who was all in black velvet.

The house was like a fairytale palace. Howell's boots echoed on the black-and-white marble floor. The ceilings were lofty, and everywhere he saw velvet and crystal and the glint of gilded things. He felt quite special, being invited to such a place. By the time the butler led him into a grand parlour and presented him to Mrs. Pentstemmon, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Thank you, Hunch," she said. Hunch bowed and silently departed. "Please sit, Howell."

A vast tea was set out before him. "You are my guest," said the lady, nodding at the feast.

"Thank you, Mrs. Pentstemmon." Howell hadn't realized he was famished. For the next twenty minutes he tried not to eat like a pig. His hostess ate nothing, sipping her tea in silence, studying him. He knew he was making bollocks of every rule of etiquette ever thought of, but he was only a working-class lad from Wales, after all. In any case, he did not sense disdain or disapproval from her—not of his table manners, at any rate. He knew she was sizing up his other shortcomings with deadly accuracy. But she said nothing until he had finished. It was the most splendid meal he'd ever had. "Thank you, Mrs. Pentstemmon," he said again, fervently.

"You are very welcome, Mr. Jenkins." The old woman set her teacup down and steepled her fingers together, gazing keenly at Howell. "Now then," she said.

He felt himself sitting up straight, good and proper.

"I am going to ask you some questions," she said. "But first I will answer any that you might have. So. What would you ask me?"

"What is this place, Mrs. Pentstemmon?" Howell said eagerly. "I think I came here once before, a long time ago—"

"You did," said the lady. "Today, for the second time, you have entered the sovereign realm and kingdom of Ingary."

"Ingary," he repeated. "And where, if you know what I mean, is that?"

"Ingary exists in a plane of reality many quantum levels from your own," she said. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Yes, madam, I do. But why did I come here? What brought me?"

"Your innate magical gift," she said.

"Innate—?" Howell said, baffled.

"Innate, yes. Inborn in you, either by inheritance or by chance. And it is a significant gift, one of the most powerful I have ever seen."

Howell was stunned into silence.

"However," she went on, rather severely, "like others who have come here from your world, your gift is latent only, undisciplined and wild. It must be trained, put into the service of good. Otherwise it will cause great harm to others—and to yourself."

Her eyes were no longer merely gazing at him; they were piercing right though all the rubbish he thought he believed, all the nonsense he thought he knew.

"Until today, I had all but retired from teaching," she said. "Now that I have met you, I will put off my retirement. So here is a question for you, Mr. Jenkins. Will you allow me to train you to use your great gift well and, I hope, wisely?"

He wasn't even thinking; the words just came tumbling out. "Yes, Mrs. Pentstemmon. Please teach me. Please."

—o—o—o—o—

Notes:

It had to be Donne. — Wrong again, Howl. It's Henry David Thoreau.

In drunken rage—When we see them together in HMC Chapter 11, Howell and Megan are to my mind behaving very much as do children of alcoholics.

Y Gododdin, Pwyll and Pryderi — From The Mabinogion, a medieval collection of Welsh tales based on legend and myth.

The Island of the Mighty — A novel by Evangeline Walton, based on parts of The Mabinogion.

"Si lwli, lwli." — "Lullaby, lullaby."

"Huna'n dawel, heno, huna," etc. — The second verse of the Welsh Lullaby "Suo Gân." A translation: "Here tonight I tightly hold you/And enfold you while you sleep./Why, I wonder, are you smiling/Smiling in your slumber deep?"