The Story of the Great American Flying Broomstick Book 1: Genesis

Chapter 1

Broomstick history began on a dark and stormy night.

I say dark because it was after the sun had set, and stormy because it was raining as though the clouds were getting behind on their quota and chose that night to catch up.

To be specific, my wife, Loretta, and I were in London, England. To be even more specific, it was Tuesday, February 15, 2005. And, continuing our pattern of specificity, Loretta and I had just left the British Museum.

We were in town for an IEEE Computer Society Conference. I work for IBM. The conference in question had to do very specifically with my job. I’m an engineer, although purists would say I’m an Information Technology Architect, but my degree is in engineering, so I call myself an engineer because people know what an engineer is, because nobody outside IBM knows what an IT Architect is, and I think quite a few people inside IBM don’t know either. So anyway my customer paid me to accompany a couple of their computer scientists to the conference. The conference itself had to do with complex data structures, which are not at all like complex building structures or complex bridge structures, although they do have the complexity part in common. My wife isn’t an engineer—she’s an artist—and when she heard I was going to London she lobbied hard for some of my United Airlines frequent flyer miles to get her there. It took hard work and lots of phone calls, and we finally settled for two different flights a day apart, but the bottom line is we had the afternoon of Tuesday, February 15, 2005, free, and spent it together in the British Museum.

The British Museum is to the British what the Smithsonian is to the Americans. Vast. Intimidating. World Class. Everything is there. We Americans think our 250-year history is long. The British date London back to the time of the Romans, so I think they have a bit more data on their history than we do (which they are quick to point out—the proper response is to grin sheepishly, smile, and look away). I love history, and there was plenty to intrigue me in the many aisles and pathways in the Museum. I was especially taken by the Rosetta stone. I don’t know why. I just was.

No, the British Museum doesn’t contain Moses’ stone tablets with the Ten Commandments. However, the Museum is in the market, should the tablets show up on e-Bay.

Anyway, to make what’s already turning out to be a long story short, let’s get to the punch line.

Loretta and I left the Museum, hoping to work our way back to the Tottenham Court Road Underground Station (mind the gap) so we could take the subway—sorry: tube—back to our hotel and dry out. It was High Rush Hour and, as I noted, already dark. We had a couple blocks to go. We thought we were going down Great Russell Street directly toward Tottenham Court Road, but those of you who’ve been to London will recall that no two streets meet quite at a right angle and anyway it was raining and my glasses were covered with spray (think of a busy London night—noise, cabs, people, cars, rain, lights, noise).

It was hard to see, so I think we had every justification to get lost.

Nor did we have a map.

So, here we are, with nothing in sight except cars and rainy streetlights and people rushing everywhere. We walked down a couple blocks hoping something would be familiar, but nothing in London is familiar to Americans.

So, we ducked into a shop to ask directions.

Chapter 2

I remember the name of the shop very well. Chapperwell Gifts. Yes, the outside of the store was done up in (at least what looked like) that wonderful old wood stained/painted dark brown, and yes, the shop name was done up in gilt lettering that vaguely resembled Bookman Font, and, yes, there were dozens of little ceramic doodads in the window of the kind wives use to decorate the house, run up housekeeping bills, and generally drive their husbands mad because husbands, by and large, are clumsier than wives, so they break these things and are then in trouble, which wives secretly love, because it gives them a chance to shop for more.

I don’t like these kinds of places.

Loretta mentioned she wanted to look around, so I stood there with my furled umbrella while it dripped all over the floor. Finally I stowed it in the omnipresent umbrella holder while trying to remember how to tell it apart from the six or so identical umbrellas already spreading a collective pool on the floor.

I proceeded to look for a place to sit. There was none. So, I forced myself to look around.

Most of the stuff was in glass cabinets, probably because the proprietor had too much experience with husbands breaking things. One cabinet was full of imitation ancient Egyptian tomb art. Another was full of imitation ancient Sumerian tomb art. A third was full of imitation ancient Babylonian tomb art.

I do not see why anyone wants tomb art in their home.

For a moment I studied a small—maybe eleven by fourteen inches—oil portrait of an ancient figure dressed in flowing white robes, with boiling clouds around him and a touch of lightning in the background. I took it to be Moses, since he held stone tablets in his hands and looked very prophetic. The painting was in a heavy gold frame covered in dust, although this feeling of neglect was somewhat undone by a small portrait light casting its yellow glow over Moses’ face. It seemed out of place in a store filled with doodads.

Loretta was looking for something vaguely resembling a Holstein cow. She has this thing about Holsteins, and various ceramic pieces are jammed onto shelves in our dining room, well out of the way of where I swing my arms. I’ve only broken a few, the damage limited by a combination of her putting them where I can’t get at them, plus my learning it’s best for the marriage if I keep them whole. A couple have repairs she doesn’t know about.

She found a cabinet of Jersey cows, but they’re brown, not black and white, so they wouldn’t do.

I stared at a small cabinet, about knee level, holding stuff of a type I’d never seen. The contents were dusty—the kind of dusty that comes from being real, not from neglect. They looked vaguely Runic, though I know nothing of such stuff, so please understand I’m speculating here.

May I help you?

Startled out of my reverie, I turned to find myself facing the proprietor, a little man, about five-foot-three, who was every bit of 80, perhaps 85. He had thin hair combed sideways—no, he didn’t appear to be attempting a comb-over—it was simply wispy. I’d call his hair brown, but Loretta, with her artistic eye, claims his hair was burnt umber. It didn’t look at all burnt to me, but I guess I don’t know colors, and anyway it should’ve been gray, so there’s an empty bottle of hair coloring somewhere. He had a dark green knitted tie and a gray shirt with one of those British collars that spreads out quite a bit instead of pointing down. He wore brown trousers and scuffed brown shoes and a brown tweed jacket made of some rough material—brown wool, I suppose.

We came in for directions to the Tottenham Court Road Underground Station, I said. Also, I think my wife wants to look around a bit.

Disappointed, he looked up into my face. It’s actually nice to have someone look up into my face. I’m five-foot-ten, so I’m not the tallest of people, and my professional comrades from my customer set were each over six feet. Anyway, in a resigned, very rote recitation, he told me we were actually nearest the Holborn Station. He said if we went out of the shop, turned right and crossed the next street, we’d be there.

You have lots of the British Museum pieces here, I said, trying to make conversation. I guess sales could be better if it weren’t raining.

His eyes lit up. I think I was the first person that day to actually attempt a two-way exchange.

Anyway, we went on for twenty minutes. Loretta stood by us for awhile, but finally gave up, made her purchase via the assistant shopkeeper, found the chair that had eluded me, and perused a book on ancient Chinese tomb art she ended up buying.

Lloyd Chapperwell, as it turns out, had been in this same location for over 50 years, having purchased the establishment from his mentor and predecessor who’d been there for 60 years before. He was pretty sure there’d been a business at this location since at least 1750. He had some great pieces—which he pointed Loretta at—she promptly gasped at the prices—that he’d procured on a visit to India just prior to World War II. He himself had served in the British Expeditionary Forces in France and had been part of the Dunkirk evacuation. We got to talking about politics and found we agreed right down the line, at least that’s what he thought.

He was positively glowing by the time Loretta put her foot down and reminded us it was well past 6:00 p.m. and high time to be finding a restaurant. He gave us several recommendations, including a place around the block.

It’s amazing how people will respond if you just take the time to talk with them and hear them out. Especially if you find a way to agree with their views on politics, education, taxes, the current role of America in Iraq, the Chinese economic juggernaut, the price of oil, the state of today’s youth, and the latest activities in Parliament. Even if you can only agree for the duration of the conversation.

Anyway, like any American, I ended the conversation by extending my hand. So very nice to meet you, Mr. Chapperwell.

He responded not only by taking my hand in his, but taking it in both hands. Caught up in the moment, and thinking this was the right thing to do when in England and getting a three-handed handshake, I threw in my left hand just to make it a round four hands.

Mr. Casler, a real pleasure! More power to you! he beamed.

ZAP!

Chapter 3

And by ZAP! I mean ZAP! as in all capital letters.

The zap went from my hands, up my arms, bounced off my skull, and ricocheted down to my toes. I lost track of where it went from there. For all I know, it oozed out onto the floor.

I jerked my hands away from Chapperwell’s and stumbled back into the cabinet of imitation ancient Sumerian tomb art, hitting it hard enough to knock over several of the figurines. Fortunately, they did not tumble to the floor, since they were held in place by the glass door, which did not break, being made for clumsy husbands.

What was that? I gasped.

Honey! Are you all right? Loretta gasped.

Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Chapperwell gasped. He held his right hand in his left as though I’d just put a bullet through it. Oh, no! Oh, no! he continued, utterly ignoring me. He collapsed into the chair Loretta had just vacated and stared at nothing in particular, still holding one hand in another, looking for all the world as though he were having a heart attack.

To me the zap felt like lightning. Hopefully you’ve never been hit by lightning, so you don’t know what it feels like, but try to imagine it. Anyway, I shook my head, straightened myself, checked my hands to ensure I still had two, took a deep breath and decided Chapperwell’s needs were greater than mine, especially since his shop assistant, a teen girl, was standing back in horror, utterly rooted to the spot. I guess she thought she was dreaming, because in dreams you’re always rooted to the spot, but anyway that’s how she behaved.

Mr. Chapperwell? I inquired.

Oh, no!

Lloyd?

Oh, no!

Should we call a doctor? It’s 999, isn’t it? The British 999 is the equivalent of the American 911. They did it first, and we wanted to do something similar, but AT&T’s equipment was set up entirely different from British Telecom’s, so we couldn’t do 999, so we did 911. Anyway, with the old dial equipment we used to have, it took less time to dial 911, so we thought we had an advantage, but then touch-tone phones became available and the advantage was rendered moot.

Oh, no!

I touched Mr. Chapperwell on the shoulder. He looked at me with those puppy dog eyes a five-year-old uses when he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He finally stopped speaking.

What’s wrong? I asked. Do you need a doctor? I repeated.

No, no. I mean…no…oh…no…it’s just….

I love clarity and this wasn’t it.

I squatted down so I could look him eye-to-eye. I hate what squatting does to my then-53-year-old knees, but the situation seemed to call for it.

I don’t know what to do! he went on. I shouldn’t have. Mustn’t have. Did you feel that?

Yes, I felt a giant zap. What was it?

Oh, no! Must consult. Look, where are you staying? I have to consult. Then I’ll get back to you.

I’m fine. You don’t need to do anything. Look, I think you need some rest. Loretta and I will be on our way.

He clutched my arm in desperation. No! I must get in touch with you! Tomorrow! Where are you staying?

Novotel London West. Hammersmith. Here’s my card. I gave him my IBM card, which he took gratefully, though of course it has my Ridgway, Colorado, address. He tried to write my hotel information on the back, but his hand was shaking too much, so I wrote it for him.

I leave for the States on Thursday morning, so I’ll only be here tomorrow, I cautioned.

Chapter 4

Loretta and I enjoyed an excellent dinner around the corner from Chapperwell’s shop at a nice, nostalgic little pub called the Horse and Bridle. After we’d exhausted wondering about Chapperwell, she briefed me on the art museums she’d seen earlier in the day. I don’t recall the names—sorry—but they were good to hear her tell it. She was as jazzed about her art as Chapperwell had been about his politics.

That night I had an interesting dream. I was standing in the clouds. Actually, I was standing in the sky with clouds swirling about me. If I’d been standing in the clouds, I wouldn’t have been able to see I was in the clouds, I suppose, but you understand what I mean. Anyway, the same Moses who was in Chapperwell’s painting found me about the time I was wondering which cloud held the bathroom. He turned out to be only about four-foot-eleven, but I guess people were much smaller back in his time. Our modern average height comes from having three square meals a day. I suppose such were unknown back then. For all I know, people in Pharaoh’s court—that’s where Moses was raised—had meals only every other day. There were no McDonald’s or Pop Tarts back then, either. And no microwaves.

Anyway, he glowed with an inner fire, certainly looking prophetic. Remember, this is the man who wrote the first five books of the Bible, and at the risk of being irreverent, I point out that the word processor hadn’t been invented then. Nor, for that matter, had paper. They used papyrus or sheep skins (the sheep did not enjoy this) or goat skins or whatever they could lay their hands on.

He grasped my hand. If he was an apparition, he certainly didn’t feel like one. He had large hands and a firm grip, and his skin felt like fine leather, like my motorcycle gloves. He then added his left hand to the grip and I did the same. He had only one word to say:

Welcome!

And then I was alone in the clouds.

Chapter 5

While sitting through a particularly boring conference presentation on how data taxonomies can be turned into full-fledged ontologies, someone tapped on my shoulder. It was the session moderator, an eager young Egyptian engineer with short black hair and sparkling eyes. Looking for any reason to leave the session—my customers were eating it up, so I had to look interested—I followed him out of the room.

Mr. Casler, he said in his vaguely British / Middle Eastern accent. I have here an urgent message for you. He shoved a green slip at me that had a telephone number on it. They want you to call right away. He slipped back into the room, not wanting to disturb the speaker, who was in full flower about symmetric data polymorphisms. (Yes, it’s Greek to me too.)

I tried to make out the phone number. Like all British phone numbers, it started with a zero, followed by a bunch of digits. The British numbering system is completely cattywhompus to the American numbering system, which is a shame, because the British system has some key advantages. However, not actually quite sure how to call the number, I picked up a hotel phone, dialed the hotel operator (who spoke with an unmistakable Indian accent) and read him the number.

I knew instantly my party was an elderly man. It’s in the way they hold certain syllables and sort of shout even when they’re whispering. Anyway, he also sounded like a man who was used to getting his way, like a retired multinational vice president or some such.

Mr. Casler, thank you for calling back in such an expeditious manner, he said. I’m William Paine. I understand you met Chapperwell last evening?

Yes. Very pleasant fellow.

Indeed. Please tell me. What did you feel when he shook your hand?

A big zap. Like an electric shock, only it went from head to toe.

Yes, I see. I see.

How is Mr. Chapperwell? I asked. He seemed quite upset when I left him.

Indeed. He’s fine. And don’t worry. There won’t be any repercussions.

Hmm…why would Chapperwell face sanctions for shaking my hand? Now it was my turn to say I see.

I see, I said. Anyway, what can I do for you?

We must meet with you before you leave London. I’m afraid it’s imperative.

Why? I’m in the middle of a conference and my customer is here.

Please, we implore you. It won’t take long. Take a cab back to Chapperwell’s shop. We’ll pay for it. We’ll explain everything there. Please come immediately. We won’t take more than an hour of your time.

You’d better give me the address. I don’t think I can find my way back.

I jotted it down on the back of the green slip, including Chapperwell’s phone number in case I got lost.

Chapter 6

Chapperwell was waiting on the sidewalk and opened the cab door for me. I was embarrassed to have an 85-year-old trot out to help me in such a manner, but there you are. He insisted on paying the cab fare. He wrung his hands. Without a word he led me through the shop, up some stairs, and into a large room with giant windows, heavily curtained, and a high ceiling. Several paintings of Moses, from being discovered as a babe in the reeds all the way to handing leadership over to Joshua, hung on the walls, each with its own little yellow portrait light. There were also paintings (plural, as in several) of the Last Supper, including a copy of DaVinci’s masterpiece hanging over the fireplace. The final painting, which seemed to be in a place of honor, showed Christ on the Cross.

Four people were in the room waiting for Chapperwell and me. Each was well past 80, each was small, each was shriveled, each was dressed like Chapperwell—though the tie colors varied a little and the others had given into gray hair, which I appreciated, since my beard is gray—and each looked worried. All stood behind their chairs around a lengthy table in the middle of the room. It didn’t look like a dining room. It looked like a boardroom—a place reserved for very high level discussions. I would describe the place as having an air of quiet reverence. Around the edges of the room were several old, overstuffed chairs, each with a reading lamp beside it, and between the paintings were bookcases, stuffed with leather-bound volumes.

A man with the same voice as Paine’s spoke first.

Mr. Casler. Thank you for coming. Please sit down.

The six of us sat—Paine, three as-yet-unnamed people, Chapperwell and me. Paine was at the head of the table. I was at the other end, which I guess is the foot of the table.

Mr. Casler, describe to us what happened last evening. He placed his elbows on the table and pressed his fingertips together.

I presume you’re referring to the handshake, I said. It was a four-handed handshake. I don’t remember the exact words Mr. Chapperwell spoke just before the zap, but they were something to the effect of ‘more power to you.’

This led to a rumbling as the old heads jabbered at each other. Chapperwell looked down at his hands, hardly daring to breathe.

I see, said Paine. Well, what’s done is done. Whether intended or not, you were just inducted into the Fraternal Order of the Grail.

Right. Yet another bunch of loonies who think they’ve found the Holy Grail. My interest level dropped dramatically.

Yes, I realize the Holy Grail is very much in vogue these days. You’ll recall the usual definition is it’s the cup Jesus used at the Last Supper, although there are other definitions floating about. Some even claim the cup held Jesus’ blood, although my personal opinion is that whatever cup he used, it probably held the liquid of the day, which was likely unfermented grape juice, often referred to as wine in the scriptures.

I closed my eyes and counted to five. If I jumped up (I was the nearest the door), I could get out of the shop, run back down to the Underground (I knew the way now) and return to the hotel and learn yet more about non-deterministic data structures.

Mr. Casler, continued Paine, I know that sounds far fetched. But the transfer of Power you felt yesterday was anything but imagined.

He had a point. All right, I would stay and listen. It would probably be entertaining anyway.

He proceeded to explain that at the end of the Last Supper, the Apostle Peter had grabbed the cup Jesus used, thinking it might have significance. (Nothing was mentioned about whether Peter paid for the cup.) It stayed with Peter and went to Rome with him toward the end of his life. There it was kept safe by a small group, not big enough to be its own monastic order, but rather drawing its members from other orders, hence the name Fraternal Order. Due to persecution from the other, more established orders, some of the members went to the farthest reaches then under Roman protection, in this case Londinium (which became London). The Grail stayed with them and was passed down by inducting fresh blood into the order. He asked if I had any questions.

Of course I had questions.

Fraternal Order of the Grail, I mused. FOG.

There was an immediate murmur that traveled like an echo around the room.

Paine coughed delicately. Mr. Casler, when referring to the organization, we say ‘Fraternity’ or ‘The Order.’

I see. So, anyway, it’s been passed down by inducting new members into FO…I mean the Order. When was the last person inducted?

We have a total of ten members spread across the globe. We keep it at ten, because any more is too many to manage, although you now make eleven. The last member was inducted in 1972.

How old is the youngest member? I asked, looking at the fifty percent of FOG now in the room (a bit more, counting me).

This led to more murmurs. Seventy-three, he replied.

I see, I said. You need some fresh blood.

This is an issue, admitted Paine. But we must be very sure before someone is initiated.

I’ll admit I have my doubts, I said. The Holy Grail after two thousand years? How can you be sure you have the right cup? Where is it, anyway?

As if on cue, one of the mystery people pushed his chair back and turned to a large safe tucked in a corner. I hadn’t seen it when coming into the inner sanctum. With a hush over the room, he pulled out a large box, which he placed on the table at the very center. In fact, he nudged it a bit to make sure it was lined up precisely just so. As if on cue, all the other men arose. Feeling it would be rude not to follow suit, I did the same.

The box was about a foot square and eight inches high, made of wood of an indeterminate age. It was carved, though I’ll admit I never got close enough to see what was carved into the carvings, because carvings can only be seen in an appropriate light, and anyway the carvings weren’t painted, nor was there any dust, so I can’t report further on the carvings. But I thought you’d like to know that carvers had had at the box at some point.

Mr. Unknown undid a latch and lifted back the lid, which swung open to reveal a rather plain drinking vessel lying in deep red plush. Mr. Unknown made no move to remove it from its (presumably) sacred resting place. Everyone assumed the attitude of deepest reverence and admiration.

I suppose everyone needs a few objects they can cling to in order to provide a link with the past. My Uncle Bob died when I was a teen, and I got the Masonic sheepskin apron he wore as he lay in his casket—it was removed before he was cremated. The apron sits in a small cardboard box in my dresser. I will never get rid of it and will possibly pass it onto my son. It’s a tangible reminder of how much I enjoyed Uncle Bob, even if he were a desert hermit. It was sacred to him and is therefore sacred to me, though I have never had anything to do with the Masons and haven’t looked at the apron in years. For that matter, I’ve never had it out of the box.

Anyway, I couldn’t help but ask the question. Mr. Paine, how do you know this is the actual cup Jesus used at the Last Supper?

Rather than treating my question as sacrilege, he simply asked me again what I’d felt the day before.

A zap.

We call this ‘The Power.’ Please touch the cup.

I moved around the table for a closer look. The other two Mr. Unknowns stepped back to give me room to maneuver.

The cup was nothing special, certainly not museum quality. I guess the inn the early party used for their Passover supper was not the Ritz or the Hilton. The cup was definitely pottery, a sort of bone white. The glaze was riven with fine cracks. It had no adornments or markings—just a simple, in fact rude, cup.

I reached out with my right index finger and touched its rim.

The zap was not nearly as powerful as that of the day before, but it was pronounced.

I see, I said.

The first Mr. Unknown reverently closed the lid and put the box back into the safe. Once the safe door clanged shut and he spun the lock, we all sat down.

Mr. Casler, last night you were unwittingly initiated into The Order. The Power you received is holy and is the Power of the Grail.

What does one do with The Power? I asked.

Understand here, I’m an engineer. Power is the product of the current, the voltage and the cosine of the phase angle between the two. It is the rate at which energy is delivered. It’s measured in watts, if you’re an electrical engineer, which I am; for example a one-hundred watt light bulb consumes energy at the rate of 100 watts. So, you understand I like things precise and measurable, not vague.

For each of us it offers different blessings, he responded as though this were obvious. As a novice member, you will soon receive a personal rod containing the Power of the Grail. The rod represents the staff given to Moses. We have already contacted our fraternal brother Harold Bender in Denver, Colorado, who will be your mentor. He will be in touch with you and will help you explore this Power so it can bless and influence your life for good.

You haven’t yet asked whether I want to do this, I reminded him.

Oh, Mr. Casler! I’m afraid we’re well past that point!

Chapter 7

Ok, let’s summarize. I’ve been give The Power by means of a four-handed handshake and a phrase that said power to you. There was a zap involved. We’re about halfway to the broomstick. Bear with me. Yes, I know you want me to jump to the broomstick, but the world has been clamoring to know the real source of technology behind this amazing revolution in personal transportation, so I’m trying to lead you through the exact sequence of events. Being an engineer, I like things complete, and leaving out a key step means you don’t get the end result. It’s like buying a car and forgetting to fill the gas tank. Quite simply put, we’re only halfway there, so hang on. I promise: we will get to the broomstick, and soon. Of course, you recognize the four-handed handshake, which is essential to pass on the power to fly a broom. But a key factor is still missing. I shall now tell you about it.

I don’t need to mention much about the flight back from London, except to say it was horrible. Yes, I know United Airlines does its best. I’m a Premier Executive frequent flyer with United, at least I was at the time of the flight, which meant I got slightly preferential treatment at the airport. However, I wanted to travel with Loretta, and that meant giving up a seat in Economy Plus, where they not only give you room for your head, arms, and torso but for your legs as well, to head back to dreaded Economy. The 777 was full to the gills—I guess aircraft have gills—they have to get air inside them somehow—and we had center seats (there are three center seats in the center section of the triple-seven, right next to each other, flanked on either side by a coveted aisle seat) and we were almost back to the restrooms, which meant every time the plane hit an atom of air—they’re actually fairly infrequent at 40,000 feet—we felt a bump. I was green and not feeling well when we finally, blessedly, landed in Chicago.

We had separate flights from Chicago to Denver, but then were on the same puddle-jumper that goes over the Rockies and into our local airport, which is Montrose—airport code MTJ for those of you who are airport code buffs. I had to sit for twenty minutes on an airport bench before I was fit to walk to the car. I hate the whole commercial air travel experience.

Anyway, The Call came on a dark and stormy night. Hold on—there aren’t that many dark and stormy nights in this account, although a pretty major one is coming up, but this one wasn’t it, and anyway when we get to that one it will take several chapters to cover for reasons that will be obvious when we get there.

Out here, where we live just north of Ridgway, all nights are dark. If there’s no moon, heaven help you, because there aren’t any streetlights, plus there’s none of that ubiquitous glow that characterizes the eastern cities, and you navigate either by flashlight or the light of the stars. By the way, the light of the stars can be quite bright here, and the light of the moon absolutely blinding—it’s a great place for amateur astronomy, what aficionados refer to reverently as dark skies.

But, our story continues on a moonless night in June of 2005, which was in fact stormy. I do not recall the exact date, since I wasn’t keeping good notes at that point—I get better as we go. There had been some lightning, no little amount of rain, and all was muddy in every direction.

A word here. We live in the boonies. Ridgway is a small town nestled—note all small mountain towns are nestled—there isn’t any other way to situate them around here—at the foot of Mount Sneffels in the San Juan Mountains of Southwestern Colorado, all of which are part of the majestic Rocky Mountains. If that sounds romantic, it is. We had moved here about three years before, refugees from Colorado’s Front Range, which is that newly megalopolized stretch of I-25 that strings in a gaudy sprawl from Pueblo all the way up to Fort Collins and beyond. The Front Range is getting just plain too crowded, so we opted for Ridgway, population about 800, in Ouray (pronounced Yer-Ray) County, population 4,000, with one traffic light and two grocery stores in the whole county. Nice place.

Back to the stormy night. I was preparing for the imminent release of Book 8 of the Three on a Broomstick series, The Old Woman Returns, by rereading all the previously-released Three on a Broomstick books from beginning to end. Best to have everything current in my mind, I thought. I will admit I’m quite taken by Three on a Broomstick, even though the series is designed for children and young adults. Alec Pringle has created a semi-alternate universe paralleling our own that is alive with sparkle, fascination and possibilities, yet still infested by evil characters such as the great Marco himself. I marvel at his ability to capture the imagination. My hat is off to him, and if you insist on pointing out I hardly ever wear a hat, except for walks, then I will put a hat on just for you, take it off, and bow in the direction of his beloved Manchester, England, which is different from London, though both are British, though they like to say United Kingdom or just U.K. Yes, I know about the other series that involves magic, and I enjoy it too, but Pringle is a lot more regular about coming out with his books—once a year like clockwork.

Now you say to yourself it’s all well and good that John and Conan and Alex can fly a broomstick big enough for the three of them. At least that’s what I thought. I’ll admit my mind has wandered occasionally, imagining how it must feel to have the wind in my hair and the sting on my cheeks of the omnipresent English rain. But that’s what makes Pringle such a good writer—he puts me inside his characters and makes me want to be a kid again, even if only a kid in a Manchester Public High School. The books are set around fictional Whetherby High School in the Wythenshawe area of Manchester, which is kind of on the south of town, but you know that, having read the books yourself.

Except I could never be a kid in Manchester. I speak American, not English.

But, all that has nothing to do with anything, except to note that’s how I was engaged when the phone rang. Reluctantly, I put The Castle’s Secret down and picked up the phone. It was the promised Harold Bender at last.

This is Hal Bender. I hope you were expecting this call.

I had to clear my brain of Three on a Broomstick and remember where I’d heard the name Bender before.

Yes, I said after an awkward pause. I’ll admit I’ve forgotten entirely about FOG. That was February.

Please, ‘The Order.’ I apologize for the delay. It took considerable time to manufacture your rod. It’s been so long since we’ve made one we had a bit of trouble. But I’d like to meet with you and explain everything, give you your rod, and tell you what lies before you.

I see. I had no desire to pursue this FOG fiction. Subsequent to the zap, exactly nothing had happened except I’d had the same recurring