Chapter 1
0. The Wizard’s Letter
“Dear Miss Helen Atwell,
My fireplace has been left to gather dust for a very long time, and I’m not sure if it still works. If you are reading this letter, it means the fireplace has successfully delivered it to you.
I even practiced my handwriting to make a good impression on you. How is it? I simply couldn’t bring myself to send you a letter with ugly penmanship.
I also agonized over what kind of paper and ink to use. Can you imagine me debating whether thick, rough paper would be better, or a clean, pure white one?
If the local crows saw me like this, they would probably scold me with the phrase, ‘Good grief, it’s a festival of nonsense.’ But who wouldn’t be like this? Everyone wants to look their best when meeting someone for the first time, or when going to an interview. That’s why we put on our best cloak before stepping outside.
By now, you must be curious who I am, right? Please say you are. Introducing oneself to someone who isn’t curious is terribly embarrassing. And I can’t rule out the possibility that my fireplace malfunctioned and sent this letter to a complete stranger.
If Miss Helen could reply confirming this letter reached the right person, then you will find out who I am!
I await your kind reply.
Under the watch of the Moon Queen,
From someone who wishes to speak with Miss Helen.”
“To Miss Helen Atwell, who may be flying in the skies,
My fireplace may be old, but it doesn’t lie! It told me with great confidence that it delivered this letter precisely to Miss Helen Atwell. Naturally, I believed it—after all, who knows better than the fireplace where the letter went?
Yet, after waiting a day or two, there was no reply. Even now, I keep glancing at the fireplace, but there’s no sign of an incoming letter.
Perhaps you are far too busy to respond. After all, you must be the same kind as me. When I saw you flying perfectly across the silver-strewn Milky Way of the dawn sky, I wanted to send my admiration!
And I had heard there was no magic in your world—so when I saw someone riding a broomstick, I was stunned! A witch appearing like a comet in a barren land without magic! (That’s the most perfect metaphor I could think of for you.) The moment I saw you, I knew I had to write to you.
To witness a witch, even more skilled than our sister witches, in a place where not even a trace of magic exists—it made my heart race in ways you cannot imagine.
I am still waiting for your reply. Surely you know of magical secrets unknown to me! And you could tell me about that barren land, wondrous in a different way from our world.
My fireplace is always open.
With the Moon Queen’s blessing,
From someone. (Not a strange person!)”
“To the pioneer of flight, Miss Helen Atwell,
Not wanting to appear rude, I waited patiently—silently—for your reply. (For a whole week!)
In the meantime, I discussed the matter with a crow, trying to figure out why no reply had come. The crow suggested perhaps you didn’t know how to send a reply through my fireplace.
But that’s absurd! A witch with such perfect flying skills could surely send a letter through a fireplace as easily as chewing gum. (In my world, even a four-year-old could do such a thing.)
So I considered another possibility—perhaps you found my letter suspicious. After all, magic users like us hate having our identities revealed. And since you are a witch living in a barren land, you must keep your secrets even more tightly.
Therefore, as an apology for my rudeness, I will tell you my name. My name is Enoch Greer.
I’ve also enclosed proof that I am indeed a wizard. It’s my best magic—the magic of making people feel better! Surely that will ease your doubts.
This time, may I believe a reply will come?
With trust and goodwill,
Enoch Greer.”
“Hey, Enoch.
Are you on drugs? For a junkie, your handwriting is surprisingly neat.
Around here, plenty of folks look for narcotics. I’m not going to judge—it’s the kind of place where you might need drugs to keep your sanity. Funny, isn’t it?
But you… you might be worse than most. If you’re seeing illusions about magic and broomsticks, you should see the army doctor. I’m saying this because I actually worry for you.
I could’ve just written you off as some idiot junkie, but you did send me chocolate. That makes you not the worst sort.
I hope you take the flowers out of your hair so we can talk normal-to-normal. (Not that I’m asking for another letter.)
By the way, how do you even know my name? This area is for an all-female squadron.
—H. A”
“To the kind Miss Helen Atwell,
When flames rose in my fireplace and I saw your letter arrive, I nearly hugged the crow beside me so hard I almost burst it! (I did, however, suffer a vicious pecking on my arm and hand.)
At last, I could converse with the great witch who rules the skies and is admired by the earth! My handwriting may look shaky as ripples on water—that’s just my excitement.
I quickly read your letter, eager to know what you’d written.
Yet… I must confess, I still do not fully understand it. Could it be my poor comprehension? I would be grateful if you, in your wisdom, could enlighten me.
What is a “squadron”? I searched Olga Gehrg’s Encyclopedia of All Knowledge Under Heaven, but found nothing.
If you confirmed my identity with the magic I enclosed, why do you speak as if you don’t believe in magic?
Did my “chocolate” help, even a little?
On a night when snow always falls,
Enoch Greer—who needs no extra flowers in his hair, for he is already like a flower.”
Medical Report – 386th Flying Battalion, 2nd Female Squadron – Sergeant Helen Dorothy Atwell, Week 2
After volunteering for enlistment, the patient was selected for air raids within a month, resulting in longer exposure to combat than most soldiers. Her mental resilience is deemed remarkably strong under such circumstances.
However, after the recent consecutive deaths of close comrades, she shows severe symptoms of trauma. The condition is likely to worsen and requires continuous treatment.
The patient refuses antidepressants and other medication, and should be encouraged to accept drug treatment.
Whether the patient should continue to be deployed in combat requires discussion.
“To Enoch, whose good looks I’m deeply curious about,
Oh? You’re that handsome? Then why not come see me in person? You said you saw me flying—that means you’re nearby, right?
I like handsome men. No need for these drifter-style pen pal exchanges. Let’s meet sometime—I’ll be nice to you. But if it turns out you lied about your looks, I might use some of the techniques I learned in the army.
And since I’m infinitely generous to handsome men, I’ll answer your ridiculous questions.
A squadron? It’s a group of people who take planes to put on fireworks shows over enemy bases. Or, people who willingly walk into hell. I’m one of them. Whoever Olga Gehrg is (probably a witch, don’t bother explaining), you must have a good life if you don’t know the word “squadron.” I envy you, Ollie.
Obviously, I’m not a witch. If I had magic, I wouldn’t be stuck here. If I had magic, I’d start by making the rich my slaves and have them bring me money. A woman needs money, not love. As I said, I’m just an ordinary woman, and I don’t believe in magic. Even if you are really a wizard, I don’t care. What I’ve learned here is this—miracles and magic never happen to me.
Chocolate? Can’t really tell the effect yet… maybe if I had about ten more pieces.
And why didn’t you answer my question? How do you know my name? (And don’t you dare say you saw it in some mystical magic crystal ball, or I’ll come find you with fireworks ready to launch.)
—H. A”
