Chapter 3
“To Miss Helen Atwell, who has recognized the true value of magic.
I am delighted to have received your acknowledgment! All the time and care I put into casting this spell was worth it. This time, I truly wanted to bring you a little happiness—with my magic! After all, I believe magic was given to us as a miracle to bring happiness.
With the help of darkness and wind, I quietly slipped into the place where you live. I didn’t actually know much about the Song of the Wasteland, but as I said before, the Wasteland is home to many birds. With the help of many friends, I was able to complete the spell. (By the way, did you know birds also love songs?)
After confirming the magic’s success, I left the scene without a trace. True magic should never be revealed as having been done by someone in particular. There is no need to boast that I was the one who cast it. Magic is enough simply as magic.
I was honored to give you a moment of joy.
I must confess, though I left right away after casting the magic, I did take a brief moment to look at you. I saw you smile. It reminded me of an old saying: The effect of magic you cast will always return to you in some form.
That night, I was the happiest magician alive.
May the Moon Queen’s blessing be with you.
A night mulling over Robert O’Connell’s lyrics,
Enoch Greer.”
“To Enoch, who I wish would make his presence known if he’s come—
You mean you just took one look at me and left? How could you? Ever since that day you boasted about your looks, I’ve been imagining every kind of handsome man in my head. Can’t you show me your face before I get my hopes up even higher? I love handsome men as much as Robert O’Connell.
Seriously, don’t you people have cameras in your world? Why bother with a painted portrait? Magic is fine, but try introducing civilization—just press a button and you can get a picture a hundred times better than a portrait. Damn, if I weren’t at war, I’d send you one myself.
Can’t you give me a hint at least? Like your eye color? Describe it in detail! I’m starved for handsome faces. Of course, it’s not like there are no men here. At least all the higher-ups are male. This is the first time women have been recruited as support troops during wartime, so that says it all. Even our uniforms and underwear are all made for men. For crying out loud, we even have to freeze while doing needlework!
The faces of the officers are barely recognizable as human—nothing satisfying there. I need a handsome man. (Well, there is one officer who’s not bad to look at, but I’m pretty sure he’s not right in the head. If he ever heard I wrote this in a letter, that’d be the end of me.)
Men’s units hang up photos of women for comfort, but what do we have?
Anyway, enough complaining—who’s this Moon Queen you keep talking about? Is she the same Moon Queen I know, or is it different? Do you mean a real queen, or do you worship the moon as a queen?
While you’re at it, tell me more about your magical world. I need something to dream about.
—H.A.”
“To Miss Helen Atwell, lover of money and handsome men—
You really do seem to like good-looking faces! I’m sorry there are no men there to your taste. But what about women? Are there no beautiful women? You seem to find joy in looking at beautiful faces, so perhaps it doesn’t matter if it’s not a man. (Well, first of all, take a look in the mirror!)
Since you’re so persistently curious about my looks, I can’t help but tell you—my eyes are a pale gray, like mist over a lake at dawn. I hope they please you.
Let’s move on from my appearance. You asked about our magical world. Normally, we don’t speak of our world to the Wasteland, but you also fly through the skies like we do, so it should be fine.
I hear the Wasteland has four seasons. Even half a year with blazing sun and no snow at all! We have no such thing as ‘seasons.’ The climate is the same all year round.
In our world, it always snows. From gray-clouded skies, snow falls endlessly. We call this snow ‘Grace.’ I’ll explain why in a moment.
In the daytime, the weather is what you might call dreary and gloomy, but we hardly notice—we spend our days buried in bed, resting.
Magic awakens only after sunset. When the sun dips beyond the horizon and darkness falls, beautiful lights brighten the city. Our brothers and sisters come out into the streets. Can you imagine it? Our city shining even brighter than it did in the day.
Night is when countless lights come alive. The daylight, where sunlight monopolizes everything, is so dull and fleeting. Only in the dark can the many other lights around us reveal themselves: the lamplight in the streets, the countless stars studding the dark blue sky like jewels… And above all, the most radiant light of all, the mother of all miracles—the Moon Queen gazing down upon us.
From the highest place, no cloud dares to block her view. When the sun departs, the clouds withdraw and a clear sky emerges, yet the snow continues to fall. Snow without clouds—this is the Moon Queen’s own gift to us.
And the snow that piles up is the source of our magic. Have you ever observed snowflakes closely, Helen? No two are alike—each has its own beautiful pattern. And those patterns are not just patterns—they are the magical words the Moon Queen gives us.
When you sing the prayer that best matches those magical words, wonders happen! Following the witches’ and wizards’ song, the snow glows pure white in the moonlight and rises into the sky, bringing miracles. Nowhere but under the Moon Queen’s care can such beauty be seen.
Yes, the one who grants us the power to work miracles is the Moon Queen herself. That is why we worship her and, once a year, hold a festival in her honor. We sing hymns, serve turkey and cake to the children, and cast the greatest magic of the year for the coming days. We call this feast ‘The Festival of the Golden Moon.’
On that day, the Moon Queen changes into golden attire, and gold dust falls from the sky, as though it will shine forever.
I don’t know much about Wasteland culture, but surely you have your own splendid festival where everyone can’t help but be happy? In your world, the sun reigns supreme, so perhaps you have a sun-related festival?
Snow will soon fall in your world too.
On a night graced with blessing, perhaps we will meet again.
A night when moonlight fills the attic,
Enoch Greer.”
“To the ultimate night owl wizard—
Hey, you know what? Reading your story gave me the strangest feeling—like your magical world was my own. I can’t cast magic with snow like you, but my world also has a culture that worships the moon, and a night when the moon turns golden once a year.
We have a festival for it too.
Well… we had one. All the people who worshipped the moon are gone now. In truth, I only ever heard of it as something from the distant past.
You may not understand, but we call the golden moon ‘Lyn Doth’ in our language. It’s also the name of the vanished festival. They say it was truly beautiful and magnificent. I can’t describe it, never having been there myself.
But there’s no need to be sad just because something beautiful is gone. If you spent feelings on every lost thing, you’d never stop. Lyn Doth is just one of many things that have disappeared.
Your enchanting story makes mine seem plain, so I’ll stop here.
Tonight, I feel like I could wander into the moon’s festival my grandmother once loved.
—H.A.”
“To Miss Helen Atwell, who is hiding something—
I have never once thought your stories were plain—or ever would. Tell me your story, Helen. I am always here to listen.
If you let me hear it, I will show you my face.
A night where silence listens to your story,
Enoch Greer.”
