Fantastic Schools
Volume 2
Edited by
Christopher G. Nuttall
and
L. Jagi Lamplighter
Contents
Fantastic Schools: Why Magic
Just Another Job
Too Good to be True
Sorcery’s Preschool
Going Home
The Monster of Mordwin
The Most Secret Magic of All
In Our Father’s Hand
A Polite Request from a Tough Soldier
Lab Day
The Fox and the Snake
Nannette’s Tale
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Most Likely to Succeed
Rachel Griffin and the Missing Laundry
Halloween Dance
A Word from Chris Nuttall
About the Editors
Copyright
Wisecraft Publishing
Copyright © 2020 by Christopher G. Nuttall and L. Jagi Lamplighter
All rights reserved. No part of the content of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database retrieval system, or copied by any technology yet to be developed without the prior written permission of the author. You may not circulate this book in any format.
ISBN: 978-1-953739-00-1
ASIN: number here
Edited by: Christopher G. Nuttall and L. Jagi Lamplighter
Cover art by: Brad Fraunfelter
* * *
Copyright Notices
* * *
“Just Another Job” by J.F. Posthumus. Copyright © 2020 by J.F. Posthumus
“Too Good to be True” by Christine Amsden. Copyright © 2020 by Christine Amsden
“Sorcery’s Preschool” by James Pyles. Copyright © 2020 by James Pyles
“Going Home” by Becky R. Jones. Copyright © 2020 by Becky R. Jones
“Monster of Mordwin” by Morgon Newquist. Copyright © 2020 Morgon Newquist
“The Most Secret Magic of All” by Tom Anderson. Copyright © 2020 by Tom Anderson
“In Our Father’s Hand” by Patrick Lauser. Copyright © 2020 by Patrick Lauser
“A Polite Request from a Tough Soldier” by James Odell. Copyright © 2020 by James Odell
“Lab Day” by Misha Burnett. Copyright © 2020 by Misha Burnett
“The Fox and the Snake” by Audrey Andrews. Copyright © 2020 by Audrey Andrews
“Nanette’s Tale” by Christopher G. Nuttall. Copyright © 2020 by Christopher G. Nuttall
“Most Likely to Succeed” by Paul A. Piatt. Copyright © 2020 by Paul A. Piatt
“Rachel Griffin and the Missing Laundry” by L. Jagi Lamplighter. Copyright © 2020 by L. Jagi Lamplighter
“Halloween Dance” by David Breitenbeck. Copyright © 2020 by David Breitenbeck
Fantastic Schools: Why Magic
A Note from the Editor
Sooner or later, every lover of fantasy faces the same question: “Why do you read (or write) about magic? Why not something more realistic like petty thievery or insurance fraud?
“After all, isn’t fantasy nothing but escapism?”
Ah, escapism.
Is that all we are doing when we read? Running away from the ills of everyday life by burying our nose in a book? Is all our reading pleasure only a form of skirting chores?
Two of my favorite fantasy writers have weighed in upon this subject. The first was J. R. R. Tolkien. With The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien created one of the most rich and varied magical worlds ever devised. His books have inspired more than one generation of fantasy stories. He wrote about this topic in his excellent essay On Fairy Stories.
His view on the topic was summed up by author Ursula LeGuin—whose Wizard of Earthsea remains one of my all-time favorite books and contains one of the earliest schools of magic (Roke). In The Language of the Night: Essays on Fantasy and Science Fiction, Le Guin wrote:
“If it’s worth answering, the best answer is given by Tolkien, author, critic, and scholar. Yes, he said, fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape? The moneylenders, the knownothings, the authoritarians have us all in prison; if we value the freedom of the mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can.”
Another of my favorite writers, Lloyd Alexander, the author of The Chronicles of Prydain, takes it even a step farther. Alexander wrote: “Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It’s a way of understanding it.”
For me, I do not believe fantasy is escapism at all. Or rather, I do not believe it is only escapism. For some, it might serve that purpose. Sometimes life is hard and a break from it can make it easier to face.
But that is not why I read stories of enchantment and wonder.
People talk about the horrors of real life, but, truly, real life is also filled with wonders. Talk to nearly any human being, and you will find that something astonishing has happened in their life, from an outright miracle—such as a spontaneous healing where none was expected—to the every day kind of miracle that is so enormous, even though it is common, that we cannot even put it into words—such as the birth of babies or the joy of a bride.
And yet, when we are plodding along, day by day, in our ordinary lives, we tend to forget that wonder. It is as if a dark miasma of cares wraps around us and smothers out all memory of hope or better things.
Reading about magic might help some escape from the doldrums of real life, but for me, and I believe for some others as well, a story of magical enchantment does just the opposite.
It reminds me of how much more life has to offer.
When I read of children flying on brooms, magical beasts, talking cats, it is as if a fresh breeze has suddenly blown through the room, a breeze that carries the scent of the lands beyond the Fields We Know. By lifting our heads and breathing in that breeze, we can remind ourselves that there is so much more.
We can remind ourselves of miracles.
Reading about magic schools gives me hope. It gives me a sense that something marvelous might be around the corner. It reminds me that I do not need to settle for this present darkness but that I can struggle to achieve greater things. It whispers that the world might be a finer place, if only we did not give up hope.
Once, many years ago, my son, who was then a first grader, asked me, “Mom, why do you write fantasy?” I was a bit taken aback, but after stuttering, I replied, “Because it is filled with wonder—wonder, magic, and enchantment. Because when you write fantasy, you can write about anything.”
Why magic? For me, it is all about the wonder.
* * *
L. Jagi Lamplighter
Centreville, Virginia
Just Another Job
J.F. Posthumus
A substitute teacher for the Hogsback Public Schools, Harold Sylverson expected his assignment at Hogsback Creek Academy to be just another job. Robes and school uniforms? Those aren’t too unusual. An old historic building with no electricity? Well, he�
��s got solar portable chargers for his phone. This isn’t his first rodeo in an oddball place, after all.
But the students in his classroom are something of a completely different sort. Harold quickly discovers magic is real and he’s in charge of teaching World History to a group of magically inclined children!
What could possibly go wrong for someone without even a smidge of magical ability?
Just Another Job
The road leading to Hogsback Creek Academy left Harold very thankful to be able to park his car in the dirt lot to the left of the sprawling stone buildings. The twisty, turny roads that led to the school had multiple ninety-degree curves with steep ravines on one side the entire way. Several times, he’d looked over to see nothing but rocks, trees, and tiny black dots representing buildings. Even barely doing twenty miles an hour, his heart had lived in his throat for fear of missing a turn and plummeting over the side of the road.
How anyone managed to zip by him, Harold was still trying to figure out.
Drawing a deep, calming breath, he opened his car door and turned to his current assignment. Staring at the building, he felt his nerves calming as wonder replaced the fear.
Hogsback Creek Academy, itself, resembled some fancy castle complete with a carriage house, enormous greenhouse, and fields sprawling behind the structures as far as the eyes could see.
Who was he to argue? He was here to be a substitute teacher for the coming week. Seemed someone had come down with the flu or something, and he was needed to take over the World History class.
Admittedly, Harold was thoroughly intrigued by the design of this school building. He easily spotted some Italian Renaissance in the main building, alongside some German and French influences. The windows were clean. He squinted at them, despite the blinding sunlight. They appeared to be clean from top-to-bottom inside and out.
If that were the case, he’d have to remember to ask how they managed that feat.
The cry of a hawk pulled his gaze skyward, and he watched as a large raptor soared around a spire before vanishing into the structure.
Interesting, he thought. Perhaps the bird simply nested there? After all, in Virginia, falconry wasn’t a legal pastime.
Detaching the phone from his car charger, he frowned. No signal. That would make things a bit difficult. Not too surprising, though, considering how far into the middle of nowhere this place was located. He suspected, from the ups and downs of the road he’d taken, they were at the top of a mountain. Or close to it.
This wouldn’t be the first time he’d worked where cell signal was zilch. There were plenty of dead zones in the mountains of Virginia. Sometimes in areas you wouldn’t expect.
Mountains did tend to kill signals. Even five minutes from civilization, you could lose cell signal. It happened in the rural areas. One reason why landlines would never, entirely, die.
It was also why he made certain his phone had a large storage capacity. He kept his music selection updated and a few favorite movies downloaded. He never went anywhere unprepared for ‘rustic’ living. Portable chargers, tablets, a car charger, and even a solar-powered charger were all things he kept in his emergency pack.
After being sent to the middle of nowhere to teach some Boy Scouts how to build huts out of twigs and branches, along with the history behind how people lived during the 1600s, Harold never went anywhere without his solar-powered charger.
Not everyone was meant to be without technology, and Harold loved his phone.
Popping his car’s trunk, Harold grabbed a bulging backpack, suitcase, and his briefcase. Another two suitcases remained in the trunk. He slammed the trunk, pressed the lock on his key fob, and headed for the huge, wooden double doors that were more medieval in style than contemporary. Along with the stone, the wood was aged, weather-worn and ancient. The hinges were large, black, and wrought iron. Elegant. He’d seen them on castles and other Renaissance-era buildings.
He suspected they had been hand-crafted.
As he approached, the door to the right swung open. A tall, stern man stood in the doorway. Long, flaming red hair was pulled back into a ponytail before curling around his shoulders. His eyes were emerald green and were filled with confusion.
“Who are you?” the man asked, arms folded and hidden within the voluminous robes he wore.
“Harold Sylverson,” Harold said pleasantly. He offered a bright, friendly smile. At least, Harold hoped it was a bright, friendly smile. He felt rather confused, himself. “I’m the substitute for world history?”
“The… what?” the man repeated before taking a long moment to regard Harold’s clothing and accessories. He shrugged. “World history, eh? Come in, I’ll show you to your chambers. Whom are you… substituting for?”
“Thank you,” Harold said, trying to not sigh. “Mrs. Clarke.”
The man merely stared longer at Harold before turning and entering the building.
It was going to be one of those positions, Harold decided. Left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing. But… how could this fellow not know he was the substitute? Did they not keep up with their fellow teachers?
“And your name, sir?” Harold asked, as he followed the man into the foyer.
“Olam Kram. Instructor of herbology,” he replied, not looking back at Harold.
“Ah. That’s an impressive greenhouse you have,” Harold said, staring at the grandeur around him.
“Thank you,” Kram replied, with something more akin to life finally entering the man’s voice. “It is my pride and joy.”
Harold nodded. Gave some sort of polite reply, but he didn’t remember what it was. He was too wrapped up in trying to absorb everything.
The interior was even more impressive than the exterior. He recognized a lot of antiques as they traversed the corridors. He could have sworn he witnessed a broom sweeping on its own along one side hallway. Another hallway had a bucket at one of the windows. There appeared to be a rag hanging on the window.
There was no possible way a rag could be cleaning a window by itself.
Harold would be damned if it didn’t appear that way, though. He hurried along behind Kram, hoping he was just imagining things.
The staircase resembled those used by servants in a typical castle. Winding, made of stone, Harold was dying to know the history behind this majestic building. The stones were cool to the touch. They were also smooth beneath his fingers. Curious.
Even more curious were the lit sconces lining the wall.
That’s when Harold realized he hadn’t seen any electrical outlets. No light switches. Nothing to even hint at electricity in the school. Yet, the building was a comfortable temperature.
Everyone knew castles were drafty. Anyone with a history degree was aware that tapestries were used to keep warmth inside the castle. It was a method to combat the cold dampness that could easily seep through the stone structures.
Yet, this place did not have that problem.
Finally, after ten minutes of walking up the winding staircase, Kram stepped onto a landing and opened a door. Harold followed him through into another hallway lined with doors. Small tables were scattered about the hallway, displaying vases of sweet-smelling flowers or delicate statues.
“These are your chambers,” Kram stated, opening the third door on the left.
Harold peered inside to find a small, if not comfortable, sitting room. To the right was a bedroom. Both rooms were fully furnished.
“Thank you. I’ll return later to unpack. Could you show me to my classroom?” Harold asked, dropping his suitcase on a chair.
“Oh. Uh, yes. Of course,” Kram managed to say.
Fifteen minutes later, Harlod stepped into a large room that reminded him more of a college classroom than anything remotely like a school.
The classroom was designed in a way that resembled a small auditorium, with enough descending rows of seats for at least one hundred students. At the bottom of the rows was a pedestal stage, large enough for any dis
play, or even a small rock band to perform. There was no projection screen or any multimedia devices that Harold could see, only a desk that must have cost a fortune at an antique dealer’s showroom. That beauty sat to the left of the stage, with a matching chair. Harold found himself rushing down the center aisle to get a better look.
There was a bang, and Harold looked up in time to see the heavy wooden door shutting, leaving him in the room alone.
Sliding the backpack off his shoulders, Harold straightened his tie, made certain his button-up shirt was neat, and rolled his shoulders. The backpack did not go on the desk but rather the chair behind the desk. He did gently ease the briefcase onto the desk, flicking the metal tabs up, before opening it slowly. Almost reverently, he removed the gradebook, small box that held his prized fountain pens, and a pack of multi-colored pens. He removed a small pencil box, which held extra pencils, markers, a pair of small pencil sharpeners, and a pair of small scissors.
Opening the long, middle desk drawer, he found parchment paper, a quill, inkblot and bottle, and a tiny knife.
Harold frowned. Opening one of the drawers on the side of the desk, he found more items that went with learning calligraphy as used up to the 19th century. Perhaps this classroom had been used for something similar. Or perhaps that was part of the lessons taught by Mrs. Clarke, the teacher for whom he was substituting.
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