The lady’s face was calm as a pool, with shining eyes, and her hair fell in two plaits down her shoulders. She held a tall, simple chalice, filled to the brim with still, clear water. The room was silent.
But after a time sounds of disturbance were heard outside, and were coming nearer the door. The two inside did not lower their instruments or move at all, but their breathing deepened.
The door was opened by Lord Townsend, who stepped immediately aside. Sandy came in, framed by the dark figure of Rupert Dahl standing behind, and in her arms lay her brother’s wasted form. The man and the woman turned their faces, and wonder and fear filled them. Arnould opened his eyes, and stared at the two.
“They’re a king and queen.” he said, through his dry lips.
They laid him on the table, and the rain fell; its sound and smell and taste and touch began to wash death and evil away.
“Father?”
“Yes, my son?”
“Might you pray over us before we sleep? No one ever has before.”
“I will.”
Arnould held Hyram near his cheek. The peace of sleep had already come to Sandy’s face as she lay awake, with her brother safely in the bed below her again, and her father and mother before her shining eyes. Their father stood in the glow of the candle, and his wife filled the light beside him. He opened his mouth, and prayed solemnly in another language.
* * *
Yevorekhekhah Yahweh weyishmerekhah:
Yo-eir Yahweh ponoyu eileikhah wikhun-nekhah:
Yisa Yahweh ponoyu eileikhah weyosem lekhah sholom.
* * *
The LORD bless thee, and keep thee:
The LORD make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee:
The LORD lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.
Patrick Lauser is a servant of God and of all servants of God. His two central themes are Strange Fantasy and Right Culture. The giants on whose shoulders he teeters precariously include Tolkien, Charles Williams, Elias Lönnrot, Richard Adams, Rudyard Kipling, C. S. Lewis, George MacDonald, Marco Polo, and whoever wrote Beowulf.
* * *
He is the author of a greyscale, surreal journey called, “Jorgan the Sphere: A Foreshadowed Way”.
A Polite Request from a Tough Soldier
James Odell
When Constance was thirteen, she discovered by accident that she was a Firestarter. The man from the Guild told her that the only way she could protect her family from harm was for her to go to the secretive Castle School.
At the school, she learned other forms of magic, which was fun. Unfortunately, the older girls forced her to learn deportment, which was not fun at all. She joined the officer cadets, so she could learn how to abseil down cliffs and other fun things.
But then the army learned about these children. They turned up at the school gates ...
A Polite Request from a Tough Soldier
The New Arrival
Constance hurried along the school corridor to the Headmaster’s office. She patted her pageboy haircut into place and knocked on the door. They were only one week into the new term, and she had received this summons. Why? She could not think of any reason.
“Enter.” Constance walked into the office. Mr. Beguid was tall, thin, and balding, with a sour expression. Three other people were in the room, sitting in high-backed chairs, facing Beguid. A girl, about thirteen, sat between two adults. Constance assumed the adults were the girl’s parents. They were white, wearing expensive smart-casual clothes. The father was blond.
Beguid smiled at her. “Constance is one of our star pupils.” Constance was embarrassed by this praise. She hated being singled out for attention. She hated her geeky reputation. But she knew that she looked presentable. Her uniform was neat.
The mother ignored Constance. “Mr. Beguid, my daughter’s situation is getting worse. I am disturbed that she harmed herself … and now she has started babbling about magic.” She spoke in a posh accent, the one that Constance had been forced to learn when she first came to the school.
Beguid smiled at her. “It’s just a phase they go through, Ms. Smythe.”
The mother turned to Constance. “Can the school cure her?”
Constance was caught out. Weren’t the parents in on the secret? She did not want to state a falsehood. “We can teach her to mind her manners and not embarrass her parents.”
The mother did not reply, but she seemed to be consoled by Constance’s statement.
“We are worried about the police,” the father said to Beguid. “I don’t want my daughter to have a criminal record.”
“You can leave that to us,” Beguid said. “We can ensure their files will show that the case was transferred to Social Services. And they sent the child to an appropriate institution.”
Constance wondered whether she ought to be listening to this conversation.
“It’s that simple?” the father demanded.
“The police are overworked. If we tick the right boxes, they won’t probe further.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s close enough to the truth.” He smiled. “I admit, she’ll have her name in the police files. That’s merely an irritant. But, unfortunately, we can’t tamper with that.”
The parents seemed eager to leave. They jumped up, said hasty farewells, and rushed off.
Beguid’s smile vanished. “Constance, this is Alicia Smythe. I’ve assigned her to your room. Show her the way, will you? I chose you to ‘help her out’ because you’re a Firestarter too.”
“I see, sir.” Constance guessed that the girl had just reached puberty. Now she had been hit by magic. Constance could sympathise.
The girl was on the edge of tears. Her talent, or curse, was Firestarter. As evidence, her arms were still in bandages. That had happened to Constance too. “If you’ll come this way …”
They walked along the brick corridor.
Alicia began to explain, in the same posh accent as her parents. “Before this happened, I was at a top fee-paying school. St. Mary’s Yorkshire. You may have heard of it.”
Constance had heard it described as a snob factory. “Yes.”
“It’s far better than this place. I was so proud to be sent there. But then this happened.”
“But you didn’t have to come here. The Guild offers tutoring. They call it outpatient care. You could have stayed at your school and attended ‘therapy’.”
Constance had been offered that herself but had declined. Constance had wanted to go to this school and learn everything about magic. Sometimes she asked herself whether she had made the right choice.
The girl sniffed. “That’s what I wanted. But the headmistress said no. She said I was delinquent. Said a school for maladjusted children was the best thing for me.”
“Calling it that is just a cover story.”
Alicia merely sniffed. “Where are you from? Pakistan?”
Constance did not expect that tone from first-years. Her reply was sharp. “My family came from Iraq. My grandparents were political refugees.”
The girl recoiled. “You’re an Arab?”
“Yes.” Constance hid her exasperation. She resisted the temptation to explain her background.
Alicia was sniveling. “I could refuse to learn magic.”
Constance stopped. “Listen, brat. If you refuse to learn, you won’t be able to control that fire. You’ll be a menace to all of us. And then you won’t fit in here …”
Four boys passed by. They were fourth years, like her. One grinned. “You tell her, princess.”
The sniveling stopped. Alicia watched the boys walk away. “Why did they call you princess?”
“Because they know it annoys me.”
“You’re not really a princess, are you?”
“My grandmother says she is. And she doesn’t let you forget it.”
“But are you a princess?”
She was tempted to say yes, but common sense prevailed. “No, of course not. But my grandmother expects
me to act like one.” Her tone was bitter.
That made her remember her last visit to her grandmother. The old lady was thin, wearing an elegant green dress. She had glanced at Constance’s uniform and sniffed her disapproval. “I thought you were just a graceless tomboy. But your posture seems to have improved. Does that school teach deportment?”
“It’s not like that, Grandmother.” The Castle School did not give lessons in deportment, but any girl who slouched was mocked and teased until she straightened up. And a visit to grandmother was like returning to school.
“I have been invited to attend the London Arabian Fashion Show next month.” Grandmother paused for emphasis. “So flattering! I considered taking you along as my assistant. You would meet all sorts of interesting people.” She smiled. “Sophisticated people.”
She felt close to panic. “But that’s term time, Grandmother.” She knew that this elegant woman ran a fashion magazine for the expatriate community. And, somehow, it was a success. How did she do that?
Her mother intervened. “Constance would have to spend the night here. You would have to write to the school, my dear, explaining where you were taking her and asking permission. The school has strict rules.”
“I could do that,” Grandmother said, in an offhanded manner.
Constance started paying attention. She enjoyed the thought of Grandmother going mano a mano with Beguid. Attending a fashion show would be a small price to pay.
Grandmother looked her over. “But is it worth the trouble? You’ll never amount to anything.”
She did not know whether to be relieved at a narrow escape or outraged at this set-down.
Alicia provided a distraction. “Are they all Firestarters here?”
“No. Most are telepaths. They hear voices.” She increased her pace. “Natural telepaths are a bit strange. My friend says it’s like standing in a crowded room listening to everyone’s conversations. But there’s a therapy that stops the voices. They learn to Talk to just one person and that shuts out the random voices.”
“Have you learnt it?”
“Yes. I want to learn everything about magic.”
“Can you control fire?”
“After being here three years? Yes, of course.”
“Can I learn, too?”
“That’s what the Castle is for.” She was impatient.
“They said it was dangerous. They said I might harm myself - or the person standing next to me.”
“Yes.” They had said the same to her.
“Show me. Please.”
Constance looked round. No-one was watching. And the girl had said ‘please’. She held her hand out and said the words. “Give me light. Partum a luce.”
She produced a were light, small and pure white. “Although this is light, not heat.”
“You make it look so easy.”
“Well, it isn’t. This takes practice. Lots of practice.”
The girl was silent for a moment. “Do they have a hockey club?”
She refrained from rolling her eyes. “Yes. But they’re hardly premier league. They have an ice hockey team too.”
The girl shuddered. “Not ice hockey. So, you’re not …”
“No. I’m in the rowing club.” She gave in to temptation. “We have a couple of boats at Oxford.” Surely this twit had heard of Oxford University.
The girl went silent. Constance led the way to the South Wing and up to the second floor. “The girls’ dormitories are in the upper floors of the south wing. Classes are mixed, though. Seniors—boys and girls—have the classrooms in the North Wing. Juniors study in the South Wing.” This year, she was taking her lessons in the North Wing.
“This is our room.” She knocked, pushed open the door, and found a first-year girl sitting on one of the beds.
Felicity objected to the intrusion. “We already have to share.”
Constance was annoyed. “Did you expect us to have a whole room to yourselves? There could be another by the end of the year.”
Alicia had another question. “They keep telling me that magic is secret. But they didn’t say what would happen if I told anyone.”
“They’ll laugh at you,” Felicity said. “And if you demonstrate it to other people, they’ll send you to the Tower of London.”
Alicia pouted. “You’re laughing at me!”
Constance shook her head. “I can tell you one thing for free: The Tower has a curse on it. Ask your parents to take you there. You’ll be able to sense it, and they won’t.”
“And what’ll happen if I try?”
“You’ll drop dead,” Felicity said.
“The rumour I heard was that magic just doesn’t work there,” Constance said. “Although, I don’t intend to try it.”
Light and Fire
Constance followed the teacher, Mr. Stuart, along the gravel path to the walled enclosure that the scholars called the ‘Secret Garden’. The enclosure did contain some rose bushes, but there was nothing secret about it. The high walls were there to protect the school if there was an accident inside.
She had been asked to attend an exercise for some first-year students. The students were Alicia Smythe and two junior boys, Paul and Charles. They all wore their uniform shell jackets—windproof, rainproof and fire resistant. The teacher, Mr. Stuart, had brought Constance along as exemplar and, she suspected, as a chaperone.
Alicia had become a problem. She was a snob, and, to her, Constance was a princess. She also thought that Constance was interested in everything she had to say. “I had to listen to a lecture by Mrs. Dengie. It was horrible. She’s the one in the wheelchair. She said magic put her in that wheelchair.”
Constance shrugged. “All the new arrivals get that lecture.”
“They say that magic kills one student every year.”
“Not every year. There hasn’t been one this year.”
Paul overheard. “There was a boy who refused to come to the school. Said he already knew everything about magic and didn’t need help from the Guild. Died of a stroke.”
“At least it didn’t happen at the school,” Constance said.
Alicia shuddered. “Do you think the Guild did it?”
“Of course not. There was no need, was there? But a couple of years ago a self-taught magician created a website. He didn’t even mention safety. The Guild was powerful enough to take that site down.”
“Hurry up.” Mr. Stuart opened the door. He was young and fit and some of the third-year girls said he was dishy. But Constance had no time for that.
A gravel path ran down the centre of the garden. The students formed a line, Constance and Alicia at either end. Mr. Stuart was full of good cheer. “Alicia managed to create a fireball at the exercise last week. But she needs more practice.”
Constance was annoyed at being dragged away from her studies. They were out in the open, because of the fire hazard. The high brick walls protected those outside from any accidents inside. The sky was overcast, and the high walls did not protect them from the cold wind. Constance did not need magic to know that rain was on its way.
Mr. Stuart opened the tiny wooden shed in one corner and got out the fire extinguisher and the fire-bucket. Constance hated this ritual because it emphasised the risk of failure. “Constance, provide an example.”
She stepped forward and turned to face her audience. She held out her hand, palm uppermost, and spoke the words. “Habeo caloris.” A fireball appeared above her palm. Alicia stared, an expression of envy or admiration on her face.
“And now, the most important thing,” Constance said. She closed her hand into a fist and the fireball winked out. “Closure.”
“Thank you,” Stuart said. Constance returned to her place in the line. The teacher smiled. “Now—Alicia.”
The girl, with obvious reluctance, stepped forward. She frowned and opened her palm. “I have heat - Habeo caloris.”
Nothing happened. She tried again. “Habeo caloris! Burn, damn you!”
A
fireball appeared. But then it grew in size, floating upwards as it did so.
When this had first happened to Constance, she had been annoyed that the fireball would not obey her. She had concentrated on keeping the ball under control. But the expression on Alicia’s face was one of panic. She stared at the fireball, her mouth open.
“Shut it down, Alicia,” Stuart said.
But Alicia did not hear. Stuart dithered. Perhaps, he did not want to openly criticise a girl.
Constance thought the best solution would be to slap the girl’s face. But that was not an option. So, she took a step to one side, grabbed the fire bucket, and held it up. “Put that out, or I’ll empty this bucket over you.”
Alicia turned to look at Constance. Her expression turned to anger. “You wouldn’t!” But the fireball vanished.
“Thank you,” Stuart said. “Alicia can rest for a moment. Paul, can you produce a were light for us?”
Paul was one of the students who heard voices in his head. Like many Talkers, he was neurotic. But he was eager to learn about magic and had volunteered for this course. He stepped forward. He tried to look nonchalant, but his relief when the light appeared was obvious.
Alicia was crying silently. Everybody pretended not to notice.
Charles was next. He failed to produce a fireball either, but he was resigned rather than angry. “Perhaps, I should just go home, sir.”
“I’m afraid not, Charles. You’ve produced a fireball three times, by accident. We can’t let you leave until you can bring it under control.”
Constance took pity on Charles and told him to create a were light.
“But that’s a different spell.”
“Do it anyway.”
So, he concentrated and spoke. “Partum a luce.” He was surprised when a tiny ball of light appeared.
Fantastic Schools: Volume 2 Page 19
