by Cheree Alsop
From between the vines stepped a man nearly as tall and thin as the trees in which he had been hidden from view. His white hair stuck out in every direction and leaves and sticks were caught in it so that he looked like a human bird nest. As if to confirm the thought, a small bird’s head popped out from the top of his hair, gave a peep, and ducked back out of sight.
“We do not use that word in here, young man,” he said, his light blue eyes showing his dismay as he stepped past the students toward us.
I had the impression he was more careful with the vegetation around him than the boys and girls who watched with smirks on their faces. This impression was solidified when he lifted a foot just before crushing a tiny purple flower. He pivoted and set his foot down on the foot of a girl with blue skin before continuing on his way, oblivious to the squeak of pain she gave at being stepped on.
“Who are you?” he demanded when he reached us. “And why do you clutter the aura of my garden with your obscene word choice? That is the name given by those who feel these delicate multicellular organisms have no feelings. It is the word they use to justify cutting down forests and trampling meadows and thickets for their own spreading overpopulation. It is the foul means by which they rationalize chopping down ancient topiary giants to put up apartment buildings.”
“He had no idea,” Alden began.
The professor cut him off with a sweep of his hand that I realized carried a sprig of mint leaves. The scent tickled my nose when the leaves brushed past.
“I need to hear it from him,” Professor Seedly said.
I found myself craning my head to stare up at the tall, slender man. His eyes narrowed at my silence.
“I, uh, I apologize for saying p—uh, the word you don’t want to be said,” I correct quickly. “I’m new here and I had no idea.” A thought occurred to me. “What word should I use?”
The professor’s eyes widened. “No one’s ever asked me that before,” he said. He looked around the classroom and a smile touched his lips. “Let’s ask them, shall we?”
I thought at first that he meant the other students, but he strode past them, stepping on several feet in the process before he paused at a row of bushes. He glanced back and motioned impatiently to indicate that I should join him. I followed his path with Alden behind me, careful to avoid both the feet of the students who watched us and the plants the professor had taken care to miss. Several students snickered when we made our way past while others whispered in groups. I caught the word ‘werewolf’ before they quieted.
“Hello, my fine ferned friends,” Professor Seedly said to the bushes. “We’ve a new student here I would like to introduce because he has shown a surprising measure of moxy through his apology. Friends, this is….” He gave me a searching look.
“Finn,” I supplied. “Finnley Briscoe.”
“The werewolf,” someone piped up on the other side of the classroom.
“The mutt,” another said.
“Fleabag,” a third supplied.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” Professor Seedly said dryly. “Finn is name enough. Origins, races, and descriptions, whether proper or improper, have no place here.” He paused, then said, “As long as you promise not to urinate on my pogonias.”
Laughter rolled through the classroom.
The professor continued to look at me. I realized he was truly waiting for an answer.
I could feel my cheeks heating up. “I promise,” I replied.
“To what?” he asked, tipping his head to one side.
I let out a breath through my teeth and said, “I promise not to urinate on your pogonias.”
More laughter followed.
“Very well,” Professor Seedly said. He turned back to the bushes. “Finn the werewolf would like to make your acquaintance and ask how you prefer to be addressed.”
He paused as if listening.
I glanced at Alden, certain I was being made the butt of an even bigger joke than I realized. He kept his attention on the professor, his gaze one of respect.
“No, that may be considered rude in some countries. And your other suggestion is definitely not fitting for the ears of our young listeners,” the professor said. “Try again.” He was silent a moment, then nodded. “I suppose that will do. Thank you.”
He turned back and addressed the classroom. “Our multicellular vegetational family have agreed upon the name Gerald.”
Snickers followed but were silenced at his glare.
The professor’s expectant look turned to me.
I cleared my throat and said, “P-pleased to meet you, Gerald.”
Even Alden couldn’t smother a laugh, but the professor gave a satisfied nod.
Chapter Five
“Pleased to meet you, Gerald,” several students mocked as they passed us by on our way to the next classroom.
“I should just give up now,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” Alden reassured me. “They’ll forget soon. A sphinx student named Eggert was once trapped in the Neptune Horsetrap for two days before anyone found him. They nicknamed him Horsey.” He paused, then said, “Though that’s still what everyone calls him, so maybe I’m wrong.”
“Thanks for that,” I replied.
Alden pointed up the stairs. “Your next class is up there at B6. Creature Languages is at B21. I’ll meet you in Tripe’s after that.”
“See you then,” I told him.
I didn’t realize how nice it had been to have a friend at my side until Alden was gone. I felt alone in a sea of students as I made my way up the stairs to the second floor. I knew it wasn’t my imagination that they went out of their way not to touch me. Along the hallways and stairs, students bumped shoulders and brushed past each other to get to their next classes, but for me, there seemed to be an invisible bubble which nobody dared to cross. It made me feel out of place in the rush, a rock in a river. I stopped just to check and saw the bubble widen.
One student, a boy with long blue dreadlocks, was busy flipping through the pages of a notebook as he walked without looking down the hallway. Just before reaching me, he glanced up. His eyes met mine and they widened with something akin to fear. His face paled and he quickly stepped back into the tide of students to my left. I looked behind me and saw him delve into his notebook once more.
I found it strange that I missed the jostling and rush of fighting through the hallways at my last school. Headmistress Wrengold’s introduction in the cafeteria hadn’t done me any favors. Being just another anonymous member of the student body was something I had definitely taken for granted. Perhaps with a few weeks, they would be used to me; maybe by then I would feel like I belonged, too.
The moment I pulled open the door to classroom B6, I realized it might take a whole lot longer than a few weeks.
The classroom should have had windows by its placement along the east side of the building, but there was no hint of natural light in the room. Instead, candles flickered along the walls in sconces shaped like gargoyle claws. By the scent of smoke and wax, I could tell that the candles were real instead of the battery-powered ones my stepmother used for Sunday night dinner.
Students were already seated at the desks. Their heads were bowed and they wrote quietly in their notebooks, copying down whatever was written on the board at the front of the room. There was only one empty desk at the very front and center of the rows. I pushed down my nervousness and crossed quickly to it. Taking a seat, I looked at the chalkboard. The white chalk stood out in the dim lighting.
Witch Trials and Execution-
During the Valais witch trials, over two hundred witches were burned. Two-thirds of these were male. From 1581 to 1593 in the Witch Trials of Trier, three hundred and sixty-eight individuals were persecuted. Two hundred and fifty were killed in the Witch trials of Fulda in Germany. One hundred and fifty-seven were burned at the stake during the Wurzburg trials, followed by the Bamberg witch trials of around one thousand individuals. Seventy individuals were implicated during the
North Berwick witch trials and brought to confession through torture. In 1675 occurred the largest witch trials in Swedish history, the Torsaker witch trails, which results in seventy-one individuals being beheaded and burned for witchcraft. During the Late Medieval period, over 40,000 individuals were executed through witch trials. Janet Horne was the last person executed for witchcraft in Great Britain in 1727. Twenty individuals were executed during the Salem witch trials.
The Parliament of the Kingdom of Great Britain passed The Witchcraft Act in 1735 which made it a crime for a person to claim that any human being had magical powers or was guilty of practicing witchcraft. Thus became the end point for the period of witch trials and the beginning of legal witchcraft.
“Do you assume that you can memorize the facts and dates for the test, Mr. Briscoe?”
Professor Briggs’ voice sent a chill down my spine. I glanced over and saw that the dark shadow I thought filled the corner in the back of the classroom was actually the professor. He sat at a desk where even the candlelight appeared reluctant to touch.
“Facts?” I repeated, glancing at the board. “About witch burnings?”
“Of course,” the professor replied in a haughty tone.
When he rose and walked toward me, my attention was captured by his strange gait. He limped severely on his left leg and used a short walking stick I hadn’t noticed in the cafeteria to help with his balance.
“Or do you feel that learning about the torture and death of our ancestors is above you?”
He leaned over my desk. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I fought the urge to cringe away.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t have a notebook or my other things.”
“What did you do with them?” he asked, his gaze boring into mine. “I assume you didn’t show up to school with only a poorly fitting uniform and no shoes in your possession.”
Snickers ran through the classroom, but were silenced immediately at his sharp look.
I didn’t know how to explain that I had sleepwalked out of my room the night before and still wasn’t sure where my other clothes and my bags had ended up. If my quick meeting with Mrs. Hassleton hadn’t been so strange, I would have remembered to ask her, but as it was, I felt completely off in every sense of the word.
“No, I….” I wouldn’t tell him what happened and hear the rest of the class ridicule me again. I looked down at the desk. “I won’t come unprepared tomorrow.”
There was a pause in which I realized I could hear the rest of the students’ quiet breaths, but the professor looming over me came across as silent as if he was holding his breath.
He took a step back and let it out with the words, “Mr. Varnes, lend Mr. Briscoe a piece of paper and a pencil for the day. He will return the favor if you are ever at a loss.”
At the professor’s look, I quickly nodded. “Yes, yes I will.”
Professor Briggs’ understanding caught me by surprise. For some reason, I had expected to be kicked out of class, or worse, sent to Headmistress Wrengold with perhaps a note to be dismissed from the school. By their conversation, it was apparent the professor had been against allowing me into the Academy. So why the change of heart?
I glanced at the corner and realized he was watching me with an unreadable expression. I grabbed the pencil the boy next to me had set on my desk and quickly wrote down the words on the chalkboard. After a sentence, the smell from the pencil began to make my nose burn. I glanced at the boy who had given it to me.
He was watching me with a curious expression, the corners of his lips drawn up and his gaze inquisitive as though he was waiting for something. I realized he had orange horns poking through his curly dark hair, and his eyes matched the same color of orange.
My nose hurt from the power of the scent. I dropped the pencil, but I could still smell it on my hands. I rubbed them on my pants. The boy started laughing. Sharp yellow teeth showed in his mouth when he opened it.
“What did you put on the pencil, Mr. Varnes?” Professor Briggs asked from the corner with a tone of long-suffering.
“Wolfsbane,” the boy replied. “I just had to try it.”
More laughter filled the classroom.
The burning in my nose was nearly unbearable. I pushed the pencil off my desk to the floor and breathed through my mouth. My eyes watered and I swore that my fingers actually burned where they had held the writing implement.
“Is that funny?” The tone of challenge in the professor’s voice cut through the laughing.
I stared at the chalkboard, willing my tear-filled eyes not to betray me and make them think I was crying. I had never smelled anything so sharp in my life. Even the presence of the pencil on the floor was almost too much.
The sound of the professor limping toward the front of the classroom met my ears. I kept my gaze straight ahead in case he thought it was a hilarious prank as well.
“Where did you find the Wolfsbane, Mr. Varnes,” the professor asked in a tone that was almost singsong with what I caught was forced lightness.
The horned boy next to me sounded confused when he replied, “In the far corner of Professor Seedly’s outdoor garden, Professor Briggs. I heard a werewolf was coming and—”
“And you thought it would be a funny joke,” the professor replied, cutting him off in the same tone.
“Well, yes and no,” the student replied.
I saw Professor Briggs cross his arms out of the corner of my eye. “Explain yourself.”
“We learned about Wolfsbane from Professor Seedly’s Deadly Plants and How to Use Them class last year. He said he always kept some on hand just in case, and, well,” I heard the boy swallow. “I figured that if a real werewolf was coming, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to be prepared, you know, just in case.”
“In case he goes on a rage-fueled rampage and slaughters students and professors without remorse?” the professor concluded in a voice so quiet I doubted the back half of the class heard it.
It shook me to the core to hear of such fears. “But I wouldn’t—”
A barely perceptible shake of the professor’s head stopped me. I gave him a beseeching look. I had no idea why anyone would think I could do such a thing. But Sebastian was dead because of me. The thought whispered through the back of my mind with a solemnity that gripped my heart.
“Mr. Varnes, how long ago did you pick the Wolfsbane?” Professor Briggs asked.
Frustrated by the change of subject, I opened my mouth to argue, but a flick of his finger made me shut it again. I slumped back in my seat, my nose burning, my fingers numb where I had held the pencil, and my jaw clenched against the protests I felt needed to be said.
“Yesterday, when I heard he was coming,” the boy replied.
Professor Briggs gave a single nod of his head. “And did you wear gloves when you did this?”
“Of course,” the student replied. “I’m not stupid.”
“Where are you gloves now?” the professor asked in the same lightly curious tone.
I heard the boy’s quick intake of breath and glanced at him. His face had paled, highlighting the sudden fear in his orange eyes.
“Go to Mrs. Hassleton’s office and tell her you touched Wolfsbane. She’ll give you the antidote,” he informed the student.
The boy’s chair screeched when it slid back. He practically fled from the room, his school books and book bag forgotten.
“That’s a lesson to all of you,” Professor Briggs said, raising his voice. “Don’t lose your common sense when confronted with an opportunity to shield yourself from danger. Mr. Varnes’ use of Wolfsbane may have been a valuable asset in protecting this school, but if it comes at the cost of his life, was it worth it?”
Silence followed his question.
I spent the rest of the hour staring at the board until the words no longer made sense. I could still smell the Wolfsbane from the pencil at my feet, and with the lack of pencil, I hadn’t copied any more of the notes onto the paper. The ling
ering smell on the pencil lead from the few words I had written made me push the paper to the top corner of the desk. It was only the fear of drawing Professor Briggs’ attention to me yet again that made me refrain from crumbling it into a ball and throwing it at the garbage can. Though he passed by my desk several times on his limping path in front of the chalkboard, I didn’t focus on him.
By the time the bell rang, his words about witch burnings had become a muted dissonance in the back of my mind. My thoughts were instead captured by the morbidity of the statement he had made. Why would the students fear that I would go on a killing rampage? Why were there no other werewolves at the Academy? Was I truly the last, or was there another reason?
“Study The Warlock Treaties of 1875 for tomorrow,” Professor Briggs said after the bell sounded.
I looked up at the movement of the other students as they gathered their books and notebooks before making their way to the door. When the last one left, I rose and walked to the back of the classroom where the professor sat at his desk with his head bowed and his focus on an ancient-looking book. I wondered how he could read it when the lighting at the back of the classroom was even worse than where I had sat at the front.
He didn’t look up at my approach. I kept silent until I was afraid of missing my next class.
“Uh, Professor Briggs?”
The professor gave a quiet sigh before he lifted his head and said, “Yes, Mr. Briscoe?”
I looked down at my still-numb fingers. “Do I need to see Mrs. Hassleton and get the antidote like the horned boy?”
The professor’s brows quirked and he tipped his head slightly to one side. “Did you think I was letting you sit there while the poison sank into your system? Perhaps as my own private form of eliminating the werewolf problem?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” I replied in a level tone.
The slightest hint of a smile touched the corner of his scarred mouth before it vanished. “Wolfsbane, despite the name, is poisonous to everyone but werewolves. That was a fact Mr. Varnes must have forgotten. You may hate the smell.” He lifted an eyebrow in inquiry.
