The Magi Menagerie

by Kale Lawrence

  "Oooh, he's muttering his mumbo-jumbo Timbuktu language again," laughed Martin, from one row of desks over.

  Ezra rolled his eyes just as Miss Kierra McLarney entered the room.

  "Lovely morning today, isn't it, class?" Miss McLarney chirped cheerfully as she glided toward the oak desk at the front of the classroom. Her light red hair was piled atop her head in the same manner as the ladies of Great Britain, but her tailored grey dress had definitely seen better days.

  Everyone rose to their feet and returned the greeting in a monotonous unison. "Good morning, Miss McLarney."

  "Blimey, dears, where is your fire—your passion—for learning?" Miss McLarney joked as she unloaded books from her leather bag and stacked them onto her desk. Ezra caught his teacher’s gaze but disregarded the hawklike look in her eyes as his imagination. He sunk back into his seat. The young teacher chewed on the inside of her lip and redirected her attention back to her desk.

  "Open to page 373, please," Miss McLarney instructed, rummaging through her bag for a new pack of chalk. "You will absolutely love this lesson. There's plenty of drama, death, and destruction which, apparently, you kids love to learn about these days.” Miss McLarney shook her head in humour and scratched out a diagram on the slate in arcs of dusty white. "We're starting a new unit on the Black Death."

  While she was distracted, a wad of notebook paper grazed Ezra's ear. He glared dangerously over his shoulder at Dennis.

  "What?!" Ezra hissed.

  "Lordy, someone's irritable this morning, " Dennis whispered, grinning at Martin and John. "Clearly you need to turn in earlier."

  "Yeah, Ezzie, what could possibly be keeping you up at night?" snickered Martin.

  "Life as a gong farmer must be rough," John chimed in, referencing a medieval history lesson from earlier in the week, "especially a dim witted one who can't get anything right."

  "I believe you mean zounderkite.”

  Ezra clenched his jaw but forced his concentration toward his notebook. Squeezing his pencil between his fingers, Ezra furiously sketched the outlines of an ocean liner.

  "Our lesson on the Bubonic Plague begins in 1347," Miss McLarney said. "In October of that year, those working the docks in Messina, Italy were met by a gruesome surprise; of all 12 of the ships that had arrived at the dock that fateful day, most of those aboard were already dead. Those who still clung to life were gravely ill."

  "Personally, I think Ezra started the Black Death," Dennis said in a hushed tone.

  His cronies snorted into the back of their hands to keep from laughing aloud.

  "Would you idiots stop talking?!" spat a nearby student. If her dark gaze had been any stronger, Ezra was certain it would have sliced through the very desks they occupied like a hot knife through butter.

  "Of course, Aja," Dennis complied with a grin. "Anything for you, dearest."

  The Indian girl scowled at them and returned her attention to the front of the room.

  Much to Ezra's annoyance, Dennis began kicking the back of his seat. The point of Ezra’s pencil disintegrated deeper into the surface of his notebook with every jerk of the chair. Just ignore him, he told himself. He's not there. He doesn't exist.

  "You know, forget the Plague," Dennis continued to his mates, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll bet my ten pound note he killed his own parents."

  That was it.

  In one swift motion, Ezra launched himself from his desk and decked the sorry git across the face.

  All at once, the entire room of students leapt to their feet in a mix of astonishment and excitement. History class never saw this much entertainment in one sitting. Cheers and chants escalated as the two of them wrestled against each other for physical dominance.

  "Boys!" squeaked an alarmed Miss McLarney as she pushed through the throng of students. "Boys, stop this at once!"

  "Get off me, you miserable scamp!" commanded Dennis. An unfortunate blow collided with Ezra’s nose.

  "Do not ever speak about me like that again, and I will," promised Ezra, blood trickling over the ridge of his lip.

  "Sorry, I can't give you my word on that."

  "STOP THIS AT ONCE!" Miss McLarney yelled. Ezra choked when his teacher yanked him from Dennis by his shirt collar. "Ezra Newport! Dennis Kearney! Headmaster's office, now!"

  Every student fell into petrified silence at the mention of the headmaster. Whatever fate Ezra and Dennis were about to receive would be legions ghastlier than the fury in Miss McLarney's eyes.

  "Students, please remain seated as I escort your belligerent classmates to the office," Miss McLarney instructed as she grasped both of them by the arms. "If you move even a toe out of line, you will join them."

  The treacherous journey from the academic wing to the headmaster’s office seemed like a trek across the world. Each footfall became more burdensome with every turn of the corridors, as if gravity itself could not escape the misery of Willigen's headquarters. All sounds of daily activity faded into non-existence except for the ticking of a grandfather clock. Its pendulum swung in perfect synchronicity with their sullen footsteps.

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  Ezra swallowed his remorse and wiped the blood from his nose on the sleeve of his uniform. Whatever waited for them beyond the ornate wooden doors might render them completely mad, if the rumours housed a shred of truth. With a sigh, Ezra knew that could not possibly be true for him. He had already seen hell.

  Miss McLarney pushed open the double doors to the headmaster's wing. "Come on, you two," she spoke, ushering them inside. "In you go."

  At first glance, the room looked like any other in the school: spacious, orderly, and decorated in accents of brass and stone. Where the forest green walls weren't lined with framed portraits of the namesakes of the academy’s houses, dark stained shelves held leather-bound volumes and golden trinkets. Every side of the hexagonal room—save the one they had just come through—housed a window that overlooked the trimmed hedges adorning the front lawn of Belfast Royal Academy.

  No wonder the headmaster always knew what was going on, thought Ezra. He's got a bird's eye view.

  The abrupt sound of Miss McLarney clearing her throat snapped Ezra to attention just as the chair behind the stately desk swivelled around.

  Headmaster Evert Willigen did not seem like the type of man who took well to interruptions. His unforgiving gaze was slightly obscured by a monocle over his left eye and a cloud of smoke from his pipe. The large man stood, checked his pocket watch, and removed the pipe from his mouth.

  "Whom do we have here?" the headmaster asked, without any sort of emotion in his husky voice. "Two ninnies who can't pay attention in class, eh?"

  Ezra felt the heat of his teacher’s gaze searing into the back of his skull.

  "Two young men who cannot seem to get along, more like. They decided a brawl was in order during the middle of lecture."

  "Hmph." The headmaster chomped on the end of his pipe as he looked the boys up and down. "I don't have time for dunces. Especially you." He prodded the mouthpiece of his pipe into Ezra's chest. "Who started it?"

  "Ezra did, sir," Dennis cried, feigning a tearful display. "One moment I was listening to Miss McLarney and in the next moment, he attacked me. I was only trying to defend myself, sir. Truly, I was."

  Headmaster Willigen stood dangerously close to Ezra, so close that he could see every yellow ember in the fire of his hazel eyes. "And what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Newport?"

  Ezra remained silent, diverting his line of sight away from the headmaster's. Even if he opened his mouth, no words of defence could adequately douse the cruel intensity in the air. Nothing—not even a miracle—could change a mind already committed to labelling him as the wrongdoer. He could see it within every fibre of the headmaster’s being.

  Pardon and overlook.

  "Well, boy?" Willigen barked.

  Ezra swallowed and shook his head.

  "Very well," the man replied, motioning toward Dennis.
"Off you go, Mr. Kearney. Shape up or the next time will be your last."

  "Yes, sir. I promise, sir," exhaled a relieved Dennis. The bully made sure Ezra caught a glimpse of his devilish smirk when he turned to leave the room.

  The headmaster returned to his desk and yanked open the top drawer to reveal a thick leather strap. He toyed with the three tails at the end, revelling in the chance to discipline yet another student. "Twenty lashes should do the trick, yes?"

  Miss McLarney frowned. "That seems excessive. Besides, I'm almost certain Mr. Newport did not start it.”

  “Then why didn’t he say that?” A ruddiness saturated the boundaries of the headmaster’s shirt collar, a sure mark of one not used to being challenged. And from a woman, no doubt.

  Still, Ezra dared not meet his teacher’s line of sight. If he took the punishment, then perhaps Dennis would leave him alone.

  “The last group of children to misbehave received five lashes!”

  "Do not tell me how I should punish my pupils!”

  “Sir, if you could please reconsider that punishment, I—”

  "Miss McLarney, you are dismissed," spoke the headmaster in a dangerously low tone.

  "Y-yes, sir," she finally relented. She hesitated, as if she wanted to speak again, but reconsidered and rushed from the office.

  When the door latch had clicked back into place, the headmaster grabbed Ezra's wrist and slammed his hand on top of his desk, palm facing the ceiling. A porcelain teacup in the immediate vicinity clinked in distress within its saucer and nearly toppled its murky contents.

  "Let's just get this over with," growled the man as he raised the strap above his head.

  Ezra shut his eyes and gripped the edge of the headmaster's desk with his free hand. His palm stung as if bitten, over and over. With every snap of the leather, the headmaster gained momentum while Ezra's tenacity deteriorated.

  Each strike painted a vision of a deadly cobra in his mind. Slithering ever closer, through the wreckage of his life, with a mechanical figure towering over him.

  "...four, five, six..."

  The night on the train, the deafening explosion, the halo of blood.

  "...thirteen, fourteen, fifteen..."

  All-consuming fire, his mother's last moments, the resolute nature of death.

  "...eighteen, nineteen, twenty."

  Follow and obey the Order of Babylon.

  When the headmaster had finished, he released his death grip on Ezra’s forearm. Ezra recoiled, lifting his shaking hand only to see thick lacerations crisscrossing the natural lines of his palm.

  "Don't ever cause a ruckus in my school again, boy," spat the headmaster as he tucked the strap away in the drawer. "That's the problem with your type. You think you can get away with anything you damn well please. Well, Ezra Newport, be reminded of this: Our world does not need you in it if that is how it's going to be. Shape up and maybe one day you will fulfil your destiny cleaning muck out of stables for a living."

  Trembling from the fortitude it took to restrain cries of pain, Ezra bolted from the office and collided with Miss McLarney. The tears brimming in her eyes suggested she had heard the whole thing.

  Of course she had.

  "Oh, Ezra, I am so sorry," the young teacher apologised. "You did not deserve that."

  Ezra stared at her, cradling his bleeding hand to his chest.

  His teacher pursed her lips as she tried to hold back a sob. "I heard what the headmaster said—"

  "With all due respect, ma'am, I really do not wish to talk about it," Ezra muttered as he pulled away from her. "I understand, all right? You people do not need to remind me every waking moment! I—" His breath caught in his throat. "I already know I am worthless."

  Miss McLarney looked as hurt as he felt. "You are far from worthless, Ezra Newport."

  Without another word, he shook his head and retreated toward the dormitories.

  He had to get out of here.

  Chapter Six

  The Courier’s Message

  After a week of bothersome silence, Jonas started to wonder if the Magi Administration had turned a blind eye to his telegrams.

  It wouldn’t have been the first time his colleagues at Administration headquarters wilfully ignored his communications, as if somehow their saintliness would be tarnished by speaking to him.

  Yes, I made a few blunders, Jonas often thought to himself, whenever memories from the trial rose from the ashes. But my actions should not have amounted to half of this treatment.

  Members of the Magi Council—the nine leaders ruling the Administration—behaved as if he had murdered someone in cold blood. Burned a city to the ground. Denounced the ways of the Magi to study dark sorcery. Jonas had pleaded guilty to several minor offences, but he knew those offences paled in comparison to what the Council really held over his head: his former relationship with someone he truly loved.

  As if love could ever be a reason for reprimand.

  Attempting to suppress the uncomfortable recollections, Jonas navigated the morning High Street traffic toward the docks. Perhaps today, the Magi Courier Service would deliver some modicum of advice from the Administration. The smallest hint that they still trusted him. Anything.

  Blue dawn flooded the avenue, fragmented by the grand Albert Memorial Clock Tower. The piercing cries of gulls heralded his approach to Queen’s Square. Hands draped casually in his coat pockets, Jonas sprinted across the street. Horse-drawn merchant carts clattered over the tram rails behind him and made enough racket to startle a flock of pigeons in his path, leaving a clear route to the harbour’s edge.

  A glance up at the clockface prompted him to increase his momentum. The courier never waited a second longer than necessary. And today, Jonas had a strong intuition he could not be late.

  Salty wind tinged with the stench of fish and earthworms welcomed Jonas to the River Lagan. A light mist draped over the water, obscuring a small craft docked beneath the dying glow of the electric streetlamps.

  “Morning, Mr. van der Campe!” called a jubilant voice from the boat.

  “Good morning, Henry,” Jonas answered, leaping down the stairs two at a time. Even in the dim light, Jonas could plainly read the elegant script along the side of the vessel, announcing it as The Epiphany. “Easy waters, I hope?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” responded Henry the Courier. The older man finished tying a sailor’s knot, almost losing his Phrygian cap in the murky Lagan as he tethered the boat. “Now, the seagulls I can live without. I swear upon the Famed Three that I witnessed one eating a pigeon on the way in. Do they do that?”

  Jonas grinned and shrugged.

  Henry wiped his hands on his colourful robes and reached into the craft to retrieve a knapsack. “Let’s see here. I know the Magi Administration had something for you.”

  Heart pattering against his ribs, Jonas watched as Henry fished through the bag.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice if we went back to Dream Messaging?” Henry mused. “It certainly worked for the Famed Three avoiding that Herod fellow.”

  “Until the Administration finds an efficient way to regulate it, I assume we’re stuck with good old-fashioned post,” Jonas replied. Not that he minded, of course. There was something comforting about tangible communication.

  “Ah, yes. Here we are.” The courier procured a golden envelope and handed it to him. “You better not be in trouble again, young man.”

  Jonas clutched the envelope, grimacing at Henry’s comment. “Let’s hope not.”

  “Give the Irish Chapter my regards,” Henry instructed.

  “I shall,” said Jonas distractedly as he retreated to the wharf. His fingertips traced the edges of the thick, linen paper. After a brief wave back at the courier, Jonas ran his thumb under the seal, tearing open the envelope. His eyes devoured the official document with untamed ferocity.

  Disappointment trickled from Jonas’ chest into his gut as he stuffed the letter back into the envelope. Of course, the Administrati
on could not trust him with something as simple as keeping watch over an adolescent. No matter the extent he had gone to prove himself over the last six months, the Magi Council continued to overlook his accomplishments in favour of his shortcomings.

  Jonas scoffed. They had always been incredibly gifted at that.

  Tucking the communication inside his jacket, Jonas shoved his hands into his pockets and trudged back toward High Street, with discouragement weighing down every step.

  Chapter Seven

  A Broken Vow

  Constantinople, 1895

  The small room twinkled with an other-worldly ambiance.

  Leyla watched apprehensively as her six-year-old son jumped to reach the dazzling lamps strung from the ceiling. "Careful now, Ezra. Those were your babaanne's decorations."

  "Well, they are old," a young Ezra replied, "and Allah wants me to take them down."

  "I am quite sure he does not," laughed his father. "Besides, we want our house to look somewhat presentable for when Taylan and Kiraz arrive."

  Ezra made a face. "Are they bringing Yonca with them?"

  "Perhaps," Ezra's mother said, ruffling his dark hair. "And perhaps you will be taller than her this year."

  Young Ezra narrowed his eyes. "I had better."

  A steady knock sounded at the door.

  "Ah, that must be Taylan, right on time as always," Ibrahim remarked, rising to welcome their guests.

  "Mutlu Bayramlar, Ibrahim!" came Taylan’s festive voice as he and his wife stepped across the threshold and slipped off their shoes. Yonca timidly followed her parents, clutching fistfuls of their tunics in her small hands.

  "Eid Mubarak, my friend," answered Ibrahim. He exchanged friendly greetings with the newcomers. "Why, look at how you have grown, Yonca!"

  With a heavy sigh, Ezra folded his arms and made a dramatic show of disappointment at his mother.

  "Oh, Leyla, it smells so good in here!" exclaimed Kiraz as she offered a plate of baklava to Ezra's mother.