by LE Barbant
Rhett tilted his glass and drained the remains of his dark drink. “Kinnard needs to play his cards right. Sure, he was anti-Marcellus Shale months ago, but we’re starting to help him understand that in this economy, he can’t ignore them. Natural gas is the future. And when the only realistic alternative is coal…”
Jillian only nodded, her eyes calculating.
“Listen, you can have your convictions, God knows Kinnard has more than his share, but you can’t make it in politics—even regional politics—without compromise. My job is helping him to do so.”
“Get me an interview with him.”
“What?” Rhett asked, his voice cracking. “No way. Is that why you’re sleeping with me, to get to Kinnard?” He smiled but realized he was only half joking.
Jillian’s face turned pink.
Rhett rubbed her leg. “I shouldn’t have even said that.”
Jillian placed her own hand over Rhett’s. “Don’t worry. You can trust me.”
A shiver spread across his back. For the first time, he second guessed the relationship.
From the corner of his eye, Rhett saw Ben Stewart cross the floor for the bathroom. The speechwriter was glad for the diversion.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
****
The short, back hall had a stale smell, the dour scent tickled Rhett’s nose. He stood outside the men’s room, waiting for Ben to emerge. While he had few hesitancies in social situations, he still preferred not striking up a conversation while holding the Corporal next to some dude at a urinal. Persuasion was all about finding the appropriate context, and that required some patience.
The door creaked open and Rhett made his move.
“Holy shit. You’re Ben, right?”
The man wiped his hands on his jeans and looked Rhett in the eyes.
A hint of recognition was there. Rhett knew that his work with Kinnard made him a minor public figure—which definitely had its pros and cons.
“Yeah. That’s me. I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Ben paused. “Wait. You work for the mayor, right? I saw you on TV.”
Shit.
Rhett looked down, in false humility. “Sure. But tonight I’m just some guy who loves poetry. I came to see you, in fact.” Rhett dropped his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Been following your Twitter poems for months. Fucking brilliant.”
The young poet’s eyes danced. “Really?”
“But I kind of thought you wouldn’t be here tonight,” Rhett said.
The man’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You know, the big meeting’s coming up.”
“What big meeting?” A muscle twitched above Ben’s eyebrow. His lie was obvious.
“It’s OK, man. You can trust me. I’m friends with some of your colleagues.” He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say some of your colleagues a few rungs up on the ladder. Your Guild and mine aren’t completely incompatible, you know.”
Ben sighed. “Oh, right. I guess I didn’t think of that. Nah, I don’t go to those things anymore.”
Rhett laughed. “Don’t blame you, I guess. Who wants to spend a night like this in the South Hills?”
The man cocked his head. “South Hills?”
“Yeah, down in that old strip mall. Man, that place was the worst.”
Ben grinned. “No, not there. Meeting is north of the city.”
Rhett leaned back against the wall and rested an arm on an ancient pay phone. “Right. I heard they were thinking of using that conference center. Good for them. About time they got some fitting accommodations.”
Ben smirked. “Nope. Even better. They’re out on an old farm that’s being converted into some church camp or something. The whole thing’s empty right now.”
Rhett shifted his weight. “Is that right? Where exactly is that?”
Crane had told Elijah and Rhett about the local wizard. It was a long shot, but Elijah was hoping that he’d have the info they needed and would be willing to divulge it.
Within minutes, the unsuspecting beat poet and low-grade magician had spilled the address, a landline phone number, the number of expected Guild members in attendance, and the code for the newly constructed gate.
It was like taking candy from a baby.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“As far as we know, wizards have always existed. Ancient texts describe our kind with uncanny detail, and we can be traced back to the early days of oral tradition. Naturally, we have at times received a bad reputation. It’s usually the religious types or scientists—those whom cannot explain our gifts from within their own narrative. They’re the ones who frown on us.”
Willa leaned back into the worn leather chair. Her grandfather should have told her the story decades ago. While the jury was still out on whether or not this man was who he said he was, and if so, whether she could trust him, she decided the best course was to hear him out. At least it might give her an opportunity to pick up some clues along the way.
“We demonize that which we don’t understand,” she said.
Grandmaster Harker smiled. His long beard rippled as he nodded in agreement. “That’s right. Just as I am a demon, dancing in your mind right now. Isn’t that right?”
Willa sat silently.
The man continued. “The Guild as we know it today has been traced back to just before the first modern university, which makes some sense I suppose. Archives had become more extensive and organized. We can thank the Bolognese for the initial constitution of the Guild.” The Grandmaster paused. He took in the crackling fire playing in the hearth. He was a master with words, not only in the casting of spells. “In the tenth century, young scholars from throughout Europe—and even into the East—began gathering in different locations to learn from independent academics. Bologna, Italy became one of the most prominent gathering places. But there was a problem with Bologna. The city, much like others in the medieval period, had a law which allowed the city to enact ‘collective punishments’ on foreigners within their boundaries for the crimes or debts of their fellow countrymen who escaped the reach of the civil authorities. Young scholars were being jailed, fined, and occasionally even tortured for the crimes of others they didn’t even know.”
“What the hell does this have to do with the Guild?” Willa asked.
“Patience. We will get there. Like all complex thing, the path is neither short nor straight.” He sipped his tea. “After some time, the students, all from different lands, began to organize. They realized that they maintained a significant influence over Bologna. The number of them had become so great that they were a major part of the economic backbone of the city. Gathering in secret, they formed Mutual Aid Societies to support one another and strategically consider their future in Bologna, and beyond. They called themselves the universitas—or ‘the whole’.”
“University,” Willa muttered under her breath.
“Exactly.” His eyes danced with the intrigue of an academic. “This is the etymological origin. The universitas assigned two representatives from each nation to argue on behalf of the students. To make a long story a bit shorter, they won on the threat of removing themselves—and all of their money—away from Bologna. They insisted they would find another city to settle in. Thus, the first University was established in 1088 and created a network of young academics.”
“And wizards,” Willa added.
The old man smiled. “Precisely. The two guilds, the academic and the paranormal, overlapped. It was the perfect community for incubating what is now the Guild. And just like the academic community, the Magicians’ Guild developed its own set of rules. Soon after Bologna, universities developed in France, Germany, and England.”
“And along with them, wizard guilds,” Willa said.
“Exactly.” His smile was gleeful, and his face was like a child’s at his own birthday party, just before the presents arrived.
For the first time, Willa felt the slightest draw to the Guild and their ways.
“Now, of cou
rse, most academics aren’t wizards. There are even some wizards who are not academics. It’s hard to explain the latter, except to say that they have somehow missed their true vocational calling. But nonetheless, the academic community was and is the perfect gathering place for the wielders of magic. And over the past millennium, as the academic community established rules and formalized its practices, we too have developed into who we are today.” The man’s smiled melted, and his eyes grew serious. “Willa Weil, you are part of the Guild whether you claim it or not—and you are beholden to its rules. The prodigal son is no less an heir than the one who stayed home, but you must stop wallowing with the pigs. It is time for us to place the proverbial ring on your finger. This is more than a matter of discipline. We brought you here because we want you to join us.”
His words were more an imperative than an invitation. Willa’s mind swam with the implications.
She exhaled slowly through pursed lips in an attempt to settle herself.
“But I don’t understand. The academy remains integrally tied to the world—facing its problems together. Why has the Guild withdrawn?”
Harker leaned in. The gravity in his face softened. “The academy sacrificed its purpose for money and power. We have given up our influence in order to remain pure. A thousand years teaches a community much, and we have learned that our power is too great to be concerned with petty matters. Every attempt at trying to ‘save the world’ has only left us weaker. If we left our towers to wade in the mud, we would become just as filthy.”
Willa nodded, though she wasn’t satisfied. It was a fight that she’d had with her grandfather a hundred times, and she was no closer to accepting it now from this man than she had been from Edwin.
"That’s a nice story, but right now I’m more concerned about the future than the past," Willa said.
Any sense of amicability left the man's face. His features turned stern. "And that's the problem, Ms. Weil. The past is the key to the future. And unless you learn that, there won't be any chance of survival. The Guild has learned this the hard way and so, it seems, must you."
Willa couldn't help but hear Elijah’s voice in the old man’s words. His insistence on the role of history was staggering. The past did not merely influence the Guild’s decisions but it dictated them. She could almost see its history played out in her mind: a thousand years of cloistering themselves had hardened the community. Despite Grandmaster Harker’s overtures of civility, the Guild was nothing more than a glorified country club; fiddling while the world around them burned. The Guild was no good in the world or for the world, and though the man’s words were of some comfort, she could not concede to this backward group any more than they would concede to her.
“Sir, I need to know what is going to happen to me and my friend.”
The man’s face hardened. “I doubt that you will listen to my advice, but I counsel you not to refer to the abomination as your friend. That will get you nowhere very quickly.”
“Tim had no say in the matter. Saving him was my choice.”
“That thing was a willing recipient of the misuse of the magical arts. Not only was he complicit in your crimes, he is also a walking dark mark on our craft, which we have endeavored for so long to keep pure.” He slammed his hand on the table. His cup rattled in its saucer. The two sat in silence, apparently at a standstill. Willa was unsure if he was waiting for a response from her, or if he was only letting the words sink in. After a moment, he took a breath and continued, his voice softer. “Your grandfather and I were once opposed like this, but Master Weil grew out of his foolishness. We hope that you will do the same, but time is not on your side.” The man reached over and placed his large, wrinkled hand on her leg. “Willa, I want to help you, but there is only so much I can do. You must make your own choice. In two days’ time, you will sit before the council of Twelve.”
“Twelve?”
“Yes, the council is an old tradition. Its genesis belongs in the early days of the Guild. We maintain the tradition of representation today. You will sit before them and make your case. I have seen many of these discourses over my years and I urge you: repent of your sins and renounce the abomination. Because of your ignorance and lack of true apprenticeship, the Twelve might take pity on you. In this, you will find peace, even hope.”
“What about Tim?”
Willa could nearly hear the old man’s teeth grind at the sound of Ford’s name.
“We believe in due process. The abomination will also have his time before the Twelve. But it is doubtful that a case could be made for his transgressions. Nevertheless, we believe that justice is not only an outcome but also a process. In this way, the Guild will remain pure.”
“And if he is found guilty?”
“Willa, you understand that an abomination cannot remain. If he is found to be corrupt, he will be taken from the earth.”
“You’ll murder him?” Her voiced broke as she said it.
The old man nodded. “He will be executed. And…” He paused, holding Willa’s eyes in his intense gaze. “…his soul will be destroyed.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Now, it is easy to judge the Masons if you don’t understand their historical context. It wasn’t until Georg Klaus's seminal work, History of Freemasonry, was translated into English in 1866 that the world at large really came to understand the secret society, or at least their roots.”
The syllabus clearly set the speeches at no more than fifteen minutes, but Julie had just crossed the quarter-hour mark and she showed no signs of slowing. A stack of index cards thicker than a pack of cigarettes trembled in her hands. She glanced up occasionally. In the context of the class discussions, Julie had become one of his superstars. But the burden of a graded presentation had reduced her to average student status.
Elijah shifted in the uncomfortable desk and tried to focus, but his mind was elsewhere.
Student presentations were always bad—a mix of superficial data and uninspiring delivery. Their only redeeming quality was that they took class prep off of Elijah’s hands for the week. And with all that had been happening, Elijah hadn’t been the most faithful of professors.
“You see, when we are able to humanize such an organization and their pursuits, they might actually make sense to our contemporary minds.” Her eyes caught Elijah’s. He smiled and nodded as if he’d been listening.
Julie’s wasn’t the worst, but like the rest she had lost her audience within the first few sentences—Elijah included. He wondered if his students felt this way when he taught but dismissed the thought. Through his years of burnout, he had given up on caring about the students. He had believed they deserved exactly the same amount of preparation for the class that they themselves had put into it. But since the summer, his passion had returned. Branton was back with his first love, and the competition for his time chewed at his conscience.
His mind turned to Willa. How does she handle these inane presentations? He smiled, but then his mind turned toward the dark assumptions that had plagued him since their abduction. A groove had been worn into his brain, and at the slightest suggestion his focus would fall into it, running through the nauseating set of questions.
Where was she?
Was she ok?
Was she alive?
He tried to imagine what wizarding prison looked like, and an image of Hogwarts floated through his mind. A year ago he would have laughed at the suggestion that magic was real. Now, it wasn’t hard for him to believe that Dementors were torturing his friends as he sat there, listening to his students drone on. He was a man of divided consciousness, and the gap increased daily.
Weak applause snapped him out of his nightmare.
“Excellent work, Julie.” Elijah forced a smile and pretended to jot notes on an empty yellow pad. “Rebekah, I believe you’re next.”
The mousy homeschooled student slid out of her desk and crept to the front. Elijah knew she had been dreading these presentations. She adjusted her stack
of note cards, locked her head in place, and did her best to not make eye contact with anyone. With a quivering voice, she proceeded to read word for word from her notes.
“It might be easy to demonize the Branch Davidians if we don’t wholly appreciate who they were and where they came from.”
Oh, shit.
His nausea returned.
****
Elijah considered skipping his office hours and heading home. Students rarely made their way to the basement to visit his tiny closet of an office. But he knew that going home wouldn’t bring him any closer to finding Tim and Willa. Rhett was confident he could weasel the information out of Crane’s contact, and Elijah believed him. The speechwriter had an undeniable effect on people and Elijah wondered if Rhett hadn’t placed him under some sort of spell. But he had to place his trust in someone; Rhett was his only remaining option.
Finals were coming, and if students ever needed his help it was then. Desperate attempts to raise grades and fearful questions about the final exams were the only things that brought students to office hours. Since he was unable to do anything useful with his time but wait for Rhett, he figured he might as well try to be a good professor.
The ancient computer hummed as it slowly came to life. Waiting for the screen to load, Elijah scanned the space surrounding him. The office was nearly vacant. Elijah’s books occupied only a tiny portion of one shelf; the rest were bare. Several other part-timers had been assigned the office, but there was little evidence of their existence. They, like him, chose to keep their personal effects elsewhere. No use making the space your own when it wasn’t guaranteed to last.
His inbox was bursting at the seams, mostly filled by “All Campus” spam that provided a constant source of clutter. He deleted them quickly. While disorder could describe most areas of his life, he needed a clean inbox. But, at a large university, the task required daily attention. As he hacked away at the digital weeds, Elijah paused on a day-old email from his department chair.
