Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  No one spoke while the professors filed onto the platform and stood in a circle around their large table; beside them, Merridy looked frightened and very small.

  “Sit down,” the leader snapped at the other teachers, who hastened to obey him. One man was rather large, while another was pale and dour and looked something like a vampire. The tall man remained standing.

  “I am Professor Drakewell. I am the head of this school, and I do not tolerate laziness or rulebreaking.” He looked directly at Damian as he said this. “I detest childishness, so I expect you to behave as adults while you are here. You have been given a remarkable opportunity to remake your lives, something many of your inmates would have died for. If you do not show the proper gratitude, your professors will—enforce it.”

  Professor Drakewell lifted a chain on his neck to reveal a sort of pendant, which he tapped with a thin finger.

  “There are three rules here—first, do not stray off the marble floors.”

  Tristan was not alone in glancing down at the polished stone underfoot.

  “Second, do not consider wasting my time.”

  Again he fingered the pendant.

  “And third, obey all further rules as given by your professors.”

  When Professor Drakewell dropped his hand from the chain at his neck, the pendant glinted in the light from the chandelier—Tristan realized it was a tiny hourglass filled with black liquid. Then Professor Drakewell took his seat at the teachers’ table, leaving the ballroom quiet and uneasy.

  “Ahem,” Merridy began, her voice squeaking slightly. When she tried again, her voice was steadier. “Let me introduce your professors. This is Professor Grindlethorn.” She gestured to a stocky, hook-nosed man across the table from her.

  The large, cheerful man was Professor Brikkens; the vampire was Professor Alldusk; and the other two, a tiny woman and a bald man, were Professors Gracewright and Delair.

  Finally Merridy was finished with introductions. Once she was seated, Quinsley leaned forward and rapped his knife on the rim of his wineglass.

  “Abilene Gracewright, bring us our dinner!”

  Tiny Professor Gracewright jumped to her feet and scurried to a door on the side of the platform, through which she reappeared a moment later pushing a cart laden with food. When the door swung closed behind her, the aroma of spiced chicken wafted through the ballroom.

  As she passed around bowls and platters of food so large that they barely fit on the tables, the students began muttering once again.

  “This is fancy,” Tristan overheard Rusty saying from the next table over. Rusty was examining his fork, turning it over and over to look at the design.

  Leila shook her head at Rusty. “I’ll admit, he’s right,” she said. “It’s not just the forks, though. It’s the whole place—this ballroom looks like it belongs in a palace, which is even more impressive considering we’re underground.”

  Tristan nodded and looked up at the high tiered ceiling. “I wonder how they got so much money.”

  Leila just shrugged, and a moment later their food arrived. There were mashed potatoes mounded beside a gravy boat, chicken wings in a creamy sauce, ravioli with mushrooms, and sourdough rolls in a basket.

  “Finally,” Leila said, moaning with relief. She dragged the potatoes towards her plate and spooned them on, drenching them so vigorously with gravy that she splashed Tristan’s arm. Tristan grabbed a roll, still warm, and tore off a piece with his teeth. Inside the brittle crust, the bread was soft and airy.

  The feast went on until late into the night, rounded off with a towering chocolate cake that could have fed Tristan’s entire high school.

  Drakewell got to his feet as Professor Gracewright came around collecting plates. “Gerard, you will escort these students to the bunkroom. See that they obey you.”

  He turned and strode across the ballroom.

  “Lovely,” Quinsley said, chuckling, as the doors swung closed behind the headmaster. “I’m the jack of all trades around here, I suppose. I fly planes, I cook, I herd students all over the woods—”

  “Badly, I might add,” Merridy said, some of her sternness gone now that the headmaster was away. “Losing two out of fifteen students must have been quite a feat.”

  A few of the students laughed at this, and Tristan smiled drowsily.

  “I suppose I’d better show you kids where you’re sleeping,” Quinsley said.

  His chair screeched against the marble as he pushed himself away from the table.

  “I don’t want any of you passing out here; I’d hate to carry you down three flights of stairs.” He was looking at Evvie, whose eyes had drifted closed. Her chin was resting on her fist, but she looked in danger of falling into her plate. When the tall girl at her table nudged her awake, Evvie gave a start, and Tristan felt a renewed surge of protectiveness.

  Past the tall ballroom doors, Quinsley led the students down a marble hallway to a set of stairs leading deeper into the earth. The walls were lined with glowing orbs that cast a bright shine onto the marble, though there was something distinctly odd about the lights.

  “You know what?” Leila whispered in his ear, making Tristan jump. “If this is a fairytale palace, it’s one of those creepy places where everyone who comes through the doors is cursed.”

  “That would explain that weird thing we passed through on the stairs,” Tristan said, still staring at the lights.

  As they continued farther and farther down, Tristan lost track of how many stairs he’d descended. At one point, Leila grabbed his wrist and pointed to a dark tunnel leading away from the well-lit marble hall. “That’s the doorway leading to hell,” she whispered. She turned to grin at Rusty.

  Shaking his head in amusement, Tristan squinted down the tunnel. The passage gaped wide, like an endless black hole.

  A moment later, Quinsley stopped in front of a door on the right side of the hall. “This is where you’ll be sleeping,” he said, pushing open the door. “The bathroom is a bit further along this hall.”

  As the students filed into the room, Quinsley looked around and shook his head. “Well, this doesn’t look like it was very well planned.”

  There were eight bunk beds pushed up against the walls of the square room, with an enormous space in the middle. Along the wall closest to the door, Tristan could see a haphazard grouping of desks, wardrobes, and drawers.

  Quinsley shrugged. “Girls on the right and boys on the left, I guess,” he said skeptically. “When you’re ready to go to sleep, blow on the lamps to turn them off.”

  He turned and left, closing the doors behind him.

  For a moment everyone just stood and stared at each other. Zeke was the first to move—he headed for the closest top bunk on the right. When Damian took the right side as well, Tristan, Leila, and Rusty chose bunks to the left.

  Amber joined them, along with the two girls from dinner—Cailyn and Hayley—followed by Eli and Trey. Tristan felt a twinge of disappointment when Evvie followed Cassidy McKenna to the right. He wondered why such a vast underground palace did not have space for a separate boys’ and girls’ bedroom, but with a glance at two of the hulking, mean-looking boys on Zeke’s side, he decided it might be better this way.

  Kicking off his shoes, Tristan climbed the ladder to the top bunk. There was a pair of navy-blue pajamas folded on top of the quilt, but he threw them to the end of the bed and curled up, fully clothed, on top of the quilt.

  Overwhelmed with exhaustion, he slept dreamlessly.

  When Tristan came gradually back into consciousness, he rubbed his eyes, wondering why his room was so dark. Usually the sun streamed through his window. As he stretched, his feet collided with the rail of his bunk bed, and everything came back to him—the graveyard, the misty lake, and the strange underground school. He opened his eyes to the marble ceiling, which was lit dimly by the glowing orbs on the wall.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” Leila said cheerfully as Tristan swung his legs over the side of the bunk. />
  He just groaned.

  “Those are your new clothes,” she said, gesturing at a pile near his feet.

  With a yawn, Tristan picked up the clothes—dark jeans, a light blue shirt, and black jacket—and made his way for the bathroom.

  Rusty was in the boys’ bathroom when Tristan kicked open the door, enthusiastically drying his hair with a scrappy towel.

  “Hey, Tristan! These showers are awesome—they’ve got the greatest—”

  He broke off, his grin fading.

  Tristan cursed. Rusty had seen his scars.

  “What happened to you?” Rusty asked nervously.

  “Nothing, okay?” Tristan had a strong urge to hit Rusty; instead he stomped over to the toilet stall furthest from the sinks and slammed the door.

  “I won’t say anything,” Rusty called. “Don’t be mad at me.”

  “Just shut up.”

  It was a while before Tristan convinced himself to go looking for the other students. Inside the ballroom, he avoided Rusty’s eyes and hurried to join Leila. He was dismayed when Rusty came to sit at their table a moment later.

  “What’s up with you?” Leila asked, raising an eyebrow at Rusty.

  He grinned. “I want to hear more about those demons in the tunnels.”

  Leila snorted.

  Just then, Quinsley came around serving breakfast. “Morning,” he said when he reached their table. Twirling his spatula, he dropped pancakes onto Tristan’s and Leila’s plates. “I’m glad you kids didn’t kill each other last night.”

  “Very funny,” Leila said. “Hey, would you mind if I helped out in the kitchen sometimes?”

  Quinsley started laughing. “You’ve just arrived! Wait until your classes start. I’d love the help, though.”

  Tristan and Leila were the last ones to finish eating; when at last Quinsley came to clear their plates, the heavyset teacher—Professor Brikkens—lumbered to his feet. Today he was wearing a pair of tiny round glasses that were nearly buried in the extra flesh on his face.

  “Hello, kids,” Brikkens said, smiling like a satisfied cat. His bald patch was rimmed by short gray hair that stuck straight out. “I’ve got you for the first hour.”

  Brikkens’ double chin wobbled as he spoke, and Tristan cringed, slightly repulsed by the man.

  Hayley Christiansen raised her hand. “Miss Merridy? What do you teach?”

  “Professor Merridy,” she corrected sharply. “I will be taking your environmental studies class.”

  Hayley frowned at the rebuke and began polishing her glass so fiercely that her napkin looked in danger of fraying.

  “Well,” Brikkens said. “If you would follow me this-a-way, I’ll show you my classroom.”

  Brikkens’ classroom was on the same level as the ballroom, just past the stairway. Pushing the door open, Brikkens waited, bouncing on the balls of his feet, for the students to file in.

  Tristan’s first thought was that the sunlight looked odd and pale on the walls. Then he remembered they were far underground—looking up, he realized that the tall domed ceiling was ringed by a circle of lights that gave off the same white radiance as the sun.

  The room itself was round, with relief patterns carved into the white marble walls, creating the impression that the floor was encircled by pillars. Instead of desks, there was a single round table in the center of the room, surrounded by sixteen chairs. The room was so large that the table barely took up half of its space.

  As they took their seats, Rusty tilted his head back and gaped at the domed ceiling. “This place is awesome!”

  This made Tristan grin briefly. “You also thought walking through that miserable fog was awesome.”

  Once Brikkens had settled himself fussily into his tall armchair, he rapped his knuckles on the table. “This class is going to explore the intricacies of—”

  A loud thump interrupted Brikkens. Damian had slammed his elbows on the table. “I just want to know what’s going on here, Professor Brikkens.” Damian glared at the other students as though looking for support. “No one’s bothered to let us know why we’re here, or even where ‘here’ is. I’m getting damn tired of it.”

  A few others nodded warily.

  “Oh, dear,” Brikkens said. Pushing his tiny glasses further into his face, he folded his arms. “I’m afraid I don’t have the authority to tell you that. If Professor Drakewell didn’t see fit to explain—”

  “Well, then tell us what you’re teaching, Professor,” Zeke said. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. Even wearing his newly-pressed uniform, he managed to look handsome and unconcerned.

  “I can do that,” Brikkens said, brightening considerably. “My friends, I’ll be teaching you how to use magic.”

  A dead silence fell.

  For a long moment Brikkens’ words didn’t register in Tristan’s thoughts.

  Then Zeke started laughing, the table shaking under his feet; Eli and Damian joined in, the sound echoing around the curved walls.

  “I bet this is an asylum,” Leila muttered. “They couldn’t think of anything else to do with us, so they’ve sent us somewhere we’ll be forgotten.

  Tristan nodded blankly.

  As the laughter died down, Brikkens chuckled uncertainly. “I assure you, this is no joke. You are here—at this school—to learn magic.”

  “God, I can’t believe this,” Damian said. “We’re not insane—what are you playing at?”

  With a great effort, Brikkens resettled his bulk in the padded armchair. “My dear boy, why would I lie to you?”

  Smirking, Zeke folded his hands behind his head. “In that case, let’s see some magic. It’ll be entertaining, right? To see you fail.”

  Brikkens seemed to have missed the end of what Zeke said. “Well, kids, it’s not that easy.” He began patting at his immense maroon vest as though searching for something in one of its countless pockets.

  “Magic,” he began in a ponderous tone, “has nothing to do with waving a wand—or a staff—and saying the correct words. It’s much more complicated and discriminating than that. Commanding magical power—that is, the energy harnessed from destruction—requires great mental skill.”

  “Yeah, and a special room with trapdoors,” Zeke said. He had closed his eyes.

  Tristan wanted to hit Rusty for looking so foolishly expectant.

  “No, my friend,” Brikkens said. He withdrew his hand from a pocket, fingers fisted around something small. “There is no trickery involved. Magic, you see, is all about balance. Indeed. Balance and order, both mental and physical.”

  He opened his hand and showed the students what he had found. “Here we are.”

  Tristan had to sit up straight to see what Brikkens was holding—resting in his palm was a small golden orb about the size of a marble, unremarkable apart from the fact that it appeared to be molded from solid gold.

  “Any guesses as to what this might be?”

  “Something magical, no doubt,” Zeke drawled, his eyes still closed.

  “Ah, yes. Very good, Mr. Elwood.” Brikkens smoothed his vest over his stomach. “Now, where was I?”

  The tall girl next to Cassidy McKenna sat forward eagerly. “You were talking about balance, sir.”

  Cassidy pinched her. “Shut up, Stacy.” The tall girl winced.

  Oblivious to this, Brikkens nodded. “Wonderful. Magic is called such because it is derived from thin air and therefore does not follow the distinct laws of science. Magic, in its purest form, is the creation of something from nothing. That is where balance comes into play—you see, the source of magic is found in its equal but opposite force: the reduction of something to nothing. Indeed. Magic is powered by destruction.”

  “What’s that thing in your hand?” asked Cailyn Tyler, her blonde ringlets bobbing.

  “So glad you asked, my dear, so glad you asked.” Brikkens opened his fist again and let the marble glow warmly in the light that streamed from the ceiling. “This is pure magic. W
hen something is destroyed, it releases a vapor of undiluted magic. If you collect that vapor, it congeals to form an orb such as this.”

  “And what’s that supposed to do?” Cassidy asked derisively.

  “Anything at all. Only a small amount of magic is stored in this orb, so it only works for small-scale spells. What would you like to see, my dear girl?”

  “Grow a tree,” Eli suggested dully.

  Brikkens’ face fell. “I cannot do that. Not here, at least.”

  “Wonderful,” Eli said coldly. “You’re not even a decent fraud.”

  “No, no, growing a tree is not an impossible task.” Brikkens smoothed his ugly vest. “However, magic cannot entirely disobey the laws of nature. To grow a tree, I must first have a seed.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Tristan slouched back in his chair. A flower flickered in his memory, and it was a moment before he remembered it as the flower that had grown on Marcus’s grave, seemingly from nowhere. He had passed it off as a trick of the light.

  Brikkens dug through his pockets again and drew out an ordinary penny. With great ceremony, he set the penny on the table and waved his hands over it.

  “Maybe we’ll learn to do magic shows,” Leila whispered in Tristan’s ear. “My god, can you imagine us pulling rabbits out of hats for the rest of our lives?”

  Tristan had a sudden vision of himself wearing a magician’s colorful suit and top-hat; he groaned.

  “This should work nicely,” Brikkens said, still flourishing his hands over the penny. A moment later the gold marble appeared once more in his palm, and he blew on it. Then he flipped his palm over and let the marble fall.

  For a split second the marble just dropped, exactly like it should; before it hit the table, though, it slowed and began to blur strangely.

  Tristan sat up straighter in his chair. As he watched in surprise, the marble dissolved and floated apart to form a dense little cloud of gold smoke. The smoke drifted lazily down to settle on the penny like a cloak, where it hovered for a moment before disappearing.