Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  Tristan silently cursed the snow.

  “You’re being awfully quiet,” Leila commented at dinner, frowning at Tristan.

  She was right—ever since Merridy had announced their test, Tristan had been arguing furiously with himself.

  “Are you worried about the test?”

  “Yeah, a little,” Tristan said quickly.

  In truth, he thought this could be his one chance to escape the school. If he ran away now, he could find a small town with phone service and call his mom. If she wanted him to come back, he would be free. He wouldn’t lose his mind. He could be home in a week. And if the detention center hadn’t lied, and his mother actually hated him, he would slink back to the Lair.

  “The test doesn’t sound so bad,” Rusty said consolingly.

  Tristan nodded vaguely. For some reason the thought of leaving the Lair made him feel hollow and lonely.

  “Let’s do something fun tonight,” Leila said. “We could play cards, or—or help Gerry bake cookies.”

  As Tristan looked from Leila to Rusty, his stomach knotted. “I’m tired,” he said. “I think I’ll go to bed early.”

  That night, as the other students dug through their backpacks and readied themselves for the morning, Tristan just sat beside his supplies, feeling feverish.

  “We should try to get back as fast as possible,” Leila whispered to Tristan and Rusty. “If we’re the first back, we can have a party in the bunkroom—I asked, and Gerry says he would give us whatever food we asked for.”

  “What about champagne?” Rusty said, grinning.

  Eli had overheard. “Why on earth wouldn’t we hurry?” he said in a low voice. “Do you think it’ll be loads of fun, tramping through the snow and freezing our asses off at night?”

  Tristan plucked morosely at the rope in his backpack. His rations were already buried at the bottom of his pack, wrapped in a sour-smelling tarp that he couldn’t afford to leave behind.

  “Well,” Leila said, “if you run across Zeke, throw him in a frozen lake or something.”

  “Hey!” Zeke shouted from the other side of the bunkroom. “I heard that.”

  Leila glared briefly at their makeshift barrier before returning her attention to Tristan. She looked upset, as though she knew what he was planning. Avoiding her eyes, Tristan climbed into bed and turned towards the wall, though he was far from sleep.

  Tristan started awake the next morning to Zeke’s loud voice.

  “Hey, ugly.”

  Tristan sat up, still caught in the grips of a familiar nightmare. It took him a moment to calm down; slowly the shadows receded and he recognized the familiar faces of his friends, who were already moving about below.

  At Zeke’s voice, Leila had frozen and backed away from the makeshift barrier, shifting on her feet like a cat readying to pounce.

  “You scared, little miss grumpy?” Zeke said. He dragged a chair over to the barrier. “I heard you whimpering last night. What’s wrong?”

  Leila’s face reddened. “We’ll see who’s laughing this Friday,” she said stiffly. It was unlike her to take offence at Zeke’s teasing. “This time you won’t be able to cheat.”

  With a loud scrape, Zeke shoved his chair directly against the barrier; the shabby dresser wobbled dangerously as he stood and stuck his head over the top.

  “I’m not worried,” he said, grinning. “I hope you’re planning to take a shower!” Taking careful aim, he flung his entire water bottle at Leila. The top had been unscrewed—water sloshed over Leila’s face, followed by a crash as the metal struck her in the jaw.

  Tristan winced sympathetically, but Leila didn’t make a sound. Face hardening, she smoothed a wet strand of hair out of her eyes and kicked the water bottle away.

  Laughing, Zeke and Damian led their friends out of the bunkroom. With a sympathetic grimace, Eli followed the others up to breakfast.

  “Are you gonna be okay?” Rusty asked anxiously. “That was really mean of Zeke.”

  “You think?” Leila snapped. “Just go eat—I have to dry off.”

  Tristan didn’t leave with Rusty; he just stood quietly and watched Leila. Once they were alone, he said, “I wouldn’t retaliate if I were you.”

  Leila turned to him. “That’s not your business,” she said coldly. Then she sighed. “What is it you’re planning to do?”

  Tristan followed her as she stalked to the opposite side of the bunkroom. “Seriously, Leila, you shouldn’t—”

  “Don’t avoid the question,” she said. Kneeling, she lifted Zeke’s backpack onto his bed and dug through it, eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “I’m not doing anything,” Tristan said flatly.

  Leila drew something from Zeke’s backpack; it was his compass. “You’re lying,” she said. After staring at the compass for a moment, she slammed it against the wall—the plastic cover shattered, littering the floor with small shards. These Leila kicked under the wobbly dresser. Picking up the compass, she tore the needle from its face and shoved both pieces into a drawer.

  “Zeke probably didn’t know how to use that thing to begin with,” Tristan said, though his lips twitched.

  Leila flicked her dripping braid over her shoulder and reached for the water bottle sitting beside Cassidy’s bed. Unscrewing the top, she upended it into Zeke’s backpack. “Better?” she said.

  Tristan snorted.

  Leila threw Zeke’s backpack to the floor where she’d found it, leaving a spreading pool of water on the marble tiles. When she turned back to Tristan, her face softened.

  “Don’t...”

  Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. Cautiously she lifted a hand and brushed two fingers along Tristan’s cheek. Then she turned and hurried from the room.

  After breakfast, the students followed Merridy up the stairs to the meadow, talking in excited whispers. Tristan felt very distant from the group, but he tried to smile and nod at whatever Rusty was jabbering on about.

  There was a hold-up at the top of the stairs—the students in front had stopped, and Tristan heard them swearing and exclaiming loudly.

  “Keep moving.” Merridy’s clipped tone rose above the other voices. Tristan, Leila, and Rusty had to jostle their way outside, just like the day when they’d first seen the mountains.

  This time there was a helicopter sitting in the center of the meadow.

  Rusty cursed in surprise, just as Tristan said, “Damn! What is this place?”

  “That’s why everyone is so worried about protecting the school,” Leila said under her breath. “It’s because the teachers are goddamn millionaires, and they have a fortune hidden in the tunnels.”

  “Will we all fit in this thing?” Hayley asked nervously.

  “If we can’t,” Eli said, “we’ll tie you to the tail and just let you hang there.”

  The front window of the helicopter came unlatched and swung open; Quinsley stuck out his head, grinning at the students. “Is everyone here?”

  “How come you’re the one flying this thing?” Damian asked indignantly.

  “I am actually a licensed pilot. I didn’t come get you at the start of the year just because I liked doing the extra work.” Smile widening at the look on Damian’s face, Quinsley pointed at each of the students in turn, counting them. “Perfect. Now, if you’d pop open that hatch, Zeke, we can be off.”

  Tristan wasn’t sure that such a small helicopter could bear the weight of all fifteen students, provided that they fit inside to begin with. Maybe it was supported by magic. He was the last one to climb up the rickety metal ladder into the belly of the helicopter, following Rusty and Leila. Merridy waved to him from the ground—apparently she was staying behind.

  Tristan shoved his shoulders against someone’s stomach, jostling Rusty and Eli farther into the cramped depths of the helicopter until there was space for him to pull his legs up. When Merridy folded the ladder away and slammed the hatch closed, they were plunged into complete darkness.

  After a moment of
quiet, the helicopter vibrated and the blade started to spin overhead with a thundering chop-chop-chop. As the nose dipped forward and they lifted off the ground, Tristan’s stomach dropped.

  Someone’s elbow collided painfully with Tristan’s ribs—unable to see who the arm belonged to, he leaned over and whispered, “Who is this?”

  “Evangeline.” The whisper was sharp and unhappy; a second later Evvie jerked her arm away.

  Minutes later, the helicopter settled with a jolt, tilting sideways. “Ow!” Tristan cried out—he had slid sideways and smashed his shoulder on something sharp. His voice was drowned out by the yells of his fellow students; just as Tristan managed to right himself, something heavy slammed into him and crushed him against the wall.

  “Sorry!” Hayley’s voice cried.

  Behind Tristan, Zeke cursed loudly—there came a heavy crash and a shriek, and then a shaft of light flooded the blackened space.

  “What’s—” Rusty shouted, breaking off abruptly as someone’s thrashing leg kicked him off balance.

  “Aargh!” Arms flailing, Rusty fell backwards and dropped, yelling manically, out of the open hatch.

  Leila fell to her knees, staring anxiously after him. Tristan leaned over the doorway and saw Rusty sprawled on the snowy ground. He swayed on his feet, panicked. For a moment he couldn’t breathe.

  Then Rusty lifted his head and clambered drunkenly to his feet, grinning.

  “I’m okay,” he said, waving at Tristan. Leila shook her head in disbelief.

  Quinsley jumped down from the cockpit, shaking his head. “Honestly,” he said. “I leave you kids alone for five minutes, and someone nearly dies.” The white-haired cook was smiling, though. “Toss down Rusty’s backpack, Leila. He can start the test first, since he’s already down here.”

  Leila rolled her eyes, her face still pale from worry, though she did as Quinsley had asked. The backpack clattered onto the snowy ground, where Rusty picked it up and slung it over one shoulder.

  “Good luck,” Tristan called, nearly choking on the words. If he succeeded, this would be the last time he saw Rusty.

  “It’s not fair,” Damian said sullenly. He was still lost in the shadows at the back of the helicopter. “He’s got an advantage, starting before the rest of us.

  Quinsley raised an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t you hear Darla’s rules? It’s not a race.”

  “If you can’t read the map, a full week’s head start won’t get you anywhere,” Leila said.

  Zeke snorted. “You’re saying you can? I doubt it.” He glanced at Damian. “Bet you five bucks she’ll call for help before the helicopter has a chance to take off.”

  Leila’s furious retort was cut off by Quinsley slamming the hatch shut, throwing everyone into darkness once again. Tristan grabbed her arm instinctively, afraid she would try to punch Zeke in the dark.

  Tristan could feel Leila whirl to face him. “Triss?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” He eased his grip on her arm. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Tristan was the second one dropped off. As he jumped off the ladder into the snow, he was hit by an icy gust of wind so powerful that it threw him backwards into a snowdrift. He stumbled to his feet and waved at Leila; the propeller slammed him with another blast of air, ripping the goodbye from his lips.

  Then he was alone.

  For a long time Tristan just stood there, clutching his backpack and his map, taking in his surroundings. He was on a short ledge halfway up the slope of a craggy, towering mountain; how Quinsley had found enough space to land the helicopter, he didn’t know. The peak loomed behind him, sparkling like a diamond beneath its sheen of snow, while the slope fell smoothly away just past the ledge. Trees began again about two hundred feet down, tentative at first and then boldly swathing the slope in green, though there was no sign of the school or the lake below that. At the foot of this mountain, another slope rose to a spiny ridge, beyond which he could see more snow-dusted peaks all gleaming in the sun.

  Now that he was here, feet already growing numb in his boots, cheeks raw from the fierce wind, he wasn’t sure why he’d been so anxious to run away. It would be so much nicer to make a beeline for the Lair, where he would be greeted with a steaming mug of hot cocoa and a warm bed. Besides, his parents probably still hated him. They might be happy to learn that he had gone insane.

  Shivering in the violent wind, Tristan unfolded his map and struggled to hold it flat while he got his bearings. The school wasn’t marked anywhere, though he could recognize the ledge where he stood, an island amidst a dark wreath of contour lines.

  Partway around the mountain, Tristan could make out a ridge that sloped south. Beyond this, the map ended. If he followed the ridge far enough, maybe he could find a way down. At least he would be moving in the right direction.

  There was no use waiting any longer, so Tristan folded up the map and tucked it into his pocket. He was going home.

  Hunching his shoulders against the wind, Tristan left the ledge and started forging a path through new snowdrifts. There appeared to be a narrow trail curling around the mountain, beginning where the ledge ended and quickly vanishing into the snow. Tristan picked his way along this path, fighting the snow and the wind with each careful footstep.

  The sun was dipping low in the sky by the time Tristan caught sight of the ridge he was aiming for. His stomach was hollow and aching—he hadn’t found a place safe enough to stop and rummage in his pack for food. When the ridge came into view, he sighed in relief. He had begun to fear he was lost.

  Once he reached the end of the path, just below the ridge, Tristan crouched in the snow and dug for his food. The ridge and the mountain slope created something of a shelter, protecting him from the worst of the wind.

  The food was at the top of his backpack, so he was able to pull it free without removing his gloves. His first day’s rations of an apple and an energy bar looked sadly inadequate, and his stomach grumbled louder than ever as he tore open the plastic wrapper. Next he finished the apple in six bites, hunching forward against the wind. Stomach still growling, he flung the core down the mountainside.

  While he’d been walking, though his face had been numb from the wind, his body had flared with the heat of exertion. Now the cold was beginning to seep through his coat and shirt—he shuddered violently for a second, as though realizing this for the first time. Once the tremor subsided, he zipped his backpack closed and jumped to his feet. He was not about to freeze to death.

  Tristan scrambled up the short slope to the top of the ridge, stiff from the cold but revitalized. He was no longer lost; from here the ridge took him nearly to the edge of the map, beyond which he might find real civilization.

  The sun was dropping quicker now—as Tristan slogged through the snow, he measured his progress along the ridge against the sun’s descent, watching it plummet towards the peaks on his right. The sun seemed determined to win the race, so Tristan trudged faster than ever, his hood falling back in a brutal gust of wind. It shouldn’t be so cold, not this early in the season; the wind stripped all the warmth from the air and scraped at his neck like a razor.

  Too soon, the sun bobbed against the glowing peaks and vanished, throwing the ridge into the wake of a frigid shadow.

  Tristan stopped, shoulders stiff. He had barely come halfway along the ridge. His fingers and toes were numb and aching, the bottoms of his jeans soggy with snow. He couldn’t stop here, not with a sheer drop on either side and barely two feet of level ground underfoot.

  “Damn it, damn it,” he muttered. There was no way he’d reach the end of the ridge quickly enough. He had to make for the bottom of the slope before darkness fell.

  Flexing his stiff fingers, he knelt and lowered one foot cautiously over the edge of the ridge. Nudging the snow aside with his toe, he scrabbled his foot against the rocks until he found a solid foothold. He dug his fingers firmly into the snow before lowering his weight onto that foot. In this manner, one tiny movement at a time, Trista
n began climbing down from the ridge.

  Inch by cautious inch, Tristan crept lower, leaving a deep gouge in the snow where he’d come.

  Halfway down, his fingers grew so cold that they wouldn’t bend. All at once he began trembling violently, barely keeping his hold on the rocks. He couldn’t say whether he shook from cold or fear or exhaustion—biting his tongue, he pressed his body closer to the slope and waited for the new tremor to pass. In the silence, he could hear his breath rasping too loudly in his ears.

  CRACK!

  A thunderous shot broke the stillness, echoing around the rocks like a giant cracking his knuckles. Tristan stared wildly around for the source—then he saw the snow above him beginning to splinter.

  His foot slipped as he tried to scramble away from the shifting ice—

  “ARGH!”

  He began sliding down the slope, flailing for a handhold, but the rocks were loose and skittered away beneath him. His knee slammed against a boulder, and he picked up speed, yelling wildly, though his voice was drowned in the thunderous rush of snow.

  Above him, it seemed that a whole section of the mountain had come loose. Roaring and clamoring down the slope after him came a massive volley of snow, sweeping up everything in its path.

  Tristan finally managed to shove his toe into the rocks, slowing his painful fall. He hunched his body against the slope, shuddering and trying to breathe past the icy fear, and then—

  WHAM!

  The snow and ice hit Tristan, slamming him backwards with the force of a truck. Tristan screamed—he was thrown from his perch and tossed down the ridge, falling blindly, yelling until his throat was raked hoarse. Odd images flashed before his eyes in the flickering blackness—Leila smiling at him, Rusty laughing, Marcus nodding sadly. I trust you.

  Then Tristan smashed to the ground, one leg wrenched beneath him. The snow pounded him against the rocks, slamming his head and ribs until he gasped for air.

  Blackness pooled in his eyes, but he fought it; his mouth was filled with something bitter and grimy, something that pressed his throat closed so he could hardly breathe. He gagged and tried to spit out the filthy snow, but he couldn’t even manage that much. He was pinned to the ground, the oppressive weight of the snow growing heavier and heavier by the second. Everything ached; he could hardly find his own arm beneath the crushing mass of snow.