A man was standing there. He certainly hadn’t been there seconds ago, and he wasn’t puffed like someone who might have just bolted out from one of the houses behind me. Where had he come from?
‘Hello, Aristea,’ he said. For a long second, I just stared. Where had he come from, and how did he know my name?
‘Hi,’ I responded, warily. His appearance didn’t tell me much – mid-fifties, Arabic in descent, skin the colour of dark coffee, deep soulful eyes, curling dark hair, short beard, powerful build, tall, dressed in a suit – so I tuned into my other senses, my witch senses. They were like long, invisible fingers I could brush over things nearby to feel for energies. I could sense straightaway that he was a sorcerer, and one of the strongest sorcerers I’d ever encountered. His energy field was fuller and stronger than that of anyone else I’d previously met. What he was doing here, I couldn’t guess, so I probed deeper, looking for feelings and intentions. I felt curiosity, mild interest, but nothing frightening or threatening about his emotional state.
How someone feels isn’t always a perfect indicator of how they intend to act, so when he moved towards me I jumped back and opened one hand instinctively. Unseen, an energetic shield, a ward, blossomed from my hand, blocking him. The man paused, sensing what many others wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to walk through it. He shifted his weight to a standing position again and extended his hand, probably what he’d been doing in the first place, I reflected now.
‘My name is Qasim,’ he told me. ‘I belong with the White Elm council.’
My ward lost its fizz and dissolved as relief washed over me. No weirdo. No escaped convict. This was one of the good guys.
‘Aristea Byrne,’ I said, stepping forward to accept his hand. His handshake was warm and firm. ‘You gave me a fright.’
‘My apologies, but I couldn’t arrive here before being sure you would pass the test,’ he said, sounding far from sorry. He had a businesslike tone that I wasn’t sure I liked, but I overlooked this for the moment in light of what he was saying.
‘What test?’
‘Just a test of faith,’ Qasim said, nodding once at my left hip. I reached into my jeans pocket and withdrew the weightless pebble. Before my eyes it vanished. ‘You passed, or I wouldn’t have come.’
I’d passed because I’d kept the stone?
‘Where did it go?’
‘It was only an illusion. Its purpose is met; it no longer needs to exist.’
‘But how did you even know I’d kept it?’ I countered, confused. Could he go invisible? Had he been here all along?
‘I saw you.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Dublin.’
I stared at him, realising what he was saying. He could scry. He had the power and the skill to observe events remotely with his mind. It was something I’d always, always wanted to be able to do, and something I’d never, ever been able to perform.
‘Are you a scrier?’ I asked, suddenly tentative.
‘I am the Scrier for the White Elm,’ Qasim answered. ‘I have been monitoring you, among others, for a number of weeks.’
I bit back on my mildly hurt feelings about my broken privacy. He’d been watching me. From other places. I’d been spied on, for weeks, and not even known it. Was he even allowed to do that?
‘Among others?’ I asked politely, and he nodded briskly.
‘I’d rather discuss this with your guardian present, if that suits you fine,’ he said. ‘The White Elm wishes to present you with a special opportunity, but because of your age your guardian will need to be fully informed and give her consent if you are interested.’
Interested? I was beyond interested, especially now.
‘Okay, I live just this way,’ I said, pointing up the street and leading the way. Qasim followed silently. ‘So what is this about?’
‘An opportunity,’ he said again, and I got the distinct impression that it was all he was going to say until we reached my house, so I gave up. He would tell my sister, I was sure. He would love my sister. Everyone did.
The rain mostly held off except for occasional little drops until I unlocked my front door and held it open for Qasim. He walked inside, and I followed, shutting and locking the door behind us.
The small house was quiet, but I’d seen my sister’s car in the driveway, so I knew she had to be here somewhere.
‘Ange?’ I called, leading Qasim into the sitting room. I hurriedly dusted off a seat for him – the couch in front of the TV and DVD player was still littered with crumbs from my chips and other assorted snacks during my movie last night. My highly domestic sister couldn’t have been home long, or this room would have been spotless. ‘Angela?’
I heard a door opening, probably the bathroom, and heard the drone of the hairdryer. It quietened down, momentarily clicked down to a lower setting.
‘Aristea?’
‘Yeah, I’m home,’ I called, nervously rearranging the coffee table, still covered in DVD cases. Last night I’d enjoyed a marathon of all three Pirates of the Caribbean movies (I don’t count the fourth because it doesn’t have Orlando Bloom in it), which had obviously been excellent at the time, but they’re long films so I’d gone to bed without bothering to clean up, and then this morning woken late and had to hurry to catch the bus for my casual shift at the crystal shop in town…’We’ve got a guest.’
‘Alright, I’ll be one second,’ Angela promised, and I heard the bathroom door shut.
‘She’ll just be a second,’ I repeated to Qasim, although he’d probably heard it from the source, just as I had. I stood awkwardly beside the DVD cabinet, stuffing the cases into any old slot. Angela would no doubt reorganise these later. It felt weird, almost embarrassing, to be seen handling objects as mundane as DVDs around someone like Qasim. I wasn’t sure whether he was one of them, but I knew that many of the councillors on the White Elm lived lives in varying degrees of tradition, some shirking modern, technological life altogether.
Angela and I were very modern witches. We lived very normal lives, paying rent, going to work at normal jobs, watching DVDs at night, going shopping on Saturdays, getting places by car or bus. We just happened to be sorceresses, with the ability to perform a couple of magical acts. No flying brooms, no black cats…Our rental agreement wouldn’t allow the cat anyway.
The bathroom door opened and I heard footsteps as my sister approached. I looked over my shoulder as Angela entered the living room. She smiled politely at Qasim, but the look she shot me spelt out exactly what she was thinking. Who needed telepathy? We’d never mastered it, but I could tell that she was wondering why I’d brought home a well-dressed, middle-aged Arabic man and seated him on our lounge suite.
‘Hi, I’m Angela,’ she said, speaking with both friendliness and easy authority.
Angela Byrne was my very favourite person in the entire world. She was six years older than me at twenty-three, six times cooler and six times more beautiful, although everyone claimed that I was her spitting image, just “coloured in differently”, as my uncle joked. She was slim and fair, with bright blue-green eyes and straight blonde-brown hair, and bordering on tall for a girl, though at almost the same height, I never noticed this unless we were out with other girls or with our much shorter cousin. Angela and I lived alone in this small two-bedroom flat in the suburbs of Coleraine, which was not our first preference of living arrangements but still worked quite well. We got along fabulously, by which I mean I idolised her and she doted on me.
Qasim stood and offered his hand.
‘Qasim, with the White Elm,’ he explained, shaking her hand. Her polite expression immediately smoothed to one of genuine welcome.
‘Oh,’ she said, glancing at me again. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘As you may have noticed, the White Elm has been somewhat publicly quiet in recent months,’ Qasim began, sitting down again when Angela did. I plopped down beside her, wishing immediately that I’d sat down mor
e elegantly. Qasim didn’t seem to notice; he wasn’t even addressing me anymore. ‘One reason for this has been an attempt to starve Lisandro of information. The less access he has to our plans and movements, the closer he has to come in order to get it.’
That made sense, I supposed, although that plan hinged on the notion that Lisandro wanted to know what his old council was doing. I’d assumed he was just in hiding, but this sounded like the White Elm thought otherwise.
‘The other reason is that we have been in the process of establishing an institution, a sort of academy, for instructing young sorcerers in the finer magical arts. We are finding, more and more in this integrated, fast-paced world we live in, that the younger generation is missing out on the instruction their parents or grandparents might have had in such areas as healing, Seeing, displacement, scrying or spell-writing, among other things. This academy is due to commence taking students in just a few weeks, and would serve the dual purpose of getting skilled sorcerers out into communities where they are lacking, and also improving the skills within the pool of young people from which the White Elm selects its members. Several councillors within the council are at a stage in their lives where taking an apprentice would seem prudent, and this academy would provide opportunities for appropriate matches to be found.’
He’d had me riveted from “scrying”, but I still wasn’t sure what he was saying. Was he talking about a magic school? Only I was pretty sure that the White Elm themselves had been fighting against that one for decades or centuries, insisting on social and educational integration with mainstream and trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. My sister seemed to be thinking along the same lines.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Angela agreed, ‘but how does that sit with the White Elm’s social integration policy?’
‘The White Elm council still maintains that the only way forwards is side-by-side with our mortal counterparts,’ Qasim answered smoothly. ‘We are not seeking to replace mortal schooling with our system. Conversely, our new academy would be open to highly gifted sorcerers who have completed compulsory mortal schooling and may be interested in developing their special skills to carve a place for themselves in this world, for example as healers or even by, eventually, joining the White Elm council.’ He finally shifted his gaze back to me. ‘We would like to offer Aristea a place at this academy.’
I blinked, startled, and looked at my sister for confirmation. I had not expected this, although of course I should have – why else would he have bothered testing me and then telling me about the school?
‘But…you said it was for gifted people,’ I stammered, sounding stupid. ‘I’m not gifted.’
‘Your name came up,’ Qasim said simply. ‘We are looking for sorcerers between sixteen and twenty with a high capacity for power and a pre-existing relationship with, or at least a positive attitude towards, the White Elm. You fit our criteria.’
‘How, though?’ I persisted. ‘How did you pick me out? Is there a list or something?’
It had to be a dodgy list.
‘No, I possess the ability to mass-scry,’ Qasim said, like he was talking about a good catching arm or something equally commonplace. ‘I was looking for the world’s fifty strongest sixteen-to-nineteen-year-old sorcerers, and I have been monitoring them since.’
I should probably just shut up. Qasim could not only remotely view scenes, people and events, he could view fifty of them at once. Anything I said now was going to sound really dumb and pointless.
‘I didn’t realise there was so much magic in the family,’ Angela commented, looking me over curiously. I wished she wouldn’t. I didn’t like the idea that something made me different from her.
‘You’re the same,’ Qasim said, kindly. I felt immediate relief. ‘You’re both very powerful. It probably comes from a long way back. These things usually do.’
‘So where is the school?’ Angela asked, crossing her legs. I almost mirrored her but stopped myself. No copied movement was going to make me anywhere near as ladylike as her. I would only succeed in looking awkward, like usual.
‘Not far from here, actually.’ Qasim looked out the nearest window and nodded to the west. ‘I can’t give you the exact location at this time but I can say that it is nearby, at the home of a White Elm councillor. Students would be completely protected and perfectly safe boarding there, while also enjoying open channels of communication with families.’
‘Will they have access to phones and internet?’ Angela asked, and Qasim shook his head.
‘Unfortunately, that is impossible. Electronic devices fail to function within the walls of this particular property because of the protective magic encasing it. Phones would short out.’
‘Is there electricity?’ I asked, a horrible image of a candlelit existence occurring to me. ‘And running water…?’
‘Of sorts, yes,’ Qasim said cryptically. ‘Lights, taps and toilets function exactly as you would expect them to. I assure you, this property is not lacking in any modern luxury, except perhaps power points.’
‘What would be the main mode of instruction?’ asked Angela, ever focussed.
‘The councillors of the White Elm will be scheduling time each week to teach their area of expertise to classes of students.’
‘Lady Miranda will be teaching healing, then?’ Angela checked, shooting me an excited smile. The White Elm’s High Priestess was the world’s most talented healer, and extremely well-known in our world for the countless miracles she’d performed while working as a surgeon in a hospital in London.
‘And you’ll be teaching me scrying?’ I asked Qasim, because though healing was great and all, nothing appealed to me like the ancient art of scrying. He nodded once.
‘Yes, I will be taking the lessons on scrying,’ he answered. He turned back to Angela. ‘You don’t need to decide today. I’m just here to let you know about the opportunity. If you are interested, we will send further information and the enrolment forms in about a week.’
I looked hopefully at Angela.
‘And if we’re not interested?’ she asked, politely, and I forced a smile to match, but inside I was screaming at her. I wanted this.
‘I won’t bother you again,’ Qasim promised.
‘I hope a refusal wouldn’t be taken as a show of disloyalty, because that would not be the case.’
Angela was so diplomatic, I reminded myself. She was just exploring our options. She was just checking all avenues for holes. That’s all. She wasn’t trying to turn Qasim down without even asking me. She wasn’t like that.
‘The White Elm is satisfied with your family’s commitment to our principles and would understand that a refusal in this case is well within your rights,’ Qasim assured her. Angela looked at me again.
‘There’s a possibility that Aristea might be chosen as an apprentice due to her involvement at this school?’ she said, looking at me critically like she always did when forced to think like a parent instead of a sister.
‘There is every possibility,’ Qasim agreed. ‘Such a selection would create a guaranteed position for her on the White Elm some day. Not everyone will get this opportunity, of course, but even those who do not will have access to learning and skills they would otherwise not have developed. We anticipate that this school will have at least as many benefits for the community as it does for the council itself, if not more.’
‘And how long will she be staying at the school?’ Angela was still watching me, still trying to decide how best to act as my guardian.
‘At this time, we are planning for a one-year-long training program,’ Qasim said. ‘That may be extended for some or all students, although that need will become apparent throughout the year.’ He paused, waiting for Angela. She said nothing, so he asked, ‘Should I put your family down as interested, or should we leave this here?’
I looked back at my sister intently, silently begging. I wanted to go. I was going to learn how to scry, and may
be join the White Elm one day and matter and make big decisions, but right now, my sister stood between me and that future.
‘It’s not a family decision,’ Angela said finally. She shrugged. ‘I’m not Aristea’s mother; I don’t make decisions for her. If she wants to go, that’s up to her. Are you interested?’
I stared at her. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Angela was always like this – totally perfect.
‘Yes,’ I managed. I swallowed. ‘Yes, I’d love to attend the White Elm’s academy.’
‘Excellent,’ Qasim said, standing. Angela and I did the same. He shook our hands. ‘I hope you’ll understand when I request that this conversation does not leave this room. At this time we are trying to keep this very quiet, so I would prefer that you do not disclose anything pertaining to my visit to anyone until Aristea actually enrols.’
‘We understand,’ Angela agreed immediately. Qasim nodded once, grateful, and withdrew a card from his pocket. My sister accepted it.
‘You can write to the White Elm at this post office box. I’ll be in touch with further information. Thank you for your time.’
‘Yes, the same to you,’ Angela said, walking with him to the front door. I stayed where I was. Had all that really just happened? I heard them exchange goodbyes and I heard the front door click shut. Had Angela really just said goodbye to Qasim, the Scrier for the White Elm? It sounded insane; I had to have imagined it. I hurried into the front room and wrenched open the door Angela had just closed.
Outside, there was nobody to be seen. Our quiet street was as devoid of activity as the rest of the suburb, and the rain had settled into a sort of drizzle.
‘I did imagine it,’ I murmured, shutting the door again. Angela laughed and locked it.
‘No, he was here. But he’d be long gone by now. He’s probably in Cambodia by now.’
‘Cambodia?’
‘Well, probably not, but he wouldn’t have hung around waiting for a bus, would he?’
I realised that the White Elm contained some of the most powerful sorcerers in the world, to whom displacement was probably easier than running. Why had I entertained the thought that our visitor might be walking to fifty houses around the world? He’d popped up out of nowhere when I’d pocketed that stone. Qasim was clearly an accomplished Displacer.
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