"Why thank you, Mista Jonas," Zaire said, stooping into a theatrical bow. “Learned that from my maw maw back in New Orleans.”
All three of the Watchers had been defeated, but Jonas did not waste a moment on celebrating the victory. Instead, he rushed to Ezra's side and placed a hand over his face to check for signs of life.
"He's alive, but just barely," Jonas remarked in a panic. His frantic eyes scanned the alleyway for anything that would suggest the protective presence of the Magi Administration.
No agents. No remnants of the Celestial Lifeforce. No protective enchantments. Nothing.
Where were they?
Kierra knelt beside Ezra. “The arrow must have severed an artery; I’ve never seen so much blood from a puncture wound like this,” she surmised. Her voice trembled as she placed her palm over her student’s forehead.
Zaire removed his jacket and bent to the boy's level. "We need to act fast, Mista Jonas and Miss Kierra," he spoke, knotting the fabric just above where the arrow stuck out from Ezra's leg. "He needs professional medical help. I don't even think Ms. Annabelle could mix up an elixir to save him now."
"Perhaps not, but he does need an antidote to the Watchers' poison," Jonas commented, digging through his jacket pockets. After a frenzied search, he drew out a small vial of sapphire liquid, holding it up to his eye.
"Ah. I knew carrying this stuff around would pay off one day. Remind me to thank Diego later."
Jonas cradled the young man’s head with one hand and poured the liquid into his mouth with the other.
"That should do the trick."
Kierra stared sympathetically at Ezra and brushed hair away from his eyes. "Hold on, sweetheart. You'll get through this; I know you will."
"And if he doesn't?" asked Zaire.
"If he doesn't, every Magi on earth should fear for their lives," replied Jonas. "I do not know how, but everything changes from this point forward. The writing is already on the wall."
"Then let's run like hell," said Zaire as he and Jonas worked together to lift the boy. "We ain't got enough time in the world to mess with destiny.”
Chapter Eleven
Beyond the Bend
Ezra stirred in a half sleep. Every time his brain nudged him to wake up, he fought against it—especially since waking life was accompanied by an overwhelming ache in his left leg. After what seemed like hours of this, he groaned and finally gave in to consciousness.
As his eyes fluttered open, he jumped in surprise upon seeing a stranger perched in a rocking chair next to his bedside.
"Oh, darling, you have the most beautiful eyes," cooed the elderly woman. “Like honey in a terra cotta vase.”
"Er, thank you?" Ezra replied, completely out of sorts as to where he was and how he had gotten there. He shifted awkwardly under the quilted covers and ran his fingertips over the texture of the linen. Instead of his school uniform, he now wore unfamiliar, freshly laundered night clothes. "Who are you?"
"Annabelle Jane Chicory, but you can call me Mum," answered the woman in a compassionate voice. Her blonde hair had been pulled into a sweeping updo, held in place by braids. While her facial features seemed somewhat intimidating with her long, sharp nose and piercing blue eyes, the lines along her forehead and mouth convinced Ezra she had nothing but kindness beneath her exterior. Her lips—dressed in a subtle shade of rouge—curled into a grin as she waited for a reply. She patiently folded her gloved hands over her lap.
"Hello," Ezra said, thoroughly baffled.
"Hmm. I think it would be wise to bring in someone to which you have already been introduced," Annabelle said and rose from her chair. "Just a moment, my dear."
The door thudded shut. Ezra gulped and eyed his surroundings. A sliver of mid-morning daylight filtered through a grimy window so high up on the wall that Ezra figured he had to be in a cellar somewhere. If he were at Belfast Royal Academy, he had never seen this section of the institution before. And, seeing as he had cleaned nearly every square inch of the grounds, he was almost certain he was nowhere near the school. The small room housed a cot—in which he currently resided—and a bunk bed perpendicular to it. Red damask patterned wallpaper adorned the walls and wooden bookcases full of vials and glass bottles decorated the spaces in between.
Just as Ezra entertained the idea of getting up, the door swung open again, revealing a weary Kierra McLarney.
"Miss McLarney," Ezra gasped, not sure where to start. "I—I am terribly sorry; I know my custodian duties were not completed last night, and I should not have been off school grounds. I can explain—"
"Ezra, dear, you do not have anything to explain. I’m just glad you are safe," said Miss McLarney as she sank into the chair. The dark shadows under her eyes suggested sleep had not visited last night. "Now, I’m sure the headmaster would beg to differ, but I wouldn’t worry about that. How are you feeling?"
"Not the best." He winced as he sat up and propped himself against the wall. "What happened?"
Miss McLarney studied his face. "How much do you remember?"
Ezra shut his eyes, reaching back into his harrowing memories. "I remember these strange mechanical people, but this is not the first time I've seen them. They killed my mother last week, and I think..." Ezra opened his eyes again, looking straight into his teacher's blue ones. "I think they are after my father now."
Miss McLarney nervously played with the hem on her sleeve. "Do you know why?"
"I don't. But this is the second time they have tried to kill me." The words felt strange as they left Ezra's mouth. Only a fortnight ago, he had not the slightest idea anyone would ever want to harm his family. Now, it was all too real.
"I am so sorry," Miss McLarney whispered in sympathy. "That is awful."
"What were they?"
"They're called Dark Watchers," she answered without missing so much as a beat. "They are undead beings brought to life through sorcery.”
Ezra stared at her, his mind racing in endless circles. "Excuse me?”
“Your parents never told you?”
“Told me what?” Ezra responded, heart racing so fast he thought he might faint. What could they have possibly kept from him all these years? The longer he stared at his teacher’s startled expression, the more debilitating the pang of panic became in his chest.
"Oh my," sighed Miss McLarney. "In that case, there is quite a bit to explain, and I'm not sure—"
"I can handle it," Ezra interrupted, eager for an explanation. "I have endured much worse."
Miss McLarney forced a weak smile. "That you have. However, what I mean is that I am not sure I'm the proper person to tell you."
As if on cue, a tall man who looked to be around thirty years of age entered the room. His combed brown hair shone with a golden hue in the light permeating the cellar window. He sported a thin moustache and a sparse, yet neatly trimmed beard. Dressed in a white button up shirt, black pinstriped waistcoat and matching trousers, the man looked incredibly too cheerful—and dapper—for the hour. He grinned and offered his hand to Ezra.
"Ezra Newport? It’s a pleasure to officially meet you," he said, shaking his hand. "I'm not sure if my cousin here has mentioned me at all, but the name's Jonas van der Campe."
"Nice to meet you as well, Mr. van der Campe," Ezra replied, admiring the man’s Dutch accent.
"Please, call me Jonas. Say, let's go for a stroll, shall we?"
Ezra looked toward his teacher for approval, and she nodded in the affirmative.
"Yes, certainly," Ezra agreed, sliding off the cot. However, the twinging soreness in his thigh reminded him of his recent confrontation with danger, and his leg inadvertently gave out. Ezra managed to catch himself by grabbing a hold of Jonas' arm.
"Easy there, chap," Jonas said kindly. "You took quite a nasty blow to your leg last night. Not to worry, we'll take a tram."
“But first, let’s get you something appropriate to wear,” Miss McLarney insisted, collecting a pile of clothing and Ezra’s travel bag from
the lower bunk. “It doesn’t seem like you had much in the way of proper attire in your bag, so I gathered some of Jonas’ spare items that I think would fit you nicely until you get back to the academy.”
Ezra gratefully took the apparel without question. “Thank you.”
"Take care, Ezra. I will see you at dinner, Cousin," Miss McLarney said as she left the room.
After Ezra had changed into a pressed pair of trousers and a dress shirt, Jonas led him up a musty staircase framed by brick, through an alleyway, and into brilliant daylight. Ezra blinked, encouraging his eyes to adjust to the brightness. When they finally did, he could not help but stare in wonder at his surroundings.
They stood in the heart of downtown Belfast; the gritty hustle and bustle of the city sparked a renewed life into Ezra's veins. It was almost as if he were seeing everything for the first time through a new lens. City dwellers crossed the main thoroughfare on foot, darting around horse-drawn retail carts and over the inlaid tracks within the street. Electric wiring for the passenger trams was strung above the streets by ornate poles, about nine meters in height, giving pedestrians plenty of clearance to make their way about. Men wore their finest suits and bowler hats while women, outfitted in high-necked blouses and long skirts, shaded themselves under parasols. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, even the pigeons flying between the buildings.
The rumble of an imported automobile startled nearby horses into giving a wide berth for the motor vehicle to pass. Ezra figured only the extremely wealthy in Ireland could afford that type of transportation. He had heard they were quite popular in America but hadn't seen many in his lifetime to validate a similar claim for Europe.
Jonas signalled to a red and white passenger tram, and the driver halted the transport just long enough for them to board.
"Mornin', sirs," said the driver with a tip of his hat. "How's about ye? Lovely day, inn'it?"
"Most certainly," Jonas replied. He guided Ezra into the enclosed body of the tram and gave him a compassionate smile when he sat on the bench across from him.
At once, the tram accelerated forward. Ezra uneasily cleared his throat and for a few moments, lost himself in the distraction of the scenery flying past. The whirring of the inner mechanics and the click-clacking of the wheels over the tracks made the awkward silence between himself and Jonas van der Campe just a tad more bearable.
“Well, Ezra Newport, it seems as if the Universe has been desperate for us to make each other’s acquaintance.”
Ezra turned away from the window. “What?”
“Surely you must be wondering how Kierra, Zaire, and I knew where to find you last night, swooping in at just the nick of time to save your life.”
“Well, yes,” Ezra admitted. “That amongst other things.”
Curiosity sprang from the shadows under the brim of Jonas’ fedora. “To be quite frank, so am I.”
Ezra frowned. “Sorry?”
“Even in my line of work, it is not—shall we say—typical for one to be able to suddenly look through the eyes of a complete stranger, no matter how brief,” Jonas placidly stated. “Especially as I have not been Gifted with Sight.”
“I’m sorry, sir—er, Jonas,” Ezra squeaked, suddenly confused beyond measure. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Jonas smiled but Ezra noticed it looked forced, perhaps hiding internal conflict. For only knowing him a few minutes, Ezra concluded it seemed quite out of place in someone with such a cheerful demeanour.
“What I’m saying is that I should not have been able to see—in vivid detail, mind you—what happened to you the night of the train wreck in Portadown,” Jonas explained. “Similarly, I should have not been able to see your exact steps as you fled through Belfast. But I did.”
Ezra dropped his gaze toward his hands. The scars across his left palm seared an angry red in the midday light and with a rush of embarrassment, he turned his hand over against his trousers.
"You are quite the anomaly." Jonas leaned forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his knees while folding his hands together between them. "The events that unravelled last night should have killed you, but they didn't. How do you explain that?"
Ezra stared at the man. "I—I can't,” he apprehensively began. "I feel as though in the past week, I have been living in a nightmare and no matter how hard I try, I cannot wake up."
Sympathy glinted in Jonas’ eyes. “You have battled demons most seventeen-year-olds could not even imagine.”
Ezra allowed quietness to consume them while he fought a bothersome tingle in his throat. “It all happened so fast.”
"Mm. Yes. The inevitability of life," Jonas commented. "Tell me, Ezra, what made you decide to leave school grounds?”
Chewing on his lip, Ezra broke his gaze away from the man. Guilt churned in his stomach, leaving a sour taste upon his tongue. “I—I wanted to see if I could find my father.”
“You believe he’s alive?”
“He must be,” Ezra asserted. “Those things are still searching for him.”
“Dark Watchers,” said Jonas, intrigue on the edge of his voice. “All right, let me ask you this: Do you believe in the supernatural?"
"You mean like God and angels?" Ezra questioned. He wasn’t quite sure what Jonas was getting at. "I was raised in the ways of Islam. So, yes."
Jonas nodded and adjusted a small, golden pin on his suit jacket. Before Ezra could delve into the familiarity of the design, the man continued.
"Yes, a bit like that." Jonas paused, as if considering his words carefully. "Besides the last week, have you ever witnessed anything you could not explain?"
Ezra shrugged. "Not that I am aware. Besides moving from country to country my entire life, I would say things have been relatively normal up until recently."
He studied Ezra. "Is that your conscious or your subconscious speaking?”
“Er...conscious, I guess?” This Jonas fellow certainly was a man of many enquiries.
“Did your parents ever tell you why?"
"Why we moved?" asked Ezra, uncomfortably shifting in his seat under the weight of Jonas' questions. "All my parents said is that we had to relocate for 'better opportunities.' I had assumed it was financial."
"And why do you say 'had assumed?'"
"Because there was a moment on the train—just before one of those Dark Watchers killed my mother—I wondered if we were running away from something." Ezra swallowed the emotional pain and stared at his shoes. "But I cannot say for sure."
Jonas drew himself up into a confident posture. "Never discredit your intuition, Ezra," he whispered. "You'll come to find that's one of your strongest defences."
Ezra pondered his words, wondering just how tightly to hold onto them. So far, Jonas had not shown any indication that he was a dishonest crook, so he persisted.
"The Dark Watcher called my mother a Magus. I'm not sure what that means."
An unexpected sparkle in Jonas' eyes lit up the entire interior of the tram. "Luckily, I know all about that."
Ezra jumped at the abrupt hiss spewing from the tram’s breaks.
"Ah, Albert Bridge. This is our stop," Jonas said as he patted Ezra on the shoulder. After he had paid the fare, Jonas tilted his head in the direction of a stone walkway that snaked alongside the River Lagan.
"Are you familiar with the story of the Magi?"
"The Magi? Only a little," Ezra admitted, recalling the snow embellished nativity scenes he had seen during Christmastime in London. "I think they have something to do with the birth of Jesus Christ?"
Jonas casually placed his hands in his suit jacket pockets as they strode along the pathway. "Precisely. The western world knows the Magi's story from the account given by Matthew in the Bible. But the story goes back further than that. Much further. The Magi’s origins can be traced all the way back to the height of the Babylonian empire, thousands of years ago. They were revered by kings, respected by the commoner, and made quite a name for themselves in the proces
s."
Ezra snuck an incredulous look in Jonas' direction. "Okay. So, what does that have to do with my parents?"
Jonas grinned, hardly able to contain his excitement. “The word ‘Magi’ comes from the Greek ‘magos,’ which is where we get our word for 'magic,'" he explained. "See, the Magi are not simply wise men, as most people believe. They are descendants in a long line of dream interpreters and astronomers. They excel in supernatural talents, talents that defy scientific explanation.”
“Talents,” Ezra noted aloud, reminded of Miss McLarney’s mention of sorcery. “So, they’re sorcerers?”
“Oh, no, no,” Jonas hurriedly replied. “Not sorcerers. The magic channelled by the Magi is strictly used to help others. Never for selfish or destructive purposes.”
Ezra glanced sideways at Jonas. "How do you know all this? Are you a history teacher like Miss McLarney?"
Jonas stopped in his tracks, turned toward Ezra and with all seriousness answered, "I know these things because I am one of them."
"You're a Magus?" replied Ezra. "They actually exist?"
Jonas chuckled at Ezra’s remarks and looked out over the River Lagan. "Yes, even today."
"And my mother?"
"Both of your parents were Magi," Jonas responded confidently.
Really?
Perhaps Jonas was a dishonest crook after all.
"But that cannot be," Ezra remarked as he waded through his turbulent thoughts. The mental dam holding back his stream of consciousness had split apart, and he tried not to drown in the deluge. "How could I have not known something like that? Why would my parents keep that a secret?"
"Ah. Well, that is where it gets interesting," Jonas said with a tinge of darkness in his voice. He guided Ezra toward a wooden bench, and they both took a seat. "As you know, the threat against people like me and your parents is very real. That’s why the Third Order of the Magi operates in secrecy. Our identities and abilities are our most precious possessions. Save for governmental entities, elected officials, and royalty, no one knows we exist. But if you look hard enough, you'll find us. We are the volunteers of the town, the vigilantes in the streets, the educators and guardians of knowledge in the libraries."
The Magi Menagerie Page 5