Unnatural

by Michael Griffo

  He looked around and was awed by the sight of nature at its purest. The grass was so many different shades of green, all of it growing wild and free. Clusters of purple and yellow flowers populated the brush, some large, some small, but all radiant in their color. Trees with thick, gnarled trunks rose high overhead and their branches sprayed out dense with leaves that rustled in the wind, their sound mingled with birdsong. Weeping Water, in comparison, looked like a desert of dry, flat land.

  The only artificial element among the scenery was the impressive entrance gate, the top of which had the name Archangel Academy spelled out in an arc made up of twisted pieces of metal. Very tall, but only about thirty yards in length, the gate was decorative and not practical; it wouldn’t keep trespassers out, but simply announced to all the school’s presence. Michael couldn’t believe that beyond the gate the buildings he saw in the distance comprised one of the most elite boarding schools in the world. From where he stood, they looked like the buildings he saw on the sides of the main road, abandoned stone houses belonging to the past and not part of an institution of higher learning. The metal, the stone, even the wild nature created a strong, masculine appearance. But the look was neutralized by the smell of lavender on the wind, wistful and feminine. All boys were welcome here. Michael stood in front of the gate and gave it a push. Archangel separated from Academy and the gate easily opened.

  “We can drive to the main office,” the driver said from the car.

  “I’d rather walk,” Michael replied.

  He followed the cobbled path for a little over half a mile until it stopped at a building that looked as old as it had from the gate. Inside the greeting room, the driver was already waiting for him, standing in a corner, Michael’s bags placed around the driver’s feet. The room’s walls were painted a deep forest green to mimic the surroundings and were barren except for a huge rectangular mirror, wider than it was high, that hung on the wall directly in front of the door. The thick frame was dark brown oak decorated with carvings of angels—not cherubs, but guardians, warriors—the seven archangels that gave the school its name.

  On the top of the frame, in the left-hand corner, was the angel Gabriel, foreboding but gentle, making his presence known by holding his celebrated horn to his lips. In the right-hand corner was Raphael in mid-flight, his rippling robes in perfect balance with the strength of his muscular arms. On the side of the frame underneath Gabriel was Uriel, his fiery sword pointing toward the center of the mirror, and below Raphael was Sariel, floating an inch above a crest of bones.

  Ramiel lived in the bottom left-hand corner, behind a cloud of thunder, and in the opposite corner was Zachariel, whose face was framed by the sun. Finally, Michael’s eyes rested upon the largest carving, which lay in the bottom center of the frame, the one of his namesake. Michael the archangel was depicted in the traditional image, wings outstretched, sword raised to heaven, his foot pressing down mercilessly on Satan’s neck, his exquisitely carved expression triumphant and a bit vainglorious. Michael knew that feeling. He could feel his own private demons squirming under his feet and so he pressed down firmer to remind them who was in power. He liked it here.

  His feeling was revealed by his reflection in the mirror. He noticed that he stood a bit taller. His shoulders weren’t slumped forward and his expression was more relaxed, his brow not so furrowed. He was off to a good start. But then something caught his eye. His reflection, while crisp and certain, was different from the driver’s. Only a portion of the stalwart driver could be seen in the mirror, but in it he appeared smaller, hunched, and a bit hazy. Maybe it was the angle, or all that black. Michael was about to take another look when the door at the far left corner of the room opened and the headmaster, Mr. Hawksbry, emerged. All thoughts of the driver and his distorted reflection instantly disappeared.

  Alistair Hawksbry was a man who commanded attention. At six-two and two hundred fifteen pounds, he wasn’t quite as tall or as powerfully built as the driver, but he exuded the type of physical ease that made his bulk seem standard instead of imposing. He was comfortable in his own skin, which at forty-seven wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was his youthful countenance. His face was still unlined, save one deep cleft on his left cheek that developed into a dimple when he smiled.

  “Michael Howard,” Mr. Hawksbry said, his accent precise without sounding affected. “I’m Alistair Hawksbry, headmaster. Welcome to Archangel Academy.”

  Mr. Hawksbry’s handshake was firm. “Thank you, sir,” Michael replied. “I’m very happy to be here.”

  “We’re very pleased that your father has decided to instill us with the care of your education. I know the American public school systems are quite good, but I think you’ll find our curriculum to be, shall we say, greatly varied and our study more intense.” And then he added almost as an afterthought, “And we’re very sorry for your loss.”

  What? Oh yes. Michael hadn’t thought about his mother in hours. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Why don’t you leave your bags here and the staff will bring them up to your room?”

  The driver cleared his throat and announced his departure. “Good luck to you.” Maybe Alistair hadn’t seen him or maybe he was just startled by his sudden pronouncement; whatever the reason, Michael was sure he saw him flinch. The driver touched the brim of his cap with his gloved hand and was about to turn on his heel and leave when Michael instinctively extended his hand to him; already he was adopting a more formal British custom. After a moment’s hesitation, the driver shook Michael’s hand and Michael tried not to wince. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought the driver was trying to crush the bones in his hand, but he didn’t seem to display any effort. Given such a powerful grip, Michael wondered if he doubled as his father’s bodyguard.

  When Alistair nodded good-bye to the driver, it was more like a nervous tic. Only when he and Michael were strolling on the grounds of the academy on their way to his dorm room did he resume his relaxed demeanor. Michael just assumed the headmaster had grown more adept at talking to students than to adults. One of the by-products of his job.

  The campus was a sprawling hundred acres with twenty-two buildings, all made of stone, all no taller than three stories high, collectively giving the appearance of a small provincial village. And an isolated one. “The front gate doesn’t seem very secure,” Michael said.

  “For decoration only,” Mr. Hawksbry replied. “We have an electronic system that surrounds the entire campus. Since we knew you were arriving today, it was turned off, but once your driver is on the other side of the gate, it’ll be turned on again, I assure you.”

  The headmaster then pointed out some landmarks, the three libraries, the many halls where classes were taught, each named after a different saint; the theatre, which housed both a traditional proscenium arch stage for mainstage productions and a smaller black box studio space for more experimental theatre; the infirmary; and the several dormitories.

  Michael’s dorm, named after St. Peter, was located next to Archangel Cathedral, which was the one architectural exception and towered high above the rest of the campus’s buildings. Erected sometime in the fifteenth century in the Gothic style by a group of monks, it was, Mr. Hawskbry explained, the centerpiece of the academy, which was later built around it. Looking at the church, Michael understood why the academy’s founders would want to build their school around such an amazing structure.

  There were no steps leading into the entrance, only wildflowers, dirt, and then an arched doorway about two stories high, adorned with carvings similar to those on the frame of the mirror in the greeting room. Above the door was where more majesty lay. Two flying buttresses flanked the sides of the center pointed arch, which was made up of an intricate lattice of wood in front of a huge circle of yellow stained glass. Even though the sky was cloudy, with only a portion of the sun able to shine through and hit the cathedral, the effect was still magnificent. The yellow glass in the sun’s light glowed radiantly, splintering t
hrough the latticework to create beacons of light that sprang out from the face of the church into the air and onto all those who walked by. Again, Michael felt worlds away from Weeping Water.

  When Mr. Hawskbry spoke, he startled Michael, who was staring intently at the rays of light. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The perfect combination of man and nature.”

  Yes, Michael thought, a perfect combination.

  Just as they were about to enter St. Peter’s Dormitory, Michael noticed a group of boys in the distance in a rush, either coming or going to a class. He felt a familiar tingle in his stomach as he watched them race by, their white long-sleeved shirts turned up at the sleeves, pieces of cloth untucked from their navy blue pants, their gold and navy blue ties flying in the wind. And their hair, soft, unruly, free. He forced himself to glance away from them and saw that Mr. Hawksbury was staring at him.

  “Don’t worry. Your father ordered you several uniforms. They should be hanging in your closet.”

  When he walked into the dormitory, Michael felt a bit of melancholy waft over him. It was just as beautiful as it was on the outside and he was so grateful that he was in this building and not at Two W, but the only reason he was here was because his mother killed herself. Why was she so desperate? Why was she so afraid to live? His eyes burned a bit and he blinked away the tears. No, not here, not ever again, because tears weren’t going to change anything.

  “This is your room.” They were on the second floor in front of a door just off the stairs. Before Mr. Hawksbry could knock, the door opened and standing there was a boy roughly Michael’s age wearing a neater version of the school uniform. “Ciaran Eaves,” the headmaster said, “may I introduce you to your new dorm mate, Michael Howard, from America.”

  “Welcome to the Double A, mate,” Ciaran said, extending his hand.

  “Thank you.” Michael grabbed his hand and was grateful that the tingling in his stomach didn’t return. He was also hopeful that the only thing the Double A had in common with the Two W was a similar abbreviation.

  The headmaster did a quick survey of the room to ensure that Michael’s bags had been delivered and his uniforms were indeed hanging in his closet. Once satisfied, he took two pieces of paper out of his jacket pocket, giving one to each boy. “Michael, this is your class schedule. Today, Ciaran will show you around, but tomorrow you’ll be on your own. Most of our professors detest tardiness. It might be in your best interest to draw a map so you don’t get lost on your first day.” Michael could tell this was the headmaster’s attempt at a joke, but he felt the slow coil of terror rise from the pit of his stomach. After Mr. Hawksbry left and the boys were alone, the feeling remained.

  Happily, Michael noted this feeling was different from the other rumbling. Standing here alone with Ciaran, it was not curiosity and desire that were awakening deep within him, but rather, unfortunately, fear. It was as if one of the stones from the building had just fallen onto his skull. I’m in a new school, in a foreign country that I haven’t been in since I was a toddler, sharing a room with a complete stranger, Michael reminded himself. This is absolutely nerve-racking. Luckily, Ciaran was a calming presence.

  Although they were the same age, Ciaran carried himself with more maturity than Michael. Not only did he look like the tall, lean English lad who populates a Jane Austen novel, he sounded like one too; his accent was clipped but his tone friendly. Even the pronunciation of his name, Keer-in, accent on the first syllable, sounded as if it came from the pages of a nineteenth-century story. He simply evoked the reserve of a young man who had spent his life in a boarding school where etiquette and poise were held in high regard. “Nebraska must suddenly seem very far away,” Ciaran remarked.

  Michael looked confused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” And suddenly the fear was gone and they were just two boys laughing instead of strangers forced to share the same room.

  “This is where I spend most of my time.” Ciaran pointed to St. Albert’s Library for math and science. “I’m on the premed track, at least for now.”

  “You’ve already decided that you want to be a doctor?” Michael remarked. “Impressive.”

  Ciaran wished everyone shared his supportive point of view. “My mum calls it narrow-minded. She’d prefer I follow in her footsteps and become a barrister.” Ciaran shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “I think it’s good that you have direction; you have a head start over most of us,” Michael said, knowing he wasn’t sure what career path he wanted to follow. “Have you decided on what kind of doctor you’d like to be?”

  A red robin flew by them, chirping loudly. “Hematologist,” Ciaran said.

  “What’s that?” Michael replied.

  “Blood disorders.”

  “Really? That’s specific.”

  “Hence the reason my mum thinks I’m narrow-minded.”

  Ciaran must have heard something in Michael’s silence. “I’m sorry, mate. Here I am prattling on about my mum and, well …”

  “That’s okay,” Michael assured him and it really was. He wasn’t silent because he was thinking of his mother again; he was silent because he was thinking that in a few short months these grounds were going to be familiar to him. These buildings, his schedule, the bends in the grass, soon they would all be his routine.

  Glancing at Michael’s class schedule, Ciaran led them to St. Joshua’s Library, which housed the liberal arts collection. “St. Joshua is the patron saint of literature and reading. Looks like you’ll be spending a great deal of time in here.” The building looked just the same as all the others with the exception that it was lined in white roses. Flowers of all kinds grew near the other buildings, but none of them seemed to be growing as deliberately as these, in such formal rows. “No one can really figure it out,” Ciaran offered. “They pop up every year, from what we’re told. Quite beautiful actually. They go untouched except for the night of the annual Archangel Festival when some of the blokes pluck them to use as a cheap corsage.”

  Ciaran explained that the Archangel Festival takes place in early November to celebrate Archangel Day and is one of the few times that Double A and St. Anne’s officially commingle. “St. Anne’s is the girls school in a gated community on the other side of the campus,” Ciaran said, bending down to more closely inspect one of the roses. “You know, if you go for that sort of thing.”

  Did Michael hear that right? If you go for that sort of thing? He was pretty sure he was referring to girls and not gated communities, but not sure enough of himself to ask for clarification. Instead, he made a mental note: He and Ciaran may have different intellectual pursuits, but they might have other interests in common after all.

  At dinner that night in the main dining room of St. Martha’s, one of the two common halls where students from all the dorms could meet, he discovered he had practically nothing in common with Fritz Ulrich. Fritz was one of Ciaran’s friends who lived down the hall from him in St. Peter’s. Fritz was exotic-looking, the result of a mixed heritage. His father was German, but his mother was from Ethiopia, which meant he was very tall and muscular with fine, dark brown hair, skin the color of espresso, and eyes the color of light russet. He was loud, opinionated, and pompous, everything Michael was not. He also found Americans very boring. “So do I,” Michael said nervously. While his comment made Ciaran and Penry Poltke, Fritz’s dorm mate, laugh, it failed to amuse Fritz.

  “And that,” Fritz declared, “is a perfect example of why.”

  After Fritz left the table to join a crowd of boys who were equally as loud as he was, Penry, a genial, redheaded kid from Wales, informed Michael, “Don’t worry ’bout Fritz none. He looks bloody dangerous, but he’s harmless.” That comment stayed with Michael while he and Ciaran were walking back to St. Peter’s, not because it made Michael think of Fritz, but because it made him think of his mother. In her letter she told him that things aren’t always as they seem. And neither are people.

  At the entrance to their dorm, Michael told Ciaran, �
��I think I’m going to do a walk-through of my classes before I turn in.”

  “Good idea. If you’re not back in an hour I’ll send out the cavalry. “

  There were only a few exterior lights sprinkled throughout the campus, but there was a full moon, so there was enough moonlight to help Michael navigate the unfamiliar territory. Just as he was at the halfway point of his run-through, his father called.

  “Hello!”

  Vaughan was calling from his factory in Istanbul, the larger of his two factories in Turkey, so the cell phone reception was patchy at best. “Hullo, Michael, how was your day?”

  “Good,” Michael said, then realized that he should elaborate. He brought his father up to date and said he was looking forward to his first full day of classes tomorrow.

  “That’s my boy! I knew you wouldn’t mind going directly to school,” Vaughan shouted, but the rest was indecipherable. Michael wasn’t sure if his father could hear him, but he shouted “thank you” into the phone and he meant it. After he lost the connection, Michael realized that this was probably the longest conversation he had ever had with his father and took it as a sign of good things to come.

  Once he completed walking through his class schedule, getting lost only once, he headed back to St. Peter’s. Before he checked in for the night, however, he was once again drawn to the cathedral. It dazzled just as it did during the day. The moonlight, like the earlier sunshine, bounced off the yellow stained glass, creating a mesmerizing display of silvery moonbeams. He was so engrossed with the exhibition of light, he didn’t notice one drop, two drops, three drops, more as the rain began to fall. He also didn’t notice the boy staring at him. But once he did, he couldn’t turn away.