by JT Lawrence
WITCHES GET STITCHES
When I had finished, I blew out the flame and felt simultaneously guilty and relieved. I may get extra detention, but at least I wouldn’t have to spend the day pushing down the anger and sadness I felt.
Late for class, I quickly pocketed my wand and rushed along the corridor. The classes were already underway, and all the classroom doors were closed. I turned the corner and ran through the quad, but stopped when I saw the copper statue of Minerva. I had seen the statue almost every day since my arrival at The Copperfield Institute, so I don't know what happened that day to stop me. I walked up to it, thinking about the Myth of Minerva's Owl.
We never could agree on what finding that ephemeral hooting owl hidden in the folds of the robes of the copper statue would get you, but we knew it would be good luck in some form or another. No one I knew had ever actually seen the owl, so when I noticed its feathered head just peaking out from the cloak, I had to look twice. Everything was so quiet around us as I laid my palm on the bird's cool, shaded head. Would this give me the much-desired luck I needed? I always thought that superstitions existed for a reason; even if it was just to light up your day with hope. Like having the giant Jacaranda raining purple blossoms on you in exam time, promising good results, and the Kissing Arch twin trees in the third quad, where nailing your shoes to the bark ensured you and your beau would be lifelong lovers. Or putting a white crayon on your windowsill and a silver coin under your pillow to bring on a snow day. We did it knowing full well that snowfall in Johannesburg is as rare as good dental hygiene in an orc, but we did it anyway with the vague wish that one day it would come true.
I have learned since that Untouched—non-magical—psychologists call the phenomena “magical thinking”; perhaps they don’t know how close they are to seeing what lies beyond the shimmering veil of the Masquerade.
People in Johannesburg are forever saying how cosmopolitan the city is, how we're so lucky to have such a melting pot of skin colours, languages, and cultures. But what most humans who aren't touched by magic don't know is that there are thousands of magical creatures living amongst them. We call it the Masquerade, and the illusion is to be protected at all costs. Basically, all that means is that the muggles—I mean, the Untouched—don't have a cooking clue, and we need to keep it that way. If we do a good job, the Untouched will continue believing that they are the only humanoids on the planet. Ha! Can you imagine that? Can you imagine a world without magic? It must be like living in black and white, with blinkers on. Colour-blind and narrow-sighted, and depressing as hell. Regular humans think that it’s “science” that keeps their crops green and their planes from falling out of the air. What they don’t know is that there is a vast source of magic out there, of energy, that can be tapped into for good and evil. They don’t know that if the Void were to disappear overnight, there would be untold repercussions in the Untouched world. It's not that science isn't magic—it is—it's more that if there were no magic, there would be no science. And without advanced tech, well, we’d be without a lot of different branches of magic. Dwarves, like Ferra, are particularly good at harnessing science to augment their magic. I use something less technical. I was born with the ability to transform my emotion into sorcery. I find that pain is extraordinarily powerful. It's the major tenet on which Blood Magic is based: power from pain, preferably from someone else. But I've never been into the Dark Arts. I use my own suffering instead.
I have also learned that sometimes good luck comes disguised as bad. When I was homeless after the attack, I fell in with the Ferals. The Ferals were the street kids in the Johannesburg inner-city, and I owed my life to them. There I was, a traumatised little white girl who had only ever known middle-class suburbia—and a bit of simple magic, like clapping my bedroom light on and off—with a little to zero chance of surviving on the streets. But the Ferals took me in, toughened me up, and taught me what I needed to know to avoid becoming a victim. From the Ferals, I learnt parkour, and quick and dirty magic, perfect for picking pockets and sneaking stolen food, essential for our survival. From the Copperfield Institute, I was learning the more academic side of sorcery: elementary magic, and traditional Latin incantations. The combination has made for an interesting arsenal of spells.
Standing in front of Minerva, with my hand on the owl's head, I was so caught up in the garbage-scented memories that I didn't hear anyone approach. When she tapped me on my shoulder, I must have shot a foot in the air.
“Shouldn’t you be in class, young lady?” said the dwarf.
“Ferra!”
She winked at me; her eyes bright nutmegs flecked with gold. She was in her Head Matron uniform: denim dungarees, an oversized white apron, and a Viking helmet. Her Scot-red hair was plaited into pigtails.
When we had first met at the Institute, Ferra took me under her wing, and I'd been there ever since. She was tender-hearted to all the orphans, but we had a special connection. She’d sneak me extra spice cookies and give me magical science books to read.
“Eat up, Jinx,” she would say, using my favourite nickname. “You’re too skinny.” And, “When in doubt, have the cookie. You never know when it will be your last.”
“Happy birthday,” said Ferra, and gave me one of her rib-crushing hugs.
“It’s not my birthday.”
“It is, now,” said Ferra. “I’m officially assigning this day as your birthday, and from now on we’ll celebrate it every year!”
I blinked away the salt water that had suddenly sprung to my eyes—stupid tears.
I only noticed then that Ferra was holding a gift in her hand. The wrapping paper had little animated dragons on it, breathing out little sparks and plumes of smoke. They were cute to watch, and I hesitated to tear the paper.
“Go on,” urged Ferra, looking at her ticking steampunk-themed watch. “We don’t have all day!”
The gift was especially poignant because I knew that Ferra saved every cent she could. She had big plans for her future; dreams of opening a bold, beautiful magical pub and restaurant and having a big family. She had been saving her Copperfield salary for years and never spent any money on herself. I sniffed and tore open the paper. What I saw took my breath away.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t accept this. No way!”
Black and sleek, it was the most beautiful crossbow I had ever seen in my life. As if feeling the magic in my hands, it began vibrating in a low frequency, as if it were purring. It was too much.
“It must have cost a fortune,” I said. “I can’t—”
“I’ve been working on it for months,” said Ferra, her face shining.
"You made this?" I asked. I shouldn't have been surprised because Ferra had one of the best engineering minds in the Realm, and was forever building things in her makeshift workshop.
“Thank you,” I said, the crossbow humming in my hands.
“You’re very welcome, skunk,” she said. I think she would have ruffled my new short hair if she’d been tall enough.
“It’s a shame I won’t be using it in today’s championship,” I said. “I’ve got detention.”
Ferra’s red wiry eyebrows knitted together as she frowned. “Well,” she said, “we’ll just see about that.” She slung her tea towel over her shoulder and marched off in the direction of Directress Copperfield’s office.
The bell rang for the next lesson, so I quickly slipped into the stream of students and attended the next few classes: Theory of Magic; Hedge Chemistry; Potions; Occult History.
When the directress appeared in our classroom, we knew the lesson would be an important one. Suffice to say we'd sit up straight if she walked in to give a lesson. She was an intimidating figure; flawless mahogany skin and ivory-coloured braids and wand. She was eighty in the shade, had a world-renowned titanium wand—which just happened to match her spine. You could say anything you liked about the Institute, but for as long as Directress Copperfield was there, you knew it was beyond reproach.
/> “You need to always consider the keel,” she said, as she looked me in the eye. I didn’t know what a “keel” was so I just stared right back, ears on stalks.
“Consider the keel,” she said again. She used her wand as a piece of chalk and drew a simple sailboat in the air before us. She tapped at the bottom of the boat, and it turned upside down.
“The upside-down, the flip-side, the is that isn’t.”
We gawked back at her with our mouths open. We still didn’t know what she was talking about. The directress waved away the air sketch and shook her head.
“In fact,” said the directress, walking across the room, the bottom hem of her full skirt dragging along the dusty floor, “there’s a rhyme I recite to remind myself not to allow my attention to be reflected off the façade of a thing. A very simple mantra, of sorts, which I will now teach to you.”
The classroom was silent, waiting.
"Cold Fire," she said and smiled at the class. "Dark Bone. Black Mist."
The class repeated after her: Cold Fire; Dark Bone; Black Mist.
She was pleased. “Look for the turn, the trick, the twist.”
Again, the class repeated after her. Cold Fire; Dark Bone; Black Mist. Look for the turn, the trick, the twist.
When the directress asked me to stay after class, my stomach flipped. What did she know? I swallowed hard and made my way to the front of the classroom while the rest of the scholars shuffled out, whispering amongst themselves and staring at my flattering new hairstyle. I fidgeted, waiting for the last of them to leave before the directress closed the door and offered me a seat. Her silver-white braids were clipped back with metallic clasps, and her eyes were diamond chips.
“Ms. Knight.” Her enunciation was as elegant as always.
I cleared my throat, fidgeted in my seat, then gave her my full attention. My anxiety level soared, but I tried to keep my breathing even.
“Your house mistress, Ms.Hook, told me what happened this morning.”
Oh, faex, I thought.
“But I’d like to hear your side of the story.”
Nervously, I drummed my fingers on my knees.
“She forgot to mention your new hairstyle,” said the directress.
I rubbed my scalp self-consciously. “I’m assuming that’s what started the trouble. Was it Isadora Crowe who cut your hair off?”
I hesitated. “I was asleep.”
I hated Izzy, but I wasn’t a snitch. The Ferals had taught me that.
Directress Copperfield didn’t look surprised. “Oh,” she said, playing along. “I guessed that it was perhaps Ms. Crowe who cut off your hair, and when you woke up, you went to confront her about it.”
I sat dead still, not wanting to give anything away.
“And, when you confronted her, you also happened to find the superglue that she had used last week in your toothpaste.”
I continued to look at the woman, feeling intensely uncomfortable.
“I thought that was a nice touch,” she said, a hint of amusement on her face. “Perhaps you’ll be a detective one day.”
I doubted it. I had only one ambition for my future, and that was to kill vampires and avenge my parents' deaths. But no-one pays you to slay vampires, and I'm not one of those trust-fund kid wizards, so I thought that perhaps I should consider it. I could always slay vamps in my spare time. An eccentric hobby, I realised, but no-one’s perfect.
“Every city needs a good wizard detective,” said Copperfield.
“I’m a girl, though,” I said. Yet another reason I didn’t fit in; I was the only female wizard in the whole school. All the paranormal detectives I had ever read about were men.
“Somehow, I don’t think that will be a problem,” she said. “I think we both know that you’ve got a bright mind and you’re a potent spell-slinger. You have a unique magical skill set, and a natural ability we don’t often see in this school.”
She meant the darkness. The pain. The lucky curse of grief that augments my power.
“It won’t be easy,” she said, “but nothing in life worth doing is.”
Directress Copperfield announced that I was not to blame for the morning’s incident, and cancelled my detention so that I’d be able to participate in the archery championship. I was sure I had Ferra to thank for that. The directress did, however, tell me to repair the stall door I had defaced, which made my cheeks blush to burning. I agreed—a little reluctantly—because my repairing magic spell was beyond bad, and I was worried about what further damage I would do.
Despite the promising cool temperature of the morning, the afternoon sun beat down on us as we gathered outside the Astrodome. The students and teachers were already seated inside, and I could hear the excited buzz of the crowd; a giant hive of bees. My nerves began to fray. I was never one for crowds, and I certainly wasn't one for performing in front of people, especially when it was the top three magical schools in South Africa. I clutched my new crossbow, my fingers slippery with sweat. How did I get here? I wondered, as an official led us into the humming arena.
Only the top four archers from each school would compete, and I, along with three Copperfield students, had been selected from the school team. We smiled and nodded at each other as we stood in our identical outfits: copper-coloured uniforms embroidered with our school emblem. A few of the kids from the competing schools—dressed in maroon and emerald green—eyed my crossbow with suspicion. Theirs were top of the range and manufactured by well-known companies, and mine, although sleek, was clearly an improvised weapon. I didn't blame them for being suspicious. Anything can happen when magic is involved.
Seeking courage, I looked around for a friendly face in the crowd of spectators but came up blank. Ferra, being the Head Matron, would be slaving away in the kitchen, chopping and tasting and giving orders to the staff, probably simultaneously. The dwarf had always been good at multi-tasking. When I searched the cheering masses, all I saw was a sea of expectant faces. The schools began their war-cries, and the stadium was taken by a Mexican Wave of roaring children as each school had their chance. Ranorth Academy of Sorcery, the green school, went first, followed by the maroon students—Westarth, School of the Arcane. When it was Copperfield’s turn, they shook their gold and bronze banners and pom-poms and shouted the words to the school’s favourite magical war cry, which made my blood rush, and white noise filled my ears.
I knew the drill. I had attended the championship the previous year, held at a competing school, and had fallen in love with the idea of archery. I thought that if my destiny was going to be to kill vampires, best I start practising. I asked the coach if I could join the team. She gave me a second-hand crossbow and the rest is history. So, there I stood, one of twelve, ready to win the prized title.
Rusty, a bronze-pelted werewolf, was moonlighting as the announcer. Usually, he was the guard at the entrance to the school, but today we had a private security team of orcs doing that. Rusty stood at the podium wearing his characteristic lupine scowl, looking handsome in his human form. With his dark lips turned up at the corners, he asked the hyped-up crowd for silence so that we could begin.
The referee was an old wizard I didn’t recognise, wearing a planet-spangled cloak and holding an ebony staff. He walked to the centre of the arena and banged his staff on the ground three times, for silence, and the buzz died down. My heart was doing the tango, and I was sure the tall Westarth boy standing next to me could hear it. We took our places, all lined up at the South end of the stadium, facing the field. The crowd sat to the left of us, and the officials to the right.
There were to be three initial rounds, Volas; Contendis, and Ventum. The final round would be a little more complicated, and the only one in which we were allowed to use magic.
“Round one,” announced Rusty. The accompanying teachers of the schools strode in front of the crowds of students and lifted their wands and staffs.
“Clipeum salutem speculo,” they said, and a huge screen of safety glass went up
between the contestants and the audience. It was high enough to protect them from stray arrows but not too high that they wouldn't be able to hear Rusty.
“Archers, are you ready?” asked the wizard.
We all nodded and readied our weapons. I had to wipe the sweat off my hands so that my new crossbow wouldn't slip in my shaking fingers. One of the officials laid a large basket of apples in the middle of the arena: poison green, blood maroon, and shining copper—thirty apples, worth ten points each.
“Volus," shouted the old wizard, lifting his staff. The apples rose, and we aimed. A maroon apple was shot through first, with a sleek bolt from the Westarth boy next to me. Rusty hurried to add ten points to their score. A green apple fell next, and Rusty adjusted the score. I took aim at one of the floating copper apples in the distance and pulled the trigger. The crossbow made a beautiful zinging sound as the bolt rushed down the flight path and speared my apple right in the middle of its core. Without lowering my bow, I shot three more, and one of my fellow Copperfield contestants shot down two. Red and green apples fell, too, but I had stopped counting, only focusing on bringing down the rest of my targets. I missed one, then got it on the second try. I heard Rusty announce that Ranorth was in the lead, then Copperfield, then Ranorth overtook us again. When Westarth caught up and kept the winning position, the audience went wild. I took a shallow breath, steadied my arms, and shot down the last four copper apples in quick succession.
"One hundred points to Copperfield!" shouted Rusty into his microphone. The rest of the apples fell to the ground, and we lowered our bows. We were leading by twenty points. The officials retrieved the leftover apples and lobbed them over the glass shield. Students caught them and cheered. A fresh basket of apples was brought out for the second round.