Two days passed, and Mr Hillary sent the altered clothing as promised. I tried them on, like an exuberant toddler preparing for its birth ceremony. The clothes fit perfectly on my body. As the elegant man had said, they were tighter, and yet I was not uncomfortable. I admired, once again, the work of a well-respected craftsman.
The next three days were spent mostly in my private study. I had work to do and classes to prepare. I needed to comprehend what approach I should take to teaching. I had none to ask or confer with. No one had done it before; hence no one knew. I was the only one who could use magic in the entirety of this academy. I was the one they had hired to teach this trade, but even the man of qualification knew not the way of imparting this mysterious art.
How do you teach that which has yet to be defined? How do you define that which has yet to be studied to certainty? Why would we call it Arcane if it were so easy to be placed in words and boxes? My mind kept fighting itself like a mutt chasing its tail. Who could tell the moronic beast to stop?
I learned Magic on my own, by the whispers of my intuition, and I needed to create a path by this very same intuition. It would be my torch, and I would be the youngling’s guide. I need to simplify as much as I can, I thought while fiddling with the handle of my drawer. Classifications, definitions, Howes and whys — so much I had to prepare in only three days. I felt anxious and I felt excited. It was a game of blind hide and seek. If I succeed, I’ll attain fame and glory. If I don’t, my steps will be forced towards the gorge of disgrace. My thoughts stumbled and my head spun, but I continued without a word of dissent.
As I sat contemplating my ordeal in the study, I heard a voice from the other side of the door. ‘Mr Dew,’ it said. ‘Breakfast is prepared.’ That was my housekeeper, Mrs Katrina Parkinson.
I met her on the very next day of my arrival. She was a woman in her forties and I believed her to be a mother from the moment we met, and I was proven correct. Apparently, she had two sons, both younger than me. She liked to talk about them in passing, and there was a surreal consistency when she did. Her first words would be of complaint which would turn into praise like a traitor’s dagger. They are the worst kids I have ever seen, she told me on our very first meeting. But they are good at heart. I heard her voice often while passing by the kitchen. She liked to hum while doing chores, it seems. While folding my laundry, she would sing old lullabies.
Oh, and how could I forget? She isn’t alone. She brings a girl of about seventeen along — her daughter.
While Mrs Parkinson was big-bodied, the girl definitely was not. She was frail, worse than me. She did not know how to read. I found out when she could not tell what was written on the package Mr Hillary sent. She had not been educated as far as I could tell.
I thought it a shame — the girl’s unfortunate loss. Mrs Parkinson’s sons were learning while her daughter was helping with work. What a world, I thought. Mother has been kind then, hasn't she? The orphanage mother treated us well. Food, cloth, education — we had plenty. She taught us herself. The world is a much crueller place, I concurred.
I spotted the girl sneaking glances at my work — the papers in front of me — while dusting the study one morning. I asked her if she could read, and she answered with a quick shake of her head. I haven’t done very many good deeds in my life, I thought at the time, looking at her. Should I?
I chose to, this time. I must earn goodwill, lest I die by the curses of those vengeful pigeons and doves. I asked her if she would like to learn. She answered with a slight nod, a quick one. She was meek, I surmised. I promised to teach her to read and write once I was done with my work. I took a tea break twice or thrice that day and taught the girl while her mother was away, running some errands. She was a quick learner. She practised by herself while I worked, and I appreciated it.
In this manner, without my knowledge, she had become my very first student. She spoke very little and with a quiet voice. She always looked anaemic with her pale skin and patches of inconsistent red. She wore a white ribbon and a braid that reached her waist.
I taught her the basics of language next three days. On Sunday, she wrote her name on a piece of paper with the help of the chart I had created for her. It read Malory. I learned her name — Malory Parkinson.
Teaching Ms Parkinson was a helpful process and a pleasure too. It gave me a sense of accomplishment. The joy in her eyes was palpable even though the same actions meant not much to me. I had an effect on her, and that taught me.
I gained insight into the role I had to play at the academy, the attitude I had to bear in front of students. I hoped every child to be like Ms Parkinson, desperate for knowledge. I could ingrain so much in them if they so wished to learn, otherwise, I was of no use in this institute.
These few days before the orientation I had not been leaving for the pavilion. I ate at home as I wished not to be away from my work. I had conjured extreme concentration, and the two good women did not let it shatter.
Mrs Parkinson would prepare my breakfast and lunch, while Ms Parkinson came back in the evenings to prepare dinner. I was truly thankful for their effort. ‘You know, Mr Dew,’ Mrs Parkinson said to me one morning, ‘you really ought to visit the pavilion once in a while. Oh, No! I do not mind cooking for you, but the other professors are curious.’ She continued while I breakfasted on runny eggs, ‘A professor of Arcane Knowledge who doesn’t show his face… It has a rather gossipy air to it, wouldn’t you say?’
I nodded emphatically. It indeed seemed suspicious. I would even make up rumours if I were in their place, spreading them like a malicious teen or a chattery housewife. I thought it would be fun but soon reined in my thoughts as a question struck me. ‘Do you work for them too, Mrs Parkinson?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no. One housekeeper per house and vice versa, the rules say. I have friends, you see. The other housekeepers like to talk; they inquire about you,’ she said with bulging eyes as if she were talking about the fall at the end of the world. Now I was curious about it. What was it called again? I thought, knocking at the rusted door of my poor memory. ‘Last Fall,’ yes. The place where the highland ends, the edge of the world. I wonder if I will ever be able to go beyond it… I laughed. Such adventurous thoughts from the mouth of a professor. How funny.
I shook my head. Mrs Parkinson’s words were much more alarming and in need of attention. I did not wish for others to think of me as a hideous, conspiring creature. I should greet a few amiable faces, I thought. I swore to myself I would visit the pavilion once I was done with orientation, once my shoulders felt light.
On that very day, another one of my requests arrived. It was a beautiful, black leather suitcase. I checked its contents and kept it well hidden in my study. Mr Smith had done such wonderful work; I could not let it be stolen by some common thief.
Hours later my spectacles arrived. It seems, Mr Crawford had been hurrying these good people for my sake. I tried them and admired myself in the mirror. I looked smart, more than before. Well, hello there, gentleman. Who might you be? I asked my reflection in the mirror, smug beyond a grown man’s capability. New in the city, eh? I laughed like a moron half of wit and soon began admiring the work they had done. The frame and glass were lighter than the previous one. I felt relieved, knowing my nose will not be harmed by the heavy load. I still remembered the grooves on Mr Thompson's nose. It sent shivers down my spine. How awful, I thought.
And so, the eventful Sunday was over. I went to sleep with anticipation. For the next day was the day of orientation. I was to be present in the grand hall where thousands of students would gather. I was to be introduced there. I felt nervous as I thought of all this. My heart beat loudly, and I fell asleep late into the night to the sound of an owl’s hooting.
I woke up at six on Monday morning. While staring at the large mirror in the bathroom, I cleaned my teeth and then went to wash. The water was warm, courtesy of lovely Ms Parkinson. There were soaps and lotions on the bathroom counter of kinds I had never seen. It took me three-quarters of an hour to wash my body and hair. I was told I take too long to bathe, which I agreed with but did not change. Ms Parkinson had knocked on the door twice to make certain of my safety. She was afraid I may have fallen and injured myself.
It took me another quarter to dry my hair, and even then, the ends remained damp. I clothed myself the way Mr Hillary had shown and went for breakfast. Mrs Parkinson had cooked again. Eggs, grapes, and bacon sandwiches were placed before me, which I devoured with my quick little bites. I was like a rodent when it came to my bites — little yet precise.
Afterwards, Ms Parkinson helped me do my hair. She dried them first and then helped me tie them in a high ponytail whilst I sat fanning myself. The girl was truly lovely, and I only wished the best for her. She helped me with my attire, and I left while thanking her and her mother. I could hear a ‘Best of luck’ as I walked away from the house. It sounded like hefty Mrs Parkinson. I raised a hand to assure her as I trudged along the footway.
It was five past eight when I left my new home. It felt different somehow. It felt as if I was walking on salt flats, not knowing my way. I kept imagining that in front of my eyes. And I kept thinking I had forgotten something behind. As if I had left something on purpose. I convinced myself all must feel so, that all must leave behind something in the wake of progress. What was it that I was leaving? Memories? Ones dearest to me? My identity? I do not know, and I did not venture to either.
As I pushed these thoughts towards the darkened corners of my mind, I felt the indescribable sorrow subside. I looked around for distractions.
I was not the only one walking by the canal towards the nearest stand. I saw a few smartly-dressed men. They looked over the age of thirty and forty. Professors, I thought as I passed house Zero-One. They seemed experienced and mature, unlike me. I was only two years older than twenty and had no achievements to boast of. I walked straight, ignoring the looks and whispers. Some even showed disdain. I wonder why. Painful emotions rose within my heart, like flames, once again.
As I was contemplating my ordeal, I noticed the tram that was about to leave. I rushed to it, making my way through the crowd. Thankfully, the fellow in the engine room held it for me. I climbed up, finding eyes staring at me. There were students and professors — my supposed colleagues. I found myself a seat beside a neat woman as the tram began its journey.
Colourful flowers grew on the balconies that passed by us outside the window. I watched them speed by. I watched the shops that had opened early. Soon, my eyes turned to the woman beside me. I took note of the way she sat, leaning against the window. She was dressed in a white shirt, a black scarf, a purple suit, and trousers. She wore stilettoes, and her blonde hair was tied in little side braids that gathered in a bun. I smelled lilac on her. Perfume? No, she wears them. She wore lilac in her hair, a garland of them. A silver string stuck out from the front pocket of her suit. A fellow professor. She looked at me once or twice with her deep blue eyes, and after a quarter of an hour or so when the tram slowed itself, she suddenly asked, ‘You are a professor?’ That startled me, pulling me away from my thoughts.
‘Yes,’ I replied quickly, adjusting my rimless glasses. ‘Lile Dew.’
‘Veronica Orchard,’ she said. ‘I teach Literature and Behavioural Science.’
The woman had a face that did not show her thoughts and emotions. She seemed disinterested and aloof at first glance. ‘You are the new one.’ Her voice had neither highs nor lows. It was a composed voice that exuded nothing. Her eyes darted from the lint on my collar to the strands of hair on my face. It lingered on the suitcase for a brief while, where they seemed to glow.
‘Ah, yes, of course. I am the new one,’ I confirmed, embracing my suitcase tightly. ‘I will be teaching Arcane Knowledge henceforth. A pleasure to meet you, Ms Orchard.’ She nodded and went back to her silence. Those were the eyes that had turned from mild interest to disinterest. She had a nature that baffled me. There was an incongruity in her that I could not describe. She may just be more capricious than me, but today I was no better than her.
I felt disinterested — in where I was going, about what I was doing. Am I tired? I asked myself, turning to the front once again, losing myself in the salt flats of my imagination. My physique was fine; then was it my heart that seemed distant and far away? I kept recalling the fire of that day. The way it burnt, the way it took over all that it touched. Will magic look like that someday? Destructive and apathetic.
I tried to find a way out of the confines of my daze, but I kept being pulled back again and again. Something was wrong, I could feel it once more. My breaths were rugged, and I could feel the glances from the woman beside me. My eyes no longer saw the scenery outside the window.
My eyes were suddenly blinded. When the light subsided, I could only see the scorching bright sun and the surface of salt that I walked upon. The image of that fire kept tugging at my heart. It pricked my head and burned my eyes. I do not know why I was there, and I do not know how to escape. My memory dulled as I wandered endlessly. What hour was it and where I went, none of that mattered as I started muttering illegible words.
Soon, beyond the clouds, afar from me, I saw raging water and winds that pushed aside clouds of obstruction. It was a waterspout — a phenomenon I only ever read about. I did not know if it meant to dig into the ground or stretch the sky. I felt its cool breaths. It brought with it dust and salt, destruction and fury. But for me, it only glistened, spreading its brilliance. It reminded me of the clear canal in front of my house, and the image of that raging fire subsided. It was gone as if it did not exist. I felt relief despite my sinking consciousness.
What transpired from here on, I do not know. But I recall I walked, unknowingly, towards that calling.
Two days passed, and Mr Hillary sent the altered clothing as promised. I tried them on, like an exuberant toddler preparing for its birth ceremony. The clothes fit perfectly on my body. As the elegant man had said, they were tighter, and yet I was not uncomfortable. I admired, once again, the work of a well-respected craftsman.
The next three days were spent mostly in my private study. I had work to do and classes to prepare. I needed to comprehend what approach I should take to teaching. I had none to ask or confer with. No one had done it before; hence no one knew. I was the only one who could use magic in the entirety of this academy. I was the one they had hired to teach this trade, but even the man of qualification knew not the way of imparting this mysterious art.
How do you teach that which has yet to be defined? How do you define that which has yet to be studied to certainty? Why would we call it Arcane if it were so easy to be placed in words and boxes? My mind kept fighting itself like a mutt chasing its tail. Who could tell the moronic beast to stop?
I learned Magic on my own, by the whispers of my intuition, and I needed to create a path by this very same intuition. It would be my torch, and I would be the youngling’s guide. I need to simplify as much as I can, I thought while fiddling with the handle of my drawer. Classifications, definitions, Howes and whys — so much I had to prepare in only three days. I felt anxious and I felt excited. It was a game of blind hide and seek. If I succeed, I’ll attain fame and glory. If I don’t, my steps will be forced towards the gorge of disgrace. My thoughts stumbled and my head spun, but I continued without a word of dissent.
As I sat contemplating my ordeal in the study, I heard a voice from the other side of the door. ‘Mr Dew,’ it said. ‘Breakfast is prepared.’ That was my housekeeper, Mrs Katrina Parkinson.
I met her on the very next day of my arrival. She was a woman in her forties and I believed her to be a mother from the moment we met, and I was proven correct. Apparently, she had two sons, both younger than me. She liked to talk about them in passing, and there was a surreal consistency when she did. Her first words would be of complaint which would turn into praise like a traitor’s dagger. They are the worst kids I have ever seen, she told me on our very first meeting. But they are good at heart. I heard her voice often while passing by the kitchen. She liked to hum while doing chores, it seems. While folding my laundry, she would sing old lullabies.
Oh, and how could I forget? She isn’t alone. She brings a girl of about seventeen along — her daughter.
While Mrs Parkinson was big-bodied, the girl definitely was not. She was frail, worse than me. She did not know how to read. I found out when she could not tell what was written on the package Mr Hillary sent. She had not been educated as far as I could tell.
I thought it a shame — the girl’s unfortunate loss. Mrs Parkinson’s sons were learning while her daughter was helping with work. What a world, I thought. Mother has been kind then, hasn't she? The orphanage mother treated us well. Food, cloth, education — we had plenty. She taught us herself. The world is a much crueller place, I concurred.
I spotted the girl sneaking glances at my work — the papers in front of me — while dusting the study one morning. I asked her if she could read, and she answered with a quick shake of her head. I haven’t done very many good deeds in my life, I thought at the time, looking at her. Should I?
I chose to, this time. I must earn goodwill, lest I die by the curses of those vengeful pigeons and doves. I asked her if she would like to learn. She answered with a slight nod, a quick one. She was meek, I surmised. I promised to teach her to read and write once I was done with my work. I took a tea break twice or thrice that day and taught the girl while her mother was away, running some errands. She was a quick learner. She practised by herself while I worked, and I appreciated it.
In this manner, without my knowledge, she had become my very first student. She spoke very little and with a quiet voice. She always looked anaemic with her pale skin and patches of inconsistent red. She wore a white ribbon and a braid that reached her waist.
I taught her the basics of language next three days. On Sunday, she wrote her name on a piece of paper with the help of the chart I had created for her. It read Malory. I learned her name — Malory Parkinson.
Teaching Ms Parkinson was a helpful process and a pleasure too. It gave me a sense of accomplishment. The joy in her eyes was palpable even though the same actions meant not much to me. I had an effect on her, and that taught me.
I gained insight into the role I had to play at the academy, the attitude I had to bear in front of students. I hoped every child to be like Ms Parkinson, desperate for knowledge. I could ingrain so much in them if they so wished to learn, otherwise, I was of no use in this institute.
These few days before the orientation I had not been leaving for the pavilion. I ate at home as I wished not to be away from my work. I had conjured extreme concentration, and the two good women did not let it shatter.
Mrs Parkinson would prepare my breakfast and lunch, while Ms Parkinson came back in the evenings to prepare dinner. I was truly thankful for their effort. ‘You know, Mr Dew,’ Mrs Parkinson said to me one morning, ‘you really ought to visit the pavilion once in a while. Oh, No! I do not mind cooking for you, but the other professors are curious.’ She continued while I breakfasted on runny eggs, ‘A professor of Arcane Knowledge who doesn’t show his face… It has a rather gossipy air to it, wouldn’t you say?’
I nodded emphatically. It indeed seemed suspicious. I would even make up rumours if I were in their place, spreading them like a malicious teen or a chattery housewife. I thought it would be fun but soon reined in my thoughts as a question struck me. ‘Do you work for them too, Mrs Parkinson?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no. One housekeeper per house and vice versa, the rules say. I have friends, you see. The other housekeepers like to talk; they inquire about you,’ she said with bulging eyes as if she were talking about the fall at the end of the world. Now I was curious about it. What was it called again? I thought, knocking at the rusted door of my poor memory. ‘Last Fall,’ yes. The place where the highland ends, the edge of the world. I wonder if I will ever be able to go beyond it… I laughed. Such adventurous thoughts from the mouth of a professor. How funny.
I shook my head. Mrs Parkinson’s words were much more alarming and in need of attention. I did not wish for others to think of me as a hideous, conspiring creature. I should greet a few amiable faces, I thought. I swore to myself I would visit the pavilion once I was done with orientation, once my shoulders felt light.
On that very day, another one of my requests arrived. It was a beautiful, black leather suitcase. I checked its contents and kept it well hidden in my study. Mr Smith had done such wonderful work; I could not let it be stolen by some common thief.
Hours later my spectacles arrived. It seems, Mr Crawford had been hurrying these good people for my sake. I tried them and admired myself in the mirror. I looked smart, more than before. Well, hello there, gentleman. Who might you be? I asked my reflection in the mirror, smug beyond a grown man’s capability. New in the city, eh? I laughed like a moron half of wit and soon began admiring the work they had done. The frame and glass were lighter than the previous one. I felt relieved, knowing my nose will not be harmed by the heavy load. I still remembered the grooves on Mr Thompson's nose. It sent shivers down my spine. How awful, I thought.
And so, the eventful Sunday was over. I went to sleep with anticipation. For the next day was the day of orientation. I was to be present in the grand hall where thousands of students would gather. I was to be introduced there. I felt nervous as I thought of all this. My heart beat loudly, and I fell asleep late into the night to the sound of an owl’s hooting.
I woke up at six on Monday morning. While staring at the large mirror in the bathroom, I cleaned my teeth and then went to wash. The water was warm, courtesy of lovely Ms Parkinson. There were soaps and lotions on the bathroom counter of kinds I had never seen. It took me three-quarters of an hour to wash my body and hair. I was told I take too long to bathe, which I agreed with but did not change. Ms Parkinson had knocked on the door twice to make certain of my safety. She was afraid I may have fallen and injured myself.
It took me another quarter to dry my hair, and even then, the ends remained damp. I clothed myself the way Mr Hillary had shown and went for breakfast. Mrs Parkinson had cooked again. Eggs, grapes, and bacon sandwiches were placed before me, which I devoured with my quick little bites. I was like a rodent when it came to my bites — little yet precise.
Afterwards, Ms Parkinson helped me do my hair. She dried them first and then helped me tie them in a high ponytail whilst I sat fanning myself. The girl was truly lovely, and I only wished the best for her. She helped me with my attire, and I left while thanking her and her mother. I could hear a ‘Best of luck’ as I walked away from the house. It sounded like hefty Mrs Parkinson. I raised a hand to assure her as I trudged along the footway.
It was five past eight when I left my new home. It felt different somehow. It felt as if I was walking on salt flats, not knowing my way. I kept imagining that in front of my eyes. And I kept thinking I had forgotten something behind. As if I had left something on purpose. I convinced myself all must feel so, that all must leave behind something in the wake of progress. What was it that I was leaving? Memories? Ones dearest to me? My identity? I do not know, and I did not venture to either.
As I pushed these thoughts towards the darkened corners of my mind, I felt the indescribable sorrow subside. I looked around for distractions.
I was not the only one walking by the canal towards the nearest stand. I saw a few smartly-dressed men. They looked over the age of thirty and forty. Professors, I thought as I passed house Zero-One. They seemed experienced and mature, unlike me. I was only two years older than twenty and had no achievements to boast of. I walked straight, ignoring the looks and whispers. Some even showed disdain. I wonder why. Painful emotions rose within my heart, like flames, once again.
As I was contemplating my ordeal, I noticed the tram that was about to leave. I rushed to it, making my way through the crowd. Thankfully, the fellow in the engine room held it for me. I climbed up, finding eyes staring at me. There were students and professors — my supposed colleagues. I found myself a seat beside a neat woman as the tram began its journey.
Colourful flowers grew on the balconies that passed by us outside the window. I watched them speed by. I watched the shops that had opened early. Soon, my eyes turned to the woman beside me. I took note of the way she sat, leaning against the window. She was dressed in a white shirt, a black scarf, a purple suit, and trousers. She wore stilettoes, and her blonde hair was tied in little side braids that gathered in a bun. I smelled lilac on her. Perfume? No, she wears them. She wore lilac in her hair, a garland of them. A silver string stuck out from the front pocket of her suit. A fellow professor. She looked at me once or twice with her deep blue eyes, and after a quarter of an hour or so when the tram slowed itself, she suddenly asked, ‘You are a professor?’ That startled me, pulling me away from my thoughts.
‘Yes,’ I replied quickly, adjusting my rimless glasses. ‘Lile Dew.’
‘Veronica Orchard,’ she said. ‘I teach Literature and Behavioural Science.’
The woman had a face that did not show her thoughts and emotions. She seemed disinterested and aloof at first glance. ‘You are the new one.’ Her voice had neither highs nor lows. It was a composed voice that exuded nothing. Her eyes darted from the lint on my collar to the strands of hair on my face. It lingered on the suitcase for a brief while, where they seemed to glow.
‘Ah, yes, of course. I am the new one,’ I confirmed, embracing my suitcase tightly. ‘I will be teaching Arcane Knowledge henceforth. A pleasure to meet you, Ms Orchard.’ She nodded and went back to her silence. Those were the eyes that had turned from mild interest to disinterest. She had a nature that baffled me. There was an incongruity in her that I could not describe. She may just be more capricious than me, but today I was no better than her.
I felt disinterested — in where I was going, about what I was doing. Am I tired? I asked myself, turning to the front once again, losing myself in the salt flats of my imagination. My physique was fine; then was it my heart that seemed distant and far away? I kept recalling the fire of that day. The way it burnt, the way it took over all that it touched. Will magic look like that someday? Destructive and apathetic.
I tried to find a way out of the confines of my daze, but I kept being pulled back again and again. Something was wrong, I could feel it once more. My breaths were rugged, and I could feel the glances from the woman beside me. My eyes no longer saw the scenery outside the window.
My eyes were suddenly blinded. When the light subsided, I could only see the scorching bright sun and the surface of salt that I walked upon. The image of that fire kept tugging at my heart. It pricked my head and burned my eyes. I do not know why I was there, and I do not know how to escape. My memory dulled as I wandered endlessly. What hour was it and where I went, none of that mattered as I started muttering illegible words.
Soon, beyond the clouds, afar from me, I saw raging water and winds that pushed aside clouds of obstruction. It was a waterspout — a phenomenon I only ever read about. I did not know if it meant to dig into the ground or stretch the sky. I felt its cool breaths. It brought with it dust and salt, destruction and fury. But for me, it only glistened, spreading its brilliance. It reminded me of the clear canal in front of my house, and the image of that raging fire subsided. It was gone as if it did not exist. I felt relief despite my sinking consciousness.
What transpired from here on, I do not know. But I recall I walked, unknowingly, towards that calling.
