Jarden is the last apprentice of the year to take his examination, and of course, he’s twenty minutes late. I hate to end the semester with the student I like the least, but he signed up last, and here we are. While I wait and make a note of his tardiness for the hundredth time, I straighten my papers, making sure they are alphabetical and ready for submission. I want to leave for Scotland five minutes after Jarden finishes his exam and another professor inherits him. I can taste the Scottish ale on my lips and see its hills and magic welcoming me home.
The boy eventually strides in as if he were immune to the accountability of time and order. I’m used to him not making eye contact, his aloof nature, and how even though he may know forty incantations, an apology isn’t one of them. I pull out his formula and ritual and look it over again—a simple teleport spell, but when he arrives, he will wear completely different clothes. He calls it “Quick Change,” a spell that helps him with the gift of being late. I can’t slight him on his choice. Simple enough. A transmutation hiding inside a conjuration with a small amplification. Not the kind of spell I saw an hour ago, a memory charm that won’t let you forget someone’s first name after they’ve introduced themselves. Quite a gem, that one.
He steps into the spell circle, and time starts to slow down for him. A clever design so I can see each movement and hear each syllable and write down mistakes and, if need be, help the student out. Jarden starts off with his transmutation, a wave of his hand claiming the space he wants to go to, and the gesture tells me he only wants to move 10 feet behind me. I try not to move while this all goes on—since the student will see me sped up—but I can’t help but raise an eyebrow. Jarden makes a smaller motion to account for the incline behind me so he can “stick the landing,” as the kids say. Overall, I’m impressed. He seems to have this down pat. I make a note with a little star on it. I feel that part of me that hates to give him credit, but I push through.
Then he starts his conjuration, and fear rips into my throat. I look down on his formula and I see the mistake immediately. I push down the guilt of not seeing it before—I’ll feel that later. He has swapped his fourth and seventh movements as well as the hand that should give it. I stand up too quickly, and he sees my reaction, but he can’t stop himself. He’s committed to the spell now and he won’t make the correction. I start to move my hands and develop a counter, but it’s on the fly—and I’m trying to put every factor I can think of—even the time dilation he’s experiencing. I can see the panic rising in his face in an instant because he sees the desperation in mine. His misfired spell starts to take effect and a gate appears where he should be teleporting to.
I can see the acknowledgment in his face—where he went wrong—a look I usually love to see in the classroom, but not here, not here, my young, naive student. The gate is growing, and I can smell the ether, and brimstone floods the room. An inhuman growl is coming from the other side, something that hungers and has been waiting all too long. I’m trying to hold the gate back and unwind his spell at the same time, but the time dilation is making it all too difficult, like I’m trying to speak four forgotten languages at the same time. I manage to give a Jared look of assurance, like it will all be fine, as a teacher should. And he returns one of sadness. He lets his hands fall away. The built-up energy of his halted spell backlash on the boy, turning him to ash. His wayward gate slams shut before anything can emerge.
I fall to the ground with a heart full of grief and shock and know even my hills cannot welcome me anymore.
If someone shared this with you, I publish a weekly(ish) newsletter where you can get my fiction, recommendations and just commentary on the writing world. You can sign up for it at the link above.