Chapter 9
The rest of my day is a mix of disastrous lessons where I’m horribly out of my depth, and remedial classes, which are, to my relief, low stakes and with both Duncan and Willow.
“How was your morning?” Willow whispers as Professor Bilderblast hands out various worksheets.
“As terrible as you could imagine,” I say, quite truthfully.
“Yikes,” Duncan says. “My imagination is pretty darn vivid.” —Poor Theo/bullies/ugh that time I got my head dunked/swirlie—
“No talking, Mr. Links.” Professor Bilderblast swats Duncan on the back of the head with a rolled-up sheaf of papers, then waddles up to the board and starts writing out a string of words.
He’s listing out extinct magical creatures. There are obvious ones, such as dragons, werewolves, merpeople, and the like, but also more obscure creatures. The ones that history tends to forget, like the Nuckelavee and Tundra gnomes.
“Every person on this planet is descended from a magical creature,” Professor Bilderblast tells us.
“Man evolved from these creatures millions of years ago. As time has passed, and after these fabulous creatures became extinct, the power from their magical lineage has continually weakened. The witch population, which you are all part of, comprises 10% of the world. Now, only the 1%—the Elites—have power somewhat worthy of our ancestors. If you are here, in this school, in this class, I hope you are cognizant of the duty before you—to grow your spark and move through the ranks. You, too, could be an Elite witch one day. To have a magical spark and never have it awaken is tragic.”
The professor swivels his head towards me and makes an apologetic face, “Though thankfully, most unusual. If you are here,” Professor Bilderblast continues, spreading his arms out as if to encompass the whole campus, “then the academy selection committee has looked over your lineage and your previous test scores and found you teetering on the edge of your potential. And with hard work, together we can bring this potential to light!”
The meek Defectivum students actually start applauding.
Across the room, a usually silent skinny kid with young Justin Bieber-bangs raises his hand. “Scott Samson,” the professor smiles, “long time listener, first time caller—what’s your question?”
The boy called Scott looks perplexed for a moment, then speaks. “Sir, this might be a stupid question, but if we all come from magical creatures, where did the magical creatures come from?”
“Not a stupid question at all,” Professor Bilderblast grins.
“And I commend you for asking it. I realize being in Defectivum can leave you all feeling a little insecure, so I encourage as much question-asking as possible. Now, onto your particular poser, Mr. Scott. We only have the myths of our forefathers to go on; does anyone know the legend of Avalon?”
A couple of students tentatively raise their hands. I’ve heard the stories, but it’s been a while.
“Well, well. Then I’d better give you all a rundown.
” Bildeblast sits down with a groan. “Avalon was an island that connected the Earth realm to the realm of the Gods. The divine beings would sometimes visit the island to gain insight into the Earth realm, as it’s believed that early man served as a form of entertainment for the immortals.
Think of Avalon as a resort destination, if you will.
The Gods would spend their time drinking, cavorting, and designing challenges, like earthquakes or plagues, for this world. ”
Duncan’s hand shoots up. “Like, they were playing Dungeons and Dragons? Do you think they made character sheets?”
Professor Bilderblast chuckles. “Well, that’s one way to think about it.
Part of the Immortals' great entertainment was to create magical creatures, sometimes letting them loose on Earth. Legend has it that a crisis arose in the celestial realm, and the divine beings all fled in haste, leaving their creatures behind. The island of Avalon floated around the world, and over time, the magnificent beasts spread all over our planet.”
“Er, Professor?” Duncan has his hand up again. “How did magical creature DNA and human DNA get, you know, conjoined?” His face is a little red as he asks this, and there are several hushed snorts and giggles around the class.
“Now, now. Settle down, it’s a fair question.
The great thinkers of our kind have decided it must have been through horizontal gene transfer.
Believe it or not, viruses and bacteria can transfer genetic material, including DNA.
Think of that, instead of catching a cold, you catch a cockatrice.
” He adds ‘cockatrice’ to his list of extinct creatures on the board.
“So, back to the matter in hand. First, we need to investigate your personal lineage,” the little professor says, looking a little red in the face from all the exertion.
“To that end, I’m passing out worksheets, and I want you to fill in your family tree, going back as far as you can. ”
“My family is mostly banshee,” Willow tells me, as she reaches out a hand for the worksheet, takes three, then passes the rest behind her. “But one branch has gorgon DNA.”
Gorgons? Banshees? I would never have guessed that. Willow seems so kind and soft and, well, decidedly un-banshee-like.
“Cool,” says Duncan. “My family tree is full of daemons.”
Duncan the daemon? Just goes to show that you shouldn’t stereotype based on appearance or mannerisms.
“The DNA isn’t conclusive to which subspecies,” he continues, “but my dad is convinced it’s the kratos line.” He rolls his eyes. “Naturally.”
“What’s the kratos line?” I ask. My daemon knowledge is more than a little spotty.
“The strongest daemons ever.” Duncan rolls his eyes at Willow and me. “All brawn and no brains. Just the kind of thing my dad admires.”
Willow starts doodling a picture of Duncan with horns and giant muscles, while I drift off and think about my own heritage.
Mum had DNA from Celtic brownies on one side, and Ratatoskr, a Norse messenger squirrel, on the other.
Both low-power lowly creatures. Dad had no magic DNA in his system at all.
Looking back, maybe that was why they both were so scared of the witching community.
Being fully human, or very low status, makes you vulnerable.
Though both are better than being an AUA.
My DNA testing had been inconclusive; there were magical genes in me, the report said, but of such poor quality the testers at WMO couldn’t tell what they were from. Maybe the Ratatoskr accidentally buried my magic alongside its stash of acorns?
I fill in the worksheet with Mum’s info, then add Aunt Nancy (also squirrel) and my cousins, who had amphisbaenia DNA from their dad’s side.
Other than that, I’ve got nothing. Was it common to have duff DNA like mine?
I kinda wanted to ask Professor Bildeblast, but I also didn’t want to draw more attention to my lack.
I turn in the poorly-completed ‘family tree’, deciding to let sleeping dogs/magic lie.
The last class of the day is called ‘Nurture your Spark 101’ and taught by someone named Professor Octobus.
When we enter, the lights in the classroom are dimmed to a low level, and the temperature is turned way up. Scented candles fill the air with a deep, musky scent that immediately sets my eyes watering.
“I don’t believe in pampering defectives,” Professor Octobus starts, in what is obviously going to be a rousing and supportive speech. “But this is a new protocol designed by Dean Crankshawe, so here we are.”
Professor Octobus reminds me of the sports teacher from Glee.
She has that same pursed-lip, pissed off look, like she’d just stepped in dog shit or something.
She mutters something under her breath about sparing the rod and spoiling the child, then sighs dramatically.
“Take a position on the floor,” she commands.
The desks have been pushed back, revealing a collection of yoga mats and cushions. In my still jet-lagged state, they look incredibly inviting. I sink onto the nearest one, stretch out, and close my eyes. A soundscape begins. Whale song overlaid with chanting.
“Reach inside yourselves,” Professor Octobus drones, clearly reading from a script, “down to your beautiful spark. Let the warmth of the room nurture it, help the flame of your magic build inside you.” Giving a cough, she adds, “Load of bullshit.”
“Inspiring,” whispers Willow.
I hear the sound of papers being discarded. “Alright then, students. Just lie there, and get your magic to kick it up a notch, alright? I’ll be back at the end of the lesson.” A door opens, then closes again.
—Grow my flame/try and relax/deep breaths/that fire alarm looks like a camera/shit, concentrate/grow flame/I wonder if we’re being recorded— Duncan’s brain is racing so intensely, I’m worried he’s going to stroke out.
—I got this, I’m a Bloomhower/I’ve got this!— Willow (silently) repeats her mantra as she takes deep, dramatic breaths.
“Just lie there, and get your magic to kick it up a notch…” Professor Octobus had said. If only it were that simple. It’s not like I haven’t tried before, but one more effort couldn’t hurt.
I send my mind on an inward journey, picturing myself as a tiny atom working its way through flesh, bone, and blood to the very center of my being, where my spark should lie and…
As usual, there is nothing.
Retreating my mind back into the overheated classroom, I give up on my spark and instead worry about my looming appointment. Another thing I don’t have any control over.
Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.
Fucking Cosmo Drakeward. I hate him so intensely that my fingers curl into fists. All the candles, heat, and whalesong can’t calm me down. I’d like to punch him in his smug face. Break his perfect nose. Then kick him in the balls.
Did I mention that I hate him?
Letting out a long sigh, I roll onto my side and find Willow staring at me with big eyes.