Magic School 1, chapter 1 (Patreon)

Jake was a perfectly normal boy on a perfectly normal street in a perfectly normal part of New York. He had perfectly normal black hair like eighty-five percent of all human beings and perfectly normal brown eyes like seventy five percent of people (although his eyes were light enough brown that everyone remarked on them) and a scattering of normal freckles that only showed up when he got a tan. He had looked up the numbers in the library, so he knew he was normal. That did not mean his life was perfect. Far from it.

Right now, he was sitting on a quiet on a bit of broken concrete set too far back from the street for pedestrians to bother him and too shaded by a dangerously tilted tree for anyone to see him and assume he was homeless or begging.

His homework was propped open on one knee, but he wasn’t reading. He was watching for his latest foster mother.

Being in the foster system wasn’t horrible, but Jake felt like he was always having to fit in with some family, only the families he stayed with never had a Jake-sized hole for him to fit into. Most of the time he lived in the Johnsons. Mrs. Johnson stayed home to care for foster children.

She was a haggard looking woman who lined her eyes in black and applied twin pink spots to her cheeks and who never seemed to notice that her makeup settled into her wrinkles and so by the time breakfast was over, each of the deep lines around her eyes were highlighted with orange streaks. Mr. Johnson did something on computers with money. He was tall and never spoke more than three words at a time unless he was yelling. And when he yelled, his chin wobbled.

Things often went wrong at the Johnsons. One time a man showed up in a tunic like in the movies from India with all the singing and dancing. It had an embroidered collar and a fringed bottom with colorful beads that Jake had been fascinated with. He must have been about six at the time.

But before Jake could blink, Mrs. Johnson had shoved him out the back door into the dirty February snow. Jake had been wearing woolen socks that were soon wet and squelching and heavy and his bathrobe over a set of donated train pajamas. When pounding at the back door hadn’t worked, he’d knocked on neighbors’ doors, moving farther down the block until he found someone who opened the door.

By that time, he’d been shivering so hard he couldn’t talk. The police had come and a social worker, and lots of others. Jake had sat in the back of the police car until they had driven him to the Cohen house. Jake had liked them, but Mrs. Cohen said they were an emergency placement, and the social worker would find him another place to live–a better one.

He’d ended up back with the Johnsons. That happened over and over.

Most recently, a teacher had called social services because Mrs. Johnson had been too busy taking care of Hardwin to notice that Jake’s toes were sticking out of his shoes, and he was erasing his math problems so he could reuse the paper.

Hardwin had been with the Johnsons since he was seven (and Jake had been six, although the incident with being locked out in the snow hadn’t been because of him). Ever since then, Mrs. Johnson had her hands full. If Hardwin didn’t get a second helping of dessert, he would pound his fists against the table. If he had to wear a shirt that someone had donated to a charity for orphans, he would take a kitchen knife and stab it. Mrs. Johnson had stopped taking in other children because Hardwin was all she could handle.

And even though Jake was a year younger, Mrs. Johnson started asking him to do more to help the family. Jake got up in the morning and cooked breakfast while Mrs. Johnson shook Hardwin and took his blankets and begged him to get up for school. Jake shoveled snow off their front walk while Mrs. Johnson tried to pry the controls for the video game out of Hardwin’s hands.

And when she lost her temper, she would scream at Jake and sometimes swing a frying pan at his head. If she did that with Hardwin, he would have picked up the stock pot and swung right back, but Jake ducked. He was the best dodgeball player in school because Hardwin threw all sorts of things at him, and Mrs. Johnson took her frustration out on him.

Still, he would rather be with the Johnsons where he knew what to expect. Mrs. McGrath had all these strange expectations. She got mad when he wore his shoes in the house, but it was hard to remember to take them off. At home, if he left his shoes by the front door, Hardwin would do something horrible. When Jake had tried to make breakfast, she had chased him out of the room, snapping him with a towel. And then she’d fed him oatmeal with berries.

He hated oatmeal.

But then again, he hated brussels sprouts, and he ate plenty of those. A year or two earlier, Mrs. Johnson had put Hardwin on a diet, and Hardwin had retaliated by eating every bit of chicken and bread on the dinner table. Mr. Johnson had gone out for fast food, Mrs. Johnson had sighed and gone to the living room to watch television, and Jake had been left eating only brussels sprouts for dinner.

That had happened for two weeks straight. So, he was used to getting not great food. He was. And he wasn’t spoiled like Hardwin, so he ate what was in front of him, but he loathed the thick, stickiness of oatmeal getting stuck in his throat.

The latest problem was that just that morning, Mrs. McGrath had caught Jake having a conversation with a bird right outside his window. Birds weren’t great conversationalists. They tended to say things like, “mine, mine, mine, Mine, Mine, MINE, MINE!” Sometimes they said, “Food. Fast crawling. FOOD. EAT. YES!” or “DANGER, DANGER, CAT, CAT, FLEE, DANGER, CAT.”

It made for very boring conversations, but there weren’t any other children in the McGrath house, and Jake wasn’t allowed to fix breakfast. He had nothing else to do until school started, so he’d started arguing about who owned the windowsill. It had been more amusing than scrambling to finish the math homework he hadn’t done the night before. Besides, sixth grade was almost over, and everyone knew grade school scores only counted for parents, and Jake didn’t have any.

So he’d sat with his math book open, chirping back “MINE” at the little black bird with the brown chest. “MINE!” the bird said. “MINE!” chirped back Jake. “MINE!” The bird added two emphatic hops. “MINE! MINE!” chirped back Jake louder.

The bird was getting so angry that he was fluffing up his feathers, when the bird looked over Jake’s shoulder and flew away. Jake whirled around to find Mrs. McGrath staring at him, her mouth open.

“Um, we were just arguing… I mean… um… whistling. I was whistling and the bird heard me. I wasn’t talking to….” Jake let his voice trail off.

“I knew it. I saw you talking to that snake earlier, and now this!” Mrs. McGrath had been near tears. Then she’d called Mr. McGrath and they’d talked about schizophrenia and demonic possession and delusions. They’d been almost gleeful at the thought that there was something horrifically wrong with Jake. And for the first time ever, Jake had been excited to run out the door to go to school.

Sure, school was boring, and he still attended with Hardwin who had been held back a year and now had to attend sixth grade as a thirteen-year-old. His size allowed him to have a successful career as a bully, and Jake was his most common target. Jake was one of the smallest and Hardwin hated him on general principle for living in the same house.

Or right now, for not living in the house. Jake wasn’t sure what would make Hardwin happy.

But school was over now, and Jake wasn’t sure what to do, which is why he was sitting under a tree on a broken bit of sidewalk. He could call his social worker, but he wasn’t sure if she would listen to him or the McGraths. Jake knew what happened to kids who got labeled crazy. They didn’t go to the good homes.

And maybe Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t let him come back to his tiny bedroom in the corner with the view of the pizza shop on the corner.

A man stopped across the street and looked right at Jake. He had long hair with shining red beads woven into the ends. That was normal enough. People in New York dressed all kinds of ways. Jake had once seen a man in a full Civil War Era gown strolling down Third Street. But the way people detoured around him made Jake deeply uncomfortable.

People in New York didn’t respect personal space. They couldn’t if they ever intended to fit into a subway car. But no one seemed to want to get near this man. Jake stared at him and he stared back and then every lecture Jake had ever heard about stranger-danger went through his mind, and he ran for the McGrath house like Hardwin and his buddies were chasing him with sticks (which they did fairly regularly).

Jake was breathing hard when he flung himself up the tiny back porch steps and knocked at the door. Mrs. McGrath didn’t trust him with a key, and she never would if she thought he was demonically possessed.

Why would a demon even want to possess him? Jake didn't have money or power or a bed that he could consistently call his own. He figured demons could do much better than him, assuming demons even existed. Mrs. Johnson was emphatic that demons and magic and fantasy books were all stupid, childish ideas.

Mr. McGrath opened the door and stood blocking it. “Jack,” he said in a warm tone.

“Jake,” Jake corrected him.

Mr. McGrath looked flustered. “Right. Sorry. Long day. Anyway, Mrs. McGrath and I decided that it’s time to get away from the city. We need a break.”

“Am I going back to the Johnsons?” Jake crossed his fingers for luck.

“No, of course not!” Mr. McGrath put a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “You’re going to come with us.”

Jake narrowed his eyes suspiciously. This morning they’d thought he was broken, and now they were taking him on vacation. When Mr. and Mrs. Johnson went on vacation, Jake went to a respite home. Once, Hardwin had thrown such a fit at being left behind that they had agreed to take him on a road trip to Maine to see the fall colors. By the time they got back, Mr. Johnson couldn’t do more than growl and Mrs. Johnson had puffy red eyes and the Johnsons never went on vacation again.

“Why?” Jake asked cautiously.

“You’re a member of this household.”

Jake tried to back away, but Mr. McGrath’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Come on in. Put your school bag down. You don’t need that on vacation, now do you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been on a vacation,” Jake answered.

Mr. McGrath blinked at him. “Never?”

Jake shook his head.  “Maybe when I was a baby before my parents left, but I don’t remember that.” And Jake doubted that he’d had a vacation back then. People who abandoned their children rarely spent a lot of time looking after them ahead of time.

“Well then, this will be good for you.”

Jake doubted that, but Mr. McGrath kept his hand on Jake’s shoulder the whole way out to the car. Mrs. McGrath was there, dressed in a flowing green dress that made her look like a head floating on a pyramid of fabric, and Mr. McGrath pushed Jake into the backseat with her. The passenger side front seat had a wicker picnic basket.

“I have a lot of homework,” argued Jake.

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Mrs. McGrath patted him on the arm as Mr. McGrath edged the nose of the car out far enough to force traffic to stop and allow them onto the road.

“I was going to write a letter to Mrs. Johnson tonight.” He wasn’t. Even if he wrote her a letter, Jake doubted she would read it. She complained about Hardwin, but he was the one she paid attention to.

“I’m sure she’ll understand,” said Mr. McGrath from the front seat.

“I want to call my social worker,” said Jake. This was his last, most desperate attempt to get out of the car, but both McGrath’s ignored him. Mr. McGrath tightly fisted the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and Mrs. McGrath kept scooting away until she was plastered up against the door as far from Jake as she could get. This was a lot of drama for a little whistling.

Jake stared out the window. One of the clouds seemed to be keeping pace with the car, vanishing behind skyscrapers only to reappear. He was willing to bet they were taking him to either an emergency home or a hospital. They’d made him leave his bag behind, so probably a hospital. Jake would have to convince the doctors that he just liked to whistle, and Mrs. McGrath was far too nervous to have foster children. Jake thought about how he would make his lip tremble when he talked about how she scared him when she yelled at him about his shoes.

Jake was lost in his thoughts, so he didn’t notice at first that the New York traffic had faded away. Instead, the view out the window was obscured by a terrible fog. “Carl?” Mrs. McGrath asked with a mouse-like squeak.

“It’s fine, Edith,” Mr. McGrath said from the front seat, but then a page of paper slapped against the window and stuck there. Mr. McGrath shrieked and jerked the wheel to the side. They should have hit another car or a building or a light pole. They should have hit the pedestrians on the sidewalk or some construction scaffolding. This was New York City. They should have hit dozens of things. Instead, the car careened to the right, lifted onto two wheels, thumped back down to the ground and then took off in a squeal of tires.

“Faster, Carl! Drive faster!” demanded Mrs. McGrath.

“I can’t see where I’m going!” Mr. McGrath didn’t slow down, though. He turned on the windshield wiper and knocked the paper off the windshield.

“Oh, Carl!”

A scarecrow of a shadow appeared in front of the car, and Mr. McGrath jerked the wheel hard. This time all four wheels stayed on the ground, but the car started to spin. The spinning got faster and faster until Jake was pinned up against the car door. Mrs. McGrath screamed and clung to her door handle for a few seconds, but then she slid across the backseat and Jake was smothered in green. He tilted his head to catch a breath of air, and he saw the front window was now covered in papers.

The car slowed and then stopped, and Mrs. McGrath was gasping for breath. That hardly seemed fair since Jake had been the one to get smushed up against the door. He squirmed, and Mrs. McGrath slid away from him. “Carl?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“Stay here,” ordered Mr. McGrath. He took a deep breath and pushed his door open. Immediately the fog vanished, and they were in an empty parking lot—a thing which didn’t actually exist in New York City. The pavement was bleached white and the buildings all around them were painted white, and even the sky seemed paler than usual, as if the fog had stained it.

Jake was considering how strange that was when his car door came open. “Howdy!” A man stood by Jake’s door. His arms and legs were too long for his body, making Jake think about stories of Slenderman that boys told each other at lunch when teachers weren’t watching them. However, he sounded friendly as he ducked down to peer in the car. “You folks look a little peaked. You feeling alright?”

Mrs. McGrath stared at the stranger for several long seconds, and then she let out a scream that rattled the car windows. The stranger lurched backward, lost his balance, and fell on his butt, his legs flying into the air.

“That ain’t very friendly,” complained the man once he’d sat up again. “I was just asking after y’all.”

“We’re fine,” Jake said when neither adult reacted.

“Ah, lookit here. A cute little nose like Rose Newhouse, the black hair of Christopher Newhouse, and those eyes. I don’t remember if it was Michael or Guyasuta, but I remember seein’ a picture with eyes just like that.”

“Who?”

“Your family. Michael musta been your… what? Grandfather? Yeah, that’s right. Guyasuta was his father. Those eyes look just like a portrait I saw of one of them in your parents’ living room. But Newhouses are known for the noses.” He tapped his own nose—a long, narrow thing that reminded Jake of a bird’s beak. “Your mother helped out the gene pool a mite by softenin’ those feysoul features.”

Jake blinked. He was normally a smart child, but none of that made sense.

“Oh, I ain’t introduced myself properlike. I’m Birger. No last name, just Birger. And you are Jack Yona Newhouse. Nice to make your acquaintance.” Birger stood, brushed his pants off and then stuck out his hand. Like his arms and legs, his fingers were too long to look natural. Still, good manners made Jake reach for the hand.

But then Mrs. McGrath screamed and grabbed Jake by the shoulder. She dragged him out of the far side of the car while Mr. McGrath held a black book up like a shield. “By the power of God, I banish you to hell, demon!” Mr. McGrath shouted.

Birger smiled. “It’s real nice of you folks to care for Jake. It’s good to know that he had people, seeing as his folks were killed.”

“They were killed?” asked Jake. A sharp pain pierced his chest. He’d told himself a long time ago that he had to give up on the fantasy that his parents would come back for him. If they’d been in any shape to care for him, they would have shown up already. But hearing that they were dead was… Jake didn’t have the right words.

“Sure.” Birger frowned. “They were killed in the terrorist attack on Warts and Mall.”

“The what? Where?” The more the man talked, the less Jake understood.

Mrs. McGrath tightened her hold around Jake and started backing away. Jake tried to pull free of her, and he knocked his own glasses off.

“Don’t go manhandlin’ the boy,” said Birger when she wouldn’t let Jake bend over to retrieve them.

“Stay back,” said Mr. McGrath.

“Bless your hearts,” said Birger with a sigh. “I’m real sorry about this, but you folks are not being reasonable.” He took a sphere out of a leather bag that was strapped diagonally across his body and threw it on the ground. Mrs. McGrath stopped pulling on Jake, but it took a second to realize that she was frozen.

Jake slid out of her arms, and then looked between the McGraths and Birger, wondering if he should run for it, but first, he needed his glasses. He had terrible eyesight. He couldn’t see the board from the front row without them. When he picked up the glasses, he noticed the writing on one of the papers that had been knocked loose from the car’s windshield.

NOTICE

School staff from Chumhouse School of Magic and Ancient Arts will attend your house this afternoon to escort a mage under your supervision to a major shopping district to obtain first year materials.

Students may ask at any reputable bookstore to obtain the first-year list of books. If a store does not know which books are required, do not give that store money because they are not reputable. Normies are warned that magical beings are still human and equally susceptible to human vices such as greed.

In addition, students must purchase elixir-proof and spell-proof tunics (minimum six) in either appropriate colors or in grey if a student is undecided as to their major. Technical studies=yellow. Societal studies=green. General studies=purple. Magical studies=red. Creative studies=rainbow.  General tunics or unspelled tunics are not acceptable.

Students with a fear of water such purchase an aphobia elixir at the apothecary before boarding the bubble. Do not take the elixir early or it could diminish or eliminate the effects.

Students should also bring a school-appropriate trunk with slates sufficient for their classes (first year, eight), multiple chalksils (more if students are prone to losing materials), a mirror (students have limited access to public mirrors), a shower caddy, robe and pajamas (multiple sets), echoing notebooks, bookbag, desk organizer, multiple pairs of shoes (including some appropriate for gardening) casual clothing for weekends, and sweaters. Chumhouse can grow cold in winter.

If you have any questions, feel free to mirror Marie Connolly, assistant principal and sponsor of general studies; Benedict Agronivus, sponsor of societal studies; Juan Quiles, sponsor of technical studies; Agnes Arber, sponsor of creative studies; or Adelie Longblessings, sponsor of magical studies.

Jake blinked.

“This is a mess. I charmed it to get the reader’s attention, but I suppose I missed the mark a bit.” Birger took out a wand and waved it. All the papers rose into the air and then shredded themselves into smaller and smaller pieces until paper dust rained down over everything, including Mr. and Mrs. McGrath who were still stuck. The dust slid off Mr. McGrath’s bald head, but it gave Mrs. McGrath a crown of white curls. Birger leaned closer. “If I’m honest, wandwork is tougher than it looks, innit?”

“Um…”

“Well, well the Abettors will be here. We’d best be off.” He clapped his hands cheerfully.

“Off where?” Jake took a few steps backward, but Birger matched him.

“Off to Warts and Mall.” Birger blinked. “Oh, I just told you your folks died there, didn’t I? Well, that was over a decade ago. And seeing as how Hardrada ain’t been seen since and his whole clan doesn’t dare raise their heads, it’s safe now. We have your family to thank for that, don’t we?” He grinned, and his smile was so wide it seemed to split his thin face in have.

“You do?”

A shadow of doubt flickered over Birger’s face. “Sure. Everyone knows about the Newhouses. You’re from Viking stock, strong magic in the Vikings, and when baby-you and your folks were caught in a terrorist attack, one of you or all three of you wove a protective spell so strong that it knocked Hardrada right out of reality. Impressive work that because Hardrada was plenty powerful.” He nodded happily.

“But…” Jake tried to find a question, but so much had happened in the last ten minutes that he didn’t have the words.

“Folks will be happy to see you. Well, let’s get out of the Abettors’ way so they can settle the Normies with new memories. I thought you were staying with someone in the know? Principal MacGill told me you had a nice home with a quirk family.”

“Quirk?”

“Sure, magical, but not enough magic to be mages. You know, a quirk of magic. I wouldna sent a notice to normies. That would send them ‘round the bend.” Birger frowned at the McGraths. “I supposed it did send them ‘round the bend. Sorry about that, folks. But Council people will be here real quick, and they’ll fix you right up with something that sounds more plausible than magic.” He tipped his hat to the McGraths and then caught Jack by the arm. “Let’s set up an arch over here away from the drama,” he said.

Jake followed the direction of Birger’s gesture and realized that bright, glowing arches were appearing in the air. The center of each grew darker and darker until men and women in black tunic tops stepped out.

Birger leaned close. “Show offs. It takes real power to draw a transarch right in the air like that.”

Jake opened his mouth, closed it, and then let Birger pull him off toward a building, chatting the whole time about how much easier it was to travel when one had a nice solid brick wall to anchor to. Jake wanted to ask a dozen questions—a hundred questions—but he couldn’t find the words for even one before Birger had drawn an arch and then propelled Jake straight through into the darkness.