The Sleepers of Saint Garfir

     Miphie shifted in her scratchy robes. The white belt, emblematic of her school’s colours, was pinching uncomfortably at her sides. This small movement produced a creak in her wooden seat, which echoed gloriously throughout the hall. A few heads turned to scowl, and the Draik shrunk into her costume. She didn’t particularly like wearing such lofty clothes, and Academia’s ceremonial uniforms tended to make her feel even more like a country bumpkin than she already was.

     Two hours had crawled by, punctuated by an interminable parade of third-year students wearily marching up to the recital stage, presenting their projects, and hurrying off. The Presentation was organized alphabetically by student, and separated by school. Students from the school of Transmutation were last in the rotation. Miphie had seen magi from the School of Divination Skry into the future with crystal orbs or present advanced readings of tea leaves and tarot cards; Illusion students paint elaborate sunsets or imbue fantastical waterfalls and butterflies into the stitches of a gown; and budding Enchantment pupils brew iridescent potions for making friends and taming wild, beastly Petpets.

     Academia Magika was not considered an elite school for nothing. On par with the magical institutes of Faerieland, students could—and did—fail out of their exams. So far, at least two students had stumbled out of the room in tears after a failed demonstration. The most gifted students stood tall in their chairs, at the ready, but the rest of the student body appeared tense and uncomfortable. Miphie was part of the latter majority.

     When the time came for the Elemental Magic students to present, she watched Edith approach the stage. She looked infuriatingly perfect. Hair done up just so, her Candy colour complemented the multicolour iridescence of her belt’s school colours beautifully.

     Straight-backed and head high, Edith stepped to the front of the hall holding a brambly shrub spilling out from its terra cotta pot.

     “Edith Lockwood, primary magi. Elemental magic with a focus on earth faerie spells.” Her tone was even, her crystalline stare unwavering as she looked into the crowd. She went on to explain that the spell she would demonstrate was a musical enchantment. The kyrii settled the plant at the edge of the stage and produced a small, silver lyre from her robes. At the first strum of a minor chord, Edith set off into a lulling melody, and Miphie watched incredulously as the shrubbery began to grow. Edith’s honey-like timbre rang through the room. Gradually, the auditorium filled with the sound of groaning wood: the shrub had joined Edith’s duet.

     The terra-cotta pot exploded. The plant had formed a seven-foot-tall barrier in front of the kyrii, completely concealing her from sight.

     “Elemental plant magic is not just used for decorative purposes,” the kyrii said evenly, stepping around her hedge. “It can offer excellent protection spells as well.”

     Then, Edith strummed a lengthy major chord progression on her lyre. The hedge began to shake violently. The students at the front of the audience gasped as barbed vines shot out from between its leaves.

     “Defensive and offensive spells,” Edith amended.

     The hall filled with applause. Miphie stared down at her hands, idling on her lap. The soil was still caked beneath her nails. What she would present today wasn’t even remotely groundbreaking. An elemental student could easily replicate it. Edith would take one look at her presentation and laugh.

     The aggressive shrubbery was wheeled out of the hall, and another hour dragged by. Transmutation students began to trickle onto the stage, demonstrating telepathy, conjuring advanced animation spells, and brewing intricate morphing potions. Miphie stifled a yawn: she wasn’t particularly tired, but exams and presentations tended to produce a sleepy kind of anxiety in her nervous system. Even now, her heart hammered away in her chest. Would her magic fail her?

     “Miphie Morchella.”

     Miphie sprang up from her chair. Had they reached the M names already? She had hoped for more time.

     Professor Nidali, a Darigan Kau with an ancient countenance who taught alchemy, was staring at her from the jury panel. “Miss Morchella, kindly make your way to the stage. Let’s not idle.”

     The Draik numbly pushed a path between chairs and legs to reach the front of the hall. She stepped onto the stage: it was time.

     Hundreds of eyes blinked up at her. Miphie swallowed back the panic rising in her throat. She needed several gulps of air before she could utter a word.

     “Miphie Morchella, primary magi, transmutation magic,” she announced while staring at nothing in particular. She felt her nails pressing into her palms.

     “And what will you be presenting to us today, Miphie?” She couldn’t see her through the blinding spotlight, but Miphie recognized her mentor’s voice from the jury panel. Somehow, the thought that Lucenza was watching did not produce much of a calming effect.

     “I’ve prepared a demonstration on…”

     There’s a leaf in your hair.

     Miphie startled. That thought had not been hers. She blinked at her audience, and the audience quietly blinked back at her.

     I’m sorry! I just needed to say something.

     There it was again! An intruding voice had entered her head. The Draik glanced to the left, where students from the school of Transmutation were seated. Who had just spoken telepathically to her?

     Professor Nidali cleared his throat, forcing Miphie out of her daze. “Miss Morchella, are you with us?”

     “Y-yes!” she nodded, furtively raking a hand through her hair. Sure enough, a dried leaf fluttered down from her scalp. It came to a rest on her shoe. The whole event had the catastrophic outcome of making Miphie feel violently embarrassed.

     She forced another breath. “I’ll be demonstrating the homunculus spell. Also known as the anumatum spell.” The sound of a pen scratching on paper emitted from somewhere on the jury table. “Or, rather, a modified extension of the spell,” she hurried to add. The pen stopped.

     Miphie reached into a pocket of her robes, and produced an acorn. “A homunculus spell can be used to animate inorganic, typically person-made objects. It is a common animation spell, but, in essence, as I’ve (just) learned, it is a way of communicating with the inanimate, and, with permission, imbuing your will into it.”

     Someone in the audience coughed. Miphie persisted.

     “But, communication… communication is a two-way street, and if we let things speak to us, it makes the communication, huh… easier.”

     Miphie had lost her train of thought. It didn’t matter: she had essentially said what she needed to say. Now came time for the demonstration. Now or never.

     The Draik brought her open hand to eye-level: the acorn was resting in her palm.

     “Anumatum, glandem,” she whispered, almost as a mother to her child, “anumatum.”

     In her palm, the acorn rattled and a hairline fracture began to stretch along its side. Miphie willed her hand to serve as an extension to the acorn, feeling the seedling push its way out from its casing.

     “Anumatum, radici,” she whispered next. Someone gasped. At a staggering speed, the seedling began to grow its shoot system, from which sprung delicate roots. Miphie willed her very consciousness into the seedling. She goaded its stem to grow, and then its first, pinnatifid leaves. Soon, an oak sapling rested in her hands, roots peaking out in between her fingers. She could sense the subtle thrum of its heartwood radiating into her palms.

     “Sile” she cooed, now willing the juvenile tree to cease its growth. “Sile,” she said again, willing it to understand that it had done well, that she needed to plant it in the ground for it to grow strong. The oak listened. The oak stilled.

     Miphie felt a droplet of sweat trace a path from her forehead and around her eye. Her legs shook. Against all odds, she had succeeded. The room was silent.

     “Thank you, Morchella,” said Professor Cidius from the jury panel. He taught Advanced History of Magic. Miphie disliked History of Magic. “How might such a spell be practically used outside of this demonstration?”

     Miphie’s breath caught in her throat. How might it be used? She hadn’t really considered that particulate brainteaser.

     “Well,” she fumbled, her grip tightening around her sapling’s trunk, “it—it… it’s a good tool for gardening.”

     She could hear some breathy chuckles from the audience.

     “Yes, indeed,” said Professor Cidius. “Anything else?”

     “No,” she swallowed. Miphie’s wings fluttered nervously.

     “Very well, Ms. Morchella, that’ll do.”

     Miphie let out a shaky breath and hurried back to her seat, hitting a few students with her oakling along the way.

     She had passed. Or, at least, she hadn’t failed.

To be continued…