Having started the day with no name at all, Orpheus was about to receive the second name in a matter of hours, this time no less voluntarily than the first. His new name brought with it a certain pleasure that reminded him of the homecoming of Odysseus. Those words were real, and they had instantly become a dear possession to him, and one which could not be reclaimed now that it had been given. He had found himself repeatedly murmuring the name as they journeyed, ‘Orpheus Whitecross. Orpheus Whitecross,’ with a smile, no less.
Naturally, Mr Andestinic noticed this behaviour, but he only thought to comment on it now, as the car passed by the dense foliage of mangroves on the Interstate 5 overpass in slow procession behind a row of other automobiles. When the car came to a complete stop, the engine’s hum calming to a lesser drone, he overheard Orpheus’ muttering, and with a look of consideration said, “Well we can’t have that, now can we?” After Orpheus’ response of a confused expression, he continued, “You can’t be introducing yourself as Orpheus Whitecross to just any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Folks will have already heard what happened with your Papa, and he wasn’t exactly vocal about you around town. Word travels fast, especially around here.” He stroked his beard, thinking. “We need to give you a cover, at least until we set the record straight about a few things; and we need to keep you safe too, in case the assailant decides to find you again…”
“But I like my name!” Protested Orpheus, turning completely in his carseat to face John. Since the traffic had rended them almost stationary by now, John afforded a glance, spotting the satchel of bare possessions which Orpheus had packed. He seemed to consider.
“Do you like it enough to protect it, sonny? To keep it hidden until the appropriate time? Perhaps you remember Odysseus, when he returned home, first arrived as Aethon before he revealed himself.”
“You’ve read the Odyssey?” Orpheus responded, incredulous.
“Of course. It was required reading where I went to school…” He trailed off.
“Are there classes like that here?” Orpheus pressed, easily distracted.
“Sure there are. You should consider learning Giothien; it’s a valuable language for magic besides all the literature you can read with it.” Mr Andestinic gazed out the Panoramique window. They were coming out from the treeline now, and the city was coming into view again opposite the glimmering rice fields. He turned to face his ward as they came to a stop again. “So, Orpheus,” he said, the sombre look returning to his face, “what do you think?”
Orpheus hummed thoughtfully, then nodded. “Very well. What should my pseudonym be then?”
For a moment, Mr Andestinic had that same faraway look in his eyes and his hand went to his coat pocket, clutching at something. Then, he smiled softly, cleverly even, “James Wynyard,” he turned to Orpheus. “If anyone asks, you lived in a small, secluded hamlet with no name which never got any news of the outside world. When your grandparents died, I came out to investigate whether there was any foul play, and since they were your primary carers, I decided to bring you here under the protection of the State.” He glanced over at Orpheus at last, a worried frown forming in his brow, “Try to keep the details vague and don’t bring up your childhood if you can avoid it. Understand?”
Orpheus looked out on the city which finally seemed within reach. Now that they were closer, he could truly see what an absolute mountain of civilisation it was, its two peaks pointing to the sky like the hands of saints in icons; the first, the Sauer building, was glorious in the summer sun of the early evening, which still shone high even so late in the day, while the second was a dark castle atop a grassy hill peppered with spires in all manner of opulent colours: porphyry, silver, gold, blue and white, vermillion, each competing against the other on the calm backdrop of the cerulean sky. Something told Orpheus that this was the ancient heart of the Academy, with its Wizard towers sprawling from the base of the hill to the roiling lake at the edge of the city. The stone structures of the old city seemed to blend naturally where they met with the metal buildings of the modern one, creating a gentle slope of ever advancing towers from the city’s suburban edge to its acropolitan centre. Indeed, Canoniç had an immense footprint that spanned from the Federal Reserve in the east (the high-reaching trees of which were only just visible beyond the gabled manor roofs of the eastern suburbs) to the thick plumes of smoke and fog which tickled the clouds from the warehouses and power stations visible in the west. With this entire, spectacular view before him, the view of his incoming life, of his certain euphoric future, how could Orpheus have denied any request which would enable him entry into this new world of freedom? How could he not understand? A picture began to form in his mind of how he would live in Canon City, how one could choose to live visibly or invisibly in such an immense and expecting city. He realised, naturally, that he would now have to live invisibly, and he resolved that, when the chance arose, he would snatch up every opportunity he could to become visible.
Orpheus nodded, and he began to gently murmur ‘James Wynyard’ as they pulled under a little metal awning with a hut that read ‘STOP FOR INSPECTION.’ A long row of similar structures lined the span of the highway heading into the city, and just beyond the leftmost one (which John was now driving into) was a larger concrete building painted with large blue letters: U.S. ARMY / CAMP WAXHAVEN. Mr Andestinic leant out the window to address the bored young man sitting in the wooden booth. He was lean, with olive skin and close-shaven black hair under a green cap; beads of sweat were pooling around his wire-rimmed glasses as he watched the cars mill about the customs station.
“Ah, Cadet Most, a pleasure to see you” Mr Andestinic began with some familiarity. “I have a citizen in need of new papers here; we’ll need to come inside, I expect.”
A perplexed look darkened Cadet Most’s ovular face as he craned his neck to look beyond Andestinic into the passenger’s seat. Then, he stood up, waved at an officer standing by the door of the concrete building, and turned back to Mr Andestinic.
“Good to see you too, Officer Andestinic. Corporal Bollardo will see you inside.” Most smiled pleasantly, but it didn’t hide the nervous appearance that had come over him when he recognised his superior officer arriving at his station.
Andestinic brought the car to a stop in a place designated to them by Corporal Bollardo, who was a stout man whose eyebrows extended like wings much longer than his moustachios did. The two officers embraced each other warmly, and greeted each other as old friends: “How are you old chum?” “Very well, very well. Hrktos has me escorting this young fella here.” Bollardo examined Orpheus as he held the door for them to enter the complex. “Looking to enlist, son?” He asked sincerely. “Everything that’s happening on the Apsian sub-continent, we may need all the help we can get…” Andestinic shook his head as the three of them pulled up to the counter, “No, no. Jim here doesn’t know anything about that. We need to write up some identity papers for the kid.”
While the men began to speak in very official tones, Orpheus scanned the ante-room they were in, which reminded him of the salon at home, but more practical and serious. Plastic chairs lined the space, and men and women in uniforms hurried themselves through the many doors and corridors throughout. These people all walked with measured steps and postured gaits, being distracted by nothing as they resolutely soldiered forth to their duties. He watched them go by with eager curiosity and a growing paranoia.
What if one of these people somehow recognised him? It was possible that one of the men from Whitecross Mill could have joined the army. Then what? Orpheus knew the lie would stop somewhere. One of these officers would see the deception on his face and he would be ostracised from the city, condemned forever to wander the wasteland beyond and cry to himself, what if?
Luckily, Corporal Bollardo seemed to occupied with finding out if his old friend was ever getting married to scrutinise Orpheus too much, and eventually, they were allowed to leave. The newly made James Wynyard followed behind Mr Andestinic to the car with his new identity papers in hand, heart beating strong in his chest. They were made of a crisp, pristine paper and with a little photograph and all the details that the state apparently thought necessary. Name: James Wynyard; Place of origin: Ciral County; Date of birth: 24th of Quattor 1923. They hadn’t known his exact date of birth, so Corporal Bollardo decided to make today his birthday. There was also room at the bottom of the page for more writing under the heading CHISEL, but when asked, Mr Andestinic simply said he’d explain later. From Orpheus’ first contact with the papers, they seemed heavy and dull to the touch, and seemed to emit a black, bitter atmosphere that weighed Orpheus down with shame. He wanted to tear up this vile tool of deceipt and announce his real name, I am Orpheus Whitecross, for God’s sake! But he restrained himself, remembering the pietas of Aeneas. If Aeneas could control his urges for the greater good, then so could Orpheus.
“Right,” began Mr Andestinic as he started the car, “Let’s see if we can’t get you enrolled, hey? If we hurry, we may still have time to catch the Academy administrators before they go home for the day. Otherwise, you’ll have to stay with me tonight…”
Orpheus only nodded in response. His focus had now returned to watching the city go by out the window. The great mound of modernity remained on their right the entire drive as they trailed along the street which cut through the low-seated houses and businesses of this area and when they turned right onto ‘Broadway’, the steel caps of the skyscrapers were visible directly ahead some kilometres away still. Orpheus was astounded, however, at just how many people there were in the street. The workday was now coming to a close, and the men and women of Canon City were donning their hats (which somehow managed to stay on despite the extreme winds) and closing up their shops that lined the wide street. Cable cars took up part of the middle lane, their green and yellow hulls slowly sliding along the corridor left to them by the cars as if gliding having been hoisted upon the overhead cables. At one point, they passed under a bridge of black concrete which ferried a handsome red train (he had heard of these previously from somewhere). At another, three people stood on a corner near a bakery playing sweet music from brass instruments (Orpheus smiled at this, for he had never imagined that music could come from anything but the radio and drunk factory workers). But, for the most part, the buildings slowly scrolled by like film reel, their almost identical brick facades fading into the rear windows of the cab. The shops were selling all kinds of things the likes of which Orpheus had never imagined, and they got ever stranger the closer they came to the black hill speckled with towers. Signs announced for sale radios, typewriters, and more! or more books than you could name and (further along Broadway) wands, divining bowls, psephoi, or any other magical accoutrements you may need, as well as the occasional tailor or outlet. Orpheus admired the several handsome outfits which the people on the street were sporting, between the square-cut suits and wide hats of the men and the boxy dresses and silk gloves of the women, and he imagined how each fabric must enlighten the senses. He also wondered, as they passed another magical supply store, whether he would be in need of other tools for magic (like Father had in his office) or if his wand would suffice.
Andestinic glanced over and tutted after Orpheus let out a heavy sigh. Following the boy’s line of sight to the shops and pedestrians outside, he said, “How’s about tomorrow, we go buy you some things? I bet you’re just dying to get ahold of more books than you have, hm?”
“Thank you, sir, but…” He paused. He wasn’t sure if this was a rude question to ask, and he didn’t even know where the thought came from. “Well, who will pay for it? I haven’t got any money.”
“Well, so long as you’re still 17, Archmage Hrktos will be minding your pappy’s estate, but we can still withdraw some money for you until then. So, think of it as a birthday gift from your old man.”
Orpheus seemed satisfied with this. He didn’t know what a birthday gift was, but the thought of receiving anything from his Father, even with him missing, was comforting. Still, the thought of old Julius Whitecross hidden so far off, brought tears to Orpheus’ eye, and he began to cry as the great city street brought them in between the ancient mount and the urban mound. John let the boy be as he sobbed in silence.
They arrived in the main office of the Academy just in time to stop the severe-looking young lady from punching her timecard. She rolled her eyes at the interruption, but allowed herself to be brought back to the admissions desk to begin processing the new student.
They had turned off of Broadway when the metal buildings on the right side of the street were nothing alike the brick ones on the left. Driving along the much older Vinipter Parade, Orpheus could now see the fantastic domed structures and quaint courtyards of the college, and the towers of wizards and spires of churches served their duty of verticality with sober indifference to the nearby towers of modernity. They eventually parked before a stout stone building some short way up the low slant of the Parade’s hill that eventuated in the castled peak of the old city. Inside was where they had managed to catch the lady they now sat with, whose desk informed Orpheus of her name, Mme Beatrice Fremont.
As before, Mr Andestinic was speaking on Orpheus’ behalf, and when Mme Fremont began to shake her head as she scanned her logbook with the end of her pencil, the officer replied with a grin, “Ah, by the way, Mme Fremont, Archmage Vania Hrktos asked me to bring this letter of recommendation for Mr Wynyard. Here.” As he said this, he reached into the inner pocket of his dark coat and procured a sharp-cornered letter labelled “For the admittance of one James Wynyard.” Orpheus was astounded by this, as not only had he not seen Hrktos give Andestinic any letter, he could not imagine how she could have learned at any point to address the letter on behalf of James Wynyard. Still, despite these impossibilities, he could identify the Archmage’s distinct dweomer on the envelope – the metallic yet roseate taste in his mouth returning instantly at the sight of it, familiar from his brief interaction with her earlier that morning. He nodded eagerly, as if to communicate all of this to the woman whose judgement would determine Orpheus’ livelihood. Mme Fremont ‘hummed’, then read the letter, her youthful eyes flitting across the page with scrutinous severity.
After her close examination, she finally looked up and into Orpheus’ eyes. For a moment, he thought that her gaze would pierce right through him, exposing all and damning him to obscurity for eternity. Instead, she said, “Very well, you will be admitted, James Wynyard. Classes start on the first of Pentember. What track would you like to enroll in, young man? We offer diplomacy, academics, ar—”
Orpheus never let her finish. He stood up from his seat and announced, over-eager:
“I want to study magic, please!”