5. I’ve Got the World on a String

5. I’ve Got the World on a String

The next morning, the quick moving clouds let through the rough morning light between the haze of light rains. Orpheus felt a jolt of shock waking up in an unfamiliar bed but soon came to his senses that this place is real. The tittering of the rain against the little window was real, and it reminded him of the soft mechanical sounds ever emanating from the mill back home. He brushed his hand along the threads of his sheets and stared around the room, his eyes eventually landing on the books which lined half the walls.

Orpheus spent the next week reading them all. (He was ambitious, starting first with the immense Divine Comedy, which took him just about the entire week. After that he resolved to stick to smaller texts of poetry and prayer.) He only left his room to bathe and to eat in the mess hall, and he spoke to nobody at all. This was not for any particular reason other than that it simply never occurred to our protagonist to do so, being accustomed all his life to confinement. Beyond his first interaction with Ferris, none of the other students approached him, and Orpheus was in fact none the wiser to the goings-on of the Aurelian building. He noted that the dorms were starting to fill up, however, and the mess hall was growing noisier each night, so that by the 33^rd day of the month, he was sitting tucked between two strangers in the most uncomfortable of positions at just about every meal. Each day, the laughter which he had glimpsed in the courtyard grew louder and more boisterous.

At a certain point on Monday afternoon, Orpheus got up from his couch where he was reading a guide to CHISEL exams (which was not growing to be any less obscure to him) and began to stroll down the corridor, soaking in the gentle features of the furnishings and decorations. The day before, John had brought some supplies and books, so Orpheus felt very comfortable by now strolling down the row of open dorm doors in more youthful fashion, the linens rustling gently like an undercurrent to the heavy rapids of the voices of his peers. He had taken a wrong turn on his way to breakfast that morning and found himself in a tiny closet with a window overlooking the courtyard. Keen not to miss his meal, he had left the room, to its quietude, but now he returned to its attic comfort. He felt comfortable there, hemmed in by the aimless walls and looking down unnoticed upon his neighbours who were lazily tossing a small ball about, the rapid movements of its arc causing the threads of smoke to split and waver into a common haze which clung hungrily in the still air of the space.

Indeed, the scent of smoke was familiar to Orpheus by the time John Andestinic returned again on Solday the 37^th to take him to church as promised. So much so that when Orpheus opened the door to his guardian, the young man greeted him by correctly identifying the cigarette in his mouth as a Blond Imperial.

“I’ll be! You’ve quite the nose on you, Jim!” Remarked John, stepping through the threshold clutching a suit bag. “Don’t tell me you’ve been smoking this stuff?”

“Never, sir,” responded our boy. “I wouldn’t dare. I just thought…”

John wasn’t listening, already thrusting the newly procured suit upon ‘Jim Wynyard.’ It was a lightly mottled slate patterned with a wide window check in soft pink like the morning light which was humming in the air. He changed into it quickly (he was growing much more accustomed to this, having now spent a week in the unfamiliar state of public bathing with his peers), and was impressed by how well it fit.

“I took your measurements remotely, you see, with the help of Mr. Satsouli’s tailor-inator 1000. I’ll take you in to meet him if you ever want another suit, but I’ll say it’s pretty ace handiwork. Now, let’s quit whistling dixie and get outta here!”

Orpheus thanked him profusely, and they set off for church.

As they walked, John explained, “By the way, I’m real sorry I couldn’t take you to church last weekend. All this talk of war’s got the Commissioner working us all double shifts.” Orpheus paid him no mind, now completely enraptured by the sights of the city. They had left the boundaries of the Academy’s campus and were by now strolling through a large park which was thronged with towers. To their right, the metal and glass of Victoria Square, the city centre, persisted in periphery.

John’s church, the sanctuary of Saint Martha the Sleepless, was quite a walk north in the area of the city known as St James Grove. They passed by two or three beautiful looking churches on the way, but John led them through winding streets and rows of shops before they reached a small plaza near a wharf.

Along the way, Orpheus found himself marvelling at the immense variety of people who hurried and lounged and chortled in the calm and busy streets of Canon City: women with dark skin and hair like clouds enjoying a coffee; pale old men laughing loudly on the steps of an alley as they played a game of dice; a trumpeter was battling with musical fervour against the whistling of the hot summer wind in the valves of the city streets; a man with almond-shaped eyes and jet hair strolled with a woman of a grey complexion and long silvery hair, their daughter skipping alongside them; a group of young men in turbans stood at carts on the corner of the street selling spiced meats and fresh bread, their gentle, accented voices singing melodiously against the din of cars; men and women of all sorts in military uniforms stumbled out of a bar, their hedonising from last night having extended into morning; young boys playing in the fountain to stave off the summer sun, their trousers rolled up past the knee and their shirts unbuttoned completely; an elegant looking woman with green eyes and green robes was attempting to enjoy her breakfast with an older looking Wizard with a wispy beard and beady black eyes, but the pair were constantly interrupted by the flash of cameras as a crowd began to form around their table.

When at last they arrived at Saint Martha’s, Orpheus was impressed by the majesty of the building he beheld. It appeared quite out of place among the wooden houses and Victorian brick terraces, being itself composed of cyclopean masonry of unhewn stones which looked so ancient as to have even preceded the city. The chapel was quite small of similar size and dimensions as described in the book of Acts, with a narrow, dark entry that led into a semi-circular narthex packed with people and bubbling candles. Over the heads of the other churchgoers, Orpheus could see the central nave, where more people stood upright like blades of grass, each moved by the force of the priest who sang a passage from the book out front. Though the room was quite dark, with only a single window shining dark sunlight from the domed roof overhead, Orpheus observed with the others the plastered walls painted with the likenesses of the Saints and of the Trinity. By the light of the candles, which swayed and leapt in the kinetic atmosphere of the space, the eyes of Ibex and Kathan and Thelonius seemed to flit about, watching over the devoted with a passionate gaze. John led Orpheus through the crowd to a vacant spot near the front of the narthex which had a sufficient view of the nave and of the priest through a window. Father Pelios was standing before the altar with an immense Bible, his singing complimented by the other priests and priestesses who stood by the iconostasis. Each of them was invested with a white garment with golden embroidery of the QIIK tetragrammaton, which is an encircled cross with a letter in each quadrant representing the Trinity. Indeed, everyone was on their best behaviour, dressed smartly and pretending to pay attention as the mystical singing filled the tiny space. Orpheus imagined the words filling him with meaning as he attempted to grasp the intention of the phrasing, of the word choice, of the allegories contained within which took the listeners to lands distant and near. For what reason should the Trinity be represented by a tetragrammaton? How is it that the figure in the reading, St Andrew Nehpyr, was saved, even after renouncing God? Where exactly was God, and whether he was in the room with them (this being God’s house as Father Pelios claimed) or not, why did he not reveal himself? All such mysteries were pursued in vain and Orpheus felt no closer to God than he had felt two hours ago.

When he expressed this to John as they exited the building out onto the stone steps in front, the old fellow simply chuckled.

“Yah know, that’s not such an uncommon sentiment. I guess knowing the Bible doesn’t make a fella better at church…”

An old lady hobbled over, dressed completely in black, and kissed John on his bearded cheek. He greeted her warmly in an unfamiliar, fast-moving language, then offered his elbow to help her down the steps. Once at the bottom, John introduced Orpheus, speaking in a more familiar tongue again.

“Baba Sonia, this is Jim. I’ve been showing him around town since he moved here from the country.”

“Eh?” She said, looking confused. “Dzim? I don’t know. I don’t know these names, Ivan Andestinic.” Her accent was thick and completely foreign, although it shared some similarities to Andestinic’s when he forgot to put on the Canon City accent.

“It’s short for James, ma’am.” Orpheus put in, feeling unsure of this new environment but determined to hold his own.

“James! Ah you will be Yashka, then!” She turned to John with a cheeky smile. “Ivan Andestinic, why didn’t you tell me sooner? It looks like you’re hardly feeding the boy!” She scolded him further in her own language before reverting her gaze to Orpheus. “You will come to lunch.”

Given no choice in the matter, and now the proprietor of a total of four names, he agreed.

Baba Sonia’s house was one of the stout wooden homes which populated the shore of St James Grove. It only had three rooms — a tiny bedroom, a cramped kitchen, and a considerable salon for receiving guests. The salon was well carpeted and incredibly well furnished, with plush couches and uncomfortable chairs all situated around a stout wooden coffee table. Everything, including the minute piano in the corner, was covered with a doily, and the windows were covered over with the thickest orange curtains imaginable. Photographs, paintings, and icons covered just about every spare inch of wall, and the smell of coffee and cigarettes clung to everything.

Besides Sonia, who had brought out a tray of cold meats and cheeses and would pout her lightly moustached lip when refused, there was also in the room Grigor and Danai Bebas, an old married couple who still went everywhere together. Grigor spoke very little, having lost the mood to speak long ago, but his dark eyes were so expressive that it didn’t matter. Danai was a frail woman with the most beautiful old face Orpheus had ever seen.

The five of them — Orpheus (Yashka), John (Ivan), Baba Sonia, Grigor, and Danai — were all situated about the salon discussing the politics of the city. Baba Sonia was the most outspoken, reprimanding the authorities for the brutal crackdowns on the people of St James Grove when criminals “fucked in the street” just across the lake in Morrow City. John seemed to agree, pointing out that Morrow City was only allowed to stay in business due to all the revenue the United States government earned from the casinos. Grigor’s face expressed his discontentment with this criticism, evidently both a patriot and a gambler.

Of course, Orpheus found all of this to be beyond him. He watched Danai dip her biscuit in her coffee and followed suit only to discover a brand-new sensation unimaginable to the senses. Having never tasted neither coffee nor Biscoff, nor even the special velvet of the couch pulled through the threads of the doily, Orpheus experienced a combined revelation of his aesthetic functions which reminded him distinctly of the moment in his brimming youth when he met with a thin young man with a mop of black hair in a dimly lit coffee shop sat on a velvet couch not dissimilar to this.

“Good evening, my name is Mercurius Drake. Would you mind terribly if I joined you? All the other tables are full, and I only have a few minutes to finish my coffee before class.”

“Certainly,” I said, shuffling over on the couch to make room. “What class are you attending? I’m looking to study magic, myself.”

“Is that so! Likewise. Perhaps we will be colleagues on the council one day.”

Orpheus shook his head suddenly overwhelmed with memory. He could recall the taste of the coffee (with a dash of cream) and the brush of the velvet. Except, he had never left the Aurelian building, had he? The cafe must have been inside the building, Orpheus surmised. He turned to John, about to speak, when he thought the better of it, recalling the last time he had identified a taste to him.

Grigor Bebas, whose discerning eyes missed nothing, expressed to Orpheus to speak, having noticed the moment pass over the boy’s face.

“Ivan, your boy has something to say, I think.” Said Danai, her voice still velvety and lustrous in old age.

Flushing red, Orpheus looked about at the old faces which now looked expectantly upon him. “Well I…” he began, “I just. The coffee reminded me of a moment. That’s all.”

Like a prospector seeing a river glint with gold, Baba Sonia’s eyes flashed in the orange light. Leaning forward, she said, “Yashka, you are… medium, no?”

“Well, I haven’t had my CHISEL test yet, so for all I know, I could be well below average really,” was Orpheus’ response, unsure of the old woman’s meaning.

She shook her head. “No, when coffee reminds you of a moment, you need no CHISEL. You need—”

John cut her off. “You’re talking nonsense again, Baba. Come on, Jim. Time to go.”

Reluctantly, Orpheus stood with John, following him out the door. When he turned to thanks his hosts, he saw Baba Sonia making a gesture at him by pulling her cheek down to reveal the underside of her eye. With a shudder, Orpheus walked out of the house and back up the long walk to the Aurelian building. Always a few steps behind John, they spoke quaintly about the church service and about the coffee, but the officer would answer no questions about Baba Sonia until they reached the door of the building.

“Listen, son. Sometimes, people — especially people from the Thelenic continent like my parents or old Sonia — have superstitions, baseless beliefs that serve no God other than distrust and anxiety and that are evidenced only by rumour. Take no heed of them, you hear me?”

“But sir, how can I tell the difference between superstitious rumours and veritable mysticism and scientific fact?” Orpheus said sincerely.

Andestinic paused a moment, then spoke clearly. “Trust your gut, Jim. You’ve got good instincts. Sometimes, that’s all a fella can do.”

‘Jim Wynyard’ was waiting in the foyer of Tablinck hall, one of roughly two-hundred other students being assessed for their CHISEL. The foyer was handsome despite its brevity and was designed by Yosip Agan in 1823 Ix (or so the plaque read) in order to instil a placid preparedness for students about to partake in the reshaping of their destinies. Underfoot, a mosaic of orichalc and nephrite were arranged to present a pleasant bucolic scene of nereids and dolphins frolicking in the waves while overhead, the arched roof was painted with cherubim chasing Petronia sparrows. Supposedly, in between should be the worldly student who lives in service and observation of both. On one side, magnificent windows opened off the side of the hill onto a panorama of the south side of the city and the low plains which stretched beyond the mangroves; on the other side, pillars painted in deep green hid couches which rounded short tables beside the door into the dreaded chamber. At this early hour, hardly any students were there. Indeed, Orpheus himself barely needed to be in attendance right now, being due to sit before the panel a little after lunch and having been instructed to arrive ten minutes prior to his scheduled start. Still, with nothing else doing, he decided to come early and observe his peers. He was easily the youngest among them, but besides the general eagerness and suspense at being there, he was hard-pressed to find two students who were the same. As the hours wore on, Orpheus watched as students, whether dark or light or hued, in capes or suits or skirts, in smocks or frocks or uniforms, unaccompanied or joined by parents or assistants or friends, chattering or studying or jittering, clutching wands or brushes or books, making the sign of the cross or clutching a black coin or lighting up, speaking plainly or eloquently or with an accent, sat or stood or paced, they all entered through that immense brass door and came out minutes later looking frazzled yet relieved. 

Just after midday, Orpheus watched Vanhim Shaw, who strutted out looking pleased with himself. He also spotted a few other students whom he recognised from the Aurelian dining hall. Eventually, with the sun hanging low over the concrete rows of factories and dim apartments in Rosewood, only ten students remained in the room: Masei Wang, William Woad White, Beiling Wong, Anna-Marie Wong, ‘Jim Wynyard’, Jennifer Xavier, Carlysle Yeoman, Theodora Yiannides, Antonio Zenobiara, and Zara Zirim.

Orpheus was by now perusing a pamphlet from a wiry rack near to the imposing door: Preparing for the Academy: a Guide to CHISEL, Courses, and Campus Life. None of it was new to him, having spent the last two weeks preparing himself for this day. Orpheus was so well-prepared that he had taken the time to memorise the way from the Aurelian Building to Tablinck Hall. The first attempt had left him stranded and wandering in circles around the narrow streets at the base of the Academy’s Ingle Hill (the young spectator got enraptured watching a tennis match among some students and didn’t find his way home until late evening). The second and third attempts were no better. On the fourth day, he managed to reach the keep of the Academy’s Old City, but he found himself marvelling at the might of the buildings and the mystery of the ruins that he forgot where he was meant to be going. Only yesterday, with a resolute mind, did he manage to direct his perambulations up Ingle Hill, through the magnificent Old City, then down the south side of the hill to Tablinck Hall. He walked said path three times to be sure, noting as he went the landmarks (There is the Iskander Building, and the equestrian statue of Senator Danse Maller, and Council Hall and the Upper Quadrangle, and the Archmage’s Tower, and ah, here is the Tablinck Building). Needless to say, Jim Wynyard was as prepared for his CHISEL exams as he could be. Now, having packed a sandwich from the kitchen and already eaten it, our boy was looking for something to do. He was about to go over the CHISEL descriptions again when a shadow obscured the sunlight from his perusing.

“Excuse me, but reading that pamphlet won’t increase your chances now,” spoke a prim voice, its owner a pale young lady with bulging eyes and a crown of coiffed hair. Indeed, a lady she was in her matching skirt suit with a blue tartan and cerulean purse. She was smiling smugly down at Orpheus, her face obscured by the shadow of the sun behind her.

“I’m only passing the time,” Orpheus said, calmly.

“Well, perhaps you would care to pass the time in conversation then?” She gestured to the empty couch, then sat when Orpheus nodded in welcome. “I’m Zara Zirim, how do you do?”

Scrunching his nose in confusion, Orpheus fumbled, “I’m O-… Oh, I’m James. Jim Wynyard. Pleased to meet you.” (He had read this greeting under the ‘Charisma’ section of the CHISEL handbook and figured now was an appropriate time to make use of it).

“Ah, Jim Wynyard.” Zara paused as if weighing up whether or not to say something. Her curiosity seemed to win as she proceeded to beg forgiveness for asking about the veracity of a tale regarding Jim and a certain curse of a dark slime which sealed his tongue shut. Perplexed, Orpheus could only answer in the negative.

“Who told you that?”

“Oh, only some of the girls at Graystone College. Gossip sure is strange!” She let out a well-trained laugh that set Orpheus at ease. “Anyways, where are you staying? My parents insisted I stay at the ladies’ college, since they think Canon City’s men aren’t to be trusted.”

“I’m staying in the Aurelian Building, just down near the ancient theatre,” said Orpheus, choosing not to comment on the state of Canon City. “I only just arrived here two weeks ago from the country.” He added, just to be safe.

“The country! How nice for you. I only arrived yesterday from the United Kingdom. I spent a good week of travel between the train and the voyage on the HMS Winston.”

Orpheus only nodded, unsure how to respond.

Zara grinned, now a more natural, joyful grin which reflected none of the smug superiority at their introduction. “My, two strangers in Canon City, come to study under the same roof! What a world…”

“Well, uh… what are you planning to study?”

“Diplomacy. On first glance, one might think that it is the influence of magicians that operates change in our society, but here’s the truth – and I will only ever tell you the truth Jim –” she added, slyly, “it is the tongue of a rhetorician that truly marks change. I have seen the most powerful Wizards in the world swayed from one side of a conflict to another by a well-placed word. I have seen a rousing speech move crowds ten times the size of any academic following. Men’s hearts are forged in ideas, not formulae. As they say, give me any Court Wizard, and I can tell you how their legacy was forged by a clever steward or a well-crafted letter. Rhetoric is the only discipline worth studying, for it is the only one that can pave the road to success.”

After hearing such an oration, Orpheus almost felt ashamed to reveal that he would be studying magic. He was about to overcome this barrier which restrained his tongue like a black slime when the examiner appeared in the doorway and called for “James Wynyard.” He excused himself and shuffled across the room. As his balmoral boots clicked on the polished stone floor, he heard Zara call out behind him, “Good luck!”

“State your name for the panel, please.”

The panel was a long table of ancient cedar wood presided over by five severe-looking professionals: Professor Vaneck, an old man in a tweed jacket, enormous glasses, and messy hair; Captain Jones, a young woman in an army uniform with her hair pinned up tight; Dr. Suisante, a dark man in an angular suit smoking a pipe; Mu. Papaioannou, an old woman with a constant frown in a robe clutching a slim bronze staff; and Nicky Blatic, a young person in a bright green cape and a feathered hat. Besides the panel, which perched on a raised platform like vultures, the room was equipped with some exercise equipment in one corner, in another, a certain collection of devices not dissimilar to those found in old Julius Whitecross’ office, and a stout podium at the room’s centre. This was where Orpheus now stood, uncomfortable in the dim red electrical lights which bore down on him. The old woman was looking expectantly at Orpheus over her tiny spectacles.

“Jim Wynyard.” He said.

“Mr. Wynyard, do you consent to having an ‘Abstraction’ spell cast on you to automatically determine your CHISEL stats?” Papaioannou asked, raising the bronze rod in her hand in anticipation of a ‘yes.’

John Andestinic had warned Orpheus about this, explaining that he must not allow them to cast any such spell on him. “Once they establish a mantic field around you, they will easily be able to see your name. Should that happen, your time in Canon City will come to a rapid close.” Orpheus had no wish to be exposed today.

“No,” he responded, boldly. A murmur dispersed along the panel.

The old Wizard was undisturbed. She exchanged the staff in her hand for a pencil and said, “Very well. We will now commence a series of analogue tests which will determine your aptitude in a variety of attributes. Each result will be scored out of ten and will be recorded for administrative purposes. At the completion of your studies, you will be allowed to take the test again, so do not worry if your results are not as good as you hope; this is only a diagnostic so we can understand where you’re at. Please begin by reading from this excerpt from the poem A Dance with Isolde…”

After reading the excerpt (softly and with some stumbling), they had Orpheus answer questions from a booklet which posed diagrams, complex ideas, or strenuous problems which he had to evaluate, discuss, or solve (which he did to varying degrees of success). He was then asked to flip a coin ten times and predict each result (which he did successfully eight times out of ten) and then to run around the room and catch balls as they were hurled at him by Captain Jones and then to bench press a bar which compounded in weight each time until he could lift no longer. In each of these, he was found to be average at best. When they finally came to the last test, Orpheus felt exhausted. His legs were shaking, his arms were weak, and his brain felt incredibly foggy.

“Now we will engage the final test,” explained the old professor. “We will be examining your capacity for spiritual connection, also known as Essence. Please proceed to the platform.”

The examining board watched as Orpheus dragged his feet toward the table with the complex mesh of bronze devices. Besides to assault him with balls during the ‘Haste’ test, the examiners had remained seated throughout the time and did not move as Orpheus approached the device.

Having performed similar tests with Father in his office, young Whitecross needed no instruction as he saw which device this was: a heliomantimeter. He stepped forward and gripped the handles as was familiar to him. He felt the buzz of the machine and the river-like flow of energy as it moved into him on one hand and out of him on the other, somehow passing through his soul wherever it was on his person.

“Stop!” Called old Papaioannou, still looking down as she read the printed read-out which was spilling out in front of her. “You started too early! The reader is off the charts. Please remove your hands and try again.”

Orpheus did as he was told, blushing at his apparent failure due to his eagerness.

The printer whirred as it spat its long tongue of grid paper before the panel. The Wizard’s eyes grew wide, only able to say, “huh.” Captain Jones leaned over Dr. Suisante to get a good look at the sheet.

“Impossible!” The Captain called out. Then, looking up, “Again please, young man.”

Orpheus went again, gripping the handles with uncertainty. Around him, the metal kept at its familiar, regular hum.

“It should be working fine,” he explained to the panel as he watched their perplexed expressions spread, “usually if the heliomantimeter fails, the pilot light will turn on.”

“He’s right,” nodded Blatic, obviously distressed by something.

“I’ve never seen anything like this…” muttered Suisante, falling back into his seat.

His heart dropping, Orpheus let go of the grips and leaned across the table to attempt a look for himself. “What is it?” Could it have been that bad?

After a long moment, Professor Vaneck spoke through pursed lips and furrowed brow. “James Wynyard, your Essence score is fifteen, the highest recorded in history.”