Observations on the Strange Occurrences at the Stables of the Macha’cuay School of Magic

OBSERVATIONS ON THE STRANGE OCCURRENCES AT THE STABLES OF THE MACHA'CUAY SCHOOL OF MAGIC

by Ruth Joffre

March 15, 2037  —  Beginning of Fall Term

First, I should say that these stables are themselves strange structures built to house all manner of beasts—both magical and not—and, as such, the exact layout of the school’s stables changes from semester to semester or even from day to day, depending on what creatures are housed within the stone walls. When I arrived one dusty afternoon after a three-week trek from my hometown of El Alto, Bolivia, to the Macha’cuay School of Magic in Cusco, Peru, the stables were squat, and yet sprawling, five buildings angled around the courtyard in a pentagon to allow four- and six-legged familiars ample space to prowl without becoming restless or activating one another’s abilities (or feeding on the smaller animals like the foxes and toads). My llama Kipa was assigned a stall next to a puma. I protested, but the caretaker, Señor Huaman, assured me that the puma was just a newborn, barely able to articulate its claws around the body of a toy mouse, and in rare cases of emergency, protective wards had been installed in and around the stables to prevent bloodshed. Still, I saw fit to check on Kipa the following day and discovered the walls had shifted overnight, the stables towering some six stories overhead to accommodate roosts for several Andean condor familiars who had arrived shortly after midnight. A fresh carcass had been laid out in the courtyard as the day’s meal, but the birds, for whatever reason, had refused it.

March 18  —  Midday Meal

At half past noon a terrible shriek could be heard emanating from the part of the stables where all primate familiars were housed. Overgrown and stinking of rotten fruit and feces, the stables had become a kind of proving ground, a gauntlet through which all the urban students of Macha’cuay dared each other to pass during the midday meal, when a majority of us gathered in the courtyard with our familiars to eat and practice spells. Fourth-years at a table beside mine were practicing a form of conjuring based on images: take a sketch of the Tityus crassicauda, a species of scorpion recently discovered in the Andes, and make it crawl off the page up someone’s arm. Though it may seem vicious, it cannot hurt you. It has no internal organs to produce venom. It is only an illusion. I could conjure the image of a well full of water, but my people would still dehydrate in three days. Only water is water. Only food is food.

Not one student from the mountain villages bothered to look up from their meal when they heard that high-pitched shriek or the peal of laughter proceeding it. A trio of first-years had ventured into the primate stables and one had been so affrighted he emerged gasping, pointing behind him. “It talked! The tufted capuchin—it can talk!”

“Of course it can,” I said. “All familiars can talk.” I had thought this common knowledge (one of many abilities that marked one capable of magic), but all eyes turned to me—half in wonder, half fear—and I realized: I was alone in this. Or, not quite alone, but nearly so, for the boy who heard the tufted capuchin speak looked as if he might vomit at the thought of it happening again. When the monkey emerged from the stables, the boy shrunk back until his body pressed against a wall.

Everyone turned to me again. Someone hissed, “Ask it what it wants.”

The monkey’s tail snapped menacingly as he said: “That boy doesn’t belong here.”

This made perfect sense to the part of me that thought little of the boy’s potion-making skills, but I thought better of saying this aloud. “All invitations to this school are sent by the Brujx Council. Do you think they have made some mistake?”

“That,” he said—ignoring the warning tone of his human, who called his name once, firmly—“is the wrong question.” Before I could ask what the right one was, the belfry in the towers overhead rang us back for afternoon classes, and that sound seemed to break a spell for my fellow students (or perhaps cast a new one, because they gathered up their books without hesitation, fear forgotten like shed hair in the grass). I’ll never forget the look of disdain on the tufted capuchin’s wrinkled face as he watched that courtyard thin and empty. “Go to your class, human. You know where to find me.” Only, when I returned later that night, he was gone and the other primates did not know where to. Disappeared, they said. Just: Disappeared.

March 21  —  The Equinox

On special occasions such as this, our familiars, who are otherwise confined to the stables during daylight classes, have freedom to roam school grounds at leisure and may accompany students to all but the most delicate or arcane rituals. In so-called dark-hour classes, such as astronomical divination and lunar projection, familiars may even be of benefit to students, providing a learning aide for identifying the yana phuyu, the dark constellations like Lluthu the partridge or Hamp'atu the toad. During the ritual spreading of seeds, the flighted ones lift off with pouches of seeds tied around their necks and distribute them to surrounding farmlands in honour of Pachamama, mother of all things on Earth. And during the dances, the hooved ones allow us to ride on horseback with our regalia and play the pan flute, its haunting melody echoing off the eaves of the residence hall while riders pass through the stone arches. As first-years, my class was last to join the dances. By the time I reached the stables, the black flame torches should have been lit and Kipa fitted with a saddle, but the courtyard was dark. “Señor Huaman?”

Only when I drew closer could I discern the outlines of a darkened figure: pointed ears like horns padded with fluff, elongated neck tilted back at an uncomfortable angle due to a gash like a hinge opening the throat. Kipa. Someone had slid a knife through her skin, but no blood had dripped on the stones or stained her fur. What was it Señor Huaman said? That the wards prevent bloodshed. I had thought it somewhat less literal.

She was still alive; that was the important thing. To fend off further attacks, I spun a shield out of sand and grit that had collected between cobblestones in the courtyard. It formed into a dome, whirling around us like the glitter inside a snow globe, obscuring us from view. We stayed inside until I heard a voice call over the whoosh of the sand, “Lower your shield!”

“How do I know you’re not the one who did this?”

“Because I’m responsible for the safety of everyone at this school.”

“You don’t sound like any of my professors. Where’s Señor Huaman?”

On the other side of the shield, I could hear muttering, reasoning, someone shouting, “Enough!”

All at once, the dome receded, revealing Headmistress Maldonado flanked by half the professors. Her black lips pinched as she considered me. “What are you wearing?”

My sequined purple suit was made of velvet and lined with bells that jingled rhythmically when I danced. Traditionally, only Bolivian men wore the suit, while women wore skirts so short special underwear had to be sewn into the lining of the costume for decency’s sake, but I had not donned a skirt since my sixth birthday, and I was not about to start because a bruja in an ivory blazer and pencil skirt stared down her nose at me. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Professor Viteri, Macha’cuay’s best healer, rushed to my side. “Are you injured?”

“No. But my llama—” When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw them: all the familiars in the dirt, their throats slit, mouths failing to form words.

“I know. I know,” Professor Viteri said. “We’ll fix it. But first you must go to your dorm.”

At my quizzical look of protest, the Headmistress stepped forward. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a predator currently loose on school grounds. Your safety and that of your fellow students is paramount and must be seen to before there is further violence. Now, if you please.” She lifted her right hand toward the residence halls, turning her body as if it had been a door preventing me from going to my room. I walked past her, but not without looking over my shoulder once to watch as Professor Viteri knelt and stroked Kipa’s soft neck. In the morning, it would be as if nothing happened, the wound sealed so thoroughly it left no scar, but Kipa still remembered the blade on her neck, the hand covering her eyes. She never saw the assailant. None of them did.

Continued in Augur Magazine Issue 6.2...