Old Magic(4)

I lost sympathy for Mr Garret when he started producing enough self-pity to drown in. And I know he’s become gutless lately, but to accuse and convict on the face of one lousy piece of suspect evidence is truly pathetic. Jarrod apparently agrees. His lips snap together as he inhales deeply through suddenly-widened nostrils, fingers clenching into tight balls.

He’s losing it. Fast now.

The fluorescent lights are the first to go. They flicker uncontrollably, then fizz out with a simultaneous flash and hiss, as if struck by a sudden vicious power surge. No doubt they have been. But not the kind you get from a fault at a power station. The room darkens even though it’s still morning. Someone screams and everybody starts murmuring.

Mr Garret, forgetting the shattered beaker incident, raises his hands. ‘Calm down everyone. Remain seated while I go and see what’s happened to the power.’

Of course nobody pays attention to him and as soon as he leaves the murmuring becomes frantic. It’s really strange how one minute the sky is cloudless on a brisk autumn morning, and now, with the lights off, it has transformed into an eerie twilight. Dark, thunderous-looking clouds roll towards us really fast, like a big hungry mouth gobbling up the soft blue sky and everything in its path.

‘Look at the sky!’ Dia Petoria yells from near a window.

Some people rush over but then everyone’s attention zooms back to Pecs. With Mr Garret out of the room he’s decided to have another shot at Jarrod. ‘Such lovely hair,’ he taunts, lifting some of it, letting it drift through his rugby-thick fingers. ‘Are you sure you’re not a girl, pretty boy?’

Jarrod moves once, jerking his head just out of Pecs’s reach. I marvel how he takes so much without retaliating. I would have lost my cool ages back, and thought about casting the first spell that flicked through my mind. I’ve never been able to master the art of shape-changing spells, but a sloth – hairy, slow and weighing 200 kilos – would be appropriate right now. Pecs would make a good one. Instantly, visions of him hanging upside down in one of the giant eucalyptus trees that predominate the forest up here saunter through my subconscious, and I can’t help but smile. Thinking about changing Pecs into a sloth takes my mind off the encroaching storm. But just as suddenly it zeroes back as windows fling open on their own, vibrating with the force. Papers, pens, test tubes, Bunsen burners, anything that moves, lift off the benches, getting caught in the increasing wind, and start smashing against walls or other moving objects.

‘What the hell!’ Pecs, momentarily distracted, goes to close windows. So I’m surprised when, considering his size and strength, the windows still don’t budge.

Mr Garret returns looking stunned. ‘What’s going on?’ He soon collects himself, remembering I guess that he’s the teacher in charge, and starts yelling orders at us. ‘Hurry! Close those windows! This is the only room apparently that’s got a power problem. Where did this wind come from?’

He’s babbling a bit, then I guess it is a little strange. I don’t understand it either. It feels unnatural.

‘They’re stuck, sir!’ Pecs yells over the gathering wind. I remember then that strange feeling I sensed earlier. This is it – or rather, the result of it – anger, dark and intense.

A couple of girls huddle together in a corner screaming. Others race around stupidly trying to collect their work which is circling the room. One girl, sitting on the floor, wraps her arms around her knees and cries like a baby. Only Jarrod looks calm. He’s still sitting at his bench, and his eyes have gone really weird, like he’s staring at a ghost or something. Wind tears at his shirt, thrashing his long hair about his face. He has to notice this as it whips across his nose and eyes; but he remains unmoved.

Lightning flashes and I think everyone except Jarrod screams and buries their heads. It’s as if the lightning is right in the room with us. Without even getting our breaths back it flashes again, filling the room with a staggering light and the sound of a horrifying sizzle. Everyone screams as if in unison, clutching at each other and hitting the ground. Hannah grabs my arm just as thunder explodes so loudly it near deafens us all, her fingers digging so deeply her nails are going to leave holes in my skin. ‘What the …?’

I yank her hand off my arm. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Then it’s not you doing this?’

I stare at her, shaking my head. ‘I can’t do this sort of thing.’ I have to yell over the wind. ‘I’ve never been able to manipulate the weather, Han.’ What I don’t add, as Hannah already knows, is that I try, and keep trying, to the point of driving myself mad with frustration. But I just don’t have that sort of power. My eyes shift to Jarrod and linger. He may not be aware of it, but Jarrod Thornton does.