Michael v - Unnatural

His feeling was revealed by his reflection in the mirror. He noticed that he stood a bit taller. His shoulders weren’t slumped forward and his expression was more relaxed, his brow not so furrowed. He was off to a good start. But then something caught his eye. His reflection, while crisp and certain, was different from the driver’s. Only a portion of the stalwart driver could be seen in the mirror, but in it he appeared smaller, hunched, and a bit hazy. Maybe it was the angle, or all that black. Michael was about to take another look when the door at the far left corner of the room opened and the headmaster, Mr. Hawksbry, emerged. All thoughts of the driver and his distorted reflection instantly disappeared.

Alistair Hawksbry was a man who commanded attention. At six-two and two hundred fifteen pounds, he wasn’t quite as tall or as powerfully built as the driver, but he exuded the type of physical ease that made his bulk seem standard instead of imposing. He was comfortable in his own skin, which at forty-seven wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was his youthful countenance. His face was still unlined, save one deep cleft on his left cheek that developed into a dimple when he smiled.

“Michael Howard,” Mr. Hawksbry said, his accent precise without sounding affected. “I’m Alistair Hawksbry, headmaster. Welcome to Archangel Academy.”

Mr. Hawksbry’s handshake was firm. “Thank you, sir,” Michael replied. “I’m very happy to be here.”

“We’re very pleased that your father has decided to instill us with the care of your education. I know the American public school systems are quite good, but I think you’ll find our curriculum to be, shall we say, greatly varied and our study more intense.” And then he added almost as an afterthought, “And we’re very sorry for your loss.”

What? Oh yes. Michael hadn’t thought about his mother in hours. “Thank you, sir.”

“Why don’t you leave your bags here and the staff will bring them up to your room?”

The driver cleared his throat and announced his departure. “Good luck to you.” Maybe Alistair hadn’t seen him or maybe he was just startled by his sudden pronouncement; whatever the reason, Michael was sure he saw him flinch. The driver touched the brim of his cap with his gloved hand and was about to turn on his heel and leave when Michael instinctively extended his hand to him; already he was adopting a more formal British custom. After a moment’s hesitation, the driver shook Michael’s hand and Michael tried not to wince. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought the driver was trying to crush the bones in his hand, but he didn’t seem to display any effort. Given such a powerful grip, Michael wondered if he doubled as his father’s bodyguard.

When Alistair nodded good-bye to the driver, it was more like a nervous tic. Only when he and Michael were strolling on the grounds of the academy on their way to his dorm room did he resume his relaxed demeanor. Michael just assumed the headmaster had grown more adept at talking to students than to adults. One of the by-products of his job.

The campus was a sprawling hundred acres with twenty-two buildings, all made of stone, all no taller than three stories high, collectively giving the appearance of a small provincial village. And an isolated one. “The front gate doesn’t seem very secure,” Michael said.

“For decoration only,” Mr. Hawksbry replied. “We have an electronic system that surrounds the entire campus. Since we knew you were arriving today, it was turned off, but once your driver is on the other side of the gate, it’ll be turned on again, I assure you.”

The headmaster then pointed out some landmarks, the three libraries, the many halls where classes were taught, each named after a different saint; the theatre, which housed both a traditional proscenium arch stage for mainstage productions and a smaller black box studio space for more experimental theatre; the infirmary; and the several dormitories.

Michael’s dorm, named after St. Peter, was located next to Archangel Cathedral, which was the one architectural exception and towered high above the rest of the campus’s buildings. Erected sometime in the fifteenth century in the Gothic style by a group of monks, it was, Mr. Hawskbry explained, the centerpiece of the academy, which was later built around it. Looking at the church, Michael understood why the academy’s founders would want to build their school around such an amazing structure.

There were no steps leading into the entrance, only wildflowers, dirt, and then an arched doorway about two stories high, adorned with carvings similar to those on the frame of the mirror in the greeting room. Above the door was where more majesty lay. Two flying buttresses flanked the sides of the center pointed arch, which was made up of an intricate lattice of wood in front of a huge circle of yellow stained glass. Even though the sky was cloudy, with only a portion of the sun able to shine through and hit the cathedral, the effect was still magnificent. The yellow glass in the sun’s light glowed radiantly, splintering through the latticework to create beacons of light that sprang out from the face of the church into the air and onto all those who walked by. Again, Michael felt worlds away from Weeping Water.

When Mr. Hawskbry spoke, he startled Michael, who was staring intently at the rays of light. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The perfect combination of man and nature.”

Yes, Michael thought, a perfect combination.

Just as they were about to enter St. Peter’s Dormitory, Michael noticed a group of boys in the distance in a rush, either coming or going to a class. He felt a familiar tingle in his stomach as he watched them race by, their white long-sleeved shirts turned up at the sleeves, pieces of cloth untucked from their navy blue pants, their gold and navy blue ties flying in the wind. And their hair, soft, unruly, free. He forced himself to glance away from them and saw that Mr. Hawksbury was staring at him.

“Don’t worry. Your father ordered you several uniforms. They should be hanging in your closet.”

When he walked into the dormitory, Michael felt a bit of melancholy waft over him. It was just as beautiful as it was on the outside and he was so grateful that he was in this building and not at Two W, but the only reason he was here was because his mother killed herself. Why was she so desperate? Why was she so afraid to live? His eyes burned a bit and he blinked away the tears. No, not here, not ever again, because tears weren’t going to change anything.

“This is your room.” They were on the second floor in front of a door just off the stairs. Before Mr. Hawksbry could knock, the door opened and standing there was a boy roughly Michael’s age wearing a neater version of the school uniform. “Ciaran Eaves,” the headmaster said, “may I introduce you to your new dorm mate, Michael Howard, from America.”

“Welcome to the Double A, mate,” Ciaran said, extending his hand.

“Thank you.” Michael grabbed his hand and was grateful that the tingling in his stomach didn’t return. He was also hopeful that the only thing the Double A had in common with the Two W was a similar abbreviation.

The headmaster did a quick survey of the room to ensure that Michael’s bags had been delivered and his uniforms were indeed hanging in his closet. Once satisfied, he took two pieces of paper out of his jacket pocket, giving one to each boy. “Michael, this is your class schedule. Today, Ciaran will show you around, but tomorrow you’ll be on your own. Most of our professors detest tardiness. It might be in your best interest to draw a map so you don’t get lost on your first day.” Michael could tell this was the headmaster’s attempt at a joke, but he felt the slow coil of terror rise from the pit of his stomach. After Mr. Hawksbry left and the boys were alone, the feeling remained.