The Wings of Poesy

The solemn gothic school building sat tucked between the Scottish hills, and I within it. The mist draped itself over the spires and descended upon the inky lake. The heavy clouds smothered the descending light of dusk in hues of gray, the typical splashes of rosy sunset culled. I turned my head to look at the old, creaky wooden clock in the corner of the room, begging the little hand to creep along faster. The common room in which I sat was scattered with pages of scribbled spells, and the scent of cinnamon wafted in the warmth. Rubbing my sleep-filled eyes, I forced myself to relax my grip on the creamy envelope in my hand. I pulled out the letter, reading it for the tenth time. Letters that looped and twisted in exquisite strokes read:

Rory Peterson,

You are invited to the society of The Wings of Poesy.

Kindly join us in the Lennox Library at the stroke of midnight.

Red vintage will be provided, though we are afraid it hails from frigid North, not the warm South.

Please bring your notes from our recent lessons on transformation. Do not mention this meeting to anyone.

Sincerely,

The Wings of Poesy

I turned the paper over, where the eight stanzas of “Ode to a Nightingale” by John Keats were inscribed in the same handwriting. I knitted my eyebrows, pondering. Our literature classes were scattered and sparse; the bulk of our curriculum centered on utilitarian magic. We barely touched on the Romantics, so who would create a secret society centered around Keats? The secret societies that I had heard of were all magic based; none focused on common subjects such as math, science, or literature. Still, I couldn’t help but grin, the smile carving dimples in my cheeks. Have I truly been invited? I, who have not made a single friend in my three years in this school? My questions hid themselves away, overpowered by the excitement thrumming in my chest.

Soon enough, the chime of the ancient clock rang with a sudden clash, and I jumped out of my cushioned chair. I sprinted down the staircase, almost giggling, and halted abruptly in front of the mahogany library door. I forced myself to quell my eagerness, smoothing my auburn skirt against my knees, and turned the lion-shaped knob.

The Lennox Library thrummed with the subtle glint of candlelight. Stacks of books were crammed together on shelves, stacked in piles on the floor, precariously lying open on wooden side tables next to bourbon-scented candles. Amidst the gloom stood five figures, all of whom I recognized but had never spoken to in depth. Veronica and Daphne, twins in my mechanical magic class, wore identical Peter Pan collars, their hair pinned back in short dark bobs. Maxwell stood tall and gangly in an oversized tweed coat, and Ezra was bent over a book, horn-rimmed glasses peeking through wild curls. Hugo stood in the middle, thick eyebrows casting shadows down his face, looking harsh yet serene. As I walked through the entryway, I became aware of my sweater, ragged with loose stitching at the hem, and my brittle tawny hair slipping out of its knot. My five classmates gazed up at me in unison, postures hunched and mouths pressed in tight lines. I slowed, silent as I approached, and our eyes met amidst the stillness. It was Hugo, of course, who spoke first.

“Hello, Rory,” a smile breaking that murky expression. He poured a glass of red wine, strode over slowly, and handed me the glass.

“Welcome to the Wings of Poesy.”

I took the glass, my hand trembling ever so slightly. “Thanks,” I murmured.

“We trust you did not tell anyone of our meeting here tonight,” he responded, eyebrows lifting into his forehead.

“No, of course not,” I replied quickly. “But… I mean, secret societies are not uncommon at this school.”

He grinned, “Is that so?”

“Well, we study magic, and we are located in the middle of nowhere, so no one has anything better to do.”

Hugo shrugged, “True. However, I think you will find us a bit different from the others.”

“Probably not,” said Veronica from behind, sipping on her wine. “You haven’t been included in any others, have you?”

I began to stutter, “I- I generally prefer to be on my own. Focus on my studies.”

She released a slight chuckle and shot a sideways glance at her sister, “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Join us,” Hugo said, placing a hand on my back and guiding me to the wooden table that they surrounded.

“Did you bring your notes?” Maxwell asked, his voice raspy and expectant.

“Well, yes…” I pulled the loose papers from my bag. “Why did you ask me to bring these?”

“You’re very clever, Rory.” Hugo grinned widely, and a chill spread down my spine. “During transformation class, we went around and shared theories on potential incantations. Yours intrigued me.”

“Mine did?” I asked my eyes widening. Hugo was the brightest in our class. I never imagined that he would pay the slightest bit of attention to anything that I said.

“Yes. I was interested in how you thought outside of the box. With transformation, of course, we can alter the material matter of objects. But we cannot alter living organisms. You clearly tested these limits with your ideas.”

Ezra snorted into his wine glass, “I wish. I would change you into a mouse. Maybe your ego would shrink along with it.” Next to him, Daphne giggled.

“Yes, Ezra, you are quite amusing,” Hugo sighed. “I will remember that next time you ask to copy my exam answers. Can we get back on topic?”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Hugo,” Veronica interjected, shooting him a sharp glance. She grabbed the envelope I was still holding out of my hand and pulled out the paper. She flattened it down, the poem facing upwards.

“I am going to guess you were paying attention in class while we read this, Rory, but I don’t want to make any assumptions.” She raised her eyebrows and I realized it was not a rhetorical comment.

Her jabs brought color to my cheeks. “Uhm- yeah, of course.”

“Good,” she responded primly. “Read the poem out loud.”

So desperate to please, I almost began to recite the words on the page. But the self-satisfied look in Veronica’s emerald eyes brought about a surge of defiance.

“Why? Are you going to even tell me why you invited me here, or just order me around?” I demanded.

“You are lucky we even-” she started, until Hugo interrupted her.

“That’s enough. Read the poem.” His tone communicated there was no option of defiance. He sat down in the cushioned sofa and nodded at me to begin.

I hesitated, but those five sets of eyes boring through me caused my resolve to falter. If I demanded answers, they very well might kick me out, and then where would I be? Alone at the corner table of the common room, glued to my books. Invisible to all.

I began to read. The words flowed off my tongue like white water rapids, pouring out all at once in melodic rhymes. Stuttering consonants and lively alliterations formed by my bitten lips. My five fellow classmates listened in ecstasy, eyes closed. Gulping down every word as if they were hearing it for the first time. I read the last line in a near whisper,

“‘Do I wake or sleep?’”

Daphne, with her eyes still closed, recited in a dreamy voice, “‘I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy. The viewless wings of poesy.’” She opened her eyes, gaze distant, and brought her glass to her lips.

I stared at her, waiting for further comment, but her eyes simply drifted over the tattered spines on the bookshelf.

“So, where is the lock?” Hugo asked.

Ezra pulled out a small glass case from his bag and placed in with uncharacteristic gentleness on the wooden table. Inside the case was a lock of brown hair, tied together as to resemble the shape of a balloon. The candlelight illuminated a reddish tint of the strands, and I found myself unable to pull my gaze away from the delicate color. Once I looked up I noticed the group staring at me.

“I- I don’t follow,” I said hesitantly.

“My aunt works at the Keats-Shelley House in Rome,” Ezra replied, propping his chin in his hands and thrumming his fingers on the table. “I visited last month with Hugo, and I stole this lock of hair.”

“You stole a lock of hair? From the museum? Why would you do that?” I asked him, but received only a cocky glance.

“Wait. Is this Keats’ hair?” I stumbled over my words, astonished.

“It was quite easy, my aunt has all the keys. Pretty color, isn’t it? Keats was a fine-featured young man, and quite short too,” Ezra noted. “Not as tall and domineering as our good friend Hugo here… but they do have quite similar hair color, and texture too, now don’t they?” Ezra lifted his eyebrows at me, a smirk dancing on his lips.

I felt my mouth open in confusion, but found myself unable to close it. “Did you truly replace Keats’ hair with Hugo’s?”

“Ding, ding, ding!” Ezra cried out.

I closed my eyes in disbelief. “This is so bizarre. Why would you do that? And what has it got to do with me?”

“You read the poem,” Maxwell said, his long arms crossed over his chest. “Do you even understand its meaning? Keats aches to be closer to the nightingale, to become it. To escape our human suffering and embrace the beauty that only it knows.”

“‘Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget, what thou among the leaves hast never known,’” crowed Daphne gently.

“The bird, Daphne,” prompted Hugo.

“Oh yes!” she exclaimed joyfully. She tiptoed out the library door leading to the lake and returned shortly with an ornate bird cage. Inside, a nightingale fluttered its tawny wings and perched on a lone branch.

“Is this stolen, too?” I asked.

“Well, it came to me truly. Basically hopped right into the cage!” Daphne replied.

I sighed deeply, feeling slightly exasperated by the bizarre nature of the situation. “So, we have a lock of John Keats’ hair, a nightingale, and... well, me, I guess. And I am here because of my transformation skills?”

“Yes, figure it out. You’re almost there!” said Veronica in a patronizing tone.

I stifled a glare, but considered the situation. Transformation cannot be applied to living beings. However, my classmates certainly thought it possible if the nightingale was here. Three parts were essential to a transformation spell. The desired incantation, the object that will be transformed, and a physical piece of what the object will be transformed into. I have a number of transformation incantations that I have theorized on my own. The lock of hair must be the physical piece… was I to transform the nightingale? The lock of Keats’ hair…

“So you want me to transform the nightingale… into John Keats?”

Veronica threw her hands up in the air as if she had given up. Ezra gave a hearty chuckle, and Maxwell furrowed his eyebrows. Only Hugo spoke.

“In class, you theorized a transformation spell that wouldn’t transform in the physical sense, but a transformation of the essence of the object… or the being. You left your notes on the table unguarded, and I took a closer look at the incantation you wrote down. It was flawless.”

I felt unsettled by the intrusion, but a blush still spread across my cheeks at the compliment.

“Well… thank you,” I murmured.

“Can I see your notes again?” Hugo asked.

I handed them over quickly and clasped my hands behind my back to hide their trembling. Why was I so nervous? A chill tickled at my fingers, and my heart began to race. I forced myself to take a deep breath. Hugo read my writing with an approving nod. I still did not understand.

“But you cannot cast a transformation spell on a living being,” I said to them.

“You can’t?” responded Ezra with a smirk. “Or are you not allowed to?”

I scanned the faces of my five classmates. “What have you discovered?”

“Forbidden magic,” said Hugo putting, my notes in his pocket. “It is a very underexplored field at this school. But we have doing a bit of research. It turns out, transformation is possible with living beings, but it comes with a cost.” I looked at my papers sticking out of his pocket and felt the urge to yank them out.

“However, we are not interested in physically bringing Keats back into this world,” Hugo continued.

“He would not be very happy about that, I believe. Not a man who wrote ‘for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death,’” said Daphne. “However…” her voice trembled, and she trailed off.

“He still dreamed of immortality,” said Ezra, in a strangely solemn tone. “Through art, through poetry. He dreamed of becoming the immortal bird.”

“You want me to bring Keats back,” I stated. “But not as himself… as the nightingale?” Their satisfied silence was enough confirmation.

“But, why?” I asked

“You don’t understand,” Veronica exclaimed. “What do we spend our days doing? Learning magic! And for what? To enhance medicine, to enforce laws. Magic spent on building stable railroads and advancing technology. We are forgetting why we exist!” She sounded indignant, and her ivory cheeks bloomed with color.

“Well those things are quite essential…” I responded quietly.

“Sure, they are essential to sustain life,” said Maxwell. “But why do we want to sustain life? What do we stay alive for if not poetry, art, beauty! Without these things, we may as well be dead.”

“We spend one brief class per year studying literature, and it is treated as a joke. We do not study anything else related to the arts.” Hugo remarked. “We attend one of only three magic schools in the world, and we have the most resources at our disposal. What if we actually applied our magic to the romantic pursuits? And this is just the beginning, Rory.” His smile crept across his face. “If we succeed in ensuring Keats’ immortality and fulfilling his desires… what will stop us from fulfilling our own?”

Those words… so assured and glorious. Is this what Keats desired? If we dragged him from the ease of death, would he embrace immortality as the nightingale, or would he emerge kicking and screaming, cursing our names?

“I don’t think I interpreted the poem that way,” I said quietly. Ezra’s expression sharpened, and Daphne’s gaze darted from the window to rest on me.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Is Keats not already immortal? Does he not immortalize himself through his art? I mean, have you all forgotten ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn?’” I asked, my questions pouring out all at once.

Hugo slammed his fist against the table, and I startled, jumping backwards. “Is that an insult?” he shouted. I stared at him, stricken.

“Do you think we have not read thoroughly? That you know better?” he cried out.

“No- I… I just had a different perspective, that’s all!” I instinctively held my hands up.

Hugo forced a deep inhale, and the four others stilled, awaiting his response with bated breath. Their gazes did not stray from the floor.

“Sure. Okay Rory, just a different interpretation,” he said a bit too quietly. I felt my muscles stiffen. “I am sure you know better than us.”

“I don’t know about that,” I whispered.

“Sure you do. Miss Rory Peterson, always studying. Too good to mingle with the other students. Too intelligent,” he said, mocking me.

I stared at the ground. I had made a huge mistake. What good did I think would come of this? I wouldn’t just be ignored now, I would be hated. A stark silence hung in the echo of his jeers.

“The cost,” murmured Veronica, breaking the stillness. She gazed upwards at Hugo.

“Ah, yes… the cost,” he repeated. His eyes slowly rose up to meet mine.

“What do you think those cost is, Rory?” asked Ezra. “The cost of a successful transformation spell on a living being.”

“I… I’m not quite sure,” I whispered.

“You’re a smart girl Rory,” Hugo cooed. “Figure it out.”

I closed my eyes. Why would this type of transformation be forbidden? The cost had to be insurmountable. Illegal. What could you exchange for a life if not…

“Death. The cost is death.”

That sly grin spread across Hugo’s face. Ezra gave a nod, tips of his fingers tapping against his chin. Maxwell cocked his head, staring at me solemnly. Daphne’s eyes darted away quickly. Veronica…

Veronica wasn’t there. When did she leave? She had been standing right behind Hugo a few moments ago. I opened my mouth to ask where she had gone, but I was interrupted by Hugo’s low voice.

“Thank you, Rory,” his eyes met mine and did not stray.

I stared at him, startled. “For what?”

“For your notes,” he responded. “And of course, for your sacrifice.”

I stood there, stilled in shock, the words barely registering. I opened my mouth to stutter a response, but as always, I could never find the right words. Why did I think things were going to be different?

Before I could speak, I heard a whisper behind me. A whisper reciting familiar words… my words. My incantations.

I turned quickly, only to find myself face-to-face with Veronica. Her expression was beautifully twisted as she finished speaking, one hand clutching my notes. Her looming expression wavered slightly as she lifted her other arm. Candlelight reflected against the silver steel, briefly blinding me.

I felt the blood pool down my neck before I felt the blade go in.