Equal Rites

Giants, coating the struggling monster with ice.
    The reptile became a saber-toothed tiger, crouched to spring.
    The gale became a bubbling tar pit.
    The tiger managed to become an eagle, stooping.
    The tar pits became a tufted hood.
    Then the images began to flicker as shape replaced shape. Stroboscope shadows danced around the hall. A magical wind sprang up, thick and greasy, striking octarine sparks from beards and fingers. In the middle of it all Esk, peering through streaming eyes, could just make out the two figures of Granny and Cutangle, glossy statues in the midst of the hurtling images.
    She was also aware of something else, a high-pitched sound almost beyond hearing.
    She had heard it before, on the cold plain—a busy chittering noise, a beehive noise, an anthill sound…
    “They’re coming!” she screamed above the din. “They’re coming now! ”
    She scrambled out from behind the table where she had taken refuge from the magical duel and tried to reach Granny. A gust of raw magic lifted her off her feet and bowled her into a chair.
    The buzzing was louder now, so that the air roared like a three-week corpse on a summer’s day. Esk made another attempt to reach Granny and recoiled when green fire roared along her arm and singed her hair.
    She looked around wildly for the other wizards, but those who had fled from the effects of the magic were cowering behind overturned furniture while the occult storm raged over their heads.
    Esk ran down the length of the hall and out into the dark corridor. Shadows curled around her as she hurried, sobbing, up the steps and along the buzzing corridors toward Simon’s narrow room.
    Something would try to enter the body, Granny had said. Something that would walk and talk like Simon, but would be something else…
    A cluster of students were hovering anxiously outside the door. They turned pale faces toward Esk as she darted toward them, and were sufficiently shaken to draw back nervously in the face of her determined progress.
    “Something’s in there,” said one of them.
    “We can’t open the door!”
    They looked at her expectantly. Then one of them said: “You wouldn’t have a pass key, by any chance?”
    Esk grabbed the doorhandle and turned it. It moved slightly, but then spun back with such force it nearly took the skin off her hands. The chittering inside rose to a crescendo and there was another noise, too, like leather flapping.
    “You’re wizards!” she screamed. “Bloody well wizz!”
    “We haven’t done telekinesis yet,” said one of them.
    “I was ill when we did Firethrowing—”
    “Actually, I’m not very good at Dematerialization—”
    Esk went to the door, and then stopped with one foot in the air. She remembered Granny talking about how even buildings had a mind, if they were old enough. The University was very old.
    She stepped carefully to one side and ran her hands over the ancient stones. It had to be done carefully, so as not to frighten it—and now she could feel the mind in the stones, slow and simple, but still mind. It pulsed around her; she could feel the little sparkles deep in the rock.
    Something was hooting behind the door.
    The three students watched in astonishment as Esk stood rock still with her hands and forehead pressed against the wall.
    She was almost there. She could feel the weight of herself, the ponderousness of her body, the distant memories of the dawn of time when rock was molten and free. For the first time in her life she knew what it was like to have balconies.
    She moved gently through the building-mind, refining her impressions, looking as fast as she dared for this corridor, this door.
    She stretched out one arm, very carefully. The students watched as she uncurled one finger, very slowly.
    The door hinges began to creak.
    There was a moment of tension and then the nails sprang from the hinges and clattered into the wall behind her. The planks began to bend as the door still tried to force itself open against the strength of—whatever was holding it shut.
    The wood billowed .
    Beams of blue light lanced out into the corridor, moving and dancing as indistinct shapes shuffled through the blinding brilliance inside the room. The light was misty and actinic, the sort of light to make Steven Spielberg reach for his copyright lawyer.
    Esk’s hair leapt from her head so that she looked like an ambulant dandelion. Little firesnakes of magic crackled across her skin as she stepped through the