The military courses are conducted differently.  Kelly sits as straight as she can and rests her hands in her lap, keeping eye contact with the sergeant serving as their teacher.  Behind him, five other soldiers stand at ease, waiting for him to give his instructions.  This exam is not done by typing on a tablet or a laptop, but by working with one’s hands.  Sergeant Schuler holds up a rifle, his face measured in much the same way her father’s is when he doesn’t want to betray himself.  Must be a military thing.  “Each of you will take apart a rifle, clean it, and put it back together, then we will take it outside and fire it.  Should it fire successfully, you will have passed this exam.  Understood?”

Each student nods once, speaking almost I unison.  “Yes, sir.”

Sergeant Schuler brings the rifle to a nearby table, setting it in the center, then motions for the other soldiers to take their positions at the other tables.  “Then approach the rifle of your choice.”

Kelly gets to her feet and makes a beeline for him, cutting off a young man, Brent.  She hears him give a little tch before turning and heading for another table.  The sergeant meets her gaze and holds it for a moment before speaking.  “Are you ready, Ms. Cullman?”

“Yes, sir,” Kelly replies, resting her hands on the table just enough that she can feel it under her fingertips.

Sergeant Schuler motions to the gun between them.  “Then begin.”

Her gaze drops to the gun as her hands move, taking it up and turning it this way and that as she examines the finer details of its design.  To her left, Brent is already pulling his apart.  Her hands move deftly over the metal.  She has worked with this kind of rifle all her life, has memorized its parts and how they fit together.  Her father has one hanging on the wall of the living room.  Many an evening have been spent setting it on the kitchen table as if it was dessert, the act of dismembering it no different from savoring the flavor of well-baked hot cross buns with honey butter.  Seeing it back together is almost as sweet.

When Kelly sets it back on the table, it looks exactly the same as when the sergeant held it.  Schuler stares at it for several seconds before taking it into his own hands, turning it upside down, then right-side up again.  This seems to satisfy him and he nods towards the door as he holds the rifle back out to her.  “Follow me.”

They pass through the halls to the far end of the building, where a lone tree stands a few feet off from the walkway.  Several bullet holes dot the tree’s surface already, marring the sloppily painted red circles in the center of its trunk.  It continues to stand tall and green in defiance of this, its leaves rustling in the light spring breeze.  Kelly stares up into its branches as Sergeant Schuler steps aside and assumes an at-ease position, her grip on the rifle tightening.  “Your goal is to hit the center of the target,” Schuler says.  “Please step up.”

Kelly does so, lifting the rifle and looking down the sight at the center-most circle.  This part is second nature, the act of grounding oneself and aiming, of making sure the bullet flies true.  You won’t have a second chance, her father would say when they practiced in the front yard.  If you miss a faerie, you’re dead before you can pull the trigger again.  It takes her hardly any time to aim and pull.  A loud crack sounds across the clearing, and as it fades she lowers the gun, narrowing her eyes as she scrutinizes the shot.  There is a new crater in the bullseye, about an inch to the left of what would’ve been perfect center.  She tsks at the imperfection.

Schuler nods, a hint of emotion to his face finally.  Approval.  “Good.  Now a moving target.”  He raises his hand to cup one side of his mouth and shouts, “Pull!”

Somewhere from the foliage beyond the tree, another soldier unleashes a clay pigeon.

Kelly whips the rifle up and follows the path of the pigeon, pulling the trigger.  It shatters in the air.

“Pull!” Schuler shouts.

Two more go flying, and falling in pieces.

“Pull!”

Three fly, two break by the impact of a bullet.  Kelly fires a fourth shot, catching the edge of the clay disc before it smashes into the ground.  She grits her teeth in frustration, but remains quiet and at the ready for more.

Sergeant Schuler nods.  “Good work, Ms. Cullman.  The Canadian Armed Forces will be fortunate to have you.”

“I missed one,” Kelly says as she lowers the rifle, her tone bitter.

“It’s alright to miss one,” Schuler replies, already walking away.

Kelly bites back the desire to disagree, her father’s words playing in her head again.  The sergeant slows to walk beside her as they return to the classroom and pulls a case resting against the wall from its companions, setting it on the nearest empty table and undoing the clasps.  Once it opens, he motions for her to set the gun into the molded foam.  She does so, letting her hands rest on the tablet afterward.  Schuler snaps the cased closed and pushes it towards her.  “Congratulations, this is yours.”

Kelly blinks and looks from the case to her teacher.  “I get to keep it?”

Schuler nods and motions to it.  “It’s all yours now.”

Kelly’s lips twitch a moment before turning into a half-smile.  She pulls the case off the table and swings the strap around her shoulder, offering the sergeant a salute once the case is settled against her back.  “Thank you, sir.”

There is a bit of a spring in her step as she leaves the classroom for the next.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Cullman,” the man behind the desk says as Kelly takes her seat.

She sets her rifle case flat against the floor beside her before addressing him.  “Good afternoon, Sergeant Aims.”

Sergeant Aims looks across the classroom for a moment before clearing his throat.  “Approach my desk and I will administer the jumpdrives with the exam.  If you have a tablet, I will offer you a computer for the duration of class.”

Kelly waits for the other students to go ahead of her, watching each as they pass by.  She gets up from her desk and approaches the teacher’s, resting one hand against the edge.  “I need a laptop, please.”

Aims reaches down and procures one from the stack beside his chair and slaps a thumbdrive on top, holding both out to Kelly.  “Please bold the correct answer, or fill it in if there is a blank.  You have one hour.”

Kelly accepts the laptop with a muttered thanks and returns to her seat.  She renames the file— KellyCullman_FaeHistoryFinal.docx—  then opens it and begins.  The first twenty questions are all about types of fae.  They’re easy enough to answer, memorizing faerie stories is something she’s been doing since she was a child.  Not on purpose at first.  When she was small her mother liked to entertain them with tales of the different kinds of fae.  When she disappeared, those same tales were told to her by her father, but the whimsy and wonder of them was gone.  They became warnings to heed.

Kelly pauses as she reads the final question of this section.

“But what about Bear?” Kelly asks, pointing at him.  She’s eleven years old, having just celebrated her birthday last month.  Bear was her present.

“Bear is black and white,” Robert explains.  “He’s safe.  But an all-black dog is dangerous.  It could be a faerie.”

“A barghest,” Kelly says confidently.

Robert nods.  “Exactly.  A barghest looks just like a black dog.”

“Did a barghest take Mom and Ken?” Kelly asks, watching his face.

Robert cringes and looks away.  “I don’t know, sweetie. I don’t know.”

The second portion of the test occupies itself mostly with accepted lore and things that have been proven over the thirty years since their emergence.  More stories drilled into her memory by her father and teachers alike.  It feels like the same material every single year.  Never touch a damp horse, don’t eat food from strangers, never say your full name outside of the home.  Everyone knows these things.

She comes to the final portion: essay questions.  She sighs and slumps back in her seat for a moment, staring at the screen with a pout.  More writing.  Kelly scans over each of the three prompts, settling on the last and repositioning herself to type her answer.

It could be argued that the greatest threat to mankind is lack of supplies due to the scarcity of people to maintain necessities or the finite nature of some things we’ve come to rely on, but with proper rationing and careful cultivation of urban farming, animal husbandry, and recycling, I believe this threat has been diminished since the start of the war, and will continue to diminish over time.  In this essay I will argue that the true second greatest threat is, in fact, witches.

‘Witch’ is the most recognized modern term for a child born of man and fae.  They are given this name because of their ability to wield magic.  To be a witch in eras past was to be a human with the power to do the same, though the veracity of “human magic” is debatable.  Some believe famous witch cases of history were actually half-faerie children, giving the term some historical backing in the modern day.

Witches are considered extremely dangerous because they are able to touch iron like a human and wield magic like the fae.  Fae, as has become common knowledge, grow sick and weak from the presence of iron and will avoid it whenever possible.  This is why we can safely exist inside large cities like our own Halifax.  Witches are not burdened with this sickness and can pass through the iron fences protecting us with ease.  Their possession of free will and inability to be charmed by the fae is also considered a significant threat.

In 2035, the city of Halifax formally declared that witches, like the fae-touched or enthralled, were executable on sight.  This was done as a protective measure, as the threat of witches siding with their fae family was deemed too much of a risk.  The general, albeit informal, consensus among humans is that, while having the choice, witches are most likely to side with their magical brethren rather than with their mundane ones because they believe the fae will “inherit the earth.”  To put it bluntly, when offered the choice between the winning side and the losing side, it’s far more likely a witch will choose the winning side— the fae— as a means of survival.

We have seen what the fae can do to us.  Witches can wreak the same havoc, but from inside the heart of our safe places.  No one is safe from the presence of a well-concealed witch, as they are physically identical to humans, down to their crystal clear sight.  They bear no markings of fae touch.  One moment of carelessness in the presence of a witch, and you are as good as dead.