Randall realized that he had been mopey and homesick, and getting worse over the last several days. But today, he felt refreshed and eager to face the day’s challenges. He’d even found himself humming while he worked. It was hard to imagine that he’d actually been missing the teasing and noise from his brothers, but he supposed that he had. Surely that must have been partially to blame for why he had been so depressed lately. After this bit of inward reflection, he nodded at Erliand. “I think so, Master,” he answered.
“You ready for your lesson, then? Don’t answer too quickly, now. You can still go home and tell your parents square that I didn’t teach you a thing. Once you start learning Magecraft, I doubt they would be as welcoming to their wayward son.”
Randall barely hesitated. “I’m ready, Master.” Randall had started the spring wanting nothing to do with magic. Somehow, as the weeks wore on, his fear had turned to curiosity. The fact that Erliand seemed no more harmful than someone’s crotchety old grandfather did much to dispel childhood stories of late-night sacrifices and blood rituals. After last night’s demonstration of magic, that idle curiosity had blossomed into full-blown desire. Though still frightened, he was actually eager to understand more about the miraculous power he had seen displayed. And even more eager to have it for himself.
“Well then, this is your first study book,” Erliand said as he pressed the blue-bound tome into Randall’s hands.
Randall opened it cautiously and leafed through the pages. His look of excitement slowly gave way to one of puzzlement as looked back up at the old Mage. “But it’s blank, Master.”
“‘Course it is!” Erliand said. “I said it was your book. You fill it up. Put the all the stuff you’re learning in there. The lessons I teach you, or random thoughts that pop into your head. Put whatever you like. Sometimes writing things down helps clarify them in your mind. Sometimes, it helps to come back later and see things from a different perspective. Understand?”
“I guess so,” Randall said dejectedly. He had been hoping that the book would contain deep secrets of magic. It seemed like such an incredible waste of time for Randall to write down the same kinds of things that Erliand must already have in his own books. Wouldn’t it have been easier for Randall to study from Master Erliand’s own study books, rather than starting from scratch?
“Good,” Erliand continued, either ignoring or pretending not to notice the disappointment in Randall’s voice. “From now on, your duties are going to be modified as follows: An hour before supper once a week, we will have lessons in magic. For the rest of that time during the week, you’re to practice what you’ve learned. For an hour after supper, you will contemplate what you’ve learned, and write your observations in your book.
“Now, let’s talk about what magic is exactly. We Mages call the ability to touch magic ‘Talent’. We call the act of actually performing magecraft ‘the Art’, and we call it that for a reason. You see, common folks see magic as a thing. To them, it’s some mysterious power that can perform miracles. So they call the whole shebang ‘magic’, a simple word that sums everything up but explains nothing.
“But magic isn’t a thing,” the old wizard continued, passion creeping into his voice as he warmed up to the subject. “It’s not something that is. It’s something you do. You can think of magecraft like music. If you are tone deaf, you will never be a good musician; but a talented musician—well, now, they can make such music as will break your heart!”
Randall’s recent memory gave him a flash of insight. “It’s like when I tried to get apprenticed with a luthier at the job fair! He tried showing me some things about music and instruments, but I just couldn’t make heads or tails of it!”
“Exactly so,” Erliand nodded. “But even if you had the raw talent, being a musician still requires years of practice, following the strict rules and guidelines of musical composition. Magic is exactly the same. It takes Talent to be a Mage. Combine Talent with years of study and practice in the Art, and the rules of this world will bend themselves to your will.”
“But how does it all work?” Randall asked, growing more excited by the moment.
“Hah! Straight to the point,” Erliand chuckled. “Alright then. You’ve heard people talk about the ‘spirit world’, I’m sure. You know, where everyone’s spirit goes to live after they die, and where ghosts and haunts come from when they’re restless. Well have you ever seen a ghost, lad?”
“No, Master,” Randall answered. “But Bobby’s cousin Jeremy said he met a girl in Paranol who said she saw one once. I didn’t believe him.”
“I don’t believe him either. I’ve never seen a ghost, Randall,” Erliand said, shaking his head. “And I’ve seen a lot of things.”
“Bog-wights!” Randall suddenly interrupted. “Bog-wights are the ghosts of men who died in the bog, and I know they’re real! Black Eel Marsh gets overrun with them every couple of years and the militia has to go clean them out. Sometimes people die.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, son. Bog-wights aren’t ghosts. They’re animals. Particularly gruesome animals, it’s true, but they live, eat, breathe, breed and die just like you and me. But back to the point—I don’t know about a ‘spirit world’, but there is another invisible world sitting next to ours. Its name is Llandra. When Mages touch that world with their mind, something of that place leaks into ours. That something is a kind of energy. With it, you can do wonders, but by itself, it’s pretty worthless.”
“I don’t understand,” Randall said. “I thought magic could do anything!”
“Magic is a force, lad. Weren’t you listening? Like the wind, or heat from a fire, it’s invisible, but its effects can be felt. But by itself, it’s dumb. Does the wind know which way a sailor wants to sail? Magic will dissipate in a few moments if you don’t give it some purpose, some focus. Giving a purpose to magic is the Art. And it’s through the Art that miracles happen.”
Randall’s eyes glazed over as he tried to make sense of what Erliand was telling him.
“I can see by the look on your face that you don’t understand. Let me give you an example,” Erliand continued. “When you were fighting Bobby at fighter practice, you were lit up with magic like a full moon on a cloudless night. Anyone trained to spot it would have sensed you a hundred yards away. And what did it do for you?”
“Nothing,” Randall answered. “Bobby hit me in the head with his practice sword and knocked me out.”
“Right. You pulled some of the stuff of magic out, but you didn’t tell it what to do,” Erliand said.
“Oh…oh!” Randall exclaimed, his memory giving him another flash of insight. “Just before Bobby hit me, I remember thinking that I should be doing something right then, but not knowing what to do!”
“Yes boy! That’s it exactly!” Erliand said with excitement. “Power from Llandra wants to be used. Once summoned, it needs purpose. And you had no purpose to give it.”
“But why could I summon it in the first place?” Randall asked. “Why me and not Bobby?”
“We call the ability to summon magic the ‘Talent’ because it’s something you’re born with. You can’t learn it. Either you have it or you don’t. It’s just part of who you are,” Erliand said, poking his finger into Randall’s chest. “At least, near as anyone can figure out, the Talent is passed by blood—which means you had a Mage in your ancestry somewhere. You can bet on that. Folks in your family probably have had different degrees of Talent for generations, some might even have made good Mages if there had been someone around to teach them.”
“What do you mean degrees of Talent? You mean some people are better at it than others?” Randall asked.
Erliand nodded. “Better, stronger, more able. Just like one singer might be naturally better than another, some folks are born with different degrees of Talent. When you have only a small amount of Talent, you can touch Llandra, but not pull any power through. But that touch can give you insights, visions, premonitions, or even sometimes forete
llings. We call that degree of Talent having the Sight, the same name common people use when talking about wise women and fortune tellers. In some parts of the world, any degree of Talent is shunned by the superstitious, or even illegal as here in Tallia. In such cases, wisefolk usually learn to keep their insights to themselves or are driven out of their homes. But in other parts of the world, such people are revered, and use their Talent to help their neighbors and loved ones, often making it their life’s profession.
“Now if you have a stronger Talent, you can not only touch Llandra, but you can pull some of its stuff into our world. This destroys much of the subtle information carried in the flux, so Mages don’t make good Seers. For this reason, many people consider them two separate Talents altogether, though the underlying principle is the same.”
“How come I never did it before, then?” Randall’s brain was going a mile a minute trying to assimilate all of this new information.
“Well, how old are you boy? Eleven, twelve?” Erliand asked.
“Fourteen,” Randall answered softly, a little embarrassed to be mistaken for being so young.
“Ah, a late bloomer then,” Erliand nodded. “Nothin’ to be ashamed of. Everyone comes into his manhood at a different time. And if you’re meant to be a Mage, that’s about when it’ll start showing itself. A body goes through a lot of changes during that time; you just have one more to deal with than most people. Chances are that you have drawn power before and just never noticed it.
As Randall drew breath to speak, Erliand held up his hand to forestall any further questioning. “That’s enough for today. If I fill your head too full, things are going to start leaking out of it. So, tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Well,” Randall started. “I learned that making magic has nothing to do with making pacts with devils, it’s just something some people are born with.”
Erliand looked uncomfortably down at his lap for a moment before clearing his throat. “Yes, well, that’s right enough. What else?” Randall got the impression that there was more that Erliand wasn’t telling him, but he decided not to press the issue.
“Uhm…to make magic, you somehow pull energy from a kind of spirit world called Llandra, and then give it a purpose. So, how do I do that? Give it a purpose, I mean,” Randall asked.
Erliand seemed to regain his good humor, smiling and patting Randall on the shoulder. “That’s a lesson for another day. First, you’ll need to practice gathering and holding energy before you learn how to shape it! Anything else?”
“Oh yeah; some people aren’t strong enough to pull magic out of Llandra, but they can still get visions and stuff from it. They’re called Seers?”
“Yes they are. It sounds like you’ve gotten a good start. After supper, spend some time in your room writing down the things you’ve learned. If you have any time afterwards, you could practice summoning magic,” Erliand said.
“Okay…but how?” Randall asked. He was beginning to get frustrated with asking the same question over and over.
“That…I can’t tell you.” Erliand replied. “It’s a Talent—an instinct. Every Mage feels it differently. Just try to do what you did when your friend was attacking you.”
“But I don’t know how I did it!” Randall protested.
“That’s something you’ll have to work out for yourself, lad. It’s different with every Mage. Some think about a certain tune they like. Others may imagine a doorway or portal through which the power flows. Some think about a feeling, or a person. It’s different for everyone,” Erliand admonished. “Just try. You’ll figure it out eventually. If not, I’m sure you still have a bright future as a caravan guard.”
After supper, Randall dutifully retired to his room to write his notes by lamplight. He wrote slowly and methodically, not because he was being particularly studious, but mostly because he wasn’t particularly good at writing. While he had learned how to read and write for the family business, he had spent lot more time reading than he had writing things down. He had to take care forming each letter or he wouldn’t be able to read his own handwriting later. But he had to admit to himself that he was taking his time because he was also procrastinating against practicing drawing power. He had no idea what to do! Eventually, however, he could put it off no longer. He shut his study book with a sigh and blotted his quill dry before putting them both away.
He had no idea how to begin. Well, Master Erliand did say that some Mages thought about doors, Randall thought. That doesn’t seem too hard. Randall closed his eyes, and tried to picture a closed door in front of him. He spent several moments trying to make it as real in his mind as he could. In his imagination, it was a heavy wooden door with iron bands, set in a stonework frame. A large ring served as the handle used for pulling the door open. He pictured the door kind of floating in space. On this side was his world; on the other, Llandra. It was hard to hold onto the image; Randall would catch his mind wandering, thinking about all of the things he and Erliand had talked about that day. Or he’d start thinking about home, and wondering how well his family’s larder was stocked for the winter. Then, he found himself fixated on the flickering flame of the lamp that Master Erliand had provided to him. Even when he closed his eyes, the tiny flame danced shadows against his eyelids. With a sigh of frustration, he blew it out and tried again.
After several long minutes, Randall had finally managed to fix a fairly firm image in his mind of a doorway. Before his mind could wander again, Randall imagined his hand reaching out to grasp the door handle to pull it open. In his mind, the door opened, and…nothing happened. Randall didn’t know what to imagine on the other side of the doorway; he’d half-expected that the image would come to him unbidden when the door was opened. Instead, his carefully formed mental construct rapidly dissolved as Randall tried to figure out what went wrong.
He sighed and thought that picturing a window in his mind might be better. Maybe it fits the idea better, he thought. So Randall spent long minutes clearing his mind, and attempting to focus on the image of a window. He still struggled with distractions: the old house creaked at night, and there were the ever-present night sounds. Normally he never even noticed the frogs and crickets chirping at night, but now they seemed thunderously loud! Still, he slowly worked on adding details to the window: a wrought-iron curtain rod with red velvet drapes, a wooden window frame with a deep windowsill, and wooden shutters to keep the worst of the elements out. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, Randall stabilized the mental image to the best of his ability. Then, instead of imagining himself opening the shutters, he imagined them opening on their own, letting a cool fall breeze blow into the room.
Randall held his breath in anticipation, but again, nothing happened. Randall loudly blew out the lungful of stale air in a frustrated sigh. Figures, he thought. Guess I’m a second-rate Mage too. This time, I’ll try something simple, like a hole or something. He began clearing his mind to try again, but his mind was wandering more than ever, and Randall found himself daydreaming about what kind of magic he might use on his brothers the next time they fought. He indulged himself in his flight of fancy, and, before he knew it, he had fallen fast asleep.
Chapter 4
With his new gardening tools, Randall found that his chores quickly became mindless, repetitive labor. Though it was still physically demanding, it wasn’t the back-breaking effort that it had been before. The more familiar Randall became with the daily routine, the more he found himself daydreaming about magic. As his body worked at keeping the yard and garden in good condition, his mind worked on a completely different problem: his complete inability to summon power. It was still a few days until his next lesson, but he hadn’t yet been able to summon even the tiniest spark of magic from Llandra. And he was beginning to suspect he never would.
What if Master Erliand was wrong? Randall thought worriedly. After all, he wasn’t exactly standing right there when I was sparring Bobby. He just had his ‘feelings’ to go by. Maybe it was someone els
e that was nearby, and he just thought it was me? Randall suddenly dropped his scythe, his hand flying to his mouth. Bobby! What if it was really Bobby that he was looking for? We were standing right next to each other, after all. A mistake would have been easy!
Randall picked his scythe back up, and continued cutting back the grass at the far end of the yard, though with far less enthusiasm as he continued to brood.
It had to have been Bobby. How else could he have suddenly gotten so good with that sword? Magic, of course! That would explain why I haven’t been able to draw power no matter how hard I try.
The more Randall thought about it, the more he convinced himself that it was Bobby that Master Erliand was looking for. Compared to Randall’s life, everything seemed to come easily to Bobby: he was good looking, naturally good at sports and games, and had an easy-going nature that people seemed to naturally gravitate toward—almost like…like magic!
If that were true, that meant that Randall would be going home. If he didn’t have the Talent, there would be no point in Master Erliand wasting any more time with him. Surprisingly, Randall found himself more than a little disappointed at the notion.
Well, at least father got two talens for my training. It’s not our fault that Master Erliand picked wrong. Pa should be able to keep that money! Maybe Pa will even use one or two of the florns to buy me some kind of training somewhere.
Randall thought about what kind of skill he might want to learn, and let his mind wander back to that first eventful day of job fair.
Well, soldiering’s out, that’s for sure, he thought, smiling bitterly. But even though he had not done well on the practice field, Randall had to admit that he had done well otherwise. Spurred on by his fear to find a job before Master Erliand took him, he’d managed to land the interest of a baker and a woodworker both on the very first day! He thought about what life as a baker might be like, in a cozy warm kitchen surrounded by the smell of bread and sweet cakes all day. Rather than being a pleasant thought, Randall was surprised to find himself feeling disappointed by the banality of it. After all, if he was even a halfway decent baker, he’d come to know the preferences of all of the villagers in his town, and would be making those same breads and sweet cakes until the day he died. Booo-ring!
A Touch of Magic Page 7
