The Magic Collector

by Clayton Wood

  “Because they think I broke the law,” he replied. Bella raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Did you?”

  He gave a rueful smirk.

  “If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here,” he answered.

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  Gideon sighed.

  “Your mother was a criminal,” he confessed.

  Bella blinked.

  “She dabbled in forbidden magic,” he continued. “Painted things the Pentad didn’t approve. And she got involved with a group of…controversial people.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bella inquired.

  “Let’s just say that the Pentad sent bounty hunters to arrest her,” Gideon answered. “And Thaddeus and I helped her…avoid them. The Pentad doesn’t have real proof that I helped her, but they suspect I did, and apparently they have some circumstantial evidence.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m supposed to turn myself in,” he continued.

  “Will you?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I spent most of my life fighting for the Pentad. The Pentad is my life. Or at least it was.”

  He fell silent then, and Bella sensed that he’d said all that he was going to say about that. They rode onward for a while, until Gideon had them stop for a quick lunch, tying the horses to a nearby tree and pulling some food from one of his paintings. Then Gideon retrieved his black disc from his hat, opening the portal to his Conclave.

  “Let’s go,” he prompted, and promptly lowered himself into the portal. Bella followed, finding herself back in the Conclave’s main room. Gideon led her through the rotating bookshelf and closet to his studio. “All right,” he declared, gesturing at the easel in the room. “Paint.”

  “Huh?”

  “Paint,” Gideon repeated. “You’ve been out of the habit for the last few days.”

  “Is this really a good time?”

  “If you wait for the perfect time to create, you’ll wait forever,” Gideon retorted. “If you want to be something…”

  “Do it,” Bella grumbled. “You sound like Grandpa.”

  “He was my teacher, remember?”

  “But you’re a Painter.”

  “The concepts of creation – of magic – are similar across all disciplines,” Gideon explained. “There are five main practitioners of magic: Writers, Painters, Sculptors, Musicians, and Actors.”

  “Wait, so it’s not just Writers and Painters?”

  “Not at all,” Gideon replied. “Why do you think they call it the ‘magical arts?’”

  Bella had to smile at that.

  “All right, you got me,” she conceded.

  “Sculptors make things out of clay or stone, or even metal. When done properly, these can come to life. Like that giant that attacked you at Blackthorne.”

  Bella nodded, recalling the giant Myko had moon-dashed over. It’d seemed like a statue before it’d come to life.

  “That’s not the only statue you’ve seen,” Gideon continued. “Remember General Craven?”

  Bella’s eyes widened.

  “He’s…?”

  “A statue,” Gideon confirmed. “Sculpted of a single slab of pure, indestructible Invictium by a master Sculptor during the reign of the very first king of the Pentad. Craven is over a thousand years old…a statue come to life.”

  “Wow.”

  “Musicians can manipulate emotions with their instruments and voices,” Gideon continued. “They can turn a crowd angry, or violent, or happy, or sleepy. Legend has it that there were once Musicians so powerful that they could even manipulate the world itself. A fiction, I assure you; no Musician alive can do that.”

  “And Actors?”

  “Actors can manipulate emotions to a lesser extent,” Gideon answered. “But their main power is that they can become someone else entirely. If they feel the Flow, they can change appearance to look and sound like someone else.”

  “Wait,” Bella interrupted. “What’s the Flow?”

  “The Flow is when magic is summoned to go into whatever we’re creating,” Gideon answered. He raised one eyebrow. “Tell me, have you ever started painting, or even been bathing, and felt a sudden burst of inspiration? A realization of what you want to do, seemingly from nowhere?”

  “Well sure.”

  “That’s the Flow,” Gideon declared. “You could only feel it slightly while you were lost in a book, but now that you’re free, you’ll feel it far more strongly. It is – quite literally – magic being summoned by the act of creation, guiding your mind and your hand.”

  “Like my muse,” Bella translated.

  “Another term for the same thing,” Gideon agreed. “Most people wait for the Flow to come before they create. But the Flow is summoned largely by creation. You have to start painting – or writing, or acting, or playing music – to summon it.”

  “That’s why Grandpa had me paint every day,” Bella realized.

  “Correct,” Gideon confirmed. “And you needed the practice…and you still do.” He gestured at the easel again. “So paint.”

  “What should I…?”

  “What would your grandfather say?” Gideon interjected. Bella grimaced.

  “Just paint,” she answered. Gideon arched an eyebrow, and she sighed. “Paint what makes me feel something,” she added.

  “And tell a story,” Gideon agreed. “All good art tells a story…music, paintings, acting, sculpture. Magic lives in stories, Bella. Show me one of yours.”

  And so she did.

  * * *

  Bella finished her painting, one of an eerie glob of green glowing goo spilling out of the eye socket of a half-buried skull. A gruesome scene, but one her muse – or rather, the Flow – had compelled her to create. That intense, giddy feeling of the Flow was indeed stronger here, and felt every bit like magic. When she’d finished, Gideon studied her work, his chin in one hand.

  “A mystery,” he murmured, seemingly in approval. “What is it?”

  “A man who died in battle,” Bella explained rather sheepishly. “His spirit lived on, turning into green goo. It’s emerging from his skull.”

  “I see,” Gideon replied. “Why?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why is his spirit living on? Why is it emerging from his skull?”

  Bella frowned, considering this. Then her muse struck once again.

  “He hates violence,” she answered. “He died terribly and wants to stop others from killing each other.”

  Gideon glanced at Bella, a mysterious smile curling his lips.

  “Go on,” he prompted.

  “He’s turned into this green ectoplasm,” she continued, more excitedly now.

  “Ecto-what?”

  “Goo,” she clarified. “It’s going to grow…he’ll feed on hatred and anger and fear and pain. And when he sees people trying to kill each other, he’ll trap them inside him and suck out all their anger, so they don’t want to fight anymore!”

  Gideon’s smile broadened, and he put a hand on Bella’s shoulder.

  “That’s a story,” he declared. Then he gestured at the painting. “But you haven’t told it yet.”

  Bella glanced at the painting, realizing he was right. Right now, the painting was merely an origin story.

  “How do I do it?” she asked. She desperately wanted to tell the story now. She had to tell it.

  “He’s a warrior,” Gideon explained. “Paint signs of a battlefield around him. Perhaps a helmet on or next to his skull. He regrets violence…make him have a reason why. Perhaps a locket with a painting of his wife or child nearby. And you have to show him absorbing the negative emotions around him and him growing because of it. And how he makes people peaceful.”

  “Hmm,” Bella murmured, eyeing the painting with sudden doubt. “That’s a lot.”

  “It is,” Gideon agreed. “And that’s what separates a competent Painter from a great Painter…the way they tell their stories. The better the story, the mo
re powerful the magic.”

  Bella nodded, feeling suddenly rather overwhelmed.

  “You can do it,” Gideon encouraged. “And you should do it.”

  “Okay,” Bella decided, reaching for her paintbrush. He stopped her.

  “Tomorrow,” he corrected. “Now we ride.”

  * * *

  They left the disc-world, returning to reality. Every day from then on was the same. They traveled when there was daylight, stopping for lunch and dinner. And after each meal, they painted for an hour or so. Each time, Bella would paint a new iteration of the story she’d come up with, taking Gideon’s suggestions and adding more to the painting. And each time, Gideon would critique the result, offering far more specific advice than Grandpa had. About color and lighting, about framing a scene. About drawing the eye naturally to each detail on the page, making it tell the story in the order she wanted.

  And the next day, she’d set yesterday’s painting aside, and start all over again.

  The canvases she chose became larger and larger, until she was painting on canvases so large she needed a stepstool to complete them. The Flow came in bits and spurts, and she soon found herself daydreaming about her painting. The long rides between sessions allowed her mind to wander, and ideas would spring forth unbidden soon after. She kept a small notebook on her that Gideon had provided, jotting down each idea excitedly as it came.

  Each night, they’d make camp. Gideon would release Myko then, allowing the great wolf to absorb a little moonlight before they all went into the Conclave. Myko slept with Bella every night in Gideon’s bed in the Conclave, her warm, snuggly nightly guardian.

  So it was that, five days later, they broke free from the forest, entering a wide grassy meadow filled with flowers of every color. Bees buzzed from plant to plant, busily collecting their nectar. Magnificent trees grew nearby, perhaps the tallest trees she’d ever seen, with thick trunks shooting straight upward, and a round canopy of bright red leaves. And in the far distance, a truly giant mountain loomed.

  “Wow,” Bella breathed, taking it all in.

  “Behold,” Gideon declared, gesturing with his stump. “The Forest of Giants!”

  Bella glanced back, spotting the smaller mountain they’d come from many miles away, its crater obscured by mist. Then she turned forward.

  “We’re going through here?” she asked.

  “No,” Gideon answered. “We’re only passing around it. Havenwood is fifty miles northeast of here.”

  “Oh.”

  They continued forward toward the trees ahead. They were only a hundred feet away…or so it seemed. For even after a few minutes, they hadn’t gotten any closer. Bella commented on it.

  “That’s because they’re still a few miles away,” Gideon revealed.

  “But…”

  “Look,” he interrupted, pointing ahead. The grass seemed to grow a bit taller, each blade triple the size of the grass behind them. Indeed, even the flowers were bigger, with petals as big as her hand. After another few minutes of travel, the grass was taller than she was, each blade as thick as her waist. They walked between the blades, in a veritable forest of grass.

  Even the particles of dirt were larger, as big as her fist.

  “The Forest of Giants,” Gideon explained. “…is not a misnomer.”

  A shadow passed overhead, and Bella looked up, seeing a huge bee buzzing above them, landing on a flower to their left. A huge flower, well over twenty feet tall.

  “Whoa!” she cried, clinging tightly to her horse’s reins. She liked bees from far away, but the closer she got, the less she appreciated them. Especially bees with stingers over a foot long. Gideon chuckled.

  “If you don’t bother Nature, Nature won’t bother you,” he advised. “Most of the time.”

  “Are there real giants here?” she asked. “Like, giant people?”

  “There were,” he answered. “There’s an ancient city on the mountain ahead. Buildings larger than any you could imagine. But they’re abandoned. No one knows where the giants went, or why they left. Or if any still live.”

  “Huh.”

  Gideon glanced back at Bella, a bemused smile on his face.

  “You were asking about the power of books,” he stated. “Well, you may find this hard to believe, but all of this was created by a book.”

  “Really? How?”

  “Books are their own worlds,” Gideon explained. “If you get lost in them, you’re transported into their world. A copy of the book comes with you into that world, while the real book remains here in the original world. If you read that copy while you’re lost in a book, you’re transported out.”

  “Yeah, you told me that already.”

  “So if you get lost in a book, the book becomes real to you,” Gideon continued, ignoring her quip. “But if enough people read a book and get lost in it…if the world of the book becomes real to enough people…then the book’s world appears somewhere here, in the original world.”

  “Like Havenwood,” she recalled.

  “That’s right,” Gideon replied. “Your home.”

  “Mom lived there?”

  “She did,” Gideon confirmed. “Her house is still there. It’s your house now, actually. And her paintings are yours too.”

  Bella’s eyes widened.

  “I get to see her paintings?” she blurted out. Grandpa had always raved about Mom’s paintings, saying how odd and beautiful they were. Much like her mother.

  “Of course,” Gideon replied with a smile. “And her studio.”

  “Well what are we waiting for?” Bella exclaimed, kicking her horse’s flanks with her heels. “Let’s go!”

  “Hold your horses!” Gideon called out after her. “Or your horse, rather,” he added, catching up with her. “We still have a ways to go.”

  Bella pulled back on her reins reluctantly, settling in to their usual pace. Still, she felt awfully excited.

  “What was she like?” she asked. “You still haven’t really told me.”

  “Lucia Birch was…different,” Gideon answered. “Unlike any other woman I’d ever met. Very…complicated.”

  “That’s what Grandpa said.”

  “Well, he was right,” Gideon confirmed. “Your mother was difficult to know. I’m not even sure she quite knew herself…not completely. She was many different people in one person, you might say.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, her paintings will tell you better than I ever could,” Gideon answered. “Paintings, like any other piece of art, tell more about the artist than you might imagine. Your paintings will tell your story, Bella…just as your mother’s tell hers.”

  “Grandpa never talked about my dad,” Bella noted. Gideon raised an eyebrow at this.

  “Oh really?”

  “Never,” Bella confirmed.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Gideon admitted. “But so be it. You do take after your mother.”

  “But not my dad?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Gideon replied.

  “Did you know him?”

  “Quite well,” Gideon answered. “They both lived in Havenwood. That’s where you were born, in fact.”

  “Tell me more about Havenwood,” Bella requested. Gideon paused, gazing at the horizon. Then he sighed.

  “Havenwood is a wonderful place,” he declared. “Quite literally a haven for those that practice the magical arts. Painters, Writers, Sculptors, Musicians, and Actors all working together to hone their craft.” He gave a rueful smile. “A bit of an artist’s utopia, if you will.”

  “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

  “It is and it isn’t,” he replied. “It’s just that…well, most artists go to Havenwood to have the freedom to create whatever they wish, free from the constraints of the Pentad’s strict rules. So they get to create whatever they want…but very few get to see it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Any works coming out of Havenwood will never be published,�
� Gideon explained. “They’ll be confiscated by the Pentad and either destroyed or taken for the Pentad’s purposes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll explain in a moment,” he reassured. “In any case, Havenwood is a small kingdom on a mountain called Dragon’s Peak,” he continued. “Castle Havenwood is on the top of the mountain, and the rest of the buildings are on its sides or at its base. It’s surrounded by a very unusual forest,” he added. Bella arched an eyebrow. “You’ll see,” he promised.

  “Is there a king or something?” Bella inquired.

  “Oh no,” he answered. “There are no rulers. No formal hierarchy. Only artists being artists. Of course, the most experienced artists are deferred to, but there’s no government per se.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Oh it is,” Gideon agreed. “Your grandfather insisted he didn’t mean for Havenwood to become what it is, he was only saying that to appease the Pentad. You see, the Queen isn’t very happy with Havenwood.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, the Pentad – by necessity – sets limits on artists. Particularly Painters and Writers. You can’t paint without a license, and you can’t just paint anything you want. You have to get permission from the government first.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, think of it,” Gideon continued. “What if a Painter decided to paint a terrible creature that massacred people? Or an army to take over the Pentad?”

  “Ah,” Bella murmured. “Right.”

  “Art is extraordinarily powerful,” he explained. “The ability to create is not without consequences. But in Havenwood, artists have utter freedom. That’s very attractive for Painters and other artists, especially younger artists that can’t afford a license or don’t have much of an audience for their work. So they flock to Havenwood.”

  “So that means fewer artists for the Pentad,” she reasoned. Gideon nodded.

  “Right.”

  “Do you like it there?” she asked. Gideon paused, then sighed.

  “I used to,” he admitted. “I spent some of the best years of my life in Havenwood.”

  She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. And his expression told her that she shouldn’t push the issue. They rode in silence for nearly an hour, then stopped for lunch. Gideon chose a small clearing in the forest of ridiculously large grass around them, retrieving his disc from his hat and opening the portal to the Conclave.