A Touch of Magic (8 page)

“I grabbed a handful of crimson nettle,” Randall said peevishly.

“Right as rain you did,” Erliand chuckled. “As much as you hated me that day, you learned a valuable lesson in detail. A botched spell could backfire with consequences a hundred times worse than that.”

Randall was beginning to see a pattern in all of the tasks that Master Erliand had given him. All of them but one.

“But what about the tomatoes?” Randall asked, his voice at a near whine.

“Oh, those,” Erliand chortled. “I was just yanking your chain with those, to see if you had the courage to call me on it. A Mage has to have balls, too. Let me see your hands, boy.”

Erliand snapped the command so suddenly, and so unexpectedly that Randall found himself holding his palms out before he even thought about it. They had been heavily calloused even before coming to Erliand’s, from working the fields at home. But now they were raw and blistered, and a long scratch on Randall’s forearm had begun to get infected. Almost all of the work Randall had been doing had been by hand, without gloves or other aids.

“Well, those look pretty terrible. I suppose now’s as good a time as any to show you some magic then.” Erliand said. Randall was surprised to find himself more than a little excited by the idea in spite of himself.

Erliand rummaged around in his desk for a moment until he found what he was looking for. He dropped a cylinder into Randall’s hand. It was the same silvery-black talisman that Randall had seen before, back in Geldorn, and Randall had nearly forgotten about it.

“That there’s a healing talisman, boy. Same one that kept you from dying of a concussion. You just hang onto it for a bit.”

Randall’s hands did feel a little better holding it. Or is that just my imagination? They don’t look any better. Maybe I didn’t have a concussion before, either. The militia man did say I’d be fine if I rested out of the sun for a bit.

“You wouldn’t know it, of course, but men would kill for what you’re holding. And not just men—elves think they have healing magic all to themselves, and they guard their secrets jealously. Ever see an elf, lad?” Randall shook his head, and Erliand continued. “Charming and beautiful, just like the stories say. Most of ‘em live on the big continent, of course, but Tallia has its fair share. They’re inscrutable, though. Their minds just don’t work the same as ours. They like to talk of love and honor, and their voices are like poetry, but I’ve heard of men kidnapped or killed just for putting a foot on the wrong patch of forest. Many of their lot would certainly split my gizzard if they knew I’d managed to make
that,
” he said, nodding at the talisman Randall held. “They do like their secrets, that’s for sure. And there’s no way a man like you or me can live long enough to learn the thousands of rules and traditions and such as they surround themselves with. Stay in an elf’s company and you’re bound to breach some obscure rule of etiquette or tradition. It’s easy to offend an elf, and you’ll be sorry if you do. You’d probably be dead before you even realized you’d ever committed some sin, much less understood what it was you’d done. Best stay away from them if you know what’s good for you.”

Randall looked at the talisman more closely. It was covered with carved looping symbols, almost like writing in a foreign language. When he’d first looked at it, he thought there might be dozens. Now, he realized there were hundreds of the tiny carvings etched over every square inch of the talisman. Each of them were joined, so that no one symbol stood alone. But they weren’t haphazardly carved at all. Each symbol seemed to complement its neighbor somehow, as if there was some sort of method to their placement though Randall couldn’t puzzle out what it was.

“It’s not metal at all, is it?” Randall asked as he gazed at the charm, his earlier anger forgotten.

“Hematite, boy. Was metal once.” Erliand answered.

“I thought hematite was a kind of rock?” Randall asked, puzzled.

“It is, boy. A rock made out of iron. Grind it down, and you get red powder. Rust, just like on those nails I gave you this morning. That iron makes it potent for certain kinds of magic. But it’s fragile. You could drop that on a stone floor, and it’d shatter. Mages call hematite ‘dragon’s blood’,” Erliand explained.

“Dragons don’t exist,” Randall snorted sarcastically. At fifteen, he was too old for such children’s tales.

“Did once,” Erliand retorted. “Who knows? Hematite might even really be fossilized dragon’s blood. How long do you think it took you to weed that garden out back?” Erliand asked.

“Uhm…almost three weeks?” Randall answered. The sudden shifts in conversation were throwing off his equilibrium, and he felt like he’d lost control of the exchange. His earlier resolve to quit had somehow been lost in all the zigs and zags of the conversation.

“Took me
six months
to carve that talisman, boy. One mistake and the whole thing would have been ruined. And that wasn’t the first time I tried, either. I made a few before that one that didn’t work at all. Had to be extra-careful with the carving too. Strike too hard, and the whole thing might’ve shattered. But the drudgery had a purpose. Now, pay attention, boy.”

Erliand closed his eyes, a look of concentration on his face. Randall yelped and nearly dropped the talisman he was holding; it was suddenly
cold
. A second later, the carvings on the surface started glowing with a faint blood-red light, making Randall’s heart hammer in his chest. Eyes wide with fear, he looked from the talisman to Erliand and back just as the glow from the talisman started fading. Erliand opened his eyes, and sagged wearily back into his chair.

“Now look at your hands again, boy, and tell me whether you think I can do magic or not,” he panted.

Randall set the talisman on Erliand’s desk with trembling hands and did as he was told. His hands were still calloused and blistered, but they looked like they had undergone at least a week’s worth of healing. The blisters were dried and scabbed over instead of being wet and raw, and all signs of infection were gone.

“Well, boy? You convinced?”

“Y-y-yes,” Randall stammered, still staring at his hands.

“Yes what?” Erliand snapped angrily.

Randall jumped. “Yes Master,” he said.

“Good. You go think about things a bit before you decide to run back home. I need to take a rest; it’s always a strain to juice ‘em up like that. You were right, though. Can’t do a job without the proper tools. If you decide to stay, we’ll talk about that some tomorrow evening, and you’ll get your first lesson in Magecraft. Don’t get no illusions, though, boy. You’ll still be tending the garden and any other chores I see fit to give you. Think about it tonight. Your home will still be there in the morning if you decide you want to leave.”

That night, Randall had a hard time falling asleep. It was the first time in weeks that he hadn’t gone to bed physically exhausted. It was also the first time he’d really had the luxury to think about his situation, and his mind was buzzing with possibilities. Randall had finally seen magic.
Real magic!
It was scary, but exciting too. And it hadn’t hurt him; in fact it had healed him.
I never heard any tales where the bad guy healed anybody
, Randall thought. Erliand
was
distant and acerbic, but Randall had heard tales of apprentices that had worse masters. At least Randall had plenty of food to eat, and Erliand didn’t beat him when he was displeased. Something would definitely have to be done about getting some real gardening tools, though.

I’ll give him another week, Randall thought before drifting off to sleep. And if things aren’t better by then, I’ll go home. Pa’ll understand when he finds out that I haven’t been doing anything but tending Erliand’s yard for months.

The next morning, the usual breakfast of bread, fruit and cheese was on the kitchen table. Erliand was absent. He was probably already in his study working, which was not uncommon. What was surprising were the other things on the kitchen table: a rake, a hoe, a big watering can, a long-handled scythe and thick leather work gloves! Randall never thought he could get so excited over gardening implements. Tucked under the watering can was a note. “I hope these things help you finish your chores early. I’d like to get started on your lesson before supper.”

The watering can and hoe helped some in tending the broccoli, and the rake wouldn’t see serious use for another couple of weeks. However, the large scythe was the big winner of the day. Randall had gotten plenty of experience harvesting wheat with a scythe for his father, and between its size and its freshly-honed edge, Randall used his new tool to clear large swaths of grass and undergrowth from Erliand’s land. He quickly fell into the steady swish-swish rhythm he was long familiar with. By the end of the work day he had cleared nearly three-fourths of an acre, only breaking briefly for lunch and the occasional rest. He worked up more of a sweat than he had in the last couple of weeks, but he did it with a smile on his face. Compared to cutting underbrush with a sickle, using the scythe was almost even fun!

Randall made sure to finish early and hurried back to the house, anxious about his first lesson. He had no idea what to expect, but found himself actually looking forward to whatever was going to happen next. Erliand was waiting for him in the living room, a large book resting closed on his lap.

“Well, I see you didn’t go home after all. I suppose my little talisman healed a little more than your hands. Less homesick, I take it?” Erliand asked.

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.”