The Other Side of Magic

by Ester Manzini

  “As you wish, sir. I was just…”

  “I’ve never been more insulted! And by an Epidalian manual laborer nonetheless!” He rummaged through the satchel at his belt and counted the coins in his palm.

  Leo slung the hammer on her shoulder and smothered the remains of her anger.

  Manual laborer, you say? Just because I’m not the best with sparks and tricks. Typical Zafirian.

  The man slipped the coins in a small purse, tossing it to Leo.

  “Fifteen. You uncultured shrew,” he mumbled.

  “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, my good friend. Hope the rest of your journey goes smoothly.” She bowed her head in the faintest mockery of a curtsy and marched out of the shed, blowing a dark ruddy lock from her brow.

  “And be glad you were the only available blacksmith for miles!” he called from behind her, but she was gone already.

  She bounced the small bag in her palm. The leather of the purse and of her glove dulled the clinking of coin, but its weight was comforting.

  Yeah, alright, maybe changing a hub wasn’t worth all that money. But plucking a Zafirian is a noble job, and I’m good at it.

  The coarse fabric of her sleeveless shirt was itchy against her heated skin.

  The truth was not as fun.

  She needed that money, and those talers were barely enough to keep going for another month or so. Not many people made their way to Elertha’s Mill. The place was far from the main roads, buried deep into the woods by the Arrowhead Creek. Even before the invasion it hadn’t offered much. Now, eight years after the Spring Slaughter, the mill was in pieces, the only tavern was abandoned and the farms razed to the ground. Only a handful of people remained: Leo and her father, some tired couples with their chickens and scrawny goats, old Clio and not many more.

  For the past years, Leo had been the youngest person in town. All her friends had gone to Zafiria, and not many of their own will. Silas, the chubby son of the blacksmith she was apprenticing with; Yannis and Rena, her two neighbours, only one and two years older than her. Even Iris, the fair daughter of the innkeeper, with her pink cheeks and sweet hazel eyes…

  Gone, all of them. Taken by elegant soldiers to work for the Asares family. Young people, their power still nearly intact. Spirits forbid the blasted invaders used their own magic, depleting their stocks.

  She’d heard some had been seen in the woods in the East, living like beggars or little more. As far as she was concerned, they were as good as dead, empty of magic and will to live. None of them had returned, and Leo had learned to live with her loneliness.

  She rolled the coins in her palm and frowned.

  There was enough to pay for Clio’s remedies, and if Da was in good shape she could take her chance with a trip to the nearest market. A day long journey was a risk, but Da could count on a good stock of medicines, and they needed some cheese and flour. They couldn’t live on eggs and wild rabbits alone.

  Leo sighed. She craved the diversion of a day at the market, where she could forget the Mill’s misery for a while. But it was a treat for another time, and she really didn’t feel like leaving Da alone...

  Weeds had invaded the path running through the village again. She needed to clean it, or some of the older, more short-sighted people of the Mill could get lost or stumble and fall. The last thing they needed was someone with a fractured femur.

  Most of the buildings that were still standing were of reed and clay, with straw for roofs and grass growing over them. The old buildings were empty or crumbling, abandoned after the Spring Slaughter and the recruitment of all the young folks in town, eight years ago. Only Leo and her father still lived in one of those houses, and it was a dire necessity: Da did poorly in the damp and cold of the reed huts, so she had to fix their old place with scraps of wood and broken shutters.

  Her first stop was the small hut almost drowned in an overgrowth of ferns and flowers. Leo swatted a fat bumblebee from her wrist, careful not to hit it, and bowed to pass under the jutting branch of a black locust tree. The long dark spikes brushed the shorn sides of her head, making her shiver a little.

  Clio’s roof needed some working. The last summer storms had drenched the straw, and now the ridge board had caved in. Leo took mental note to offer the old lady a hand for free.

  Before she got to the door, the smell of onions and potatoes cooking made her mouth water. She’d skipped breakfast to help the whiny Zafirian guy, and now she was hungry.

  Priorities, Leo.

  She wiped her face against her shoulder. It was hot, and she wanted to get to the river for a quick dive. Ignoring her needs was one of her best skills, so she lifted her fist and knocked on the chipped boards of Clio’s door.

  In the few moments it took Clio to reach the door, Leo listened to her friend whistle an off-key melody that reminded her of something her mother had used to sing (in a much better voice) to her. To avoid the sting of pain and longing she focused on the faded remnants of pigments on the door--a daisy here, some reeds there, but it was hard to tell.

  Eventually, Clio pushed the door open. Her round, wrinkly face peeked from the crack, and a smile tugged at her thin lips.

  “Here you are, my girl! I was waiting for you, I expected you to come yesterday!”

  Clio’s gown looked more ragged than ever, and her long grey-streaked charcoal hair dangled in two thin braids on her skinny shoulders.

  Leo nodded and picked two coins from the purse.

  “I’ve got your payment here. And a little extra, if you…”

  Well, hello to you Leo, I’m alright, thank you for asking! My hip is troubling me a bit but it’s always the same when it’s about to rain,” Clio snapped, pulling the door open. “Honestly, I’m sure your father taught you some manners!”

  “Alright, you got me.” Leo chuckled and took a step forward, stooping to kiss Clio’s cheek. “Better?”

  The old woman cackled and patted her shoulder.

  “Better, yes! Now just give me a moment, I’m fetching you the salves for your dad.” She turned around and disappeared in the semi darkness of her hut. Leo could only see bundles of drying herbs hanging from the roof, a stool by a dented basin and some quilts piled over a cot in a corner. A cauldron bubbled over the fire, and from where Leo was standing the smell was delicious. “Oh, I’m making plenty of soup. Get some, if you wish!”

  “Thank you, Clio, but I’d prefer to go home straight away. Da needs his…”

  “Yes, yes. I know. Ah, for the love of the Spirits, I thought they were--ah! Got it!” Pans and pots clattered and fell when Clio limped back from one of the countless shelves. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in? Last month I came across a book, and it’s only missing half its pages! You may want to give it a…”

  “No,” Leo said, harder than she’d wanted. “I have one already. It’s… enough.”

  And I remember when the Mill had shelves full of books for every child in town, and not just to learn magic. Now the Asares have taken it all away.

  The thought of her book, carefully hidden under her straw bed, soured her mood.

  Clio didn’t push any further, but when she returned to Leo her black eyes were too gentle.

  “As you wish, child. Here,” and she handed her a loosely wrapped bundle. “Steep it in hot water--not boiling, mind you!--for…”

  “...I know, Clio. I’ve been doing it for years.”

  “Fine, but I’ve added some more foxglove for an extra kick, so don’t overdo it.”

  Leo looked down at her hands to hide the shadow in her eyes.

  More foxglove. Da was getting worse, then.

  Clio sighed, and her smile faltered a little.

  “You know, fall’s coming. We’re past the height of summer, and thunderstorms are on their way. It’s going to be raining a lot, and…”

  “Clio, you’re drifting off.”

  “Ah. Right.” Clio plucked a thread from her sleeve and sighed. She lifted her sharp eyes on Leo and fro
wned. “You should go to a more stocked herbalist and fetch some of those stinky lotions they make in the North. It will be better for your father’s condition.”

  She tried to smile.

  “You’re a good friend, Clio, and you’re right. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d learn my craft and carry it on yourself, of course. That’s what you always do! And you’d better consider my offer of giving you my notes, I’m not getting any younger and you might need…”

  “Don’t worry, Clio, we’ll find a way. Right now, I have too much work to do to spend my time going over your horrible writing!”

  Clio snorted. “My writing is neat!”

  I can’t tell, Clio. Every letter looks the same, and they all look like messy chicken scratch.

  “If you say so… listen, it’s always good to check on you, but I’ve got to go. Da’s waiting.”

  “And we don’t want to keep his girl from him any longer. Come visit me sooner, Leo, it can get lonely here.”

  As she traced her way back through the tangle of vegetation out of Clio’s home, Leo thought about the old woman’s words.

  The Mill was a lonely place, at times; but it was home, and all of Leo’s best (and worst) memories were there.

  She shrugged those thoughts away and focused on the practical necessities. Maybe she needed to go to the market after all. Not for her, but for her father. It would be acceptable, not a day off but an errand she couldn’t postpone much longer.

  A ruffled chicken fluttered in front of her. Her house was the farthest from the river, and only when she was in sight of it already she smelled wood smoke and herbs in the air.

  She smiled despite her nervousness. The place was small, with cracks in the walls and more patches than roof, but seeing the thin line of smoke coming from the chimney meant her father was up and about. And if he was cooking, he was in decent shape.

  She wiped her feet on the threshold and pushed the door open with a grin.

  “I’m home!” she called.

  At first she could make little of the small room, blinking the red shadows from the sun away. Piles of colorful, if threadbare, clothes were scattered on the table, a stool was placed by the window, and worn out clothes and half melted candles were on every available surface.

  A door in the left corner led to her room, if she could call it that. The floor was dirt, with the remnants of planks here and there; when she stepped inside her humor darkened a little: Da hadn’t swept that morning. No big deal for her, but she knew he hated a dirty house. Messy was fine, but dust was bad for his health.

  The room was too hot for the summer day, but she could live with that. The red flames from the hearth silhouetted a lanky man in a brown shawl.

  Leo’s father turned around with a dashing smile that almost eclipsed the feverish glimmer of his eyes, the black skin too tight and thin around his sharp cheekbones, his gaunt cheeks.

  “Already? You’ll have to wait, then, food’s not ready yet!”

  Leo ignored his panting when he strode through the room to kiss her forehead and hugged him gently. He seemed so frail in her strong arms. It hurt.

  Her concern must have shown on her face, because her father took her by her shoulders and pushed her back with a very Da-like frown.

  “What’s that long face, Leo? I’m not getting worse, if that’s your concern. You shouldn’t worry that much.”

  “Someone has to,” she said with a shrug. Folco wasn’t that old, and one would’ve expected a man in his early forties to be in better conditions. Life hadn’t been kind to him: he’d endured the death of a beloved wife, the crumbling of a comfortable, simple life, and the weight of raising a daughter on his own. A lifetime working as a dyer, breathing in the acrid smells of pigments and ammonia, had done the rest. His lungs were weak, and his heart struggled to keep going.

  Folco ruffled her hair.

  “I guess that’s what it means being a family, constantly worrying about one another… come on, wash your hands. Have I ever told you that haircut makes you look like a chicken?”

  “Like the one you’re cooking?”

  “Er… yes, let’s say it’s chicken. But it’s going to take a while more, so off with you now,” and with a grin he shooed her away.

  Leo rolled her eyes, left the bundle of herbs on the table and twirled on her heels, heading out of the small door in the left corner.

  Her room looked more like a closet, with tightly woven reeds serving as roof and floor. Her bed was a bundle of straw wrapped in rags; Da had sewn her covers with patches of different colors, and botched as it was, it looked comfy enough. Leo flopped down on her bed and fumbled on the shelf behind it to retrieve a fire striker. A couple of clicks, and she lit up her small lamp. As the wick burned steadier, her collection of trinkets appeared from the shadows.

  Dozens of toys stared at her: a mechanical soldier, carved in wood with a full metal armor and a tiny sword it could swing if you pressed its head; a duck on wheels, painted in bright colors and ridiculously detailed, a doll made of dad’s leftover fabric, with two mismatched buttons for eyes. Even a small box of fireworks, but Da disapproved of her toying around with black powder, and she kept them for some other time. Leo was too old to play with them, and there were no kids to give them to, but building them gave her some purpose.

  She toed off her boots, kicking her toolbox in the process. Her wrenches and small saws clinked and clattered, and she caught a set of nails before it scattered on the floor.

  In doing so her knuckles brushed a smooth, leathery edge.

  It was still there.

  Da frowned upon her obsession, but her fear was pointless. He’d never throw her book away. It was all she’d managed to salvage after the soldiers had taken upon the Mill, destroying everything and everyone on their way. Including master Galeno's cart, his books and his spirit.

  Leo pulled the tome from under her bed and gently laid it in her lap. Its pages were rippled with years of dampness and misuse, the letters on its cover faded, and the leather peeling at the corners.

  But it was hers. The source of her hope and frustration.

  “The Fundamentals of Magic,” the title read in bold large letters. She’d learned it by heart in the years she spent staring at it. The book had lain forgotten after during the raid, a brick of paper and mud under the shatters of Galeno's belongings. She sometimes felt guilty, clinging so desperately to that relic, but it was her only chance to find out if she was anything more than the good daughter of a dyer and a lost mother.

  Leo opened the book on her legs and ran a fingertip over the cobweb of black letters.

  She’d tried to read it countless times, and with the same disappointing results: three sentences and one hour in, her head throbbed and the letters started to play tricks on her. They twisted and flipped in front of her, they slipped from her brain and she couldn’t catch them.

  Once more, anger flooded through her. She could read--she recognized the words, she knew they meant something, but it was like holding water in your fist. Maybe that was the reason she’d never managed to produce a single spark from her fingers, let alone discover and tame the power that must have ran through her, like everyone else.

  She slammed the book closed and scrunched her nose.

  Or maybe I’m just dumb.

  As if in reply to her dismal thinking, the door creaked open and her father peeked in.

  “Leo, are you… oh. Again?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.

  “No. I was just… you know, checking if…” She slid the book back under her bed and sprung to her feet with a stiff smile. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “It’s alright, little one. I just wish you were…”

  “I’m washing my hands, just give me a moment and I’ll come.” she interrupted him, turning her back on him and pulling her gloves out.

  Her father sighed but didn’t insist, and guilt poked at her.

  The same old song: you’re smart and capab
le and unique, you should love yourself more.

  Easy to say for someone who still bore the trace of the black ring on his forehead.

  Leo huffed and rinsed her hands at the basin in the corner, drying her palms on her tunic.

  By the time she went back to the main room, the table was set and the piles of clothing pushed aside. Da mended tears and rips in everyone’s clothes, and in rare occasions he sewed new ones. It was all he could do now that his health had put a stop to his dyeing business.

  The poor little creature steaming in the chipped plate was not a chicken. It was too small, dark and sinewy. Leo didn’t ask, and she gratefully accepted the bony thigh her father offered her.

  “Did you take your medication?” she asked. She almost choked on the first bite, but she swallowed it down with a gulp of cold water.

  Da nodded over the meat he’d barely touched and showed her the content of his mug. It was thick and smelled bitter, and when her father took a sip, he grimaced.

  “So bad?” she asked.

  “Worse, even. But as long as it works, I won’t complain.”

  Something snapped inside Leo. She dropped the clean bone in her plate and clenched her jaw.

  “You should! You should complain, and tell me how you feel, if you’re in pain, what I can do to help you… but no, you just keep going, you smile and… and I don’t know what to do, alright?”

  Her father’s eyebrows shot up his forehead and his eyes opened wide.

  “You’re doing everything you can, honey. It’s more than…”

  “It’s not enough!” she blurted out, hating how loud and angry she sounded. Da deserved better than to be the outlet for her frustration, but she was beyond common sense. “I should take you to a real doctor, and not just feed you Clio’s weeds and teas. I should find a better job and take us both to the countryside instead of living like frogs here in the meadows. But I can’t, because I’m just… I’m nobody, I can’t even do magic, and…”

  “Have you considered that maybe I don’t want to leave this place? This is where I lived with your mom, it’s my home!”