As a game designer it’s natural for me to “gamify” various things, so why should the entirety of human history be any different?
Shortly after I wrote this story, my friend and regular beta reader Zach Shephard pointed out that the setup is almost exactly the same as in “The Game of Blood and Dust” by Roger Zelazny. I rushed to read his story and learned that I had inadvertently written an homage. The resolution and the takeaway are hugely different, and I could only aspire to one day write prose half as beautiful and lyrical as Zelazny’s, but I wanted to acknowledge the similarities and to dedicate this story to the memory of Zelazny, whose novels and especially short stories I greatly admire.
I’m sure many readers will disagree with the story’s conclusion that the Internet is a major force for good, but I stand by that philosophy. I feel that, while not perfect, a global information network allows people to understand one another better, makes the world smaller, so to speak, and yes, possibly might even prevent some future wars. Whether or not you agree with this optimistic view, I feel that the story will have done its job if it sparks a debate or makes you think about the topic.
SMALL MAGICS
Windram watched one of his students attempt a blooming spell. The child, small even for a pixie, struggled with magic. His face turned red with the effort and tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
“Yaow can’t even get such a simple spell right,” said one of the other children.
“I bet his talent will turn out to be as useless as Frostcreak’s,” chimed in Ceta.
Windram shushed them.
Yaow glanced up at Windram, and the older pixie nodded with encouragement. “You’re doing fine, Yaow. Feel the magic, direct it, let it channel through you.”
The child closed his eyes and concentrated, and finally the yellow florets atop the dandelion towering above the pixies straightened out and bloomed. Yaow opened his eyes and laughed with delight.
“There you go,” said Windram. “See what you can accomplish when you put your mind to it? Well done, well done.”
He showered Yaow with praise, because he knew that the child would fail in many of the future lessons. Pixie magic was only as potent as their size, and Yaow was the smallest student in the group.
Ashai’s turn came next. She’d matured early and already discovered her talent. She could animate figurines made of clay. Her magic brought them to life for about an hour; their delicate forms danced in sunlight before they slowed down and their flesh softened and turned back into mud. This was a rare and special talent, and Windram made certain to help her practice it. By the time she earned her adult name, she would likely extend her control to keep them going for as long as three or even four hours.
Ashai hadn’t had a chance to begin before the group heard the sounds of something big moving through the grass. The grove around them grew silent. A pair of moths startled from their daytime sleep flapped overhead, and a group of aphids grazing nearby scattered in the undergrowth. Windram concentrated on the booming bits of conversation he heard from the distance. “Gnomes!” he said. “Hide!”
The pixies scrambled, finding refuge under the fallen leaves and behind the thickest strands of dewy grass. They cowered, as a group of four gnomes walked single-file through the clearing.
The gnomes were huge and terrifying, each as tall as the dandelion. Holstered at each one’s side was a jagged knife, fashioned out of a whole stone, sharpened and serrated by hand. Some of the knives had remnants of a dried coppery substance on the edges of their blades. It might just as easily have been berry juice as pixie blood, but the fear in Windram’s gut suggested the latter.
“This way,” boomed the lead gnome. “Not much farther.” He pointed a gnarled finger southwest.
Windram’s heart skipped a beat. The gnome was pointing right toward the pixie settlement. A raiding party! The gnomes hadn’t raided the pixies for several generations, but the last attack had been so devastating that it remained firmly etched in their tribal memory.
He could take flight, high above the brutes and faster than their massive legs could carry them. He could deliver the warning, but the pixies at the settlement would hardly have enough time to flee or mount a defense. And his students—many of them weren’t yet large enough to fly.
Windram was no hero. His talent was to nurture and grow small things, his calling to take care of the young. He could stay here and do his job. Guide and protect the children, care for the next generation that would have to rebuild after the gnomes had gone. Surely, hiding in order to protect them did not make him a coward?
He thought back to all the other children and mature pixies back at the settlement, season upon season of them, each with a unique talent and personality. Each worth saving.
He inched toward Ashai. “I will distract and lead them away,” he whispered. “When they’ve gone, the largest of you must fly home and deliver the warning. Have them send help to collect the little ones.”
He breathed deeply, trying to calm his nerves, and then stepped from behind the protection of the leaf.
“You there,” he shouted at the gnomes. “Go back where you came from!”
The gnomes turned, baring their uneven teeth at Windram, each molar as large as his fist.
“Stupid and ugly,” said Windram. “Nature hasn’t been kind to you lot.”
The nearest brute grabbed for him, surprisingly fast and nimble for his size.
Windram dashed away, narrowly avoiding capture. He took flight, staying low to the ground and moving slowly enough to give the gnomes reason to pursue him. He cut his escape close as he led them away from the clearing, a stone knife slicing through the air right next to his face, clawing fingers almost closing around him.
Windram didn’t dare look back until he was far from the clearing. He led them away for as long as he could, buying precious minutes for the others, his lungs on fire and his heart ready to jump from his chest. When he knew he could no longer maintain the pace, Windram soared to the sky, above the grass and the flowers, high enough to see the vast trunks of trees rising to the clouds.
The gnomes cursed at him and one threw a rock, but it flew wide and landed at the edge of a puddle. Windram gathered his strength and flew home as fast as he could. He felt exposed so high up, mindful of dragonflies and other predators that made flying above grass perilous, but speed was of the essence.
When he reached the settlement, it was covered under a protective shield. The magic of dozens of pixies, working in concert, created a hard-shell translucent hemisphere the color of amber that hovered just above ground. There was barely enough room for an adult pixie to squeeze through underneath, but not enough for anything the size of a gnome. Windram crawled under the shield to join the pixies on the other side.
“Thank you for sending the warning.” Frostcreak offered her hand to help Windram get up on his feet.
He nodded. “Is everyone safe?”
“We sent them away in time.”
Only a handful of the largest pixies stayed behind, using their magic to maintain the shield. Satisfied for the moment, Windram allowed himself to rest. He reached both hands into a dewdrop and washed his face. The world outside seemed so peaceful, so beautiful as seen through the amber of the shield. But he knew trouble was on its way.
The gnomes showed up soon enough. Three of them stepped through the tangles of grass and approached the shield. The lead gnome cautiously poked at it with his finger. He then made a fist and punched at it, and finally cut at it with his knife. The shield held firm, shimmering slightly whenever it was touched.
The gnome peered inside and snarled at the pixies within.
“We have no quarrel with you,” shouted Frostcreak. “Go in peace, and let us be.”
The gnomes pounded on the shield, but it wouldn’t yield.
“We want your nectar,” said the lead gnome. “Give it to us, and we’ll leave.”
The pixies fermented pollen grains. For them it was nourishme
nt, to sustain themselves during the cold months, but for the gnomes and some of the other creatures it was a powerful intoxicant.
“The nectar is our food, stored for the winter,” said Frostcreak. “If you take it, we may starve.”
“We’re hungry, too,” said the gnome. “Let us have it, or we’ll find something else to feast upon.” He waved his hand, and the fourth gnome stepped from behind the grass, carrying a hemp-twine net over his shoulder. Windram’s heart sank when he realized that four of the children from his group were trapped inside. There were three of the smallest pixies who couldn’t fly, and Ashai, who must’ve stayed behind to try and protect them.
The lead gnome rested his hand on the hilt of his stone knife. “They’re scrawny, even for your kind, but they’ll do for a light snack if you don’t let us in.”
The pixies inside the shield huddled.
“We must give in,” said Springsun. “Children are more precious than the nectar.”
“Without the food stores, more than four will perish during the winter,” countered Frostcreak.
Windram rested his hand on Frostcreak’s shoulder. “Use your talent,” he told her.
Frostcreak’s eyes widened as she understood his meaning. Her talent was to untangle—be it branches or hair or the intricate knots that held together a net. It was not the most useful talent—like Yaow, she was the target of some unkind jokes back when she was among Windram’s students—but in this situation it was nearly perfect.
Frostcreak worked her magic. Windram peered through the amber, trying to see the knots of the gnomes’ net loosen, trying to make eye contact with the children. He caught Ashai’s eye and mouthed ‘flee’ but couldn’t be certain whether she understood.
A few moments later, the net suddenly burst, and the four pixies tumbled onto the ground behind a startled gnome. They dashed for the shield as fast as they could, with the other gnomes rushing to intercept them. For a moment, it looked as though all four might make it, but then Ceta tripped over a root and sprawled face down on the moist earth.
Yaow, who was a few steps behind, stopped to help him up. Ceta winced and cried out as he tried to put weight on his right leg. It was twisted, or perhaps even broken. He couldn’t fly, and now he couldn’t run.
The fourth child made it to the shield and rolled under its edge. Ashai was right next to him, but she turned back and saw the others’ trouble. She flew back and grabbed hold of Ceta, straining to fly while half-dragging him along. But too much time had been lost, and the gnomes were now positioned between the three of them and the safety of the settlement.
That’s when Yaow stopped and closed his eyes, channeling his magic the way Windram had always taught him. His body shook with effort, and suddenly Ashai and Ceta soared high above the gnomes. Yaow’s levitation spell, one he never managed to master in training, worked in conjunction with Ashai’s own magic to help his two friends fly.
The gnome who initially held the net caught up to Yaow and hit him hard with his fist, knocking the pixie unconscious. Ashai was unable to support Ceta’s weight with her own magic, but Yaow’s contribution had been enough to get them farther away from the gnomes along the curved surface of the amber shield, and she managed to drag the smaller pixie under its edge before the brutes could catch up to them again.
With the rest of their prey out of their reach, the gnomes gathered around Yaow’s unmoving form.
Their leader turned to the pixies.
“Let us have the nectar, or we’ll take our frustration out on him.”
The pixies looked at each other again.
“They only have one now, instead of four,” said Frostcreak.
“If we give in to them, they’ll be back, year after year,” said Springsun, his voice filled with reluctance. “Many will perish. Is a single life worth more than that?”
“The life of a child is worth everything,” said Windram.
“He could have kept running,” said Ashai. “He stopped to save Ceta.”
“He made his sacrifice willingly,” said Frostcreak. “Let it not be for naught.”
Windram stared at the resolute, grim faces of the others. “I can’t,” he said. He turned to the gnomes. “Give us an hour to prepare, and let everyone else leave safely. Then I will let you in.”
The gnomes grinned in anticipation of the nectar. “Deal. Now, hurry it up.”
Frostcreak glared at Windram. “Who put you in charge?”
“I made the right decision because somebody had to. And now, only I will be to blame during the hungry months of the winter.” He glanced at the gnomes on the other side of the shield and lowered his voice. “I have a plan, and only an hour to prepare. Whoever is willing to help, come with me.”
The group of pixies headed deeper into the settlement, where the gnomes could not see or hear them.
“What you propose is madness,” said Frostcreak, after Windram explained his plan. “It will get you killed, and our homes destroyed.”
“Perhaps. But Springsun was right earlier—if we give in to the gnomes, they’ll keep coming back for as long as any of us are alive to ferment more nectar. We must fight back, and this is the only way I can think of.”
“Our talents are all small, peaceful things. We have no predisposition for war.”
“I know everyone’s talents better than most, having helped nurture several generations of you,” said Windram. “Small magics can be combined together to do amazing things, when there is a will. You can flee now, or you can stay and help me prepare. All of you.”
In the end, everyone stayed. Even Frostcreak.
An hour later, a subdued group of pixies left their home. Their magic opened a small door in the shield and they stepped through, one by one, and flew up into the air, out of reach of the gnomes.
The gnomes honored their bargain. They had nothing to lose but time; without the pixies there to constantly tend to and reinforce the shield, it would collapse on its own in a matter of hours, and the settlement would be theirs for the taking.
Windram watched as every other pixie had left, the bigger ones helping the young, until only he and Frostcreak remained.
“Give her the child,” he told the gnomes.
Frostcreak stepped through and the gnome thrust Yaow’s body at her. The child moaned in pain, still dazed from the blow, as Frostcreak quickly examined his body. She nodded to Windram; young Yaow would be all right. After he nodded back, she lifted Yaow into her arms and carried him to safety.
The gnome leader placed his palm on the amber shield. “The nectar. Now.”
Windram used his magic to widen the doorway from within, making it large enough for the gnomes to squeeze through. He waited for the entire raiding party to enter the settlement, and then allowed the doorway to collapse.
The last gnome turned around and tested the shield from the inside. “He trapped us!”
“My magic isn’t strong enough to hold the doorway open for long,” said Windram.
“Don’t fret,” said the leader of the gnomes. “Without the vermin here to maintain it, this wall will dissipate soon enough. Now, where’s that nectar?”
Without another word, Windram headed deeper into the settlement, the gnomes lumbering behind him.
He came to the mud-brick storehouse and pointed at the lever. One of the gnomes pulled it, opening the wooden doors and releasing the swarm of angry wasps.
For a moment, Windram stood there and admired the last hour’s labor.
He thought back to all the pixies working together, molding dozens upon dozens of wasp figurines out of mud—as many as they could craft in an hour—and placing them in the storehouse.
He thought back to Ashai using her talent to bring them temporarily to life, and to Springsun using his talent of inciting emotion to infuse them with as much fury as a pixie could muster.
Here they were now, angry buzzing wasps with sharp, deadly stingers dripping with venom, escaping from their trap. Each insect was as large as Wind
ram’s arm, eager to attack any living creature they encountered. In moments, they would swarm him and the gnomes, and sting repeatedly, and keep stinging until the enchantment ran its course and they reverted back to mud. Windram stood no chance, but the wasps were too small to be lethal to the gnomes.
And then Windram smiled as he looked at the faces of his enemies, and he used his talent one last time.
He made small things much, much bigger.
This is a previously unpublished story.
“Small Magics” was born from the idea of perspective. Tiny gnomes would appear huge and malevolent in the world of pixies. When I began writing this story I thought it might turn out cute and heart-warming, but the plot demanded a much darker resolution.
ICARUS FALLS
My world is a pair of photographs. They stand atop a nightstand at my bedside, encased in acrylic frames.
A young woman in an orange jumpsuit smiles from one of the photos. She wears a name tag, but I can’t make out what it says, not even when I squint. I am pretty sure that she’s me.
The rest of the room is bland and nondescript, like hospital food. I try to shake off the fog inside my head, but it hangs there, thick and heavy as a murky autumn morning at the Boston harbor. I examine the cheap floral prints on the walls and the sparse, utilitarian furniture around my bed. I desperately scan the room for clues, anything to help me remember, but there isn’t much to go on.
The other photo is of a middle-aged woman with braided hair and kind eyes. I concentrate on her face and will the fog in my mind to dissipate, but it doesn’t obey. Relentlessly, irrevocably, I am losing my memories, but I cling to the one that is most important. This is my daughter, Kate.
“Kate. Kate,” I keep whispering until I drift off and lose myself in the fog.
I hear Kate talking to the nurse in the corridor. “Damn reporters are still camped out in front of the building,” she says. “I wish they’d leave us alone.”
I know what a nurse is, and what reporters are. General concepts are easy. I can recite the periodic table of elements and list each year the Red Sox won the World Series in the twentieth century. Some of the time useless trivia is easy, too. But I have no idea why the reporters are out there. I do not remember my life.
Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories Page 24