By the time Randall had his helmet righted, Bobby had gotten his sword back in his hand. Randall swung hard, and the sword hit Bobby’s shoulder-guard with a ringing smack. Bobby staggered sidewise, but the shockwave that traveled up the sword, making Randall’s hand sting like fire. He dropped the sword with a cry, clutching his hand to his chest. Bobby charged, swinging wildly. He’d found the sword’s balance, it seemed, and his beefier frame gave him a definite advantage with the gear.
Randall abandoned his sword and backpedaled furiously away from his friend. His retreat turned into a full rout as Bobby chased Randall around the fighting circle twice before tripping on a stone and falling down on his face. By now, the crowd was shrieking with laughter, pointing at both boys and taunting and jeering. Randall glanced over at the crowd as Bobby picked himself up.
Oh no! Melinda was there. And she was pointing and laughing along with everyone else—watching him make a fool of himself. He’d wanted to prove that he had the stuff it took to be a soldier. All he was proving was how worthless he was, just like she always said. He was never going to be a soldier; he was never going to amount to anything! He’d certainly never be able to talk to Melinda again, after he’d unmanned himself so in her eyes.
Suddenly, Randall realized that the militia man had never intended to make soldiers out of Randall and Bobby. All he wanted to do was put on a show at the boys’ expense. Randall felt the shame welling up in his face, and something else, too: rage. It just wasn’t fair! Born second, he always came second, never first. Nothing ever came easily to him. Nothing ever would.
Determined not to cry, Randall forced his shame and anger down into his belly where it gelled into a lump of cold fury. He turned to face Bobby, empty hands clenched into fists. The rage continued to build inside of him, but controlled and icy. He stood there trembling, feeling it build up to murderous levels. The rest of the world seemed to melt away as Bobby advanced, until it was just the two of them alone in the universe. A light was growing behind Randall’s eyes, filling his mind, filling his body. He felt powerful, invincible, shielded from any harm by the light and his rage.
Bobby halted a pace away from Randall, sword at the ready. Breathing heavily, he called out “Do you give up?”
Bobby was the reason everyone was laughing at him. Bobby didn’t even want to be a soldier in the first place! It just wasn’t fair! The light within Randall had grown to bursting, calling on him to destroy his foe, and take his rightful place as victor on the battlefield. Telling him that his victory was at hand, and that it was Bobby who would be yielding. Randall ground out between clenched teeth “Never!”
Bobby’s eyes widened in fear, and he flinched back, reflexively swinging his sword in a wild arc. It seemed to move in slow motion. Randall barely noticed it, his attention held by Bobby’s reaction.
Why does he look so afraid? Randall wondered.
The strange light in his head coalesced into a pinpoint of bright purpose, focused on Bobby. It was ripe, ready to be used to do his bidding.
I’m supposed to do something now, Randall thought. Something’s supposed to happen.
And then Bobby’s practice sword collided with his temple, driving all consciousness from him.
* * *
“Randall, wake up!”
Someone was shaking him, but he didn’t want to get up. His bed was too warm and comfortable. But the voice wouldn’t go away.
“Hey, Randall! Open your eyes! Are you okay? Oh, please be all right!” the voice said, sounding scared.
Randall cracked open his eyes, which was a colossal mistake. Sunlight blinded him, and pain exploded in his head. He rolled over onto his side and emptied his stomach onto the grass. After he had finished throwing up the last of his breakfast, he moaned and rolled onto his back. His memory came back to him in a rush.
“You hit me,” he accused.
“Well, I didn’t expect you to just stand there and let me!” Bobby started, defensively.
“Don’t scream,” Randall said weakly. “Head hurts.”
He heard Harlowe’s voice, also nearby. “He’ll be fine, kid. He took a good whack, but that’s what helmets are for. Get him somewhere cool, and get him somethin’ to drink. That was some swing! If you want to come back tomorrow so I can show you some more stuff, get here early.” Randall heard him walk away.
Just great, Randall thought. They already like him better.
“Hey Randall, you heard the man. We gotta get you up and something to drink. I was really scared for you,” Bobby said.
“Too hot in this armor. Gotta get it off” Randall replied.
“Randall, you’ve been out for a while. They already got you out of it. C’mon Randall. Please get up.” Bobby begged.
Randall groaned and started trying to lever himself up. The pounding in his head threatened him with another wave of nausea, but he eventually sat up with Bobby’s help. This time, he only tried to open his eyes a little bit, and found that he could manage it if he kept his eyes squeezed down to slits. His vision was blurry, but he could tell most of the crowd had already moved on now that the spectacle was over. There was no sight of Melinda. That was just as well; he didn’t really feel up to her derision at the moment. I’d just as soon never see her again, he thought. I wish that blow had killed me.
Bobby helped Randall to his feet. They stumbled together a short distance before Randall had another wave of nausea hit him, and he dropped to his knees, giving in to the urge to empty his stomach. Bobby helped him back to his feet, urging him to keep walking. They eventually made it to Frank’s Inn.
Bobby steered them toward one of the only empty tables in the place, and ordered a mug of ‘the Cure’, a local herbal tea reputed to help hangovers. Randall already knew that Melinda wasn’t working today, and he didn’t recognize the serving girl. Frank usually hired on extra help during the job fair.
“I’m not really thirsty, Bobby,” Randall said as he laid his head on the wooden tabletop. The room seemed to swim, and the motion threatened to make him sick again, but he managed to fight down the urge to vomit. His headache was getting worse, and he was feeling incredibly tired. “Think I just wanna sleep,” he said.
“Hey lads,” called out a boisterous voice. “Mind if I join you? Seems all the other tables are full,” the stranger declared as he sat down at their table.
Randall groaned and glanced up at the newcomer. He was an older gentleman, but with an air of youthful energy about him so that it was hard for Randall to guess his age. His swimming vision might have had something to do with that, too. Randall thought he must be in his late forties, at least. He was dressed in simple clothes: a cloth tunic, stained an uninteresting shade of brown. The plain brown hair on his head was losing a two-front war against encroaching grey and a receding hairline.
“Oh, hey. Aren’t you the boy that just took a good whack to the noggin?” the man asked happily.
“Go away,” Randall moaned, pain overcoming his sense of manners.
“Pleased to meet you too, m’boy. I’m Earl. Head hurt much?” Earl asked, ignoring Randall’s rudeness.
“What do you think?” Randall asked sarcastically, never raising his head from the table.
“I bet!” exclaimed Earl. “That was some whack! So, is it the kind of pain that pounds and pounds and makes your eyesight blurry?” Randall just nodded his head slowly, from where it was resting on the table. “Sometimes a good whack like that can knock a man cross-eyed, so he can’t see straight for a month.” Earl went on with obvious enthusiasm. “I remember this one time…”
Every enthusiastic word that Earl said felt like it was drilling deeper and deeper into Randall’s brain, aggravating his already pounding head. Finally, Randall had all that he could take, and he snapped. “Hey, look!” he exclaimed, quickly lifting his head. Before he could finish, nausea swept over him again, and he doubled over beside the table retching, though there was nothing left in his stomach to come up.
“Ah, nausea
too, I see,” Earl said, growing serious. He looked at Bobby. “Listen up, boy. Your friend has a concussion, and it looks to be a bad one. If you don’t do exactly as I say, he’ll probably be in a coma within the hour, and dead by morning.” Bobby gasped and paled. “The boy needs willow bark tea to ease the swelling in his brain. I think I saw some willow trees out by the stream. You know where I’m talking about?”
He waited for Bobby to nod nervously before continuing. “Good. Go strip me off at least two good handfuls of bark, as much as you can carry. Hurry lad!” Bobby rushed out of the door, leaving Randall in Earl’s care.
“Am I gonna die?” Randall asked. The way his head was pounding, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to live.
“Not if I can help it,” Earl answered, pushing something smooth and metallic into Randall’s hand. It was about the right size to be a mug handle.
“Not thirsty,” he said, eyes still closed.
“That’s alright, boy. Just hold onto it a bit while I talk to you.” Earl said.
Holding onto the mug, Randall felt comforted somehow, though he couldn’t pin his finger on the cause. Maybe because it felt so cool and refreshing in his hand. He’d take a drink in a minute—just not now.
“Now listen up, boy. I have some things to tell you, and they’re best told before your friend gets back. I didn’t just run into you by accident. I came to the job fair because I’ve decided I needed an apprentice. So, soon as I get to this gods-forsaken town, there you were, all puffed up full of anger and shining like a lighthouse on a stormy night. I noticed you all the way from the butcher shop, boy. There’s no doubt, you’ve got the Talent.”
“What talent?” Randall asked. His head was definitely feeling better.
“The Talent, lad. For magic,” Earl said in a low voice.
Randall jerked his head up. His nausea was suddenly gone.
“Magic?” he squeaked, eyes going wide.
“Hsst! Keep your voice down, boy.” Earl hissed. He continued in a low tone. “You know as well as I do what’d happen if these fine folks thought either of us Mages.” Earl pronounced the words ‘fine folks’ with obvious condescension. “You know it wouldn’t be long before they were blaming you for their cattle’s milk going sour in the udder, stillbirths, or any other manner of tragedy. I’m not too keen on having them on my heels for suchlike myself.”
“You…you’re a…a…” Randall stammered, growing pale. He was too frightened to note that his headache had vanished completely, too.
“Yeah, boy. I’m one of those. Now shut up and calm down,” Earl commanded.
“But,” Randall started, eyes darting back and forth, looking for some kind of escape. Earl was seated between him and the door. If I scream for help, he’ll probably call lightning down on me! Or turn me into stone. Or…
Earl breathed a word, in a language Randall had never heard. The fear drained out of him, as if someone had pulled a plug. In fact, it seemed like all of the emotions had been sucked out of him, leaving him feeling hollow.
“I said calm down!” Earl commanded again, in a harsh whisper. “That Word won’t last very long, so shut up and listen while you still have your wits about you. Simply put, you’ve got the Talent, and I happened to be looking for someone with it. I’ll be coming by your house after dusk to talk with your parents about taking you in as my apprentice. Best prepare yourself, as you’ll likely be leaving with me thereafter.”
Randall felt numb. “Oh,” was the only reply he could come up with. Deep down inside, he could feel the rumblings of panic scurrying back and forth like a trapped mouse, but the feeling was very far away. It was as if someone taken his emotions and wrapped them in gauze.
“Now, boy, if you’ll give my property back, I’ll be on my way.” He held out his hand, and looked meaningfully at Randall’s fist.
Randall noticed that he wasn’t even holding a mug at all. He was holding a thick cylinder of silvery black metal, with dozens of symbols etched all over its surface. They almost seemed to make an odd sort of sense. Randall squinted at them and cocked his head sideways, face screwed up in concentration. If he looked just right, they seemed to all be related somehow…
“Ahem,” Earl coughed, and snapped his fingers.
Randall started and dropped the object into Earl’s waiting palm. His head immediately started pounding, though not nearly as badly as before.
Earl noticed his wince of pain. “You’d have to keep it a good couple hours yet for it to fully heal you, boy. But I think you’re in no danger of dying now. Best if you took it easy the rest of the day.” He abruptly stood up to leave just as Bobby came rushing back into the pub, hugging an armload of willow bark.
“I got the bark sir! Now what?” he panted.
“Hell, I don’t know, boy. Give it to the bar wench. Do I look like I know anything about making tea?” Earl chuckled, as he turned and quickly left the pub.
Bobby glanced back and forth between Randall and Earl’s retreating backside. “What’s going on?” he asked, confused.
Randall’s emotions were slowly starting to trickle back to the surface, though the panic he had felt was quickly being replaced by a growing sense of dread.
“My life is over,” he groaned, sinking his aching head into his palms.
* * *
Randall decided that willow bark tea had to be the most awfully bitter medicine he had ever drunk. Even adding milk and honey to it didn’t help at all. It took a long time for him to drink it all down, but by the time he did, he had developed the beginnings of a plan. If he could get himself apprenticed out right away, then he wouldn’t have to worry about Earl at all! After all, the apprenticeship oath was like an oath of fealty. No one could be expected to break that oath…to even ask would be an insult of the gravest sort. So that was that; Randall would get himself apprenticed to the first man that would take him, and he didn’t care how low the job. He’d even settle for being a tanner’s apprentice, with all of the vile smells and stained fingers that went with the job!
He had tried to tell Bobby about Earl, but Bobby had just laughed him off.
“He was just funning you, Randall,” Bobby said. “He was a trader or something for sure. Did you see his little pot belly, or how he was going bald? You think some great and mighty magicker would look like that? Or even worse, have a name like Earl? He was just having some fun at your expense.”
“But, he had this…this…thing! And it made my head feel better!” Randall protested.
“Pshaw,” snorted Bobby. “Getting out of the sunlight helped your head. And besides, before you woke up all the way, you thought I was your momma. I wouldn’t be surprised if things were still a little scrambled up there!” Bobby laughed at his own joke. “Besides, didn’t Frank agree that willow bark tea was good medicine for a headache?”
Randall let it drop after that. He really wanted someone to believe him, but he didn’t want to convince Bobby too strongly. After all, if Earl was a magicker, and had come for him, that would mean that Randall himself was touched. ‘Devil touched’, Grandma called it. In her last days, Grandma couldn’t care for herself and wasn’t quite right in the head any longer, and so she came to live with Randall’s family. Sometimes when she was having one of her spells, she’d rant and scream, and call Momma “that devil touched bitch”. It always scared Randall to see Grandma when she was like that. But it was only the madness; Pa explained that sometimes when you’re really old, you see things that aren’t really there, and say thing you don’t mean.
But she couldn’t have been right, could she? After all, his momma always did seem to know when one of the boys was getting into trouble. But if Randall was touched, shouldn’t he be able to just whistle up whatever he wanted? If he had magical powers, how come things never seemed to go his way? He wasn’t particularly good at anything, though he wasn’t particularly bad, either. Average, that’s what he was.
The one time he’d been in a real fight, no monsters came from the shadows to fi
ght at his side, and there was no lightning from his fingertips. He had given the other boy a couple of lumps, but had gone home himself with a bloody nose and had sported a black eye for nearly a week after. And Melinda seemed bound and determined to dislike him, no matter how hard he tried to be nice to her. He definitely didn’t have any special power over her, that was for sure!
Besides, Bobby was right. Earl was just too plain to be a powerful magicker. He wasn’t impressive at all. Anything else Randall saw or felt might have been because of the head-rattling Bobby had given him. Still, there was that thing all covered with weird writing. Randall had held it in his hand, and had a hard time believing it was just a hallucination. No matter how much Randall tried to convince himself that Earl had been teasing him, the image of that object burned brightly in his memory. That thing had been real. And if it was real, well, then that meant that Earl was no simple trader. Yes, it’d be best if he got himself apprenticed out to someone else, this very day!
It was the first day of job fair, so not too many craftsmen were set up yet. But that didn’t matter to Randall. He visited every one that he could. It was clear that he just wasn’t qualified for many of the jobs. For instance, the luthier had played several notes for him on a violin while reciting part of the alphabet. Then, he played one back, and asked which letter it was. Randall had no idea what he was even talking about. After a couple of tries, the luthier told him he just didn’t have the ear for instrument making and sent him on his way.
A woodworker had told Randall that he was only casually talking to boys on the first day, and that he wouldn’t be making any decisions for a day or two yet. At that, Randall had gone so far as to beg for a position: he offered to carry heavy wood to save on pack animal feed, sleep on the ground, and eat as little as possible. He mentioned how he was used to hard work at his parents mill.
A Touch of Magic Page 2