Every day, Erliand would ask about Randall’s progress at the evening meal. Each time, Randall would describe the day’s difficulties, and how he had overcome them. He didn’t mention using magic again; he wouldn’t be humiliated twice in the same fashion. He was relieved when the Mage didn’t mention it either.
Each day seemed to pass quickly, and eventually the soreness in Randall’s back and shoulders eased up as his body became accustomed to the workout. Determined that the garden wouldn’t get the best of him, Randall started looking forward to each new challenge. Before he knew it, the garden was completely cleared, which meant that Erliand was now the owner of a fifteen by fifteen patch of bare earth. Randall could barely contain his pride at that evening’s supper.
“And how goes the garden today?” Erliand asked shortly after serving supper, as had become their custom.
“All finished!” Randall exclaimed. “I got the last of the poison ivy out today, and double-checked the entire garden for roots that I may have missed. There may be seeds still in the earth, but the next weeding ought to be much easier.”
“You sound pleased,” Erliand noted. “I’m sure you’re glad to have that particular chore over with.”
“Yes, Master,” Randall said. “There were times when I didn’t think I’d ever get finished, but each day, I could see that I’d made progress, even if it was only a little. The work was hard, but sometimes it was just as hard to figure out what to pull first.”
Erliand steepled his fingers at his chin. “You have good reason to be proud,” he said. “Hard work is sometimes its own reward, lad. The world is full of temptations: greed, lust, and power to name just a few. But true satisfaction lies in a job well done. You can take the measure of a man by the pride and care he takes in his work.”
“Yes Master,” Randall replied. “I suppose I am proud. I know I did a good job and the work was useful.”
“Indeed it was,” Erliand said. “Looks like you got finished just in time; tomorrow, you’re planting broccoli there. A growing boy needs some vegetables, I’m told.”
Randall groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Yes Master,” he said.
The next morning, there was a hand trowel on the kitchen table, as well as a piece of paper folded to form a packet. When Randall unfolded it, he saw that it contained several dozen seeds, as well as a note from Master Erliand.
“Gone to run an errand. Here are the broccoli seeds,” the note read in Master Erliand’s long flowing hand. It was fortunate that Randall had learned to read as part of his duties helping Pa with the family business, even if he was a bit slow at it. If he’d been a farmer’s son like Bobby, it might have been a different story. Bobby couldn’t read; most of the folks in Geldorn couldn’t either. But Pa was one of Geldorn’s few business owners, and had to keep records for taxes. And that meant all of the Miller boys had learned to read, as well as learning basic math.
It took Randall all day to till and plant the garden with the little trowel, which wasn’t really well suited for tilling an entire field, even such a small one. Erliand came home when Randall was about three-fourths done, nodded at his progress, and went inside and about his business. The next day, Randall was given the task of clearing the high grasses near the front walk, which took several days longer than it should have as he was only given a small hand sickle to cut it with.
After the grass was cut, Randall spread the clippings to dry, and then bundled them as best he could into bales for Erliand’s horses, though he was given yarn to do it with, instead of twine. He spent a lot of time re-tying bales that had broken, and doubling and tripling the yarn in the hopes that it would hold. After that, Randall tended the broccoli each day to keep the garden free from weeds and pests during the critical sprouting period.
Every time a task would be completed, it seemed that Erliand had another for him to start. All of Erliand’s talk about the rewards of hard work notwithstanding, Randall began to grow frustrated with the never-ending chores. Especially since Erliand didn’t seem to have any of the basic tools one would need for farming or yard work. Things came to a head a couple of months later when Erliand had gotten the idea that he’d like to grow tomatoes, and asked Randall to build some trellises using sticks and some rusty nails, but no hammer. Randall knew it was a pointless exercise, because it was much too late in the season to even start tomatoes anyway, but Erliand just brushed him off.
After the fourth failed attempt at making something that would hold together, Randall threw down the sticks in frustration and stormed into the house. Erliand was in his study, examining a book and taking notes with a quill made of a large crow’s feather. It was the first time Randall had interrupted his master while he was working, but in his anger he didn’t care about the possible consequences.
“I’m going home!” Randall shouted. He couldn’t bring himself to call Erliand “Master”.
“Whoa there, lad,” Erliand said. “What are you going on about? You can’t go home. You’ve said your vows and I’ve already paid for your apprenticeship…”
“Those vows are void! You promised to teach me your craft, and for the last three months I’ve practically been your slave! I don’t care what you’ve paid; you’re supposed to teach me a craft!” Randall was embarrassed to hear his voice cracking, and felt like he was on the verge of tears, but he pressed on. “I already know how to tend a field and take care of horses! I don’t think you even know how to do magic at all!”
“You don’t think so, eh lad?” Erliand said, dangerously calm.
“No I don’t!” Randall yelled back. “I don’t think you know much of anything! You don’t till a whole plot with a hand shovel! You don’t tie hay with yarn! You talk about hard work, but it doesn’t matter how hard you work if you don’t have the right tools for the job! And besides it’s too late to plant tomatoes. They’ll freeze before they get ripe! You’re supposed to listen when someone knows more than you. I don’t care if I’m just a kid,” he added, finally running out of steam. “Anyway, I’m going home.”
“Well, I suppose you have the right of it, then, Randall,” Erliand said quietly. It was the first time that Erliand had called him anything other than “boy” or “lad” since Randall had taken his apprenticeship vows. “But before you go, I think it’s only fair for me to say my piece.”
Randall looked down at the floor. “Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled sullenly.
“I’m glad you approve,” Erliand said with a trace of sarcasm. “Now, I know you’ve seen folks in your village raise a house. They don’t just throw some wood together where ever it suits them, do they? No, they plan it carefully. I’m sure they talk about which way the wind blows and which rooms need the morning sunlight that sort of thing. Then when they’re done planning it, they build a sturdy foundation. Only then do they start working on the framework for the house.”
“Yeah, and they don’t nail the wood together using their shoes for hammers,” Randall mumbled in surly tones.
“No, I’m sure they don’t, boy. Watch your tongue,” Erliand snapped. “The point is, they don’t build a house without good planning and a good foundation. Without a good foundation, a house is weak. It can’t stand the pressures of nature; the walls crack, or the roof leaks. Same as a Mage. Without a good foundation, he can crack. Then…” Erliand stared off into space for a long moment. “Well, never mind what happens then. The point is, you’ve been building a foundation, whether you know it or not.”
“I’ve been weeding and planting!” Randall grumped.
“Yes. But do you honestly think all of those weeds grew up so aggressively all by themselves in that little plot? Pulling those weeds, and doing a good job of it took patience, dedication, attention to detail, and creativity if you were going to do the job right. All of those traits are necessary in a Mage.”
“Oh,” Randall said, chastised. “But what about the grass? What was I supposed to learn cutting all that grass with just a hand sickle?”
�
�Measuring your dedication, boy. All of the tasks I’ve given you have been a critical test of your character, to see if you’ve got what it takes to be one of us.”
“Magic is hard, boy,” Erliand continued. “And mostly boring. It’s not all flash and glamour. You’ll spend days, days, performing menial tasks, over and over again until you get it right. And those tasks have to be performed delicately, and precisely, or will have disastrous results. Remember what happened in the garden when you weren’t paying enough attention that second day?”
“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 b
efore 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.
A Touch of Magic Page 6