My Path to Magic

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  Well, of course I thought about our conversation with Lieutenant Rudolph; however, I hoped he did not expect that one dark mage would solve all his problems. In my opinion, it would be much more productive to gather people to scour the neighborhood and the town; perhaps the missing just fell in some pit. Yeah, all nine people... My attempts to sort out the situation looked more like catching a black cat in a dark room. A totally counter-productive activity.

  However, I was not afraid of the maniac—my Lyuchik was clearly not to his taste. But all these suicides...

  For nearly a week, every day at 10 a.m. sharp, I came to the gates of the school and stayed put there until 5:30 p.m., even had lunch in the local cafeteria. We did nothing serious: played, walked, jump-roped (why am I even mentioning it?!), and talked. The flip side of the thin spiritual organization of the white was incredible tediousness—they could linger on every emotional experience for weeks, and not in a corner, quietly, but with everyone whom they could draw into conversation. Joe once explained to me that they needed to chatter over and rationalize any strong emotion, either positive or negative; otherwise it would put pressure on the nerves and drive them into the coffin. Lyuchik chattered without stopping, and I habitually nodded and thought about totally unrelated things.

  For example, I thought about universal splendor. I ought to have gotten accustomed to the local beauty and returned to the dark mage's normal cynical and pragmatic mood long ago, but blessed idleness persistently entangled my soul. It was unnatural, like the pleasure from smoking marijuana, a forbidden joy that sooner or later you would have to pay for. When a dark magician experiences discomfort, the rest of the world should stock its amulets.

  In a flash of brilliance, I realized I should ask Lyuchik's opinion about this place.

  “You, yourself, do you like it here?"

  My younger brother did not babble enthusiastically; instead, he seriously pondered my question (which already said a lot to me), then suddenly replied: "No."

  "No?"

  "It's boring here. And I don't feel like doing anything."

  That was an answer worthy of a Krauhard's resident! He was bored and wanted to leave, despite all sorts of eye candy. I appreciated it.

  "Then perhaps you'll go with me to Redstone? We'll live together; there are also schools for the white in there."

  "What about the others? How about Petros?"

  Hmm, Petros. My brother had managed to make a friend, whom, in the beginning, I took for an idiot: the boy a year older than Lyuchik continuously smiled, all the while shifting his beady little eyes and every now and then jumping up and down on the spot. Did he have some sort of tick? The dark mages, if they needed company, choose somebody on equal footing, but the white pick up all sorts of rubbish; it would be simpler to keep a pet for the company. The first time I met him, I could not resist the temptation to laugh at the boy—I reached out and began clapping him on the top of his head, like bouncing a ball. He stopped and somehow shrank. I ought to cheer him up.

  "Exercising? Good for you! It's very good for your health. I was also ordered by the coach to jump-rope, but I don't know how."

  "Really?" Lyuchik asked suspiciously.

  "True!" I replied with some pride.

  Not everything I say should be understood literally, but the coach did give me that advice. But who was pulling my tongue? On the same day they found somewhere a long piece of twine and began mocking me, talking in two voices, each on his own subject. I could not say now that I did not care about the coach's advice—that would have ruined my image. In between we played their favorite game. Guess which one? Me being their horse! And the school had six real ponies at that! By the end of the week I realized that the white kids were not so harmless after all.

  Frankly speaking, only the presence of these splinters didn't allow me to dive into the blissful moronity, because you cannot sleep on a hedgehog. For some reason, probably due to the complete change in my life rhythm, meditation formulas quickly lost their strength, and I was poised for action.

  I needed to distract the kids with something else, or they would totally exhaust me.

  The problem was that there were no other sources of strong impressions nearby; the white do not create problems for each other. The boarding school reminded me of a dollhouse in which handsome doll-teachers talked about loftiness with younger dolls, but the kids wanted to run and fool around; it's in human nature to play at that age. And here I was, a typical genius: we should go camping, on foot, preferably with an overnight stay. Thus, children would be busy walking, and I could pretend I was thinking about the work, at least occasionally. What remained was to get permission from the local bosses.

  * * *

  Mrs. Hemul watched with interest as a group of younger pupils (those who spent the Christmas holidays at school) crawled under the green fence (they thought they were invisible), and the dark magician walked directly across the lawn from them, defying paved paths, shameless, as befitted a man of his nature. Passing by the children excitedly rustling branches, he clapped his hands and startled the kids, who poured out of the bushes with shrieks and laughter. Though, they did not run away too far.

  It was a new entertainment for the youngsters, to watch the magician. Toys and books and previous play activities had been forgotten. As soon as the familiar figure—hands in the pockets—appeared at the gate, the children were blown away as if by the wind. All poured into the park, hiding in the bushes and peeping at the innocent amusements of Krauhard's brothers. Not every white mage would tolerate calmly so much attention, but the dark couldn't care less. He treated them as if he was a farmer and they were the annoying chickens, but children seemed to like his attitude.

  And these were their white kids! Charming, cultured kids!

  In other circumstances, this situation would be funny, but now it only intensified the anxiety. Children (especially the ones with the Source) can feel when something goes wrong. Deep down, they sensed their hope in that man, like Mrs. Hemul herself; the children suffocated in the school, and they were drawn to him as to an open window. The older ones got used to the school's spirit and became deaf to the inner voice, and that made them helpless before the obscure threat. Mrs. Hemul saw it quite clearly now. She was thinking of closing the school right away, in the middle of the school year, all the more so because half of the students had already gone home.

  The dark ran up the stairs of the administrative building. 'Mr. Fox is alone in the teaching room at this moment; will they be able to come to an agreement?' But to intervene immediately meant to damage the dignity of the elderly assistant principal, so Mrs. Hemul patiently waited for ten minutes and then went after the dark.

  She caught the guy when he came out of the office, looking quite pleased with himself, with a warm smile and brazen eyes. How could a man with eyes like that deserve children's trust? Mrs. Hemul felt like a little bird that was about to be caught by a sassy yard cat.

  "How are you?" the impudent animal purred.

  "Fine, thank you," she chirped, frightened.

  He was gone. Wow, just with a glance he made the respectable teacher lose her balance!

  Mr. Fox could stand meetings with the dark much better than her; he just looked a little more pensive than usual.

  "I met Mr. Tangor in the corridor," the directrix began uncertainly, trying to calm her heart.

  "Uh-huh. He wants to take children for an overnight trip outside the school."

  "And...?"

  "I advised him to take a tent and children's backpacks; we have some that nobody uses."

  "A wise suggestion."

  Did the assistant principal decide to halt the developing feud?

  "Petros visibly perked up," Mr. Fox said suddenly. The acknowledgment of the obvious seemed to present a problem for him, especially taking into account who was the cause. "You know, yesterday he put a frog in my drawer."

  "Did he?"

  "Yes," the assistant principal smiled helplessly. "Of course, I ex
plained that it was cruel to treat animals like that, and together we carried it back to the park. He said he loved me," Mrs. Hemul noticed that the teacher's eyes filled with tears, "and he looked so happy."

  The director approached the coworker and gently touched his shoulder. Every teacher reached the moment when his or her student grew stronger, more independent, estranged, with interests of his own. Sometimes it was difficult to accept.

  "Petros is very talented. He will be a great magician, if he decides to go through the initiation, but now he is a little boy. He needs a role model, a guiding star. It seems we are not a good fit to this role."

  Mr. Fox took a deep breath.

  "A strong core, balancing the astral plane. I should have guessed myself."

  Mrs. Hemul smiled with relief: "Everything will be fine, you'll see."

  Chapter 30

  The kids approached the idea of a trip with naive enthusiasm. Lyuchik was too little when Uncle Gordon once dragged me out into nature and promised a walk along the Trail of the Brave, a historical landmark in Krauhard. I distinctly remembered how I cursed my long-legged ancestors. That was the last time Uncle managed to trick me into something like this, and in the absence of a grown-up dark magician a night-time walk around Krauhard was a steep extreme. I reasonably believed that after the trip to the hills the kids would forget about me for a long time. The main thing was not to knock myself out.

  I entrusted Lyuchik with packing, as the most reasonable of us, and we left early—to buy some stuff for the trip, especially shoes (the ones that I had were not suitable for a long stroll). I needed to go shopping and at the same time to stop by the animal cruelty prevention office—to return the folder to the lieutenant and to check some of my theories.

  The head of everything was available, as expected. On my appearance, he slammed a notebook (either he was reading or writing one) and stood up to greet me.

  Instead of shaking hands, I handed him the folder and flopped into the chair for visitors.

  "Lieutenant, what is the local situation with criminals?"

  He shrugged: "There is no such situation—no crimes."

  "And in the past?"

  His gaze became clouded: "My father died in a bank robbery."

  "Hmm. How were the robbers planning to flee?"

  "I have no idea."

  But that was an interesting question, given that one could get here only by train. Or did they intend to run away on horseback through the steppe?... With some effort I focused on the case. "Are the crime stats available?"

  "Of course!"

  He took from the drawer and showed me a folder with annual reports. I rustled through the papers for ten minutes.

  "Are the dates of disappearance of the missing white available?"

  Clarence took out of his desk a sheet filled with the names.

  "Hmm. So ten years ago, after the first disappearance, the crime rate diminished. And then these suicides started."

  The lieutenant nodded in silence.

  I rummaged in my memory through mountains of information on general magic, learned at the university. Damn, I was going to be an alchemist! My knowledge of magic theory was limited.

  "I give up. I cannot imagine a magical influence that could cause such an effect."

  "I can," Clarence said quietly.

  I suspiciously squinted at the lieutenant: "That is, you did notice a strange magic background in the vicinity of the town? With a palpably depressive effect on the psyche?"

  "Anyone who has ever left the town and come back was able to perceive it, but the white can hardly recognize the external source of their bad mood."

  Because we are suggestible, he meant. I banged my fist on the table: "Why didn't you say so? I have lost so much time!"

  "To say what?" the lieutenant snapped. "I have no evidence to prove it but my senses! You got to feel it yourself."

  I closed eyes and began counting. Up to thirty-five.

  "So, what is it? Let's talk straight; we are short on time."

  I felt an urge to beat him when the case would be over.

  "In theory, a protective spell exists, a side effect of which is the emotional 'rollback' that inhibits aggression," Clarence explained. He took my rudeness in stride with surprising calm. "Putatively, the spell is deadly, but I cannot imagine a white mage using it on someone other than himself. Furthermore, nine times in a row, to explain all the deaths."

  "I personally met one like this."

  Deceased Laurent had exercised his deadly spell only three times; his colleague was more successful and, obviously, had set a record.

  I pondered the lieutenant's version—the rollback inhibiting aggression, trying to assess the extent of its impact on reality. Never guessed that I would need knowledge of white magic! But the fact that Rustle stayed silent since I came to Mihandrov brought on some bad thoughts: the effect of the spell took away some very important component of the environment.

  "Do you know how it could end?"

  The lieutenant blinked—he did.

  "Then why are you still here?"

  "How about responsibility for the town, its residents?"

  The white, what one could expect from him! He surely wanted to be a hero, if he was with NZAMIPS.

  "Will you confirm my words?" Clarence perked up.

  "It's useless," I waved, "we have only circumstantial evidence: statistics, our senses; there, real people die every day. Our superiors are morons," I visualized Satal, "they won't do anything until it is too late."

  "What about their social responsibility?"

  I rolled my eyes. He was just like a naive kid!

  "Wake up, man! In Redstone, the "cleaners" didn't notice three ghouls, each over a century old. Doesn't it say anything to you?"

  "But... what should we do then?"

  He started panicking, and not without a reason. For me, the most appropriate solution was to grab Lyuchik with both hands and run. But when it blew up here, Satal would drown me in shit, and Lyuchik wouldn't be proud of his brother (the town will blow—no need to ask a fortune-teller).

  "We will work on that," I tried to concentrate. I dropped by to check some suspicions and finished by taking obligations on my shoulders! "Perhaps you know the name of the murderer?"

  Clarence shook his head. "No. It ought to be someone from the boarding school's staff, but plenty of people resigned after the scandal, so the guy might not be here any longer."

  Lovely! The culprit ran away, and we had to clean up shit after him.

  "It doesn't matter," I slapped my knee. "The shield has been accumulating potential for ten years; this we can't change. We will provoke detente!"

  "What?"

  "Detente. We need to get some of the "cleaners" in here and make them stay—under any pretext. Then we will educate residents and place ward-off signs around the town. There have been no victims for a whole year; therefore, the shield is about to fall apart, and it will be hot in Mihandrov. The supernatural that the spell drove out of here for ten years will run back at once."

  "Do you think it is time to engage volunteers?"

  "It needed to be done yesterday, and tomorrow will be too late. Are you familiar with the theory?"

  He silently put a stack of brochures on the table. I leafed through one: the Publishing House of the Trunk Bay. Home, sweet home!

  "That will do. Think of a reason; lie, mystify if necessary. You're a magician after all! I'll notify my superiors, but it will take time while they come to an agreement... As they say, if you are drowning, you are on your own. It's sink or swim."

  And we parted at that.

  I came back to the B&B in a state of quiet madness. These are my holidays, guys, come on! Of all the options, I chose the shittiest town. If not for the two restless white kids with me, I would have been stuck here, like a fly in honey. Interesting who had advised Joe to send his son to Mihandrov.

  * * *

  Edan Satal was suffering from a hangover after the lengthy holidays, and
he preferred to hang out at work, raising suspicion in Baer that the senior coordinator was afraid to scare his family.

  Locomotive looked into the swollen eyes of his chief and thought that the common salutation in this case would be a straightforward mockery.

  "A telegram from Mihandrov."

  Satal read through a piece of paper with one eye and pushed it away in disgust. "Nothing new!"

  The captain was a bit surprised. "A magic phenomenon of such magnitude is a rather alarming sign. It could trigger a serious breakthrough of the supernatural energy..."

  The coordinator groped for a mug on the desk with some murky dishwater inside (Baer was not good at potions) and took several big gulps—it helped a bit.

  "Axel has got a full desk of such messages; Artrom County is famous for that. Half of them are the repercussions of weather spells; another half is unidentified ancient garbage. The wandering white magic is horrible stuff. Artrom is the place where White Halak stood! Tell him to dig deeper. Axel needs specifics. He asked to solve the problem, not to report it."

  Locomotive neither slammed the door—that would be too petty, nor sent the valuable directions to Mihandrov (Tangor wasn't a fool; he would figure that out himself). But he forwarded a copy of the telegram to Artrom, just in case. Let them know that the reports were sent not only to them. Last year the amount of observed supernatural phenomena in Redstone increased by three hundred percent (in spite of all magic perimeters and ward-off signs), and Baer did not want to become famous as someone who knew about the impending disaster and did nothing.

  Chapter 31

  Some twists of fate make even dark mages uncomfortable; at the thought of a curse hanging over Mihandrov my skin began to itch. I almost forgot to buy a backpack but, by some miracle, managed to acquire walking shoes of a disgusting bright orange color. I had to pretend that it was intended like that and bought a shirt of the same horrible color. Now I looked like traffic lights.