Living with Your Past Selves (Spell Weaver)

by Hiatt, Bill

  My only other problem with shifting was Stan’s tendency to ask too many questions about the process. Once he got over the initial shock that I could actually perform such a feat, the scientist in him took over again, and he wanted me to provide him with all kinds of data. When I changed into him, was my blood type the same as his? Was I the same genetically, or was the resemblance only superficial? If another shifter morphed into me, did that give the shifter all of my other powers? I didn’t really have the answer to any of these questions, but I did give him some data based on my observations during shifts. For instance, assuming I shifted correctly, physical attributes like strength would be the same as the form I shifted into, so that changing into a grizzly bear made me as strong as a grizzly bear. Changing into a fish (which I only tried once) enabled me to breathe under water. Mental attributes stayed the same, so I kept my own intelligence. If I was a dog, I still thought like me. If I was Stan, I still thought like me. Too bad—there would have been times when shifting my brain to his during a math test would have been a real advantage! As far as whether the physical form was the same all the way down to a molecular level, I doubted that, but I could not provide the evidence Stan wanted. Then he would start going on about the equipment he’d like to get to test me with, and I had to remind him that he couldn’t very well make his bedroom into a lab without attracting his parents’ notice. All of this science talk would have been easier to take if I didn’t feel like I had just run a marathon after a series of shifts. Maybe with more practice, shifting would not hit me so hard, but right now it made me feel as if I had donated blood every day for a week. How the pwca had managed so much shifting around in such a short period of time was beyond me, but I guessed that pwcas, as natural shape shifters, had more innate resistance to the strain of shifting than a human would.

  As for visiting Annwn, that wasn’t tiring it all, just impossible. I knew from the memories of Taliesin 1 exactly how to open a doorway into that realm, but every time I tried, I felt as if I were trying to open a door inward, but tons of rock were jammed up against it on the other side, and it wouldn’t budge. I concentrated until I thought my head would split open, I sang until I almost made myself hoarse. Nothing. Stan, who insisted on interpreting Annwn like a parallel world in a science fiction story, hypothesized that conditions had changed in the last 1500 years, that Annwn was now on a different frequency, and all I needed to do was to find the right frequency. Well, if so, that was more easily said than done.

  I wasn’t any more successful trying to force my magic to interact with technology. Stan devised all kinds of simple tests for me to practice with, but I couldn’t even perform a single mouse click with magic, no matter how much I concentrated, no matter how much I sang.

  Still, if I didn’t have a new arsenal of technological tricks up my sleeve, neither did my enemies, who had been singularly quiet since the pwca incident at the beginning of the school year. For that matter, so had my anonymous ally—just a few words of advice from time to time, delivered via Dan. No warnings, no prophecies of doom.

  I began to wonder if maybe I wouldn’t end up in the middle of some cataclysmic struggle between good and evil after all. My life would never be entirely normal, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be peaceful—and happy.

  But you know what they say about the calm before the storm.

  CHAPTER 7: FOUNDERS’ DAY SURPRISES

  One bright morning in September, a big crowd of students made getting in the front door difficult.

  “What’s up?” I asked Stan.

  “Oh, just the names of the students being honored at the Founders’ Day Celebrations,” he replied nonchalantly. Considering Stan’s academic standing, that he would be honored for something went without saying, so he didn’t have to join in the hysteria. I looked around, and sure enough, the big crowd around the bulletin board was what was wreaking havoc on the flow of traffic. Out of curiosity, I worked my way in that general direction with Stan in tow.

  We finally managed to get close enough to see the names. The first few were no great shock: Dan Stevens for Athletics—wow, didn’t see that one coming; Stanford Schoenbaum for science—so what else is new; Natalie Kim for math.

  “You didn’t win for both science and math?”

  “Only one award per student,” replied Stan, “and Natalie’s very talented.”

  Did I hear a touch of attraction? I glanced at Stan, but his face was calculatedly unreadable, so I looked back at the board. Aabharana Charu had won for English; that made sense since she had the highest grade in AP English and edited the school literary magazine, Wild Flowers. Jackson Donovan, one of the members of my band, had won for history. It seemed to me he could have won for music, since he was one of the best musicians, both for rock and jazz, in the entire school and had led the school’s jazz band since freshman year. On the other hand, he did currently have the highest grade in AP U.S. History, so the history award also made sense…

  “Tal, look, you’re up there, too!” yelped Stan. My eyes darted down the page: Carlos Reyes for foreign language, Mary Stewart for art, Eva O’Reilly for drama…and Taliesin Weaver for music. For a second I just stared at the board in disbelief. Since I could sing like an angel and play virtually any musical instrument I could get my hands on, you might wonder why I would find such news surprising even in the least. I wasn’t being modest, I can assure you. But I didn’t perform in any of the school groups, and normally the music winner was someone like the band’s drum major, or the choir’s lead soprano, or the orchestra’s first violin.

  I couldn’t help wondering if Dan, who was still walking on water as far the adults in our football town were concerned, had pulled strings. However, I decided not to worry about it. I didn’t feel undeserving, and I figured my parents would be happy about it.

  Actually, happy proved to be an understatement. They both acted as if I had just won a Nobel Prize; I wasn’t at first that enthused about all the fuss, but at least, I reflected, my parents weren’t as hard to please as Stan’s. My dad restrained himself a little bit, but my mom became downright delirious, even insisting on taking me shopping for a new suit. Now we all know how much adolescent males like to shop for clothes with their moms. (Note the sarcasm.) I did have to admit, though, that in this case she had good taste, getting me a nice dark brown suit I actually looked good in. Then I had to suffer through her buying a new dress for the occasion, but at least she took my dad separately to get his new suit. Our family was certainly doing its part to keep the clothing stores in Santa Brígida’s little mall in business.

  I wish I could have said the same for Stan’s family. In fairness, Stan winning awards at school was kind of routine for them. Nonetheless, Stan’s growth spurt made his old suits look tight, and the sleeves and pant legs were, if not ridiculously short, then at least short enough to make the blue suit he was wearing look as if it had been bought carelessly off the rack, when in fact it had been tailor made for him—before the growth spurt. I don’t know what his mom in particular could have been thinking. Was she on some level still resenting his workouts with the football team? I didn’t know, but when the big night arrived, and Stan showed up in his ill-fitting blue suit, looking uncomfortable and eager for nothing more than to have the evening over, I was incensed. Rather than tell his mom off, which might have made me feel better but would certainly not have helped Stan, I took him aside and wove a little illusion around him. Presto, the suit now appeared to fit, and Stan relaxed, visibly grateful. I could have gotten the suit to fit in reality, except that the presence of synthetic fabrics scrambled that kind of magic.

  The city held its Founders’ Day festivities in the city council chambers at city hall, one of the few original buildings in town mercifully not done in Spanish colonial revival style. That said, the attempt to imitate the neoclassical look of cities like Washington D.C. and some of the early state capitals struck me as more than a little pretentious. The front of the building featured Corinthian columns and mar
ble facade, while the council chamber itself had every wall covered with murals depicting the town’s early history (such as it was, the place having only existed since 1996). Like so much else about Santa Brígida, the place seemed to be trying too hard. At least our nation’s founding fathers had been trying to remind citizens of the civic virtues of classical Athens and republican Rome through our early civic architecture; Santa Brígida’s city hall seemed more like a none-too-subtle salute to imperial Rome, a deliberate display of wealth and power.

  The council chambers, unlike any others I had ever heard of, were designed to accommodate this kind of large dinner, even to the point of having a large kitchen just off the main room. For tonight, the smaller council table on the dais had been replaced by a larger table, obviously intended to serve as the head table and draped with an expensive looking white lace table cloth. The folding chairs normally present in the audience area had been swept away and replaced with round tables, also draped in white and each seating ten, with the three front and center designated for the honored students and their parents. The tables were not folding tables, so it must have taken a lot of effort to move them in; even the chairs were not just the usual folding chairs, but heavy looking and certainly genuine wood.

  I contrived to sit next to Stan, mostly so we could poke each other when especially amusing events occurred but also so that I wouldn’t have to sit next to Eva O’Reilly, though I could still smell her signature jasmine perfume from where I was. She was, after all, Dan’s girl, and therefore off-limits anyway, so why torture myself? Besides, I had found time to casually date a bit recently, and it seemed likely I would soon have a girl of my own, after which I hoped I could stop thinking—and let’s be honest, sometimes dreaming—about Eva.

  At almost 7:00 pm, the scheduled starting time, the dignitaries began to take their seats on the dais: the mayor, the school board president, the municipal court judge, and the person who could most correctly be called the founder of the city, chamber of commerce president and the owner of the development company responsible for the very existence of Santa Brígida, Carrie Winn. If city hall reminded one of imperial Rome, there was really no question who the reigning empress was. All the other dignitaries consciously or subconsciously deferred to her, in body language if in no other way. Easily the wealthiest person in town, she could have lived in the real Montecito instead of “wannabe Montecito,” but for some reason she chose to live here. I gathered from the whispered female conversation at my table that some of the moms were impressed by the fact that Ms. Winn didn’t dress in an overstated, nouveau riche way, yet everything she wore was designer label; the pale green evening gown they seemed to think was a designer original. I had to admit that she was a striking woman; though old enough to not be really exciting to someone my age, her jet black hair betrayed not even the subtlest trace of gray, and her pale white, seemingly wrinkle-free skin made her look younger than she was. Her face echoed throughout the room, prominently displayed in the murals around us.

  Then I glanced back and was surprised by the sheer size of the audience. Just as I expected, city council members, school board members, and other local officials were present. What I wasn’t expecting, never having been to a Founders’ Day Dinner before, was the number of high school teachers who showed up, pretty much the whole staff, as far as I could tell. Even more surprising were the mobs of high school students. No, it wasn’t the whole student body, but anyone who knew any of the award winners, from the varsity football team, coming out for Dan, to my band members—their presence touched me a little, since I knew some of them were angry over the fact that I so seldom seemed to have time to rehearse these days. Nonetheless, they showed up for me. Well, maybe for Jackson, to be honest, but at least they waved to me. I made a mental note to spend more time with them. I feared they thought my new jock friends now took up all my time, and I couldn’t very well tell them what was really going on, but at least I could check in with them more often.

  Dinner itself was the best one could expect from a mass produced meal, even one prepared by the chef at the local hotel. Well, at least it wasn’t the notorious rubber chicken, but ample portions of passable roast beef, with decent gravy, mashed potatoes, and relatively crisp veggies. Dessert was a really rich chocolate mousse, the kind that makes you gain weight just by looking at it. I wolfed it down, noticing even as I did so that some of the girls were taking a token one bite and then fighting the temptation to take another. Why is it that teenage girls, even the really slender ones, are always on a diet?

  The program, on the other hand, was dull, the kind of dull that makes even algebra exciting by comparison. What with opening remarks, introducing every conceivable dignitary—I was surprised the local dog catcher wasn’t on hand to take a bow—and the recitation of the city’s “history,” I even caught my dad looking at his watch…several times. The program did liven up a bit when the time finally arrived for us award winners to take our bow. The mayor at last yielded his iron grip on the podium to Ms. Winn, who proved to be a surprisingly good speaker and even managed to inject some life and humor into the corpse of the evening.

  “The measure of a city is not how it preserves its past but how it prepares for its future,” she said at last. “Tonight we should be especially proud of ourselves as we honor some of the students from our fine high school. If our future lies with them, then our future is bright indeed. Ms. Simmons, would you please introduce our award winners?” Ms. Winn stepped aside for Ms. Simmons, who looked far more radiant than usual. I guessed this kind of recognition of her school must have felt almost as good for her as it did for us.

  As we were each called up to the dais, I noticed Stan and I got applause from the football players almost as enthusiastic as what they gave to Dan. I had to smile a little at that. Once I was on stage and facing the audience, I looked back in the direction of my parents, who looked as happy as I had ever seen them recently, perhaps ever. My smile broadened to about the width of Santa Barbara County. I could be happy; we could all be happy.

  Dan, standing just next to me, shuddered and for a moment almost seemed to lose his balance. Then, his equilibrium regained, he leaned over to me and whispered in Welsh, “Something is wrong. There is a tremendous buildup of mystic force around the students on the platform. We need to get them off of there now.” Damn! Now! The forces of evil had to pick now to strike.

  I noticed several troubling signs simultaneously. I could see the open door at the far end of the council chamber, and through it, the main entryway leading to the outside. Both doors had been propped open, and there was fog, lots of it, one telltale sign of a magic working, especially when the weather had been clear and warm when the program first started. The fog had not yet rolled into the council chamber itself, and yet I did suddenly feel as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees. I heard some kind of commotion in the audience, though I couldn’t immediately identify its source. I tried to think of some way of getting everyone out of danger, but nothing occurred to me—and would going outside, straight into the fog, really be safer? Then I thought I caught a stray sound, someone besides Dan whispering in Welsh. I looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the whisper, but at that moment every light in that vast room blinked out. Even external lights, like the ones in the parking lot, that should have been visible through the windows and the open back door, disappeared.

  Now there was too much uproar to pinpoint the source of the whispered Welsh. I felt Dan’s hand on my arm, felt the tension running through it. Consumed by a desire to keep me safe, he readied himself to act if I did not.

  Then, faster than any of us could move, faster almost than thought, the reality of the council chamber fractured and dissolved, sending shocks crackling through every nerve in my body. I found myself dropped into another reality with such force that I sank to my knees. All around me I saw an apple orchard but brighter, more alive than any real apple orchard, as if someone had spent hours carefully photoshopping the scene.
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br />   The good news was, I had finally made it to Annwn.

  The bad news? Someone had obviously dragged me here by force—and the other students on the dais right along with me, though whether by accident or design, I had no way of knowing. But one thing I did know—whoever had brought us here was up to no good!

  CHAPTER 8: MEETING AN OLD “FRIEND”

  I couldn’t imagine a worse situation to be in. I had no weapon, having left White Hilt at home, and most of my combat training had been armed combat training. I had no musical instrument either; though I could accomplish much by singing, an instrument would have given my power much more punch. As for the other students with me, they would be at best a distraction—I had to worry about their safety, and they could contribute little to their own defense.

  Stan, who had helped me practice magic enough to have some idea what had happened and therefore at least might not panic, was in better physical shape than at any point in his life, but still wouldn’t last thirty seconds against a medieval warrior, let alone a supernatural menace. Dan would definitely have been some help, and the Voice had clearly put in “Taliesin’s helper mode” right before we were pulled into Annwn, but he just stood there with a blank expression on his face, unresponsive to everyone around him, including Eva, so I had to assume our sudden shift to a different world had disrupted the signal and given him enough of a jolt to render him helpless. As for Carlos, his background as an aquatic athlete made him pretty muscular, but that wasn’t the same thing as having combat training, and I doubted whoever brought us here would try to destroy us by beating us at water polo. Jackson, a fellow musician, could have helped if he had had his drums, but again I doubted he had any combat training. He was tall, slender, and thoroughly unathletic—drumming was probably the most strenuous exercise he ever got.