Inherited Magic (3 page)

Chapter 7

John had no illusions about his possible future. He knew if he didn't get lucky quickly he was going to have to take at least two jobs in fast food joints just to make rent. So he packed his over sized backpack with everything that might be of value, including his grandfather’s ring. He had considered the strange metal book, but somehow the idea of selling it repulsed him and made him angry at himself for considering it. He never even considered the gold picture frame with his mother's picture in it.

The first stop was to the library to use the computers. He got there as they opened and wasted no time in getting started. He meticulously punched in the web site address of the jobs he had called and filled out their online forms. John had never been good with computers, but for some reason, he suddenly found that he just got it. He may not have known the specific commands, keystrokes, and mouse clicks required, but he knew what he was looking for. It was a shock. He had never seen himself as stupid, but even the software at the call center had been a challenge to him. Now it was a pleasure to navigate the Internet on the clunky library computer. While John had never wanted one before, he found himself adding a computer to his “if I win the lotto” list.

After the library, he stopped at a small and extremely greasy burger stand almost totally hidden by an L stop. It was one of those few neighborhood jewels that John had come to love. The guys that worked there knew him by sight and always asked “The usual?” And they got it right, without fail: double cheese burger (ketchup and pickles), fries, and a drink. It was one of the few places in Chicago that he felt like he could feel at home. He sat on a too tall stool and watched the traffic and people pass him by. He ate his food slowly and enjoyed every hot greasy mouthful.

Too soon, he was done with his food and headed up the dirty and worn concrete steps to the L platform. There was no reason not to enjoy the day, not to feel comfortable and happy in his errands. No reason other than the fact that he was a heartbeat away from being homeless and hungry. It was a shadow that loomed over him suddenly, one that he had not expected, but had always felt was stalking him. A predator that he dreamed he could avoid. There were so many of them suddenly, with different shapes and habits, but they all seemed to seek his life in one way or another. By the time the train arrived, John felt alone and had lost the brief joy that his meal had brought.

The car he got on was mercifully empty. John stretched across several seats, lounging and looking out the window on the other side of the car. It was a short ride and a transfer to the pawn shop that had once been recommended to him by Sandra, back in the day. She said she always found the nicest jewelry there and that the prices were decent. The idea of her stooping to shop at a pawn shop was upsetting and tarnished his image of her somehow. It made her too real and that ruined his fantasies about her.

John was startled by movement that he only caught out of the corner of his eye; he turned to look and was shocked . . . . Well, not so shocked . . . . Sitting there, in the far corner of the train car, was the Tribesman from his father’s funeral. He sat there smiling, eating fries from a greasy fast food bag, holding a massive drink between his knees, and balancing that spear of his through the crook of his arm.

“Fuck me,” escaped John's lips before he even actually knew he was speaking. To which the Tribesman responded by gently waving a salt encrusted fry, before tossing it in his mouth. John launched himself out of his chair and walked the ten or so feet across the swaying car, only to find the seat empty. Again, the Tribesman had vanished before his eyes, but this time he’d left behind a mostly empty bag of fries and opened salt packets. The fries were still warm.

Where the fuck do you go from here? The nearest psych unit? There was no shortage of them on the north side of Chicago, nor was there a shortage of crazy people. John was starting to hope that someone had planted a government chip in his head and that they were experimenting with him, because the other possibilities were outlandish and unpleasant. However, despite the still warm fries, at no point did John consider that the Tribesman was real. It simply didn't fit his world view. People do not pop in and out of thin air, no matter who they are. To accept that the Tribesman was real would have opened a can of worms that John was just not ready for. So he attempted to rationalize and ignore things. But he was scared enough that he hauled himself and his overloaded backpack through train cars till he found one with at least five other people in it.

Chapter 8

Getting off the Brown Line at the Western stop was like stepping back into reality for John. He had to keep looking around him to make sure that the Tribesman was nowhere to be seen. He found himself second guessing his own logic and thoughts. For some reason, though, standing in the sunlight surrounded by the noise of cars and people made it easier to look away and deny, because he couldn't forget. It was a short distance to the pawn shop, but the overloaded pack made the walk unpleasant. There was a faded sign over the door, "Owen's Pawn Shop," next to a painting of three gold orbs with crowns and jewels on them. The windows were small and dirty, but it was not difficult to see the vast assortment of goods that were available. It was also easy to see the heavy steel gates that would be pulled across the door and windows when the shop was closed. Inside, there were security cameras, and everything was behind the counters or in locked cabinets out of reach. There was a register by the door and perched on a stool behind it was a man whom John assumed to be Owen. He was bald, dark skinned, with gray stubble, and an intimidating frame.

"What can I do for you?" His voice was deep and related quickly that he was irritated that John had wasted two heart beats looking around. There was a large book open on the counter in front of Owen. To John, it looked like a chemistry book. “What can I help you with?”

"I need to sell a few things." John set the pack on the counter and unzipped it.

Owen examined the items with an air of boredom. "Well, I can't give you much for any of it. I'm up to my ass in DVD players already. How about fifty bucks?"

"That’s all?"

"That’s it, kid."

"How about this?" John dug in his pants pocket for his great grandfather’s ring. He didn't want to sell it, but he needed to at least pay his rent. He hesitantly handed it over to Owen.

"Been a long time since I seen a ring like this. Where did you get it?" As he talked, Owen produced a jeweler’s glass and started to examine the ring in a cautious manner.

"It was my great-grandfather’s."

There was a soft click from the ring, and it slowly unfolded. Owen let out a slow whistle and smiled. "It certainly has been a long time since I've seen one of these. Are you sure you want to sell it?"

"I didn't know it opened like that. What's inside?"

"See for yourself." Owen carefully handed the ring back.

John looked at the inside of the ring and saw that it had swirling patterns and lines with twisting angles etched into the metal. There were tiny gemstone chips set in it that winked and flashed in the light. As he followed the lines with his eyes, his head started to feel opened, as if he had suddenly found a door to a large expanse that he had not known about, should not have known about. In this expanse, the pattern made sense somehow; it flared to life and glowed with a warm reassuring light as it hung there in his mind’s eye. John was only vaguely aware of the shop shaking as if it were in an earthquake, even less aware of Owen yelling at him, so he never saw the punch coming. There was only the sudden soothing darkness of unconsciousness. The pleasant nothingness was quickly pushed away by the sharp smell of ammonia. John sat up with a start, to find Owen kneeling on the floor next to him, an open first aid kit on the ground between them.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, kid? Can't you read silently?"

"Read silently?" John suddenly realized his jaw was extremely sore. "Did you punch me?"

"Hell, yes, I punched your dumb ass. You were about to blow up my store. Your teacher never taught you to read without casting?"

"Teacher? Casting?" John got to his feet unsteadily and looked around the shop to see that most of the display cases were cracked, there were numerous items on the floor, and several of the fluorescent lights flickered uncertainly. "What the fuck are you talking about!?"

A look of realization washed over Owen's face, and it was quickly followed by a sad and somber expression that matched his tone when he finally spoke. "No one taught you? No one showed you? What's your name kid?"

"John. John Carter."

"I want you to watch this closely, John." Owen put his hand on the cracked glass of a display case. It rippled, and there was the sound of glass breaking, except the cracks seemed to go backwards, and the glass was suddenly good as new. John stood slack jawed and started to wonder if perhaps it was not too late to stop all the craziness that suddenly had appeared in his life. "It's magic, and you can do it too. When you focused on the spell engraved in the ring, you started to cast it."

"Magic?"

"Magic."

"Fuck."

Chapter 9

Owen locked the front door of the shop and closed the shades. He righted the stool behind the counter and pulled another one out of a closet for John. When they were both seated amid the clutter of the once orderly shop, Owen asked, "So, what do you wanna know first?"

John tried to make sense of things to form a question but couldn't. He suddenly felt like a kid again, like the world was too big and strange for him to understand, or know where to ever start asking questions. After a long while, all that formed was what John had been feeling all along.

"Why me?"

"I can't answer that one. Normally, you need to be shown how to do it and even then not everyone can. Orphans—people who learn without teachers—are rare, real rare. But it happens, usually to people who are unbalanced." Owen paused to rub the stubble on his chin in a contemplative manner. "I've never meet an orphan before, but I've read that sometimes trauma can wake the ability up. Open your eyes, as it were."

John felt the urge to tell Owen about the strange book and the dreams, but something prevented him. He knew it was connected—that it had to be connected, but it was like he couldn't look directly at it. He couldn't put it all in one place at the same time, and it confused him. So much of what had been going on lately confused him on so many levels that he was willing to let it go.

"How does it work?"

"Well . . ." Owen rubbed his hands together extremely slowly in a gesture that John eventually learned indicated he was thinking deeply. "Most spells take the form of patterns and most of them are too complex to easily understand. But, once you learn one, you can visualize it, direct it, and control it. It takes years of practice and is dangerous as hell."

"Okay, but how does it work? There has to be some logic to it."

"It's called magic for reason. If we understood how it worked, we'd call it something else. There have been a lot of talented minds over the years, and no one has ever been able to explain it so that it makes sense with science or anything else. I agree, it has to work somehow. No one’s figured it out though."

"Are there a lot of . . ."

"Mages. Most of us prefer the term Mage."

"Mage?" The word felt old and too simple to explain the vastness of the new world before John. "Are there many mages?"

"No, there are maybe three hundred or so around the world, counting students. The number gets smaller every year, and it's easy to see a time when the skills and spells are lost altogether."

"Why?"

"That's part of the long story, and a lot of it has been lost, and some it is myth. It may all be lies. I don't know, but it's the history my father taught me, and it matches what others have said."

"Owen, this shit is crazy. I need to know what’s going on . . ."

Owen sighed, produced a rumpled pack of cigarettes, and offered one to John. He refused. Owen struck a match and started talking . . .

Chapter 10

Owen explained:

History, as you know it, is not complete. It’s very different from the history you know in many ways, and not quite for the best. There were a lot of evil things done and there is more than time working to hide it. So there are holes in it, and there a lot of myths and lies to contend with when it comes to what mages know. But we do know enough and have written accounts to give us a general idea of things. Every culture and society has a tradition of gods and heroes going back to ancient times. Most of the time those people were mages, extraordinarily powerful mages. They separated themselves from mankind and governed from above as they saw fit, and that was seldom for the betterment of mankind.

Now, not every single one had good and kind intentions towards humanity; there always have been a few assholes that have to screw things up for others. Wars between mages were fought with armies of people devoted to the ideas that their masters were gods. There were sacrifices in the name of false masters, in every shape and form. There was an abuse of every kind being done, and few were innocent.

Students were taken on and taught, but they were expected to obey their masters and teachers without question. This is where things get questionable, and not much is known for certain. Not long before the birth of Christ, there was a promising student named Moloch. His teacher was currently claiming the title of Aries, the god of war; he was by every account a real prick. When Moloch refused to follow a command—there is some debate as to what that order was . . . Some say it was to kill the woman he loved and others it was to destroy a village. Either way, he disobeyed. As punishment, Aries killed his family. Not just his parents, brothers and sisters. His entire family. Anyone who was in any way related to Moloch was hunted down and killed in horrific ways. His blood line was ended.

Moloch went insane, according to what we know. He broke into several libraries and stole the strongest spells from the greatest mages of the time. There was outrage and Moloch was declared a criminal and a traitor to be killed on sight. He vanished though. No one could find him, and the search continued for years. Just when everyone assumed he was dead, he showed up again. He was an old man by then, and according to legends, he had disfiguring scars all over his body, as if he had been in numerous battles or tortured, perhaps both. What’s more, he was mad. He wandered the world talking about the evils of magic and false gods, that men unwittingly were bringing upon themselves a great terror. He refused to use magic and refused to eat meat of any kind—back then, that was seen as madness. There was a lot of talk about where he had vanished to and what to do about him, but no one had clear answers on either. Aries had been killed, and the title taken by another mage that felt sorry for Moloch (they had studied together). So, eventually, Aries announced that Moloch was spared but he was to be left to wander in madness and misery. As time dragged on, a small band of people seemed to take pity on and care for Moloch but since none of them were mages, no one cared. After a long time, Moloch finally died and according to legend, his dying breath was a warning that magic and false gods would bring "the Terrors from beyond" to the world and mankind would burn.

Not much was thought about it, but the people who had been caring for him formed a cult and wandered, preaching Moloch's message. There were not many of them, but they claimed to have a way to save mankind. This caught a few people's attention, so one of the cultists was brought before a group of mages. The cultist had a scroll on her with a spell that when read prevented people from awakening and being able to perform magic. It was simple and hidden in a complex text so no one would know what it was even as they read it and learned it, but it was there and it worked. It terrified the hell out of the mages, so they did the only thing they knew how to do . . . They started killing. They hunted the cultists all over the world and wiped them all out. They thought it was over.

Then, when Christianity started to grow and spread, the same spell was found hidden in the bible. Over time, it was found in other religious texts around the world. There were wars waged to suppress the knowledge and destroy it, but that only spread it further. Banned ideas have a way of being attractive. Students who could learn magic became even scarcer and mages were hunted. Very quickly, those who claimed they were gods were running for their lives and hiding their libraries. A lot of knowledge was lost, and even more lives were destroyed.

So, today, there are only a handful of mages around the world and fewer students every year. Mages guard their secrets jealously and only pass them to their most trusted students, if at all. So, much of what we once knew has been lost, and mages and magic are extremely close to vanishing from the world. Despite this and despite the terrible things in our history, today’s mages cling to those vain and greedy ways. Many still fight over territories, even though they have no real control over them. Students are still dealt with harshly, and almost every single mage curses the name of Moloch, even though he was right that magic would bring nothing but evil to mankind.