When
I was fifteen, I reached a new level of my training: self-altering. “Now, this
particular style of magic,” my father explained, “can be used to change what
you look like, what you sound like, even what you’re able to do. As always,
don’t use this for your own carnal pleasures and personal gains. This magic can
be very dangerous.” “But why?” I asked. “Because if you do it wrong, you could
hurt yourself. This can be hard,” he replied without breaking his stride. “No,”
I interrupted again, “Why can’t I use it for myself?” Until then, I had never
asked a question. I never asked for an explanation. I just took what my father
said for the gospel truth and trusted I’d understand it later.
My father studied me intently, his
curious look narrowing his eyebrows more and more until they turned his look
into a scowl. “Because we weren’t given this ability so we could serve and
please ourselves. The good Lord doesn’t bless us with gifts so that we can keep
blessing ourselves.” I went for a second question, “Who do we bless with it
then?” “Others,” he was quick to respond, “we are to use the gift of magic to
help those who can’t help themselves.” “Who says?” I asked (this question thing
was pretty easy), “it’s not like the Pope is giving speeches on the
responsibilities in magic.” His cheeks reddened. “I say. The word of your
father should be enough.” “And why should I trust you?” That may have been one
question too many.
Fights like that became more and
more frequent. Most of them stemmed from the urge for self-serving magic.
Another big chunk was due to my questioning of the origin of the gift. I didn’t
understand how this could be a gift from God, if the church didn’t believe in
magic. “They’re just miniature miracles,” my father tried to explain, “taught
to the prophets by God and to the apostles by Christ.” It still didn’t sit
right with me. I still received my lessons, but more often than not, they would
end with a fight and a sentence to church to pray for forgiveness. My
relationship with Kiera would be the final straw.
Kiera wasn’t the first girl I dated,
but she was definitely my first girlfriend. My father loved her when they met.
How could he not? She came from a large Irish family, went to Catholic school
with me, and even called David Copperfield an idiot. That first family dinner
we had with her had been a huge success. At the end, my parents watched as I
walked Kiera to her waiting mom’s car. After fondly watching us (and
surreptitiously looking away when I kissed her cheek) my parents sat me down
for a talk.
My mother sat down gingerly at the
kitchen table and signaled for me to join her. “We need to talk, Matty,” she
began as my father walked in and stood behind her. “A girlfriend is a big
responsibility.” “I’m not about to get the talk again, am I?” I asked, dreading
the prospect. “Do you need it again?” my father asked with his familiar
twinkle. “What we need to talk about,” my mother continued, ignoring the pair
of us, “is what you two talk about, specifically about your special talents.”
“You mean armpit farts and nose-playing?” I asked in an evasive tone. “You know
what we mean, boy,” my father shot back, his twinkle dimming.
“You are not to mention, nor use
magic, in front your girl,” my father said sternly. “What! Are you serious?” I
protested, “I’ve spent five years hiding an incredible gift from everyone I
know. I couldn’t even tell Danny until two years ago. Haven’t I earned the
right to tell who I want? This is my secret, so isn’t it my secret to share?”
“This isn’t a bloody piece of cake,” he said threateningly. “This isn’t just
your secret. It belongs to me, your mother, and your siblings. You give up
yours, you give up everyone’s” “Still, it’s my choice. I can— wait… ‘Siblings?’
plural? As in ‘more than Danny’?” I asked confused. My mother’s lips pursed as
her eyes widened. A smile widened across my father’s face, increasing his
twinkle exponentially.
My mother was due to have her first
daughter in mid-April. Among other things the pregnancy helped bring peace
between my father and me. Aside from being in generally better moods, we were
deterred from fighting by my mother’s fragile state. She would exploit her
pregnancy by coyly asking “you wouldn’t want to upset me in my delicate
condition, would you?” We backed off for her, but we appreciated the respite.
It worked pretty well until March rolled around.
The first Sunday of March, my father
was teaching me the concept of guessing magic in the living room. “There’re
going to be a lot of times when you have no target; you’re alone, with other
magicians, stuck with a bloody idiot; but you still need to use magic. The
thing is there is always someone somewhere that believes that whatever you’re
going to do is possible. It’s a simple concept, like most of what I’ve taught
you, but difficult to put into practical use. You still need your tool. As long
as you can get a good approximation of who might believe what you need to do.”
His lecture lost steam when he noticed I was preoccupied with a key-chain I was
shifting into a locket. His face reddened and he snatched the trinket just as I
shifted it back. I had never ignored a lesson.
“If you want to return to the
basics, we can just ignore this impossibly useful practice and go back to candy
bars,” my father seethed. It’d been months since we went a couple rounds so the
pressure was building, but I was able to keep my cool. “I just wanted a gift
for Kiera when I go to her parents’ St. Patrick’s Day party, and you still
won’t let me use magic outside of lessons.” “Because if you still need lessons
then you’re not ready to use it on your own. And what’s this about a party? I
never gave permission. You’re not going to some irreverent excuse for getting
drunk that insults my country and religion.” Well, there went my cool. “What?
Mom already gave me permission. What’s the harm? It’s not like I’m going to
drink. Besides, it’s an Irish tradition.” “No! My heritage is an Irish
tradition. American St. Patrick’s Day is an excuse to drink and mock a great
culture.”
“Boys, please stop,” my mother moaned
from her bed. The pregnancy had forced her to take frequent naps. “Sean, I
talked to Kiera’s parents. Minors never get served, and the party is just a
family get-together. But Matty, if you’re father says no, you can’t go.” “Then
you’re not going,” he said calmly so my mother wouldn’t hear and get upset. I
glared at him for several long moments, but pushed down my anger for the sake
of my mother. “What if I made you a deal?” I offered when a compromise occurred
to me. He studied me a little then nodded for me to continue. “You test me to
prove I can do everything I’ve learned so far. I pass; I go to the party. I
fail; I go to sunrise Mass with you instead.” As he considered it, a smug smile
and his usual twinkle marked his face. He nodded and agreed.
My test was to excessively use at
least three magic styles to pour a glass of water. The catch was that we
couldn’t leave the house to find unwitting tools, which meant I had to use the
guessing process I had just learned. I got to finish the lecture, but no
demonstration. I took the day to devise a plan and then, satisfied with what I
had, I presented my abilities. My father set down a glass and pitcher of water
and sat back with his twinkle.
First, I showed my father Danny’s
empty backpack and then reached in and pulled out a plastic action figure of
the Thing from Fantastic Four. I then covered it with a white handkerchief
(knowing full well the stage flourish would irritate him) and whipped it back
to reveal it was now made of actual rock. Finally, I scribbled a command to pour
some water and placed it the stone mouth. After closing the little jaw, the
figure sprang to life and lifted the relatively giant pitcher to pour a glass.
I grabbed the hero and tossed him back in the bag. It was back to being a
plastic toy before it reached the bottom of the bag.
“Explain it,” my father demanded,
the lack of slyness in his speech not lost on me. “Magic is simple, right?” I
asked challengingly. “Danny lost a toy he borrowed and the kid doesn’t know
it’s missing yet. I used him to teleport the toy to the bag. There are kids all
over the world that not only believe their action figures are real but also
that their Thing toys are truly made of rock. I used that to shift the plastic
to actual stone. Lastly, there are plenty of Jewish people that believe in
golems. Take a stone man, place a written command in his mouth, and watch him
carry out your every whim. All I had to do was write a message and I could
animate him. The real problem was figuring out the necessary Hebrew. I couldn’t
get past the language barrier of the myth.” My father stared at me hard and
then finally grumbled, “Fine, you can go.” Unfortunately that would be the last
lesson I would get from him.
A couple weeks later, I was in
Kiera’s grandmother’s basement with the rest of the “children.” Turns out my
mother was right; half a dozen teenagers and not one of us could get a drink.
It’s not like any of the adults would notice if we had a little, but not one of
us was able to get to and from the liquor cabinet with anything good. After
hours of whining and grousing, I decided to take a leap and save the party. I
broke one of my father’s cardinal rules and prepared my first solo public
practice of magic.
The Canaan wedding wine pour is
probably one of the easiest tricks I know. All you need is a convincing
container and a convincible audience. You don’t even need water to shift if
you’re good enough. I snuck upstairs and waited until one of Kiera’s uncles
finished off a bottle of whiskey. “I can rinse that out and put it in the
recycling for you,” I cheerily offered before filling the bottle for a rinse
but not dumping the water. After that, I made a big production of “sneaking”
back into the basement. What was my father thinking? I used magic in public,
and I was a hero.
After pouring several glasses I
turned around to see Kiera wide-eyed and shocked. “How did you do that?” she
whispered urgently. “That bottle was empty, and all you put in it was water.”
Before I could say anything she poured some of the bottle’s contents into her
glass; it was just water. Then she offered to top off her cousins glass:
perfectly aged whiskey. I was baffled. “How did you,” I started to ask. “How
did you do that,” she interrupted;
her whisper getting heavier. She stared intently into my eyes, scrutinizing me,
looking for something. “You’re a descendant!” she gasped.
I don’t know what I expected her to
say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “I- I’m what?”
I stammered. “You know what,” she
shot back, accusingly but excitedly. “You’re a great-great-great-great whatever
of Irish spirits: druids, pookas, leprechauns. Their abilities and skills
passed down parents to kids, keeping hidden to hide from religious fanatics.
You’re just like me.” She pressed up close and whispered faintly in my ear,
“you know magic.” It wasn’t a question.
I ran the whole way home. After
talking with Kiera for a couple hours, I learned some shocking things. She knew
as much magic as I did: shifting, teleporting, vanishing. All of it.
Apparently, her family had been teaching magic to each other for generations.
When I brought up the idea of it being a gift from god, she got confused. “We
don’t dare reveal this to the church,” she explained. “My gran says the Vatican
is good, but they wouldn’t appreciate us associating our skills with God.” I
had a lot of questions for my father.
I stormed through the front door. “A
gift from god?” I shouted, not noticing his red eyes or tear-stained cheeks.
“Is that what you said our ability is? ‘A God given gift worthy of the saints
and prophets,’ that’s what we have right?” He didn’t say a word. He just stared
at me expressionless. “Why the hell was I just told that everything I can do is
because somewhere in our ancestry we have elves and leprechaun and who knows
what else? Why did you lie to me? Why did lead me to believe I’m something
special when I’m just some damned witch-breed halfling?” He stood slowly; still
no expression on his face, approached me, and gave me one hard slap across the
face. He then immediately lost all calmness and broke down sobbing, pulling me
in close for a hug.
Soon
after that, I found out my mother when into early labor. There were
complications and she died during child-birth. The baby girl survived. My
father named her Lucy Marie Lynch.
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