Magic Lessons: part 3

It had been almost ten years since my mother had died. Now, I was married and living with Kiera while Lucy and my father still lived in the house I grew up in. It had been pretty rough in the immediate aftershock, but Danny, my father, and I had coped relatively well with my mother’s death. We had some help from my grandparents, but my father and I worked together to try and take care of Danny and Lucy by ourselves as much as possible. My father would work long hours as a carpenter (which wouldn’t have been so long if he had just shifted his material into finished pieces), while I would babysit and take care of dinner after school. Danny took over my place once I moved out and started college, but I still helped on a regular basis. We worked together on a lot for Lucy’s sake. The only thing we didn’t do together very often was magic.

            Due to the stress of becoming a widow and a single parent all at once, my father had to put my magic lessons on hold. He offered to start back up again once he started teaching Danny, but by then I had started getting lessons from Kiera’s family. He wasn’t too happy about that, but he didn’t have the energy to fight me anymore. Occasionally, he would test me to make sure I was wherever I needed to be in my training or, even more rarely, to prove I was mature enough to make certain decisions. The last such test had been a demonstration of a complex fusion of styles two years prior to prove I was ready to propose to Kiera.

We were having Sunday family dinner at my dad’s house. It was me, my father, Kiera and Lucy. Danny couldn’t come home from school for the weekend. We had a good meal and were sitting back letting it digest while Lucy regaled us with her stories of her fourth grade adventures. My father leaned over and quietly confided to me, “I’m starting Lucy’s lessons next month.” Kiera heard as well, and the two of us shared a look. “Why don’t you show me that new make-up kit you were telling me about?” Kiera offered to Lucy, and they left us alone to talk.

I chose my opener carefully. “Dad, Kiera and I have been talking. We want to offer to be the ones to teach Lucy magic. We think we have a better…” “Not another word,” he interrupted, “it’s my right and my obligation to teach my little girl her magics. Why would you deny me that?” “We just think that Kiera’s family has more references to use. You’re just one teacher. Kiera’s family has dozens of experienced magicians that would be happy to help,” I pleadingly insisted. “No,” he refused, “I won’t have those people filling another of my children’s head with nonsense about druids and leprechauns.” “It’s what you learned from your parents,” I shot back. “Besides, is that any worse than telling her she’s some saint in training?”

            I endured one of the infamous intent stares for several moments. Finally he stood up, started clearing the table and, without looking at me, said “Test first.” I followed his lead on the cleaning and started washing the dishes he pulled off the table. “A test?” I asked, exasperated. “Dad, my lessons ended a few years ago. I have nothing new to show you.” “This isn’t a test of knowledge and education,” he explained without emotion, “this is a test of skill and power.”

            My eyes narrowed. “And how do you propose to test that?” I asked. He presented me with a butter knife he was bringing to the sink. “Shift this” he demanded. “Shifting?” I asked, unimpressed. “I’m not ten any more, Dad. I don’t need to shift when I can conjure.” “Let me finish,” he proposed, the familiar twinkle coming to his eye. “Shift this…using me as your tool.”

            “That’s impossible,” I laughed. “You know the truth. It won’t work.” Without another word, he held up the knife between his thumb and index finger. Hiding the bottom edge with his fingers, he slid the knife down with his other hand. As his hand came down from behind his fingers, I saw that he wasn’t holding a metal knife, but an ornately decorated strip of parchment paper. He handed it to me, smiling smugly. There, on this pretty piece of paper decorated with green Celtic runes and shamrocks, in my handwriting, was scrawled the words “I can’t shift using him as a tool.” That was the exact thought and wording going through my head before he demonstrated.

            “How?” I asked dumbfounded. “Oh, no!” he shot back. “Your lessons are done. Remember? You don’t need me to teach you this.” “And how do I know I was your tool? How do I know you’re not lying to me so you get what you want?” I challenged. He gently grasped my shoulders and regarded me with earnest. “I may bend perceptions, boy. I may omit some truths. I may even tell a real lie in a desperate situation. But I never lie to you.” He dropped his arms and then folded them as he stepped back and leaned against the sink.

            I studied him. Kiera’s family never mentioned using someone aware of the secret as a tool in any kind of magic. I couldn’t trick him. I couldn’t tell him a lie. The only thing I could think of was to use what he was thinking. I crushed the piece of paper in my hand and, using guessing magic, let go of the restored butter knife. My father looked at me expectantly.

            I stared him right in the eye and held the knife the way he just had. Without averting my gaze, I slowly pulled the knife down. As my hand came down, it brought with it a strip of leather. The moment I saw a twinkle enter my father’s eye, I redirected my focus of tool, and yanked my treasure the rest of the way down. I held in my open hand a beautiful leather-strapped wrist-watch.

            My father’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t think you understand it,” he sighed. “Look at the strap,” I suggested with a twinkle in my eye. He looked closely at the strap. Comprehension running across his face, he threw his head back and heartily laughed. He slapped the watch on his wrist, pulled me into a hug and kissed me on the forehead.

            A month later, on the first Sunday after her tenth birthday, Lucy sat at the dining room table eagerly awaiting her first magic lesson. “Science, my dear Lucy,” I started “is a matter of facts.” “Magic,” my father continued, “is a matter of ideas.” On his wrist, he was wearing the watch I shifted for him. And stamped into the leather strap, in the style of his handwriting, was scrawled the message “that’s my boy!"