The problem with slacking off is that even if you avoid doing whatever you supposed to be doing, there ain’t nothing else to do instead.

  Really makes the day drag on when we stop every hour on the hour for snacks and refreshments. Never thought there’d come a day when I got sick of drinking fizz and coffee, but here we are. Doesn’t help that all the snacks tend to be sweet rather than savoury, which don’t sit well on the stomach while working hard at hardly working. The worst part is, aside from Mr. Mueller, I’m working with a whole new crew, as I imagine the folks from last week had done sweat enough for the month and then some. Don’t mind going over the lessons again and teaching a fresh batch, or even answering the same sort of questions a second time around. What’s it like on the road these days? How you get so good at this? What happened in Pleasant Dunes, the Sheriff’s Office, over at Carter’s compound, or with Clayton’s people? It’s the same ‘get to know you’ sorta talk, wherein they ask a whole lot of questions and don’t offer much in the way of answers when it comes time for me to ask.

  Not that I ask many questions, aside from the standard, “How’d you find your way here?”. It’s a good one, because it’s fairly open ended and can be answered with as much or little detail as you like. Though most folks round these parts put on a civil front, with all the “how you do’s” and whatnot, the first few years after the Advent were some turbulent times. Even now, 18 years after the fact, law and order only got a tenuous grip outside of New Hope, as evidenced by how the Pugly-Annies are free to run rampant over in Brightpick and the surrounding towns of Rimepeak. Pockets of civilization is the best way I done heard it described, where folks more or less adhere to the old ways in big towns, while outside of them, anything goes.

  Now, most folks tend to be moral and upstanding citizens even outside the bounds of the law. It’s the criminal elements who run roughshod over the social contract, and for the most part, the law-abiding types are left figure out how to get by without any government assistance. Whether that means paying off protection fees like Carter, kowtowing to certain demands like the use of their docks, or bending the rules to help launder money or smuggle illicit goods, people do what they gotta do to survive out here. That’s why it ain’t polite to delve too deep into a stranger’s life, not right away, and while I’m more than happy to open up about what I can, not everyone is so cavalier about telling folks what they’ve done to make it this far.

  Stealing from a generous, but na?ve soul. Leaving slow or wounded companions behind. Exiling the weak or unruly even though their chances of survival are slim to none. That’s just the tip of the iceberg really, while the real dark and horrific stuff is far more common than you’d think. Exploiting the desperate for labour or sex, hoarding resources while others starve, extorting more prosperous settlers with threats of violence, outright murder and cannibalism and so much more, the first wave of settlers all went through plenty of growing pains and most don’t care to talk about it. They all get that same look in their eyes when the subject is broached, a distant, far-off gaze that don’t see nothing in the present because they all lost in the haunted moments of their own dark past.

  That’s what I was talking about when I told Lynn never to underestimate anyone out there. I’d give about 50/50 odds on whether they have blood on their hands, and that’s being conservative. Just look at sweet, matronly Luisa, whose poor son was killed by other settlers and no doubt had approached her with dark intent. Don’t know what she went through, but she came out of it alive and well, and from the sound of things, those other settlers didn’t do so well. Good for her I say, handling her own business like that, though it’s clear she was left with a whole slew of scars. Not necessarily physical ones, at least none that I seen, but she don’t got no man and ain’t trying for no more kids, which I can’t really blame her for.

  Gotta say, that’s one hell of a religion she’s got there though, sending the souls of her son’s killers to go serve him in the afterlife. If the Bible had more of that sort of thing, then maybe I would’ve paid more attention to the Padre and Preacher Rigsby whenever they went on and on about the good book.

  What I’m getting at though is all this dark history makes small talk something of a fine art. Gotta skim the surface without getting in too deep lest it bring up bad memories or worse. Much as I feel for Luisa and wish her all the best, I wasn’t exactly ready to have all that trauma dumped on me before lunch. I ain’t blaming her for it, as I know what it’s like. Sometimes, you feeling fine and dandy then a memory hits you and all the hurt and sadness you didn’t know was there just comes pouring out without warning. Suppose she sees her Matías in me, and I wish there was more that I could do to help, but that don’t mean I’m ready and raring to play therapist for anyone and everyone.

  Or willing to call Luisa mama. If anyone deserves that title, it’s Aunty Ray, but after what I done to my first one, I ain’t so ready or willing to take on a second.

  So as the day goes by and the opportunity for small talk rears its ugly head time and time again, I tread carefully to avoid stepping on any proverbial landmines. Once all my stories are told and retold, I stick to safe topics like the nice weather, where folks hail from in the old world, and how they make their foods, drinks, or textiles. Nothing too interesting, and really, I’d much rather dig all the livelong day than get stuck in the verbal trenches with the fine people of Mueller’s Quay. Got nothing against them, as this is just how I am, and truth is, these people are better than your usual bunch. Sure, they might be overweight and kinda lazy to boot, but they’re a warm and congenial group, even if they do smile too much. A sin I’m also guilty of, so there’s something to be said about stones and glass houses.

  Come quitting time, Mr. Mueller directs me to Bernard and Shirley’s house for dinner, who turns out has two boys Ash and Riley. I do my best to be pleasant company, especially with how both old worlders seem genuinely excited to have me over, almost as excited as their children. So I regale them with more tales of the Frontier and things I seen out in the world, while the kids rapid fire questions which I answer with mostly nonsense because that always gets a laugh. All this while eating a delicious meal of the creamiest mac and cheese I done ever tasted, and sweet pulled pork and potate salad to go with it. That’s balding Bernard’s specialty, but top-heavy Shirley’s got a different sort of surprise for me. Turns out, she’s the village seamstress and she done stitched up three shirts and pants that actually fit, or at least fit better than the ones I been wearing. That there is a relief, because there’s only so much work a belt can do before all that extra cloth bunches up and pinches skin. They’re still a touch baggier than what I’m used to, but they’re miles better than what were apparently Kevin’s hand me downs, which really goes to show how much growing I done missed out on.

  Soon as I bid the lovely family farewell, I heave a long and quiet sigh as I march on down the cobbled path. Today’s been a massive drain on the old social batteries that leaves me good and ready to hide away for the rest of the evening. Problem is, Luisa’s comment about my lack of physical training struck a nerve, because I have been shirking my exercise lately. I stay active enough with all the chores and travelling and whatnot, but that 300m sprint last Friday really left me winded and stitched up. Could’ve gone bad if I’d’ve stumbled, cramped, or run out of juice midway through the dash, which would’ve been the end of me right quick. How’s that for a swansong then, getting got while playing bait because I been too well fed and lazy?

  So much so that I can’t even go for a run after dinner, as my belly is so full I fear I might hurl if I move too quick. Exercise is out of the question for now, so instead, I get to doing dry fire drills out front of the Mueller’s house. There I stand on the other side of the road doing quick draws with my empty Model 10 while my Mage Hands pantomime shooting a pair of unloaded Squires I brung along for just this purpose. The way I see it, while Blastguns would suit them better, I would much rather practice with the Squires for now since I’ll eventually move on to real shooting practice. I imagine that’ll mean dropping the guns fairly often as the recoil knocks the Mage Hands out of existence, so if that’s the case, I’d much rather drop the cheap and serviceable Squires as opposed to my unique, tailor-made sawn-off Forzares which I can’t afford to replace.

  Granted, live-fire practice is a long way’s off. First I gotta get my Mage Hands into the habit of riding out the recoil, being ready to go along with the kick without spoiling my aim. To my growing audience, it must look like I’m a kid again, playing at cowboys and Aberrations with toy guns. The only thing missing is me saying ‘bang’ every time my Mage Hands pull the trigger and make the Squires ‘jump’, only to bring them back down, thumb the hammer, and dry fire the revolver once again. More than one looky-loo stops to ask what I’m up to, and thankfully, some even stick around to watch and save me the trouble of explaining it every couple of minutes.

  Not the most intense workout I ever done, but it’s all I can manage immediately after a veritable feast. I keep at it for an hour, then go for a brisk jog around the village once I’m no longer feeling bloated like a tick. Moving along the cobblestone path is a workout for the neck muscles too as I nod at everyone who greets me as I pass, only to keep right on jogging before they can invite me in for more food or drinks. Soon as I reach the worksite of the future warehouse, I hang a hard right to go along the outskirts of the ranch. The cattle and hoggis are all bunched together for the evening again, with the big horned bulls watching me as I pass and the mostly blind hoggis tracking me with their armoured butts. Hardly the most pleasant sight if I’m being honest, and none of my efforts to make friends with the cattle pay off. Hardly surprising considering the people of Mueller’s Quay slaughter multiple of them every week, which really puts a damper on my spirits as I consider how much pulled pork I just ate.

  Yeah, a rancher’s lot ain’t for me. I can kill a man without blinking an eye so long as I got proper justification, but them hoggis and cattle ain’t never crossed me.

  One interesting thing to note is that contrary to what Mr. Mueller said, there’s more than just wood and nails in the fences around the ranch. Even with Detect Magic going, I don’t see nothing outright, but I get the tingle on my skin of an active ward whenever I get in close to the fences. Ain’t just an Alarm to fend off poachers or wildlife neither, as I ain’t good enough to sense something so minor. No, whatever it is they got Warded into their fences packs a bit of a punch, maybe a Shocking Grasp to dissuade animals from going over, under, or through the wooden slats, or possibly something even nastier. Seems cruel if you ask me, but I suppose it beats having the whole herd run out, or worse, getting trapped inside when a pack of tuskwulves come a knocking at their door.

  There are multiple barns too, massive wooden structures for the animals to take shelter from the elements. Ain’t no need for that here tonight on this sweltering summer night, and I can’t help but smile when I pass the barn I done seen them folks sneaking off to at night. Hardly the most romantic place for a clandestine affair, but then again, romance was probably the last thing on their minds considering there were at least four people heading there. Ain’t none of my business though, so I keep on jogging by until I reach the Mueller’s household again. Worked up a bit of a lather and a stitch in my side from running on a full belly, so I walk it off before doing a bit more exercise. Nothing fancy, just stretches, squats, and shadow boxing, because I can’t really do no push-ups or pull-ups anymore. By the time I’m done with my work out, the sun has gone and fully set, and I head into the house as quiet as a mouse only to see Mr. Mueller and Kevin still up and about in the living room.

  “Howie!” Mr. Mueller calls, grinning from ear to ear as he waves me over. “Come on in and take a seat. We been working on a little something that we’d like you to see.”

  Soon as I set into the room, I gotta stop and do a double take as I spy the chalkboard they got set up against one wall, one covered in a whole slew of familiar numbers and variables listed out in neat and tidy lines. “That’s the Mage Hand Cantrip Formula,” I say, after a quick study of the board, before turning my gaze towards the various sheets of paper spread out across the coffee table depicting snippets of the same formula. “Y’all modernizing it?”

  “See? What’d I tell you?” Mr. Mueller asks, ruffling’s Kevin’s hair with a chuckle. “Told you he’d pick up on it right quick.” Clapping me on the shoulder, he shifts me over to take a seat and continues, “After Kevin told me about your interest in Mordenkainen Conjectures and your plan with Mage Hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. A very interesting Spell, Mage Hand, and far more complicated than it looks at first glance.”

  “I know what you mean.” Takes a hot minute to explain what I’ve gleaned from the Cantrip with how the strict limits to speed, strength, and durability are baked into the Formula to keep it as a Cantrip rather than a First Order Spell, and Mr. Mueller nods along while Kevin blinks and looks lost as a goose. “So my thinking is that if I can identify where those limits are defined in the Formula,” I conclude, feeling butterflies in my stomach as I list out my thoughts to someone who might well be an expert, “Then I can narrow down which sections of the Spell Structure I need to finagle to get more oomph out of the Cantrip, or maybe even bypass those limits entirely to upcast it as First or higher Order Spell.”

  “Ah, I see.” Staring at the chalkboard alongside me, Mr. Mueller’s mind is going a hundred miles a minute as he tracks what I said with what he sees. “I was wondering what those sections were about. Never seen anything like it before. Restrictions and limiters, brilliant really.” Turning to me with a shrug, he says, “I never learned Ethereal Palm, as I never made it to Fifth Order, but what you say tracks. Don’t know enough to say whether your idea will work or not, but I’m game to modernize the Formula if you are. It might not be helpful as you think, seeing how most Conjuration Spells aren’t modernized. Lot of effort went into Evocation, and while Conjuration is a useful School of Magic, it’s also one of the hardest Schools to replicate via technology, so not as much study has gone into it.”

  Which was really the whole idea behind Mordenkainen’s modernization scheme, to make it easier to design technologies built off of Cores or even just simple Aether circuits to replace Orthodox Spellslinging. That’s what Uncle Teddy told me at least, and while he didn’t dissuade me from looking into it, he said it wasn’t really his field of study and couldn’t offer much help. This seems right up Mr. Mueller’s alley though, so I’m eager to hear him weigh in on the subject as we sit down and work through the Formula line by line to see what can be done to simplify it. It’s not as simple as reordering the numbers and variables either. 1+1 = 2 seems simple enough, but if you ever seen the mathematical proof of that single statement, then you’d know that math can get frighteningly complex.

  So we settle in for a night of derivation, extrapolation, factorization, and substitutions, among a whole slew of other things. By the time we call it and head off to bed, the formula on the chalkboard has ballooned to about 5 times its original length, with all sorts of notation scribbled along the sides to explain our work as we go. Ain’t nowhere near done yet either as we only just barely scratched the surface, and my thoughts are filled with numbers and theories as I shower and head to bed. The next morning, I wake up bright and early to the thumping of boots and leave the villagers to their morning Ritual while I work out in my room, doing planks, dips, sit-ups, and more before breakfast. Then it’s the same old same old all over again, as I dig, practice my spells, make small talk, eat big meals, and do lots of math for the next 4 days, with no end to our academic pursuit in sight. When it comes time to head home on Friday, the whole village sends me off with a smile and plenty of jokes not to get into any more trouble like I done last week.

  The return trip goes smoothly as Elodie and her parents pick me up about a half hour away from the Quay. Rather than escort me back to New Hope however, Carter greets me with a taciturn nod and says, “Last week, you asked if I could share the Formula for Wildshape. My answer is no.”

  “Ah.” My shoulders slump to hear it, but that’s his right, so I don’t hold it against him. Ain’t everyone as free and open with their Spell Formulas, and seeing how Wildshape is banned and restricted, I can see why Carter wouldn’t want to share it. “I see. Well, that’s fine. Thanks for considering it.” Because he probably did, else he would’ve just refused outright if that wasn’t the case.

  “It is not because I do not wish to share the Spell,” he continues, waving at me to walk and talk as we head back towards the compound and New Hope beyond it. “You must understand, the ways of the Diné and other First Nation Tribes are not the same as your ways, with your Formulas and Structures.” Which is news to me, so I can’t help but give Carter a good long look. He sees it and smiles, because even though I’m too polite to voice it, there’s plenty of doubt in my eyes. “What do you know of our history?”

  “The broad strokes I guess,” I say, before giving a little shrug. “Maybe a little less. Not much of anything, if I’m being honest. I know that the British, French, Espa?a, and Portuguese all sent settlers to the Americas once they were discovered, with the first two focusing on North America while the latter two went for the South. Tensions rose soon enough, and they all sent armies to conquer the Americas in the early 1500’s. Thought it’d be an easy fight since the Native Americans were using primitive weapons like bows and stone-tipped arrows, while the Europeans had steel pikes, gunpowder muskets, and cannons, but them armies were all decimated soon after they engaged, with only 1 in 10 soldiers making it out of the fight, and less than a quarter of those making it back to their homelands.”

  Wasn’t a coordinated effort or nothing either. Was just the locals fighting back, because while the Europeans had gunpower and metallurgy on their side, the Natives had Spellslingers in numbers greater than anyone could ever imagine. While human Spellslingers were still a big secret over in Europe, it was a way of life for most tribes, as they all learned how to sling at least 2 or 3 Spells by the time they were adults, in a time before Cantrips were even a thing. Mundane muskets and cannons hit hard sure enough, but they become more of a liability than anything else when your foes start slinging Fireballs and Lightning Beams all about to ignite your caches of highly explosive gunpowder, or wander past your sentries under a cloak of Invisibility and get to slitting throats of soldiers while they sleep.

  All of which I lay out in broad strokes to share what I know, and Carter is happy to nod along and listen in. Elodie ain’t none too happy about being ignored until halfway through my explanation, which is around the time I notice and Conjure up a Mage Hand for her to swat out of existence. A few minutes later, I’m all tapped out of historical knowledge, and Carter picks up the slack. “Among many other things,” he begins, in his slow and steady cadence, “The war between the First Nations and the European monarchies revealed the existence of Magic to the masses. Prior to this, it was believed to be the domain of the Aberration, and any human Spellcaster was seen as a monster, traitor, heretic, or possibly even all three. This ignorance was intentionally made widespread by the Immortal Monarchs of the time, as they were content to live in the shadows and hoard their power so that they might rule over the masses unseen. As such, they vilified my ancestors and all the First Nation’s people, claiming us to be godless heathens and Aberration spawn.”

  “Didn’t some Abby fight alongside the natives?” I ask, because that’s what I been told. “I heard tell the Aztecs were big on human sacrifice, making offerings to placate Proggies who viewed them as symbiotic partners.”

  “Yes, the Aztec Empire had a unique relationship with the Progenitors within their borders,” Carter replies, and he frowns to say it. “I know not how true this is, but it is said that many of their revered gods were in fact Deviants, such as the Five Aspects of Gluttony, Lust, Festivity, Gambling, and Obsession.” I shudder to hear it, because the thought of an Aberration that done devoured its Progenitor to become something far worse is scary enough, but the fact that them Deviants were smart enough to work alongside humans is downright terrifying. Proggies are only scary because they pump out Abby, since they’re largely immobile or require a group effort to move them away quickly. A Deviant though? It could look like anything and replicates asexually, producing highly loyal and intelligent spawn capable of slinging all the Spells its ancestor knows the moment they’re born.

  Only good thing to note is that Deviants reproduce slowly, even slower than Proggies can spawn other Proggies, meaning they don’t got no army of gobbos or whatnot to help out. Would make sense then for them to look for other allies to handle the grunt work of gathering biomass and all that, and a civilization of crazed cultists would fit the bill nicely.

  “Then there were the Lords of the Night,” Carter continues, not at all fazed by this sort of talk. “Nine deities each associated with a particular omen, who modern historians believe to be Immortal Monarchs, or beings close to that level who merged with Soulless Aberrations to become more than the sum of their parts.” Waving all of that aside, he continues, “Most of this has to do with South America, where the Aztec Empire reigned supreme, though they originated in Mexico which sits south of the American border. We had no such practices in the north, not among the Diné or any of our allies and enemies. Aberrations and Progenitors were killed on sight, and our histories say we banded together more than once to throw back the Aztecs when they sought to conquer and wage war. When the Mexican-American War broke out in the mid 1800’s almost 3 centuries after the Europeans first arrived on our shores, the First Nations banded together with the Americans to do away with the Five Aspects, the Lords of the Night, and most other Aztec ‘deities’ once and for all.”

  None of which I’ve ever heard about in any real detail, and it sounds crazy as all hell. I do know that the Mexican-American War paved the way for the Natives and the Northern Union to work together during the Civil War, defeating the Southern Confederacy in record time and propelling Abraham Lincoln to become president. Who was then assassinated, which led to the formation of the Métis Nation as multiple Northern states seceded when Lincoln’s successor refused to uphold the agreements Lincoln made with the Natives. Before I can sink my teeth into the subject of American/Métis history and Abby worshiping crazies though, Carter moves on and says, “None of that is relevant to our discussion. What is relevant is that the Europeans waged war against my ancestors at the bidding of their Immortal Monarchs, and in doing so set into motion a sequence of events which led to the widespread usage of Magic we see today. Since the European armies could not secure victory with steel and gunpowder alone, they turned to faith, as their Immortal Monarchs empowered their clergy and militant orders with Magic to keep their knowledge separate from the masses. With Spellcasters joining the battle, my ancestors were driven west and north, until an uneasy peace between our peoples arose because neither side wanted to continue the fight, not with the Aztecs still proving a threat to our South. This in turn gave Sir Issac Newton the time needed to develop the Light Cantrip and lay the foundation for Orthodox Spellcasting as we know it today.”

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  And that’s when I pick up on what he’s putting down, which is a little slower than I’d care to admit. “Meaning Orthodox Spellslinging didn’t come into existence until two centuries after y’all waged war against the Europeans,” I say, wondering why I never saw it before. “So there’s no reason why your Spells should fit into the Orthodox model.”

  “Exactly,” Carter replies. Gesturing at his totems tied neatly to his armband, he says, “There are many similarities, and most of our Spells were later adapted to the Orthodox methodology. Entangling Grasp is one such Spell, as well as Flaming Cloud, Spiritual Weapon, Spirit Guardians, alongside the most iconic First Nation’s Spell of all, Call Lightning.” I grin to hear it, because that Spell is the partially why the Pathfinder rank equivalent to Marshal is ‘Storm Caller’, because anyone who could use Third Order Spells back in the day was a real powerhouse among the First Nation’s people.

  Gotta say, Storm Caller sounds a whole lot more intimidating than ‘Marshal’, though I will say that no one calls Sam Horne the Storm Caller. Probably because it’s a real mouthful, but there could be other reasons too.

  Really makes me think though, because now I’m not so sure about the facts of it all. “What about Summoning Spells?” I ask, since that seems right in Carter’s wheelhouse. “I was told Simple Servant set the standard for those Spells, which was only created in the 1700’s by some Prussian, Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe.”

  “Who created the Spell based on the Summoning Spells of our First Nation’s tribes.” Carter states it like a fact, and I’m inclined to believe him, because that’s always been my general impression of them Native Americans. “That was how my ancestors fought off the Aztecs,” Carter adds, his chest swelling with pride as he says it. “We sought help from the Spirits of nature and fallen braves of the past, for Aberrations and Progenitors are anathema to Mother Earth and Father Sky, otherworldly abominations who seek to plunder and ravage the lands and lakes until nothing is left.” Giving me a smile, he says, “I am told my ancestors saw the European invaders in much the same light.”

  Which has gotta sting, because ain’t no insult like being compared to Abby. “So if y’all ain’t learning Spells with math and Formulas, then I gotta ask; How do you do it? Were you all Innates or something?”

  Belatedly realizing that might’ve been a rude question, I open my mouth to take it back and apologize, but Carter speaks over my attempts to retract the question. “It is no secret,” he says, giving me a slight but undeniable smile as he sees me get all flustered and worried. “I forget sometimes that you are a child of the Frontier, and thus have gaps in your knowledge of old world history. Any child born in the old world would’ve known the answer just from watching television. To answer your question, while we had many Innates who took in the strength of their foes, we also possessed our own methods of casting Spells which are more akin to a Ritual than anything else.”

  “Even Wildshape?” I ask, my brows furrowed in confusion. Carter nods, and I think on it some more before saying, “That… don’t seem possible though? I seen you shift in a matter of seconds, without any chanting or finger waggles to boot, much less any ceremony or whatnot.”

  “And yet, that is how I cast the Spell,” Carter replies, taking no offense at my disbelief. “Look at it another way. What is a conventional Spell if not a highly optimized Ritual? You spend time preparing a Spell Structure in memory, meditate and build it up piece by piece and flow by flow until it moves in synch to a distant metaphysical construct, the source from which your Spell draws power. You then link that Structure’s activation to a chant, a gesture, an effort of will, or some combination of the three. The difference is that I need no Spell Structure within my mind to bind myself to the source. I need only to reach out and touch it, for it is always there, ready and waiting to respond to my will.” Smiling at my flabbergasted expression, Carter gives me a second to let it all sink in before he continues. “Hence why I cannot share the Formula with you, as I am not privy to it. I have been told there is one, but being a restricted Spell banned for use in warfare by the Geneva Convention, there are not many who know it. As a descendant of the Diné however, I am allowed to practice the ways of old, and our Wildshaping Ritual is chief among them.”

  Because it’s a whole lot easier to keep yourself warm and fed in a pre-industrial or pre-agricultural society when you got fur and fangs, especially if you add in human intelligence on top of it all. “How do you carry out a Ritual so quickly though?” I ask, thinking back to all the times he’s shifted. Most of the time spent is getting out of his clothes, with the actual shapeshifting taking a matter of seconds. More than 2, but less than 3, putting it right on par with a conventional Spell, which don’t seem like much time for a Ritual at all.

  “I said it was akin to a Ritual,” Carter explains. “But not exactly one.” Gesturing my assortment of pouches, he says, “You were able to cast the Detect Object Spell as a Ritual while riding on horseback. Is that standard practice for Rituals? No, but you were able to accomplish this due to your familiarity with the Spell and Ritual itself, able to reach out and tap into the Magic without a Spell Structure in mind using the motions, chants, and tools at your disposal. It is the same general principle with Wildshape, in that I have carried out the Ritual so many times that it has become second nature, and no different from casting a Spell in the Orthodox manner. Others can accomplish the same thing using different methods. Prayer. Meditation. Music. Dance. Mudras. Katas. Alchemy. There are countless ways to touch upon the mysteries of the Spirit, and it is nothing short of arrogance to claim only one method correct.”

  Oof. Guess I gotta do a lot of rethinking about how I see magic, and the glory of the Orthodox method. A thought strikes me like lightning, something Carter mentioned offhand without really admitting it, and I gotta ask, “So you don’t have the Spell Structure embedded in memory?” Carter smiles to hear it and nods to confirm, but he don’t elaborate. Not that he needs to, because the implication is staggering as is. Rituals have always been a handy tool to have ready when you got time to spare, not only does it free up room in your head for other Spell Structures to cast on the fly, it also don’t drain nothing from the internal Aether tank. What I mean is that I could cast Rituals all day long, and still retain my full Spellslinging capabilities after the fact, meaning Carter’s ability to Wildshape, Summon, and whatever Ritual-like Magic he got is independent from his ability to cast Spells in a conventional manner.

  So theoretically, he could Summon 3 bears, Wildshape into a bear himself, then go on a bear rampage with his bear buddies before turning back into a human to Sling Spells the normal way. There’s gotta be a downside though, and I’m guessing it has to do with difficulty, as the whole reason Sir Issac developed Cantrips in the first place was because learning Spellcasting at the time was far too difficult even for your average wealthy Joe who had enough money to know how to read and math to begin with.

  All of which is fascinating to learn, but only academically, because none of it is any help to me at all. If I can’t learn the Wildshape Formula, then there’s no chance I can pare it down to Conjure up a working hand, not using mathematics at least. Then again, there was a slim chance of that working to begin with, especially now that I’ve seen how much work goes simplifying a Spell Formula to match modern standards. I been working at it with Mr. Mueller and Kevin for the entire week now, and we barely gotten anywhere at all. Feels like we going in circles with the math, deriving 2 formulas and combining them only to end up with what we had to start with, or something similar enough that it don’t get us any closer to matching standards. There’s no step-by-step process to follow; we just gotta go where the numbers lead us try to arrange them in a way that makes sense without changing the math, which is harder than it sounds.

  The more I learn, the more it feels like I don’t know jack, which is disheartening to say the least. “Well, thanks anyways,” I say with a sigh, unable to hide my immense disappointment. “Was a long shot to start with, so least this way saves me some wasted time and effort.”

  “What does it mean to say ‘a long shot’?” Elodie asks, patiently waiting for the next Mage Hand so she can tear it apart with glee. Really gotta watch what I say around her, because it always throws me for a loop when I gotta explain a figure of speech. Ain’t nothing for it but to do my best, and a few more questions and answers later, she finally gets it. “It is not a long shot,” she declares, fumbling over the unfamiliar combination of words. “It is a very good idea Howie. You are discouraged too easy. You must try first, then decide.”

  “Wise words,” I reply, grinning to hear it, and she accepts the compliment while tearing into a fresh Mage Hand. “Thing is, I can’t really try it, now can I? If your daddy can’t give me the Spell Formula, then there ain’t nowhere else I can get it.”

  “Why must you have the Formula?” Elodie asks, leaning in to check my saddlebags before remembering she’s not supposed to. Giving me a hangdog look, she hides her hands like she’s afraid I’ll give them a tap again, so I lift the flap with a smile and show her the packages of meat and cheese I got stuffed inside.

  Grabbing the ham with a Mage Hand to unwrap and dole out for a snack, I reply, “I can’t pare the Spell Formula down to something First Order without having the Formula in the first place, now can I?”

  “But you can do what you must with the Spell,” Elodie replies, happily tearing into the first slice as soon as I pass it over. “You do not need all those numbers and letters. You just practice yes? And then maybe you learn. Maybe you don’t. Either way, the Spell is all you need.”

  Sounds simple when she says it, and now that I think about it, in her eyes, it probably is. She’s able to Wildshape into a baby Diamondclaw to match her limits, rendering it down to a Second Order Spell as opposed to a Third Order Spell which she don’t got the juice to sling just yet. Or know how, or whatever it is she needs to progress to a more powerful Wildshape. I dunno. On the flip side, Carter and Miss Amelie both know how to squeeze more out of their Spells than what the limits allow, because I doubt a base Third Summoning Spell can bring out 3 bears all at once, or that Wildshaping into a Diamondclaw takes the same amount of juice as Wildshaping into a horse.

  Thing is, how many years of practice do they have with those particular spells? No chance they learned those Rituals here on the Frontier, so he’s probably had at least 2 decades to get good with those particular Spells. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I mull it over and consider the best way to ask if Carter is willing to teach me the Ritual without offending. I’m overthinking it though, because the man chuckles and says, “Elodie is right. You are too quick to give up, as I still had more to say. I have spoken with the tribe at great length regarding this matter, and we believe the same as Elodie, that there is a good chance you will find success by following this path. Orthodox Spellcasting is easy to learn, but exceedingly difficult to master, for the system is built upon a lacklustre foundation. Although Sir Issac Newton was a brilliant man, he did not have all the answers. Many discoveries have been made since then, but Orthodox Spellcasters have yet to adapt, or rather have been unable to because a defining discovery has yet to be made that can improve upon the foundation he built.”

  “Remember this,” Miss Amelie chimes in, giving me a cold, hard stare, only to soften when I offer her a thick cut of ham. “In spite of its high-minded epithet, Orthodox Spellcasting is not only a recent development, it also has yet to give rise to an Immortal Monarch. Contrast this to the fact that most Immortal Monarchs of history were neither Innates nor Intuitives, and you will see that Orthodox Spellcasting is but one manner with which to approach magic, and perhaps not even the best option available. Yes, it brought Spellcasting to the masses, but this had long since been the way of life for the Diné and other First Nations of the Americas. Our ways are more difficult to grasp, but once you have a Spell in hand, that power is truly yours to wield in ways that I cannot describe. The magic becomes a part of you, as opposed to an outside source you’ve merely tapped into, leaving you at the whims of the Spell Structure’s peculiarities.”

  Miss Amelie would likely know best, being an Innate and a… I dunno what sort of Spellcaster you’d call her. Not Orthodox, not Intuitive, and certainly not Ritual, but something else. I can’t say she’s wrong either, because all this time I thought Sir Issac Newton didn’t want to become an Immortal Monarch, but maybe, just maybe, he just couldn’t hack it. Easy to learn, difficult to master sounds exactly like Orthodox Spellcasting, and if her way is the opposite, then it really does sound like my best shot at deriving a Spell to make me whole again.

  So I very carefully and very politely ask, “Uh… Does this mean you’re willing to teach me the Ritual to Wildshape?”

  “No,” Carter replies, at the same time declining any ham for himself. “You are not of the Diné, nor are you part of my tribe, so to impart upon you the ways of a Shaper would run afoul of Federal Law.” Smiling to see me deflate, like he’s having fun jerking my emotions around willy nilly, he continues, “That said, we have agreed to help guide you along this path you have embarked upon, and perhaps the Spirit of your missing hand will come answer your call.” Changing up his tone and expression both to something more solemn and somber, Carter asks, “Howie Zhu, I, Carter Willis, formally invite you into our sacred grove to take part in the Ceremony of Connection. Are you willing to embark upon this journey with us?”

  Which all sounds good and well, except for how the underlying logic of it all goes against the grain of everything I know about magic. That said, it sounds like this isn’t something they offer to just anyone, so it’s clear they’re going out on a limb for me here. “I am willing,” I say, matching his tone and mood to a tee. “And much obliged for the opportunity.”

  Carter nods, and keeps a stony face, but there’s something about the set of his shoulders that tells me he’s pleased by my response. “Ask no further questions regarding this matter,” he says, with a severity that makes me suspect he’ll call it off if I don’t heed this warning. “All will be made clear with the time is right.” Gesturing for me to mount up, he saunters off into the bushes to change shape and adds, “Let us be off. There is much to do if we are to arrive in New Hope before the gates close.”

  Now to me, that sounds like we ain’t gonna be doing the ceremony today, except my guess is totally off mark. As soon as we arrive at the compound, Elodie leads me in through the side gate while her parents cast off their horsie forms before following in after. Cowie and Old Tux don’t need no invitation, as they stroll on in like they own the place, and the good, quiet folk greet them both with smiles and pats aplenty. “Remove your jacket, gun belt, and assortment of pouches,” Carter says, which is about everything I got on besides my long-sleeved button up and comfortable jeans. “Sit,” he commands, pointing at a worn-out patch of dirt in front of one of the four whitewood trees that make up the cornerstones of this compound. A natural chair almost, with the tree roots poking out to ring the seat, and it’s far more comfortable than it looks.

  By now, an audience has gathered to take part in the proceedings, each one falling into their own roles without any need for guidance. Raja sweeps the area around us, clearing away leaves and debris, while balding Mr. Burguet and soft, smiling Duwa light bundles of nondescript herbs on fire which give off a sweet and cloying smoke. They bring the bundles to me and wave them around before smudging my cheeks with their surprisingly cool ash, all while Ines sings a throaty song that ain’t in any language I recognize, but is pleasing to the ear. “Still your mind,” Carter commands, in a tone that brooks no questions or concerns, so I do as he says and focus on nothing. Gotta close my eyes to do it, so I don’t see what happens next, nor do I pay it much time as I touch my tongue to the top of my mouth and pay attention to that and nothing else.

  Aside from the sprinkle of water splashed across my face, like someone dipped their fingers into a cup and flung droplets at me. There’s a drumbeat too, an irregular tempo that don’t got no rhythm to it until I fall in synch with it and realize my heartbeat is matching it. Or the drums are matching my heartbeat, but either way, I got no answers for how that came about. Nor do I have time to even think about it as someone swats me lightly atop the head, and Carter says, “Empty your thoughts. Find your Self. Define it. Envision it. Understand it.”

  So I do that as the audience takes up a chant, a low and rhythmic intonation with the cadence of a prayer, one that soothes the nerves and sets my mind at ease.

  Time passes at a standstill as the ceremony goes on outside, but here within the confines of my mind, there is only peace and emptiness. I see myself, the image placed within my mind with naught but a mere suggestion, a word whispered by someone outside this realm that is my own. This is not the image I see in the reflection of a mirror, but the one I see when I picture myself. A weathered, beaten, downtrodden boy working so hard to be a man, only to realize I got no earthly idea what I’m doing, so I gotta fake it all and make stuff up as I go. I got no facial hair yet, though I got a few stray whiskers poking out, and my lean frame and big head only make my jacket and hat look even bigger than they already are. I said it before and I’ll say it again, I look like a kid at a costume party, someone who borrowed his daddy’s clothes, gun, and pouches to play pretend and make believe like he a gunfighting, Spellslinging tough who knows how to handle himself.

  Which I lean into with the big smiles and easygoing manner, because going the other way won’t make no one take me serious, so why not just roll with the punches? Cost me hand in the end, because no matter how much mettle I showed, Ronald Jackson just didn’t believe I had it in me to take him and his people out. Thought he could walk all over me, so he did, and even though now he’s dead and gone, he done already took my future away from me.

  No, not my future. I still got one, as I might well be a father and husband soon enough. Still sounds weird to say, because I don’t feel ready at all. The concept of having a child is so foreign, so alien, so unexpected, I might as well say I’m preparing for a trip to the moons, because I don’t know the first thing about that either. Fatherhood was always something I figured would happen, but not something I ever prepared for, and since Josie don’t want to bring anyone into it just yet, I can’t even ask Aunty Ray for help. Don’t get it twisted. I’m eager and willing to raise a child, and I will love him or her with all my heart, but I’m also terrified because I don’t know what I’m doing and I hate being caught unawares.

  Not to mention I don’t know how I’m supposed to protect my family with only one hand left to me. Sure, I’m good at what I do, and I can get by with help from my Mage Hands, but good ain’t nearly enough to hack it out here on the Frontier. Good means I rely just a little less on the government than your average townie, but where’s that leave me? Nowhere, that’s where, because even Carter with all his strength and abilities can’t guarantee his family’s safety without giving into the Mafia.

  Yeah, I could be a good little townie and bury my head in the sand, but that won’t mean my people are safe. All I’d be doing is placing their safety in someone else’s hands, and I don’t like having to do that, not one bit.

  Problem is, my hands ain’t all that safe neither, not when I only got the one. I been working so hard to convince myself that I can’t hack it as I am, but I so very desperately want to believe that I can. That there’s some Spell, some trick, some way for me to be the Firstborn again, to stand at the forefront of my peers and set out to conquer the Frontier. With my wife and child at my side preferably, because I don’t want to go weeks without seeing them, but if that’s not possible, I’ll do everything I can to be there for them as often as I can. I remember all too well how lonely it was waiting up for my daddy every night, of sneaking out to stand on the walls and wonder if I done already seen him for the last time in my life.

  So maybe I strike a balance. Get myself back to 100%, and maybe not set out right away. Find work around these parts, doing whatever it is people hire Diviners to do, which is something I still ain’t really looked into. Be around more often than my daddy was, because even though he did everything he could to prepare me for this life, I don’t got many memories of him during my first 8 years of my life. Only really got a solid 6 years to spend with him before I went and got him killed, and now I can’t muster up the courage and determination to even claim I’ll avenge him. How am I supposed to take on the Qin Republic all by my lonesome and make it out in one piece if I go in as I am? I can bluster all I want in front of the Marshal, but ain’t no coinflip on the outcome. No, it’d be more like playing Russian Roulette with a semi-automatic pistol and banking on the gun jamming when it comes time for me to pull of the trigger.

  A suicide mission pretty much, and I done seen what suicide does to those you leave behind. I can’t do that to my family, my loved ones, or my friends, not now and not never. But I can’t well leave my daddy’s killer to run free either, now can I?

  It’s all a moo point anyways, as useful as a cow’s opinion, because a one-handed man will have trouble enough making a life out here, much less standing out from the pack. That’s not the only reason I’m so desperate to fix things though. The truth is, I want to be the Firstborn again because I loved the attention. The expectations. The looks of awe and admiration. Josie still got that for me, but even she see’s that it’s all in the past. That’s why she got all worked up when she heard about me going after Abby last week, because she believes my best years are behind me, and unless I fix what ails me, then she’s completely right.

  So I need this Ceremony of Connection to work. I need a Spell to make me whole again, because that’s the only way I can be the Firstborn again. The only way I can be the man I always wanted to be, the person I want my kids to meet, rather than the shadow of what once could have been.

  Coming to with a gasp, I open my tear-filled eyes to see everyone gathered around me, chanting and drumming away with the same erratic rhythm as before. “You have found your self,” Carter says, sitting cross-legged in front of me with a grim and serious expression. Holding up my carved wooden hand, which he must’ve gotten from New Hope in preparation for this, he passes it over and says, “Now you must find your Spirit. Call to it through the totem, Howie Zhu, and offer it respite within. Show it that it still has a home here with you, that you will be its vessel and work alongside it. Hold fast in your mind the image of your Spirit, its appearance, ability, and essence to strengthen the bond. Above all else, remember hózhó, the balance and harmony between all living things, for this melding is not one of domination, but a partnership in which two Spirits become one.”

  Which is a lot to keep in mind, but I buckle down and do as I’m told. Taking the wooden hand and fastening it to my wrist, I envision how it looked in life and all the things I could do. Snap my fingers. Flip a coin. Pat a nose or tickle a chin. Would sure love to hold two hands at the same time, whether they be Josie’s and Noora’s or even Chrissy’s and Tina’s. Could go back to brushing hair naturally again, read the paper without taking forever to flip pages, and use a fork and knife to cut into a thick slab of steak without taking so long it’s cold by the time I eat it. All this and more, I envision as I call out to the hidden spirit of my hand, the phantom fingers I waggle so often which I will to become one with again. I can make myself a hand, I just need that connection to make it work proper, that link between mind and body that only the Spirit of my hand could provide.

  Alas, try as I might to hold all that in mind, the Magic doesn’t come to me. I don’t know how long we sit there for, but eventually, the drumming and chanting stops and Carter reaches out to put his hand on my shoulder. “Little longer,” I say, brushing his hand aside. “I think I almost got it.”

  A lie, but he probably knows it, and he places his hand on my shoulder again. Can’t help but growl in frustration as the sensation fades away, but he don’t blink one bit. “It was a good effort Howie,” he says, and I can tell he’s trying to be gentle about it. “Though you were unable to find success, few ever do their first try. There will be a second, and more thereafter so long as you care to make the attempt, but not tonight.”

  I heave a sigh and feel the tears spill out, because there ain’t no holding them back. “Sorry,” I say, too ashamed to look the other man in the eyes. “Don’t know what came over me.”

  “You want this too much,” he says, and there ain’t no denying it. “You feel the loss of your hand has made you less than you are, and you hope to reclaim it again.” Tilting his head, Carter asks, “Why? Even with one hand, you are still capable of great things. Look around Howie. The dock by the lake, the cobblestone path leading to, the water tower and more, you helped build all this as you are, so what is it you feel you are lacking that a second hand will give you?”

  “Ain’t about what I can and can’t do,” I reply, making sure there are no more tears as I draw a deep breath and sigh. “It’s about who I am. Can’t be the Firstborn with only one hand, now can I?”

  Carter doesn’t answer right away, and he got a curious look in his eyes, one I read as confused amusement. Man even cracks a small smile, which means I seen more emotion out of him today than I’ve seen in weeks of working alongside him. He kept frosty when Elodie was missing, and now he’s almost downright sentimental. “I did not pay much attention to the tales of the Firstborn,” he says. “So I did not think much of you when we first met. It wasn’t until after the first Aberration attack that I learned of who you were and the tales of your exploits. Still, I paid them no mind, because I thought your days of adventure were behind you.”

  I chuckle and hold up my stump of a hand, while clutching the wooden model in my left. “You weren’t wrong.”

  “No, I was.” Standing up, he brushes off his pants and offers me a hand to help me up. “I thought you eager for bloodshed, hungry for it, but I was mistaken. When the Mafia rode in, you saw only a threat, and stood ready to fight for us. After they attacked you on your way home, your first thought was not of your own safety, but ours, and you returned to make sure we were safe and sound. During the Aberration attack, you did not retreat and seek shelter within our walls, but set out to distract them and buy time for me and mine to mount a defense.” Feeling bashful, I break eye contact to brush the dirt off my pants, but Carter ain’t having none of it as he takes me by the shoulder and continues. “Last week, you heard gunfire and rode headlong towards it, but not before sending the rest of us away. You then tried to do so a second time once you learned how serious the matter was, yet offered Clayton your assistance like it was a given. Even after it became clear they would rather to risk their lives to save their loved ones instead of waiting for assistance as they should, you were determined to help, even though you owed them nothing and wasn’t asked to go along.” Giving me a genuine smile, Carter clasps my hand and says, “To me, that is who you are, and that is who the Firstborn is. Someone ready to risk your life for strangers without asking, because you see this as your duty, your calling, your responsibility as a child of the Frontier. That is why I invited you to participate in this ceremony, but whether you have one hand or two, you are still the Firstborn in my eyes, and you would do well not to forget it.”

  He don’t wait for answer, nor does he stick around for any thanks, just heads off and expect me to follow along because we gotta hop to if we wanna make it back to New Hope before the gates close for the night. Today’s given me plenty of food for thought, but one thing’s for sure. I got a whole lot of baggage I ain’t acknowledged before, and whether I’m the Firstborn or not, I got a whole lot of decisions ahead of me, and possibly plenty of preparations I need to make.

  Would be nice though, being the Firstborn and on the road with my kid and wives. Me, Noora, Josie, and baby, all riding up and down the Frontier with Cowie and a couple of his kids too. Forget the Firstborn’s Frontier born. It’ll be Firstborn and Sons. Or Firstborn and Daughters. Or Firstborn and Family. Okay, the title needs work, but it’s a start, a glorious one full of hope and possibilities.