There’s power in hope, so much so that it’s almost a Spell unto itself.

  It ain’t real, not in the sense that you can see, smell, hear, taste, or touch it, but hope exists all the same, and people would be miserable without it. Merely having hope changes things for the better without affecting anything real at all. Hope lifts you up and dusts you off, or at the very least gives you the drive needed to do so, and armed with hope alone, you can face nigh insurmountable odds with a smile on your face. Might not save you from your ignoble fate, but it’ll let you go out on your own terms or believe that you’re moving onto a better place. That’s how Marcus managed to go out with a smile, even though he must have been in tremendous amounts of pain, by clinging to the hope that he’d see his son Darren again, and that eventually, one day in the distant future after a long and fruitful life, his wife Simone would join them.

  That’s the power of hope. And faith, I suppose, but the way I see it, the latter only exists to give rise to the former without letting things like facts and logic get in the way. I’m talking about hope though, as it’s what drove the settlers to abandon their lives in the old world to make a home here in the new. It got them through those initial weeks, and later on through the first frozen winter, and still holds a candle against the darkness and the uncertain future of everyone living next door to the Divide. That’s why the town is called New Hope after all. Most folks saw the badlands and abandoned all hope, but Theodore Ellis didn’t turn away. No, he stood firm and came up with a plan, then gathered like-minded individuals to help carry it out to fruition without any guarantee of success. He did it because he held onto hope, hope for a better future in which the Divide is conquered and cleared out, a hope shared by many heroes of our time like Knight Captain James Rigsby of the Catholic Templars, Storm Caller Sam Horne of the Métis Pathfinders, Captain Marcus Clay of the Rangers, and many more.

  Like my daddy, who took me from my mama’s still warm body and marched out into the night, risking life and limb in the dark, barren badlands on the faint hopes that the smoke he saw earlier that same day at the edge of the Divide would lead him to salvation. A long shot against all odds, a Hail Mary move that should’ve ended in abject failure, but wouldn’t you know it, fate conspired to put a pregnant Aunty Ray there in the badlands because she didn’t trust Uncle Raleigh not to get himself killed.

  That’s the power of hope, to make miracles out of nothing. An invisible, intangible force, one which can be found anywhere and everywhere, yet can be so elusive all the same. It’s difficult to hold onto, while damn near impossible to take away. Even if you manage such an impractical feat, and all it takes is a spark to reignite those extinguished hopes into a blazing fire once more. Hope is what gave Aunty Ray the courage to sit tight while Uncle Raleigh was gallivanting about, and Marcus the nerve to bring a child into this fierce, untamed world. Made Uncle Teddy double down on his plans for the Blue Bulwark, and convinced Uncle Art to spread his teachings on herbs and medicines to anyone and everyone who’d listen. Most of all, hope inspired the mythos of the Firstborn, which ain’t just a title or callsign. No, it’s an icon, a role model, a symbol of hope out here on the Frontier for anyone and everyone to look up to. The first of a new generation here on the Frontier, one who’d lead his peers to conquer and tame these wild and dangerous lands. Anyone who heard the tales would find hope for the future, because with someone like the Firstborn serving as the tip of the spear, then victory was all but assured.

  That’s the power of hope. It’s a state of mind, a Christian virtue, an innate desire and longing for a better future independent of fact and evidence. You cannot survive on hope alone, because if wishes were fishes, then ain’t no one would starve, but you can’t survive on food alone. You need more, more than shelter and security, love and companionship, community and purpose, because even if you have all that, you still need hope. Without hope, life is bleak and meaningless, an empty existence as you subsist from day to day and run out the clock until you meet your maker. That’s what hope gives you. A goal. A purpose, a reason to get up every morning and give it your all.

  And what is that if not magic?

  That’s the Spell Carter cast on me, one that’s reignited my hopes. Hope for the best, and plan for the worst, that’s what my daddy always said, but somewhere along the way, I started skipping over that first step. Sure, I kept banging my head against the wall and trying to find new ways to make up for my missing hand, except I forgot to hold fast to hope. To dare dream of a future in which I succeed, and in doing so, reclaim that which was lost to me. Or perhaps was simply misplaced, because it seems I’ve had it all along, my title, my callsign, my purpose as the Firstborn of the Frontier. Wasn’t just because I lost my hand though; no, looking back on it now, I think I lost hope the day I got that letter in the mail disavowing my daddy, the one that said he wasn’t no American Ranger and showed me that I’d never be one neither, not unless I gave up my Frontier born status to become American too.

  And what is the Firstborn if not a Ranger? A Frontier Ranger, rather than American, as I saw it, but that letter told me those don’t exist and shattered all my hopes and dreams. Now though? Now I’ve found them again, because the Firstborn don’t gotta be no Ranger to do what he does best. They said my daddy wasn’t no Ranger, but that don’t take away from all the good he did, all the people he helped and things he built. The lack of a badge won’t diminish any of my accomplishments either. I can still help folks in need and hunt Abby and outlaws both, become the Firstborn I’ve always aspired to be with only a small change in direction. So long as I hold fast to that vision, then there will come a day when I earn the right to the title, become the icon, role model, and symbol of hope that my daddy wanted me to be, that Uncle Teddy still hopes I will be. He ain’t given up on me yet, because if he did, he wouldn’t be pushing me to earn my bronze badge in every School of Magic, or taking precious time away from his busy schedule to sit me down for lessons every week.

  Here's the million-dollar question though: Do I still want to be the Firstborn?

  Well… yes, but can I afford to chase those dreams with a possible baby on the way? Sure, my daddy did his thing even though he had me to look after, but I remember how sad and lonely I was those early years when I thought he didn’t love me, couldn’t stand to see me because I done killed the love of his life. How can I bear to put my child through the same thing? Can’t be the Firstborn without sacrifice, but it ain’t fair to demand that of the Firstborn’s first born, now is it? They didn’t ask to be my kid, so why should I allow my dreams to take away from their lives? Not to mention how even if I do measure up and become deserving of the title, that don’t mean I’ll live forever. Every encounter against Abby and outlaws is a roll of the die, and while I can stack the odds in my favour well enough with training, equipment, and preparation, all it takes is one mistake, one hidden Abby or errant Bolt to end my days.

  Not so bad when you living for yourself. Sure, some folks will be sad about having to bury me 6 feet under, but won’t change nothing, not really. When you’re a dad though? A husband and provider? Then things are different, because you got a wife and child depending on you, and I might well have two. Wives that is, though I suppose more children is also in the cards, which only further stacks the deck in favour of hanging up my hat and gun belt both. Fun as it sounds to bring the whole family out on the road, that’s something for later when the kid’s a little older. 6 at the earliest I’d say, while 8 would be ideal even with people to help look after them. My daddy only had to look after me and Old Tux after all, while I’d have to watch over Josie and Noora too. Might be they take to Basic like ducks to water, but while Noora’s got the drive to learn and succeed, Josie’s mostly just going along with the flow.

  Which won’t be possible if she got a bun in the oven, now that I think of it. Basic’s only for 6 months, which means by the end of it she’ll be 7 or 8 months pregnant. Can’t imagine she’ll be in any sort of shape to carry a 30-kilo pack on a 20-klick march or scale walls and swing on ropes in an obstacle course. Doubt she could even fit under the chicken wire with her belly so big, much less crawl through the mud while live fire Bolts fly overhead. Then again, Tina ain’t said nothing about that sort of training, which makes me think Captain Jung’s pulling far too many punches, or more likely got her hands tied down by the bean counters and pencil pushers who don’t want no one taking any risks at all.

  Which means I’ll have to train Josie up myself if I want to bring her out on the road, and Noora could use some extra lessons too. Got plenty of time, 6 years at the minimum given my earlier timeframe, but that doesn’t solve the issue of how I’m gonna put food on the table in the meantime. Maybe go hunting in spring and autumn and spend summers and winters at home? Or shorter trips, two weeks to a month, then come back to rest, recuperate, and refamiliarize myself with the family. Could always find a different sort of work, but that means giving up the dream entirely, because there’s no way to stay sharp while holding a steady 8-6 job, one that’ll dull your edge through sheer drudgery alone as you go through the same tired old routine day in and day out.

  All thoughts which go rattling through my head at the sight of Noora and Josie waiting just inside the gates. The first lights up, but the second lights out and runs over to leap into my arms, which startles Old Tux something fierce and gets the bystanders to frowning. Unbecoming behaviour here in New Hope, where holding hands is seen as almost scandalous and linking arms straight up deviant. I can only imagine what they think of Josie throwing both arms around my neck as I wrap her in a big bear hug and lift her feet off the ground. All while being real careful not to squeeze her midsection too tight, because Lord knows if that might hurt the prospective baby. “Hey there beautiful,” I whisper, touching my nose to hers and wishing we were alone so I could taste her lips. “Missed you.”

  “Missed you too, guapo,” Josie replies, flashing a devilish little smile as her voice drops down to a whisper. “I worked real hard and learned the Cantrip, so how about you bring me home and I show you what I can do?”

  Meaning the Contraception Cantrip, but the double entendre gets me all hot and bothered. Alas, duty still calls. “Would love to,” I say, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath to keep calm and take in her delightful scent, one with heavy notes of flowers and spices that feel like home. “But I gotta settle our guests into the Church and let Aunty Ray know I’m back first. She won’t get a wink of sleep if I don’t check in, and she’ll raise all holy hell if she finds out I just left her to sweat.”

  “And afterwards?” Josie asks, her piercing stare striking the perfect balance between demand and desire.

  Straight to her home and bed, is what I want to say, but I glance over at Old Tux and Cowie who are both tired and hungry. Josie gets it, but her eyes glow with an intensity that tells me I’ll pay dearly for this delay and enjoy every moment of it. Was raised to think women were all timid and demure when it came to this sort of thing, but this fiery Latina and her Aegyptian sorta sister are teaching me different.

  So I do my best to restrain my ardour while Elodie greets Josie and Noora. The sweet girl is clearly enamoured and excited to see them both, holding their hands and swinging her arms as they chit the chat on the way to the church. Though less obvious about it, Noora is plenty fond of the girl too, and gives me a look with her smoky eyes that conveys as much followed by a coquettish glance at the sweet and innocent Elodie. Course I shake my head in a stern no, and Noora pouts to see it, but I don’t need Miss Amelie turning into a Diamondclaw and tearing my head off when I send her daughter back in the morning smelling of me and two other women to boot.

  Or Carter siccing his Summoned bears on me, which I gotta say are a whole lot cuter than expected. Them big murderous animals got no right looking as cute and cuddly as they do.

  Even if I wasn’t worried about homicidal and powerful parents coming after me, I ain’t interested in any other women. Two is already more than enough, and truth is, trying to figure out how to fit them both into my future has really been stressing me out. It’s all fun and games until you gotta figure out how your taxes are gonna work, or how I’m supposed to give power of attorney to the both of them when only one can be my legally wedded wife. Sorta brung it up last week, when I told Noora she’d have to decide how she feels about all this, because I gotta roll with the punches and can’t leave Josie in the lurch if she’s pregnant with our baby. The look on Noora’s face though was one of dazed panic, as she’s very much the type to live in the moment, whereas I’m all but incapable of such.

  Like this. I get Noora’s interest, because Elodie is a gorgeous, green-eyed, copper-skinned beauty with a slim yet athletic build. Soft in all the right places, but toned too, as I found out firsthand and have been trying to forget ever since. Thing is, a night of passion with Elodie would quickly grow complicated, because she is not one for nuance or subtlety. She’s also comically innocent, and while I think she’d be quick to adapt, I ain’t willing to be the one to tarnish that sheen, if you know what I mean. Her innocence is a part of that charm, and rather than ruin it, I would sooner safeguard her from all the shades of grey out there in the world.

  Yeah, even though Elodie seems keen on being my ‘wife’, I’ve already adopted her as another sorta-sister, a lively and rambunctious one to go with the cheerful and dutiful Tina and the quiet and introspective Chrissy.

  Who both greet me with hugs a plenty when I show up at the church with all my guests in tow, and Aunty Ray keeps me around for a cup of coffee and a slice of alabaster nut cake. The first is brewed to perfection with just the right amount of bitter bite and no sugar at all, while the latter is deliciously moist and not overly sweet. A marked and welcome change from the desserts in Mueller’s Quay which are all drizzled in maple syrup, caramel, sweetened condensed milk, honey, fruit syrup, or some other sweetened dressing. Don’t get me wrong, I got a sweet tooth bigger than most, but even I got my limits when it comes to sugar intake.

  Or maybe not, because soon as it’s polite, I make my exit with Noora and Josie and the three of us scurry off to settle Old Tux and Cowie in the barn. Don’t even make it back to Josie’s place, as we all collectively decide that we’ve waited long enough and make our way into my bedroom, where my too-small bed becomes more of a perk than anything else as we all cram in together atop it.

  And each other, but a gentleman never kisses and tells, no matter how much I would love to talk about it.

  Having learned from prior debacles, I close my windows and pull down the curtains before falling asleep, and against all odds, wake up early enough to risk getting the girls out unseen. Neither one are pleased to be waken so early and ousted from my bed and my home, but we gotta keep up appearances for at least a little longer until we’re sure Josie is pregnant. If she is, then it’s all done and dusted, but if not, then I’m thinking we keep things under wraps for as long as we can, though neither one seem to care all that much about their reputations. Josie because she doesn’t think there’s anything to be ashamed of, and Noora because she doesn’t care what other people think, but it’s one thing to hold high-minded ideals, and another altogether to put up with all the sideways stares, hushed whispers, and not so quiet condemnations.

  They could weather it easily, as they both made of sterner stuff, but if I can spare them any amount of pain and grief, I’ll move Heaven and Earth to do it.

  Feeling more energetic than I have in days, I head out for a run after dropping Noora and Josie off, if only because I haven’t been able to do so at Mueller’s Quay. Can’t go in the morning, as that’d interrupt their daily Ritual out on the docks, while night-time is a no-go because of how much they feed me. Tried to eat less at dinner one night, but then my hosts Brendan and Susan thought there was something wrong with their cooking, and no amount of talk could convince them I just wanted to go for a run after without throwing up. Ended up eating more than any meal before then, which I don’t regret one bit since that cheesy lasagna was to die for and the fresh baked cinnamon buns drizzled in icing and caramel were just an absolute delight. Paid for it later as I barely got through my dry-fire drills without upchucking half my dinner, and fell asleep mid math with Kevin and his da.

  Which was embarrassing to say the least, and doubly so when I woke up on the couch the next morning.

  Lotta people hate cardio, and while I wouldn’t say I love it, I do enjoy the rush that comes from pushing beyond my limits. You run and you run and you run some more, and it’s miserable as all heck once you short of breath and you got a stitch in your side. If you quit there and try to walk it off though, that misery stays with you, because there ain’t no getting rid of it easy. Instead, you should keep running, push on through the pain and light-headedness until your brain finally realizes your body can’t take it without a little extra something something. Then come the endorphins, a huge rush that makes every breath of air taste sweeter than the last, and your sweat-soaked shirt feel like a million bucks draped around your shoulders because you done made it this far.

  Granted, it ain’t as far as I’d like, and soon enough, I head home to hit the head and get rid of what remains of that cheesy lasagna, alongside all the other delicious foods I done ate all week. Course I gotta put a pin in that when I see all the horses are out in the ranch alongside Cowie and his girlies. Set free by Elodie, who’s an early riser same as me, and she waves with both hands from atop Winnie as she rides on over to greet me. “Bonjour Howie,” she says, followed by, “I did not peek through your windows, but you did not answer the door, so I went to go see Cowie and Old Tux.” Craning her neck to look past me, she loudly asks, “Where are Josie and Noora?”

  “At home, asleep in their own beds as they should be at this time,” I reply, matching her volume and adding in all that extra information in case someone is listening. For all I know, Aunty Ray’s standing by her kitchen window doing this or that, or Tina’s in the barn filling up their feeding troughs, or Chrissy’s over by the wally nook watching them sleep all curled up in their leather pouch hammocks. “Me, I went for a morning run to sweat a bit before the sun comes out and it gets too stifling to do much else.”

  Balling up her hands into fists and planting them on her hips, Elodie hits me with a big, expressive pout and declares, “Last week you say we are not allowed to run in town.”

  “No, I said the horses aren’t allowed.” Smiling to see her pique, I climb up onto the fence to give her head a pat. “You can go running if you like, but you can’t bring any of the horses or cattle.” Just to be safe, I add, “And you aren’t Wildshaped either. And you can’t bring any other animals.” Then again, I’d bet it’d make for a real sight if she went running down the main thoroughfare with a whole pack of marties, and I’d pay good money to watch a wally or kiccaw race. Neither animal is built for speed, not really, but a hoppy wallaby is adorable as all heck when moving at a breakneck pace, and I bet them kiccaws will look real cute trying to move quick.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Once Elodie’s ire is quelled, I head inside to do my business and come out feeling 10 lbs lighter and a thousand times cleaner. As for the girl, she’s having a grand old time with the horses, but she’s eager to get a kick start on the day. Unfortunately, I gotta let her down gentle once we got the horses back inside and we’re both headed back to the church, because I got a lot of fingers in a bunch of pies and barely got time for myself. “I got some work to do at Danny’s,” I say, grimacing at the thought of staring at schematics all morning and making sure it’s all kosher, but the whole Wildshaped hand might not go through, so it’s best to keep my options open. “I’ll see you again at lunch though. Booked us a table at the pub, where they serve ‘old world style’ food.” It’s more for Carter and Miss Amelie, but I’m sure Elodie will get a kick out of it too, what with all the shiny trophies and mock up memorabilia.

  She don’t look none too pleased though, frowning something fierce. “Always work. Work out there at the quay, then work here in town. Work now, work later, work yesterday and tomorrow too. When is it time for Howie to play?”

  Which I parse as her way of saying I do too much, rather than actually asking when I’ll have free time. “Howie don’t got no time for play,” I reply, and she guffaws to hear me speak in third person. “This isn’t work exactly, its more like studying, which I don’t get much time to do these days.”

  That’ll change soon as I’m done my hours in two weeks, though I’ll probably take a couple days off and enjoy myself up to the 4th of July festivities. Assuming that’s still happening of course, since the Mindspire is still going strong and the Proggie has yet to get got, but I have full faith that Uncle Teddy will get it done. They’re out on the lake today doing training and prep, so it wouldn’t come as any surprise if the Proggie is dead and gone by this time next week. Heard tell Wolfgang had to trade his big battle hammer in for a pair of short spears and didn’t like it much, while Tina and the boots saw Drex Durden dancing underwater with his kukris and looking no less deadly and effective for it. As for weaponry, they brought out a cache of chuckers, big, bulky Aetherarms based on the Catapult Spell Core which launches physical projectiles at about a hundred meters per second.

  Nowhere close to the velocity you get with Bolt Aetherarms, but given how them chuckers are throwing metal spikes as thick as my forearm which weigh in at around 2 kilograms each, that more than makes up for their lacklustre speed. What I wouldn’t give for an hour with one of those in an underwater shooting range…

  “Howie,” Elodie says, interrupting my wistful thoughts with an all-too serious expression. “Papa says that if you chase two bunnies, you will catch neither and go hungry. You must focus on one bunny at a time if you want to be fed, understand?”

  It’s adorable how she gets when she’s dropping wisdom on me, with her eyes all wide and sagely as she watches me to make sure I’m paying attention. “I understand,” I say, working hard to stay serious as the grave. “I know my limits though. I ain’t taking on too much all at once.” I hope. Even if I am, I can just work harder for longer and get it done through sheer grit. Something will bear fruit eventually, whether it be my practice with Mage Hand to manipulate it through familiarity, or my attempt to break down the Spell Formula into something more modern and recognizable. Could even be the Wildshape Ritual, though I think the automaton hand is most likely to succeed. Which is all the more reason why I can’t skip out this week, since I didn’t do any work on it last Saturday because of the talk I had with the girls and the whole pregnancy thing.

  Ain’t really sure which way I want things to go. On the one hand, I’d love to be a father, and the sooner the better, because that’ll give him a big leg up compared to his peers. It’s same deal as what my parents wanted for me, without as much risk since we in a big town with top notch medical care and enough defenses to send whole armies of Abby skittering back into the badlands. Then again, a child might well mean the bitter end to all my dreams, with little hope of picking it back up again even if I can make up for the loss of my hand.

  So it’s a toss up really, but I don’t gotta decide how I feel. Not until after we know for sure at least, which is when I can do all that soul searching and whatnot. Instead, I have a nice, simple, sugar-free breakfast at the church, then head over to Danny’s to do some work on the prosthetic. He don’t ask why I didn’t show up last week, and I don’t make any excuses, but nothing is awkward about it as we work together in silence. Aside from the occasional question of course, as he still knows a lot more than I do, able to spot a couple glaring issues in my drawn schematics with little more than a glance. Not because I wasn’t paying attention, but because I’m reaching too far too fast, unwilling to waste time, effort, and materials on a basic prototype before moving on to something more advanced.

  But Danny don’t get frustrated, just explains my mistakes and directs me to whatever reading material I need to fill in the gaps in my lacking education. I invite him and his family out for lunch too, but he waves me off without giving a reason why, though I can easily guess. Lot of people were none too pleased when I gunned down them mafiosos in the Sherrif’s Office, and I’m guessing his ma is one of them. Heard they had a town meeting where they raised all sorts of hypotheticals like what if I missed and started a long and drawn-out gunfight, or what if I’d been wrong and those had actually been guards. Well, then I’d be dead, and them mafiosos would be too, or I’d be arrested and jailed for murdering 4 innocents, but that didn’t happen, now did it? Besides, the Sherrif’s Office is right next to the town hall, so even if them deputies dropped the ball on both accounts, there are always plenty of Rangers working just across the street.

  Idiots. Like I had any other choice except to draw and shoot. That’s the thing though. They think I was guessing, that I opened fire on a hunch, and no amount of explaining will change their minds. Not because they’re dumb necessarily, but rather because they’re lacking in ability, meaning they can’t even imagine themselves staying cool, calm, and collected in a situation like that, so of course I wasn’t either. They’re judging me by their own standards, unable to fathom a world in which they’re sorely outclassed by a child not even half their age, when truth is I’d say I’m the gold standard for how you gotta be when you out in the Frontier.

  After lunch, I bring Elodie, Tina, Chrissy, Josie, and Noora out for a walk in the park, where we have a grand old time seeing the sights and watching Elodie’s antics. She brings out a side of Chrissy I ain’t seen in years, convincing her to climb trees, run across the grass, and swing higher than ever before of her own volition. Elodie’s got a sixth sense for Chrissy’s focus, knowing exactly when her attention slips and bringing her back out of her head with a touch or question. The girls all get along great too, aside from a bit of tension between Tina and Noora that has yet to be resolved, but I’m sure they’ll work it out between them soon enough.

  It’s all good up until we’re done eating dinner, which is when I was planning to slip away with Josie and Noora for a bit of 1 on 1 on 1 time, but Carter got other ideas. “Would you care to attempt the Ceremony again?” he asks, in front of the whole table without making any effort to hide it.

  Throws me for a bit of loop that does, since a Ritual for Wildshape sounds like something you’d want to keep on the sly. “That possible?” I ask, glancing around at the confused expressions from almost everyone at the table. “I mean, we don’t got no big tree with a root seat, or candles and packets of herbs to burn. Not to mention no drums, drummers, or chanters.”

  “None of that is necessary,” Carter replies, but he don’t bother explaining. As for me, I got no reason to refuse, so I excuse myself and make nice with Josie and Noora before heading out of the church where Carter is stood waiting at the doors. Without Elodie and miss Amelie mind you, who are still inside helping Aunty Ray with the clean up, as I hope Noora and Josie are too. Can’t hurt to win extra points before I tell the woman who done raised me I’m two-timing with two ladies and neither one minds. “I have thought it through,” he begins, gesturing at me to follow as we head out into the night. “The Ceremony of Connection is a sacred rite meant to help us connect with not only our Spirits, but with ourselves and our ancestors. As such, perhaps our way is not for you. Not only because you are not of the Diné, but also because you seek a partnership with a remanent of a whole, a portion severed from yourself which you mean to remake once more.”

  “I see,” I say, not really following, but Carter’s already said more to me in two days than he has in the six weeks prior, so I don’t really want to press my luck.

  “No, you do not,” Carter replies, without any heat or accusation in his tone, as it’s only a matter of fact. “But you will. The Ceremony is meant to bridge a connection between two separate and distinct entities. It takes place within our sacred grove, our sanctuary that is of nature and apart from it, because that is our place and the place of the Spirits, with a foot in both worlds yet never wholly a part of either.” Turning to give me a pointed look as we head towards my home, he adds, “That is not your place. You are not of the Diné, nor are you being taught to Shape. You may have a foot in two worlds, but not the same worlds as ours, so we must find your place.”

  “So what’s all that mean then?” I ask, still trying to wrap my mind around the whole thing. “You gonna just… come up with a whole new Ritual for me? Because I’ve been trying to come up with a new Spell, and believe you me, that’s a whole lot more difficult than it sounds.”

  “You hear, but you do not listen.” Again, there’s no heat in Carter’s tone, no anger or even tired resignation. No, he’s just telling it like it is, and I can appreciate that even if it makes me feel the fool. “I have said before that our method of casting Spells is akin to a Ritual, but not a Ritual in fact. They are merely similar in many ways, with significant differences that you lack the knowledge to comprehend, and I the comprehension to explain. The location, the candles, the smudge sticks, the drums, none of that is necessary for the Ceremony. They are merely there to help us connect with our heritage, a heritage you do not share or desire to share, so I should have known the Ceremony would be unsuccessful.” Pausing to think it through, Carter falls silent for a long minute before finally coming up with an explanation. “You see me Shape, and you attribute that to the Wildshape Spell,” he says, giving me a look and waiting for me to nod before continuing, “When in fact, there is no such Spell, not as you perceive it. Think on why that might be.”

  Because an answer given doesn’t stick as well as one you come up with yourself. I get it, so I set my brain to work going over all the facts, and everything I know about Magic. It doesn’t take long to figure it out either, and the only reason I didn’t already know it was because I never bothered to think about it beforehand. “There’s no singular Wildshape Spell,” I say, and Carter nods to hear it. “Or rather, no singular Spell that allows you to Shape into all manner of different creatures. Instead, it’s a different Spell for every animal, which is why you have a totem for every Shape you take, and why not all of you can Shape into the same forms.” So far so good, but while I was talking, something else came to me. “Oh! Raja’s ugly horse face! It’s a different Spell for every caster even, a custom one based on the caster’s understanding of the Shape they want to take. That’s how Miss Amelie can Shape into a giant diamondclaw, while Elodie can Shape into a small one. Because they understand the form well enough to change the parameters of their own unique Spells.”

  Which is entirely different from Polymorph, the Fourth Order Transmutation Spell I thought they were using before I learned about Wildshape. That turns the target into a creature of the caster’s choosing, but I imagine it’s only in appearance, without the benefits of added strength, ingrained instincts, or Innate Spellcasting like what Elodie gets from turning into a diamondclaw. It’s incredible when you really think about it, because on the surface, Wildshape is only a Second Order Spell, but rather than upcasting to get more use out of it, you actually come up with a new Structure for a Higher Order Spell and make full use of all that extra Aether that would otherwise go wasted.

  It's the difference between adding metal plates to a wooden club so you can hit harder versus building a club completely out of metal. Obviously the second is more effective, because it was built from the ground up with using metal in mind, while the first just had some extra metal tacked on after the fact. Same with Spells. Upcasting a First Order Spell at Second Order power levels is almost always less efficient than simply casting a Second Order Spell, which is why you sometimes see variants of Spells that are similar to lower Order Spells, but require an entirely new Structure to cast.

  “But how does that work?” I ask, able to grasp the general gist of it all, only to get utterly lost as soon as I try to dig a little deeper. “How can this Ceremony, without any real structure or convention to it, create a Spell out of nothing? One unique to the caster at that, tailored to their personal understanding and perception?”

  “How are you able to use math to outline a Structure which you embed in memory and gives you the ability to cast Spells?” Carter asks, and he’s got me there. I know it works, that that’s how it’s done, but as for the mechanics behind it, I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who can answer that. Not even Sir Issac Newton, not without a whole bunch of conjecture. Tapping me on the chest, Carter says, “However you access it, the ability to wield magic is already within your grasp. I am only here to help guide you towards finding the magic you seek, the same way my elders guided me. That is our way, the old ways which served my people for many centuries long before the Europeans even knew of our existence. The Blessing Way, the Enemy Way, the Night Way, the Storm’s Way and more, so many are lost to me and my tribe here on the Frontier, but the Shaper’s Way? This I can share with you, if only in brief.”

  There’s a pain in his tone that I reckon he rarely lets slip, a sense of yearning that goes beyond mere homesickness. Carter couldn’t have been much older than I am now when he left home for good, and I get the sense that unlike most settlers who came here because they had nothing to lose, he lost a great deal when he stepped through the Gate and onto the Frontier. A grandfather at least, one who spent enough time with him to explain how a Spell he don’t use works, which speaks volumes as to how close they were. Man acts like he’s made of stone, but he still human yet, and I get the feeling that he accepted all those different people into his tribe because he knows all too well what it’s like to be alone.

  I let Carter process his feelings in silence, and it ain’t until we get back to my place that he’s ready to talk again. Or willing I guess, since he doesn’t seem all that put off by his stroll down memory lane. Glancing around at my sparse and spartan furnishings, he doesn’t raise the question so much as imply it, and I give a little shrug in reply. “This is where I lay my head,” I say, then, without even realizing it before hand, I point next door and add, “For long as I can remember, that there has been home.”

  And it has. Much as I loved staying here in this tiny house my daddy built, I spent most of my time over at Uncle Raleigh’s, and they all loved having me there. Even though I ain’t ever called Aunty Ray ‘Mama’, she’s been more than like a mother to me, and while I got my hang ups about Tina, she’s still family all the same. As for Chrissy? I ain’t sure about what’s gonna happen with me, Josie, and Noora, but I know one thing for sure; whatever future awaits me, there will always be a place in my home for her. I call her Princess, and I intend to live up to that and look after her as best I can, so whichever woman I do end up with had best get used to that fact.

  “Then we should go there instead.” Following his lead, the two of us head over and inside for a sit, with boots off of course since Aunty Ray would tan my hide otherwise. Declining my offer of tea, coffee, or snacks, Carter takes a seat at the dining table and gets right down to brass tax. “As you are aware, the Ceremony of Connection is a reflection of self. Those who undertake the journey do so because they sense an absence within themselves, a missing piece lost to them during their last visit to the World of Spirits. That is the Spirit with whom they wish to connect, which is why they must first study the form they seek to take. They then carve a totem laden with all the knowledge they possess in this life, which then bridges the gap to connect with the past.”

  So is Raja an ugly horse because his hand slipped while carving his horsie totem? No, that can’t be right, because it’s not like the totem has to be hyper-realistic. Carter’s totems are vaguely shaped like animals, but just barely, and I can’t even tell which one he used to summon those bears. Maybe one of them teeth, or that claw there on the side, but I don’t know enough about bears to say which one it could be.

  “Focus,” Carter says, and I blink twice before settling in, with all too many thoughts bouncing around in my head to shut out entirely. “You have an inquisitive nature, but that is at odds with what we do here today. Knowing what you know now, do you still believe your wooden hand to be a suitable totem?”

  I think on it for a second, then another. “Yeah,” I say, though not with much conviction. “Yes.” The second time is more convincing, and I nod too because third time’s the charm. “I put a lot of hours into modelling this,” I continue, pulling it out of one of my many pouches. “Figured out how all the bones and joints work and how to get them to move properly and such, so I’m sure it fits the bill.”

  Carter nods. “Then the issue lies with you.” Ouch, but again, no blame or anger, just facts. “We will try again, but this time, I want you to set the tone.” I tilt my head to hear it, and he explains, “The tree, the candles, the smudge sticks, those are our ways, not yours. I do not know enough about you to dictate your ways, so you must do so yourself.”

  Then he just sits there and waits, leaving me to ponder what are my ways. I ain’t Qin, and I’m not really American neither, so heritage has always been something of a tricksy subject with me. I ain’t shy about sharing as much either, and Carter gives me a look that I can’t quite read. After a long pause, he says, “Heritage is not merely about your ancestors, but about your own personal past. A song, a scent, a memory you hold near and dear to your heart, something that defines who you are today. You only need it to help get you into the proper mind frame, one in which you will find your self, your whole self, which will then call your Spirit to you.”

  As soon as he says “a song”, the answer comes easily. There’s a crystal recording of Uncle Raleigh singing ‘ among many other songs, but I always loved listening to that particular one. Can’t rightly play that now though, not with the Mindspire mucking up the radio waves and affecting speakers too, so instead I borrow Tina’s guitar and work the frets with my left hand while a Mage Hand strums the strings. Which gets Cowie to bellowing outside, since it’s his favourite song, so I head out to bring him in because he’s as much a part of my life as anyone else. I’d love to bring Old Tux in too, seeing how I spent six years out on the road with him and my daddy, but Aunty Ray would have a conniption if I brought a horse into her kitchen.

  At least Cowie’s housetrained. Old Tux, he just goes wherever he pleases, and ain’t nothing I can do to teach him otherwise.

  So now I got baby Cowie with his head on my lap, and Tina’s guitar in my hand as I play a song that always put me in mind of my daddy out on the road. The lyrics feel even more relevant today, now that I might well be a father myself. I get it. My daddy didn’t have no planes to catch, but he sure had bills to pay, and he paid them by doing important and dangerous work, which is why he wasn’t around much for the first eight years of my life. I don’t want my kid to go through the same, but who knows if I can swing it? All depends on what jobs are out there, and I’ll need a good one to earn enough to support me, two wives, however many kids, and Chrissy to boot. Gotta let Aunty Ray retire sometime right? Woman deserves to kick up her feet and relax, what with how busy she is running around putting out fires for a town that don’t appreciate her efforts.

  As for smells, my daddy used to light incense around the house, so I grab his burner which hasn’t been used since and find some silverleaf incense that looks like it’d still burn fine, but I keep a damp cloth and a Water Sphere on hand just in case. My concerns are unwarranted as the incense don’t go up in a blaze, but it don’t smell exactly like I remember it either.

  So with the scene set, I close my eyes and touch my tongue to the roof of my mouth while Carter plays out his part. A sprinkle of water, a chant in place of the drum beat, and I shut it all out as I sink deep into my mind to seek out my self. Ain’t a pretty picture, no two ways about it, because I make for a sorry sight as I am. No hand, no future, no prospects to speak of, just a possible kid on the way to a woman who ain’t yet my wife and a second woman who I ain’t sure is as serious about me as I am about her.

  Again, Carter’s voice pulls me out of my trance and I come to with a gasp. “Call to your Spirit and offer it respite within. Hold fast to hózhó, the balance and harmony between all living things. This melding is not one of domination, but a partnership in which two Spirits become one.”

  Once again, I press the wooden hand against the stump of my arm and envision myself whole again, offering my phantom fingers which I know are there the chance to come back in the flesh. Or an approximation of flesh at the very least, Ecto posing as skin, bone, muscle, nerves, and everything else, but I’ll take anything at this point.

  Which once more proves to be my downfall, because I want this too much. Feels like an eternity passes before Carter calls it quits, but looking at the clock hanging up on the wall, it’s barely been half an hour since we started. “You work too hard to bridge the Connection,” Carter says, after a bit of encouragement. “We will keep trying, but know that this is not like your Spells, a feat of numbers, precision, and control. This is a matter of Spirit, one which touches upon two worlds, so there is no means to force the connection. Your Spirit is out there, you have felt it yourself. You only need call it to return, show that it will become a part of you once more, as opposed to become enslaved by you.”

  Which don’t make much sense to me, because it’s a hand, not an animal or anything, but Carter insists that it’s the same. “A severed portion of your Spirit is still part and parcel of the whole,” he explains, which sounds about right, or at least right enough that I don’t got any rebuttal. “We will try again another time. Not tomorrow. I think it best you reflect on what I have told you and consider how you might best set the tone of your Ceremony.”

  Cuddling Cowie, who’s long since fallen asleep, I carry him out of the house and walk Carter back to the church, drawing strength from my partner’s presence and joy from his booming snores. Gives me an excuse to walk back home again too, alone with my thoughts as I consider who I am and what little heritage I’ve got. A foot in both worlds yet never wholly a part of either, that’s what Carter said about those who undergo the Ceremony, and that description fits me to a tee. I ain’t never fit in around these parts, because I always been the Qin, which ain’t ever bothered me much before, but now I just can’t let it go. Would all those people be whispering about exiling me if I wasn’t Qin? Would they be so quick to want me gone if I looked more like them instead? Or if the Qin weren’t taking advantage of the Mindspire to raid the three settlements going up south of Redeemer’s Keep? The sad thing is, even though the people of New Hope see me as Qin, other Qin will never see me as one of them. I seen the way my mother’s brother’s people glared at me way back when, or that frowny face he made when he saw that I didn’t understand Qinese, or how he said what he said after the fact.

  Called my daddy a traitor he did, said he failed me by raising me as a foreigner, with the word spat out like a curse. Well, I tell you what, I got no lost love for America, but I got even less for the Qin. The Americans might’ve disavowed my daddy, but it was the Qin who killed him, and I will have my pound of flesh no matter the cost.

  A realization I make only as I lay Cowie down to rest with his gals, one I’ve kept buried deep inside all this time. Don’t matter if I only got the one hand to me, two wives and a kid to look after, and plenty other loved ones who’d hate to see me go. I can’t rest easy while the person who ordered a hit on my daddy is still out there, because that’s just who I am. A thought which brings me another step closer to finding my self, and one that makes me feel better about my chances the next time around.

  Because that sad sack of a downtrodden boy I seen when I closed my eyes ain’t me. It’s who I am in the here and now, but that ain’t me. I’m the guy who’s too Qin to be American, and too American to be Qin, so what’s that leave me?

  The Frontier, that’s what. I’m Howie Zhu, Frontier born and Federation educated. As for everything else? Whether I’m the Firstborn of the Frontier, the Yellow Devil, a bit of both, or something else altogether, I can’t say, but I’ll say this much. Come hell or high water, I will find my way out of this hole. I will do everything in my power to support my family and loved ones. And I will have vengeance for my daddy’s death.

  I know this much at least. If nothing else, I am a vengeful man.