Hard work is often its own reward.

  That’s how I feel at least, though to be fair, I’ve only really ever worked for my daddy or myself. Means that when I settle in to do something, I’m usually the one to reap the rewards. Applies to hunting Abby or outlaws, maintaining my gear, studying new toys or Spells to work with, or even something simple as loading the wagon with cargo to haul and sell. Mr. Mueller ain’t wrong when he says there’s always more work to be done, and since most don’t get paid more for doing more, there ain’t no reason to go at it a hundred percent. Me though? I work for myself, so I’m the sole beneficiary of my own labours, and more to the point, I’m not one to leave a job half done. With no one to interrupt me once I get into the flow, I put my nose to the grindstone and let the sweat and effort wash away all my stress and concerns as I dig out a foundation for the massive, oversized warehouse.

  Because I said it before and I’ll say it again. Hard work won’t ever disappoint you. Putting in the effort don’t come with no guarantee of success, but the lessons learned will serve you well in other ways.

  Besides, it’s almost therapeutic in a way, setting yourself to task and watching your progress develop in real time. Sure, it ain’t nothing more than digging out a big rectangular hole in the ground, but there’s something so satisfying about shutting off most of your brain to focus on the simple but gruelling labour. Once you get a foot or two down, the hard-packed clay and patches of moist, mineral dense soil is tough to move with Mould Earth alone. The Cantrip was designed to move loose dirt, so pebbles and mineral deposits ain’t all that affected. Even the clay gotta get broken up a bit before the Cantrip can shift it, which is work for my Mage Hands, Simple Servant, and the digging bar I done brought with me to make this easier. Ain’t nothing more than a long metal shaft with a wedge no bigger than my hand at the end of it. A small shovel without the curved scoop essentially, as the digging bar ain’t for moving dirt and is easier to wield with one hand. That’s life for the next few hours, as I stab my digging bar into the clay, kick it to loosen things up, then pry to break it off and let the Cantrip do its thing.

  Which is visible progress right there, as I no longer need to wave my one hand over the area I want the Cantrip to affect. I just gotta look at it and focus, like I’m telepathically controlling the soil to obey my every whim. Even better, I can move that soil with more finesse now, not just making it flow along a path, but also take simple shapes like a scoop to pick up all them bits and bobs of pebbles, minerals, and clay shards too densely packed to be affected by the Cantrip outright. Two straight months of near daily practice will do that for you, and I never really noticed until that run in with Clayton when I started digging trip holes for Abby in a few seconds flat.

  Was trying to buy some time for the Rangers to catch up, but then I set up the whole battlefield in 15 minutes flat. Could come in real handy out in the field, even if just to dig out a shelter or something.

  As for my Mage Hands? I ain’t made any progress in the speed, strength, or toughness department, which is a little disheartening to say the least, but that’s not to say nothing’s changed. It’s subtle really, but they’re more deft and able at everyday things, like helping me eat, write, get dressed, and just go about my day, to the point where a lot of it is almost automatic. You know how it is when your hands get so familiar with a task you can do it with your eyes closed? Like going for your belt when you standing over the toilet, or reaching for your cup of coffee while reading the paper? That’s me with my Mage Hands now, when before, I still had to stop and pay them some mind to know where they were and get them working. It’s like they’re now an extension of me, a body part same as any other almost, one I know the position of at all times without even having to think.

  According to my mama’s notes, that means I’ve established new neural pathways associated with the Mage Hands, which is a fancy way of saying my brain done grown accustomed to the task. Took her less than 8 months to do it, whereas I’ve been at this for more than 6 years and only getting around to the finish line. Really goes to show the value of talent. Me? I’m a work case study in the value of hard work, because even if I do got a little talent in me, it ain’t on the level of genius.

  Like look at it this way. Sir Issac Newton devised the Light Cantrip and laid the foundation for Magic as we understand it before turning 27. That right there is impressive enough, but in that same time period, he also went and established the foundation of calculus, conceived the basic laws of motion and gravity, discovered white light is made up of different colours using prisms, generalized the binomial theorem to non-integer exponents, developed Newton’s Method for approximating roots of functions, and built the first practical reflecting telescope which debuted at the Royal Society.

  All of which he accomplished in 3 years mind you, mostly during the ‘plague years’ when Cambridge University was closed. Now that’s genius, brilliance that defies expectation and belief, which is why I get so bent out of shape when folks try and label me one too. Ain’t no comparison to be made, like a man who calls his wife a beauty, then heads out and says the same to his cows.

  Really puts things into perspective when I consider everything the great minds accomplished in their youth. Sir Issac Newton did all that, while I’m still struggling to understand a Cantrip I’ve been using for 6 years. Can’t fathom how someone imposed so many limits on what was a Fifth Order Spell Formula to boil it down to a Cantrip. That’s some real skill there, whereas I’m floundering with no earthly idea how to go about it in reverse, turn that Cantrip into a First Order or higher Spell that would be more useful. Just goes to show how big a gap there is between me and the likes of the Sir Issac Newton, Ben Franklin, Jon Von Neuman, and all the other great names in history.

  Or between me and an Immortal Monarch. Ain’t exactly a goal I been hankering to achieve, but I ain’t gonna lie either and say I never wondered if I had the chops to bring myself to the pinnacle of Spellslinging success.

  An accomplishment so distant I can’t even imagine what it takes to get there in a single human lifetime. Sure, once you step onto the peak, you got all the time in the world to work with, but until you make that final step, you still human as everyone else. Becoming an Archmagus capable of slinging 3 Ninth Order Spells is only the first step, an achievement which already puts you in the top 0.00001% of humanity, but you still human yet. That’s 1 in 10 million people, meaning there were about 500 Archmagi in the old world back in 1990. Each one was a legend in their own time, a living weapon possessed with an unparallelled mind who was known throughout the world. These were people who single-handedly influence geopolitics and major events by virtue of their very existence, because a country with an Archmagus living in it becomes a force all on their own. Doesn’t matter if the Spellslinger in question don’t care to partake in politics, military, or even business, because there’ll be plenty of folks clamouring to work with anyone even remotely connected to an Archmagus. Don’t no one want to mess with a man or woman who can theoretically cast Meteor, Blade of Disaster, or the aptly named and horrifyingly efficient Power Word: Kill, a Spell which ironically takes longer to say than to cast, as is with all them other ‘Power Word’ Spells.

  Shouldn’t come as any surprise to learn that most Ninth Order Spells don’t have much utility outside of combat. I’m sure you could make an argument for some, like how Psychic Scream could theoretically be used to only stun instead of melting brains, but that’s like saying you can use a bomb to open a safe. Technically true, but a hammer or crowbar probably works better if you want what’s inside to remain intact. Which in this case would be a human brain, so I’d argue against using Psychic Scream even non-lethally unless you got no other choice.

  I used to think I’d get there eventually, become one of the all-time greats with a shot at achieving Immortality. Now? Now my confidence is shook, because while others were taking the complex and making it simple, I’m trying to go in the other direction and got no earthly idea what I’m doing. How do I turn the Mage Hand Cantrip into a proper First Order Spell? Not just upcast it at First Order with little to no discernable effect like Astrid discovered, but make them better in every possible way? No idea. I know the difference between a Cantrip and a First Order Spell is that the Cantrip only needs only exist in three dimensions to function. What does that mean though? It means the Cantrip’s Spell Structure ain’t tied to anything outside of my mind, where it exists not in physical form, but metaphysical. It’s an image in mind, an object fixed in memory, one which I glimpse every time I cast the Cantrip and can envision with little more than a focused effort of will. There are Cantrips I ain’t used in years, but I can still bring up the correct Spell Structures in mind and see that they’ve remained unchanged in all this time, which is proof positive that they’re more than just a memory. The same can be said of a proper First Order Spell Structure, except those are theoretically synched to some metaphysical construct which likely exists somewhere in time and space outside of the physical world and my tiny human brain.

  Or maybe it don’t. Maybe it’s just the timing that matters, the movement of lights interweaving their way through the very fabric of reality in order to bring about their phenomenal effects. Like Etches. It’s not just about the pattern, but the flow too, and the interplay of forces exerted by and upon the Aether as it moves through the Etch. You get the timing right, and you get to bend the rules of physics as we understand them or something. I don’t really know, and I don’t think anyone else does either. Not definitively at least, which is why we still call it Magic at the end of the day, instead of the Arcane sciences or something like that.

  Suppose I’ll have to content myself with being in the 95th percentile instead then, as only 5% of the population ever qualify as Magus. Which is honestly mindboggling, because who doesn’t want to cast Third Order Spells? Fireball is just fun, but truth is, it ain’t even all that difficult to learn with a proper Mentor helping you along. Even then, in the old world, 60-70% of people over 18 didn’t know any Spells higher than First Order. Not sure what that number is here on the Frontier, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was over 50%. Which is just all sorts of wrong. Not knowing a Second Order Spell is like learning your letters well enough to recognize them, then never going on to learn how to read. Then again, I suppose some folks can’t help it given their lacking circumstances. Hell, I hear there are folks who can’t even cast a Cantrip, and not for any sort of disability or religious reasons either. They just never saw a reason to learn any, since they got tech or tools to do things the good old-fashioned way, so why learn something different?

  Crazy is what that is, but I suppose I could be biased. I’m told it’s easier to learn how to sling a Spell here on the Frontier than it was back in the old world, seeing how the Aether is less concentrated and the flows move slower, allowing for more time to think and process while building up the Spell Structure in your mind. Either way, all this tells me is that even though I’m still doing better than most, all the credit don’t lie with me. What’s more, there’s a high ceiling far above me that I might never reach, because genius I am not. A genius, given A and B, can derive the rest of the alphabet correctly, while a brilliant man might get C, D, E, and F. Me? I’m bashing my head in the wall trying to understand how we got from A to B and how to go back the other way, with no earthly idea how you’d even begin to get C.

  So for lack of any better options, I keep on keeping on, hoping all that bashing will spark a flash of inspiration sooner rather than later. More likely to give me an aneurysm instead, considering all the stress and frustration that comes with casting Mage Hand over and over and over again while trying the same thing in a slightly different way and hoping it makes all the difference in the world. That’s all I can really do while I’m working away in the dirt, and before I know it, I’m standing there in a beige shirt covered in sweat and a dull ache in my arms and back from a half day of hard work.

  Got a whole section of the foundation dug out, more progress than I made all last week almost, and I might’ve kept working if it wasn’t for little Holly who’d come fetch me for dinner. Luisa ain’t one to tolerate tardiness and knows her flock better than they know themselves, which is why she sent the girl to make sure I didn’t stay behind to work late. With nothing else for it, I pack my tools away and rinse myself off with multiple Water Spheres on my way back to the pub, where the plump, matronly woman greets me with a smile and a little pinch to punish me for being late. “Six thirty,” she says, pointing at my chair at the bar. “That is when we eat, so I see you in chair dry and clean at six fifteen. No later, understand?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I reply, knuckling my forehead in deference that’s serious as the grave. “Won’t happen again.” I could always go back to work after dinner, though given the portions and the near-comatose state I’ll be in after scarfing it all down, that’s highly unlikely to happen.

  A prophecy soon fulfilled after I wash up for realsies and we start the meal off with a bowl of creamy white soup she calls Ajiaco. It’s chock full of chunky potates, thinly sliced green caddishes, some deliciously crunchy greens I’m told are potate leaves, and bird meat. Goes well with the dirty rice and veggies she pairs with it, most grilled and some deep fried in batter because ain’t nothing like taking something healthy and making it sinful to eat. Which ain’t a complaint mind you, as I do love me some deep-fried foods, as I don’t get them often enough since Aunty Ray been running a life-long crusade against full fatty goodness.

  Something to do with her figure, which I think looks great, so I ain’t ever been one to complain much. Especially since she’s a great cook, but now I’m thinking it might well be why I’m still so bone thin. Lean meats taste great and all, but that full fatty goodness has got me hooked, so I might have to start stealing more milk from Dumpling, Momo, and Samosa to turn into full-fat butter. That there is the ticket to flavour town, and now that I’ve gone and seen the sights, I doubt I can stay away for long.

  Granted, I doubt long weeks in the saddle subsisting on jerky, hardtack, and sometimes pemmican did me many favours growing up. We ate well when we could, but it ain’t like you can cook over a campfire three squares a day while you out on the road. Sometimes you gotta settle for what’s available, then indulge while you can, which is how my daddy became one of Ms. Dawson’s best customers, and I carried on the tradition buying up all the confections, ice cream, and milk shakes I can get away with. Luisa ain’t one to overlook the sweet tooth either, breaking out a platter of giant ramekins full of milk pudding which she calls postre de natas. It’s got plenty of sweet, syrupy goodness and whole fistfuls of chewy dried grumbleberry raisins to add a bit of extra flavour and texture, as well as a hint of rum that warms the belly right up. Luisa makes for good company too, eating her own portion with a hearty gusto and looking plenty satisfied while doing so. Doesn’t spend the whole meal chatting neither, just settles into a comfortable silence next to me at the bar and smiles while watching me enjoy the spread she made.

  Refuses to let me even pick up the dishes once it’s all said and done too. Just swats me on the back of my hand when I try to grab my bowl and bring it around to the sink. “The kitchen is my domain,” she says, giving me a glare that ain’t playing around at all. “A place denied even to an ōcēlōtl like yourself. You fight. I feed. You have your calling, and me, mine.”

  One she takes great pride in, and I bow my head in silent apology, which she accepts by ruffling my hair before heading off with a tray full of dishes in her arms, a smile etched across her face, and a song on her lips as she gets to work. Since she ain’t shooed me out of the bar itself, I set up at a table nearby to keep her company while I work on revising the Mage Hand Cantrip Formula to match modern standards. We’ve made some good progress, me, Mr. Mueller, and Kevin, with the both of them off delivering their herd of cattle and hoggis to their wealthy customer, I’m left to muddle my way through the math by my lonesome.

  Which I enjoy quite a bit if I’m being honest. Digging is simple, while mathematics is complex, so I get to shut off my brain during the day and rest my body in the evening. It’s the perfect mental exercise after a long day of hard work, and lets me keep busy instead of twiddling my thumbs and poring over every possible way the Frontier can screw me in the near or distant future. Stops me from spiralling out of control and adding too many items to my already overlong list of things I need to do, one that only ever grows longer no matter how much I chip away at it in my spare time.

  What I love most about the numbers is that it’ll always make sense, because if it doesn’t, then it means I’m either missing something or I’ve made a mistake. Them’s the only options, which means it’s all cut and dry for the most part, so even though I’m still grasping for straws in the darkness, there’s a sense of order, structure, and progress to it all. I derive, extrapolate, deduce, and apply everything I know to shape the new formula for the Cantrip I hope to develop into a fully fledged Spell, even though I’ve no earthly idea how to go about it. If only I had my mama’s sense of the magic, because she had a way of identifying and isolating the bits and pieces of a Spell that do what she needs done. That’s how I was able to learn how to Split my Mage Hands after all, because she wrote down exactly when and what I need to do and how to go about doing it. Envision the Structure, give in to the flow, feel the rhythm and find the moment within to divide the current and turn one hand into two. Wasn’t timed or nothing, didn’t give exact seconds or even a description of the moment in question, just laid out how to find it for myself and what to do when I get there.

  Now? Now it’s as natural as breathing, something I just do without having to think about it every time I Conjure up my Mage Hands. I saw some of that in Astrid’s notes, as the red-skinned girlie got a mind similar to my mama’s, or maybe she took those notes more to heart and modelled her thinking after them. That’s how she’s able to make her own headway with the Cantrip, learning how to feel heat and textures through the Mage Hands when all I get is a general sense of how sturdy a grip they got. Even then, that’s more of an observed sensation rather than a perceived one, because I still gotta watch carefully when handling anything fragile with the Mage Hands.

  Which really goes to show the sheer depth and breadth this deceptively simple Cantrip contains. I can roll a coin across the knuckles and shuffle a deck of cards with the Mage Hands, while Astrid can grab a pinch of whatever reagent and have the exact amount she needs. There are others who can knit or even do lacework, which is complicated enough when working two hands instead of four, or work the bellows to a forge in an even, unhurried pace. Still others can use Mage Hand to wield intricate tools, paint vistas, pick locks, disarm traps, and other such things, and while I’ve been experimenting with using them in the bedroom, the results of that research ain’t something I’m willing to share.

  I even heard there are some who can render their Mage Hand’s invisible, which is what Noora’s working towards. No doubt so she can pick pockets more effectively, or create distractions for whatever nefarious purpose she got in mind. She ain’t one for rules, but so far she’s been playing nice outside of scoring cigarettes every now and then. Still not sure how she’s doing it, but she assured me she ain’t stealing them, so I didn’t push any harder.

  All of which is baked into the Cantrip’s Spell Structure itself. I just don’t know which parts do what, and most folks can’t really say either. Not unless they got a clear connection to the Spell like my mama and Astrid, because they see things clearer than the rest of us. Every person is born knowing how to breathe, but how many understand the process well enough to explain how it works? Or got the know-how to figure out how we work our lungs to draw air in and expel it out? We can do it quickly or slowly, hard or soft, make noises or be silent, and it's all mostly done through sheer instinct more than anything else. Don’t gotta teach someone how to breathe shallow or hork a lougie, so what happens when you come across someone who don’t gotta breathe, but got all the proper equipment and wants to learn?

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  I’m sure someone’s got an answer to it, but I sure as shooting don’t, so I keep on with the math in hopes that something good comes of it. Worst comes to worst, I can submit it to the various arcane science institutions for peer review and receive partial credit if it proves good enough for mass distribution. Don’t think it pays much, but getting my name on something that’ll outlast me ain’t a legacy to sneeze at, especially if it’s on a Cantrip as widespread as Mage Hand. I ain’t the only man missing a hand who turned to magic to make up for the loss, a thought which don’t do much to lift my spirits as I consider the sheer magnitude of the task laid out before me.

  “So very many sighs,” Luisa says, coming on over with two cups of what looks to be some sort of fruit cocktail, complete with shaved ice and condensed milk generously layered on top. “Like the weight of the world rests upon your shoulders. You are too young to be so old in spirit, and too skinny to work so hard all day and night. Time for break.”

  The protest is on the tip of my tongue, but the smell of that sweet, syrupy, fruity goodness just slams it right back. More to the point, it feels like I’ve only just started on the work, but the clock on the wall says three hours have passed since I last looked up and my belly has miraculously made more room for food again. It’s a vicious cycle we’re all trapped in, this circle of life, but without the prospect of Immortality sitting just over my horizons, I suppose I ought to make the most out of what limited time I got left. It ain’t a dour outlook, but a live and let live one, wherein I no longer got any expectations of reaching those great heights. Don’t get me wrong. I aint’ giving up. I’ll still continue along this path I’m on if only to see how far I actually get. It’s the difference between a man who paints for a living, and one who dabbles in his free time for fun. The first is under pressure to perform because he gotta put food on the table, with the second is free to do whatever he likes because ain’t no one counting on him to produce anything worth selling.

  That right there is freedom. The freedom to do as you please without concern for how it’ll affect you. Paint what you want, go where you’d like, hunt what you can, and build what you need. That’s the sort of life I lived growing up, with everyone saying things would change soon enough. Heard all about how once the second wave hits, we’ll have bodies enough to make a concentrated push at full industrialization, alongside the proper levels of Aetheric Concentration to make so many technologies economically and esoterically viable. More efficient condensers to produce crystal Aether faster, which we can put into refiners to turn into liquid Aether to fuel powerful engines which produce more energy by way of dynamic generators. Power which will be used by factories to pump out machines which create tools which will be used to make even better machines to automate or at the very least streamline the process of making whatever it is we need, whether it be simple as bolts, nuts, nails, and springs or complex as full on Aetherarms and automobiles to help in the war against Abby.

  Yes sir, a second Aetheric revolution is soon coming, which means the quiet way of life I done grew up with will soon become extinct. No more will people strive to become self-sufficient, but instead look to tap into the vast network of industrial machinery that’ll spit out everything they need. Food, clothes, tools, weapons, whatever it is, there’ll be a factory that produces it instead of a skilled craftsman pouring hours, days, weeks, or months of sweat and effort into every piece they create. Puts a real damper on my efforts to learn how to Artifice, since it sounds like that sort of world won’t have much work for me to do, but Danny says there’ll always be work for a skilled Artificer, and the same goes for Artisans, Alchemists, and Arcana Technicians since ain’t no tech been made that can do what they do best.

  More to the point though, the mere thought of a life spent working behind a desk has got my leg all twitchy and restless, and Luisa smiles and shakes her head to see it. “Youth,” she says, like that explains it all, and she chortles to herself while taking great delight in her fruit parfait. “Always so moody and dramatic. When you are older, you will learn to live in the moment, to enjoy what you have while you can. Better to learn now instead of later, but there is no teacher who can teach this lesson other than life.”

  “Wise words from a wise woman,” I say with a smile, meaning every word, because even though I see the wisdom in what she’s saying, I can’t exactly make myself follow through with it. “You ain’t the first to tell me as much, but would that I could live in the moment. Got too many plates spinnin’ about, and can’t fathom the thought of lettin’ even one fall.”

  “If you do, you will pick up the pieces and continue on,” she says, taking a big bite of her parfait that’s more condensed milk than fruit. “Or not, and find another plate to spin. That is life.” Gesturing at the papers I got spread out all across the table, she adds, “All this seems important, but I think? Not so important as living life. Your mind is a weapon, and you hone it well, but you are a man of action more so than thought. You think, and you do. That is who you are. Others like Mr. Mueller? He only think, which is no different from dreaming. He dreams of a better future, and like so very many others, he will do nothing but dream, while you strive and struggle for your better future. That is in part why you are ōcēlōtl, and why I say you are called to by the Gods. One such as you is meant for great things, so great things you have done and will do, as long as you care to answer their call.”

  On the surface, it sounds like she’s just paying me compliments, but her words ain’t delivered like one. No, there’s a hint of scathing condemnation within her tone, a touch of reproach for going about things the wrong way, and a smattering of well-meant advice thrown right in my face. “You think I’m going about this the wrong way?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. “That I’d be better off acting and practicing, as opposed to sitting here doing math?”

  “Right or wrong, I cannot say,” Luisa replies, shaking her head in abject denial. “I only speak my mind of what I see and I know. These numbers and formulas allow all who understand them the ability to wield the power of the Gods, and so you call it magic, but this is no magic here. Only a tool.” Pursing her lips in thought, Luisa takes a moment to put her words together in a way that makes sense. “Most Formula give you one Spell, yes? For Bolt, you get Force Bolt. You want Fire Bolt? Or Frost Bolt? Or Acid Bolt? All different Formula.”

  I nod, and Luisa grins as she holds her hand out with palm facing up. “Watch.” She don’t waggle her fingers, or intone any chants, just narrows her eyes and the flows of Aether come alive in response to her silent call. A thick layer of misty Frost billows out of the palm of her hand, but stays confined to it as the glacial haze surges and swells. My first thought is that this is just Shocking Grasp with an Elemental shift to Frost instead of Electric, which is impressive don’t get me wrong, but easily done with the right Metamagic. Then the flows of Aether shift and the frigid cloud melts away as a fire springs forth in the palm of her hand, or rather Ecto masquerading as Fire. The warm, flickering Flame dances in a breeze that cannot be seen, heard, or felt, and a second later, the flows of Aether shift once more and the flame sputters out, leaving a mass of crackling Electricity that dances across her fingertips. From there, the sparks surge together and gather in her palm once again to billow out into a pool of green, bubbling Acid, which then dissipates into nothingness as Luisa lets go of the Spell and the Ecto fades back into the Immaterium once more.

  A parlour trick. It’s gotta be. An illusion or some strange Conjuration Cantrip that’s meant to change Elemental types and do little else. Then again, why would she want to deceive me? It could be something like Probing Projectile, which reacts differently depending on what sort of Resistance the target has, though I can’t rightly say why her Spell would react like that just sitting in the palm of her hand. It wasn’t Metamagic either, because you can’t use more than one Metamagic on a manually cast Spell, or Metamagic a Spell that’s already done been Metamagicked and materialized after the fact.

  Unable to come up with a plausible answer, I blink a few times, then look up to meet Luisa’s proud and satisfied gaze. “How?” I ask, failing to come up with an eloquent way to phrase things. “I didn’t think that was possible. You said it yourself. A Spell only works in one certain way, so how can you go from Frost to Fire to Electric and Acid?” The only way she could improve from there was throw in Force, Psychic, Radiant, and Necrotic damage on top of all that, but those are all exceedingly rare damage types that you don’t come across often.

  “No,” Luisa replies with a shake of her head. “That is how your Formulas work, your tools of magic. One effect in one certain way. Like kitchen knives. Chef knife for chopping and slicing. Paring knife for peeling and trimming. Butcher’s knife for breaking down bird or large cuts. Serrated knife for slicing bread and soft ingredients. A different knife for every job, and only so much room on counter to hold them all.” An apt comparison considering the limited number of Spell Structures I can have prepared on any given day. How many times have I found myself wishing I’d prepped this Spell or that one, which could have saved me a whole lot of effort in a pinch? Too many times to count, but I didn’t think there was any other option.

  Waving her hand once more, she explains, “You learn these Formulas and use them to build your tools, but you will never wield them as deftly as your hands.” Glancing at my stump, she purses her lips and corrects herself. “Hand.” I grin to hear it, and she grins right back, having picked up on my slightly macabre humour. “These are not the old ways,” she continued, picking up steam as she goes, “Not the ways my abuelita’s Abuela taught her, and how she taught me. Our magic is a gift from the Gods, one we take into ourselves to become a part of us in body, mind, and spirit, no different from eating, breathing, or sleeping. It is a magic of self and emotion, of heart and of spirit, one which is alive and everchanging even as you yourself grow and develop. Our magic?” Conjuring up one palm full of Frost and a second full of Flame, Luisa shrugs as if to make her point. “Changing it is as easy as clapping, unlike your magics of numbers and logic.”

  Which she does, putting out Fire and Frost alike without so much as ruffling a stitch of her boring, beige blouse.

  Cupping her comfortably warm hands over mine, she leans in to touch her forehead to mine. “I say this not so you will give up. I say this so you know there are other ways, older, better ways. I see you work with your Mage Hands, make them dig in the dirt to make them strong, and I believe this to be the correct path, but is that the job you require of them? No. You need them to fight, so fight with them. Take up your weapon and fire, then fire again, and again, and again, until you become one with your magic and feel where it is lacking. That is your gift, young ōcēlōtl. This I know from what you tell me. The Detection Spell? You did not sit down with pen and paper to learn how to change it. You gave yourself to the magic, made it a part of you and shaped it with your will. How many others can do the same? No so many, or at least not so easily.” Leaning back, she smiles and pats my cheek. “The magic is strong in you, that is your gift from the Gods. Make good use of it, and do not let it go to waste.”

  While I never much liked being called talented, there’s no arguing the facts. Soon as Carter explained what needed to be done with the Detect Aberration Spell, I just went and did it without having to think about much at all. Maybe that’s the problem here. I’m getting in my own way, too trapped in my head to let myself do what needs to be done, because I wasn’t sure if it was even possible. Damn it, Uncle Teddy even said as much, I just didn’t pay it much mind because I was too steamed by what he said about my daddy. What I’m having is a crisis of self, a lack of faith in my own abilities, and even though I’ve done what I could to hope for the best, I never really believed it was truly possible.

  How can I, a seventeen-year-old kid without any proper education to speak of, accomplish something no one else has ever done? If it was possible, then surely someone like Sir Issac Newton, Ben Franklin, John Von Neuman, or some other Archmagi or Immortal Monarch would’ve done it already.

  That’s the wrong mindset to go into this. I should be more like my daddy, who believed a man can do anything he sets his mind to so long as he works hard enough. That’s what he taught me. Never said I was destined for greatness, or would accomplish incredible things. No, he told me – nah, he showed me the impact one man can have with nothing but hard work behind him. He wasn’t the best shot in all the lands, nor did he ever have a claim to the fastest hands. Wasn’t a stand-out Spellslinger either, not on the level of Uncle Teddy, Marcus, or Captain Jung, nor was he ever the biggest man in the room, not by a long shot, and with standard Spell list crammed full of almost every Divination Spell you can think of, he very rarely represented the biggest threat.

  Now that’s not to say he was lacking. My daddy could shoot about as well as anyone who wasn’t a tried-and-true professional sharpshooter, and he was fast enough to beat most gunfighters on the draw. Was a bonafide Magus too, taught by Uncle Teddy same as me, and might well have gone on to learn more once it was possible. Wasn’t all that short either, though at five foot eight, wouldn’t no one call him all that tall either. That said, despite being only a little better than most on all fronts, my daddy made a name for himself as the Yellow Devil, a man feared by outlaws and Abby alike. Wasn’t the most dangerous threat around, but he was the scariest, because there wasn’t no quit in him, and he’d accept nothing short of success.

  Just like there ain’t no quit in me, the fruit of all his labours and long, well-intentioned lessons. I wouldn’t be half the man I am today without him, and I know he wouldn’t have bothered teaching me if I wasn’t his son. There’s a magic in faith, same as there is in hope, and music, and so many other facets of life, and I can never let myself forget that. Orthodox Spellcasting is one method and one method only, but that don’t mean it’s the only way forward. I gotta have faith, faith in myself no weaker than Luisa’s faith in the old Gods, Carter’s faith in the Ways of his people, and Errol’s faith in the bible. Doesn’t mean their religions are real, only that they truly believe it to be so, and so long as I believe wholeheartedly in myself, or what my daddy taught me, then there ain’t nothing I can’t do.

  Ha. Who would’ve thunk it? You asked me a few weeks ago, and I’d’ve readily admitted I got problems with confidence, namely too much of it. Turns out I was too big for my britches, but still bigger than what Ronald Jackson could handle, which is how I made it out in mostly one piece. Can’t say the same for him, but he wasn’t trained by my daddy, now was he?

  My confidence renewed, I head upstairs to call it a night once my fruit parfait is done, or rather my cholado as Luisa calls it. After thanking her profusely for getting me in the right headspace mind you, which she waves off with a smile and a two-handed pat of my cheeks. “Your room upstairs,” she says, without really acknowledging the thanks. “Last one on right. No many visitors these days, so you take. Best room in house.”

  She ain’t lying either, as it’s a whole gosh darned suite, with its own bathroom and everything while everyone else gotta share the one by the stairs. Only problem is that the window faces east, with no view of the docks, which means I gotta go the extra mile come morning to spy on their daily Ritual. One carried out at the crack of dawn so they can greet the sun as it rises, at which time I’m sitting pretty in the shadows of the suite across from mine. Which is much smaller and less furnished than the suite I’m sleeping in, so I add it to the list of what I owe the good people of Mueller’s Quay.

  Granted, my heavy debt makes me feel a little bad about spying on them, but they ain’t losing nothing from me watching the proceedings. It’s just to satisfy my curiosity is all, what with the whole revelation of Orthodox Spells being nothing more than highly-optimized Rituals themselves. Whatever magic they’re working, I can’t see a thing from their Ritual, not even with Detect Magic going. They’re still too far out on the docks for me to hear anything, and they don’t do much besides stand and listen to Luisa’s prayer. Some with heads bowed, though two got their eyes to the skies and arms outstretched. Then after a few minutes of quiet prayer, they collect their empty crab traps like always and go about their day.

  Does the lake even have crabs? I wouldn’t know, because I don’t eat sea bugs, but I’m starting to see why they’re so expensive. Spent almost a full month here and I’ve yet to see them bring a crab in, and I’m hoping they never do because they’re the generous sort who’ll want me to try some.

  As for insight into the magic itself, all I can really say is that there’s definitely more to the Ritual than meets the eye, and Luisa is the one who runs the show. No two mornings are exactly alike, as she can be animated one morning, and sombre another, pacing back and forth or still as a statue. Given her ability to run this powerful Ritual and her mastery of the Elements, it wouldn’t surprise me if she turned out to be a real heavy hitter in the magical muscle department. Maybe a Magus, or whatever their equivalent might be in the old ways, though it’s mostly all guesswork if I’m being honest. In the same vein, there’s more to Carter’s Ritual than a quiet moment of introspection and self-affirmant, but after the talk I had with Luisa last night, I realize that the details aren’t as important as I once thought.

  Might still be relevant when we’re talking about Orthodox Spellcasting, but for these older, Ritual-like magics, I think faith is far more important than the details themselves. Carter even said as much, which is why we were able to give it a try at my house, without any of the drumming, sweeping, chanting, or whatnot that they had in their compound. It’s less about the actions, but Faith in process, which ain’t easy for someone with a mind as curious as mine. At least with the Rituals I do, there’s some logic and structure behind everything. Take the Detect Aberration Ritual for example. The key ingredients are a pinch of wood ash, a thimble of distilled water, 1 grain of crushed quartz, and a burning stick of silverleaf incense, which I always thought were kinda random. I recently looked through my daddy’s notes though, and discovered that Uncle Teddy actually laid out all the logic for him. Those 4 ingredients represent the 4 elements, namely fire, water, earth, and wind.

  Regardless, the idea behind it is to take the 4 elements, which were once thought to comprise everything in the natural world, and exclude them from the Spell, so the signal you send out Detects only the unnatural. Hence, Detect Aberration, plain and simple, even if the logic behind it is faulty. That’s not important though, because it’s your faith in the process that sells it, though mine might well have been damaged by learning the truth. Granted, I never needed to have faith in the Ritual to begin with, because it was something my daddy taught me, and he was always right so wasn’t no need to second guess him. That’s why he never bothered teaching me the history behind it. Because that was irrelevant. The Ritual was a tool, and he viewed it as such, and thus it worked regardless of his faith.

  With that thought in mind, I go about my days feeling lighter than ever, because I’ve found faith again and wholeheartedly believe that I will succeed. It ain’t just about hoping for the best no more, but actively looking forward to it, while still planning for the worst and working on modernizing the Mage Hand Formula late into the night. After putting in a solid 10-hour workday at the future warehouse, I get an hour of shooting practice in with the Mage Hands before having dinner with Luisa, who’s feeding me at morning, noon, and night every day since most of the village folk are out with Mr. Mueller. Maybe only 1 in 5 people have stayed behind, mostly women and children, and knowing firsthand how dangerous cattle are and how dark the hearts of men might be, I can’t say I blame Mr. Mueller for erring on the side of caution.

  Makes for smooth sailing during the workweek though, and they’re still not back by quitting time come Friday night. Made less headway with the Cantrip Formula, and my Squires are getting used hard from constantly flying off into the dirt after my Mage Hands pull the trigger and come apart under the force of the recoil. That said, I got more hope in me yet, that and faith that I’ll figure it out eventually so long as I never give up.

  My spirits are high when I meet up with Carter, Miss Amelie, and Elodie again, and we find time to try the Ceremony of Connection once again. The people of the compound are all happy to have me, or about as happy as I’ve ever seen them. Which ain’t all that happy if I’m being honest, but they ain’t cold or standoffish either. The ceremony is just a thing they do, without any need for preparation or celebration really, so we go through the same motions again as I sit in the root seat and focus my efforts on finding my Self.

  I am my father’s son, and perhaps a soon to be father myself. I will not give up, because I don’t know how to, and I will succeed in one way or another eventually. I might not ever be the Firstborn my daddy wanted me to be, or live up to Uncle Teddy’s expectations to lead the Frontier Rangers, but I’ll uphold their teachings and be the best man I can be so my parents can be proud of me, watching down as they are from Heaven.

  …Was my mama Catholic? I don’t think so, because I’m pretty sure my daddy wasn’t Catholic neither. I mean, he got baptized here on the Frontier and went to church every Sunday he could, but I’m pretty sure that was more out of social obligation than anything else.

  “Still your mind.” The words come to mind spoken in Carter’s gruff and no-nonsense tones, followed by “Empty your thoughts.” He ain’t speaking. I’m just remembering his commands, and I follow suit like the good soldier I was raised to be, but might never become. Ain’t a problem though, because even though I still don’t know what profession I’ll end up with, I know I’ll be fine no matter what I pursue. Work to live, not live to work, wise words spoken by a wise man who’s got a slightly different perspective than I do. I’ll work hard for my family and for myself, not to make some other man richer and more prosperous. I know that much.

  I am me, Howie Zhu. That much seems obvious, but it’s the truth, so even though I still ain’t exactly sure who that is, who among us can say that we understand ourselves 100%?

  Again, I open my eyes and feel the flows rise to an apex, and I take up my carved wooden hand once more. Rather than the leather sleeve covering my stump, this time I press the carving against the bared skin instead, the sight of which still sets my stomach to churning. My absent hand is jarring to behold, the skin all scarred and ugly, and holding the wooden hand up against where my wrist once was makes it look like a sad, sick joke that ain’t funny to no one, especially with how it don’t sit flush against the stump. Still, it’s all I got to work with, so it’ll have to do, and I hold fast to the image of my hand as it was when I was whole and healthy as I call out into the Immaterium.

  Come back. I know you’re still there, so come back to me, and together, we can be whole again. We are two Spirits now, but we can be one once more, and together, there ain’t a thing in the world that we can’t accomplish.

  Can’t say how long I sit there with the wooden hand pressed against my wrist, but I do know I sit there longer than necessary. The Ceremony failed, or rather I failed the Ceremony, then spent a few extra minutes clinging on to false hope to stave off the crippling disappointment. Really thought I had it this time, and it ain’t easy to let go and admit defeat, but no one steps up to hurry me along, content to watch and wait for me to come to terms with my lack of success. It’s moments like these that make it hard to hold fast to hope, but the answer isn’t to cast it all aside. The higher you climb, the harder you fall, this much is true. Doesn’t mean I stop climbing though. No, it means I just gotta work harder to get myself back up to where I fell off, and keep working to climb even higher.

  Hope and Faith. Two simple words and concepts that everyone understands, but the power inherent in both is magical to behold. Makes it all the more difficult not to crash out because I got little to none of either, in a time when I so desperately need them both. Looking up from the wooden hand pressed up against where my wrist used to be, I meet Carter’s eyes with a sad little smile of resigned acceptance. “Maybe next time,” I say, struggling to keep my spirits high, which is a marked improvement from before.

  And he sees it too, nodding in agreement with something that ain’t got nothing to do with my words. “Maybe,” he says, offering me a hand to help me to my feet. “And if not, then perhaps the time after that. Failure only takes root when you no longer make the attempt.”

  If at first you don’t succeed, then try, try again. That’s how it’s always been, and how it’s always going to be. I just gotta remember to keep my head held high, and my hopes burning bright, even as I prepare for the worst should it come to pass. No idea how my daddy managed to get through it, because he was not what you’d call a spirited or jovial man. Suppose I’ll figure it out eventually, but until then, guess I’ll have to fake it ‘til I make it, now won’t I?