Irina Syromyatnikova - My Path to Magic

I tried to keep track of time until we reached the boundary of the notorious defensive circle of the deadly spell (Clarence said it would be impossible to miss it). I wanted to get an idea of how the spell was distributed in the area. It was clear to me that its perimeters followed the signs’ line, but the shields were set differently - along the axes in two directions, as far as the power would allow. In dark magic, the curses that generate shields exist for as long as the energy of the Source is pumped in; that is, only in the presence of a dark magician. In white magic, as I understand, the spells act differently: they create some distortion of the structure of reality, the longevity of which depends not so much on the input energy, but on the resistance of environment (there is not even one formula for that in the dark section of magic foundations). An experienced white magician could make his creation so natural that its influence would last for centuries. However, precisely that feature—the change in the environment—made the results of divination so ambiguous.

I was slowly losing my mind from attempts to sort out the situation. Logically thinking, if there was a shield, then the pentagram that created it should be somewhere in the centre, too. If we found at least some trails of the pentagram, the arrival of the “cleaners” to Mihandrov would be guaranteed. It remained to understand where the middle of that white spell was…

After three hours and two stops for rest, the kids turned visibly sour.

“Hold on, boys, we have just a little bit left until the lake!”

The terrain started to slope, green grass replaced dry weeds, and rabbit burrows began to tuck under the feet—all that was an indication of our proximity to the lake. Therefore, we didn’t need to save water for the tea and could even wash our feet after the walk—very conducive for relaxation. By the time the surface of the lake started shining ahead (they called it a lake? To me it was more like a rain puddle!), the kids were exhausted, and I had to set up our camp alone and in silence. The white fell asleep barely touching the ground.

Well, wasn’t I a genius? No bustling, fussing, or excessive energy. We were going to have dinner, overnight sleep, and slowly go back tomorrow. And I will have a day off with no threat of the jump ropes for me (knock on wood).

The next moment I learned that my attitude towards the children was outrageous. I was sent to help people, but instead I scratched my ass for a week and played the fool. Clearly, the area of distorted reality had been left behind, because Rustle was back. But my personal monster forgot that I couldn’t care less for its opinion. Imagine how comic the situation was: the supernatural creature criticized the dark magician for his sloppiness. Rustle ’s anger would have been righteous had I intended to work on holidays. The local NZAMIPS had ten years to sort out the situation, and now what—one poor student ought to work the whole Mihandrov’s division? Ha-ha!

By evening, the kids perked up just enough to eat cereal, watch the sunset, say “Ah!” and get into their sleeping bags. Nice. As a final touch, I put an amulet on Petros’ neck, warding off mosquitoes (otherwise, my white kids would look like leopards by the end of the trip), and crawled under the blanket. Coals smoldered in the neat fire hole, insects avoided flying around me (wise choice on their part), and the zombie-dog guarded us at a distance. I had rarely felt this good.

For the first time I realized that I did not regret becoming a magician. Magic abilities give me certain freedom, confidence in the future. It would be stupid to have Power and deny it, right? Now I could wander the expanses of Ingernika, not fearing loneliness and darkness, and lack of means…

The dissatisfied Rustle cut in again—I was bored without it—and said that all my thoughts were complete crap. In its view, it was time for me to make kids, not to entertain them, and, if I wanted to sleep outside, I should have a cool chick by my side, together in one sleeping bag.

With a surprise, I realized that the otherworldly wight was interested in sex. It missed that feeling, imagine that! Shit! Get out of my mind, you filthy animal!

Rustle maliciously hinted that at such a time and place (at night, at the campfire) I had no reason to show off.

I promised myself that when I came back, I would confess in necromancy and finish my life in the electric chair!

Rustle retreated, hiding in the inaccessible depths of my consciousness and indignantly broadcasting obscene pornographic pictures. Oh my God, where did it pick them up? Quarters was a fan of that stuff, but even he didn’t see such perversion… So many people deathly fear that beast, but all it has on its mind is obscenities! And what shall I do when I really get a girlfriend, have a threesome?

That night in my dream I saw Rustle in the jar. What was interesting: the jar I remembered clearly, but how I put the monster in there I could not recall.

Needless to say that my white kids came back as heroes, tired and happy. They stuffed pockets with all sorts of rubbish (stones, dead beetles, last year’s snake skins), managed to see a real fox and find an eagle feather (I declared it was an eagle). Walking at a slower pace but not stopping for rest, we reached the school before lunch. On the way back I lied with great inspiration about the King’s Island, my work in NZAMIPS, my evil boss—a genuine dark magician (finally I had somebody to complain to!), about my student life in Redstone, and the kids compassionately sighed and asked hundreds of meaningless questions. We made a detour to enter through the main gates; I delivered the children to Mr. Fox and sighed with relief. Now they had a week worth topics for discussion!

“You turned our entire school upside down,” Mrs. Hemul noticed, but she did not look unhappy at that.

More to come!

“You’d better repair the fence at the rear; a few sections were overturned,” I suggested heartily. “You won’t close the perimeter without them.”

She thanked me very seriously. Lyuchik arranged for sort of a meeting at the square (even senior students came for it); Fox dragged Petros off to take a bath; I flirted with the idea of going to bed, but reluctantly went to town—it was time to get down to business that the kids didn’t need to know about. I was going to please Rustle !

Clarence was in the office: the enterprising white magician drew propaganda posters, focusing on illustrations from the Krauhardian brochures. His pictures looked even more fearsome than the originals. I guessed that a man like him wasn’t susceptible to any “rollback”.

“Office, to arms!” I announced from the doorway. “Let’s go gather evidence.”

He began rushing around the office like a frightened rabbit.

“Freeze! Do you have a cart in your possession? We cannot take your vehicle—it would unmask us.”

“My nephew has a two-wheeled gig.”

“It will work! Take it and let’s go.”

The horse is not a car; it takes half an hour to harness it. By the time unhappy Alfred returned with the cart, Clarence had stuffed a whole field lab into his suitcase—from a magnifier to a spirit lamp. The purpose of half the objects in the suitcase remained a mystery to me. We climbed into the seats and pretended that it was casual: I, dirty like a pig after two days of camping, and the distinguished representative of the town’s authorities were going somewhere on business together.

“We need to approach the school from behind, from the direction of the park. Can we?”

“There is no road in that area, but I’ll try.”

A curved dirt walkway barely conquered the hills surrounding the lake, made a steep turn, and disappeared in the middle of the clear steppe; from that point onward our hope was on the strength of the cart axis. The gig jumped on hummocks and wriggled between thickets of thorns, blindly hitting some holes and rocks hidden in the grass. I kept the suitcase on my knees, trying to quench the jolts and shocks—it wasn’t altruism on my side; if not for that job, I would have to handle the horse.