Your Magic or Mine? (16 page)

Gloriana suppressed a smile. Her sister should have been a lawyer instead of a management consultant. If only the Horners and their people would be succinct and reasonable.

“Now for the FOM,” Alaric said.

Clay rose with that smart-alecky, here-comes-trouble expression she remembered well from childhood. “We at the Future of Magic are greatly concerned about the backward-looking activities of our more tradition-minded practitioners,” he began with a pompous tone. Then he proceeded to make an emotional argument about unemotional spell-casting, combining the traditionalist’s fear of the new with the joys of scientific efficiency and regularization.

Gloriana couldn’t resist smiling at Clay’s antics. His so-called arguments sounded good, but had little real reasoning behind them. More invective than substance—probably what they could expect from the FOM.

Alaric said, “Time,” at the end of three minutes. Clay kept talking.

“Your time is over, sir. Sit down,” Alaric said again, and he rapped his pen on the table.

Clay stopped talking, grinned like an evil demon older brother, and sat down. He and George high-fived each other.

“Next we’re going to try questions and proposals from our panelists. If you audience members wish to comment, raise your hand, and I’ll call on you. You’ll be limited to two minutes each.” Alaric wrote something on his paper, and muttered, “Stopwatch for Ed. You go first, Glori.”

“I’d like to start at the most basic, a bedrock principle. Casting is an individual art. How can we help the individual practitioner discover the best way for him or her to cast with the most effect?” she asked.

Alaric recognized Evelyn who said, “I’d call for the teaching masters to study how each practitioner learned casting and to apply that knowledge in a curriculum tailored to the individual.”

Good idea, Gloriana thought. As she’d looked into the matter, she’d been astounded how little even teaching masters knew about harnessing the energy within to cast that very important first spell. Once he or she had cast one spell, the rest seemed to follow, or that’s what had happened with Francie. She herself couldn’t remember not being able to cast.

George spoke next. “We
futurists
believe full development of the Forscher Formula will make casting considerably simpler and more straightforward. The traditionalists, with all their talk about emotion and art, are only confusing both the issue and many practitioners.” He went on to extol the virtues of a single method for casting—without all the unscientific talk about art and emotion—until Alaric called time.

Gloriana could hear the implied approval for the FOM supporters and the disparaging sneer for Horner’s group, and she struggled not to laugh. George was certainly getting into the spirit of the occasion. She felt her mouth tighten when she realized he hadn’t really addressed her question. On the other hand, his response was probably what they could expect.

Francie held up her hand, and Alaric nodded. “Speaking as one who came late to magic practice, I have to say, it’s
hard
to cast a spell. I had to try several methods before I found one I could use. I’m definitely a novice, and I don’t think I could use the formula, or even its terms. On the other hand, seeing that flame appear right on top of a candlewick is absolutely exhilarating and totally emotional.”

“Are you being a traitor to your husband’s cause, woman?” Clay thumped his hand on his chest as if from a mortal wound.

Francie stuck out her tongue at him, and Bent laughed.

“Order,” Alaric said and tapped his pen on the table. “Let’s go on to the next topic. Ask your question, Marcus.”

“My question concerns the equation itself,” Forscher said. “A number of you believe it has value. How can we specifically study its application to determine its best use?”

“I think—” Clay said.

“Wait to be called on,” Alaric admonished. When nobody else held up a hand, he said, “Okay, you have the floor.”

“Thank you,” Clay said. “I propose a committee of high-level mathematicians and teaching masters to calibrate the requirements for low-level spells in basic general disciplines. We can already measure internal energy production. It’s simply a matter of teaching a bunch of guinea pigs—uh, test subjects—to cast at precise outputs. It should be no more difficult than teaching people to read.”

“I can speak to that.” Evelyn raised her hand, and Alaric nodded. “Teaching reading is not easy. Children learn by different methods. For some, phonics works, for others, the ‘whole word’ approach is best. Because something comes easy to one person doesn’t mean it will to another. I would not like to see anybody pushed into one method or another—reading or spell-casting.”

“I thought the formula was even harder to use because you have to remember what all the letters and sub-designations mean and how much energy application is too much,” Antonia said.

Gloriana couldn’t help smiling this time. She remembered the problems her mother had—but her mother was such an intuitive caster, especially after years of casting. Trying to use the equation had seriously disrupted the flow of her process.

“Wait to be recognized,” Alaric cautioned.

Antonia gave him one of what Gloriana considered her “mother looks” until he said, “Go ahead.”

“Remember, I tried the formula, and I had trouble,” she continued. “Some young people can’t grasp algebra or haven’t even gotten to it yet in school. How can they think about the equation while struggling to manipulate the diverse parts of a spell, especially to control their power use?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” George spoke up, then stopped. “Whoops, I forgot. Am I recognized?” Alaric waved at him and he went on with a grin, “Put the process in a rap song.”

“What?” several people asked.

“Sure.” George rose, began to speak with a rhythmic beat, and accompanied his words with hand gestures.

“You take your talent, you take a spell.

You add your level, you stir it well.

Pour in some power, but not too much!

Mix it precisely, keep a light touch!

Watch your hands, don’t let them roam,

Focus on a crystal, if you need one.

Concentrate, concentrate, and when you’re done,

Abracadabra! Alacadun!

A ball of light shines like the sun!”

Rainbow colors spinning around inside it, an orb of light appeared in his hand.

Gloriana smiled. George evidently had hidden abilities. She shot a glance over at a frowning Forscher. Couldn’t the man take a joke about his “baby”?

“Hey, I like that,” Clay said. “How does it go again? ‘You take your talent…’“

“You take a spell,” George continued.

“You add your level, you stir it well,” Clay added the next line and mimicked George’s hand gestures while Bent began to beat time on the arm of his chair.

“Pour in some power,” Francie almost sang.

“But not too much!” several people stated emphatically.

“Mix it precisely,” Evelyn added.

“Keep a light touch,” Antonia admonished, wagging her finger.

“Concentrate, concentrate,” everyone in the audience shouted.

“And when you’re done … Abracadabra! Alacadun!” George finished, “A ball of light shines like the sun!”

Sparkling lightballs in rainbow colors materialized in the hands of everybody except non-practitioner Bent.

“Order, order!” Alaric rapped on the table with his knuckles while the audience laughed and batted the balls around like toys. Clay rolled one along the floor, and Samson chased it into the hall.

Gloriana sighed. Her prediction of chaos was coming true right in front of her, and it wasn’t only Clay acting up. She glanced over at Forscher, who was shuffling his papers with a resigned expression. She could empathize—he wanted a real discussion of his formula, not another circus. “Daddy,” she said and put a hand on her father’s arm, “let’s get on with it.”

He nodded and spoke louder. “Let’s come to order, people. The question is how to study the equation to determine the best way to use it.”

“Thank you,” she heard Forscher say softly.

“Let them have their committee,” Daria said with a gracious smile.

Gloriana came to attention. She knew that tone; her sister had laid a trap.

“Why are you giving in so easily?” Clay glared at Daria, then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I see. You think the whole idea will get buried, don’t you? Send it through Council channels, let everybody talk and talk, and nothing will get done. What’s that old saying? In a bureaucracy, all channels lead to the Dead Sea?”

“No, of course not,” Daria replied, “I believe the notion should be studied—thoroughly. In the meantime, let the rest of us muddle along in our blissful ignorance, happily casting our spells as we always have.”

“I’m more interested in the result,” Evelyn interjected. “What happens when some of us can’t use the equation—not won’t, but aren’t capable, can’t think or cast in those terms?”

“I won’t be stifled by a strict formula,” Antonia stated with a sharp shake of her head.

“Mother, you aren’t stifled by recipes, either. You make them up while you go along,” Clay protested. “Think how efficient you’d be if you used it?”

“Sometimes, son, it’s not efficiency that results in a good meal—or a good spell,” she replied.

Touché
, Gloriana thought and sighed. They were getting off the subject. She poked her father in the arm.

“Daddy, we need to stay on track.”

“In a minute,” he said, “I want to see where this is heading.”

“Think how a low-level practitioner would benefit from using the equation,” George suggested.

“What if they simply couldn’t use it? They tried, but they couldn’t think that way or make it work?” Francie asked. “I’d be devastated and think I was a total failure.”

“You’re not a failure, honey,” Clay said.

“That’s not the point,” Evelyn put in.

Gloriana watched in dismay as everyone started talking at once and to each other. Then Bent, of all people, started chanting George’s rap ditty, and Francie joined him. Clay said something about “stodgy, old-fashioned” casting. Antonia said she’d show him stodgy and wiggled her fingers. Her mother’s favorite illusion of rose petals filled the air, and they swirled in invisible currents when Francie accompanied the beat with hand and arm movements.

George joined the chanters and cast multiple lightballs that danced through the petals. Evelyn shrugged and cast the illusion of a dunce cap which she settled firmly on her husband’s head. Daria asked Clay how she, who couldn’t spell anything except herself, would have learned to cast when trying to fit into a rigid mold. Clay’s answer was lost amid the uproar.

Her father—finally—called for order, but gave up after about fifteen seconds and joined in the rap.

“Oh, hell,” Gloriana muttered. The event was breaking down exactly as she’d feared—in chaos and fiasco. She turned to her father and tugged at his sleeve until he stopped rapping. “I give up, Daddy. Nobody is taking us seriously. This rehearsal is useless. It’s worse than a waste of time—it’s no help at all. I warned you, and I’m not going to stay around and play. I’m out of here.”

Shaking her head in frustration, she rose and marched out of the room. The hounds followed.

Marcus stared at the confusion of rose petals, multicolored lightballs, and gesticulating, talking, singing people. He had never envisioned the rehearsal falling apart as it had. The Morgan family was clearly crazy, but George and Evelyn had joined in the debacle, too. What a mess. They’d never get anywhere after this uproar. It was the first debate all over again.

When Morgan walked out, he felt a moment of panic. She was leaving him alone in anarchy.

No, she wasn’t going to do that to him. He wouldn’t let her. He wasn’t going to be stuck with these lunatics.

He stood and stalked into the hall. A burst of laughter and clapping followed him. The front door stood open, and the dogs were on the porch, so he went out to join them.

Morgan had opened her car door. She was truly leaving.

“Wait!” he called and heard the word come out in a croak.

She stopped and stared at him over the closed top of the dark green convertible.

“Take me with you.” God, he sounded pathetic. He didn’t care. He had to get out of there, and they needed to talk about what happened. “Please.”

Her eyes met his for a long moment before she nodded. “Get in.”

Samson and Delilah beat him to the car. When he opened the passenger door, she was spreading a blanket over the back seats.

“Come on, you two, in the back,” she said.

After the dogs climbed in, he settled into the front seat and fastened his seat belt. He didn’t know where they were going, and he didn’t care.

When she started the engine, a country-western song blasted out of the radio speakers. Some guy was singing about a woman who was T-R-O-U-B-L-E. Marcus couldn’t stand country-western, but at least the words certainly fit his situation.

She backed out onto the road. “Hold on,” she said, changed gears, and stepped on the gas.

The car leapt forward like she’d hit the afterburner on a jet, and he grabbed the armrest as the acceleration pressed him back into the seat. She slowed—barely—for a right-hand turn and hit a high speed on the straightaway. He glanced backward. The dogs had their heads out the open windows and seemed to be enjoying themselves.

“Where are we going?” he managed to gasp out over the music.

“Over there.” She actually took a hand off the wheel to wave in a direction off to the right.

On the horizon, he saw a tall building literally shining in the sun. Other, lower buildings stretched out from its right flank and reflected the clouds. The farm’s greenhouses, he surmised before her fast cornering jerked his gaze back to the road. He took a firmer grip on both the armrest and the seat belt.

A couple of white-knuckled minutes later, they pulled up before the larger structure. Blessed silence fell when she cut off the car engine. With shaking hands, he released the seat belt and pulled himself out of the car. He was surprised his legs still held him upright after that ride.