Obscurely Obvious Page 4

  “What are you doing?” The Prof’s voice was strained with incredulity.

  Elran yanked his hands away from the plastic pot as though he’d been burned. His heart leaped to clog his throat, then dropped like a ton of lead into his stomach. Where in the blazes had he come from? He was sure the room had been empty…

  “What have you done, boy?”

  They both stared at the plant. It was trembling still, caught between beauty and deformity.

  Elran found himself unable to say a thing. His mind was completely blank, unprepared for the sudden jolt back to consciousness and the need to form an excuse.

  “What have you done?” the professor repeated in a whisper. His eyes slid from the plant to Elran. Then he straightened himself and clasped his hands behind his back as though to keep them from trembling. “I think we had best go pay a visit to the Master Dean.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” His mouth was working, even if his brain wasn’t.

  The interview with the Master Dean had been brief; so brief that Elran found himself wondering if it had actually happened or if he had only imagined it. In no time at all he’d been whisked from the Dean’s office to the offices of the Peerage, where he was the center of incredulous attention. He felt a curious sense of being out of his body, of watching what happened as though from a distance. Professor Sheel explained what had happened to three High Peers. The Master Dean watched him as if expecting him to sprout horns. Worst of all, his parents were there, white faced and unbelieving. And in his father’s case, outraged.

  “I see,” the white-haired Peer said. “What do you have to say about this, boy?”

  Elran hated being called ‘boy’. It made him feel stupid and immature. Never mind that it was appropriate at the moment.

  “You are being addressed, young man,” a woman beside the white-haired Peer spoke. She had a stern, unforgiving appearance. Elran forced himself out of the limbo he’d faded into. “It was an accident, sir.” His voice sounded strange, hoarse.

  “How so?” The third Peer was a man, not as old as the other two. He reminded Elran of a kindly uncle.

  “I was just—” Just what? Crazy? Completely off the beam? “—discouraged, sir.”

  “Go on.”

  Elran licked his lips—dry and cracked—and glanced at his parents. His mother nodded encouragingly and his father frowned. “I—I was h-holding the plant and wishing it would have turned out right. Then Professor Sheel spoke up behind me and startled me. When I opened my eyes, the plant was, well, changed.”

  “You are aware that the use of magic is neither practical nor scientific. It is detrimental to everything that we believe in. It is unlawful and will not be tolerated in our society.” The white-haired Peer who wore an expression of cold disdain.

  “But it is practical!” Elran blurted out. The looks he got from seven pairs of eyes would have frozen him solid if they had been using any magic.

  “I take it that this is not the first time you have employed these… actions?”

  Elran’s voice was a pained whisper. “No, sir.”

  “How often has this occurred?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Two or three times?”

  He shook his head.

  “More?”

  He nodded.

  “Ten?”

  He shrugged.

  “So many that you have perhaps lost count?”

  He nodded again. Through the silence that fell suddenly and heavily upon the room Elran heard his father’s rasping breath. In and out. In and out. He always breathed that way when he was angry. Elran didn’t dare look at him, or his mother either. His mother wouldn’t be angry. At least he didn’t think so. Shocked. Betrayed.

  “Explain,” the white-haired Peer barked.

  So Elran explained. He told about the first time. And he told about changing the color of a rosebush from pink to orange, promoting sweetness in some experimental fruit, and of supplementing disease resistance in grain plants.

  When he stopped, no one said anything. He couldn’t hear his father breathing anymore. No one moved at all for a long time. When someone finally spoke, it was the stern woman.

  “I’m not sure I understand, young man, how you have so blatantly disregarded what you've been taught. Your parents are both highly regarded and respected members of the Peerage themselves. How could you have done this?”

  Elran tried to ease the dryness in his throat by swallowing. It didn’t help. “I told you, it was an accident.”

  “At first, perhaps. But then?”

  He had no defense for that question, and the three Peers reiterated the positions of society on the evils of magic. It was simply not The Way. Then they left the room to conduct a private council to determine his future. Elran turned to speak to his parents, but the look on his father’s face turned his words to vapor in his mouth. His mother blinked away tears and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. There was no appealing to the Prof either; he was studiously examining the fluted moulding along the ceiling. Elran licked his lips again and waited while his life oozed away with each passing minute.

  The door opened again and the Peerage trouped in and took their seats. The younger man announced the verdict. “We have decided in favor of your youth, young Elran.” He was the first one to use his name at all. “You have a choice: Give up the use of magic for now and always, or go into exile.”

  That was something. He’d never heard of anyone being given a second chance, but give up magic? Give up the opportunities that it provided? Give up the efficiency it rendered? Give up the thrill of ability—of power—that flowed through him every time he used it? That was impractical. How could they ask him to give up something he was actually talented at; something that made him happy? Science wasn’t the only way — it couldn’t be! Why, the outsiders had been practicing magic for centuries! It didn’t seem to have done them any harm. For a surety, they were common peasants, but why should that make any difference? Why should they be kept from the benefits of technological advances, any more than the Highborn should be kept from the benefits of magic? Surely the two could be integrated? And why should one of the Highborn blessed—or cursed—with the power of magic through no conscious choice be ostracized? It wasn’t fair. A hot flickering of anger flitted through him and he stood.

  “I can’t believe this!” he cried. “I can’t believe people with such respectable backgrounds and high-minded values can be so—so obtuse! Can’t you see how very practical and useful magic could be?” He saw shock settle in various degrees across the faces of his audience, but didn’t let it slow him. “What if you used magic to hype disease resistance in food crops and then used the new plants to generate a whole new strain? It would drastically decrease the time and effort we expend now. And what about metallurgy? Use magic to bring separate components together and then use science to break it down and repeat its properties. And in medicine? Trained healers would be every bit as effective as those who spend years attending the Medical Academy, if not more so! And the weather! Why couldn't it be controlled? You’re trying to control everything with technology; why not with magic?” Surely they saw all the good things possible with magic?

  “You had best sit down, boy,” the white-haired man said. His face, too, was white, stretched tight with emotion.

  The man with the kind face shook his head, unbelieving. “So young to be such a heretic.”

  “A traitor.”

  Elran heard his mother’s muffled gasp, but he didn’t look at her. “A heretic?” He barked a laugh. “Where do we get our talents, Master Peer? Are they accidents of nature? Or will you admit that they are given to us by the Gods? All our lives, our talents are praised and encouraged. Unless it is the talent of magic. How can you look down on something so unique like it is a physical deficiency? I can’t believe the Gods would give a man power like that if they didn’t mean for it to be as well-used as the power of diplomacy, or athletic ability, or a quickness with numbers an
d figures.

  “That is enough!” the white-haired man roared, curling his hands into fists. “Enough of your heresy! Enough of your ignorant words! Enough of your impudence! Everything that comes out of your mouth is against the law of our society. I demand that you be immediately exiled!”

  The whisper of protest from Elran’s mother went unnoticed.

  “Is this your choice, then, Elran?” the younger Peer asked. “You would choose the magic and ostracism over the privileges of your current position?”

  Elran hesitated a fraction. “I don’t see that such a choice has to be made, by me or any other. I don’t see where you have the right to punish someone for something he had no choice in receiving.”

  “You may not have had a choice in receiving it, but you did have a choice in exercising it,” the white-haired man said. “You have chosen to go against our laws. You must be exiled.”

  “I agree.” The stern-faced woman didn’t show an ounce of hesitation.

  The kind-looking man shook his head, struggling to accept what was happening before his very eyes. “You are young to be so full of conviction. Then again, perhaps you are so full of conviction because you are young.” He smiled, a trifle sadly. “I have no choice but to concur with my Peers. You must be exiled.”

  Elran staggered back, feeling as though he’d taken a fist in his belly. This couldn’t be happening. It was all wrong. How could they have listened to his arguments and not even considered them? He was to face an exile that was permanent and irrevocable? It was unthinkable. Insane. Had he wished it on himself? Had he unwittingly put the power of the magic into his desire for freedom? Had it all been a mistake? He couldn’t believe that. Wouldn’t. Exile, for pity’s sake! He didn’t know any outsiders; didn’t know if they would accept or reject him. Where would he go? What would he do? How would he live?

  He felt a sudden urge to turn to his mother for protection, but guards had been summoned to escort him to his quarters to retrieve whatever he would take with him. It was happening again: that curious sense of being outside of himself, this time accompanied by an awful buzzing in his ears. His feet moved him toward the door. The Prof put out a restraining hand to stop him.

  “Stand tall, lad. You told them what for—now don’t make like an idiot and try to back down. Your pride’s the only thing you have left here.” His voice seemed to come from a long way away, and Elran hadn’t the strength to answer.

  The rest was all a bad dream—a nightmare. The ride in the private transport to his home. His mother helping him pack. His father standing nearby, an accusing look in his eyes. And then Exile’s Walk. Everyone was there: his parents, the Prof, the Master Dean, the whole of the ruling Peerage, even his brother Ansim, looking strained and pale. They stood on either side of the long road that led from the inner city to the outer gates, silent and watching.

  It was amazing how fast word had spread. More and more people kept coming to see the grand spectacle. It was a rare occasion when someone faced Exile’s Walk. He wished that it was more private, but he supposed public humiliation was part of the package. Part of tradition. Dozens, then hundreds waited for him to begin the walk that would take him on a journey that would forever change his life. The guards stood behind him, barring his way back. He looked in silent appeal to his parents. His father stared at an invisible point over his head, and his mother wept openly. Then Ansim was beside him, slipping one hand under his arm.

  “Come. I’ll walk a way with you, little brother.”

  Elran stood there for a moment, startled that Ansim would offer his support so openly. Then he smiled weakly and shook his head. “No. You mustn’t. It will be bad enough for you as it is.”

  Ansim shrugged. “It will pass, but I may never have the chance to walk beside you again.”

  “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be tossed out on your ear for being my brother.”

  “Maybe.” He gave Elran a little push, and they started down the road. “If that’s the case, I’ll be expecting you to be ready to have company calling.”

  Elran’s hand tightened on Ansim’s arm and he nodded. His feet were inordinately heavy at first, but after a while they became easier to move. And after a little longer the strange buzzing in his ears subsided to hear the suppressed murmurs of the crowd. The wind pressed against the side of his face and he heard that too.

  “You’ll be all right,” Ansim said. “If I know Mother, she packed plenty of food to tide you over, and you’ll no doubt find money enough to see you through until you’re settled somewhere.”

  Elran turned a worried look at his older brother. “But what will I do, Ansim? All I know is what I’ve learned at the Academy. It’s all technical stuff. There’s no use for that out there!”

  Ansim smiled. “Use your magic, idiot. It’s not such a common thing, you know, even among the outsiders. And a really talented mage can surely earn his keep.”

  Elran stared for a moment, then nodded. “Maybe so.” They walked for a few more minutes in companionable silence, then Elran halted. The Great Gates were closed now, but they would open for him to pass through, then close again behind him, literally and figuratively cutting him off from his past. “I’ll go on from here.”

  Ansim looked him over once, as though trying to impress his image on his memory. “You know, I’m going to miss you, half pint.”

  Elran felt tears sting the backs of his eyes then and he blinked them away. “I’ll miss you, too. Even if you are so perfect it’s hard to bear.”

  “Me? Perfect?” His brother looked surprised. “Don't even think it. I’m just meekly doing what I’m told to do, as unobtrusively as possible.”

  “That must be it, then.”

  “You want to know a secret?”

  “What?”

  “I envy you the guts it took to stand up to the Peers. I could never have done it.”

  Elran stared at him, then broke into a grin. “Goodbye, Ansim.”

  “Goodbye, Elran.”

  “Tell Mother I love her.” He shouldered his bag and walked down the great wide road, ignoring the whispering crowds. The huge gates swung open, hung for a moment as though suspended in time, then thudded shut behind him.

  — Bonus Selection —

  The main character in the following tale is particularly dear to my heart, and so I interrupt your reading to give him an introduction. Dog—or “the” Dog—has been with me since December of 2000, though this account came somewhat after that date. That his true name does not appear here is a product of his story. I think, when you read of his circumstances, you will understand.

  It is possible to lose oneself.

  It is possible to travel so far down a road that one can believe return is impossible. That escape is forever out of reach. That redemption is either a falsehood or deeply undeserved…

  Not Me

  He was going to fail again, and he knew it. He would fail himself, not Them. No, They would be pleased. They usually were. The fact was that their pleasure mattered not one iota. Nothing did.

  And so he waited, sitting on a small hummock, fouled boots in the mud. He closed his eyes to give them rest against the smoke hanging thick and greedy over the battlefield. An errant breeze teased the bodies strewn across the bitter earth.

  Pork, he thought. It smells like roasted pork. A little crispy around the edges. The smoke, dirt, and blood masking his face creased a little as his lips twitched. Still, the movement was impossible to mistake for a smile. How often had he thought those exact words? More times than he could count.

  Neither the wind, the moans of the dying, nor the distant clash of arms covered the sound of conversation some half dozen yards away. He suspected They thought it did.

  “Just send the Djuati. That’s what it’s for, isn’t it?”

  The Djuati. That was him. He did not know exactly what the word meant, but the malice, the fear, the disgust that always accompanied it were familiar. The label bore the exact weight and flavor of other names he’d borne: b
east, dog, butcher, reaper, cleaner... ‘Dog’ was usually the favorite. Once, a long time ago, those names had angered him. Now they were simply a fact of his existence. He had no pride left to fight them, no legitimate argument against their truth.

  They didn’t argue for long; they rarely did. The Djuati was given orders and he set off on Their errand. Alone. His purpose took him over a pair of small hills and along the edge of a blood-stained stream. A handful of men held out in a copse of trees straddling the water. These soldiers had been labeled by Them as enemies, and the only good enemy was a dead one. These particular unfortunates had proven to be wickedly effective.

  The Djuati was wickeder. It didn’t matter how badly they hurt him while he killed them. They died anyway and their terror satisfied a gnawing, twisted hunger in him. When he finished and was covered with their blood and his own, They spat on him and called him names. They kicked him. Then They chained him.

  He killed them, too. They didn’t think he would do it, that he could, but their blood and their fear was just as satisfying as anyone else’s.

  When they were dead, there wasn’t anyone that needed him for anything at all. For an immeasurable time, he sat on the bloody ground with their corpses and stared into his grim future. They were right, and he was just an animal.

  The scene repeated itself endlessly. He moved on, but no matter what country he traveled to or what people he met, he was still the Dog. It was as good a name as any for him, and there were days, weeks even, when he wasn’t sure he remembered his own name. “Send the Dog,” was a common phrase. The Dog went, and men died. And the Dog sat by himself. Ate by himself. Slept by himself.