I love looking out my bedroom window. Everything is so peaceful from up here. I watch the wind rocking the trees, the fence’s shadow on the flowers in the garden, birds inhabiting their nest in a bush and even the ants walking across the wooden windowsill. I see the details; everything catches my attention: movement, lights, colors. My focus sharpens at every novelty. I feel like the world has slowed down and I’m the only one here to admire its scenery, for as long I need. My concentration is heightened; even sound disappears. I hear only thoughts, my questions. While I watch the branches swaying, I breathe deeply. My head moves from side to side at the same rhythm with the calmness of the moment. In the sky, a large cloud approaches; it has a curious shape, perhaps a bear. Little by little, the cloud covers the sun and the fence-shaped shadow disappears, giving way to another, larger one that swallows the entire yard.

                “Leeeee!” I hear someone calling, breaking that precious silence. “Leran, I’ve been calling you for ten minutes. Son, you’re going to be late.”

                It’s my mother, talking as she enters my room. She reminds me I have class today.

                I change clothes quickly and brush my teeth. I comb my hair to the side, trying to look different. I don’t like the look. I muss it up with my hands and my hair returns to its normal shape: parted in the middle, with bangs. I run downstairs, grab my bag, take a donut from the breakfast table and hurry out the door.

                “Le.  What about my kiss?” I return, the donut already in my mouth, and offer my cheek so she can kiss it. “Get going, before you’re late,” she says. I shoot her a cross look and leave.

                I hate waking up early. Fortunately, that sacrifice is coming to an end. Classes end in a little over a month. I’m going to miss this time of friends and teachers, well, at least those that aren’t so tough. Yeah, there’ve been some boring classes, but others have been fairly useful. They say the things we learn in Acigam are different from those taught in other cities around the world. I don’t know if that’s true, but, everything’s focused on our culture, with no room for learning about other people and places. I’ve been in math, history classes and studied some practical subjects that have taught us how to be good gardeners, construction workers, cooks and even become specialists in some weapons and types of combat. The Royal Guard, our combined army and police force, is always a good first job option for young people.

                Today, I have archery practice. It’s one of my favorite subjects. I can safely say I’m the best in my class; at least I can hit the target at greater distances. My teacher says I have excellent powers of concentration and observation, which helps me. After all, there must be some advantages to being, shall we say, so absent-minded. That’s what my friends and family claim. For them, I can easily shut myself off from the world around me. But that’s not it; they’re exaggerating. I just like to see things carefully.

                On the way to school, I walk slowly, looking at the grass and the trodden earth on the road.  Some very small holes in the dirt catch my eye.

                Insects might have dug them. I stop and wait for something to come out, but the minutes go by and nothing happens. I look around to see if anything has changed, but nothing has. I squat and observe more closely, trying to see what’s in there. I stay a few minutes longer and then, startled, I hear the school bell.

                Damn! It’s time for class.

                I’d forgotten about that and, worse yet, I’m still far away. Luckily, the new bell they installed is really loud. It lets the entire neighborhood know classes have started – very useful and rather irritating at the same time.

                I run so hard I feel like I’m about to die. I rush through the gate and find the other students. Having already gotten their equipment, they’re on their way to the archery range. I grab mine and slip into the crowd, hiding. I quickly get in line, pushing two classmates aside seconds before our teacher looks at us. Perfect!

                “Good morning, Mr. Yandel! Did you oversleep again?” If there are people with eyes in the back of their heads, Mr. Cortez is certainly one of them. The look of surprise on my face from his question gives me away even further.

                “Actually, I got lost in an insect hole,” I answer with a yellow smile. I hear laughter from the back of the class.

                “Very funny. You can start,” he says, marking the firing line in the dirt. “Fifty meters is good for a first shot, don’t you think, Mr. Yandel?”

                I look at the target, walk up to the line, look at the target again and say, “A close from here, isn’t it?” My classmates laugh again.

                “We’re waiting,” my teacher replies.

                I take an arrow from my quiver, place it on the rest, aim and pull. I keep the bow taught but don’t fire. I try focusing better. No matter how hard I try, I can’t see straight. It’s really far, further than I’m used to. The entire class is behind me, silent, waiting for my shot.

                “Concentrate,” my teacher whispers softly near my ear. “Bring it to you.”

                Squinting to focus better, I quit paying attention to my surroundings. For a few seconds, it’s just the target and me. Little by little, I notice more details. Now I can see the flaws in the painted circles and the marks from other arrows that have struck it. It’s as if the target were just a few meters in front of me. The grass is moving to the left, which shows me the direction of the wind. That helps me adjust my aim. I raise the bow slightly to the right, in a motion so careful that most miss it. Then I release. It fires. I watch the arrow sprint forward and a few seconds later, there it is, stuck in the third circle from the target’s center. I hear applause and shouts of praise.

                “I expected better, Leran,” Mr. Cortez says with a serious tone, but then he smiles. “But, you’re still the best archer I’ve ever taught.”

                I smile back at him and move so the others can practice. Mr. Cortez is, without a doubt, one of the teachers I’ll miss. In spite of being tough, he knows how to motivate us. He’s the reason I’ve dedicated myself to archery. I walk over to the benches and sit down for a few minutes. Now I can relax and watch the others; I enjoy myself doing that. It’s time for an awkward kid whose name I can never remember. He’s practiced all through high school, just like everyone else, but he still shoots his arrows backwards. Most of us know that and prefer watching from in front of him. In fact, when he shoots, the safest spot is the target. Luckily for everyone, Mr. Cortez has never let him practice with real arrows. He still shoots with rubber tips, the ones we use in our first year. After a few glasses of water, I’m ready to practice some more. I keep shooting until the end of class. I don’t even notice time flying by.

                We have science for the rest of the day.  I truly detest this subject. They only teach nonsense; I know. But I don’t dare share that opinion with other students. The government is very strict with people who challenge the truth of their teachings. I study and always try to get as good grades as possible. It’s just that today, I’m not into it. Worse yet, these boring classes always seem to last forever. During the lecture, I doodle, think about my plans for the weekend, chat a little with my classmates and pay no attention at all to what the teacher is saying. Happily, they’ve also slacked off. At other times, I’d probably have gotten a warning or some other punishment for being disruptive. We’ve already taken our major tests and are so close to the end of classes that one more day or less won’t make any difference. After all, what do a few hours mean for someone who’s spent most of his seventeen years studying?

                Finally, the bell rings, announcing the end of this hassle. I quickly gather up my stuff, which was almost ready anyway, and exit the room. I say bye to some of my friends and, as I’m leaving the building, Mr. Cortez calls me:

                “Leran, come here, please,” he says, going into his office.

                I do an about face, go in and sit down. I look at him and raise my eyebrows, expecting to get chewed out for being late, or something like that.

                “Leran, after all these years teaching archery, I’m very proud of your progress. I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re my best student, and I’d like to give you something.”

                Wow, a present! What could it be? I’m uneasy, anxious, but try to look calm.

                “Mr. Cortez, you didn’t have to…”

                “Yes, I did,” he says, interrupting me. “Today was our last class and you’ll need to keep on practicing.”

                He stands up, goes to his locker and takes out a large package. Could it be what I think it is?

                When he hands it to me, I quickly rip the paper without thinking. I’m surprised by what I see. It’s a bow – new, beautiful. Limbs of firm lightly curved wood covered in reddish leather. Its size and weight are perfect for me. It’s wonderful.

                “Thanks a lot. It’s excellent. I’m really going to practice.”

                “Be careful not to hurt anyone. Take this, too,” he says, giving me a quiver with several arrows. “They have rubber tips, can be used on normal targets and aren’t lethal, you know. They’re perfect for practicing.”

                I understand his concern about giving me arrows with real tips. After all, no one will be supervising my practice away from school. Nevertheless, I’m speechless. It’s a fantastic present. Bows like this are rare. I’ve been wanting to buy one, but I’ve never found anything like it. I’m very happy knowing that my teacher is really satisfied with my progress in class. I thank him again and give him a hug.

                “I’m going to practice. You can be sure of that.” I leave his office and go out into the street.

                I can’t wait to try out my new toy, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. I’d forgotten that I promised my grandfather I’d go by his shop today. I slide my book bag’s strap over my shoulder; it hangs by my side at waist level. I slip the quiver on my back and fasten my bow to it. I probably look strange carrying all this stuff.

                I walk down the main avenue and catch the downtown train, sitting in the back of the car, where I rest my head on the side and doze off for a few minutes. The shaking of the train when it enters the trenches hiding the tracks downtown wakes me up. That short nap was long enough to dream about science classes, the creation of the world and all that blah-blah-blah. What a crock! But I realize there’s a reason for this dream: I’m going to see my grandfather to unravel more of the science he knows. It is rather different from what’s taught in high school. I’m tired of hearing about how the world was created by gods, that only they have the power to change it, that humans have no influence on the environment, that the elements are inanimate, not dynamic, and that controlling them is almost impossible – none of which is true.

                At first, I had heard some individuals could modify their surrounding environment. They were able to control the field of energy surrounding their bodies and, from that, alter elements in nature. They were generally called “warlocks” and, in the past, were hunted and punished for practicing control. One day, I decided to ask my grandfather, since he’d travelled a lot and had learned things from other people and cultures; I knew he’d have an answer. After really insisting with my questions, he confirmed that, in other places, these “warlocks” do, in fact, exist, but this curious science has been prohibited in Acigam. Out there, they even have other names: shapers, pointers, or, simply, energy controllers. This is real science, what the rest of the world studies. After discovering the truth, I began to suspect that some things in Acigam were nothing more than tricks to control young people better, to keep questioning far from our minds. But, that’s okay. I’m lucky because I know someone who can show me other things.

                My grandfather asked me not to say anything to anyone, not even my mother. I agreed. Once, there’d been a rumor at school that one of our classmates’ father practiced “magic”. A few weeks later, the boy disappeared and our teachers told us he’d moved to another city. It was a very strange story. Some people even said the government had arrested the entire family and had probably put them to death. But you know how rumors at school are, don’t you? Anyway, I decided to keep quiet, just to avoid problems. At the same time, I asked my grandfather to teach me everything.

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                In his official profession, he’s a very talented craftsman. He knows how to work with all sorts of materials. He makes beautiful furniture and decorative objects. His shop is always full and makes a good profit from what he sells. Nevertheless, it’s not what he shows others that catches my attention. I like to learn what he does as a hobby, what he does in the shop’s basement, hidden from curious eyes, particularly those of the government.

                When I arrive at his shop, it’s almost closing time. My grandfather attends to his last shoppers with his customary consideration. As soon as they leave, we lock the doors.

                “How’s your archery coming along?”

                “Today was our last day. My teacher gave me this so I can practice at home,” I answer, showing him the bow.

                “It looks like an excellent weapon, Le.”

                Proud of my present, I nod in agreement, smiling.

                “Leave your stuff here and come on,” he says, descending into the basement. “We’re going to learn something new today.”

                I can’t wait to have new lessons. It’s been a while since I’ve visited him to study. We don’t always have time and space to practice. He closed his shop a little early just so he can teach me without rushing things.  My grandfather always says we must be careful when we study real science.

                The regular guardsmen in the city are rather harsh, but, according to my grandfather, there are others called hushers who are worse. They’re part of an elite army group, specialized in capturing warlocks. Their weapons cancel out all energy control, leaving those who practice it totally defenseless. They prowl about the city, including in the market, but they’re always disguised. Obviously, their existence is a secret and my grandfather only knows because he has contacts. I’ve never seen them; I have no idea who they are. My grandfather doesn’t give me many details either. Sometimes I have the impression it’s a story he made up to keep me frightened, to make sure I won’t show anyone what we do.

                Over the years, I’ve learned about the actual law that controls the world in his lessons. It deals with the energy found everywhere, even within us. There are eighteen types in all, taking the form of every one of the existing elements. Six are primary: Fire, Air, Light, Water, Earth and Darkness, and twelve secondary, originating from combinations of the six primary ones. Science not only studies how these energies work but also how to control them; this is what they consider “magic” here in Acigam.

                My grandfather has become an expert in one of those forms of control: enchantments. It is an art that consists of organizing the intangible energies around ourselves and concentrating them in tangible things, like objects, weapons, or even our very own bodies. That’s what I’m trying to learn: how to control energy in order to direct it at something. After a while, that object will be able to release the force concentrated there all at once. The results are beautiful.

                My first attempts were heating up small copper balls just by looking at them. For beginners like me, using the right materials makes things easier. Copper, for example, is an excellent recipient for energy. To learn, I watched my grandfather and tried to copy what he was doing. He has natural ability; he only needs to make very quick visual contact with the ball for it to start glowing and, then, burst into flames. He could set them on fire in a matter of seconds. Onn the other hand, I would get cross-eyed from looking at that blasted sphere so long and still nothing would happen. It took me months to even make them warm. It’s not easy at all. It demands tremendous concentration. Your gaze must be fixed on your target in order to transfer the energy to the right place. Once I caught a rug on fire; I’d shifted my eyes off the small ball for microseconds.

                Besides observation and concentration, you must understand and identify the elements around you. Air, humidity, heat, cold, sound. All carry energies that can be used to do an enchantment. Your senses must be acute to pick up the vibrations; after that, you use your sight to direct everything to the target.

                Today’s lesson also involves small balls, but this time my goal is to freeze them.

                “Freeze them?” I ask, startled. “How am I going to do that if there’s not even any water here?”

                “By concentrating, Le. Try to find the energy source capable of freezing your target,” he responded, encouraging me.

                I sat next to the wooden table where the balls were. I put one of them in the center of the table and lean against the seat back. How would I start?

                I began by intently observing the small sphere. I look at its details, noticing my reflection on the curved surface. I can make out the scratches on its face and even some small cracks indicating the object’s advanced age.

                Now I need to locate the energy source from which I’ll find the cold needed to freeze it.  The air is hot; it must be thirty degrees today. Where am I going to find the cold? I think for a few minutes and decide to imagine it's the middle of winter, we’re in an open, very cold place, full of snow… a snow storm. I imagine the air getting thin and, breathing in deeply, I can feel the cold filling my lungs. Little by little, my skin gets goosebumps and I begin to shiver. I can even feel the cold air on my face. My mouth is dry and my parted lips seem to chap. I keep my gaze fixed on the sphere and release the frigid air as I exhale. I think it’s carrying small snowflakes that envelop the little ball. After a few seconds, I notice an icy glaze covering the copper.

                “I did it, Grandpa! I did it!” I shout while standing up.

                “Careful, Le,” he warns, pointing at the table. “You can’t lose your concentration until you finish the enchantment.

                I look at the tabletop again and see a trail of ice beginning at the sphere that continues to the table’s edge. My grandfather adds,

                “Those final seconds are the difference between lighting a torch and catching your hands on fire.”

                I nod my head, showing I understand his message, and sit down to try again.

                “And another thing, look at yourself,” he says, directing me to a small mirror on the wall. “You’re purple from the cold.”

                That’s true. It looks like I’ve been standing outside naked in the snow for hours. I grab a sweater he offers me and then go to the couch, where I sit down, all hunched up.

“You can’t use your body as a conduit for the energy. It should go directly from the environment to the object. But that’s okay. This is common for beginners. You’ll soon figure it out.”

Yeah, using my body as a conductor wasn’t very bright, was it? Imagine if it had been an explosive enchantment? Thank God I’ve never tried that. I wait a few minutes until I feel better and start practicing again. I keep at it until nightfall and make some progress. At least I didn’t feel like a penguin after freezing a sphere.

                All the shops in the market should have closed by now and almost no one is in the streets. There’s is a type of curfew. It’s not too extreme, but if a soldier sees you in the city at night, he can stop you for questioning. Any careless reply results in problems, which is why I try not to stay downtown too late, but there was no way around it this time. Both my grandfather and I will have to go home after dark.

                I take my bag, new bow and the quiver full of arrows, and wait outside while my grandfather locks his shop. As soon as he finishes, we start off for the train station. On our way, we see very few people. Everything is quiet, rather different from during the day. The old buildings look frightening in the dark and the precarious lighting doesn’t help at all. At least it’s pretty at night. I can see the full moon easily this evening. It’s so huge and so close to us it looks like I can touch it if I stretch out my arm. The weather is pleasant: somewhat warm with a fresh breeze. It couldn’t be better.

                 We keep on walking until we reach the main avenue, which is deserted. I stop briefly to tie my shoes. My laces have come undone, and my grandfather stands next to me, waiting. While I’m crouching, I hear a noise from the left; it sounds like an explosion. Startled, I stand up, look toward the sound, trying to see what happened. I notice a little smoke in the distance and, suddenly, a siren goes off. What could it be?

                “Come on,” my grandfather says, grabbing my arm.

                With the sudden movement and my shoelaces still untied, I trip and fall on the sidewalk. On the ground, I see people running, coming from the direction of the smoke.

                “Go! Run!” one of them shouts.

                Just behind them, armed guards are shooting at them. I see bursts of fire whizzing by and halt, totally frozen. One of the fugitives stops running in the middle of the firefight, turns toward the soldiers and raises one of his hands. My eyes bug out when I see energy flowing around his arm. Flashes of red light slip and weave themselves together until they’re concentrated in the palm of his hand, held high and outward. They form a luminous sphere seemingly made of fire. Everything happens very quickly, but my trained eyes can see the details of the lights until the sphere, now the size of a cantaloupe, is complete. He throws it and shouts, as if dissipating the energy with his voice.

                The sphere flies to where the guardsmen are and, upon striking the ground, there’s a new, huge explosion. The bright light causes me to close my eyes and I turn my face as hot air hits it. After the impact, the group runs across the plaza; the troopers are on the ground, injured and shaken by the attack.

                “What’s happening, Grandpa?” I ask, frightened.

                “We’ve got to get out of here before they arrive,” he says, pulling me up by the arm. “Quickly.”

“They who?”

                “The hushers.”

                Of course, the fugitives are warlocks. The hushers will come for them.

                “We have to help them,” I say softly, pulling out my bow.

                “Are you nuts?” he responds, irritated. “There’s no way to beat them; you have no idea. Put that away. We’re getting out of here now!”

                I obey. We run to an alley and cross it. As soon as we get to another street, I hear a very loud, shrill hissing noise. I cover my ears with my hand, but it does no good. When the noise stops, there is only total silence. I talk to my grandfather but I can’t even hear my own voice. With gestures, he points to the alley, telling me to hide. I keep looking at the street while I wait. My grandfather immediately gets right behind me.

                It stays totally quiet and, a few minutes later, something slips down the sidewalk, so fast I can’t identify what it is. I pay closer attention and, when another one appears, I can see more details, despite its speed. It’s a man, dressed in dark clothes, with a cape flapping behind him as he moves. Nevertheless, he doesn’t seem to be running; he’s levitating. I’ve never seen anything like it. More of them move across the rooftops on the other side of the street and I’m sure they’re floating. I notice shadows above me and see others moving from one house to another. What’s all of this? Could they be hushers? They seem more like monsters. And this deafness? Did they cause it?

                Flashes of light come from where the creatures have gone. They must be confronting the warlocks now. More light is discharged and some fugitives return, passing in front of us. I can see their expressions: they’re terrified. The one on the left throws several spheres of energy some place out of sight. The explosion generates more light, but there’s still no sound. Then they stop, trying to see if they’ve hit anything.

                They look up and the one on the right launches some light rays. A tether comes from the direction he’s thrown them and wraps around one of his arms. With his other arm, he tries to attack again, but nothing happens. It’s as if his energy has been drained or canceled out. Holding the other end of the tether, a husher stands in front of them. His face is covered by a suit of black cloth and parts of his uniform are made up of rigid material with yellowish details: shoulders, waist, chest, forearms and boots.

                The man on the left points at the hooded figure and shoots four or five bursts of fire. The husher, with only one free hand, defends himself from the attacks, dissipating the energy between his fingers, which are covered by a black glove. While deflecting the volleys, he approaches the shooter. When he’s close enough, he pulls a dagger from his belt and slashes the warlock’s jugular. The wounded man falls to his knees, collapsing at the monster’s feet. Blood flows from the open cut, forming a red pool under his body. The other warlock, paralyzed by the tether, begins to weep and makes small gestures, as if pleading for mercy, but the hooded man shows none. He pulls the tether, knocking his victim to the ground and stabs him as well.

                After pulling the dagger from the body, the husher stands up and turns his back toward me. He tilts his head to the side, as if he noticed something, and then turns completely around in my direction, facing the alley. Startled by his movement, I curl up, trying to keep him from seeing me. On his face, I see two yellow dots, shining from within the darkness of his hood; they’re the creature’s eyes. The man stays there for a few seconds until he’s distracted by more hushers who arrive and gather up the bodies. After finishing, the first one looks back toward where we are again but the others call him as they jump to the city’s rooftops. The killer does the same and disappears into the darkness of Acigam’s sky.

                There’s no sign of a fight where the warlocks were. It looks as if nothing happened there. I realize I can hear again when my grandfather calls me. However, the shock keeps me quiet, looking at that same spot.

                “Le, let’s go,” he says again. “Let’s get out of here now.”           

                He takes my hand and helps me stand up. I recover my senses, look into his face and fearfully ask,

                “What’s happening? Are they dead?”

                Seeing that there was no longer a way to hide anything from me, my grandfather says,

                “We need to talk. I’ll tell you all about the Warlocks’ Guild and the rebellion.”