Over the next few weeks, Milo learned a lot about both sides of Mr. Hawkshaw’s business. He discovered that only one person was working the desk beside him; the other was a full-fledged magician, Miss Banks’ cousin from somewhere. They didn’t speak outside of changing shifts.
Today, it was just him for the day. And it rather unremarkably dragged with the slowest amount of customers he’d seen all week. The time he got to himself today was exactly what he needed to finish reading the book he was given at the market. Much of what he read made little sense until he got to speak to his Master over the past few weeks.
As far as Milo was concerned, however, he was making progress. He could tap into the wayline above town, hold onto the energy he pulled, and will himself to see behind the curtain without the pendant.
“The training wheels are off,” he mused.
The more he thought about individuals’ unique talents and abilities, the more he worried he would never claim such abilities. He was not an illusionist nor a diviner. He was still unknown to even himself. All he had to go on was a passing comment from Miss Banks, who said, “You should practice till you’re perfect,” as though he should know what that meant.
Torn from his thoughts, Milo observed an index card fall onto the front desk where he sat in the bookstore. It read simply and clearly this: “Please return my book before you owe me. - Miss Thomas”.
“Baty,” Milo said to himself quietly and slowly as if removing peanut butter from his mouth. “Should return this before I find out what she means by “owe.” He stood, locked the store, pulled the blinds, and fished the library card from his wallet. Mimicking what he saw the logger do at the market, sliding the card into nothing and turning it like a key before tearing through time in space with all the turbulence of a raging typhoon, then calm.
Milo found himself in a dully lit hallway with red kerosene lamps on the walls leading to a desk piled high with books in every shape, color, and print from all eras. The quiet was broken by a book dropping on a pile with a precision that only spoke of magic.
“Yes? Hello! What do you want?” The female voice behind Milo came with all the irritation a voice could conceivably produce. Milo saw the middle-aged lady dressed in what could be described as Sunday attire and equipped with horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Um, here you go..” Milo said as he proffered the tome to the librarian.
Without warning, she snatched the book from him, “Ah, yes, very good. If there’s nothing else, you may go.”
“Actually, there was one more thing.”
“Yes?” She said with an unexpected quizzical sideways glance.
“I want a book on discovering and unlocking talents.”
“Yes, very good.” She snapped her fingers twice, and a new book dropped into her hand before handing it to him with a “Here you are, Mr. Locke.”
Looking it over, the title read “Discovering Latent Mystical Talents And Abilities,” with a dark leather cover and brown pages that spoke of countless careful hands. Baty was gone when he looked up, no trace to be seen. Milo left the way he came with the key card as before. However, this time, the transition was pleasantly smooth. There were no violent reactions or side effects as if the library pushed him out with care intentionally.
Back in the store, he opened the blinds, letting natural light coat the space lazily like syrup, unlocking the door and taking his place at the desk once more. Now, he turned his attention towards the book, and the first page gave him a clear understanding of what would come from it. In the middle of the page, it read:
‘Fuck you’
I am not your friend, Boy. I’m just here to help and nothing more.
Let’s get this over with so I can return to my shelf.
“OK, this is new,” Milo found himself speaking directly to the book. He felt weird doing so but thought it would be weirder yet if he did not. “I hope I do not disappoint.”
Turning the page, it read again:
We will see. Now I can see your remarkable progress for one so recently brought into the fold.
Try lighting a candle with your magic.
“Alright, let’s get one going.” He pulled a candle from the desk and placed it away from the book. He pulled into himself the magic from the way line, focused all his collected power into his center, reached out with his mind, and imagined the wick containing heat from friction in the air and light. And so it did. He flipped to the next page and read:
You have grasped the fundamentals in record time; I have never seen this before. You have great talent in every sense of the word.
“Um, what does that mean?” Milo was confused; sure, he had managed to light it, but it was difficult to do so; it felt off, stiff in a way. He asked the book directly, “How can I light the candle more easily? It felt difficult in a way I feel it shouldn’t have.”
Yes, I’m sure. Imagine a hand or as many as needed to light the candle this time.
He put out the candle and began the process again, already adding to his magic reserves. This time, he visualized a hand like his own reaching out with magic to the wick and sparking it with a snap of fingers. And there he beheld a flame lit with many times less effort than before. “I did it,” he said, half to himself and half to the book.
Yes, very good, now, practice it till it is perfect and second nature.
And soon, your talent will be painstakingly obvious.
Milo practiced for an hour until he grew bored of lighting and putting out the candle. Becoming increasingly bored and less absorbed with the candle, his thoughts drifted away and to his unknown talent, how obvious could it really be? Was it so obvious he could have overlooked the truth of it entirely?
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Hi Milo,” his thoughts were broken by the sudden greeting from his reclusive so-called Master. “Hi, Vick,” He greeted the book before turning its page himself.
Hello Bill, quite the pupil you have; dense as he may be, he’s not dumb.
You should be pleased. His talent is almost frightening.
“Ah, so glad you approve Vick. I knew he was special.” grinning like a madman at Milo, “Are you doing that intentionally?”
“Doing what?” he followed his gaze to the candle he forgot was there entirely. And there, without guidance, direction, or any semblance of intent, the hand floating, lighting, snuffing, and lighting the candle caught Milo so off guard he could do nothing but gawk as his Master roared with laughter at his face.
“I-I-I wasn’t even thinking about it anymore!” he didn’t know what to do. He snuffed the candle with his magic. His Master turned another page.
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA
“Milo,” his beaming Master said, “do you realize what this means? Not only are you a natural, but your magic reflects it. You have been studying that book diligently for a month now and have progressed further than anyone else in a fraction of the time it takes others born into the world of magic.”
“OK, so? I can’t be that special. I bet lots of people can get the hang of it.”
“Not the case,” his Master grew serious,” what you have accomplished in a month took me nearly 2 years. You may not like, believe, or comprehend it, but you have infinite potential if your talent is what I suspect it is.”
His Master reached to turn another page of the book. It read:
PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT.
BILL, TAKE HIM TO GREG, HE NEEDS TO LEARN HOW TO FIGHT.
THE POWER HE WILL ACCUMULATE WILL SOON MAKE HIM A TARGET.
“You’re right, Vick,” he gestured for Milo, “let’s go see Greg; the man is a monster and can get you ready.”
“Why do I need to fight? What am I not being told?” Milo asked, hurriedly following his Master.
“It means you’re dangerous, and soon you will be noticed by individuals whose very existence even I find threatening.”
They entered the “Manager’s Office” to find it looking like a panic room, with concrete walls lined with shelved canned goods and bare minimum amenities. His Master’s attention gravitated towards a large combination safe in a corner. He punched in a combination, opened the door, and stepped inside; Milo followed without hesitation.
The safe was a Besker’s Crook. Entering the device was followed by intense G forces nearing an intensity capable of pulling the teeth from your gums and blood from your eye. This trip was extreme compared to Milos’s first time; it felt like he was ripped from reality, and the universe tried to fight their actions. When he came to, he was dry heaving on the damp ground of a forest bathed in mild sunlight.
“Sorry, Milo, the safe isn’t your usual fare. A Crook with more than one destination tends to be a violent experience,” he said, clearly doing his best to remain composed. He looked about as sick as Milo felt.” Let’s go. We are almost there.”
As Milo did his best to follow his Master over the uneven floor, he observed his new environment. The forest wasn’t just different. It was wrong. It wasn’t green; it was a teal sort of color. The moss that hugged the trees, the trees themselves, and occasional stones were ordinary in every respect to mother nature other than being so teal. It was unnatural. Nature did not produce many things that were so uniformly blue. It was uncanny.
Ten minutes later, they came upon a homestead, a seemingly ordinary pocket of normality in the forest. It was simple and cozy, a plain wood cabin adorned with a porch and an awning with a peculiarly positioned brick chimney. Yet a familiar face at the door, ragged, scraggly, and bearded, belonging to Greg, the big man in flannel. He was undoubtedly angry.
“Bill, you son of a bitch, I wish you would let me know before dropping in uninvited.” Greg quickly brandished a sledgehammer that betrayed his muscle-ridden form’s efficiency.” What do you want?”
“I apologize for tripping your alarms, but this is important.” Milo noticed the stern look set in his Master’s jaw, the pleading nature in his eyes, and his voice conveying his urgency. “The kid needs to fight. He needs what knowledge you have. He can do it. Go easy on him at first.”
Greg eyed them both for a few long and agonizing silent seconds. “OK,” he said, relaxing and returning to his goofy bright smile. “Well, come inside for tea!” He laughed heartily, spun on his heel, and strode inside.
Milo’s Master turned to him, and with audible relief, his voice,” That was to be expected; this is his haven, much like the bookstore is mine.” His demeanor changed again to resemble his usual excited self, “his tea is amazing. I haven’t had it in years, and he still won’t tell me what it is or where to get it!”
Inside, it was warm and smelled like smoke, looked like a hunter’s cabin, and felt like it had been imbued with the love of family and friends. A moment later, Greg came back into sight bearing several mugs over to the chimney where a large kettle hung from the brickwork. He labored over the kettle and asked, “What is this all about?”
“Milo, here is a singularity, Greg.”
Greg stopped mid-pour with a blank look, “Really? That’s gonna make The Monarch nervous when he finds out.”
“Uhh, singularity?” Milo asked,” Who is this monarch? Will you please tell me what’s going on?”
Milo’s Master received his mug and spoke,” The Monarch is a magician like myself. He’s vastly influential and stands above most others. We call those theorized to become his rivals in terms of power a singularity. He’s a menace; he has no regard for anyone but himself, and the idea that someone could upset his existence is what we refer to. But acknowledging free will, there is no telling what someone like you may do or become.”
“I am no messiah; I don’t want anything to do with any madmen.” Milo was shocked to see both magicians laughing like lunatics,” why are you laughing?”
After they calmed down, Greg said, “Well, who do you think we are?”
“Obviously, madmen!”
“Precisely right, boy!” Milo’s Master was amused: “Nobody ever sane became a magician!”
Annoyed, Milo moved on to a different topic,” Why am I here?”
Greg spoke up again,” Because Bill isn’t a battle mage. He protects himself with illusions. He isn’t suited to teaching combat like I am. Just relax and have some tea.” He passed another mug to Milo.
“So, this Monarch guy is going to kill me when he finds out how strong I can be?”
“Yes,” Milo’s Master continued, “though it is because of how strong you can be, he will want you. It mostly concerns who I am and who we are to each other.”
“Please explain.”
A look of pain came to both men’s faces, “we were close a long time ago. We both had dreams and aspirations of greatness that are a side effect of youth and eagerness. After a time, he changed; he wanted power for power’s sake. He turned to dark entities and learned even darker powers. In turn, he went truly mad. It was a war drawn out across the world and resulted in the lost lives of millions.”
He leaned forward, “he’s not dead because I’m still alive. But he is weak, but it won’t be the case for much longer. He may wish to continue his conquest in a few decades when his power returns.”
“Milo, trust me. Stay with Greg and get stronger.” To signal his tale’s end, he slumped back onto the sofa.
They exchanged goodbyes when the tea was finished, and everything was said and done. Milo's Master strode back into the forest amid the blueish vegetation and disappeared in the dusk of twilight.
Greg guided him back inside and set him up in a guest room with blankets and pillows. Left to his own devices, he thought about what was said and everything he wasn’t told. Milo came to the conclusion that he was going to die, and there was little solace he could find in the strange room.