Firstborn of the Frontier

Be careful what you wish for.

That’s the moral of a short story called the Monkey’s Paw. It’s about a man who finds a magically Imbued object that grants the owner three Wishes, a made-up Ninth Order Spell that can give you whatever your heart desires. The caveat to the Spell is that each Wish comes with tragic and unintended consequences, making the story a cautionary tale of reaching too far beyond your ken and the unforeseen outcomes of unchecked greed and desire.

Always thought it was a stupid story, but it feels all too relevant in the here and now as I head into the darkened interior of the living room and find my three best gals all huddled up on the couch in abject misery. Tina and Aunty Ray are doing their best to put on a brave face as they greet me with weak smiles, but sweet Chrissy wears her woes on her sleeve and her face both. For long as I could remember, I been wishing for the day when she gets over her inability to express her emotions through facial expression, and now that the day has come, I find myself wishing I’d been more circumspect with the wording. A finger on the monkey’s paw curled, and now Chrissy’s darling, doll-like features are all crumpled in pain as she lays limp in her mama’s arms, her teary eyes screwed shut and trembling lips pressed into a thin line as she struggles under a deluge of induced Aetheric overload.

Breaks my heart to see her in so much discomfort, and I can’t get my boots off quick enough to get over to her side. Taking a knee in front of the couch, I put my hand over hers and squeeze it right quick three times. “Hey there, Princess,” I whisper, knowing everyone present has got a throbbing headache so bad they can’t hardly think. Don’t got nothing else to say, just letting her know I’m here, and she cracks an eye open to make sure it’s really me before grabbing my one hand tight in both of hers. Then she closes her eyes and sinks back into her mama’s embrace, looking more miserable than I ever seen her in all my seventeen years, and there ain’t a thing I can do to help her.

“The Proggie under the lake built itself a Mindspire,” I say, in answer to Aunty Ray’s unasked question regarding what I learned at the town meeting I’d just come back from. “Or at least that’s what they’re thinkin’. It’s some sort of Abby bio construct that serves as an amplifyin’ dish for the Proggie’s mind-affecting abilities. Enchantment Spells mostly, but some Illusion too. Let’s it mess with the heads of anything within a set area around it, sending out a droning pulse that can make people and animals feel anxious, paranoid, aggressive, or even outright murderous if finds the right person with the right buttons to press.”

“Well ain’t that a kick in the pants?” Heaving a sigh, Aunty Ray strokes Chrissy’s shoulder and asks, “That’s what all the buzz is about? There’s a Proggie tryin’ to get into our heads?”

“Sorta.” Wincing at the sight of how miserable she is, I explain, “It’s still learnin’ how to make use of the Mindspire, and that’s what we seein’. They think the Proggie had big ambitions and tried to outright incapacitate everythin’ within range using a mass Mind Spike, but it didn’t have enough juice to affect anythin’ bigger than a marty. We might not’ve even noticed if all them birds didn’t fall out of the sky, so we can’t even say how long the Mindspire been up and operational. After failin’ to knock us all out, it tried a Bane Spell to make us more susceptible to other Spells, which had more widespread success in spooking the horses, wallies, and other faint-hearted animals. Now it’s testing its limits on small groups in town, charmin’ animals to get them to run wild, Commanding folks to drop whatever it is they holdin’, and Hexing groups at random so any injury starts rottin’ right quick.” Gesturing at all three of them and their respective headaches, I add, “As for all this, best guess is the Proggie’s settled on usin’ somethin’ like Dissonant Whistle to annoy us while it gathers strength for more tests later on down the line.”

Like a Taunt Spell to lure us into the water, Enthrall to put someone into a suggestible, fugue-like state, or Madness to drive us into a murderous rage directed at anyone and everyone around us. Fear, Blind, Deafness, Discord, the possibilities go on, and we only got theories as to why it ain’t done any of that just yet. Uncle Teddy is pretty sure it’s because the Proggie has yet to Attune to the Mindspire, which is the process of bonding with a Magical Artifact that teaches you how to use it, so the clock is counting down as we speak. Could be hours, days, weeks, or months, but eventually, the Proggie will master its new weapon. The upside is that even when it does, Uncle Teddy says the Mindspire doesn’t empower the Proggie’s magic, it diffuses them, spreads them out over multiple targets making them individually less effective. Because of this, he thinks we got a good chance of holding out, because if we know about the Enchantments and Illusions, we can be ready to resist them, and work together to help those who succumb to the Spells.

Me? I ain’t nowhere near as confident. I seen how little it takes to drive a man to murder, so I’m pretty sure the Proggie won’t need to do much to break down our unspoken social contracts.

“Then how come you fine and dandy when the three of us can barely stand it?” Tina asks, hugging a cushion tight for lack of anything else to hold.

Poor girl. I’d give her my other hand to hold, but I only got the one, and I don’t want to pat her with my stump, so best I can do is a sympathetic look. “It’s a matter of Aetheric sensitivity,” I say with a shrug. “I guess y’all are highly sensitive, more so than most in town, so it’s hittin’ y’all the hardest.” Most townies didn’t even notice anything going on besides the odd animal behaviour, which goes to show that they pretty much potates in human clothes. Nothing behind the eyes besides starch and water, which for once is actually an advantage. Me, I got a bit of a beat going on in the back of my head, a minor pounding like someone’s taking a hammer to a wall I’m leaning against. Unpleasant for sure, but nothing I can’t live with, and certainly not strong enough to make me sit down at the kitchen table with my head in my hands like how I found Aunty Ray when we got back.

Wouldn’t know it to look at her now though, because a mama’s gotta be strong in front of her babies. “How come I ain’t ever heard of no Mindspire before?” Aunty Ray asks, her pout a mirror of Tina’s with her big blues opened wide in grievance and concern. “Seems like somethin’ I ought to have been warned about.”

“Most haven’t heard of it neither,” I say with a shrug, because it’s all new to me too. “Only ones in the know were Old Guard Rangers like Uncle Teddy.” Namely those who made the cut and saw action in the old world before they lowered standards to fill their quota for the Frontier. “Even then, most had only heard about Mindspires in passin’, because there weren’t many Proggies who built one in the last half century. Soon as one would pop up, government would send out scouts with some sorta scanners to collect a bunch of data, which they’d use to triangulate the Mindspire’s position and launch a metric truckload of missiles at it.”

“I see.” Frowning more because of the ‘colourful’ language she knows I watered down rather than the massive psychic attack hammering at her brain, Aunty Ray heaves a sigh as she cotton’s on to the hitch in our giddy up. “Except we don’t got no missiles to launch.”

“Or scanners,” I add, wincing as Chrissy clamps down hard on my hand for all of a second or three. Her nails dig deep into my skin as she weathers the storm, a stronger pulse from the Mindspire that brings to mind nails on a chalkboard inside of my skull. Soon as it passes, I heave a sigh and continue, “They’re co-opting every tech in town to form a think tank, but the principles behind Mindspires are esoteric, so ain’t many folks out there who know much about them.” Seems silly to come all this way to the Frontier and not prepare for every eventuality, but I suppose it might’ve been a blind spot seeing how most militaries saw Mindspires as a solved issue. To make matters worse, we got more to worry about than standard Spells, because Proggies don’t got as many restrictions as we do when it comes to slinging Aetheric Energy all around.

Regardless if you a beginner or an Immortal Monarch, we humans got a set list of Spells we can use. Cantrips aside, most of those Spells are derived from Spell Cores, and each Spell has a very specific and narrow scope of effect. A Bolt Spell fires off a grape-sized projectile in a forward direction. The projectile moves at a set speed for a fixed amount of time and is affected by outside forces like windspeed, gravity, and friction. Upon striking a target over a set size and hardness, the Bolt expends itself and dissipates into thin air, leaving nothing but the force of impact behind.

That’s the Spell in a nutshell. You take a hundred people, teach them the Spell, then line them up and measure the parameters of the very first Bolt they cast, and you will get the exact same values each and every time. The reason being is that most Spells are derived from Spell Cores, which are tools created by Proggies for their Aberration minions to use. As such, we’re not really using magic and manipulating Aetheric Energy freely; we’re slinging a Spell, which as I’ve said before is sorta like using a stamp. Sure, a Spellslinger can learn to squeeze more out of their Spells and get something different from standard, but that takes practice and familiarity which is where the real magic happens. Said it before, but ain’t nothing impressive about learning a Spell from the Formula. Almost anyone can do it if they put in the time and effort, and I’m sure there are workarounds for those who can’t.

As for Proggies, they’re the stamp makers, the artists who designed the bulk of humanity’s Spells. This is possible because they live and breathe magic, in what might well be a very literal sense. Means, among other things, they ain’t limited to the Spells dictated by the Formulas and Structures we know, because they understand and perceive Aether in ways we can’t hardly imagine. Let’s them do all sorts of things outside of the established Spells, like this Dissonant Whistle being emitted in the here and now. That’s a First Order Enchantment Spell that’s supposed to target a single creature within visible and audible range. Most Spellslingers whistle as per the Spell name, though you can scream, shout, clap, or whatever you like, and that sound will drill into your target’s ear in a very painful way. It’s a short, sharp pain that don’t last for more than a moment regardless of how long the caster whistles for, and it’s mostly used to interrupt enemy Spellslingers mid-cast or break their Concentration. How you finagle that into a constant and incessant droning is beyond my understanding, but feasible enough that it’s the best explanation we got.

The problem of an improved Mage Hand that’s been plaguing me for weeks? If I could talk to a Proggie and pick its brain on the subject, I bet we’d have a solution within a matter of days, if not sooner. Really puts Sir Issac Newton’s abilities into real perspective, having derived the Spell Formula for the Light Cantrip and built the very foundation of Orthodox Spellcasting as we know it before he turned thirty. Wasn’t even a Grandmagus yet, not by today’s standards, which is why I could never consider myself talented. Being slightly better than average ain’t nothing to celebrate, not when you’ve seen how far you got to go before you can call yourself one of the greats.

The stab of self loathing is especially poignant amidst the constant pounding in my head, because I still don’t entirely understand how it’s even possible. This modified Dissonant Whistle has been going off for the last two hours now, starting shortly after we got in through the gates following our trip down to the lake. Ain’t nowhere near as painful as the base Spell would be, but it’s aggravating as all hell to have it constantly grating away at my last nerve. That’d be impressive enough of a Spell if it was only targeting me, but the Proggie is somehow hitting everyone in New Hope and Riverrun both. Likely every community close to shore too, though the effects may vary depending how good a Spellslinger you are. Won’t everyone be hit as hard as Chrissy, who’s got a migraine bad enough to bring her to tears, but I’d bet on sooner rather than later for when the first person snaps.

Nefarious is what it is. The Proggie is hitting the strongest of us the hardest, the best Spellslingers around. Makes sense seeing how we’re the greatest threat to its survival, and it’s only a matter of time before something gives. Whether it means to drive us all out of its territory or into a murderous frenzy remains to be seen, but I for one ain’t about to let no screeching Proggie scare me away from the town I done built and grew up in.

“So what happens now?” Tina asks, sounding so small and scared as she hugs her cushion even tighter. “We just live like this ‘til it blows over?”

“Yes and no,” I say, trying to sound as optimistic as possible while still whispering. “There ain’t nothin’ we can do about the Mindspire except wait for the Rangers to find and dismantle it, unless you care to leave town. Radios ain’t working, something about Aetheric Entanglement and interference, so we don’t know how bad it is out there, but y’all could visit Simone in Meadowbrook and see how she’s holdin’ up, or head to Irongate or Summerbloom and check if they affected.” Aunty Ray is already shaking her head, so I don’t press the issue, though you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll circle back around to it in a day or two. “There are ways to defend against the Mindspire besides taking it on the chin, most notably Protection from Abby. Won’t block out the hum, but I got it on good authority that it’ll dial it down a fair bit.”

“That’s a ten-minute single target Spell,” Tina grumbles, her tone plaintive and melancholy as can be. Doubly so since I know she never learned the Abjuration Spell, because she never thought it’d come in handy. That’s the difference between her and me. She curates her list of known Spells with care and attention, because she knows she only got so much time in a day to practice. And so much room in her head, considering she got a whole slew of Spell Structures she’s permanently stuck with on account of her Innate bloodline. Me, I’m greedy so I learn everything I can, even if it ain’t of much use when manually cast. Makes me versatile, but a jack of all trades is a master of none, and Tina is growing into a master of Enchantment and Illusion soon enough. Unaware of all the good things I’m thinking about her, Tina sinks into her cuddled cushion with the mother of all sighs. “With Concentration to boot,” she adds, still harping on the Protection Spell. “Can’t hardly keep it up all day, much less use it to get any sleep.”

“You ain’t wrong.” Resisting the urge to wince now that I know how bad she got it, I continue, “There’s also Mental Fortress which’ll stack with Protection from Abby, but that’s Third Order compared to First, and also single target with Concentration. Lasts a full hour though, so it’s a better option if you got it.”

Pausing to give Aunty Ray a look, I wordlessly ask if she does, and she gives a mournful little nod in reply. “Prepped it while you was at the meeting and cast it on Chrissy,” she says, stroking her daughter’s silver hair ever so gently. “Brought her back from catatonic, but she’s still miserable as frog stuck on a busy highway on a hot summer’s day.”

Damn. And here Tina is going without. Explains why she’s looking so down then. She ain’t as adept a Spellslinger as Chrissy is, but they still twins after all, which means this droning is probably hitting Tina just as hard. She just better at hiding it, but I reckon she’s ready to curl up in bed and cry her heart out. “Well, we could always go stay at the church,” I say, knowing it won’t be a popular suggestion, and all three grimace to hear it. Even Chrissy, who joins me for Sunday Mass every week, but only because she loves listening to the organ music. Can’t say I blame any one of them for their aversion to all things religion considering their poor track records regarding Innates. I mean Hell, the Catholic Church even wanted to burn Sir Issac Newton for being a heretic just because he used “Let there be Light” as the vocal component of his Light Cantrip. That said, taking shelter in the church is the best option, because even if I had the skills to lay a ward around the whole house Imbued with Protection from Aberration, it’d take at least two weeks to work out the math and longer to gather the materials, assuming the Rangers don’t declare it all a strategic resource and box civilians out from buying.

Which would be a jerk move, but also the right one, since the Rangers are amongst the most affected by the droning, and also the ones responsible to taking it out. Means we better off protecting them so they can do their job, so there ain’t nothing to do but shill for the church in this one specific instance. “The grounds are Consecrated,” I say, which is really the biggest selling point I got. “Means among other things, it’ll be like having Protection from Abby on you 24/7 so long as you stay within the grounds.” It’s a whole Ritual to cast Consecration which lasts a full 10 days, but the Church don’t share how it works with anyone who ain’t ordained. Hate that, the unwillingness to share something that could help us all, but they gotta keep something to impress their flock. “Plus, the Padre is a good man,” I add, and I even mean it. “He won’t stand for no nonsense while you there.” And there will be nonsense, because ain’t nothing stuffy old Catholics love more than telling you why you gonna burn in Hell. Silly is what that is, condemning someone to eternal suffering just because they born a certain way. Mind you, this is after their own Pope announced that being Innate or homosexual ain’t a sin, way back in the 70’s.

Some folks just need a reason to hate, and religion is the veneer they choose to take in spite of what the good book says about loving thy neighbour.

Takes a bit more upselling, but eventually, Aunty Ray caves and decides to give it a shot, which tells me everything I need to know about how bad it is. Real bad, so I double time it helping them pack a few things into Old Tux’s saddlebags, who suffers through the droning with stoic aplomb. Didn’t even flinch when the Bane went out and spooked the other horses, which goes to show how dependable the old horse be. Hell, even Cowie ain’t taking things well, and is all cuddled up with his cow gals in the barn which is why we gotta inconvenience Old Tux in his retirement. As for the kiccaws, wallies, and marties, they’re all hidden away in their homes, peeved and put out but otherwise unharmed. Funny that, to think that the round, rotund kiccaws are tougher than the fearsome griphikin, who I always thought of as marties with beaks and wings. Just goes to show you can’t judge a book by its cover, because far as I can tell, the kiccaws are feeling the Dissonant Whistle and weathering it well enough as a group.

Being one of the older buildings in New Hope, the church is only a short jaunt away from home, and it looks grand and stately as always. Built in what I’m told is the American Colonial style of architecture, the front entrance of the church has got a half-dozen pillars packed in together when two would be more than enough to do the job. Ain’t got nothing to do with the belltower behind it neither, because these columns were a later addition added after the main section of the church was built, which was pretty much just a big empty room behind the belltower.

Soon as we step through the towering double doors, I feel the Consecrated grounds take effect, muting the incessant pulsing droning down to a minor throb. Beside me, Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy all heave a collective sigh, and Chrissy even recovers enough to hold her head upright to take a look around, though her brow still furrowed just a bit. It’s a stately place, the church is, simple yet elegant without crossing over into opulence. The room is dimly lit by far too many candles to count, casting a warm but weak light that sets the polished pews to gleaming in the gloom. It's shine enough to irritate my eyes, and I ain’t hit half as hard as Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy, so I can only imagine how they feel. Still, it’s God’s house and God’s rules, so I take off my hat and dip my finger in the water receptacle before making the sign of the cross. Aunty Ray does too, but Tina forgoes the religious gesture as does Chrissy, who’s still clinging to her Mama for all she’s worth. Doesn’t bother the Padre though, who wanders over to greet us with his customary warm but sleepy smile. “Howie!” he says, beaming over the stack of blankets and pillows he’s carrying to prep for folks seeking refuge. “Good to see you and Chrissy again, even if circumstance could be better. And Mrs. Walker-Bradshaw, I don’t think you’ve aged a day since we first met. How are you and Tina holding up? Come in, please, and hopefully the Consecration does something to help.”

There’s no salacious intent behind the compliment and no sly attempts to guilt trip Aunty Ray for not coming to mass. Just warm welcomes and genuine concern from the Padre who is a good man all around. Truth is, I got no idea why we call him the Padre instead of Father Lewis. Which is his family name, something I only learned recently when I heard someone jokingly use his full name, Kenneth Patrick Lewis. Ain’t Spanish or Mexican, not even South American, just plain old average American white. Sits on the younger side of the old-timers, and looks the part too, a real handsome son of a gun with his longer than average auburn curls that ain’t neat, but ain’t messy neither. Goes well with his youthful features, all clean-shaven and wrinkle free. Got that average American accent too, which mean he speaks real casual with a complete lack of pretension. Keeps it light and conversational, which makes it’s easier to sit through his sermons without fully falling asleep or getting right hopping mad, like with some preachers who love spewing ignorance and hate.

That ain’t the Padre though, as I doubt he’s ever said a word in anger he didn’t immediately apologize for. Man’s got a bright energy that lights up every room he’s in, and radiates warmth and affection like you’re his best friend and he’ll do anything for you. Makes it right difficult to dislike him, though not for lack of trying on my part. There’s just something about him that irks me to no end, and I can’t for the life of me say what it is. He got a clean smile, soft eyes, and not a single whiff of impropriety about him, which might well be the biggest reason he bothers me so much. He’s too squeaky clean, and I ain’t talking about his grooming habits. Which are impeccable by the way, as is the way he dresses, though I only ever seen him wearing a priest’s shirt. You know the one, with the hidden buttons and the tab collar with a white band around the neck. Got a simple but clean look to it, one I’d be partial to myself if them shirts weren’t only for clergy.

Got no stole, robes, or vestments today, not even the big red sash around his waist, but the absence don’t take away from the Padre’s priestly air as he helps settle Aunty Ray and her girls in a cozy little room. Only got two beds, but they decline his generous offer to split one of them into another room, because I doubt Chrissy will be letting go of her mama anytime soon. Being kind and thoughtful as he is, the Padre hunkers down to talk to Chrissy and says, “I see you brought your guitar. Why don’t we have ourselves a jam session later, play a little music and sing a few songs once everyone’s settled in. How’s that sound?” Chrissy nods, because she loves playing music, even the God-awful campfire gospel songs the Padre favours all the livelong day. “Awesome,” he says, much too happy and enthusiastic for a man his age, much less one of the cloth. “I’m gonna work extra fast so we can play even longer.”

Get’s Chrissy out of her shell a bit it does, which is why I never give the Padre any lip when he gets to lecturing. Man’s got his heart in the right place, just a little mistaken in the brain parts a bit. Shows in how he tries to hustle me out the room, as if he’s worried I intend to stay and sleep there too. I don’t put up a fight, but I stop in my tracks as soon as we out of the room. “No worries Padre,” I say, giving him a brief smile which is all I can muster. “I ain’t stayin’. I’mma head out after they get settled in.” Gotta get over to Uncle Teddy’s and make me a copy of Mental Fortress to study. Won’t be easy to get it prepped, at least two weeks before I’m ready to even try would be my guess, but best start sooner rather than later. “Unless you got work for me around here?”

“Oh no, we’re good man,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder with a firm hand. “You don’t have to go though. We’ve got plenty of spare rooms and I doubt we’ll have more than a handful of other guests coming over tonight.”

Assuming things don’t get any worse. Much as I’d love to stay close by to keep an eye on the family, someone’s got to make sure the horses, cattle, wallies, and bees are all safe and sound at home, and I tell the Padre as much. Still stick around a little longer to help Tina keep Chrissy entertained with the Photo projector/music box I made her while Aunty Ray heads off to the kitchen to help rustle up some grub for said guests and the rest of us. She was prepping for dinner when the drone hit, and the fact that she couldn’t push past it to cook dinner really sells how bad it is. In her books, skipping a meal is right up there with adultery and blasphemy in terms of sins, though I’ve no earthly idea where she tucks it all away. Really shows when you line her up next to other townies her age, most of whom are best described as stout rather than shapely. Not saying they thick or heavyset, just that they got a sturdy rigour to their bodies that is neither thin nor athletic, a physique fashioned from years of household labours.

Ain’t fair to judge these ladies by their appearance in the here and now. Could be there was a time when they was all slim and dainty, much like Noora and Josie were today. Already knew Noora was gorgeous, but when did lanky little bucktoothed Josie Ramierez transform into a beauty in her own right? She got these soft, striking, mixed race features which combined with her shorter, almost sleepy looking hair-do with a big bright ribbon up top has got her looking cute as all heck. Add in her big doe eyes, cute button nose, and plump, kissable lips and it’s hard not to forget she ain’t even sixteen. Won’t happen for a few months yet, before the end of the year even which means I’m technically only like 20 months older than her, rather than the full two years our ages suggest. Not that far off in terms of age, but it’s more about her lack of maturity that puts me off. Still, little Josie’s done a whole lot of growing since I last seen her, having come into a slender figure with more curves than I’m comfortable acknowledging. I know it was supposed to be a sorta date with Noora, but this is the first time I seen Josie since Danny clued me in to the fact that she had a crush on me, and it’s painfully obvious now that I know to look for it. The shy glances, the quick blushes, the constant giggling, which I could do without, but is still endearing as can be.

Then there’s Noora, who’s bold and brave in a different way from I’m used to. Ain’t the stoic calm you’d get from Kacey or Sarah Jay as they set out into the wild Frontier, but there’s a fiery confidence in how Noora approaches life. Won’t ever catch Josie sneaking out of her room and showing up at my house late at night, no sir-ree bob. Then there’s how Noora faced off against Old Tux for the first time, or how she climbed that tree without blinking until she happened to glance down at her feet. Was clearly scared out of her gourd in both cases, but she went at it without making a fuss or fretting even a bit. Just did what she had to, whether it be get up on that horse or shimmy back down the tree, all calm and collected because she had things under control. Brains, beauty, and bravery all rolled up in a gorgeous little package, with hips that don’t quit and a pair of long, slender legs to die for. All of which is just the cherry on top, because even though she only a couple months older than Josie, Noora’s got an old soul that understands me in ways no one ever has and a sense of humour more twisted than my own.

And yet, gorgeous as both girls are, I don’t know how I feel about embarking on a journey of a lifetime with either one of them. During our ‘date’, I felt more like a guide and chaperone than anything else, though that could be because we had Tina and Chrissy there with us. Fell into the role of big brother all too easily as I kept an eye out for trouble and made sure everyone was safe and having fun the whole time. Sure, I enjoyed myself, but it wasn’t no different from any other trip to the lake, with no spark that made me fall head over heels in love with either one of the eligible ladies. And not because I’m hung up over Tina neither, or Aunty Ray for that matter. I look at Josie and Noora and my heart speeds up as I get to wondering what it’d be like to hold them close and feel the warmth of their body pressed against mine, but that ain’t love. That’s lust, and lust ain’t hardly enough to build a whole life out of.

Would love to know how my daddy knew my mama was the one so quick. Met her for all of a day before deciding he’d spend the rest of his life at her side, which is just wild. Always thought it was crazy growing up, and now that I’m older, it ain’t fun to face facts and admit my parent’s relationship might’ve started as lust. Nothing wrong with that, but I ain’t brave as my daddy or Noora even, able to just put myself out there and see what’s what. What if it don’t work out? What if later on down the line, I come to regret my decision? What if one day I wake up next to a woman I call my wife, the mother of my children, and find myself wishing I had someone else laying right there next to me? Till death do us part, which sounds romantic as all heck until you realize there are some couples out there just counting down the days till one of ‘em drops dead.

Plus there’s still Chrissy to account for. Any woman I marry is gonna hafta accept that she’s always gonna be a huge part of my life, and I saw the sour glances Josie and Noora were trading when they saw me holding Chrissy’s hand for most the afternoon. Also clock how scandalized the other ladies in the church look when I tuck a napkin into Chrissy’s collar, as if they can’t fathom how a man can put hands on a woman without any carnal intent. I don’t pay them any mind though, just keep my head down and cut her sandwich into triangles because that’s how she likes them. Dips them into her soup and nibbles around the toothpick in the centre until all she got left is one big bite of primo centre sandwich, hence the need for the makeshift bib.

It is what it is. It’s not that Chrissy is a messy eater, more that she’s easily distracted and forgets she’s holding a dripping hunk of bread every now and then. To cheer Tina up, I cut her sandwich into quarters too, which earns me a shy little smile over the novelty of it all. She’s more the type to take the whole sandwich in both hands and chomp away until it’s all gone, which is just part of her hasty nature. Shows in how she immediate reaches for her sandwich before everyone is settled in and ready, so I gotta give her a nudge to remind her we in church and gotta say grace before we eat.

Which is an actual prayer, one I mumble alongside the rest of the group because I’ve forgotten most of the words. It’s embarrassingly short too, so I got no real excuse, and can only hope no one listening all that closely to what it is I’m actually saying. When we’re all done eating, I volunteer to do the dishes, and the Padre joins me to help. “It’s incredible,” he says, shaking his head as he dries a bowl handed to him by my Mage Hand. “Feels like it was just last week when you were the terror of these streets, always running around and getting into all sorts of trouble. Now look at you, so mature and dependable. I mean, you’ve always looked after Chrissy, but now you’re volunteering to wash dishes and looking after the house and everything. I’m proud of you Howie.”

“Just doin’ what needs to be done is all,” I say, not seeing what’s so laudable about doing basic chores.

“Good to see you in the pews every week too,” he continues, ignoring my complete and utter lack of inclination to carry on a conversation. “I know you made it a point to come to mass whenever you were in town, but it took some getting used to knowing you were out there for weeks at a time all by your lonesome.”

“Same answer as before,” I reply, adding in a little shrug. “Man’s gotta earn if he wants to eat.”

“A real go-getter, that’s what you are. I hear you’re already back at it again, doing construction work for a community just a few hours away? It’s great that you’ve bounced back so quick. I also couldn’t help but overhear you made that music box for Chrissy? That’s incredible. Not just that you made it, but that you found the time to do it between a fifty-hour work week and your studies with Mr. Ellis. You’re on your way to being a full-on Arcana Technician, if not something even more specialized.”

“Been checking up on me, have you?”

“Not even a little.” Flashing his too-handsome smile with his perfectly even teeth, the Padre leaves me in suspense for a good few seconds before explaining, “Mr. Ellis loves bragging about your exploits. Always has, but he’s had a lot more to say in recent weeks.” Because I’ve actually been around, instead of stopping in town for the weekend every other month. The silver lining to my crippling, though he don’t come out and say that, it’s pretty much the gist of what he hinting at. “I also know he’s worried about you,” he says, after a long silent exchange. “Concerned about how you’ve lost a hand and had to pivot your whole life’s plan a second time. Troubled by that look in your eye every time he asks about Captain Clay. Afraid you’re bottling up all your anger, pain, heartache, and resentment inside, and that it’ll all come bubbling out one day.”

“He said all that?”

“No,” the Padre admits, all matter of fact like. “But I can read between the lines.”

So can I, and he’s telling me all this not just for my benefit, but Uncle Teddy’s too. “I see. Well, neither of you got anything to worry about. It is what it is, and ain’t nothin’ to be done about it.”

The Padre takes a moment to digest it all, and I know he looking at me, studying me, but I keep my eyes forward on the task at hand. After spending a few seconds mulling things over, the Padre says, “I can’t imagine what it’s like, to walk around in your shoes, but if you ever want to talk about it, my door’s always open.”

“I hope you mean that figuratively, because that could make for some real awkward moments, now wouldn’t it?” Turning back to the sink, I get back to scrubbing a bowl while my Mage Hands hold it in place. “Appreciate the offer Padre, but don’t got much to say really.”

“Not much isn’t nothing,” he replies. He falls silent for a bit, his head down and eyes focused on his work. “I just want you to know you aren’t alone. You have people you can talk to, and not just me.” That’s all he says, and doesn’t push me any further. Just goes back to drying whatever I pass him and stacking it in the rack in comfortable silence. Man’s said his piece and knows not to push any further, because all he wants to do is help and any more would be harmful. That’s why I can’t bring myself to like him. He’s too perfect, all cheery and optimistic without coming across as naïve or innocent. A good third of the town probably comes to him with all their woes and unload their darkest sins on him in confession, so he’s got a good inkling of how bad things are out there. Even then, he still goes about his days with big, bright, genuine smile on his face. Ain’t normal is all I’m saying, especially since he don’t smoke or gamble. Doesn’t drink either, aside from a sip of communion wine at mass once a week, and ain’t no one ever caught him eying any ladies, gents, or children neither. On top of it all, he’s got the voice of an angel too, even if his choice of lyric is suspect at best, and I ain’t buying that a man can stay this perfect out here on the Frontier.

Because I know I most certainly can’t, so if he can, then it means I’m doing something wrong.

Soon as the last dish is done, I make ready to escape, but he holds me in place with little more than his unwavering attention. “You sure you don’t want to stay for our jam session?” he asks, smiling because he already knows the answer. “Was a time when you loved singing along to the greatest hits of the 70’s and 80’s.”

Back when Uncle Raleigh was around. “Was before I realized I got a tin ear,” I say, smiling to remember those days. “Figure the merciful thing to do is keep quiet and spare you all the suffering.”

“I think you could be a great singer if you put some effort into it.” The worst part is, the Padre means it. “Seriously Howie,” he says, all sickly sweet with his genuine enthusiasm. “You have it in you to do anything you put your mind to. Not because of what you can do or have done, but how you go about it. You set your mind to something, and you do everything in your power to accomplish it. No whining, no complaints, no excuses or lashing out at others. Well, not much lashing out,” he corrects, giving me a stern but amused look as he remembers all the fights I’ve been in. “I admire you for all that. A word of unsolicited advice though?” I get the feeling he’d even stuff it if I told him to, but it’s impossible to be curt with the man when he’s looking at me with all the heartfelt sincerity of a starving marty in search of a treat. So I nod and he hunkers down a bit so we can speak eye to eye, because on top of everything else, he’s also at least 6’2. “Don’t be in such a rush to ‘fix’ things. You don’t need any fixing Howie. You lost a hand, but that doesn’t make you any less of a person. In the same vein, no fancy automaton or custom Spell will make you more of one, so don’t lose sight of the present in your hurry to arrive at the future.”

“Will do,” I say, and even I can hear the lacking sincerity in my tone, because I can’t help myself. Says I can do anything I set my mind to, but I just want to be whole again. Be capable as I used to be and earn the right to call myself the Firstborn again. Try as I might though, I don’t realistically see that ever happening, so I gotta keep pushing myself, keep striving to improve, because I’m terrified that if I ever slow down or stop in place, then I might never find the strength to get going again. Thought I had no quit in me, but it’s only been a handful of weeks and I can’t count the number of times I’ve considered throwing in the towel. Just can’t help it when I spend weeks studying a Cantrip I’ve used for years and got nothing to show for it, but I keep on keeping on because what else is there to do?

Settle my daddy’s affairs and put a Bolt in the low-down dirty son of a gun who ordered his death, that’s what. A job I don’t expect to walk away from, not as I am, but if I’m not getting any stronger, then best I head out sooner rather than later. Wait too long and my enemies will grow even more difficult to track and kill, while my resolve will weaken with time. That’s the main reason why I’m so reluctant to give me and Noora a try, even though a part of me really, really wants to. Wouldn’t be fair to go in with one foot out the door, so I figure I ought to test the waters with a couple more dates before committing one way or another.

Got my head in the clouds as I mosey on home again, so lost I almost push past the Sheriff without noticing before I realize he wants a word. After a brief reprieve in the church, the droning from the Mindspike feels even worse than before, so I can’t help but let the resentment come bubbling out when he indicates he’d like a word. “Oh come on,” I say, making no effort to hide my exasperation. Only way I could look any whinier is if I stomped my feet, so I dial it back just a touch. “You don’t got nothing better to do?” I ask, as set my Mage Hands to rolling up my left sleeve. “And could you tell your boys to be a little neater when they go through all my things? Gets tiresome cleanin’ up after them every time.”

“Which eye you see me holding test kit with, hmm?” Sherrif Patel asks, his tone curt and pithy as always. “Which eye? Don’t tell me. You tell Dr. Harding, because whichever eye it is? Need checking.” Only then do I realize he ain’t here to see what Spells I got prepared, and my neck retracts into my shoulders to hear it. Scoffing at my non-apology, the Sherrif pulls out a map and says, “Look here. Carter’s community here. Then here, here, here, and there. Five stops. You leave tomorrow morning. You tell them about Mindspire. You warn them to stay off the lake. Travel ban for safety.”

“I can’t leave town.” When did my voice get so pitchy and contentious? Sound like an entitled little brat who don’t wanna eat their veggies. “Aunty Ray and them are over at the church, because they can barely function outside of it.”

“Only need you for one day, then you come home. Padre, he look after your family, and I look after your animals.” Cattle are sacred animals in Bharathi culture, and I hear most don’t eat meat either, so I suppose I can count on him to look after the homestead for a day. “You do this. I give you ten hours hard labour.” This ain’t a negotiation, the Sherrif is just telling me how it is, and I don’t rightly know if I can refuse. Seeing that I still ain’t none too pleased, he leans in and says, “The Ranger patrols, they say increased Abby activity all around lake. My deputies, they only move in groups. Five or more.” We both share a little look there, because we know how it is, and neither of us care to suffer fools lightly. “You go. You warn these communities. Free up Rangers to travel further out, get word to others and find out how far this goes.” Then, to show that he really desperate, the Sherrif adds, “Please.”

Ain’t no way to refuse anymore then. “Okay.” Glancing at the map one more time, I commit the details to memory.

“Take Photo,” the Sherrif says, shaking the map and impatient to get going as soon as he can. No thanks, no word of warning, just wham bam thank you ma’am. No wonder he ain’t married.

“Sure.” To make a point, I hold up my hands to frame the image, except I only got the one. “Oh wait. I can’t,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Need two hands to cast the Photo Cantrip, and I left one back in Pleasant Dunes. Silly me.”

“Tch.” The Sheriff ain’t one to be cowed so easily, and he’s got no tolerance for my sass. “Should fix soon. Photo Cantrip vital for evidence collection.” And he expects me to get in more trouble that’ll require it. That’s almost sweet of him. Handing me the map, he says, “Hold it up.” I do, and he snaps a Photo one handed as if to make a point, making a circle with his hand like it’s a telescope to frame what he wants taken. Then he turns and saunters off without so much as a goodbye, ignoring the quiet attempts of various townies to catch his attention because he has more pressing matters to attend to.

Him, I like. No idea why. Maybe I’m just weird, but the Sherrif is my kinda guy, unlike the Padre who’s too… I dunno the word for it. Like a marty that’s too friendly, so I can’t help but suspect there’s something wrong with it. That’s how it is though, so I turn around and head back to the church to let Aunty Ray knows what’s happening, because she’d never forgive me if I simply left a note. Honestly though? It feels nice to be needed. The Sherrif could’ve fobbed the job off onto the boots or something, but he came to me instead, because he knows every minute counts and I’ll get the job done right. Ain’t much of a job really, just a day trip through the forest, so while I ain’t the Firstborn no more, this much I can handle at least.

And if I can’t? Well… best we find that out sooner rather than later. I got decisions to make and a timeframe to stick to, so might as well bite the bullet and see what’s what.