Firstborn of the Frontier

In my seventeen years and change on this here world, I seen more than my fair share of the Frontier.

Ain’t saying it to brag, just stating the facts, that I been around the block once or twice. That said, even though I seen about two thirds of what there is to see west of the Divide, I ain’t ever taken the scenic route alongside Last Chance Lake, because there are typically better ways to get where I’m going. Ain’t true today though, as Carter brings us off the beaten path to trails never before seen, and far as I can tell, his wagon was what made this trail on his way to New Hope. One that follows the lakeshore the whole way through, with the water well in sight through the thick tangle of towering trees and dense growth of purple, blue, and green shrubbery. A good way to keep your bearings, and his four-horse team has no trouble pulling his wagon over rough ground, trampling the thick undergrowth as they pass without so much as a flinch. Goes to show the quality of their training it does, as most horses will shy away from thorny bushes or pause to chomp on a bush apple while they passing by. Not Carter’s horses though, which is impressive to be sure, and doubly so when I notice the man himself ain’t doing much driving, but is simply letting his beasties find their own way home.

Take it from a man with years of experience pretending to drive a wagon. Carter ain’t doing nothing. His reins ain’t even attached to them horsies’ bridles.

Which is a little worrying, seeing how horsies ain’t known for their calm and stoic demeanours, Old Tux notwithstanding. That’s what makes him stand out though, his indomitable and unflappable disposition, and I ain’t never seen a second horsie like him. Not even in the ones he’s sired, and believe you me, Aunty Ray and Uncle Raleigh tried to raise more horsies like Old Tux, because ain’t nothing more valuable to a military organization than a horse that can keep its cool. Looks like Carter might’ve gotten himself some choice animals though, and I wonder if he even knows the value of what he got. Then again, the fact that a community with only twenty households and no running water has any horsies at all is a bit surprising, as they ain’t cheap to feed or easy to maintain. Most settlers prefer cattle of the non-Magical variety, like all of Cowie’s gals we got back home. They don’t need no expensive grains or constant exercise to maintain their powerful physiques, as cattle can and will eat damn near any vegetation they can get their lips around.

So why’s a backwoods resident like Carter got four first-rate horses that are so disciplined and well-trained they’d put most Ranger horses to shame?

It’s a minor thing really, a small detail that doesn’t fit perfectly with the rest of the facts, and one that could be easily explained. Maybe one of Carter’s people is an Enchanter like Aunty Ray, or knows horses same as Errol, and these beasties are ones they done tamed and trained themselves. Could be they’re rancher looking to sell horses to the Rangers, which is why they living a few hours from New Hope, or might be they just likes horses and don’t mind the extra expense. There are dozens of other legitimate reasons to explain away this trivial discrepancy, one that ain’t nefarious or even remotely worrying. All it is, is a fact that don’t gel with everything else I know about Carter, which is next to nothing to begin with, so it seems silly to fixate on it. That said, it always pays to look at the facts that don’t fit, because there’s always a way to make it fit. Answer will likely be something simple and innocuous, like what I outlined already, or it could be Carter here done stole these professionally trained horses and couldn’t find a buyer to unload them.

Which is unlikely, but could still be the case. It ain’t about seeing the worst in everyone you meet. It’s more about focusing on the facts and letting those lead you to the truth, because people will lie to you for no reason at all sometimes.

That’s why I sit up and take notes as we roll up on Carter’s home, which is not at all what I expected. This ain’t no shanty boondock with wooden shacks or cloth tents scattered all about a clearing. This here is a proper secure compound on a stretch of semi-cleared land. I say semi-cleared because it’s pretty overgrown, with trees, bushes, hedges, and undergrowth still scattered about, but they made do with what space they had and designed their buildings to fit. The main anchors of the village are four towering whitewoods, old growth, pastel-white trees that stand over eighty metres tall and at least twenty-five metres in diametre across. There’s one at each corner, with a line of log cabins going from one tree to the next, forming a neat little square about a hundred metres across each side. There are plenty of log fences to fill in the gaps, and a big, double-door darksteel gate to serve as the main entrance. Must’ve cost them a pretty penny that, but it shows they take their safety serious, though anyone could’ve guessed as much seeing how they live in a what looks like a fortified military encampment.

They even got rope ladders and bridges built into the sides of the whitewoods to double as watchtowers. Ones that are still alive and flourishing judging by the thick tangle of dark-purple vines creeping up the towering tree trunks, ones that’ll bear plenty of starmelon fruits come autumn.

Sturdy. Solid. Sensible. Not terms I typically associate with civilian-built communities, as they typically spring up out of necessity, as opposed to proper planning. Not Carter’s compound, because I can tell a whole lot of thought went into this before digging out the foundation, one I suspect is rather deep considering their walls are about nine metres tall. Can’t build a freestanding fence that high without a foundation, not if you want it to stand for more than a minute, and these log walls look sturdy enough to stand for decades.

That’s all I can see of the compound itself, but the people living here are nowhere to be found. Odd considering it looks like they do all their work outside the walls, seeing how their workstations are built out here. Far as I can tell, the do a little bit of everything, but they’re lacking in scale to be wholly self-sufficient. Got a decent sized plot of farmland that’s been tilled and sowed, with spouts and shoots in various stages of early development as they should be by the first week of April. Next to it sits a large pen occupied by a herd of baying hoggidillas, who hunker down in the muck and brandish their scaled backsides while honking all the livelong day. There’s a small smithy and forge geared for day-to-day work, stuff like nails, horseshoes, or minor repairs so they don’t gotta go into town every time they have a need for metalwork. In that same vein, they got a woodworking facility with a whipsaw for cutting planks the old-fashioned way, a job I could never do for more than a day. A well-worn path leads right down to the lake, close to two-hundred and fifty metres as the crow flies just as Carter promised, with a single, flat-bottomed trawler big enough for two sitting tied to a floating dock, which got ropes, moors, and room enough for three more such boats.

Last but not least, there’s a solid log bunkhouse next to what looks to be the stables, and this’ll be home for the next little while. While the townies stretch and grunt after what they’d consider a long, rough ride, I look, listen, and put together what I know to make a few guesses about the people who live here. Ain’t nothing that stands out too much about Carter’s little community, save for three things. First, they got a leader or builder with military training and good sense, which is rarer than you’d think. I know this because the compound and surrounding facilities are a good mix between cozy and defendable, rather than all uniform square huts plonked down in that manner because that’s how they’re drawn in the guidebooks.

Brings me to the second thing that stands out, how close knit the community has got to be to live out their days in a compound like this. Twenty houses Carter told us, and all inside a hundred metres squared. That’s not a whole lot of living space for that many families, damn near claustrophobic if you ask me. Doubly so when you consider the top reasons for living outside of town is for space and solitude.

Lastly, it’s interesting to note how new everything looks. Not brand spanking new, but there ain’t no logs warped from exposure to rain, sun, or snow, no natural cracks or splinter that form over time, no rusted metal or sagging roofs, and not even a mended fence post around the pen in sight. Their tools are sharp and shiny, with polished wood handles that have yet to wear down from overuse, and the coat of whitewash they threw onto the outside surface of every building to blend in is still fresh and only slightly faded from the sun. The ropes on the trees are all clean and neat with nary a fray in sight, and the trails look about a week away from being reclaimed by nature.

All this and more tells me these folks have been here for more than two years, but less than five. Relative newcomers, but highly capable and competent ones who’ve thrown together something impressive in the short time they’ve been around. That takes good leadership and firm discipline, especially to keep striving for improvement after they got the basics down pat, which they most certainly are seeing how we out here to put in plumbing. People like this are always welcome in towns, and typically thrive there too, because good help is hard to find and well rewarded when you got it.

Which begs the question: why they out here then?

Too close to town to be isolationists. Too competent to be exiles. Too productive for criminals, though I mostly ruled that out since most would avoid going into town to invite two deputies and a dozen convicts back to do work for a week. Those are the two groups most likely to recognize a community of criminals, and this here ain’t it.

Now, I ain’t saying everyone living outside of town is a criminal, kook, or ne’er do weller. I’m saying most fit into one of the three, because living in a town is so much easier. That’s the reality of the situation, because while the Federal Government told the first wave of Settlers they could strike it rich as Aether barons or landowners, it ain’t all sunshine and rainbows when it comes to building your own community out in the sticks. There are benefits to be sure. Land ownership for one, up to five-hundred acres for one family, and ain’t no one can take that away from you, unlike my property back in New Hope. Even though I own the land proper, it’s inside a Federal town, meaning the government can still take my house away from me in a number of scenarios. If I get exiled for one, or don’t pay my taxes, or breach zoning and land use agreements. There’s also eminent domain, environmental protection, adverse possession, and abandonment clauses written into Federal Law, all of which could theoretically result in me losing ownership of my land.

Can’t happen out here with homesteaders though. They own the land outright under the Accords, which as we all know is a whole different kettle of fish from Federal Law. Means Carter’s rights to this here land are protected under international law, and if the Federal Government infringes on those rights, he can plead his case to an international court. Don’t mean much of anything, but it’s still a bad look for a government to screw its constituents, so the Feds haven’t tried any funny business just yet.

I know a fair bit about this sort of business because I got myself a claim on the mesa out in the badlands, where my mama and daddy are buried now. It’s a claim recognized by no less than six governments mind you, one my daddy set up before he passed. Ain’t worth much of anything, seeing how close to the Divide it sits, but my daddy claimed it all the same because it’s where he and my mama made their life, and he wouldn’t stand to let anyone else have it. That’s why I gotta go up there at least once a year, so I got a record of maintaining the place, which means it’s my land to do with whatever I please so long as I don’t break the Accords.

That said, the same applies to Carter’s people out here. Even though this compound sits within Federal territory, it ain’t Federal land. The Rangers don’t come by on patrol, and the Sheriff don’t send his deputies by to maintain law and order. The Feds don’t supply the land with water or power, don’t build any roads or manage any wildlife, nor will they defend this place from Aberration attack, like they do with New Hope. That ain’t to say Carter’s people are left high and dry out here. The Feds will help when they can, but they ain’t bound to defend this place by anything besides their oath to defend the American people.

The key term there being people. Even if you ain’t American, they’ll offer to shelter you in New Hope during the Watershed, but if you choose to stay out here, then don’t expect no Rangers or guards to come help you fend off hordes of Abby.

All in all though, the land around Last Chance Lake is a good place to hang your shingle for anyone looking to get into homesteading themselves. It’s hard, gruelling work it is, and the payoff is a place to call your own. That’s it. 500 acres of home, that’s what you get, which sounds like a lot until you realize how much work it takes to farm a handful of acres by hand, leaving the vast majority of your land unused. The upside is that the Federal Government calculated that a single-family household only needs 160 acres to support themselves, leaving you enough land divide your homestead into three parcels of land and sell or rent the other two. Not much demand for it just yet, especially when it ain’t even all developed, but after the Watershed, the second wave of Settlers will be arriving on the Frontier, and they gonna need a place to live. Can’t all stay in town, as there ain’t enough room or food to house and feed them, so most governments are planning to buy those parcels of land from homesteaders of the first wave and mortgage them to the second wave.

So yea. If Carter and his people get to developing the few thousand acres of land they’re entitled to, then they could stand to make a pretty penny in a few years time.

Personally, seems like a whole lot of work and effort for not a huge payoff considering that’s like a decade’s worth of backbreaking labour. Not to mention having to defend it against Abby come the Watershed, else your homestead won’t be worth a dime. Then you gotta account for the rapid inflation that’s sure to come with a massive influx of population and the subsequent monetary expansion the Federal Government is sure to undertake in order to pay for all that land. That’s fancy talk for printing more money, which means what money we already got will be worth less, even though the numbers don’t change. Seems silly to put so much work into collecting papers that the government can print more of whenever they like, and that there is the core issue I got with stacks of cash. That’s why I spend mine as soon as I can, though I’ve been running into issues with that of late. Don’t got all that many expenses is the problem, and there are regulations on how much Aberrtin, Crystal Aether, and precious metals you can buy in any given fiscal year, not to mention the target it paints on your back once people hear about how the crippled Qin kid converted thousands of dollars into fungible assets which are easy to move and difficult to trace.

Never thought I’d see the day when having so much cash in the bank would prove troublesome to deal with. And that’s after giving the better part of eight grand to Sarah Jay so she could buy a house for her family, which is money well spent far as I’m concerned. Still think it would’ve been cheaper to tune up her abusive dirtbag of a step-daddy. Couple cracked ribs and a promise to do worse if he should ever show his face again would’ve sorted him out right quick, but I didn’t know what she needed the money for until after she spent it. No big deal though, because it’s money well spent, since a house in New Hope will only appreciate in value, unlike cash which loses value by the day while sitting in the bank. Fact is, if there wasn’t laws against real-estate speculation, I’d buy up more land in New Hope, because that there is a sure-fire fail-safe against inflation.

You know… unless the Watershed does us all in with them hordes of desperate Aberrations looking to feed their starving new-born Proggies.

So knowing all that I know, I can’t help but feel like there something off about Carter and his people. I ain’t one to pry, but this here is a gut feeling, not exactly a rustling of jimmies or full-on Portent, but an inkling that’s gonna bother me till I figure out the answer. Again, could be something completely innocent. Maybe they like the convenience of having a town nearby but prefer living out here in a close-knit community. Because they’re swingers, polygamists, nudists, or just plain religious maybe. Wouldn’t even have to be an esoteric religion. For all their talk of freedom and independence, your average American townie is a typical Christian who does a whole lot of pearl clutching whenever they encounter anything that ain’t, and there ain’t nothing Christians hate more than other Christians who’re doing ‘their’ religion wrong.

Well… that’s not true, but they do love to argue about it. We got five churches for different denominations of Christians in New Hope alone, and I’m told there are dozens more with no real explanation of what differs from one to the other. Didn’t stop folks from raising a big fuss when Uncle Teddy announced he was lending Federal funds for the construction of a place of worship for any religion with more than ten practitioners in town.

You can best believe there were plenty who weren’t pleased to see a Gospel, Protestant or Episcopalian church spring up, so you can imagine the fuss when non-Christians put up their own places of worship. Felt like every other week there was someone getting up in arms about one congregation or another chanting in tongues or whatnot. Personally, I don’t see no difference between having mass in Latin, temple service in Hebrew, or Arabic mosque, as it’s all a bunch of kneeling and chanting that takes up more time than it should. Doesn’t stop me from showing up at mass every Sunday with Chrissy, me because it reminds me of all the time I spent there with my daddy, and Chrissy because she loves the hymns and pipe organ. Strange is what that is, a bunch of like-minded folks sitting in a room singing about the glory of God and eating wafers of flatbread that represent the body of Christ, so the fact that other religions are equally as strange don’t bother me none. Seeing how even the sizable non-Christian denominations got their fair share of hardships in town, it wouldn’t surprise me if a whole congregation of a less recognized religion up and moved out beyond the walls to do whatever it is their deity demands of them away from the crowds.

Maybe that’s the deal with Carter and his people, which is more interesting than anything I’ve done in weeks. That’s why I waste no time putting my things away in the bunkhouse before coming back out to see the sights. Takes me all of ten seconds to pick out my bed as the one furthest from the door, which is why Carter is still unharnessing the horses when I step back out. Cowie's long gone, having wandered off to explore the surroundings, and he'll come back to a full water trough if he feeling thirsty. Wanting to get a better look at the well-trained beasts, I mosey on up and ask, “Lend you a hand? Only the one though, and I’ll need it back when you’re done.”

Carter don’t laugh or look mortified at the joke, just nods and grunts without looking. Waste of a perfectly fine joke that was, but no one heard besides him so I can reuse it again later. The first horse I approach is a big, docile bay, who barely even glances at me as I unhook him from the wagon, while the second is the ugliest horse I done ever seen. Patting his neck as I take in the seal brown horse with the messed-up cheeks, I shake my head and say, “Poor horsie. You get kicked in the head or somethin’? Got a face only a mother could love, unless she the one who done the kickin’.”

That gets me a laugh out of Carter, one he tries to disguise as a cough. The ugly horsie with the broken face don’t appreciate my presence none though, tries to turn his head and give me a nip, but I dance away and pat his flanks in a soothing gesture. “Hey now, none of that. Better, more handsome horses than you have tried, and they ain’t gotten a piece of me yet.” Eventually, the mean ugly horse calms down enough to let me reach over his back and unharness him, but he a clever one who sidesteps soon as he’s free in an attempt to knock me on my ass. Dancing back with a grin, I keep my forearm and elbow braced against the big horse until his momentum is played out, then I pat his neck to soothe his temper. “Tricksy one, ain’t ya?” I ask, struggling to get a handle on the horse’s body language, because he ain’t like any horse I ever worked with before. He’s angry, but not aggressive, snappy, but not mean-spirited. Tired too, which is odd considering he looks like he in phenomenal shape, but has worked up a real lather from the light trot.

So I take the ugly brown and well-mannered bay on a short walk to cool down, which also gives me an excuse to look around. Unfortunately, Carter follows along hot on my heels with the other two horses. Doesn’t hold them by the reins and trusts them to keep close, but don’t trust me to wander around on my lonesome, so I take the cue and stick to a circuit out front of the compound in sight of the bunkhouse, rather than going all around for a good look like I wanted to. Habit is all it is, not necessarily an expectation that these folks got something nefarious going on about, but considering my Detect Heartbeat Cantrip tells me there’s at least a dozen living creatures on the other side of the outer wall and have yet to see a single face come out and greet us, I can’t help but feel weirded out. They know we here, but want to stay out of sight, which means they got something to hide, so even if it’s just a general fear of strangers, my curiosity can’t help but be piqued.

Doubly so when we finish putting the horses away and Carter gathers the whole group for a talk. “We’re private folk, so you’ll have to forgive us for not opening our homes up to you all. There are barrels full of freshwater to drink from, and we’ll provide three square meals a day, but you’ll have to stay outside our walls while you’re here.” Giving me a pointed look, he adds, “I ask that you respect our wishes, as it’ll be a nightmare getting through all the paperwork should one of mine accidentally hurt one of you thinking you were a thief or a pervert.”

Guess I wasn’t being as circumspect about my curiosity as I thought, but that don’t discourage me none. I’ll respectfully continue my investigating, mostly because I ain’t got much else going on. Either way, I give him a nod to say message received, which ain’t enough to put to rest all his misgivings. He don’t harp on like a broken record though, just has us kick up on feet and wait while he heads inside to bring us our midday meal. While he does that, I head back inside to grab some leftovers from the barbeque alongside a bottle of fizzy sarsaparilla before finding myself a nice spot of secluded shade where I can heat and eat my meal in peace.

The meal Carter brings out alongside three other men is a stew and flatbread, and judging from the grimaces and grumbles, the convicts ain’t singing the cooks no praises. The fact that Carter and his people sit down to eat with them changes things though, as it shows it’s what he always eats, so the others can hardly complain about it. Carter’s friends are all old worlders who could be American, but I doubt it. One’s a big, rotund man with a decidedly Eastern European look about him who I name Santa, and I ain’t talking about his roots like with Sarah Jay. Got the rounder, slavic face with them high cheekbones all covered up with a big, bushy beard that’s neatly trimmed around the edges. Poofy, but firm with neat lines and soft curves, same as how most Americans like their hedges, and ridiculous as it looks, I can’t help but envy his ability to grow facial hair. Add in the narrow eyes, bulbous, slightly hooked nose, and a touch of generic melting-pot features, and I’d put good money on the bear there hailing from the Eastern Bloc, if not a Soviet proper.

Don’t much like the look of him, as he moves with the grace and power of a dangerous man, though I admit it could just be my recent run-in with Gunin’s scavs that got me on high alert.

Then there’s Beanpole, a tall, gaunt man with the complexion of obsidian rather than the deep browns I’m accustomed to seeing in darker shades of skin. Man looks like he could step back into a shadow and disappear from sight, with smooth, flawless skin that just drinks in the light. Keeps his hair shaved close to bald, and got a jawline that could cut glass if need be, which combined with the intensity of his stare puts me on high alert. Can’t rightly say where a man like that might hail from, but even though most would call him black same as Errol or Marcus, there’s about as much similarity between them as a Texan and a Soviet. Might share the same general shade of skin, but they look worlds apart, not just in complexion, but temperament and attitude as well.

Can’t say for sure where he from, as it could really be anywhere. Black ain’t limited to Africa after all, and I don’t got any other clues besides his appearance to go on.

Lastly is a small, South East Asian gent with a long, sleek beard that looks as smooth as silk. At least, I assume he’s South East Asian and not Qin, mostly on account of how he greets me with a mouth full of smiles until he thinks I ain’t looking, then it’s all glares and scowls directed at the back of my head. Lot of bad blood between the Qin and their so-called vassal states, nations they conquered and enslaved for the better part of two millennia if the Qin history books are to be believed. Which I don’t, because while most Immortal Monarchs were big on rewriting history, the Qin Immortal Monarch went a step further and killed every scholar and historian who ever wrote a book about him shortly after ascending to Immortality, all so he could hide his origins and become a man ordained by Heaven to rule over his people.

Tian Zi, or the Son of Heaven. That’s the only other name the Qin Immortal Emperor has ever gone by, one he used in many different incarnations over his twenty centuries of rule. A right pompous prick by all accounts, one who believed in the racial supremacy of the people he ruled over, as evidenced by how he enslaved and oppressed every surrounding nation until most had little to no identity left to them besides that of Qin slaves. Didn’t care much for expanding beyond that, not like the various European Immortal Monarchs, because the Qin Republic was larger than the whole European continent, about half the size of all of Africa during its heyday and with a population so big it was measured in the billions, rather than hundreds of millions.

As for the small gent with his squinty eyes and fake, open-mouthed smile? Can’t rightly say which country he hails from, only that he don’t much like what he sees when he looks my way. Would love to claim it don’t bother me much, but nothing sticks in my craw more than when my heritage gets in my way. What’s the Qin Republic got to do with me? Nothing, that’s what, less than nothing in fact, because I got no love for them and theirs after what they done to mine. Brainwashed both my parents and sent them off to die, then set their rabid dogs on my daddy just because he dared to be different. Don’t matter if it was my mama’s brother who gave the order, or some other high muckity muck in the chain of command; I’mma find the person responsible and collect on my debt, with interest enough to make two and a half points of vig look like small potates.

Soon as I get back to combat ready. I was hoping to deal with it right after I got my official bronze triangle to mark me as a Magus proper. Fireball is nice and all, but having two more Third Order Spells under my belt would be nice, and Rituals don’t count. Would’ve been nice to settle the score with whoever greenlit the hit on my daddy before the Watershed, because then I’d’ve been on more or less equal footing with anyone I came up against, but sadly that debt will have to wait a little longer until I get back on track.

Either that, or I face facts and roll the dice as I am to gamble on whether or not I make it out alive. Even though I know my daddy wouldn’t want me to get got getting even, I gotta at least give it a try. Can’t rest easy knowing that somewhere out there, there’s a man or a woman who ordered my daddy’s death and ain’t caught a Bolt between the eyes just yet.

Ain’t nothing for it, so I do my best to ignore the Oriental’s glares and jump right into work when we start. Carter and his people lead us out to the north, where they got a patch of land all marked out and cleared for us to dig, and we all get right to it. The eleven convicts all work side by side with Carter’s people, but me, I wander off a little further down and take a knee, ready to begin until I hear the scuffle of footstep behind me. Turning in place, I spot Deputy Juan barreling over with a scowl, and I raise my eye in question. “Where in the hell do you think you’re running off to?” he asks, his hand on his pistol and a gleam in his eye that tells me he’s all too eager to use it.

“Firstly, didn’t do no running,” I say, mildly amused by his bluster, but keeping this calm and professional unlike him. “Secondly, I ain’t a prisoner, so even if I wanted to run, you got no justification to draw on me. Lastly, what I’m doin’ is what I came here to do. Dig.”

“Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do.” Spitting into the dirt, which I’m gonna hafta dig, Deputy Juan sneers and asks, “What? You too good to dig alongside everyone else too?”

“Nah,” I reply, holding up both arms to show off my hand and my stump. “But seeing how I only got the one hand, and the Mould Earth Cantrip requires physical contact with the earth you lookin’ to mould, I figured my fingers would be safer away from all them shovels.” Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “That all right with you?”

“Deputy.” I don’t answer, and Deputy Juan takes another step closer to loom over me as I kneel. “That all right with you, Deputy.”

“It’s perfectly alright,” I say with a smile, adding, “I ain’t no deputy though.”

That really grinds his gears, and I can see them turning in his head, but if he draws on me, then he’ll get both barrels from my Doorknocker which is already out of the holster and aimed centre mass. Amazing what an oversized coat will do to hide what’s happening behind it, and while it’ll make a real mess of my duster, I can Mend it right up when we done. Can’t say the same about the deputy, and I’d be well within my rights to defend myself with lethal force under the Accords if he draws on me without cause.

Which as I already established, is what we go by outside of town. Don’t think Deputy Juan has picked up on that fact, and I’m about to remind him when Deputy Walt hollers, “Juan. Come here a sec. Need to talk.” Which is just an excuse to de-escalate without making things worse, and I give the older man a nod in thanks as Deputy Juan slowly walks away. Annoying is what it is, a badge on a power trip, but I ain’t one to bend to no petty tyrant. Now that I’m free to work though, I get to digging quick as I can, moving a cubic foot of soil every second with the aforementioned Cantrip. Also bring out my Mage Hands while I’m at it and pay some attention to how they function, feeling out their 5lb limits and molasses like speed. Every ten minutes, I take a fifteen second break to recast Mage Hands rather than sustain it with Concentration, because that lets me test out new ways to squeeze and finagle it.

See, that’s the other option I got when it comes to recovery, one I ain’t talked about with Uncle Teddy. Everyone and their mother knows that familiarity with a Spell allows the caster to improve it. Mage Armour is the classic example, wherein a base Mage Armour Spell is only good enough to blunt punches and kicks, and even then, it doesn’t allow you to ignore them completely. A Mage Armour from an experienced Abjurer who’s practised the Spell ten-thousand times though? It’ll block Bolts, blades, and other heavy impacts without any Metamagics to speak of. The Shield Spell is another big one, as the base Spell creates a blue disc about the size of a serving platter. With practise and familiarity however, Big Alfred can use that same Spell to create a giant tower shield to cover his entire six-foot frame, and make it stronger and more durable to boot. You can make Spells hit harder, move faster, last longer without Concentration, improve the benefits they bestow upon you, or a dozen other different things, all with practise and familiarity, but the problem is, you can’t guarantee what result you gonna get when you put in the practice.

Why? Because the way you improve a Spell in this manner don’t make no logical sense. You’re not putting more Aether into it, not twisting the flows into something different, not adding a spin here or a turn there to change the Structure in any way. What you’re doing is taking the same Structure with the same flows and getting a different outcome from what others get, because you finagle what comes out the other end before it makes its way out into reality. If Aether is water, and a Spell Structure is a hose, and Metamagic is putting a nozzle on the end of a hose, then changing a Spell through familiarity is like making the water that comes out hot instead of cold, or as juice instead of water. This is full on magic, because the caster is manipulating Aether itself as it flows through the Spell Structure to create a different outcome from what you’d expect.

So how is it done? That’s difficult to say, because you’re finagling something that can’t be perceived with the original five human senses. Yea, Spellcasters can develop a feel for the Aether, but it’s not some magical sixth sense we all awaken to. It’s a blend of our five senses bridging the gap to help us perceive what we know is there but cannot otherwise discern. That means how each Spellslinger perceives Aether is unique to them and them alone, which makes it difficult to describe how they finagle a Spell. You think Captain Jung doesn’t want to share how she’s able to take Burst Bolt turn it into a sustained Spell that fires off a 196 Bolts in a minute? Of course she does, but she doesn’t know how to describe the process in a way every other Spellcaster understands. It’s like trying to describe a musical symphony to a deaf man, or an abstract painting to someone born blind. It’s possible to bridge a connection that makes sense, but exceedingly difficult to come up with something that everyone or even most people understand.

As for me, I learned how to split one Mage Hand into two because my mama was a brilliant woman. She didn’t just write down how it felt to her, but also all the tests and exercises she used to discern how to finagle the Cantrip and get what she wanted. It was so simple I could follow along despite being only eleven years old while learning my first Cantrip, but now, I gotta figure this out on my own.

How can I improve Mage Hand to make it stronger, faster, and more durable? Sounds similar to what I’m doing with Uncle Teddy, but we’re trying to come up with a whole new Spell Structure to do something similar and better, whereas this is taking the same Mage Hand Cantrip everyone else knows and uses, and getting more out of it than they can. If I succeed, then I might not have a Spell to replace the hand I’d lost, but I could have better floating Mage Hands that can do more they already do. Imagine if they were tough enough to survive shooting a Blastgun, instead of coming apart at the seams with a single Blast. Or fast enough to quick draw in a pinch, or even just deliver a gun to my hand without taking forever. Or strong enough to poke a man in the eye, trap a gun in its holster, or push heavy objects off of great heights. 10lbs of force is not the same as being able to push 10lbs of rock off a cliff, because there’s still friction to consider, so it ain’t as useful as most people think.

So I sling Spells and dig all day long, which is a lot more involved than it sounds. I gotta swirl the dirt to build up momentum before moving it any actual distance, because friction and inertia are a bitch. The topsoil is easy enough to move all about, but the deeper you get, the more packed the soil is, and the Cantrip don’t do nothing for the pebbles, twigs, and other detritus packed in deep. That’s where the Mage Hands and my Simple Servant comes in, picking that stuff up and tossing it into a wheelbarrow, but despite practicing all day, I don’t really understand how I’m supposed to improve the Cantrip. Don’t even know what I’m supposed to be paying attention to as I cast or use it, because it’s like saying you gotta squeeze harder. Sounds great, but what do I do to improve my grip strength besides squeezing? I don’t rightly know, though I’m sure someone does, but how am I supposed to figure that out for myself?

Ideally without spending ten-thousand plus hours using the Cantrip, though honestly, I’m probably not too far off from that number. Might even be past it, which only goes to show I ain’t as smart or talented as folks think.

Which is why I gotta make up for it with hard work. Them others look at me using Mould Earth and think I got it easy compared to shovelling, but I still gotta scoop up the stones and move wheelbarrows full of dirt or rocks same as them. What’s more, even though there ain’t any limit on Cantrips, they’re still tiring if you sling enough. It’s the same as walking slow and steady, in that you can do it for hours without breaking a sweat, but eventually, all that effort adds up and you gotta stop to take a rest. Still, I didn’t get to where I am by doing the bare minimum, or even just a bit more than everyone else, so I work up a good lather before Carter says it’s time to call it quits. Climbing out of my pit, I take a few steps back to take it all in and realize my ditch is about one fifth the size of theirs, and they had fourteen men to my one. Don’t say nothing about it though, just give Carter a smile who responds with a nod to say I’ll get my full hours.

Even though my job is done for the day, I still got plenty of work ahead, which is why I crack open one of Danny’s textbooks to read while eating dinner. More leftovers, though I help myself to a bit of the stew just to see what it’s like. Tasteless mostly, because they didn’t use much salt or spices, which is fair seeing how those are expensive. Probably make do without the former and grow the latter, but it’s early April and they probably used everything they had over the winter. Still, it’s a hearty enough stew with plenty of filling veggies and they ain’t shirking on the flatbread, so I eat as much as I can while poring over the dry text and barely understanding half of it. Perseverance will see me through though, because even though I might not understand it the first time I read it, but maybe by the tenth time, something will get through and I’ll start piecing things together well enough. Not in any big rush, because slow is smooth and smooth is fast, same in this as with everything else, so when the words start getting to be too much, I take a break and move on to envisioning the Spell Structure for Mage Hand.

According to Uncle Teddy, the goal here is to draw out the full Spell Structure using Minor Illusion, which is a tall ask. While every Spell Structure has its shape, one formed by a series of moving lights and the trails they leave behind, it’s difficult to envision the Spell Structure as a whole when I close my eyes and picture it in my mind. Instead, it’s more like you’re there with the Spell Structure, being taken along for the ride, and you don’t so much see the dips and curves as feel them. Even the most basic Spell Structure has a sense of animation to it, a vitality that almost makes it feel alive, like you’ve been caught in the talons of some giant bird and they’re taking you up through the air to offer you a perspective you’ve never before seen. It ain’t always quite so vivid, but the general gist remains the same, as if you looking out through a tiny window and only seeing what’s visible at this very moment. When you solve the Spell Formula, you’re building the path the Spell takes one step at a time, letting the numbers guide you through the movements second by precious second. You get a feel for the flow and see the path laid out before you, and all you gotta do is guide the Aether to follow it, and there you go. Spell Structure formed, simple is as simple does.

…So maybe I’ve been going at this all wrong. Why try and envision the steps one by one and see them as a whole, when I can just clear it all out and build it back up again?

Pulling out my Spellbook, I flip through the pages in search of the relevant Formula, and I thank my past self for hoarding all my Cantrips for the sake of having them, instead of keeping a single copy of them at home which I would never look at. Then, after going through the math a few times for practice, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and focus on the Mage Hand Spell Structure embedded within my memory, the first Structure I ever put together and the one Spell I’ve used more than any other. I remember poring over my mama’s notes damn near every night, looking through every character and number in hopes of learning more about her. Then I learned this Cantrip, and realized just how much effort she put into making things ready for me, because it takes a whole lotta of practice to make the Mage Hand useful, and a whole lot more to get to the point where you can knit two socks at the same time. One set of needles in her real hands, and a second set in her Mage Hands, that’s how my daddy described it, and truth be told, I’ve been at this for years and still don’t think I could match what my mama did in less than eight months on the Frontier.

I can play a mean game of cat’s cradle and reload my guns without looking, but getting my Mage Hands to do fine, detailed work like knitting a sock? I couldn’t knit with my real hands, when I still had two of them, so there ain’t no chance my Mage Hands could do it either. Yes sir, my mama was the genius, and I only inherited a small bit of her brilliance, alongside my daddy’s mule-head persistence which has served me well. Hard work won’t ever disappoint you, because even though it ain’t no guarantee of success, the lessons learned along the way will serve you well in other ways.

So even though I only got me the one hand to work with, I dismiss the Spell Structure for Mage Hand from my mind and watch the glowing lights fade into nothingness. Soon as it’s gone, there’s a tightness in my chest which I can’t explain, and I can’t help but panic at the thought of never getting the Spell back again. I can still think back and catch glimpses of what it was like, it’s the difference between doing a thing in real life and watching it play out on a recording. The Cantrip is lost to me now, and no matter how many times I say the words or make the motions, those blue, spectral hands will not appear out of thin air, not until I solve the Formula and embedded the Spell Structure into memory once more.

Which was the plan, but in the moment, I can’t help but mourn the loss. I know in my head that nothing tangible was lost, that it’s only a matter of minutes before I have the Spell Structure embedded back in mind. Thirty minutes tops, if that, and yet, somehow I feel… lessened without it. Empty even, as if I’ve been sapped of energy by more than just a half-day of hard work. The loss isn’t physical, isn’t emotional, or even mental, but something real and ineffable that I don’t entirely understand, only to say that it most certainly has to do with the Spell Structure I just threw away.

So dismayed by the loss, I set to solving the Formula as quick as I can and make a few mistakes along the way. When I finally settle down and solve it once more, I feel the Spell Structure come alive within my mind and find peace and contentment again. What I lost wasn’t the Spell Structure itself, or my memories and connection with my mama or anything like that. No, what I gave up alongside the Spell Structure was my connection to the Spell itself, the source of power the Structure draws upon somewhere out there in the Immaterium. Ain’t a theory that’s been proven just yet, that every Spell Structure links to a metaphysical engine out there in some reality somewhere, but this little experiment made me a believer. This here was my oldest Spell Structure, and a Cantrip I likely put more practice into than the rest of my Spells combined. Maybe that’s why I could feel that connection, and don’t feel the same when I do away with Water Sphere, Mending, Deodorant, or Umbrella, because I forged myself a connection to the Mage Hand Spell Structure, one that defies expectations and understanding because it’s still magic in the end.

I think that’s what I love so much about magic, a love that doesn’t translate over to tech. It’s the unknowable, the inscrutable, the unfathomable arcane, with mysteries that can’t ever be solved because there ain’t no answers to be had. Not in the sense that my answer will be the same as the next person over, because magic is, at the end of the day, a personal journey. We can learn from our predecessors sure, but there’s only so much you can convey with words alone, while magic is so much more. As I conjure up my Mage Hands through a new Spell Structure for the very first time, it is both familiar and alien at the same time, a journey I’ve taken thousands of times before but from what feels like a slightly different perspective. For the sake of comparison, I set to prepping those other Cantrip Spell Structures once again, but they don’t feel any different when I use them. Could be my imagination with Mage Hands, or it could be I ain’t familiar enough with the other Cantrips to notice the changes. Could be any one of a thousand different things, but at least now I got a thread to pull on, something to follow just to see where it leads me even if it doesn’t take me anywhere at all.

What does it mean? I can’t rightly say, but I got an inkling in the back of my mind, a churning in my gut that says there’s something here to be studied, so I dismiss the Mage Hand Spell Structure once again and fixate on the sensation of loss, trying to put into words a feeling I ain’t even sure is real or imagined, and again, I come up empty. Then, as I put my mind to the math once more, I focus less on the numbers and more on the journey they bring me on, a thrilling ride through the Immaterium within my mind that brings me right back to that big Metaphysical engine lurking somewhere within the cosmos which powers the Mage Hand Cantrip, though how that’s even possible, I can’t rightly say.

A grasping hand. That’s what the trip puts me in mind of, the image of the Spell Structure firmly embedded in my mind. Before, it was all about the journey, but then something clicked and I can’t see anything else. Me, at the tip of a finger as a hand pushes me forward, like it’s reaching for something sitting on a table out front. Ain’t an image at all real, but more of an impression, that of five fingers reaching out towards me to take hold of my desire, Ectoplasm given form here in reality to heed my bidding with little more than a thought. That’s what the Spell Structure puts me in mind of, though how I’m supposed to show that with a Minor Illusion is beyond me. It’s that movement that gives the Spell agency, the flows of Aether coming together to have an effect on reality, and if I can understand even a small portion of how those flows work, I might be able to squeeze more out of this Structure, or even improve upon it and turn the Mage Hand Cantrip into a genuine, First Order Spell capable of doing everything my real hand could’ve done, and maybe more.

That’s the goal, a lofty one indeed, but maybe Uncle Teddy’s right and my innate grasp of Aetheric Flows will bring me success in the end. Personally, I’d much rather rely on hard work, which is why I immediately dismiss the Spell Structure before setting to solving the Formula to embed it into memory once again. Then again, and again, and again, until the glowhoppers get to glowing and chirping and Deputy Juan comes over to snarl and say it’s time for lights out. Only then do I realize the moon is hanging high in the sky above, with the sun having come and gone without my notice. A good day’s work, that’s what I call that, so I head on inside the bunkhouse, lock away my dubsies in my warded gun safe, tuck my Rattlesnake under my pillow, and fall fast asleep as soon as I close my eyes.

Didn’t accomplish much today, but it was a good start. I’ll get there eventually. I believe it with all my heart, because to believe otherwise would be to give up hope, and where would I be without that?