Chapter 5: What’s Father Doing Here?

 

George Fothergill Sr. rose from the desk, his long formal test proctor robes flowing around him. He indicated a pedestal in the room with some of the magical equipment on it and beckoned his son, Geroge Jr., to follow him to it. A moment later, they stood facing each other across the pedestal gazing down at a small wooden circle with multicolored patterns on it, about the size of a large serving platter. The wood comprising it was three inches thick. George Jr. thought the designs on it looked such that if it weren’t laid horizontally upon the top of the pedestal, it could have been a dart board if hung vertically on a wall. In the center of the circular wooden board was a pretty, red, translucent stone, about the size of a human heart. Concentric circles with measurements in inches were marked in the board to show how far the red stone might be pushed off center.

“Move it with your magic, George,” his father said.

“Yes, Father.”

George had done things like this before in his classes lots of times. This would be easy. George gazed intently upon the stone and mentally grasped it with his mind, imagining its hardness, smoothness, and mass. Then, he mentally pushed. Inexplicably, the stone didn’t budge. This confused George. He grimaced, the skin between his forehead and nose wrinkling  and his eyes squinting with the effort showing on his face. George uttered words in the language of magic related to telekinetic manipulation and to movement in general to strengthen his efforts, though he normally in the past had only needed to do that with much heavier objects than this red stone on the testing board.

Finally, the red stone lurched forward about half an inch, but then stopped, going no further. George didn’t give up, though. Finally, as he began to grunt with effort, his father gently said, “That’s enough, son. Let’s try something else.”

For the next test, George led him over to a wall where his father pulled aside a curtain. The curtain covered a window into the small room next door. Through the window, George could see a small boy, about seven years old. The boy wasn’t dressed in mage school robes. He was dressed like a commoner.

“What is the boy thinking, George? Read his mind,” instructed his father.

“Yes, Father.”

George had never been the best at telepathy, but he should have been able to read at least the surface thoughts of the young child easily. Nothing came to him, though. Finally, George had to guess.

“He’s hungry. He’s wondering when he’s going to eat.”

George’s father sighed. “That’s a common guess, so we make sure that the subjects are fed before they are brought into the testing chamber so that can’t be the case. We also make sure they’ve recently relieved their bladders and bowels for the same reason, because it’s a common guess.”

“What is he thinking, Father?”

“Don’t worry about it, son. It doesn’t matter now. This way.”

They went back to the main teacher’s desk in the room. George’s father picked up a human skull from the desk.

“Can you tell me anything about this person? Anything at all? How old were they when they died? Male or female? Their name? Their profession?”

George murmured the magical words of a spell that should have briefly conjured the dead spirit of the skull’s owner for a brief conversation. Nothing happened. It seemed to George as if the skull’s empty eye sockets mocked him with their gaze. George was self-conscious of how long he had struggled at each of the previous tests, so this time he gave up quickly and sadly shook his head, facing downward. too ashamed to meet his father’s eyes.

They tried a few more tests involving a deck of cards before this father thanked him for doing his best.

Hearing his father thank him for doing his best after such abject failure finally broke George to the point where he broke protocol and spoke freely even though in this situation he shouldn’t speak unless spoken to.

“Father, I don’t know what’s happening today. I can do better than this! I know I can! I have many times!”

In spite of the fact that he was 15 years old, a graduate of Sutter’s Village Basic Magick School, and a Hopeful Candidate at the Magic School of Praxis, George was on the verge of crying like a small boy the age of the telepathy subject in the next room.

George’s father stepped forward and put his hand on his son’s shoulder, steadying him. “It’s all right, George. I will explain. Sit down.”

They sat at the teacher’s desk, his father in the main chair, and George on a student stool.

“George,” his father began gently, “none of this is your fault.”

“It’s not?”

“No. You have been the victim of a conspiracy, it seems. All these years, your teachers have been covering up the fact that you have little to no talent for magic.”

“What? But I’ve been using magic at school for years.”

His father raised his eyebrows for emphasis and smiled knowingly. “At school, yes, at school, where your teachers were able to convince you that you were using magic that was, in fact, theirs.”

“No! No! Why would they do such a thing?”

His father sighed heavily. “Because no one wanted to be the one to tell George Fothergill Sr. that his son had no magic.”

George was in shock. “But I moved the red stone a little.”

“Yes, you did,” his father conceded. “But you don’t have enough magic to ever be a true wizard.”

“Father, what will happen now?”

“There will be firings at your school, of course. Several firings.”

“But what will happen to me?”

“That, my son, will be a little harder.”