I slept through most of the trip, and the time of our arrival—despite its early hour—was cheerful and fresh. Luggage-wise, I had almost nothing: a small backpack and a wicker basket. I also could not resist the temptation and had bought a couple of gifts for my mom and younger siblings, firmly sending my finances into the red. The conductor, heroically restraining his urge to yawn, courteously unfolded a ladder onto the platform. He helped me off and sincerely wished me a good trip, while thick, milky fog reigned all around.
As soon as I dove into the moist, faintly roiling haze, I realized how badly homesick I was. All that I liked in urban settings—the fumes of vehicles and their never-ending movement—was only a poor surrogate for this mysterious, enveloping pseudo-existence. The steam engine, invisible in the fog, whistled pitifully, the departing train faintly clanged, and I strode along the platform, past the “Wildlife Outpost,” trying to remember the location of the descending path.
The fog started barely breaking away from the ground; in an hour there would be no trace of it. Thanks to its lift, I first noticed feet of people meeting me and only later discerned their faces. I was greeted by a pair of ladies’ shoes on low heels (simple and worn-out), men’s boots of the type “not afraid of mud,” and four horse hooves. It was the hooves that I recognized—you do not often see a horse with all four legs of different colors.
“Hi, Mom!”
A woman in a black knitted jacket rose out of the fog. I would have recognized her anytime and anywhere. She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.
“Hi, Tommy! How are you? How was your trip?”
“Excellent!”
“Hello, Thomas. The children have been waiting for you for three days; all the neighbors know that their brother is coming back. Don’t be alarmed.”
Before turning to the speaker, I took a deep breath, bringing myself into the state which I commonly used when communicating with my clients: detached benevolence, respect without familiarity. I was sure I was better at it now than two years ago. He stood next to my mother, smiling, one of only three white magicians in Krauhard. My stepfather.
“Let’s go,” my mother hurried me to a horse carriage.
I caught myself thinking that, while imagining this meeting, my memory had been skipping over, in some tricky way, a man I had known for more than ten years; that is to say, not even a sole thought of him had arisen in my mind. Perhaps the brain cannot remember what it does not understand. My stepfather climbed onto the coach box, and my mother sat down next to me, while I, smiling, was still striving for a sense of recognition.
Dark and white magicians cannot unite in a single family. These are two different species of people, different universes. As common interests, we had food only; indeed, we even slept in different ways. Regarding to my upbringing, my stepfather could not argue with me at all, and punishing me was completely unrealistic. Since our first acquaintance (me—eight, him—thirty-two) he was just Joe to me, but I was Thomas to him (at first, even Mr. Thomas). I always considered myself senior to him. The reason did not lie in any magical metaphysics, because my dark talent was still asleep, and his white one was never too strong. Personalities, attitudes, perception of the world—everything was different between us as night and day.
He liked to sit by the fire and read a book, while I showed up at home only long enough to eat. He tended and nurtured flowerbeds with exotic daisies; I repaired a lawn mower in the barn. He brought a good-natured rough-legged horse to our house that took pleasure in carrying our family to the market and to neighbors on weekends. I had bought a scooter on my first salary, awfully rattling and reeking of alcohol, and, whenever I had time, rolled it out to the driveway in front of the house and cleaned, adjusted, and fine-tuned. That way, we grated on each other’s nerves for long six years after his marriage to my mother. Only now, after studying at Redstone University for two years, did I understand the nightmare he had been living in. The day I received a scholarship from Roland the Bright’s Fund must have been the happiest day of his life.
“Well, how are things at home?” I tried to be polite.
“Fine. Thomas,” my mother hesitated, but I patiently waited, “we need to have a serious talk.”
When she called me by my full name, I knew it was something serious.
“Yes?”
“Lyuchik has revealed a talent,” she took a deep breath. “A white one.”
“Congratulations!”
What else could I say? A young white magician is like a naked nerve, totally susceptible to any outside influence. A wrong word, a sharp look, and the kid would fall into deep emotional distress. Later he would grow older, stronger, but right now… And moreover, his brother, a dark one, came to see him.
“You see…” my mother began in embarrassment.
Now, after two years at Redstone, I was genuinely able to see.
“I’ll be careful!” I promised sincerely.
I was sure of myself, but what about the others? There was no place less appropriate for a young white mage than Krauhard.
“How will he cope in our village?”
The best for them would be to move away from here; it was long overdue. Mother shrugged:
“We are trying to accommodate him, but with our income one cannot expect much.”
“Has my father left nothing? I cannot believe that a dark magician did not know how to make a living!”
“You probably do not remember… We did not struggle like now when he was alive. There were some savings, but when your father… died so suddenly, I could not find what he had invested his money in.”
A silly situation, isn’t it?
“We had a state pension previously, but when you turned eighteen, they took us off the payroll.”
And a family of four was left to live on only a schoolteacher’s salary.
“You should have mentioned that to me; I would have sent you money!”
She smiled: “What kind of money does a student have?”
Indeed, what money was I talking about? Oh, the money…
“I would have thought of something!” I replied stubbornly.
“Do not spout nonsense; you need to focus on studying. You are very talented! Your father would be very proud of you.”
The cunning plan to increase my monthly allowance failed splendidly. Well, now my conscience would not let me take a cent from her. It was a blow… But if I did pick up something from the white magicians, it was their ability to treat all setbacks philosophically. A very important quality! Well, I will enjoy my vacation in Krauhard then.
The horse hoofs clicked loudly on a cobbled road, and the old carriage’s springs creaked in accompaniment. The fog thinned, revealing moss-covered granite boulders, curved trees, and trailing shrubs. It was summer and bindweed was in bloom. The carriage had passed a cleft, and a valley, fairly wide for Krauhard, opened up in front of us. Its gently sloping southern side was covered with greenery, cattle grazed in the pastures, and the windows of houses with roofs of brown shale glimmered happily. Another half an hour, and I would be at home!
The reception was cordial and loud. Lyuchik, all grown up, shouted and jumped as if there were four of him, although his younger sister barely remembered me at all and felt shy. But virtually nothing had changed. It was the same country house with boisterous chickens in the yard and a neat small front garden, where my stepfather tried to grow roses in a climate perhaps only suitable for sagebrush.