re-roofed the smokehouse). For though Calvin Fargo McIntosh had grown up in Atlanta, he was three-quarters Cherokee Indian, and trying very hard to become a wizard.
This evening, however, the only magic he had in mind was that of contentment, of being in a place he loved, surrounded by fantastic scenery, and feeling good about his long day’s labor. He sighed happily, propped his strong bare feet on the railing, and took a sip from the cup of coffee he had brought with him from the supper table. Sandy was in there now, cleaning up, since he’d cooked (venison burgers and wild mushrooms). She’d join him shortly and they’d watch the sun set and the night arrive and talk about—who knew what.
Maybe magic tonight, because they hadn’t in a while, and after all, he did know more about the arcane lore of his people than anyone living, probably—at least from firsthand experience; and by slow degrees had been initiating her into its mysteries as well. It had not been easy, of course; but who could believe there were Worlds beyond this one, that anybody could actually travel to if they had the art? Asking someone to believe that was asking a lot, especially to a scientist like Sandy. Eventually, he’d had to actually show her. Not by taking her to Galunlati; he had neither the power nor the permission to do that yet. But by performing the ritual and going there himself. That she could believe: him in the middle of his Power Wheel one minute, and gone in a puff of flame the next. It had hurt him fearfully—the transition always did. But it had been worth it, because it had lowered the last barrier between them. From then on there had been endless questions, and eventually Sandy had found herself trying to contrive a unified-field theory of physics/metaphysics to embrace the cosmology of all the overlapping Worlds.
There was so much she didn’t know, too; and so many questions he could not answer, because he only knew a little about one World besides their own. She really needed to talk to his friends down in Georgia: Dave and Alec, and all. They’d spoken to the folk of one of the other Worlds and knew what was up. Yeah, maybe this summer he’d take her over there and they’d hash out some stuff. Maybe even next weekend—he had to go anyway, to be in Dave’s buddy’s wedding.
He fished in the pocket of the sleeveless denim jacket that hung open over his chest, and pulled out the packet of photos he’d picked up that day from the Eckerds down in Sylva. He’d shot them the previous August, but never got around to developing them until now. A lot of ’em hadn’t come out, but enough had to provide a reasonable record of those friends he’d just been thinking of.
The first was one of Mad Davy Sullivan standing alone in a high mountain pasture, with a line of dark forest to his right, and behind him a picture-postcard of sprawling lakes. A little shorter than Calvin, and built more like a gymnast than a runner, Dave was nevertheless wearing running togs: white gym shorts and a burgundy de-sleeved sweatshirt which depicted his school name and mascot: the Enotah County ’possums. He was also barefoot, and was pointing to his tootsies with one hand and shrugging theatrically with the other.
Calvin couldn’t help but grin. He’d made that the last day he’d been there, when Dave had been unable to find his shoes anywhere and had decided to undertake his morning run without them. Not wishing to put his friend at a disadvantage, Calvin had joined him and done likewise. Unfortunately, it had been a mistake to try to out-macho that particular white boy. The stone bruises had nearly killed him, and it had taken nearly a week for the blisters to heal.
The next photo was one of Dave’s home, a white frame farmhouse crouching atop a steep hill on the knees of a forested mountain, with a strip of bottom land on one side, and a series of hilly pastures on the other. Dating from around the turn of the century, the house
This evening, however, the only magic he had in mind was that of contentment, of being in a place he loved, surrounded by fantastic scenery, and feeling good about his long day’s labor. He sighed happily, propped his strong bare feet on the railing, and took a sip from the cup of coffee he had brought with him from the supper table. Sandy was in there now, cleaning up, since he’d cooked (venison burgers and wild mushrooms). She’d join him shortly and they’d watch the sun set and the night arrive and talk about—who knew what.
Maybe magic tonight, because they hadn’t in a while, and after all, he did know more about the arcane lore of his people than anyone living, probably—at least from firsthand experience; and by slow degrees had been initiating her into its mysteries as well. It had not been easy, of course; but who could believe there were Worlds beyond this one, that anybody could actually travel to if they had the art? Asking someone to believe that was asking a lot, especially to a scientist like Sandy. Eventually, he’d had to actually show her. Not by taking her to Galunlati; he had neither the power nor the permission to do that yet. But by performing the ritual and going there himself. That she could believe: him in the middle of his Power Wheel one minute, and gone in a puff of flame the next. It had hurt him fearfully—the transition always did. But it had been worth it, because it had lowered the last barrier between them. From then on there had been endless questions, and eventually Sandy had found herself trying to contrive a unified-field theory of physics/metaphysics to embrace the cosmology of all the overlapping Worlds.
There was so much she didn’t know, too; and so many questions he could not answer, because he only knew a little about one World besides their own. She really needed to talk to his friends down in Georgia: Dave and Alec, and all. They’d spoken to the folk of one of the other Worlds and knew what was up. Yeah, maybe this summer he’d take her over there and they’d hash out some stuff. Maybe even next weekend—he had to go anyway, to be in Dave’s buddy’s wedding.
He fished in the pocket of the sleeveless denim jacket that hung open over his chest, and pulled out the packet of photos he’d picked up that day from the Eckerds down in Sylva. He’d shot them the previous August, but never got around to developing them until now. A lot of ’em hadn’t come out, but enough had to provide a reasonable record of those friends he’d just been thinking of.
The first was one of Mad Davy Sullivan standing alone in a high mountain pasture, with a line of dark forest to his right, and behind him a picture-postcard of sprawling lakes. A little shorter than Calvin, and built more like a gymnast than a runner, Dave was nevertheless wearing running togs: white gym shorts and a burgundy de-sleeved sweatshirt which depicted his school name and mascot: the Enotah County ’possums. He was also barefoot, and was pointing to his tootsies with one hand and shrugging theatrically with the other.
Calvin couldn’t help but grin. He’d made that the last day he’d been there, when Dave had been unable to find his shoes anywhere and had decided to undertake his morning run without them. Not wishing to put his friend at a disadvantage, Calvin had joined him and done likewise. Unfortunately, it had been a mistake to try to out-macho that particular white boy. The stone bruises had nearly killed him, and it had taken nearly a week for the blisters to heal.
The next photo was one of Dave’s home, a white frame farmhouse crouching atop a steep hill on the knees of a forested mountain, with a strip of bottom land on one side, and a series of hilly pastures on the other. Dating from around the turn of the century, the house
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