Rules

Magic is difficult.

That was the first thing that Ashk learned. It was Rule #1.

When he had heard that he had expected it to be followed up by a Rule #2. However, there was no Rule #2. Not one that was set in stone like Rule #1 anyways.

But in the four years that he had been studying magic Ashk had come up with his own Rule #2. Rules #3 and #4 and #5 and all the rest, up to about Rule #42 now—though he wasn’t quite sure anymore—had followed until he had composed an entire set of Rules for himself. Almost all were of very little importance, having been made for this situation or that. A few though were always important. Rule #2 was one of these.

Rule #2 states that magic is not difficult; it’s impossible!

Ashk was trying to read a magical text his master had set to him. A book, it seemed to be about demons and how not to call them. According to it, or what he could make of it for magical texts were always changing, their letters never staying in the same place for long, demons could be called by doing pretty much anything. Drawing a pentagram and lighting candles at its points and invoking all the right words would surely call a demon. Making a mistake with the ratios when creating a potion or pronouncing a word incorrectly during a spell could also call a demon. A demon would inevitably appear if one were to cross a warlock because the warlock would summon it to defend him.

But, unbeknownst to him prior to sitting down with the book, so would boiling water for tea, cleaning up one’s room, or using the chamber pot. Reading the last one Ashk had been taken by a deathly fear of ever using the chamber pot again. Especially at night when there was a full moon, the book seemed to say, was a particularly bad time to use the pot. Such fear that he had set the book down and had been forced to stand and fetch a glass of his master’s best wine just to calm himself, mostly because he was having the sudden urge to use the pot. Then he had been taken by the desire, no, the need, to find out what else would call a demon so that he might avoid such things in the future. He had been shocked to discover that merely drinking the best wine in the house would call a demon, or rising after having sat down with a book of magic and, if one were to have set the book down but had forgotten to close it then one would find oneself in a world of trouble because the demon that would appear instantly would be, indubitably, one of the worst demons there ever was.

Needless to say he relaxed after reading this.

“Rule #43,” he said aloud, though speaking to no one in particular. “Do not believe everything you read.”

Smiling to himself Ashk relaxed back into the chair. Then, after staring into the middle distance for who knew how long and feeling rather proud of himself, he began to wonder if his new rule was not rather Rule #44 than Rule #43. He had so many of them, sometimes it was hard to keep track. He knew he had forty-two rules. Definitely forty-two. He knew them all by heart. Magic is difficult; magic is not difficult, it is damned impossible; the sixth step creaks in the middle; a quick flick of the wrist is better than a slap on the back of the head; the chandelier is heavier than it looks; and so on. They were all there, waiting for him to recall whenever he needed them.

But he couldn’t seem to remember any beyond Rule #42. Rule #43…he had made one before! Hadn’t he? Yes, he must have. A Rule #43 before this most recent Rule #43. For the life of him though, he couldn’t remember what it had been.

Sighing, Ashk shook his head and bent once more over his task.

Rule #2, magic isn’t difficult, it’s impossible! he thought as he read. He blinked hard, he swallowed, he wrung his hands, did everything he could except look away from the words.

Like all magic texts, this book on how not to call demons had been written with a magic quill and magic ink. The letters twisted and changed, words rearranged themselves into grotesque parodies of what, less than a moment before, they had been saying. When not looking at a word it stayed sharp and clear, exactly how it should have been. But when concentrated on, when looked at directly, it would change and no longer be what it had been. To read it, one almost had to not read it.

How he was expected to learn any magic—how anyone was expected to learn magic—was simply beyond him. It all seemed to involve something like how magic texts were read: Rule #7, magic is not accomplished by cleaning out the chicken coop. To perform a spell, his master had told him, one must first try not to perform it. In other words, Ashk had thought at the time, one does magic by not doing magic. He wasn’t sure whether he believed this or not but it was clear to him that there was magic in the world. The book and its twisting letters was all the proof he needed of that.

Ashk laughed his way through the rest of the section on demons and was still chuckling when he emerged from the library for dinner that evening. Normally quiet at meal times, as was the cook’s preference—the woman was also their housekeeper, he could not help the few sniggers that escaped him.

Finally, looking at each other, the master put down his knife and met Ashk’s eyes. “How was the book?” he asked.

“The book?” Ashk swallowed. His master had a very serious set to his face just now; the book was obviously important to him, one he held in high regard. “The book. It was, well…” He paused, struggling to find the right word. “Enlightening. It was enlightening, Master.”

They stared at each other for a few moments, the cook glancing back and forth between them. Then the master retrieved his knife, cut a slice of the night’s beef, and raised it to his lips. “I hope you didn’t stand up after reading it. Or leave it lying open.”

Ashk’s chest tightened. He believed such absurdity? How could he? Then he saw the master smile.

In the next instant they were both laughing, the cook joining in a moment later, though clearing not understanding what they were laughing about. “I hope you don’t plan on cleaning your room any time soon,” roared the master.

“No! And what about you? Having tea tonight?”

“Tea? Tea?! Awful stuff. Terrible. Never! I shall never have it!”

“But Master, it’s your favorite!” cried the cook. “If you shall not do it, then I shall boil it for you.”

“Oh, Ilmara, it was just a joke. The reading I gave the boy today was intended to lighten his mood. Raise his spirits. He’s been so dour lately.”

She turned a critical eye on Ashk. “He has, hasn’t he?”

“Yes. That book, the author was mad. Completely mad. Did you know that, boy?”

“I guessed, sir. After the first few admonishments I knew someone was mad, and I knew it wasn’t me.”

As the cook and master burst into laughter again Ashk silently said to himself, “Rule #43, magic can be fun!”