Magic 101

         
Magic 101



      Behind the thick door marked “12B” Art heard voices. The closed door muffled the conversation, but words weren’t necessary to understand that it wasn’t an entirely friendly exchange. If he wasn’t so pressed for time, he might have waited for things to calm down, or perhaps simply come back for the next class meeting. But Art only had five days until he changed back, and he needed to have a foot in the door before that happened. Establishing his presence here was essential. He took a deep breath, double-checked the room number on his add/drop slip and opened the door. As he did so, the muffled voices within suddenly rang quite clear.
         “You heard what I said.”
         The person to whom the challenge was directed didn’t reply, and for that matter, neither did anyone else. The room fell completely silent. When he saw the occupants of the room, his mouth dropped open, and his carefully prepared “sorry I’m late” speech drained from his mind like whey from a newly pressed cheese.
         The classroom was furnished with the typical plastic-chair/desk combination one would expect to find in a college classroom. The chalkboard, erasers and podium all seemed to be standard-issue as well.  It was the occupants of those chairs that had stolen the words from Art’s tongue.
         Art wasn’t an expert on identifying members of the “lesser races” but as far as he could tell, he was standing before an audience consisting of two dwarves, an elf, an orc, a goblin, and troll.
         “What the hell…” said Art, under his breath.
         “The ladies’ room is down the hall,” said the Troll. His voice rolled across the room like a log tumbling down a hill. It was the sort of voice that expected compliance, and Art had to fight with the urge to go find the ladies’ room and walk in. This momentary pause elicited some laughter from the group.
         “Is this Magic 101: Principles of Magical Study?” Art said. “The lady at the office said that-“
         “You’re in the right place,” said the elf. “Whitey is late again.”
         “Whitey?”
         “Professor Hebermeyer.”
         “Have a seat, blondie,” said the goblin. He gestured with a green, clawed hand at an empty desk next to his.
         Art felt distinctly uncomfortable, as if he had stumbled onto the stage of a one-man show. As he settled into the seat offered by the goblin, he tried to appear unaffected by the six pairs of eyes carefully sizing him up. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally, the larger of the two dwarves spoke up.
         “You know this isn’t the regular 101 class, right?”
         “That’s what the lady said. She said this was the Magical Arts Diversity version of the class. But all the other classes were full, and so here I am. Think the professor will add me?”
         “I don’t know. He has a hate on for humans,” said the goblin.
         “That’s ok with me,” said Art. “I’m not human.”
         “My ass,” said the smaller dwarf. “You look like you could be Whitey’s grandson.”
         “I’m a wolfwere,” said Art.
         “A what?”
         “A wolfwere. I’m a wolf, cursed with a human form for six days out of every month. I figure if I learn some magic I can break the curse.”
         “My ass,” said the smaller dwarf.
         “I don’t need validation from a guy who needs to sit on a book so he can see the board,” said Art.
         “You want some?” the smaller dwarf said.
         “Some what?” said Art, locking eyes with him.
         “Some pumpkin,” said the larger dwarf. “He just crawled out of the pumpkin patch and he wants to share some nice meaty orange pumpkin with you.”
         The smaller dwarf pounded his fist on the desk.
         “All right, Raul, let’s take this outside,”
         “Shut up, Alejandro,” said the orc. 
         “You want some too?” said Alejandro, pointing a stubby finger at the orc, who just shook his head.
         “Alejandro, you about to be a snack,” boomed the troll. “Your pumpkin-eatin’ ass best chill out before I have you wid some hot sauce.”
         That seemed to convince the smaller dwarf that aggressive behavior was an unwise choice, and so he settled back down in his chair with a scowl.
         “I hate it when Whitey’s late,” said the elf.
         Art leaned over to the goblin. “What’s with that little dwarf, anyway? Why is he so upset?”
         “He’s not a dwarf, he’s a gnome. And they’re sensitive. Easily riled. Raul likes to get him going,” replied the goblin. You know about that thing with Gnomes and pumpkins, Right?”
         “Nope,” said Art. “I spend most of my time in the woods.” 
         “If he doesn’t show up by three fifteen, I’m leaving. I paid good money to attend this course, and I don’t appreciate being stood up.” said the Elf. Art wasn’t quite certain what to make of him. Or her. The fact was, Art couldn’t tell. The voice and mannerism were female, but it didn’t appear to have breasts. Of course, this was the closest he’d ever been to an elf, so he really wasn’t sure if they had breasts or not anyway. 
         “So if you’re a man six days a year,” said Raul, “How are you going to finish this class? Can you write with your teeth or something like that?”
         “It’s six days a month. I have a waiver under the Title Two Disability act.”
         “So you only have to show up for six days a month, and you still get full credit?” asked the elf. “Must be nice.”
         “I don’t know. This is my first time here.”
         The door burst open, and in stumbled a pile of white robes that seemed to be hiding an old man somewhere inside. Barely visible among the folds of clothing were two gnarled hands, one of which clutched a leather satchel. Only the top of his head was visible, and that was covered by a tall, pointy white hat.
         The man, if Art’s nose and eyes didn’t mistake him, seemed to be well past the normal productive years of his life, but he still had enough energy to make himself a nuisance, or possibly a danger, to other people. He set his leather satchel on the podium with a loud thump, and doffed his hat.
         He was indeed old, but he had bright blue eyes and a smile that was friendly even beneath the long, white beard. Art immediately felt hopeful that his plan would work.
         “I’m terribly sorry I am late,” said the old man. “There was a faculty meeting that ran overtime, and I rushed over as soon as I could extricate myself from it. Ponderous affairs, I assure you.” His face lit up when he noticed Art. “Oh, and who might you be?”
         “My name is Art. I’m trying to add the class.”
         “Splendid! It’s nice to see that there are at least some humans who aren’t afraid to give diversity a try. Please, let’s have that slip.”
         Art didn’t think that it was a good time to correct the professor. He handed over the slip, which the professor quickly signed and returned.
         “Now, we’re still introducing the course material, so you shouldn’t have any difficulties catching up. We’re talking about the role of magic in a human-centric world. Or, more to the point, how human magical use has created an unlevel playing field and created a permanent underclass out of People of Race.”
         The professor reached into his satchel, rifled around a bit, and then withdrew a packet of paper. He handed it to Art. It was a magazine article that appeared to have been photocopied, entitled “Magic and People of Race: The Damaging Politics of Hocus-Pocus.”
         “You don’t have to read that right now,” said the professor. It’s supplemental material that will help you understand why studying magic is so important, especially for people of race.”
         “Don’t you belong to a race?” said Art.
         “Yes, of course I do,” replied Professor Hebermeyer.
         “And what about me? Do I belong to a race?”
         “It certainly appears so,” said the professor.
         “Then why do you keep saying ‘people of race’? What do you mean by that, anyway? I mean, the way you say it excludes people as much as includes them.”
         Professor Hebermeyer paused for a moment, as if momentarily shocked that someone could ask a question with such a simple and obvious answer. When it became clear to him that Art wasn’t feigning ignorance, he took a deep breath and attempted to answer Art’s question.
         “I use that term to acknowledge the plight of non-human peoples. For the past two hundred years, humanity has used its mastery of magic to dominate those it considers different. I find the term ‘lesser races’ to be offensive, and so I say ‘people of race’ out of respect for the rights of all people, no matter where they trace their origins.”
         “So do you consider yourself a Person of Race?”
         “No, I am human.”
         “But what about your race? I mean, how can you claim to respect other races when you don’t seem to have any respect for your own heritage?”
         “Art is right,” said the elf. “You stand up there and talk about how we’re so dominated and oppressed, and then you tiptoe around what we are with that insipid ‘people of race’ platitude, as if we needed your pity. And why are we even having this discussion? We’re supposed to be learning principles of magical study. I don’t know about any of you, but I haven’t learned any magic yet.”
         “I thought all elves knew magic,” said the orc.
         “Yeah. And all Orcs like uncooked meat. That’s so typical,” said the elf.
         “Well, it could be worse. You could enjoy chewing on pumpkins,” said Raul. Alejandro grabbed his beard in both hands and twisted it.
         “If you grow that thing out, you might be able to piss me off,” said Raul coolly.
         “Come over here and we’ll see who ends up pissed off,” said Alejandro.
         “Gentlefolk, gentlefolk!” said the professor. “See, Mr. Sivlerstar, this is exactly why we need to have this discussion. Years of human oppression have generated the kind of overt racial prejudice that you have seen demonstrated right here in this very classroom. Now, let’s examine some of- ”
         “I don’t need humans to tell me how to feel about pumpkin-eaters,” said Raul. “They’ve been dragging down the dwarves since time began.”
         “Is that why you all live underground?” asked the goblin.
         “Eat me,” said Raul.
         “I prefer my dwarf cooked,” said the goblin.
         “I want to learn some magic,” rumbled the troll. “All y’all best chill out. Cooked or not don’t mean no thing to me.”
         “Thank you, Mr. Boggs,” said Professor Hebermeyer. “Now, let’s get back to the subject, and that is magic. Human mastery of magic is the source of its hegemony over the people of race, and the source of this power is ultimately rooted in the techniques wizards use to harness and direct arcane energy.”
         “There you go again with People of Race thing. Why don’t you just teach the class instead of trying to assuage your own guilty conscience by pretending you understand what it’s like to be oppressed? Just teach the magic and leave your little agenda out of it,” said Art. 
         “I was courteous enough to allow you to add this class late,” said Professor Hebermeyer. “Now I must ask you to show me the same courtesy while I present my lecture. I have fifty-seven years of magical study. I believe that in that time I have learned a thing or two, and I would like to pass some of that on.”
         “I apologize,” said Art. “Please, continue.”
         “The power to harness and direct arcane energy derives from two principal sources. The first source is elemental. Fire, Rock, Wind and Water provide the essential elements necessary for the completion of any magical spell. Spells that utilize the four elements are generally used to change the properties of something that falls within one or more of these four elements. For example, if you were to cast a passwall spell, you would be seeking to change the properties of the wall, and would most likely utilize the elements of Wind and Rock for this purpose. We shall delve more deeply into this subject later. For now, all you have to remember is that the four elements provide the basis of arcane power. The second source is life-force. That is, the internal energy that separates the living from the inert.”
         A surge of hope filled Art’s breast; this was exactly the kind of information that could help him break the curse. He began scribbling notes as fast as he could write.
         “Finally,” whispered the goblin.
         “No kidding,” replied Art.
         “In order to affect an object, one must know how the object is constituted, that is, which elements are present in its makeup. There are a multitude of volumes in the library that deal with the material classification. For a long time, people of race were denied the information in these volumes because of a systematic effort to undermine literacy rates among the various non-human races.”
         “Excuse me?” said Sivlerstar.
         “Is there a problem?”
         “The Elven culture was around five thousand years before you people even figured out how to kill a squirrel with a pointed stick, and you’re going to sit here and tell me about literacy rates? We have the highest literacy rate in the kingdom.”
         “And much of that due to recent legislation that permits Elven-language classrooms. Before that, elven language and literature was on the wane. Grass-roots civil-rights efforts among elves and mankind have reversed that trend.”
         “I was wrong about you,” said Art. You aren’t a self-loather. You’re the biggest racist in this room.”
         All eyes turned to Art. He swallowed nervously, somewhat uncomfortable with the attention.
         “I am hurt by that comment, sir,” said the professor. “Kindly explain how I am a racist.”
         “Well, you’re telling us that all the problems in the world are caused by humans. And then you start telling us that whenever there’s a solution, it’s also humans who are behind it. So if you really believe that, then you’re saying that all of us are just spectators on the side, waiting to see what the big bad humans are going to do next. You talk about People of Race, but you should just say Lesser Races, because that’s what you mean. Just call us pigs, midgets, grease-spots, melon-heads, brownies, whatever. You know, call it like you see it. If you’re a bigot, just be a bigot, instead of trying to hide behind your books and your forty-seven years of magical study.”
         The silence that descended into the room was heavy indeed, as if some unseen deity and dropped a giant quilt on them. The air in the room seemed to sour and grow thick. 
         “I don’t approve of those names in my classroom,” said Professor Hebermeyer, his voice cracking with rage. “Especially from someone like you.”
         “And what am I?” asked Art.
         “You’re a human, and it’s the kind of dangerous thinking you’ve engaged in that has put our society in such danger. I have been studying magic fifty-seven years, and I have watched the suffering of the other races because they couldn’t enjoy the same freedom to learn. I don’t need someone like you telling me what I am!”
         “ I’m not human. I’m a wolfwere,” said Art. “I spend three weeks out of every month running from men, elves, orcs, goblins, and anyone else who owns a spear and a couple of sheep. You think we’re a menace because every once in a while some cow or pig disappears, and the first person who gets blamed is the wolf. And most of the time, it isn’t even us. Of course, you never talk about how the pig that disappeared was lame in its rear leg and would have spread fever to all the other pigs if had remained in the pen. It’s just see a wolf, kill a wolf, every day. And then I wake up with this two-legged wobbly-assed body and I get shunned by my own kind because they think I’m going to lead you to their dens. I have to totter around like this for six days, and I can’t make any friends because nobody trusts someone they don’t know. After six days of getting shunned by your kind, I change back and get hunted again. Nice job judging me by my appearance, professor, and I definitely don’t need someone like you telling me what I am.”
         “Yo, people. It’s like this,” said the troll. “You ain’t never going to understand me, and I ain’t never going to understand you. Ain’t no use fighting about who is better or who is worse, cause we all guilty.”
         Several of the students nodded in agreement. Of course, it wasn’t clear whether they were merely being deferential to the troll, or they actually agreed with his assessment.
         “Good words, Boggs,” said the goblin. 
         “Guilt or innocence isn’t the issue here, Mr. Boggs,” said the professor. What is at stake is the intellectual future of our kingdom. If we don’t educate all of our citizens, we will find ourselves in the middle of a race-driven civil war. And then everyone loses.”
         “Yo, are you going to teach us magic, or not?” said Mr. Boggs, his saucer-sized yellow eyes staring down, cold and unblinking at the professor.
         “I am going to address the point first,” said the Professor. “I have studied-“
         Without any warning or hesitation, a gigantic green hand enveloped the professor’s shoulder. The old, white-haired head snapped back as the troll yanked the professor towards him. Professor Hebermeyer seemed so surprised by the sudden turn of events that he didn’t scream, even as the troll’s gigantic mouth came down on the top of his head, lopping off the upper part of his cranium as easily as one might bite into a peach. The professor’s white robe soaked instantly in streaks of red blood. The left arm tightened and vibrated for a moment like a piano string, and then fell with a soft thump back against the body.
         “Holy boulders of stone,” said Raul.
         “What in the hell did you do that for?” asked Sivlerstar, his angular features drawn out in an expression of complete and utter shock.
         Boggs spit out a chunk of occipital bone that went skittering across the floor, coming to rest against the podium. A tiny red streak marked its path. 
                “Got tired of him,” he said through a mouthful of matted, blood-soaked hair.
                “You killed him,” said Alejandro.
                “Nice job, genius,” said Art. “Any thoughts on how you’re going to explain this to the campus police?”
                The troll looked at Art, more amused than upset. “He had an accident.” 
                “I don’t mean to start another argument,” said Sivlerstar, “but he has teeth-marks in his head. Big teeth marks, in fact. Unless you can explain how he managed to put his head into an ogre-trap, while simultaneously teaching Magic 101, it’s going to be pretty clear to the police that he didn’t accidentally lose half of his skull.”
         “I guess he went missing, then,” said Boggs.
         “I’m not touching that,” said Alejandro, gesturing toward the professor’s limp form, which was still dangling like a cloth doll in the troll’s grip.
         “Don’t worry about it,” said Boggs. “Yo Hoots, you hungry?”
         The orc raised his eyebrows, and then nodded. Come to think of it, I am a little hungry.”
         “I’m a vegan,” said Sivlerstar.
         “I’m going home,” said Alejandro.
         “Me too,” said Raul.
         The troll grabbed the professor’s arm and tore it off. The sound of tearing flesh and snapping tendons ended with a resounding pop as the arm separated from the shoulder. Boggs tossed the bloody arm to Hoots, who immediately sank his teeth into the thin, stringy bicep.
                Art shuddered.
                “Melvin, you want some?” said Boggs, shaking a floppy piece of pale material that could very well have been part of the professor’s lung.
                    “No thanks, Boggs," said the goblin. “Like I said, I prefer mine cooked.”
                    Raul led the way out the door. Behind them, the sounds of noisy eating filled the room, punctuated every now and then by a sharp crack or a wet, rolling slurp.
                    Art and Sivlerstar walked toward the cafeteria, though as far as Art was concerned, food was out of the question for at least a couple of days. The wind felt good on his face, blowing away some of the scent of that hideous, extemporaneous feast.
                    “If I wrote a list of things that could go wrong on campus, and that list was six hundred pages long, that still wouldn’t have been on it,” said Sivlerstar.
                    “I have to admit,” said Art, “I didn’t really know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t think that I’d see something like that. Maybe some drugs. A naked girl or two, possibly. But not that.”
                    “So what are you going to do now? I mean, let’s face it. Our semester is shot. That class is a prereq for just about everything else.” Sivlerstar said. He sighed, apparently disappointed by the setback.
                    “Well, I turn back into a wolf in five days. I guess I’ll just come back next month and try again. I can take advantage of my disability waiver and go to pretty much any class I feel like attending. It really opens doors.”
         “You should stop being ashamed of who you are. Stop thinking about it as a curse, as something you have to hide from the world. You should come out. Embrace the wolf and the human in you. You could be a valuable liaison between wolfkind and mankind. You could be a wolfwere activist. And you don’t even have to limit yourselves to wolves, or humans. You could be a valuable advocate for the rights of half-species everywhere. Half-elves, centaurs, harpies, merfolk. Even hobgoblins could use a voice! Well, it’s something to think about. Anyway, I have another class I have to get to. Maybe I’ll see you around campus?”
         “Maybe,” said Art. 
         The two parted ways at the cafeteria steps. Art walked into the woods, where he kept a nice, roomy den in a granite cave near a cool waterfall. Trees shaded the packed-earth path, and the smell of pine and grass hung in the air, offering their comfort without weighing it down with pity. 
         We all guilty. The troll’s words rang in Art’s mind as he walked over the arched wooden bridge that separated the campus from the forest. He found it strange that a creature like Boggs, who had apparently thought nothing of eating his professor in the middle of class, actually had the capacity for profound insight. Of course, that just proved the troll’s point.
                An image of the professor’s head, opened up like a rotten cauliflower, burned itself into Art’s memory, and he shuddered again.