//------------------------------// // Magic of the West // Story: Someone Came With Her // by chromewasp //------------------------------// “It's not nearly as hard as it looks,” he adds, blowing the smoke off his red-hot horn. The roll of paper drops out of your jaw. Oh, no. Nonononono. The universe has got to be kidding. That kind of innuendo is an atrocity against all things decent. “I'm sure it's not,” you say, feeling your muscles bunch up as an overwhelming urge to back away takes hold of you. “Not hard, I mean. I mean, if you're talking about the spell.” He raises an eyebrow in honest curiosity, his horn still glowing like a hot poker. “What else would I be talking about?” It takes you a moment to come up with a suitable answer. “I...never mind.” Fairweather shrugs and levitates a glass of iced tea to you. “Care for a drink before we get started? This kind of thing gets you thirsty fast.” “No thanks,” you blurt. “Wait, actually, uh, sure! Why not?” Fairweather nods nonchalantly. “I think you'll like it,” he says before the magical glow leaves the glass. It falls to the ground and shatters in a spray of glass and tea. You flinch back in alarm. His deep blue eyes regard you with confusion. His deep blue eyes... Nergh! What's he saying now? Something about “why didn't you catch it?” “I'm sorry?” you ask, baffled. “Eh, it was my fault. Should've told you before I let go,” he sighed. “But I couldn't have caught it,” you protest. “I was too far away.” He looks even more confused now. “You...do realize there's something called 'telekinesis,' right?” Oh, no. “I...” you manage, “can't do that.” It had to come sooner or later, but that doesn't make the hot blush leave your cheeks. For a second Fairweather looks at you like a man discovering his date never got potty trained. You shift your gaze to the rickety wooden floor, vainly hoping it will suddenly split open and swallow you. “It's the heat!” you ejaculate, blushing even harder when you realize how wrong that sounded. “I mean...it's this weird thing I've developed. All that time in the desert...I think it did something to me. I try to use magic, but nothing comes. I can't remember any spells...I can't do anything!” The story is fake, but the tears you try to blink back are quite real. You hear the soft creak of wood as Fairweather slowly trots up to you. You can't bear to bring your head up to look at him. You feel his hoof press against your chin, gently lifting it up until you're gazing into his eyes. There's something captivating about his expression. It's a strange mixture of sternness and tenderness; something that seems unique to him. “Never say that again,” he says. “There's no such thing as a pony who can't do anything.” As you stare into his eyes, you wonder what he's thinking. Is this the part where you both break out into some smarmy musical number? Judging by the lack of a soundtrack, it seems you might be safe from that possibility but that doesn't change the fact that he's looking into your eyes and it's really hard to turn away because you don't want to look awkward because then that would make you look like a-- At that moment he turns away, and you feel like a steam boiler that was fixed just before it could blow itself apart. The unicorn plods over to a small stack of dog-eared books resting on a stool, carefully pulling a hefty black tome from it. “I figure it would be best to start with the simple things,” Fairweather explains as he levitates the book in front of you. He opens it, but not before you can read its cover: Everything You Wanted to Know About Magic (Also the Things You Didn't Want to Know, Too) A Comprehensive Guide by Timothy Hay, The Enchanter He flips to a page labeled “Lesson One: Levitation.” Although most unicorn foals are capable of basic levitation skills, every now and then an adult “unicorn” comes up and tells me, “Durr, I don't know how to make stuff go floaty-floaty. Can you teach me?” At this point I want to throw something at them, but given my already questionable reputation, I have little choice other than to humor them. If you are one of these ponies, you should feel sad before continuing to read. Do you feel sad now? Good. Now let's begin. You give Fairweather a skeptical look. “He's a bit obnoxious at times, but his methods make it worthwhile.” You look back at the book, only to find that the rest of the page consists of strange symbols. “What language is this?” you ask, perplexed. “It's not a language. Those little symbols are to help you focus your magic.” You regard him with an even more confused look. “How?” “Think about each symbol on that page. Try to memorize each one of them. Magic is all about focus and concentration: sometimes, it helps to have visual cues.” Returning to the book, you set to work on committing each symbol to memory. One of them is a line connecting two x-marks. Another is a simple arrow pointing upward. Another still looks like a box with four arrows radiating from it. Soon you can clearly visualize each exact symbol in your head. “What now?” you ask. “Look at the object you want to pick up. Then start thinking about the symbols, and about how much you want it to start floating into the air.” You focus your gaze on a small rock lying next to the porch. “Okay...” Okay, rock, you think. You are going to fucking move. I want you to move so much that I'm going to start thinking about lines and arrows and boxes. What do you think of that, punk? The rock remains undisturbed. You grit your teeth and give it another try, but still no luck. You gather all of your will for the third try, which you know is always the charm. And then... Absolutely nothing happens. If that rock had a face, it would be giving you a pretty smartass smirk right now. “It isn't working,” you sigh. “Probably because you're overthinking it,” suggests Fairweather, leaning casually against the porch's railing. “Keep in mind the symbols are just a way to help you focus. They aren't the source of the magic itself; that part comes from inside. Think about what the symbols mean to you. 'To you' is the important part.” You think about the first symbol, the line connecting the two crosses. It makes you think of connections, and from there you get the image of a network cable linking two computers together. The second one is simple enough: upward momentum. You imagine an elevator shooting up to the top of a skyscraper, from the basement to the top floor in the blink of an eye. The third one reminds you of a car at an intersection, its engine revving up just as the driver decides where he wants to go. The car has no control; only the driver does. You look back at the rock and screw your eyes shut. You think about how much you want your magic to connect with it, just like setting up a computer network. You want it to shoot up into the air, just like a high-speed elevator. And you want to move it where you want it—over to you, you decide. Just like a driver making a u-turn at an intersection to go back home. You feel something peculiar deep inside your bones, radiating from your core and flowing to your horn. Subtle vibrations tickle your nerves, like you're a living tuning fork. The feeling isn't unpleasant, but it's shockingly unfamiliar—in fact, you've never felt anything even remotely like it. A small gasp escapes your lips, and your eyes flutter open. The feeling fades while your eyes adjust to the harsh desert light. You look for the rock, but it's gone. What the-- “Look in front of you,” says Fairweather. The book is now sporting a new granite paperweight. Your face lights up. “Did I...” you start breathlessly, unable to hide your excitement. “Now, what was that about not being able to do anything?” Fairweather asks, a wry smile on his muzzle. You know how pitiful your achievement was compared to the magic other unicorns could perform--hell, even unicorn foals--but that doesn't dampen your elation in the slightest. For a moment you feel like a kid again, finally learning how to ride a bike. But soon your smile fades. You're not supposed to be happy, damn it! You're supposed to get this over with as soon as possible. Returning home is priority numero uno. Right? Fine, so maybe—just maybe—it might be okay to enjoy a few things about your change. It's not like you're becoming any less human for taking a little pleasure in the thrill of magic. Are you? It occurs to that you might actually miss the ability to use magic once you get back to normal. As brief as your little foray into the mystical arts has been, you're startled by how much you want to learn more. It's tantalizing, like taking a tiny sip of the best wine in the world. “You still with me? You look a little dazed,” Fairweather remarks, a concerned look in his deep blue eyes. Yet again you blush. Damn it, why did you have to end up with him? Why couldn't you have been saddled up with one of those old, wizened teachers instead? He's starting to look even more confused as you struggle to respond. “I'm fine, just...lost my train of thought, that's all,” you offer with a forced smile. You need an emergency escape from this, fast. Salvation comes when your eyes fall on the scroll of paper you'd dropped on the floor earlier. “Hey, I just remembered. I think you forgot to check my paperwork—you know, the stuff Silverstar had me fill out?” He looks confused for a second more before recognition dawns on his face. “Ah, yes. The Sheriff's been acting pretty strangely about that stuff.” “I figured something was wrong,” you murmur. He nods and leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Just before the town started having...problems, he was caught up in a fight about plans for a new railroad. An express line, directly connecting Appleloosa with Las Pegasus. They thought it would be the boost Appleloosa needed to stop being a town and start being a city. So there was a big push to make the town more 'civilized,' and supposedly that meant more rules, more laws...and much, much more paperwork for people like Sheriff Silverstar. Trouble is, the plan fell through. Silverstar ended up taking most of the blame: he got accused of not taking the paperwork seriously enough. He took the whole thing quite personally.” He sighs. “So now he does paperwork at the slightest provocation. He's terrified of being seen as a slacker in case they start talking about 'civilizing' Appleloosa again.” “So this has become some sort of compulsion?” you ask. “You could call it that. He used to be the kind of sheriff who always went charging into action, but now? Now I barely ever see him outside his office. And do you know what the worst part of it is? Nopony actually wants him to do paperwork anymore. But he can't seem to get that one day out of his mind, when the town paper called him a 'good fer-nuthin' bumblin' basket of fritter crumbs.'” You're about to comment on how stupid it is that he'd go so nuts over an insult like that, but on some level you can empathize with him. As you've discovered in the past few days, humiliation leaves the slowest-healing wounds.