A Touch of Magic by Gregory Mahan Page B

Randall realized how easily Bobby had been fooled by Erliand’s outward appearance, because Erliand had shown people exactly what they expected. Randall would probably have been fooled himself if ‘Earl’ had not revealed himself at the first opportunity. “You can’t judge a situation at first glance.” Randall summarized.
    “See? I knew I’d picked the right lad,” Erliand said. “Appearances can be deceiving. You remember that if you ever face real evil. So, let’s talk about what you’ve learned today so far.”
    “The only thing I’ve learned today is that my head hurts!” Randall complained.
    “I imagine so, lad” Erliand said. “But why does it hurt?”
    “Because I drank too much?” Randall said, half answer, half accusation.
    “Right. Actions have consequences. And just because you may be having fun doing what you’re doing doesn’t mean you won’t pay for it later.” Erliand lectured.
    Randall nodded, and lapsed into thought. His mind wandered from yesterday’s events to his possible future. The more he thought about it, the more Randall realized that since he had no choice in the matter, being a Mage wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He pictured himself snapping his fingers and conjuring up gold coins on command, or making people do whatever he wanted by his will alone. His mind conjured up all kinds of fun and interesting things that he could do if he knew how to work magic.
    “Master,” he said.
    “What is it?” Erliand asked.
    “When do I learn about magic?” Randall asked.
    “What do you think you’ve been learning about, boy?” Erliand asked, his voice rising. “Everything we’ve talked about relates to magic in some way! I’m not just going to give you the keys to power without some kind of ethical framework for using it, boy! You think I’m daft?”
    “No sir…uh…Master,” Randall quickly said, taken aback.
    “Good thing,” Erliand said. “Men have died making that mistake.”
    Randall shuddered. When he wasn’t being ‘Earl the Caravan Master’, it was impossible to tell whether Erliand was joking or not. He lapsed into silence as they drove on.
    Erliand continued driving the cart on little-used roads for the entire day, and into the evening, stopping only to rest the horses and eat. Occasionally, he would ask Randall questions about his life, and they would talk for a while. Almost always, he had a moral point to make, such as the time they talked about when Randall got caught stealing figs from a neighbor’s fig tree.
    “So, why’d your father give you a whipping for it, boy?” Earl asked.
    “Because they weren’t my figs to take,” Randall offered.
    “Well, that’s the simple answer, lad. But it doesn’t get to the heart of the social contract.”
    “The what?” Randall asked, puzzled.
    “The social contract, boy. It’s the rules that people agree on, so that they can live together in harmony. Let me give you an example. Let’s say that your friends each stole some figs, too. And let’s say that your parents thought it was all right to sneak down at night and get them some figs.” Randall giggled at the image of his father jumping fences and filling his pockets with figs, while Erliand continued. “In fact, let’s say that everyone thought it was just fine to take figs without paying. What then?”
    “Then the Browns wouldn’t have any figs?” Randall asked.
    “Well, they wouldn’t. But not because everyone stole them. Don’t forget, in this game, the Browns think it’s okay to steal figs, too,” Erliand reminded him.
    Randall thought for a while before it came to him. “So there’d be no point in growing them if you could steal them from someone else!” he cried, excited at the insight.
    “Good,” Erliand said. “So, then, tell me who would bother growing figs, then?”
    “Nobody,” Randall said slowly. “And so there wouldn’t be any figs to steal, either.”
    “And wouldn’t that be a shame,” Earl said with a