The Magic and the Mundane

Jack lay in his bed gazing out the window. He watched the faint curtain of pastel lights dance in the night sky. The moon was nearing its new phase and the stars sparkled all the more brightly for its muted glow. The lights had appeared just over a week ago and they were steadily becoming more conspicuous with each passing day.

The villagers had begun talking about them in hushed voices, speculating on their meaning. Bright, colorful lights regularly lit up the night sky over the large, walled cities. The lights tended to congregate where strong magic was found. The elite had sequestered themselves years before, fortifying their enormous homes and their bountiful territories with magical domes, buffering their lavish lifestyles. They left those without royal blood to toil and suffer on the outside, at the whims of this harsh planet.

Perhaps one of the nobility was among them, the people of Rosebrier whispered.

The royals would soon take notice as well, from high in their towers. They wouldn’t like the idea of one of their own living among the commoners, sharing the blessing their mere presence inevitably brought to the land. They would come and take him back by force. If they caught him again it would be near impossible to escape that gilded cage a second time.

Jack was lucky he’d been able to stay in one town for an entire year this time. He’d learned how to more effectively hide his true identity from others and from nature itself. He’d learned to shroud the magic that was his birthright as a young lord of the court in the beauty of the mundane.

But the lights were here now and he would have to leave soon.

Jack pulled the thick, hand-stitched quilt up around his shoulders and snuggled under it, breathing in deeply. It smelled faintly of lavender and the moss that grew on the banks of the river where he washed his clothing. He would miss those early, chilly mornings among the river reeds and delicate purple blossoms, his hands turning pink from the cold water. But there would be another village, another river.

He enjoyed doing work by hand. His own people would never understand the simple pleasure of performing everyday tasks yourself. Lowly tasks were carried out with routine magic there. No one got their hands dirty. He liked having a bit of grit under his nails.

The wooden bed creaked as Jack rolled over to face the wall and block out the colorful lights. Happiness and sorrow warred in his heart. The small village he had sought refuge in last spring was now a bustling, thriving town. The soil was fertile, the rain and sun came in equal measure, the bandits and outlaws mysteriously stayed away. Jack was happy he had brought prosperity to the people here and knew that over time he would do the same in the next town he arrived in, but he wept for the ones he would leave behind. He always had to leave them behind.

He knew he could only stay another few days at the most. He would make the most of them.

***

Jack plucked a wild rose from the large bush that climbed up the side of the boarding house where he rented a room. Roses grew native here and could be found abundantly throughout the town of Rosebrier. These particular ones were brilliant yellow and softly ruffled like the plumage of one of the song birds in the great leisure gardens of the cities. They smelled of crisp apples dipped in sweet honey. He plucked the thorns from it and then palmed the small blossom and concealed it up one sleeve.

Jack continued down the road passing the many shops and businesses along the way. Several of the owners waved or called out to him as he passed. He was well liked and well known for his easy going attitude and willingness to always lend a hand. He closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the scent of newly worked leather and freshly cut wood. He relished the solid feel of the cobblestones beneath his feet and the sound of horse hooves clopping past him, the cart’s wheels creaking, the chilled bottles of milk clinking.

A few more steps and he paused in front of the bakery as he did every morning. The baker’s daughter immediately ran out to greet him, a sweet roll in her hand, as she did every morning. Her mother watched from the storefront, smiling knowingly, as her daughter’s fingers lingered a bit too long as she passed him the treat. He handed her a small coin and his mouth watered as the scent of cinnamon and vanilla enveloped him.

Jack slipped the rose out of his sleeve with his free hand and presented it to her with the flourish of a practiced magician, one of those traveling entertainers who had no royal blood but nonetheless delighted crowds through trickery and misdirection. The young woman giggled and accepted his gift, tucking it behind one ear, before wishing him a good day. He returned the well wishes and she blushed and ran back into the shop.

Her father, hands covered in flour, now stood in the doorway. He waved and nodded at Jack. The man had approached him several times on his daughter’s behalf, but Jack had always politely deflected the direction he knew the conversation was going in. In another life he would have courted the young woman properly. He was achingly fond of her. But he had always known his time here would be short.

Jack continued on to the edge of town where the smithy’s hot fires burned and the large barn stood that stabled the cart horses and the mounts of those just passing through. He loved working with the large animals. They could be sweaty and smelly and unruly at times, but being in the presence of these intelligent and majestic creatures was worth all the work. You couldn’t bond with the magically animated mechanical constructs that moved carriages around in the cities. They had no mind, no soul.

Jack savored his last day working in the stables. The feel of the smooth wooden shovel handle against his calloused palms. The heft of manure and the push of the rattling wheelbarrow out to the steaming compost pile. The satisfaction of looking around at all the animals in their freshly bedded stalls, clear, cool water filling their scrubbed buckets. The gentle nuzzle and prodding of their noses as he poured the dusty grain into their feed bins.

There was grit under his nails, sweat on his brow. This was how he covered his magic. Immersing both his body and mind in the beauty of the mundane tasks. Still the magic leaked out of the shell he refortified each day. It slowly infused the environment around him, giving him away and drawing like to like. The sun’s blinding light overhead hid the telltale signs in the sky during the day to all but the most perceptive.

***

Jack lay on his bed in the boarding house for the last time, watching the lights through his small window. They rippled in thick sheets across the night sky like giant, multi-hued waves rolling on a black ocean. The bed was newly made beneath him. The old quilt freshly washed and neatly tucked in on the corners. The room had been cleanly swept that morning and the sparse furniture thoroughly dusted. It was ready for a new tenant.

Jack was fully clothed. His traveling bag, with all his worldly possessions and a few day’s worth of rations, was carefully packed and lay on the table. He breathed in deeply, memorizing the smell of lavender and moss, mingled with the perfume of roses, a scent unique to this town.

Jack waited until well after midnight. Only the street lamps were lit now. The town slept. He carefully sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side. The old timbers creaked as he silently bent over to lace up his boots. He slid his traveling bag off the table and onto his back. He left a pile of coins on the table, the rest of this month’s rent, and then slowly shut the door to his room. He hung the key on a thin leather thong around the doorknob.

Jack was a silent, steadfast shadow as he headed down the road out of town. He made a brief stop at the baker’s house, leaving a single yellow rosebud on the young woman’s windowsill. He whispered a few words and his hand briefly glowed a soft golden light, like a firefly calling to its mate. It was foolish, he knew, to leave proof of himself behind, but he wanted her to know that she had mattered to him. He wanted her to remember him. Besides, she was a clever young woman. She would hide the token as soon as she realized the bloom would never wilt.

The new moon hid behind its ebony veil. The stars speckled the sky like flecks of scattered paint. The pastel colors, nearly as bright as those over the cities, danced riotously in the heavens above him. Jack’s boots left the cobblestones and met the hard packed dirt. He walked out of the town and disappeared into the night.