The Arcanist's Apprentice

“He is an odd fellow,” said Uncle Hayes. “He is often away on long travels, and I’ve never been able to place his accent. To be honest, I doubt he can place it either.”

I stared out over the choppy water and let out a heavy sigh, then turned to look around the small ship at the five others journeying with us. “Why does he get so many visitors?” I asked.

“The arcanist knows many profitable spells, and can make a device that can cure bad eyesight, a service for which he graciously charges far less than he could.”

Only then did I realize that one of the passengers had been led onto the ship by hand, and had someone brought to escort them.

What device could restore lost sight? I wondered. My mind drifted to what this strange device might look like, and I tried to imagine how it might work.

I had always been lousy at fishing, and I hated to be lousy, but no one on the docks was faster with a sum than me. I made sure that my father’s catch reports were always counted more quickly, and more honestly, than the other sailors at port. And for that, the harbormaster would often let us skip in line.

Last summer I had taught myself to read with a stack of worn books I had exchanged a day's dockhanding for, in what my father had referred to simply as, “a poor trade.” No one in my family was learned in that way, and of the local sailors only Harbormaster Langley could read. He was more accountant than scribe, and so did not see the use in letters and didn’t offer to teach me. So when I had read my small collection many times over, and inquired of the old harbormaster where I might find some new material to read, in shock, he called me a sea witch. My parents knew then that my future was not in fishing for tuna and mackerel.

“Emma,” my father had said in his raspy baritone voice, “your uncle has a contract with the arcanist to ferry his guests and petitioners to his island on days when he is at home in his tower and flies the yellow flag. On the first day of winter when the yellow flag is up, your uncle will introduce you to the arcanist and you will ask to be his apprentice.”

That’s how my father always was, to the point. My father spent all his days reading the weather, and seemed to have a sixth sense for discerning the inevitable. Illiterate as he was, my father had read me like a gathering storm. He knew I would grow bored with the quiet life of a fisherman, and in boredom I would turn to mischief. He was right.

So, after the first frost arrived my uncle came to collect me in his ferry for the short jaunt across the channel. And that is how I found myself traveling over the waves in a boat full of passengers seeking ailments and arcane wisdom, to see this mysterious man they called the arcanist

On the island, the lone building, which I had only ever seen at a distance, was an eclectic wooden cottage with awnings of blue fabric asymmetrically surrounding the structure and covering each of its four balconies. A large tower of white emerged from the rear of the house, crowned with a parapet. At the top of the tower an enormous yellow flag flapped in the salty air, announcing that the arcanist was in and open to customers.

After we disembarked onto the small island, I waited patiently for each of the other passengers to finish their business in the home of this local enchanter. Then my uncle brought me to the front door, knocking as he opened it and escorted me through.

The cottage was crowded with an assortment of junk and exotic trinkets. In the middle of the room was a rising plume of smoke erupting from a glass vessel. A face emerged and a man stepped to the side of the great cloud, which rose through a sort of iron chimney.

“Hayes,” he coughed, “that you?” The man removed a set of eye coverings strapped around his head, revealing eyes that stood out like two diamond white orbs against a face and beard completely black with soot.

“Yes sir,” my uncle stepped forward, unfazed. “This is my niece. Her father wants to inquire if you would take her as an apprentice. I think you will find her mind has a knack for hidden knowledge just like your own, and she may be of use to you.”

“Ok, tell me child, can you read a star chart?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Great, you’re hired!” He extended a hand with which he shook mine vigorously.

“I am the arcanist Belgronsketpiff. But you can call me Piff.”

From then on, I rode my uncle’s ferry to Mr. Piff’s island first thing in the morning, and back with his last trip before sunset. As eager as I was to read, and learn of faraway lands, disappointingly my tasks consisted entirely of cleaning and organizing.

“I need these alphabetized,” Mr. Piff had said one day, gesturing to a pile of ornate rugs. Very few tasks he assigned made sense, but I did my best to muddle through and he never complained.

Curious to learn more about my employer’s arcane power, I always made sure to be busy in the main room when he would take petitioners there. Many locals came for medicines and predictions about crops, but visitors would travel from far and wide for his specialty in correcting vision. In his workshop Mr. Piff could make a pair of glass discs held together by loops of metal wire he referred to as “spectacles.” These special eye coverings could give back the gift of sight to those with blurry or distorted vision, and each pair of spectacles was created uniquely to fit the individual’s needs. Mr. Piff sold his corrective services for barely the cost of materials, and I would know because I balanced his books.

“It’s really quite remarkable Emma,” he said one day, after supplying a visitor with their finished spectacles. “I have seen the birthplace of fire, and can speak the forgotten languages of wildflowers from every continent, but nothing warms my heart like the look of recognition in eyes that see again after so long in bleary dimness. And you know what?” He looked up at me over his shoulder, and winked as he said, “It’s not even magic. It’s one of glass’s natural marvels.”

It was then clear to me that knowledge was the real secret of the arcanist’s power; for between every solution provided by enchantment, was some natural cure he had learned in his travels. I set myself to read every scrap of text in his homestead.

“Come see this!” He said one day, summoning me into his workshop. He stood before a large lens mounted into rings of engraved gold. “Look!”

Peering through the yellow-tinted glass, I saw a small creature with purple skin and leathery wings. It sniffed, then skittered out of frame. When I craned my head around the large glass, I saw nothing.

“What was that?” I asked.

“That, dear apprentice, was an imp! An evil spirit that sows mischief in the lives of men.”

“Why could I only see it in the glass?”

“I’ve enchanted it to produce a device that perceives the influences of good and evil in the world.”

“Could you make your special spectacles with the same qualities?”

“That was the thought, but I’ve used the last of my Buranian glass. Nothing else will yield the same effect,” then he slapped me on the back nonchalantly, and walked away, whistling a tune as he went.

But Mr. Piff had not used the last of his Buranian glass. I knew he had placed some of the naturally yellow Buranian silica with our artificially colored glass by mistake. I decided I would try to make my own glasses myself; Mr. Piff would not think stolen what he didn’t know he had.

Meticulously, I studied the arcanist’s notes and planned my prototype. Then one day while Mr. Piff was away, I deftly crafted my own enchanted spectacles. At last, they were ready.

Trying them on, I examined myself in a mirror and saw nothing but myself. I saw no evil imps or virtuous sprites. I had wasted my master’s resources on a failed experiment. That's what I thought until Mr. Piff returned.

When he walked through the door, I turned to him and saw a flurry of flying creatures swarming around him. Scowling imps hung from his cloak and flew in hungry circles around his head. Radiant golden-haired sprites sat on his shoulders and shook their heads at the mischievous imps. A dozen little spirits scurried and bickered all around him.

“I’m back- Well that’s a fine pair of spectacles,” Mr. Piff said curiously. “Have you always had those?” He asked, lightly stroking his beard.

“I found them among our castaways; I thought they were quite stylish. Would it be alright if I wore them out for a while?”

“I don’t see why not; they suit you if I do say so. Your uncle will be here soon, why don’t you go on to the dock and wait for him.”

I curtsied and ran towards the dock.

When my uncle arrived, my magical sight revealed on his one shoulder a skinny imp with big bright eyes like a child; on the other shoulder was a chubby sprite with beady eyes and a scruffy beard. The imp yammered, but the sprite rolled its eyes. Leaning across, the imp hit the sprite on the knee, yelling in aggravation. The sprite turned and locked gaze as they both froze in a stare-down. But then the two broke into laughter, and they bickered and chatted like old friends the whole ferry back.

I was confused by their interactions at first, but as I watched their silent conversation, my new magical sense revealed something I already knew to be true. My uncle had never much been bothered by conscience or grand moral dilemmas, whenever he got into trouble, my father took care of it. Though I knew this from growing up with Uncle Hayes, with these magic spectacles I now realized I could have this same level of insight about a stranger.

Before going home I took a detour through the market, and watched all the passersby and the angels and demons that pursued them. The creatures appeared in all shapes and sizes. I saw that there were very few who were only plagued by imps and not at all guarded by some spritely protector, but fewer still were those who had only angelic sprites to keep them company.

For many days I and my secret sight would sit in the market in the evening and watch intently. It was frustrating at first that I could not hear the spirits too, but I watched intently as they pantomimed their neverending spiritual battles. Soon I felt I could discern someone’s inner life quite well, possibly better than they did themselves.

I did not, however, wear my spectacles at home. I told myself I didn’t need them there, because I already knew what I would see, and not see, flying around my own parents’ upright heads. More than that though, I worried what my father’s knowing look might see around mine.

At the market, I knew which vendors lied and would use cheat scales, and I knew which patrons would be tempted to steal. I could tell who was angry about something, or trapped by fear, just by watching their imps. I could tell who had some act of justice or charity on their mind, and who was caught up in the throes of love by watching their sprites. I saw it all without a word spoken; I believe I knew it before they did.

But what could I do with this new knowledge? What advantage was there in knowing these secrets? I decided to put my power to the test.

One day, riding the sunset ferry back from the arcanist’s isle I saw an older woman who had clearly traveled from far away. On her shoulder sat a beautiful sprite tranquilly reposed, and no imp to trouble her. I could tell that she would be very compassionate, and very trusting. She would pity someone with a sad tale.

I sidled up to the woman, out of earshot from my uncle, and said, “Excuse me ma’am.” She looked my way with a soft smile. “Sorry to trouble you, but my mother is very sick. I've spoken to the arcanist and he says her treatment will be very expensive, but we have little money. Is there anything you can spare?”

She reached into her coin purse and retrieved three silver coins; she clasped my hands gently as she placed them in my palm. I thanked her, and before I turned to go back to my seat I heard a voice.

“Shame,”

“What was that?” I asked.

“I didn’t say anything…” said the woman.

When I looked up I saw the sprite on her shoulder looking my way, and shaking her head with disapproval.

The next day I spoke to the Arcanist.

“Mr. Piff? I’ve been… spending a lot of time looking through the telescope.” I didn’t want to reveal my secret spectacles, but I needed his insight, “and sometimes, I hear the voices of the people I see on the mainland, even though I know they are too far away for me to hear. Is that possible?”

“Interesting,” he said, stroking his beard. “Well let me tell you, I once voyaged to a remote tribe secluded far away in the frigid north. I spent months learning their language, and soon learned that they had no word for the color ‘white.’ Even though it snowed there in great white blankets in almost any season, even though their skin was as white as sailcloth unlike the copper and brown of you and I and our kin, whenever I tried to find a word for white, I got no answers. Snow was blue to them, and skin was green, if you can believe that,” he said with a snort. “So eventually I just made up a word for white, and then I taught it to them.” Absent-mindedly the arcanist began to leave the room.

“And then what?” I asked, urgently.

“Hmm?” he said, turning back to face me.

“What does that have to do with what I’ve been hearing?”

“Oh! I forgot what we were talking about, haha!” He clapped his hands together excitedly. “Well after I gave them a word for it, they could see white. Clouds were white, sheep were white, canvas etc. They thought that I had cast a spell on them and changed the colors of their world, but all I did was teach them one word.” He waited a moment to see if I could make the connection, but then continued, “If what we know can change the world we see. I don’t see why it wouldn’t change what we hear as well. Perhaps you’ve become such a telescope expert you have learned to hear what others only see.”

“Is that possible?”

He shrugged, and then walked away to his workshop.

I ran to the mirror in the main room and stared at myself intently through the yellow spectacles. I needed to see my own nature; if what the arcanist said was true, and knowledge could change a person, I wondered, Is all this hidden knowledge changing me? Where does this path lead? I saw nothing but my own reflection, as I’d come to expect. The glasses may be enchanted to see the spiritual world, but the mirror was not.

But what if I could make an enchanted mirror as well? I would need more Buranian glass, and as I had used the last of Mr. Piff’s, I would need a way to pay a merchant for it, and that would be expensive.

My eyes rested on a candlestick I knew to be solid gold. He wouldn’t even know it was missing, I thought. My left hand idly began to drift toward the candlestick.

“Do it,” I heard a voice whisper.

In shock I jumped, and grabbed my own hand holding it back.

I ran once again to the mirror, and stared wide-eyed at myself.

“Oh blast these stupid spectacles,” I yelled. “What good is it to see the truth about everyone else, and not see myself?”

Then I heard a chilling voice, “Why do you look so ardently, when you already know what you will see?”

That evening, on the ferry ride home, I tossed the spectacles into the ocean. I stared out over the choppy water and let out a heavy sigh. I wondered, Had my father seen it all along?