Is It Right?

Is It Right? Part 1

The dull glow of the computer screen nibbled my eyes. I tried to will my fingers to move the cursor down and hit "publish". Then my book would be on Amazon for the world to see.

I dragged my finger down the touch pad. The button highlighted under the cursor's touch. My heart quivered like a cornered animal. My teeth gnashed together. I threw myself back with a huff. Leaning back, clawing my hair I took a deep breath. Slumping forward I looked at the screen. Behind it my gargoyle pencil holder cocked its head. It folded its arms and let out a silent snort.

"I know!" I leapt up, snapping at a suit of armor. "You don't have to tell me I'm a coward. I know!"

It held up its hands-err, gloves-in defense. The study door swung open for me. Down the hall, past the old photos and portraits and statuettes.

Cuckoos peeked from their clocks as I stormed past.

"I didn't do it. Not published."

They chirruped, asking "why the hell not?". I went to the kitchen and slammed off the swinging door. Rubbing my nose I gave a push. All it did was stubbornly stay closed. I sighed, glaring at the door.

"You really want to test me right now?" I opened my hands, fingers gently weaving a basic enchantment. I could sense the door tremble, like a "ruh roh". It swung open and I stepped through with a muttered thank you.

The white counters glistened. The racing scrub brushes neck and neck as they made the jump to the opposite counter. A snigger slipped from my mouth. I went to the stove and filled the tea pot. Setting it on the high flames I leaned against the edge, closing my eyes and heaving a sigh. The hell was wrong with me?

Something wet nudged my pinky. The scrub brushes were by the stove, their ends raised and wrinkled.

"Couldn't do it."

I swear one of them actually whimpered. I gave a small, self pitying smile. Mixing a soothing mug of hot cocoa I took it to the parlor room. Sitting in the cushy chair I leaned back. The chair roiled, rubbing my back.

I stroked its arm. "Not right now buddy. I just need to think."

It reluctantly retreated.

"If your heart's set on it, get the neck and shoulders."

Instantly I was being massaged. I took another sip. I knew why I couldn't hit publish. The story was a fantasy, based on my personal experiences. Not everyone had the same experiences I had a severe advantage.

"It's not fair." I said to no one in particular. "I want to publish a fantasy novel. I'm a sorcerer. If that isn't cheating I don't know what is."

Ka-tink! Ka-tink! Ka-tink!

I looked over and saw the stained glass window, the one depicting a civil war base camp had altered so the figures were facing me.

"Ach-that's different. Being a soldier, or a nurse, is a possibility for everyone. It's a choice for everyone. Sorcery isn't."

I groaned, drank, stared at the ceiling decals.

"I need to talk to someone who understands. Who can help."

Something clicked in my head. I rolled out of the chair and hustled to the library, sipping all the way. Scouring the shelves I found the Encyclopedia of Ancients, and Wisemen of Wisconsin. I found the year's Arcane Appendix of America along with the year's White Wizards, Witches, Warlocks of the Working World.

Setting everything in the foyer I pulled out a notebook and wrote a quick, polite and hopefully professional note.

"Dear Fellow Arcani,

I send this note requesting aid solving a problem of professional ethics. One concerning the magical and the mundane. If you wouldn't mind helping me find an answer, please rap on the bewitched door thrice.

Sincerely,

Rutherford Rellington"

A few spells later I had copies of the letter, and dozens of copies translated into every language. Taking a gulp of coco I set the notes-folded and sealed with wax and my sigil-on the foyer rug. I returned to the books, all laid out and open.

Holding out my arms I felt the magic gather. I slowly drew my arms closer as I spoke an ancient, long dead language. The language of magic. The pages of the books flipped as if in a wind. A light glowed between the vellum and paper. I finished the spell and drew the wind and light toward myself, holding them in a cloud. I stepped, pivoted and sent it in a steady stream at the letters. They were lifted off the rug, the magic energy cross-referenced the languages to the spell's intention. After a fast minute the spell carried one letter through the mail slot.

I scooped up the leftover letters. A fireball destroyed them and a small gust sent the smoke away. I returned the books to the library. The person may or may not respond. If they did it could be in hours or days.

Knock-knock-knock.

In that case only minutes. I gulped, a quick spell neatened my appearance. I took a deep breath, braced for anyone and anything. I opened the door. Instead of my front garden I saw a dimly lit study. An ocean breeze blew from an open window behind the man at the threshold. He was tall, lean with square features. Hints of silver streaked his dark hair. He raised a bushy eyebrow.

"Rutherford?" He asked, his voice hollow yet strong.

"Yes."

"I'm Yancey Tildare. May I enter?"

"Yancey Tildare may enter my home." If it sounds cheesy, most magic does. Even though I'd worded the spell to not include monsters or dark practitioners, better safe than sorry.

Yancey stepped inside and I left the door open.

"You can close it," he said, "I have transportation."

I closed the door and lead him to the shrieking kettle. Yancey looked at the swimming scrub brushes and eyed the cookie jar as it walked over.

"You're quite an Enchanter."

"Thank you. Do you have a specialty?"

"Not particularly."

"Tea? Coffee? Cocoa?"

He perked, "You got Mayan Hot cocoa?"

I smiled and nodded at a cabinet. It swung open, revealing a large array of flavored cocos. Yancey took two Mayans as I passed him a large mug. I made a fresh mug for myself. Yancey took a few sips and relaxed.

"So, what's this ethical dilemma?"

I took a long sip. "Well, I finished writing a book. A fantasy, based on my personal experiences. Not inspired, based. I just can't hit publish."

Yancey nodded. "Change the names."

"I did."

"Well, did you include anything concrete about magic? Anything that a mundane reader may use or such?"

"Of course not. I'm not an idiot."

"Then what's the problem?" His eyes widened, he sat straight. "It's you. That you're a sorcerer."

I bowed my head, nodding.

"Have you thought of publishing it in nonfiction?"

I laughed, "Briefly. At one point I considered both fiction and nonfiction."

Yancey leaned back in the counter stool. "If it makes you feel better, you're not the only one who uses their magical expertise to make a profit in the mundane world. They tutor, give medical aid, teach, farm, find criminals and other things."

"I know," I said.

"So..." Yancey tapped his fingers against his mug. "Why are you making a big deal of this for yourself?"