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 slight grin, fishing a dried fig out of their journey rations and popping it into his mouth. Then his face turned serious again. “Anyone who tries to get something for nothing is cheating. And they always pay the price, eventually.”
Randall and Erliand continued this way until well after sundown, until they reached a small out of the way homestead on an overgrown plot of land. It wasn’t large, and it was far enough away from the main roads that it didn’t attract any unwanted attention. Randall had a hard time coming to grips with the fact that this was to be his new home. But, there it was, and after gathering up his courage, in he went.
For a Mage in training, Randall was doing frustratingly little practice with magic. He was doing absolutely none, as a matter of fact. The first task Master Erliand had set him to had been weeding his ‘garden’. Randall thought the term gave too much credit to the overgrown plot that Erliand had indicated. A barely visible fifteen-foot square brick outline was the only way Randall could tell there used to be a garden where knee-high weeds had taken over. There was positively no way to tell what had grown there prior to the weed invasion, if anything else had ever grown there at all.
Some of the weeds had thorns, or sharp spiny leaves. Others had deep roots and were hard to pull, and still others broke easily, leaving roots behind that had to be dug up, or they’d grow right back. A couple of particularly loathsome varieties combined several of these features.
“How goes the progress on my garden?” Erliand asked at dinner after Randall’s second day of labor.
“Slow, Master,” Randall replied hesitantly, still a little uncomfortable with the title. “The crimson nettle has been giving me trouble. Its roots are spread out like a spider’s web just under the surface, and the stems break off pretty easily. And if you touch any of those hairy bristles, your hand’ll swell up and burn like crazy. Found that out the hard way once working the fields with Pa. It’s easier to dig the whole system up than it is to try to pull them one at a time. If you leave any roots behind, they’ll re-establish themselves under the surface and end up taking over the whole plot again. By the time you see the first nettles come back up, you’ve got to dig the whole thing up again.”
“I see,” Erliand said. “So, if the roots are just under the surface, you should just be able to dig up the top layer?” he asked. “That shouldn’t be too challenging.”
“Normally, yes,” Randall lamented, “but some beggarweed has managed to grow among the nettles. It’s got a big taproot. I’ve got to get it out first, or I’ll just cut it with the shovel and it’ll come back. That means carefully getting in among the nettles to pull the beggarweed, without touching the nettles. My back is killing me from the odd positions I’ve been standing in all day!”
“It sounds like you have your work cut out for you then,” Erliand said.
“Master,” Randall began, desperation creeping into his voice. “You said that I had magical Talent. Can’t I use some kind of magic to clear the garden?” Randall pleaded.
“So then you
want
to use magic?” Erliand asked, and looked at Randall with an expression that was impossible to gauge.
Randall dropped his eyes and fidgeted. Just days earlier, he had been frightened of Erliand because he was a Mage. Truthfully, he was still frightened of the man. But if he wanted to be completely honest with himself, there were several times over the last couple of days when he had really wanted to just wish the whole garden problem away. He thought for several long seconds before answering.
“Yes, Master,” he replied in nearly a whisper.
“Why now? What happened to that moral high horse you were riding all the way here?” Erliand asked levelly, his face betraying nothing of his feelings.
“Well,” Randall said slowly, “I’ve given it some thought. If magic can make your life easier, it can’t be
all
bad.” The truth of the matter was that Randall was simply tired of pulling weeds, and would be willing to accept any help at this point—devil touched or otherwise.
Erliand appeared to be considering Randall’s request as he fished his pipe out from his vest and packed it with tobacco. He muttered a bit to himself, as he stood up from the table and walked into his study for a light. Randall could smell the sweet smell of pipe smoke before Erliand’s voice called out from the study.
“Well, lad. I’ve given it some thought. Can’t think of any good reason why you shouldn’t use magic to clear that garden. So, go right ahead. Knock yourself out.” Erliand’s cackling laughter quickly followed.
Randall sighed and his shoulders slumped. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that he really didn’t like Master Erliand’s sense of humor. He finished his meal of bread and barley soup and sulked his way to his room, sighing loudly. At least here he had his own room, even if it was barely bigger than a pantry. It was awfully quiet compared to home, but Randall was too exhausted to feel homesick. He fell asleep just minutes after crawling into the straw bed.
Each day in the garden saw another new challenge. Randall couldn’t let himself fall into a rhythm of pulling weeds, and let his mind wander, because doing so invited disaster. The weeds were too haphazardly spaced to have been cultivated, but there were days when Randall would have sworn that someone had deliberately laid out their placement to ensure maximum frustration. It seemed that every time there was a weed that required pulling by hand, there was some kind of stinging nettle or thorny ivy right there next to it.
Every day, Erliand would ask about Randall’s progress at the evening meal. Each time, Randall would describe the day’s difficulties, and how he had overcome them. He didn’t mention using magic again; he wouldn’t be humiliated twice in the same fashion. He was relieved when the Mage didn’t mention it either.
Each day seemed to pass quickly, and eventually the soreness in Randall’s back and shoulders eased up as his body became accustomed to the workout. Determined that the garden wouldn’t get the best of him, Randall started looking forward to each new challenge. Before he knew it, the garden was completely cleared, which meant that Erliand was now the owner of a fifteen by fifteen patch of bare earth. Randall could barely contain his pride at that evening’s supper.
“And how goes the garden today?” Erliand asked shortly after serving supper, as had become their custom.
“All finished!” Randall exclaimed. “I got the last of the poison ivy out today, and double-checked the entire garden for roots that I may have missed. There may be seeds still in the earth, but the next weeding ought to be much easier.”
“You sound pleased,” Erliand noted. “I’m sure you’re glad to have that particular chore over with.”
“Yes, Master,” Randall said. “There were times when I didn’t think I’d ever get finished, but each day, I could see that I’d made progress, even if it was only a little. The work was hard, but sometimes it was just as hard to figure out what to pull first.”
Erliand steepled his fingers at his chin. “You have good reason to be proud,” he said. “Hard work is sometimes its own reward, lad. The world is full of temptations: greed, lust, and power to name just a few. But true satisfaction lies in a job well done. You can take the measure of a man by the pride and care he takes in his work.”
“Yes Master,” Randall replied. “I suppose I
am
proud. I know I did a good job and the work was useful.”
“Indeed it was,” Erliand said. “Looks like you got finished just in time; tomorrow, you’re planting broccoli there. A growing boy needs some vegetables, I’m told.”
Randall groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Yes Master,” he said.
The next morning, there was a hand trowel on the kitchen table, as well as a piece of paper folded to form a packet. When Randall unfolded it, he saw that it contained several dozen seeds, as well as a note from Master Erliand.
“Gone to run an errand. Here are the broccoli seeds,” the note read in Master Erliand’s long flowing hand. It was fortunate that Randall had learned to read as part of his duties helping Pa with the family business, even if he was a bit slow at it. If he’d been a farmer’s son like Bobby, it might have been a different story. Bobby couldn’t read; most of the folks in Geldorn couldn’t either. But Pa was one of Geldorn’s few business owners, and had to keep records for taxes. And that meant all of the Miller boys had learned to read, as well as learning basic math.
It took Randall all day to till and plant the garden with the little trowel, which wasn’t really well suited for tilling an entire field, even such a small one. Erliand came home when Randall was about three-fourths done, nodded at his progress, and went inside and about his business. The next day, Randall was given the task of clearing the high grasses near the front walk, which took several days longer than it should have as he was only given a small hand sickle to cut it with.
After the grass was cut, Randall spread the clippings to dry, and then bundled them as best he could into bales for Erliand’s horses, though he was given yarn to do it with, instead of twine. He spent a lot of time re-tying bales that had broken, and doubling and tripling the yarn in the hopes that it would hold. After that, Randall tended the broccoli each day to keep the garden free from weeds and pests during the critical sprouting period.
Every time a task would be completed, it seemed that Erliand had another for him to start. All of Erliand’s talk about the rewards of hard work notwithstanding, Randall began to grow frustrated with the never-ending chores. Especially since Erliand didn’t seem to have any of the basic tools one would need for farming or yard work. Things came to a head a couple of months later when Erliand had gotten the idea that he’d like to grow tomatoes, and asked Randall to build some trellises using sticks and some rusty nails, but no hammer. Randall knew it was a pointless exercise, because it was much too late in the season to even start tomatoes anyway, but Erliand just brushed him off.
After the fourth failed attempt at making something that would hold together, Randall threw down the sticks in frustration and stormed into the house. Erliand was in his study, examining a book and taking notes with a quill made of a large crow’s feather. It was the first time Randall had interrupted his master while he was working, but in his anger he didn’t care about the possible consequences.
“I’m going home!” Randall shouted. He couldn’t bring himself to call Erliand “Master”.
“Whoa there, lad,” Erliand said. “What are you going on about? You can’t go home. You’ve said your vows and I’ve already paid for your apprenticeship…”
“Those vows are void! You promised to teach me your craft, and for the last three months I’ve practically been your slave! I don’t care what you’ve paid; you’re supposed to teach me a craft!” Randall was embarrassed to hear his voice cracking, and felt like he was on the verge of tears, but he pressed on. “I already know how to tend a field and take care of horses! I don’t think you even know how to do magic at all!”
“You don’t think so, eh lad?” Erliand said, dangerously calm.
“No I don’t!” Randall yelled back. “I don’t think you know much of anything! You don’t till a whole plot with a hand shovel! You don’t tie hay with yarn! You talk about hard work, but it doesn’t matter how hard you work if you don’t have the right tools for the job! And besides it’s too late to plant tomatoes. They’ll freeze before they get ripe! You’re supposed to
listen
when someone knows more than you. I don’t care if I’m just a kid,” he added, finally running out of steam. “Anyway, I’m going home.”
“Well, I suppose you have the right of it, then, Randall,” Erliand said quietly. It was the first time that Erliand had called him anything other than “boy” or “lad” since Randall had taken his apprenticeship vows. “But before you go, I think it’s only fair for me to say my piece.”
Randall looked down at the floor. “Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled sullenly.
“I’m glad you approve,” Erliand said with a trace of sarcasm. “Now, I know you’ve seen folks in your village raise a house. They don’t just throw some wood together where ever it suits them, do they? No, they plan it carefully. I’m sure they talk about which way the wind blows and which rooms need the morning sunlight that sort of thing. Then when they’re done planning it, they build a sturdy foundation. Only then do they start working on the framework for the house.”
“Yeah, and they don’t nail the wood together using their shoes for hammers,” Randall mumbled in surly tones.
“No, I’m sure they don’t, boy. Watch your tongue,” Erliand snapped. “The point is, they don’t build a house without good planning and a good foundation. Without a good foundation, a house is weak. It can’t stand the pressures of nature; the walls crack, or the roof leaks. Same as a Mage. Without a good foundation, he can crack. Then…” Erliand stared off into space for a long moment. “Well, never mind what happens then. The point is, you’ve been building a foundation, whether you know it or not.”
“I’ve been weeding and planting!” Randall grumped.
“Yes. But do you honestly think all of those weeds grew up so aggressively all by themselves in that little plot? Pulling those weeds, and doing a good job of it took patience, dedication, attention to detail, and creativity if you were going to do the job right. All of those traits are necessary in a Mage.”
“Oh,” Randall said, chastised. “But what about the grass? What was I supposed to learn cutting all that grass with just a hand sickle?”
“Measuring your dedication, boy. All of the tasks I’ve given you have been a critical test of your character, to see if you’ve got what it takes to be one of us.”
“Magic is
hard
, boy,” Erliand continued. “And mostly boring. It’s not all flash and glamour. You’ll spend days,
days
, performing menial tasks, over and over again until you get it right. And those tasks have to be performed delicately, and precisely, or will have disastrous results. Remember what happened in the garden when you weren’t paying enough attention that second day?”