Chapter One:
"There are things on heaven and earth,
Horatio, Man was not meant to know."
чHAMLET
ONE of the few redeeming facets of instructors, I
thought, is that occasionally they can be fooled. It was
true when my mother taught me to read, it was true
when my father tried to teach me to be a farmer, and it's
true now when I'm learning magik.
"You haven't been practicing!" Garkin's harsh ad-
monishment interrupted my musings.
"I have too!" I protested. "It's just a difficult exer-
cise."
As if in response, the feather I was levitating began to
tremble and wobble in midair.
"You aren't concentrating!" he accused.
"It's the wind," I argued. I wanted to add "from
your loud mouth," but didn't dare. Early in our lessons
Garkin had demonstrated his lack of appreciation for
cheeky apprentices.
"The wind," he sneered, mimicking my voice. "Like
this, dolt!"
My mental contact with the object of my concentra-
tion was interrupted as the feather darted suddenly
toward the ceiling. It jarred to a halt as if it had become
imbedded in something, though it was still a foot from
the wooden beams, then slowly rotated to a horizontal
plane. Just as slowly it rotated on its axis, then swapped
ends and began to glide around an invisible circle like a
leaf caught in an eddy.
I risked a glance at Garkin. He was draped over his
chair, feet dangling, his entire attention apparently de-
voted to devouring a leg of roast lizard-bird, a bird I
had snared I might add. Concentration indeed!
He looked up suddenly and our eyes met. It was too
late to look away so I simply looked back at him.
"Hungry?" His grease-flecked salt and pepper beard
