The Hand We're Dealt - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

The sound of chalk against slate was loud in the otherwise quiet room.

It was, thankfully, a rare day after the snow had melted but before the oppressive heat of summer fully blossomed. I would have much rather been outside 'playing' with my fellow orphans instead of cooped up in one of the classrooms. It was also Saturday, which didn't help my demeanor or temperament, although that may have been more because I'd been lied to several times today. Pausing, I took in the final line of white alphanumeric code I'd just written down, then nodded as I moved on to the cross-like table of the proof beside it.

I'd never been the best at math, it was true.

In fact, I struggled with anything past geometry.

Being brutally honest, though, that was because of a lack of motivation and a willingness to give into distractions, not any lack of capability on my part. I was reasonably intelligent, I just preferred the liberal arts rather than the harder sciences, and there was nothing 'harder,' more absolute, than pure math.

While I might have lacked motivation and allowed myself to be distracted previously, I'd stumbled upon a ready fix for both issues. For the latter, all one needed to do was utterly remove any and all 'distractions' one might find even vaguely amusing. A complete lack of television, internet, most board games, playing cards, and anything more complex than a pair of sticks and a wooden disc meant I had a great deal of time on my hands and a rather enormous amount of boredom to kill.

The former... well, I couldn't depend on the orphanage's goodwill forever.

Finally placing the chalk down, I turned my seven year old self around to face the mystified faces of the men sitting in the chairs normally reserved for the students. There were three of them, two men who looked to be in their late forties and another who was a decade older than that. All three had worn overcoats here, now removed indoors, due to the unreasonable and unseasonably cold temperatures, likely in case of inclement weather and due to the fashion of the time. The older one's hair was graying, but his frame still looked strong, if weathered. None of them had the look of men who'd done hard labor in their lives, though.

“Remarkable,” the man who'd introduced himself as Mr. Simons stated, looking from myself to the orphanage matron. “And you say he's only seven?”

Ms. Martha nodded, her chest puffed out with pride. “Yes, Henry's just turned seven recently. He's lived here his entire life, ever since his father dropped him off.”

Mr. van Beek shifted, touching the graying hair on his temples to sweep back a stray lock of hair. “And what stock were they? 'Bell' is a vague surname and this is a whaling town, you get types from all over, these days.”

I refrained from bristling. As a child in this time period, I was very much expected to only speak when spoken to in situations like these. Adult conversations were things to be over us, not including us.

Martha pursed her lips thoughtfully. “His father had a mixed accent and said he did a bit of traveling, but his English was clear and he attended the local chapel faithfully. I believe he said he was from France originally.”

The third man, Mr. de Jaager frowned as he gestured to me. “And his mother? His skin looks muddied.”

 “His father did not speak of her and I did not see her, but I believe a large part of his tone is simply because of the field work he does for extra pocket change. Henry is a very hard worker,” Martha, good woman that she was, sidestepped the question. Judging by the trace of irritation on the older man's face, he caught it too, but didn't seem to make an issue of the matter right now.

“Field work, with a mind like that?” Mr. Simons gestured to the blackboard in disbelief, then turned to his fellows. “Come now, it would be an absurd waste to see him squander himself here.”

Ms. Martha cleared her throat.

Both van Beek and de Jaager gave the final man a look heavy with warning, even as Simons turned away in flushed embarrassment for a moment. “Ah, I mean no offense, Madam, it's just that Hudson's educational opportunities are somewhat... lacking.”

“A fact of which I am well aware, Mr. Simons,” Martha replied tolerantly, if firmly. “That is why I sent you that letter, after all.”

“Of course. I beg your pardon on my younger associate's behalf, ma'am,” Mr. van Beek spoke up, nodding as his hands worked the polished grip of the walking stick in a thoughtful motion. As Martha dismissed the insult, his eyes turned back to me. I remained at parade rest even as he looked me over. “Well, Boy... Henry, wasn't it?”

I gave a single nod. “Yes, sir.”

Something about my lack of further response made the man's lips twitch upward. It was not anything so expressive as something I would call a true smile, but I believe I detected a hint of amusement somewhere within it. He gestured at the board behind me. “Where'd you learn how to do that?”

“Ms. Martha has a few math texts we can read over. They had a section on creating proofs, so I started to proof other problems. It was kind of like a puzzle, so I kept doing it to pass the time when I wasn't working.” I'd needed something to pass the time, after all, and paper wasn't exactly cheap in this day and age. So all children were allowed to use for their work were scraps that got salvaged from the trash in more important offices and buildings.

“Hmm,” Mr. de Jaager rumbled, rubbing at his own facial hair as he stared me down. “Do you know who we are, Young Henry? Why we're here?”

“Ms. Martha said you were reporters from the city, come to write up the new boat launch,” I replied dutifully.

The oldest man leaned forward slightly, “but you don't believe that, do you?”

“You're college professors,” I replied bluntly, leaving Martha blinking and the others to startle mildly in surprise.

Except for van Beek, who simply nodded slowly. “May I ask how you came to know that?”

“Your rings, sir. And Mr. de Jaager's pocket watch. And your shoes most of all,” I explained with a small nod towards the floor.

The three men frowned and looked at their feet, turning a curious glance my way when they saw nothing wrong. “They're too clean. I've met a reporter or two for the town paper, they don't wear shoes like that. Their shoes are scuffed and dirty, like they've put miles and miles on them. That was the first clue that you weren't who you said you were.”

“Very clever,” van Beek nodded, tapping his highly-polished shoes with the side of his walking stick before looking up at me. “Why do you think we're professors in particular?”

“The rings, sir, like I said. That and Mr. Simons has chalk dust on his cuff,” I smiled slightly, taking care not to look or sound snide. It was one thing to be smart, it was another thing to act it.

 The youngest of the three men looked the ends of his sleeves over askance and spotted the dusting of yellow powder, slapping at it with his other hand. “Well, that's egg on my face, fellows.”

“And the rings?” van Beek pressed, his gaze intent on my face as he held up his hand. “They're just gold bands. They could easily be marriage rings.”

“I overheard Mr. Simons commenting on how hard it was to find women where you were from while you were taking tea and recovering from the trip,” I replied. “You also aren't wearing them on the right finger for them to be marriage bands, and I've heard that men with doctorates sometimes get rings to remember the occasion by.”

“He's terribly well-spoken, isn't he?” Mr. de Jaager asked, turning to his compatriots.

Ms. Martha nodded. “Maths might be his best subject, but Henry does very well in all the classes we can offer. It's gotten to the point where we have little left to teach him.”

The oldest man's eyes skated over me at that, possibly looking for some trace of smugness or arrogance. A normal child might wear that type of accomplishment as a badge of honor, but it wasn't all that impressive to me. Frankly, I was disappointed in myself that I couldn't remember more of the material yet.

“He even has an impressive singing voice for choir on Sundays, though I wish he'd be more studious with his scripture.” Martha continued, the last said with a mildly disapproving look towards me.

I failed to react.

Honestly, I hadn't been very religious even in my first life. Being reincarnated hadn't done all that much for my belief in the classical notion of the God of Abraham. I obviously believe in the soul, given my current circumstances and everything, and I thought there were a lot of good ideas in the 'Good Book,' but that was approximately as far as my devotion to the Word went.

Which, if I'd thought holding those kinds of opinions had been awkward in the American South of the twenty-first century, then oh boy...

It's hard to explain how significant a part of someone's life the church was in the year eighteen-ten. Suffice to say, though, that we were barely a hundred years removed from the Salem Witch trials and it very much showed.

My survival strategy so far had hinged on three precepts.

Firstly, keep your mouth shut.

Secondly, quote the bible.

Thirdly, when all else fails, lie to their face.

It'd worked out quite well so far.

“That's a common enough problem among the youth,” de Jaager sighed, a slight flicker of his eyes towards Simons moving in time with a twitch of his lips before he turned back to me with an assessing look on his face. “But... you say he can read, write, do his numbers... and sing? Color me impressed.”

“Why don't we have a song, right now?” Mr. Simons asked, waving at me even as his compatriots and Ms. Martha frowned.

“Young man, I merely mentioned it for-” Martha started, then sighed and looked to me. “I suppose if it's absolutely necessary.”

“We shouldn't impose overmuch,” Mr. de Jaager stated disapprovingly, falling short of actually glaring at the younger man.

“Just one song, it won't be much of a bother,” Simons entreated, looking around the room.

“What do you think, Marteen?” de Jaager asked with a sigh, turning to the oldest among them.

Mr. van Beek answered with a similar exhalation. “If we don't let him, he'll be insufferable on the ride back.”

Martha sighed and looked to me. “Just one song, Henry? Something dignified, please. None of those harbor ditties you dreamt up, if you please.”

“As you wish, miss,” I nodded to her and thought for a moment. “Would Wayfaring Stranger be alright, then?”

Her weathered face broke out into a delighted smile as she clapped her hands together. “Oh, yes dear, please. You know I love when you sing it.”

I gave the older woman a soft smile and nodded before looking back to the assembled men and took a deep, steadying breath as I mentally pulled up the lyrics and readied myself.

I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger
Traveling through this world below
There is no sickness, no toil, no danger
In that bright land to which I go
I'm going there to see my father
And all my loved ones who've gone on

I'm just going over Jordan
I'm just going over home

 It was a simple song, able to be sung without musical accompaniment, and for good reason. The tune originated around the time I was now living in, although as with most early folk music no one was really sure where it originated. I knew it'd been actually written down shortly before the Civil War, but there was anecdotal evidence that something similar to it had been sung as early as the late seventeen-hundreds. I had some vague feeling that the melody that ended up tied to it in later versions was even older than that, but couldn't remember anything specific.

Regardless, it was a nice, safe song founded on a pair of Psalm chapters and earned me favor from the opinionated elders who ran the town. Even if I was an orphan, I was a straight-laced Godly orphan who was always willing to help out a neighbor. More than that, even, I was a quiet child; that rarest of treasures to be envied and enjoyed.

Were it not for the time I'd been born into, I might have even managed to find myself adopted, which was what I'd been aiming for.

Unfortunately, that hadn't been in the cards.

“He really is very good,” Mr. Simons stated, slapping his hands together as he looked me over. “We'll have to keep the choir at the school from stealing him.”

“Does that mean-?” Ms. Martha asked, inhaling sharply.

The three men looked between each other again before Mr. van Beek leveraged himself up with a grunt as he placed his weight on the silver-tipped cane resting in his gloved hand. “I'd like to speak to the boy myself. Matthew, Thomas... if you would? Ms. Collins, I hate to impose further, but...?”

“Of course, of course.” She turned to me with a parting look. “On your best behavior, young man.”

'This is your one chance, don't blow it.'

It was unspoken, but I heard it all the same.

As the orphanage matron and the other two men filed out, Marteen van Beek approached with heavy footfalls and paced a wide half-circle in front of me. His gaze was hard, harder even than his worn face. Up close, I could tell he was likely older than I'd first thought. He hadn't lost a younger man's stiff spine or broad shoulders, but there was some faint weakness in his limbs that he couldn't quite hide. That, combined with the deepness of the lines on his face painted the picture of a man who'd been young before the United States had been born.

“You're not what I was hoping for,” he stated plainly, sighing as he swept his cane out to tap me on the calf. “Poor, orphan, mixed-race... even if you can plausibly hide it. I'd hoped to find someone a bit more... fitting.”

I could have apologized and played the obsequious child, eager to do anything that got him out of the orphanage, but...

Well, I didn't really want to.

More than that, this didn't seem like a man who'd be swayed by a pandering brat. He was gravely serious and appeared to lack the ego I'd need to play on for that strategy. Regardless of my inner turmoil over how to present myself, though, the man sighed again and removed a pocket watch, flipping the cover open in a practiced motion. After a moment of quiet contemplation, cold dark orbs snapped back to me.

“Clean the slate,” he ordered and I hopped to immediately.

Whatever charisma some people had that created the unquestionable expectation of obedience, this man had it.

Once my work was cleared from the blackboard, I stepped away and allowed the man to step up as he removed a single white glove. Crushing it into his fist and leaning his weight against the cane, he snatched up the stick of chalk I'd discarded earlier and began-

I felt something inside myself stir as he transcribed a perfect circle.

It was a strange sensation, one I can only liken to the hairs on the back of my neck standing on in... somewhere inside me that I didn't have a name for. I watched, transfixed, as he completed the circle, then began scrawling a series of symbols that seemed like Norse runes but off in some way. The feeling grew more intense, and I wondered what was happening as the sensation within me coalesced into the feeling of a splinter trying t o dislodge itself.

Concentric rings, how inefficient.

The errant thought made me stiffen, the concept of just... changing his diagram making my fingers twitch. It was wrong. It was wrong. Wasteful, lazy, rigid, formulaic in a way that made my teeth itch and grind.

Yggdrasil's Spine reversed along the axis, but why? WHY? It complicates the flow needlessly!

Even as every other line of chalk seemed to provoke something within me, the man set the chalk down and turned around to direct his stern stare at me. Only to pause, his level stare flickering to something more perplexed and odd. Distantly, I saw him compose himself again, still focused on t-th-the-

-stupid fucking diagram!

“Place your hand against the engram and – what are you doing?” Mr. van Beek demanded as I shot forward and grabbed at the chalk.

Then he froze as I stepped past his diagram and began to draw.

One large circle, he got that right, but the next one needs to intersect the first, while being contained within it. The Norse-derivations suffice for basic work, but corrupted Latin is better. Low or High? Hmm... sympathetic principles dictate low given this is a basic spell, but – no – this is the High Art. The Highest Art.

Script on the outside! Not the inside, why would they ever – no, not now! Work! Latin script, corrupted! You're instructing the world on things should be, not explaining how things are to another person. Turn the chalk on its side to sketch the fine work in Ancient Greek! Draw the line backwards, here! Metaphysical instructions symbolizing the flow of knowledge forward and backwards, entwined with the idea of light!

I heard a sharp intake of breath from behind me and felt the wrongness within me correct itself as my work grew smoother and easier. It was as if the pressure blocking some great release had disappeared and now the flow of instinct to thought to action was clear.

Another circle, but offset to the other side, tie it into everything with Old Minos, draw it back further! Further to the dawn! It's past midday, so we want to complete the cycle back to first light. One last circle, but recenter this. Inside, the Symbol of the Ro-No! Too powerful. Too much. Instead, the Old Clay Script.

One last scrape and the tiny nub of chalk left crumbled to dust between my fingers.

But that was okay. I was finished.

My left hand felt heavy, and I looked down to see a thick tome held. The pages were opened to a series of instructions in a language that I didn't recognize, but could understand with a fluency that shocked me.

My eyes instinctively finding the final piece of the equation, I held up a hand and snapped my fingers. The complex sigil I'd just inscribed glowed a luminous blue for a fraction of a second. Then a single spark ignited and blossomed into a miniature comet of fire swirling around my hand before coalescing into a solid blue-white flame that, though it did not burn me, raised the temperature in the room by at least ten degrees.

“Well then, I suppose that decides things,” the pronouncement drew me from my stunned awe at what I'd wrought as I turned back to van Beek. The expression on my face must have spoken the questions I couldn't bring my mouth to, given the vague amusement on his. “I thought I'd felt the talent for sorcery, but to find a pauper child blessed with a Sacred Gear? Truly I've discovered a diamond in the rough.”

Sacred Gear.

Sacred Gear.

My fist clenched and extinguished my spell. That was magic.

“Indeed,” the older man stated, stepping up to me as he pulled his glove back on. “Well, even if you are not everything I wished for, far be it for me to turn away such promising talent. You'll be coming with me to Dartmouth, Henry Bell. I have need of an apprentice.”

The words wouldn't come, but I cleared my throat and nodded, finding that I could force something out after that. “Yes sir, Mr.-”

“Professor,” he replied sharply, before relaxing. “Professor Marteen van Beek. Or master, when we're in private. I am not adopting you, boy, but you will learn to make yourself useful in my care.”

I could only nod in response, feeling suddenly and terrifyingly out of my depth.

From the Journal of Prof. Marteen van Beek:

Sacred Gear: [UNNAMED]

Functionality - Reference human history(?) of knowledge and provide expertise, guide, and instruct on how to perform skilled tasks, most prominent among them magic. Current limitation of a single ‘specialization’ after initial activation. Remainder of details unknown.  Subject/Apprentice notes that the Gear appears to always be active, but does not release or consume magical energy unless changing ‘specializations.’ Overuse of such an ability can, at this stage, quickly exhaust the Subject/Apprentice.  It is unknown to what depth, degree, or scope his Gear may harness human knowledge, but even if he is of less than prime stock such a boy with the appropriate tutelage will be a promising successor one day. Magical power speaks of some familial heritage, perhaps a bastard born of an heir's indiscretions with a servant? Possible. Orphanage matron passed on a gold ring with a stylized cross, but otherwise nondescript, warned against taking Catholic Mass at the boy's father’s instruction. Bad blood with the Church? Common enough trait among magician lineages. Will need to do research, evaluate other possible magical traits. Have instructed the boy to say that he is of Egyptian descent if asked. Skin tone is similar and blonde hair will throw off initial suspicion that he is a half-breed.

Will consider further thoughts on travel back to college and questioning of the youth.

~~~

...so you know that feeling when you really should be working on one thing, but for some reason you end up doing some other project? Like when your book report is due tomorrow, but you're doing a deep clean in your bedroom for some reason? I mean, it's still productive, but it's definitely not what you told yourself you were going to do.

Anyway! I'm going to get back to working on what I should be doing. I hope everyone enjoys this, not sure if it'll get continued but I had to finish it out and post it for some reason. Considering the fandom involved, I'll say the devil made me do it and leave it at that.