Today the contents of shelves don't seem so pleased with the setup, and one attacks him when he stumbles into a stack. Specifically, it tumbles onto his head. That's gonna hurt for a while. He picks it up to tuck it away again.
It says, So You Want To Be A Wizard.
Heh. Mis-shelved. This is a nonfiction row. Or maybe it's about stage magic or something? Cam's not going to find any use in that either, he can just about eat dinner without impaling himself on a fork and certainly shouldn't be handling delicate props, but it could be diverting while he waits for Renée and he wasn't finding anything else. He flips it open.
It's more interesting still than that; it's presenting itself like an actual guide to wizardry. This'll kill a whole afternoon with pleasant escapism. Cam checks it out, then turns around and spots Renée coming down the sidewalk. He bags the book and goes out to meet her.
At home, he takes it out of his backpack. The plastic film on it - it did have some, right? Just like every other library book? - is gone. Maybe it didn't have any. He didn't write it down; he's not sure. It doesn't look like a library book now. But it still says So You Want To Be A Wizard and he still wants to pretend to be a wizard for a bit, kill some time, put off U.S. History homework. He flips it open. He reads.
The first chapter, 'Preliminary Determinations', discusses signs that one may be suited to the Art. Language features heavily: natural wizards are frequently drawn to words and books and languages, reading, writing, speaking. Curiosity is another. An inquisitive, exploratory nature, the kind of mind that wants to understand the world around it.
'Words,' apparently, 'are the wizard's most basic tools. With them a wizard can stop a tidal wave, talk a tree out of growing, or into it—freeze fire, burn rain—even slow down the death of the universe. That last, of course, is the reason there are wizards. See the next chapter.'
Slow down the death of the universe? Okay, that sounds potentially compelling. Cam's more concerned about people, but if he can't work out immortality that doesn't imply despair; new people can come into existence and need a place to live. Go on, little pretend manual.
The promised next chapter switches to a new topic: 'History, Philosophy, and the Wizards' Oath'.
The chapter opens with a creation myth, delivered in a straightforward, matter-of-fact style that casually drops phrases like 'when life brought itself about'. Apparently, around the time of this event, life also brought about some gods - 'Powers' - to help it invent practical things like light and gravity. None of these beings are named specifically in the myth save one, the 'Lone Power' or 'Lone One', whose contribution to the exercise was unique and unwelcome: death.
The business of wizards, it seems, is to mitigate the effects of that inclusion as much as possible. To slow down entropy by conserving, preserving, and serving all the forms of life.
The manual goes on to finally reveal the mechanism of wizardry: a language called 'the Speech', apparently magical, which can be used to communicate with any living or nonliving entity and can describe reality with such precision that the description changes the thing described.
It's rather baldly pessimistic in its outlook: death cannot be conquered, entropy cannot be reversed. But these things can be fought. That is a wizard's job.
'No one should take the Wizards' Oath who is not committed to making wizardry a lifelong pursuit,' it cautions, although it goes on to add that there is no penalty for abandoning it later and that, since 'magic cannot live in the unwilling heart', those who find the Art too heavy a burden will have no trouble setting it down.
A final warning: 'Should you decide to go ahead and take the Oath,' it says, 'an ordeal of sorts will follow, a test of aptitude. If you pass, wizardry will ensue...'
There is no mention of what happens if you fail. After the ellipsis, the page is blank, and centred alone and undecorated on the facing page is the text of the Wizards' Oath itself.
In Life's name, and for Life's sake, I say that I will use the Art for nothing but the service of that Life. I will guard growth and ease pain. I will fight to preserve what grows and lives well in its own way; and I will change no object or creature unless its growth and life, or that of the system of which it is part, is threatened or threatens another. To these ends, in the practice of my Art, I will put aside fear for courage, and death for life, when it is right to do so—till Universe's end.
"In Life's name, and for Life's sake," he murmurs, "I say that I will use the Art for nothing but the service of that Life. I will guard growth and ease pain. I will fight to preserve what grows and lives well in its own way; and I will change no object or creature unless its growth and life, or that of the system of which it is part, is threatened or threatens another. To these ends, in the practice of my Art, I will put aside fear for courage, and death for life, when it is right to do so — till Universe's end."
It will be right to put death aside for life till the Universe ended. Yep. That's how he's going to read that line. Cam wishes to go on as long as the universe does and everybody else can come too as long as they're not in someone else's way.
Okay Christ he can't explain that except hallucination or magic wow. He should have turned this page first. He should have read the entire thing cover to cover before saying anything aloud.
But he thought he was playing.
Ooookay.
Well, he can still read it cover to cover now, this time with considerably more fascination and attention.
After the directory, the manual dives straight into the Speech: vocabulary, alphabet (all 418 common symbols), pronunciation (with a note that dialects vary widely between species and this version is human-specific), and grammar. This section only covers the basics, and very few words in the vocabulary list are explicitly defined; for anything that expresses a concept already found in English, even for some things that are only pretty close, the meaning is unobtrusively and naturally obvious.
This is cool. And apparently it's way easier than Spanish. Cam gets out a notebook and practices writing symbols and transliterating things, humming to himself. He's not going to go bother strange wizards with the letter X in their names until he's gotten as far as he can with the book and a reasonable dose of caution. Then they can present him with the wizard equivalent of the SAT, he guesses.
He's going to start notebooking in this language once he has it down well enough to not be consulting the table of symbols every time he needs to put down the next letter. He likes it. He copies the entire table into his notebook so he can have the reference without explaining to the guys at school why he is reading a book about wizards. He gets enough crap for steering well clear of all forms of sporting activity.
After the initial vocabulary lessons, there are further sections dealing with the language - subheadings like 'Descriptive Naming' and 'Measurements'. Before it dives into these, the manual notes that specific technical vocabulary not covered in this introduction will be provided with the spells that require it, and 'this reference will adjust to usage'.
...This distinction makes sense in Cam's head.
Read read read read read read read (notetaking!)
Yeah, the library's never getting this back, he'll tell them tomorrow after school that he has tragically lost it and cough up however much.
There is a worksheet provided for the naming of humans, in case he wants to try it on himself.
A cautionary note, set off from the rest of the page in a thinly outlined rectangle, warns that writing and pronouncing his name correctly is of the utmost importance. There is significant leeway for ambiguous or missing answers in the formulas themselves - it's possible to create a sufficiently accurate name on incomplete information - but a typo, mispronunciation, or wrong answer can lead to unforeseen and usually unwanted changes when the incorrect name is used in spellwork.
The first of these reads:
To change something, you must first describe it. To describe something, you must first see it. Hold still in one place for as long as it takes to see something.
No. Somethings.
...They have his voice. That's weird.
They're his notebooks.
The one closest by is easiest to hear.
"He's going to have tremendous fun with magic."
"He doesn't believe in magic."
"But oh how he wants it."
"Yes, so much, so much -"
"But it's real. He's found some."
"That's lovely."
"He'll study so hard. He can if he cares."
"He doesn't care about school. School is dull."
"He cares about his future, though, that he does, school matters some there."
Cam is a little weirded out. But they're his, aren't they?
"Notebooks?" he asks tentatively.
"We always have!"
"Now you can hear us."
"We wanted to help you!"
"You've been getting on all right but we can help."
"We're yours. Please don't worry about having told us secrets."
Cam is smiling a fascinated, pleased smile. "Not worried," he says. "Are you all - your own minds?"
"A little!"
"You change over time."
"But we're all yours."
"Cam, volumes one through forty-nine."
"You can do magic now! You could hook us up."
"We won't mind. We'd be one book if they made notebooks that size that you could carry."
"Ask the manual!"
Ask the manual. Huh. It would be a little silly if Cam's own notebooks and literally no other books could talk, wouldn't it?
"Manual?" he inquires slowly.
The required technical vocabulary is provided. There are no obscure special materials, like there are for some of the more difficult spells in later chapters. All Cam needs is a pile of books, enough paper to wrap them in, a writing utensil, and his voice.
It's a simple enough procedure: assemble, using the provided vocabulary and structure, a spell description that names each of the books and asserts that they will be collected into a single volume with the desired properties. Write the spell on the paper. Wrap the books in the paper. Speak the spell out loud.
Cam goes through a couple drafts - on looseleaf, since he needs to put his current notebook in the group - before he and his chorus of notebooks are satisfied with the designed end result. He copies it onto the silver-snowflake Christmas paper, stacks the notebooks, wraps the Christmas paper around and cuts it off the roll, and then, carefully and rhythmically, reads through his spell.
"No," says the notebook. "Or, rather, yes if it's convenient."
"Gracenote," suggests Cam idly. "Grace for short. I'll probably wind up she-ing you."
"That's fine by me," says Grace contently.
"Awesome." And he flips to the "end", where are all his magic notes quite intact, and resumes studying magic.
The manual has plenty more to tell him. And since he can talk to it now, it obeys direct requests for more information by expanding the sections that interest him or advising him on which page to turn to for a particular subject. Naturally, these page numbers are not going to remain constant, but they stay put long enough to be useful.
He focuses on learning the language for now. Figuring out what to do with it will be more amenable to multitasking; he can do that while he half pays attention to English class.
He is irritated about having to leave off when Renée calls him down to dinner, and he takes Grace with him, though he doesn't try to write in it at the dinner table. He tells Renée that he found a really cool book at the library and that it is about wizards. She draws the obvious, incorrect conclusion. He lets her.
He brings the manual to school with him and manages not to break it out till lunchtime.
A lot of the personal amusement and some of the instrumental value involves attaching superpowers to himself, is that just generally going to fall into not-sooner?
Yes. There are no preset spells for acquiring superpowers, although there are spells that let him mimic them in various ways - walk on air by making it solid under his feet, repel injury by warding his person against physical harm, breathe underwater by creating a magical air filter. Most of them are not meant for long-term use, even the ones that are focused on him instead of his environment; the personal wards are the most durable out of all of them.
At least Speech seems amenable to creating magical tools. There's Grace, who's awesome - and, it occurs to him, manages to sound like a girl because she's speaking with the voice he had before it dropped; they don't actually match anymore but she still feels himself-y when she talks; he might have to rename her if hers decides to crack and fall too. Maybe he could offload his processing wants onto a computer, if he had his own computer. (He should have his own computer. Maybe if he asks for nothing else on his birthday. Or can he just talk a computer into existing from scratch?)
The manual chooses this moment to let him know that the Senior wizard in his area is a housecat.
At some point he's going to see what the most intelligent conversation he can get out of a tater tot and one of those goats Renée's friend Lori keeps may be, not eat those individuals whatever his results, and feel comfortable eating as normal unless they're smarter than he expects.
He wants to know more about how this works, though. (Will he get smarter if magic happens around him enough?)
In essence: yes. But perhaps not the way he thinks. Working with the Speech will make him better at understanding things - anything and everything, from his own thoughts to quantum mechanics to the conversations between the stars. It won't speed up his brain any, but it'll give him a little more room to store things, because the vocabulary of the Speech takes up a lot of space and brings its own extensions.
Whoops, that's it for lunchtime. He hasn't really eaten enough, and this is only partly because he's conflicted about being able to talk to it. He packs up the manual, chugs his juice for the calories-from-sugar to get him through to the end of the day, and goes to class, studying vocabulary words between interesting portions of lectures. This looks like notetaking to everyone else, so he gets away with it.
He goes to the library after school as usual. "Hi," he says to the librarian. "I took out a book yesterday - and, uh, yeah, it's not coming back, what's the replacement fee?"
He very deliberately eats through their supply of goat cheese over the course of the next experimenting-with-vegetarianism day, then suggests a visit to Lori. Renée calls Lori, Lori's free, off they go.
Cam wanders into the backyard where the goats hang out during the day. There are three of them, and they have names - Millie and Betsy and Vivian - but he's not sure if they know that they have names, so he walks up to Vivian and says, "Hi, goat."
He goes into the house and gets a treat for Vivian, and ones for the others too so he doesn't get mobbed on his way back out of the yard.
He goes right on "experimenting with vegetarianism".
Later, he addresses the tree in his backyard, on the theory that it will be evidence about other plants the way goats were evidence about other animals. "Hi, tree."
"Well, I can eat a bizarre diet and not buy wooden things of my own volition, but that doesn't stop anybody else. So I have to learn a lot of magic and find reasonable alternatives to that sort of thing that doesn't kill anything smart. And here I was thinking that I'd just, you know, cure iodine deficiency in sub-Saharan Africa and call that a good day's work."
"Your brain's just rendering what Leafy said as words in English, and that's the word in English for this kinda tree," Grace says.
"Yeah," agrees Cam after a moment. "...Ah, Leafy, this is Grace, she's a notebook, I hope that's not awkward."
Yeah, Cam needs to obtain a computer if he can no longer in good conscience support the book industry. Sigh. Maybe he can buy used books? The secondary sale market can't drive up demand too much, can it?
"I'm gonna go investigate the grass," says Cam. "Later, Leafy."
Yeah, grass is apparently more like muffin than like tree. "Thanks," Cam says anyway, and he finishes fiddling with his shoelaces and goes to sit under Leafy and write in Grace about what he thinks he can and can't probably eat pending further chats with plants and animals.
"Somebody who doesn't eat animals. The goat I talked to was capable of expressing a preference on the subject. I'm going to extend the courtesy to all animals until I actually get a chance to talk to somebody's goldfish or something and see what the spectrum is."
"You're way better, you have so much moral high ground, you're an autotroph," says Cam. "Which I guess is a kind of vegetarian, technically. I wonder if I can just be an autotroph." Does the manual know? It was iffy on permanent superpowers, but maybe he can just declare himself not in need of nourishment and his body will believe him well enough to be getting on with, three times a day unless he wants a glass of milk or an apple.
On his way home, he spots a woodpecker. "Hey woodpecker," he says, not getting too close.
Renée is still on board with experimental vegetarianism, and dinner is a tofu thing. He takes one bite of it, and then Renée has to go to the bathroom, and he mutters at it the spell the manual provided for this purpose, that he'd like it to taste like chicken.
It also takes energy. Not a lot of energy, for such a small spell, but a noticeable amount - like climbing half a flight of stairs.
He would like to read more about the energy requirements of spells. He anticipates doing a lot of them, after all. Will this harm him? Will it be unpleasant? He would like to be on the correct page of the manual before Renée gets back from the bathroom, please.
Dangit. Okay. He'll have to be creative. If he happens to meet any particularly clever and cooperative kindergarteners can he make them their own manuals, or share his, or otherwise wizardify them, or do the manuals just capriciously drop themselves into people's laps and refuse to be community property?
Maybe when Cam is very very good at wizarding he can address this problem. It is a dumb way to run a magic system. In the meantime, he's going to get as good at wizardry as fast as he can, because apparently time is of the essence.
And he's going to cultivate his imagination-flexibility-etcetera. (He writes this down in Grace and she hums agreement.)
What happens if he lies to describe the world as being nicer than it is? He supposes he might magically exhaust himself rendering the earth a utopia. Would that happen?
Cam side-eyes his manual.
Ironically, he thinks it may be lying.
Although he's not totally sure he trusts the manual on this subject.
Especially since it's only direct lies it claims ought to be eschewed.
Apparently the polite thing to say upon meeting It is "Fairest and fallen, greetings and defiance."
It spends Its time increasing entropy, disorder, death, and suffering in the worlds. It is one of the Powers who aided in their creation, so while Its abilities are far beyond those of any wizard, they are of the same general kind.
Fully half of the manual is now devoted to the Speech; all the non-marked introductory material has been squeezed out until there is barely anything left except the Oath on the very first page and the wizard directory after it, and the subsequent chapters on magic are fairly terse unless Cam asks about something. The manual is definitely taking the hint about his area of focus.
This not-sure-if-he-should-trust-the-manual thing is annoying, though. Up in his room, with Renée elsewhere occupied until they're scheduled to go to a movie in an hour, he asks:
"Where does your information come from? It's in English, much of it anyway, and assembled into sentences; that doesn't just happen. Do you write it yourself or are you pulling it from a central source? How do you know it?"
...and partly by one of the Powers. In fact, some species rely entirely on the Whisperer to provide their spell frameworks in personal communications, because for one reason or another they are not physiologically suited to literacy.
That goes in the long-term project section in Grace's chart, then.
In the meantime, he has a language to learn. This book is not completely untrustworthy; it has successfully taught him to talk to inanimate objects and trees and turn tofu into something edible-tasting.
But he copies anything really important into Grace.
Somewhere, perhaps not a physical somewhere but somewhere all the same, there is a full manual with all the information any wizard could ever conceivably need. Individual wizards' manuals are able to hold small subsets of that store at a time. The primary function of the manual, therefore, is to select the right information at the right time based on its wizard's interests, needs, and level of prior knowledge. That is what manuals are good at. Since Cam talks to his, it can also summarize small pieces of its knowledge verbally, or read itself to him.
And that's it.
His manual is not really conscious or alive in any meaningful sense.
"Are you conscious?" he asks Grace.
"I think so," she says. "I might be less conscious than you, but I think I'm some conscious. I have a lot of you in me and you're conscious."
"Okay," says Cam. He pats her.
She giggles. "That doesn't mean I have a nervous system."
"Indulge me," snorts Cam.
"Okay," she says cheerfully.