And without a constant source of light, it’s cheery as a tomb.

This would be the optimal time to be a literal sun, Maedoc mused to himself.

The shock of the starkly black interiors was beginning to wear off. Upon failing to detect any movement or noise, the lad stepped past the corner and began walking the length of the corridor.

The thought of running back and crafting a simple torch crept across his mind. If this darkness kept up, not only would he be unable to make heads or tails of the place, he would likely trip over some delicate, one-of-a-kind arrangement.

As if on cue, the faintest orange glow could be seen floating beyond the border of the walkway. It was so slight, the boy could hardly tell what he was seeing. Squinting his eyes as he walked, it became clear that a small flame was present somewhere in the following room.

“Hey Wrig, is that you?” Maedoc whelped, slightly more fearful this time around.

Someone put out these lights. Someone kept one for personal use.

Someone was likely occupying the room just a few steps away from him.

Whoever it was, no answer was given to his call.

Tightening his fists, the boy’s brain leapt to action. Whoever had the candle would have their night vision more than halved. As long as he kept his distance, he could likely figure out who — or what — was occupying the heart of the mill.

Prepared for action, Maedoc crept his way forward. It was fortunate that these floors were so sturdy. In all the years he had walked through here, not a single floorboard had been known to creak.

His ears tingled as that unknowable sensation of entering a larger space befell him. The faint static “hiss” that accompanies a silent room broadened and thinned itself out.

Whoever was here, they couldn’t be more than a dozen steps from this spot.

Closing his eyes tightly for a good long second, he opened them wide. With a rejuvenated vision, he scoured the room for the source of the light. Upon peering towards the leftmost side he couldn’t help but gasp audibly.

A single candle was lit in the far end of the room. Held by a dark metal saucer, it was found lying plainly in the middle of the floor. This candle was placed just so, casting its light upon a single item.

With its imposing silhouette demanding any and all attention, the furnace dominated the scene.

Having never seen the device lit by a single candle before, the boy couldn’t help but admire it. The bulbous nature of the copper exterior hugged the light closely, sharing it amongst its entirety. Despite the use of the littlest flame one could imagine, every inch of the furnace lit up like Donnegal at night. A subtle glow, but a uniform and far reaching one.

It was easily the most efficient use of light Maedoc had ever seen.

This display of flame-lit metal so enamored the boy that he missed the man sitting directly across from it.

A second passed, then two, before his brain registered the silhouette. Upon witnessing the man the boy was surprised to find himself devoid of fear.

Perhaps it was the perfect stillness of the individual. The unassuming posture and absolute silence. An air of peace emanated from him in all directions.

Circling his way around the scene, Maedoc carefully stepped around the various tables lining the floor, getting himself into position to identify just who he was dealing with.

It only took a few steps for the duo of bushy eyebrows to come into view, their every hair catching the light like a sail. Maedoc’s jaw dropped like an anchor.

“CYNWRIG!”

The boy yelled his name more out of annoyance than surprise. Why wouldn’t the man respond to him?

Even now he remained frozen in place, entirely unaffected by the assault of sound. Anger gave way once again to fear as Maedoc stared at him for a good ten seconds. He leaned in close, placing his ear next to the man’s nose. It took a moment, but a faint exhale could be detected.

Backing up a step, he observed Cynwrig once more. To the best of the boy’s awareness, the old coot look positively serene. A slight smile could be seen at the edges of his lips, and his brows were raised as if he had just found a sum of money upon the ground.

Placing his hand atop the man’s shoulder, he gave it a squeeze and vigorous shake.

“Wake up Wrig, you old fool!”

At long last his eyes crinkled open, a look of perfect peace still etched across his face. He blinked, taking a small inhale as he stretched his head backward. His gaze meandered over to the boy standing on his right, to which he gifted a smile.

“Ah, welcome back my boy.”

“I feel like I should be the one welcoming you,” Maedoc grunted as he stood back up to his full height. “You were entirely gone to the world.”

“That’s not entirely wrong. I did find myself a little lost,” he murmured with a yawn.

Cynwrig broke off to admire the furnace in front of them. Somewhat exasperated at the man’s currently dreamy nature, the youth reluctantly followed suit.

“What are you doing here, anyways?”

Cynwrig’s thoughtful stare drifted into a smirk.

“It is entirely because of you that I find myself here, Maedoc.”

The man unhurriedly got to his feet, his bones creaking as he did so. With a relaxed exhale, he stepped around the candle and to the side of the furnace, admiring it from his new vantage point.

A fog of confusion as expected as the sunrise fell over Maedoc’s noggin. It simply wouldn’t be a visit to the mill without it.

“I’m the reason you’re sitting here in the dark?”

The man nodded with a squint.

“Well yes, but in particular I mean here, in front of the furnace. You’ve given me some real food for thought.”

Turning to look at Maedoc, he spoke with a serious tone.

“It’s easy for a man like me to feel that I’m aware of all that’s worth knowing in this field. I’m the only one here who knows of these concepts. Aether. Energy. N.O.Bs.”

His eyes shifted downward as he continued.

” . . . but it’s simply not true. It’s a farce. An artificial terrarium of supposed superiority. I am an expert only because I kept everything to myself.”

Maedoc felt his mouth open as he witnessed a display of unprecedented humility. Now that he thought about it, the man was typically so occupied sharing stories or explaining concepts that he rarely ever heard him speak of himself.

The absolute reversal of personality was a little discomforting to the boy, but he continued to stand silently as he listened.

“Within the span of a single day, you took every morsel of data I presented you and leapt beyond anything I could have calculated. There is clearly nothing I have left to teach you.”

Cynwrig looked up.

“And yet, there remains much for me to learn from you.”

Pivoting his body, the man’s enthusiasm returned as he saluted the furnace with both arms, giving a small bow as he did so.

” . . .  Such as this magnificent copper tub! Look at it! It’s been here the whole time, for YEARS, and all I ever saw it as was a ruddy, unreliable instrument for staving off a chill.”

As if to enunciate his point, the furnace let out a quiet groan — its pipes echoing off into all corners of the room. Cynwrig gave a faint smile as he nodded.

“Yes, as a furnace it is satisfactory at best. But as a SYMBOL it yields enormous power.”

Turning to face the boy, Cynwrig’s face went somber once more as he bowed even lower.

“I really must thank you, Maedoc, for showing me the hidden potential of the ordinary.”

The youth, quite taken aback, was unable to give a response. Quite automatically he found himself bowing in unison.

“Uh . . .  you’re welcome, Cynwrig.”

Maedoc’s body jolted as he felt a hand clap upon his shoulder. Looking up he found Cynwrig beaming at him.

“Well, enough about that. Would you mind helping me light this place back up?”

Light the place up . . . ?

With what, his smile?

Cynwrig crouched in front of the furnace, whipped the front hatch open and placed his hand inside. Before Maedoc’s brain could register panic, the man returned to eye level with two long, smoldering twigs.

“Here. You take that half of the room, and I’ll do this one.”

Ah. Light up candles. This makes more sense. Sometimes the boy was shocked at the entirely backward assumptions his mind raced him to.

Upon bestowing the boy a twig of his own, Cynwrig turned and walked to the far corner of the room, dipping his twig into a dusty candle holder.

“Are you nervous, Maedoc? About your journey?”

The boy froze. The oddness of this passing moment had all but erased that from his memory. Shocked from having it brought back to the surface so abruptly, the boy couldn’t help but be defensive.

“Journey? Who says I’m going anywhere?”

A small stream of anger coursed through him, and he was baffled as to why.

For the simple truth of the matter was that he was not only ready to go — but enthusiastic to do so.

Cynwrig was too far away to see very well, and the lighting was still quite dim, but a smile could be heard through his words all the same.

“Maedoc. I have to say, I would be honored if you chose to stay here in the village. It would certainly prove your bravery.”

A small flame flickered to life in the candle before him, casting his body in a small glow.

” . . . though, beyond the bravery, I imagine you would simply become bored with the place.”

The man turned to face him, his inquisitive grin now faintly visible.

“You truly wish to stay?”

Maedoc shook his head no. Then, remembering the dimness, he spoke.

“No. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m being difficult.”

Seeing the ember at the end of his twig begin to wane, he gently blew on it to invigorate its consumption. It glowed bright once more.

“To be honest, I’m excited. I want to learn more.”

Cynwrig nodded, tongue in cheek.

“Well if you’re excited to get going, you might want to journey to that candle there first. The one near the ladder.” He pointed to the twig in his hand, waving it in the air a few times.

Oh. Right. Light.

“Ah, sorry Wrig. Yes, let’s do that.”

As he spun around to address the unlit candles, Cynwrig continued.

“You’re still the polite boy I knew. And still equally forgetful. Yet . . . “

Maedoc listened intently as he pressed his luminous nub into the face of the candle’s wick.

” . . .  there’s something different about you now. I don’t know how to put it. A certain ‘decisiveness’ that wasn’t there before. A sharpness, or perhaps a solidity.”

The boy held his hand steady until the flame could make its jump. The wick began to smolder.

“I know it’s been an interesting day for you. Couple days, in fact. Yet even the past few hours have affected change in you. I have to ask, Maedoc: what happened out there?”

A flash of light filled the bowl of the candle as the wick came to life. A newborn flame danced before his eyes.

This was met in equal measure with a reddening of his cheeks.

More solid. More decisive. These were descriptions he was not used to receiving.

Leaning up from the candle, Maedoc stared at the ceiling as he wracked his brain.

How does one answer such a question?

A million and one things happened out there. Maybe it was his exhaustion catching up with him, but he simply didn’t have the power to give Cynwrig the entirety of an answer.

So he summed it up into six words.

“I learned to forge a Flame.”

Silence hung in the air as both individuals stood still.

“Can’t say how I did it. And I can’t seem to do it anymore.”

Despite his new “solidity,” Maedoc couldn’t help but wince. It didn’t feel good to keep things from Cynwrig. And for reasons that were chiefly steeped in laziness, no less.

But doggone it, the boy was tired. And there was truly a sizable mystery surrounding the more notable aspects of his afternoon.

Whatever came out of his mouth was likely to be a jumbled mess.

Ah! There was one thing he could say.

“But, um, the furnace was certainly involved.”

Cynwrig’s ears perked up.

“No kidding! Flame management, eh.? I assume you mean energetically? Can’t imagine you and actual flames getting along too well. That’s really something.”

The man stared at the floor as he made his way to the next candle. Maedoc followed suit and scouted for his next destination.

“That reminds me of something, you know. Forging flames. There was a meditation style from the East that spoke of something similar. It turned out to be a powerful tool, especially in the way it blended breath and energy. Quite useful for my Aetheric research.”

Breath . . . ?

The mental cogs began to shift and churn.

“Now that you mention it, Wrig, I found breath to be pretty dang important today. Though all I really figured out was that my energy fades fast if I’m not getting enough air. But yeah, I bet there’s a lot more to it.”

The old man couldn’t help but creak his head back and guffaw loudly.

“A couple thousand years of field testing and research, yes! Breathwork and energetic manipulation were tightly integrated into their societies. I always had the notion that we could learn a thing or two from such an approach. A civilization centered around the enrichment and amassment of energy and spiritual wisdom. It would solve so many of our bothersome — well, it would be a pleasant change.”

Maedoc could plainly see that his friend was holding back a flood of strong opinions. His hand hovered in midair above the candle’s wick as he watched the man for any ensuing fireworks.

Sadly it was not to be. Cynwrig bit his lip, peered at the ceiling, and exhaled.

It was over before it could start.

“Are you interested in such a thing? If you would like, I can lend you a book to read on your journey.”

The boy mulled it over as his hand lowered, allowing the glowing ember and wick to embrace at last. It seemed a no-brainer to him.

“I would love that.”

A loud clap was heard, startling Maedoc and causing him to drop his smoldering twig. He turned to see Cynwrig’s hands clasping each other, a look of excitement written across his face.

“I have an idea!”

Walking over to the cedar ladder in the center of the room, he pointed to the twig at the boy’s feet.

“Let’s pick up that fledgling fire hazard before we head up there, mm?”

Up there . . . ?

Maedoc blinked in disbelief. Never before had he been granted access to the mill’s second floor. What would it even look like? If the ground floor was packed with dazzling curiosities, what might be found up the ladder?

“Sooner rather than later, Lassie. C’mon!” The man then turned and bolted up the ladder with impressive speed.

What was the deal with Cynwrig and ladders? Up, down, no matter — he was greased lightning in human form.

Bending over to pick up his stick, Maedoc hustled over to the center of the room. Peering around, he looked for a place to offload his fire hazard. Where had the old man placed his?

Not wanting to waste time, the boy dropped a dollop of spit from his lips, coating the ember with a satisfying ssssszzzt! The threat now neutralized, he placed the dampened stick on a nearby table and made his way up the ladder at a respectable speed.

Glancing upward he saw the warm glow of candles begin to encrust the ceiling entrance. The mystery of the missing fire twig, solved.

The cedar construction smelled warm and fragrant. It was perhaps the most pleasant ladder he had had the pleasure of climbing. Each rung felt well polished from years of diligent use, soft and smooth to the touch. As the boy neared the top, he performed an extra powerful sniff as to best guess the contents of the room above.

Though the cedar made it difficult, there was certainly a note of something else. Old. Dusty. Paper?

Poking his head through the opening, Maedoc encountered an underwhelming sight.

Books.

Shelf upon sagging shelf of books, manuscripts, rolled up scrolls and giant tomes occupied every surface of the diminutive room. The walls closed in at an angle as they rose, meeting at a triangular point at the ceiling. Even without the hundreds of pounds of literature occupying the room it would be a little claustrophobic.

Maedoc wasn’t sure what he had expected to see. Cynwrig had mentioned grabbing a book. Why he thought it would be resting in a room of sparkling treasure, he couldn’t say.

His face must have betrayed him, for the man picked up on his dismay.

“What’s wrong? Expecting a room stacked tall with sparkling treasure?”

Maedoc didn’t dare speak.

Cynwrig’s hand reached towards him, which he took graciously. Spacing his legs wide the man pulled the boy up with a grunt. Maedoc was careful to find his footing quickly, for there was little room to strike a landing. One step too many and he would topple into a wall of books.

Hands on his hips, Cynwrig stood tall as he beamed at his collection.

“You’re looking at a lifetime of literature here, Maedoc. My very first book was given to me at the age of eight and — well, it begot an addiction, clearly.”

Peering around the room, Maedoc was unable to decipher any manner of rhyme or reason to their placement. Most books appeared to be handwritten tomes with no titles on their spines. A sizable portion didn’t even have a spine to write on. They were held together with nothing more than a rusty spiral of wire, haphazardly wrought through the papers’ edges.

To label these items “books” was a bit of a stretch.

The man turned to Maedoc with an undeniable streak of mischief in his eye.

“Now, for that fun idea I had . . . “

The boy had undergone much in the past few days, and had much to show for it. Nevertheless he found the tiniest trembling erupt from within his knees.

The following activity could end up being anything.

Cynwrig raised his hand, palm facing out to the wall. Locking eyes with Maedoc, he spoke.

“You may already be well aware of this, the prodigy that you are. The same subtle energy you’ve worked with the past few days can do more than manage a few N.O.Bs. It can go further than self-soothing, or even the healing of another.”

Healing of another?

That sounded interesting. Maedoc had never considered such a thing.

Did this make him selfish? He was unsure.

“This energy can also be a conduit for information.”

Taking an audibly deep breath, the man closed his eyes.

“Just ask a question of the universe, and it will answer you back. All you have to do is listen.”

A smile broke out on Cynwrig’s face as his eyes returned to their prior aperture.

“Or in our case, feel.”

Maedoc’s brain sparked to life.

“You know what, I think I’ve done that before. The stream next to the village entrance, I was able to feel it from a distance. Didn’t need to touch it or anything. All I had to do was . . .  hold my Ray.”

His voice fell as he suddenly remembered his recent transfer of property.

Cynwrig snapped his finger and pointed at the boy.

“That’s a perfect example, Lassie! A fine intro to the topic. Though the type I’m describing does not require Aether at all. It’s a skill rooted entirely within our humanity.

“Though of course, exposure to Aether does sharpen this ability a significant amount.”

Maedoc breathed with silent relief. This was fortunate.

He was still unsure how to share that he had given his Ray away, and only a single day after receiving it.

Raising his hands repeatedly, Cynwrig motioned for Maedoc to join him.

“Go on, give it a try. To be honest, I’m not all that good at this. I cannot give you much advice on it, but I do know the basics. Just raise your hand, ask a question from the seat your heart, and see if you feel something. Let that feeling lead you.”

The boy couldn’t help but make a slight smile.

If he had been asked to do this just a few days ago, he would have harbored a cocktail of restrictive emotions. Doubt. Suspicion. Near certainty that he was participating in some manner of prank.

And now?

His hand went up the instant he was asked. Arm extended and bent to his exact preference. Fingers splayed slightly.

Replacing all of those emotions was a bright and steady enthusiasm to dive into the unknown.

The unknown had gifted him so many treasures as of late, and he had no desire to slow down.

“My question . . . ” Maedoc began, taking a slow breath as he closed his eyes.

” . . . my question is which of these books will serve me best.”

“Is it? Are you sure?” Cynwrig quipped. “That sounded more like an answer to me.”

The boy squinted and shook his head.

“Right, uh . . .  which of these books will serve me best?”

He thought back to what he already knew. There were numerous times he had felt remote phenomena take place at his fingertips.

The first had been his perception of the Ray’s output, back when it pierced his hand on top of the mill this same morning. It was strong, tangible, and without any physical touch taking place at all. He had doubted it would feel like much at first, but the result proved potent indeed.

Then there was the stream near the village entrance. Though Maedoc wondered, without his Ray, would he have picked up on it?

Now that he thought about it, most all of his notable achievements were centered around the usage of Aether.

Well, that is, except for the Flame.

His eyes blinked open of their own volition, conjuring a quizzical stare from Cynwrig.

“Giving up already?”

“No . . .  I’m getting there.”

Closing his eyes once again, he settled back into the heat of that moment. Now that he gave it some thought, the Ray didn’t seem to play much of a role at all. He could barely remember holding it.

He held it, true, but he couldn’t honestly say it was required.

The Flame — where did it come from, exactly?

Is it possible it was all his doing?

Whoosh.

A ticklish breeze sprang up at the base of his neck, following his spine up to the top of his head. There it lingered gently, allowing his brain some perceivable element of breathability.

It felt like some manner of “tingly window” had been installed directly into his skull

The boy drew in a fresh breath, surprised to find that he felt it travel not only through his nostrils, but the ephemeral window as well!

All this from thinking the Flame was my doing?

Why?

He took another breath, just to see if he had imagined it. Once again, he felt it enter from two directions. Yet this time it was decidedly less potent. Not as crisp.

Getting the sense that this newfound effect might be short-lived, Maedoc cleared his head and asked his question once again — putting every ounce of will he had into doing so.

“Which book here will serve me best?”

It was difficult for Maedoc to give a description to what his head felt like on a day to day basis. What does one call the background noise of a brain?

Fuzz. Foam. A hum. A buzz.

Whatever it was, the boy noticed that there was more of an “edge” to it. A solid precipice. As though that window had an actual physical ledge built upon it. Hard. Solid.

That is, as solid as a fuzz or a buzz could hope to be.

As novel as this sensation was, it didn’t appear to be all that helpful.

Taking a breath, Maedoc took a step forward and asked one last time.

“What here will serve me best?”

Much like the tingle that washes through one’s head before a sneeze, he felt something sneak down and latch onto this window’s ledge. It was like . . .

A tingly fish hook.

That’s the best way he could describe it.

Hazy hooks on a ledge of foam.

It wasn’t much to go on at all. With his eyes still closed he lowered his head towards his feet — a standard maneuver the boy made directly before he was about to utterly give up on something.

What else could he do? It was all simply too subtle and hazy to make sense of. The further he went, the more confused he ended up.

And yet it was at this precise moment of slumping he realized: this “hook” held fast.

Upon his head changing orientation, the slack of the hook’s “line” became taut. It tugged at him.

Was it possible . . . ?

Straightening his neck, he turned his head slowly to the left. Sure enough, the “line” tautened further still.

As if it were anchored to something on his right.

Maedoc adjusted his position so that he was facing the corner on his right. As predicted, the line became much looser — to the point that he didn’t feel much tension at all.

In that instant an idea popped into his head.

Perhaps he could use this to “zero in”!

Maedoc took a step towards the corner, swinging his head ever so slowly from the right to the left. Feeling for where the hook tugged most fervently.

If the tug is strong, calibrate.

Pleased with his new game plan the boy smiled, taking a step towards the spot he felt the cord slacken most.

Step by step he followed this process, zigzagging his head with his every step until he heard a rough crinkling of paper beneath his foot. The boy opened his eyes, startled. Whipping his head around he looked to Cynwrig, certain he was in for an immediate scolding.

Rather than a man’s ire, Maedoc saw nothing but mirth in his eyes.

“That was . . . pffffft! That was really something, BWAHAHA!”

Cynwrig doubled over with laughter, his cheeks turning red.

“You looked like, like a BLIND CHICKEN! HAW!”

Sucking in air, the old man squished his eyes closed as did an exaggerated walk — much akin to Maedoc’s — folding his arms back like wings for good measure.

I think I would have preferred the scolding.

With the enthusiastic mockery ongoing, Maedoc stiffly turned away from the scene. Sliding his foot back from the paper with care, the boy studied the nook before him.

What he saw was not promising.

Of all the spaces in this room, he had walked into the most disorderly and haphazard of them all. All that could be found here was an assortment of scrolls — unwrapped from their standard helical winding, naturally.

This doesn’t feel right.

And yet, at the same time he was certain this was where his makeshift guidance wanted him to be.

Maedoc leaned down, doing his best to tune out Cynwrig’s hysterical wheezing, and investigated the length of paper closest to his foot. Picking it up, he read a sentence to himself at random.

Through the draining of the lymph node one can determine the viscosity of hydro . . . hydrogenitausic . . . ?

How was this meant to serve him?

Shaking his head, he stood up as he drooped the paper back onto the floor. The instant before it fell to meet the ground he noticed something beneath it. Dark, grubby looking, and more or less “bookish” in size.

Kneeling again, he shuffled the papers aside and took a closer look at the item.

“What . . .  hawh, what are you supposed to be now? A prairie dog?”

Cynwrig was out of breath at this point, and thus lacked the stamina to imitate this next animal.

“Come on, Wrig, gimme a break. Is this a book?”

Picking the item up, Maedoc was surprised at both its texture and weight.

For one, it felt closer to a brick than a book. Its heft was palpable — more than a bundling of paper ought to feel. Bringing it up to the nearest candle he gasped. It appeared to coated in molten iron!

Or, more accurately described, it appeared that someone had sloppily spilled a good dollop all over some poor and apparently inflammable book. It was uneven, bumpy, and rough to the touch.

Wiping his eyes, Cynwrig stumbled over and clapped his hand on Maedoc’s shoulder.

“Ahh Lassie, that . . .  that’s . . .  this is . . . “

The man straightened up, a powerfully studious look scrawled across his face. He grabbed the item, brought it close to his eyes and gazed at it intently.

“I’ve never seen this before in my life.”