The Bewitching Hour

✧ chapter eight: changing hands

The fusion of magick and science is something that Hunk could probably talk about forever. There's always another thing to talk about because there's always something else to try. But he can't speak about it too openly. The Chieftain frowns upon that sort of thing. Always has. He was angry enough when he found out that Mrs. Holt was going to study white magick to help heal clinic patients, and that was for the greater good of the whole village (and is— Colleen Holt is not one to be so easily swayed by an angry old man telling her what to do, Chieftain or not).

"Why does the Chief hate magick so much?" Hunk once asked his father. Hershel groaned at the question— obviously one that he had hoped he would not have to answer this soon.

"He... conflates things," Hershel said. "Back when Plaht was founded there were plenty of mages. But as time went on he started thinking of anything magick as the domain of the witches and warlocks, and..." Hershel gazed out the window at the hilltop they do not speak of. "Well. We know how he feels about that."

The years only proved that Hershel had been telling the truth, even if he had oversimplified the issue. Hunk is certain that Hieronymus Smythe will not be changing his mind about magick anytime soon— it's difficult to teach such an old dog a new trick.

Hunk dashes to his and Pidge's dedicated meeting spot as soon as he is free from his work and the greasy apron that symbolizes it. They like to unite beneath of a gnarled oak tree with twisty roots that's about halfway between both of their homes. There is a familiar pattern visible here— Hunk, after a long day of hard labor, is energized and grinning, while Pidge almost always looks tired or grouchy. Hunk has boiled this down to a simple issue of passion. Hunk enjoys what he does and Pidge does not. It takes something more from her that Hunk cannot personally grasp.

Before he can say anything, Pidge signals him with her hand. She points upwards. Hunk knows that this means Pidge wants him to join her in the camouflage offered by the branches for an extra bit of privacy. He groans, but doesn't otherwise protest. It's a bit harder for him to get into the three now than it was when he was nine. With a lot of struggling and heaving, and a moment of fear that the branch will snap under his hefty adult weight, he manages the task, and soon he and his old friend are side-by-side upon the branch with their legs swinging off the edge, like those long-long golden days when they didn't have to worry about things like their jobs and village curses.

"Check this out," Pidge says in a boastful tone. She pulls from her knapsack a rolled-up sheet of aged parchment. Hunk already knows what it is.

"Don't tell me that's another treasure map," he whines. It's too late, though, to dissuade the devious sparkle in her eye.

"Not just any! Matt sent this one. Said it didn't really suit his guild. And I don't wanna give him credit unless I have to, but this one dooooes have some clues hinting at something you might be interested in."

Hunk can't help but perk up at that.

"Don't tell me— the gloves of transmutation?!" Hunk snatches this map for himself. It's a special one, alright. The special ones are always practically impossible to read. It will take several trips to the library, and possibly Ina's help, to interpret whatever this esoteric diagram means to tell them. But if it leads to those coveted gloves, Hunk welcomes the intellectual challenge.

"I'm glad you like it so much," Pidge says, and her tone is strange. Hunk knows why. He lowers the paper, just a little bit, to give her a sympathetic look. She jut pouts angrily at him in response. "Just wish I could find them myself. Matt gets to explore the whole country with his guild and that's fine, but oh, no, not Katie!"

"They'll come around," Hunk insists. "I mean, your mom was the one that started studying magick first."

"It's just for work."