As long as magic has existed in our world, we’ve sought its limits. We strive for more, for bigger, for stronger; for dazzling, for impressive, for awe-inspiring. We want power. We want understanding. We want to rearrange the score of the song of the universe.
But if you ask me—and I’ve written my fair share of the universe’s song—the truest magic isn’t wielded by the most powerful, nor is it the most exclusive or rare.
It’s the magic that happens daily in the small moments.
I see it most often outside Strumlotts’ walls. I see it most often in my young students when they’re not saving the world or trying to unravel its mysteries. I see it most often beside a campfire in the middle of nowhere, in the transience between home and the unknown.
The truest magic is in Yashee’s blush when she scoots away from the boys and whispers into an Ira Glass, in her smile when Tabitha answers, in the sparkle reflecting stars in her eyes as they chat before bed.
The truest magic is in Randy’s grin when Yashee and Raz’ul teach him to read a new word, and just a little bit more of the world opens up to him. It’s in the fumbling, the misspellings, in the dots connecting as old and new knowledge finally intertwine.
The truest magic is in Raz’ul’s laughs over dinner, in the twirling of his beard around his finger while he puzzles out new potpourri, in the absentminded strumming of Usumptin when everyone is discussing their next move.
Their ability to make musical magic together doesn’t rely on their tools, or their heritage. It’s part of them, and goes so much deeper than blue glows and lyrics made reality. It’s a magic they forged all on their own, their bond with their band mates and friends.
Tonight, along another dirt road under a canopy of foreign trees, another campfire is lit. All of us are gathered round, and my young bards are writing a new song—though, at first glance, they seem to be attempting to rile up the ghosts of music theorists of old. They picked up some dice along the road from a traveling merchant, have assigned chords and modes and Altonia knows what else to every number, and they’ll build a piece of music around the results. Some of the combinations are awful. But I have to admit that it’s a unique exercise, and they’re having fun with it.
Yashee and Raz’ul spend some time poring over scratch paper with the lyrics they want to make arcane, Randy occasionally peeking over their (well, Raz’ul’s) shoulders and offering suggestions as he tests out chord progressions on his organ. Yashee taps out one beat, then another, then another, before settling on a final rhythm. Raz’ul looks to Randy and they mess around with harmonics until they find something that makes sense and adjust the lyrics to fit. I can see, even from my perch on the other side of the campfire, how they’re putting into practice both things they learned in my classes and in the field.
When they’re ready, they turn to me, excitement and anticipation in their eyes, and begin to play their most recent creation.
And there it is: there’s the universe leaning in to listen as magic is made.
I close my eyes—they’re so absorbed in each other and in their performance that they aren’t paying attention to me much—and let the sound wash over me. It’s not technically perfect, and every now and then the tempo fluctuates again. Yashee’s mallet strikes aren’t as clean as they could be; Raz’ul could stand to tune one of his strings a little better; Randy gets a little carried away and rushes slightly.
But the magic is there—in the way their breaths sync for an important hit in the music, in the way that they listen to and work with one another. It’s in the toothy, ear-to-ear smiles, the excess energy of their bodies as they move in sync. It’s in the laughter when someone hits a wrong note and powers on anyway.
The warmth of it washes over me, as sure as the radiating comfort from the campfire, and I can’t help a small sign and a smaller smile.
When I open my eyes as the music fades into the outro, I catch that perfect moment when the band hits the last note in unison and lets it ring out, resonant and full on the night air. They meet each other’s gazes, smiles widening, before turning back to me, the audience.
“Well,” I say, trying in vain to retain my aloof and professional persona. “I have a few notes.”
All of them, in unison, groan. (I could swear they rehearsed it. Maybe they did.)
“Oh, come on, Splash,” Raz’ul says, leaning his elbows on Usumptin and pouting. “First full run. Cut us some slack.”
“Yeah,” Randy agrees. “What did you think overall?”
“The vibe,” Yashee adds. “The mood.”
I must just be getting old. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, so I settle for, “Honestly? It needs some work. But…” I savor the small pause as all three of them lean forward slightly and finish, “I think it’s got real potential.”
They whoop and pat each other on the back (Yashee’s to Randy sends him tumbling off his seat and everyone laughs) and begin chattering animatedly. I just smile, say something about needing to get a good night’s sleep for the next day’s travel, and retire to my tent.
Chaos Sauce is a young band, and they have a ways to go. But I’m confident that one day, they’ll be a household name—for their music, for their exploits, for both. And when they’re playing the world’s stage, I look forward to standing there, listening, remembering.
Everyone else will get their genius.
I’ll always have the truest magic they weave: the kind made around a campfire in the woods, with great musicians and even better friends.
I cannot wait for the day my young bards realize they have both.
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