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Ford remembered finding the first spellbook clearly. He was sixteen.
It was sitting in a cabinet underneath the glass display cases, lying forgotten about among various other knick-knacks. He picked it up and ran his thumbs over the faded yellow leather cover, which was cracked and worn with age. He couldn’t quite make out what had once been printed on the front, but when he opened it up, everything changed.
He scanned the faded pages with both curiosity and skepticism. At first, he thought it was a fake, something created simply for entertainment, but the more he studied the drawings and looked at the wording, the more oddly specific it all seemed. It was so peculiar, fascinating, spectacular...
In the alley behind the pawn shop, he cast his first spell.
It was an experiment that the logical part of his mind told him would end in failure (and potentially embarrassment, thus the reason he was out here all alone), but that the scientist in him couldn’t help but find excitement in the prospect. It was evening and the world was painted with a peach glow. He closed his eyes and chanted the spell in a low voice, then snapped his fingers.
He was holding fire.
He almost didn’t believe it. A small flame danced across his fingertips. A chill ran down his spine and he twitched a bit in surprise, his brown eyes locked on the flickering light before him. It felt like touching a plasma globe. He let the fire whisper across his skin, wiggling his fingers and watching it adapt to his movements.
The spellbook was real . it wasn’t fake like everything else in that goddamned pawn shop, it wasn’t fake like his brother’s happiness or his mom’s business or his father’s public personality. It was a daydream come true, a fantasy turned to reality. And the child in him that had always believed in magic gazed in awe at what he’d created, his heart beating fast, his mind whirling with the implications of this new ability. He snapped again and the fire disappeared into a puff of smoke that rose from his palm. As it drifted up into the orange sky, Ford looked out to the sunset on the horizon and grinned.
He’d briefly debated showing Stanley, but decided against it. Stanley would only mock him, he was sure of it. Deep down, he knew their dreams of sailing were just that - dreams. Farfetched childhood fantasies with no basis in reality, dreams that would never come to pass. But this, this was different. It was his dream. A dream he didn’t have to share. Because when he really thought about it, he didn’t really want to go sailing. He wanted to get out of this dumb town and take on the world by himself, without his brother. This book, this magic… it was his. He had to hide it, protect it.
And so he did. He practiced when he wasn’t studying at the same spot behind the pawn shop, honing his skills. There was a silent thrill whenever he perfected a spell. It was the only way he felt as if he had any influence in the world, in his own future. And sometimes, when he jerked his head to the side and whispered latin phrases under his breath and watched Crampelter stumble and fall, he almost felt like he was in control.
The second spellbook was found during his second week of college, tucked behind a number of other books on the shelves of Backupsmore’s sad excuse for a library. It was dusty and torn, the pages yellowed with age. Fragile. Naturally, this one needed testing, too. This one seemed more ridiculous than the first, so he was skeptical as to its authenticity, but he had to test it. For science.
Ford flipped to the first page of the spellbook. A spell to show one their soulmate, huh? Not his type of spell, but it would work for a test. He hummed to himself as he lit candles in the darkened dorm room and rolled out a ball of red string on the floor, carefully straightening it into intricate patterns. When he was finished, he sat cross-legged on the carpet and began to recite the incantation. He expected the spell to show him he didn’t have a soulmate, or maybe a girl halfway across the world he had no desire to seek out in his lifetime.
He watched as an ethereal form began to take shape in the center of the circles of candle and string. It rose up and slowly coalesced into the form of a ghostlike person. It was wispy and shifting, but still clearly recognizable. Far too familiar.
Ford heard the door open behind him. He was dimly aware of his roommate starting to shout a string of hillbilly curses and accusatory questions, but the words didn’t register in his brain. Slowly, he turned and locked eyes with Fiddleford. “The ritual was supposed to show me my soulmate.” he spoke flatly. “I didn’t expect you .” Fiddleford was staring at the translucent image of himself floating in the center of the room, his eyes practically ready to pop of their sockets. Ford looked back down to his book and began flipping through it, frowning. “The spells in this tome are legitimate, but clearly not reliable or precise.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval.
Fiddleford had one hand buried in his hair and his mouth hanging open. “So you’re not tryin’ to perform some kinda witchy voodoo on me?”
Ford laughed. “I know this must be rather alarming, but I can assure you I mean no harm and I have full control over the situation.” His face softened as he smiled at the southerner. “You’ve helped me more than you know, Fiddleford. I’ve no reason to curse you.”
“This ain’t natural, Stanford!”
“Correct. It’s supernatural .” Ford wiggled his fingers dramatically and smiled up at him. He paused a moment before leaning over to blow out one of the candles. The magical image of Fiddleford dissipated as soon as the light went out. “I didn’t expect you to return so early.”
“Professor didn’t show up to class.” Fiddleford folded his arms.
“Well, what can you do? It’s Backupsmore.”
Fiddleford ignored him, his eyes still fixed on the spot where his mirror image had been. “This is all mighty disturbing.”
“The soulmate thing?” Ford waved his hand dismissively. “I can assure you the results are incorrect. I’m sure it simply means we’ll become very good friends. Platonic soulmates, if you will.”
“That’s not what I’m concerned about!” Fiddleford cried. “You aren’t the least bit bothered by this creepy-ass magic shit!? ‘Ya think this all fine and normal!?” He pulled out a chunk of his hair.
Stanford stood and turned to face him. “He-hey. Just- just calm down. I’m just as human as you are. You know that... and neither of us are normal.” He let out a small chuckle and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Ford tilted his head at Fiddleford, letting a half-smile play across his face. Fiddleford stared at the faint, faded bruise under one of Ford’s eyes and remembered how it looked two weeks ago, when it was fresh and dark and had tears running over it. He seemed to relax slightly. “Would it put you any more at ease if I explained it?”
Fiddleford nodded. “You better tell me what the blazes you’ve got going on, Stanford Pines.” he replied, a teasing edge to his tone.
Ford smiled and plopped back down on the floor. He reached under his bed and emerged with an old yellow book in hand. “Sit down. Let me start from the beginning.”