memory magic

Or . . . maybe not. Maybe I’d been making more assumptions without ever questioning them. I had already assumed that matter was solid when it wasn’t; that I could get cold, which I couldn’t; and that I was still beholden to the laws of gravity, which I wasn’t.
Maybe I’d made the same assumptions about magic. I mean, after all, I had thrown a solid shield spell during the first attack on Mort’s place, when I had been sharing space with the ectomancer. That would seem to show that my talent was still there, still real.
I just had to figure out how to access it.
Memories are power.
I dug into my duster’s pocket and drew out the massive pistol Sir Stuart had given me. Black-powder weaponry isn’t my thing, but I made sure there was nothing in the priming pan before turning it barrel down and shaking it. I had to give it several hard thumps with the heel of my hand to get the ball, wad, and powder to spill out into my palm.
The ball, the bullet, gleamed as if newly molded. Upon closer look, fine swirls on the surface of the metal took on the shapes of a simple, pastoral scene: a colonial-style home in the middle of a little green valley surrounded by apple trees; clean, neat cropland; and a pasture dotted with white sheep. Just looking at it seemed to give the scene life. Wind stirred the crops. Apples stood out like specks of bright green against the darker leaves. Lambs gamboled among adult members of the flock, playing for the pure joy of it. The door to the house opened, and a tall, straightbacked woman with hair blacker than a raven’s wing emerged from the house, trailing a small cloud of children, clearly giving calm instructions.
With the sight, a flood of emotions coursed through me. A fierce and jealous pride of possession—not pride that I owned such a beautiful home, but that the home was beautiful because I owned it, because I had made it so. Mixed with that was an ocean-deep surge of love for the woman and her children, raw happiness at seeing them—and a heavy, entirely pleasurable surge of desire for the woman, whom I had not held in far too long—
I suddenly felt that I had intruded upon something personal and intimate. I closed my eyes and looked away from the scene.
Memories, I realized. These were all things from Sir Stuart’s mortal memories. This memory was what he had cast forth against that wraith the first time I met him. He hadn’t used memories of destruction as his weapon, but those of identity, of the reasons he was willing to fight.
That was why as a ghost he still used that ax, this pistol. Far more modern weapons were available to copy, but his memories were of himself using those weapons, and so they were the source of his power, the embodiment of his will to change what was around him.
They were Sir Stuart’s identity. They were also his magic.
Memories equaled power.
For a moment, I thought it couldn’t be that simple. But a lot of magic is actually disgustingly simple—which is not to be confused with easy.
There was only one way to find out.
The first spell I’d ever done had been during that long-ago class Olympics—but that was spontaneous, accidental magic, hardly worthy of the term. The first conscious spell I’d knowingly worked, fully planned, fully visualized, fully realized, had been calling forth a burst of fire.
Justin DuMorne had shown me how it worked.
I plunged into the memory.

Ghost Story Chapter 20, Page 223-224


“Right now,” Justin said, “you are making a choice. It may not seem like a large and terrible choice, but in the long term, it may well be. You are choosing whether you will be the master of your own fate, with the power to create what you will from the world—or whether you will simply flick your Bic and get by. Unremarkable. Complacent.” His mouth twisted and his voice turned bitter. “Mediocre. Mediocrity is a terrible fate, Harry.”
My hand hovered over the lighter, but I didn’t pick it up. I thought about what he had said. Then I said, “What you mean is that if I can’t do it . . . you’ll send me back.”
“Success or failure of the spell is not the issue,” he said. “What matters is the success or failure of your will. Your will to overcome human weakness. Your will to work. To learn. I will have no shirkers here, boy.” He settled down onto the floor next to me and nodded toward the fireplace. “Again, if you please.”
I stared at him for a moment, then down at my hand, at the discarded lighter.
No one had ever told me I was special before. But Justin had. No one had ever taken so much time to do anything with me. Ever. Justin had.
I thought of going back into the state system—to the homes, the shelters, the orphanages. And suddenly, I truly wanted to succeed. I wanted it more than I wanted dinner, more even than I wanted to watch Knight Rider. I wanted Justin to be proud of me.
I left the lighter where it was and focused on my breathing.
I built up the spell again, slowly, slowly, focusing on it more intently than on anything I’d ever done in my life. And I was nearly thirteen, so that was really saying something.
The energy swelled until I felt like someone had started a trash fire in my belly, and then I willed it out, through my empty, outstretched right hand, and as I did, instead of using the Egyptian phrase, I said, “Flickum bicus!”
And the remaining tinder under the logs burst into bright little flames. I didn’t think I’d ever seen anything more beautiful.
I sagged and almost fell over, even though I was already sitting on the floor. My body suddenly ached with hunger and weariness, like this one time when all us orphans had gotten to go to a water park. I wanted to eat a bucket of macaroni and cheese and then go to sleep.
A strong, long-fingered hand caught my shoulder and steadied me. I looked up to see Justin regarding me, his dark eyes flickering with warmth that wasn’t wholly the reflection of the small but growing fire in the hearth.
“Flickum bicus?” he asked.
I nodded and felt myself blushing again. “You know. ’Cause . . . the mediocrity.”
He tilted his head back and let out a rolling laugh. He ruffled my hair with one hand and said, “Well-done, Harry. Well-done.”
My chest swelled up so much I thought I was going to bounce off the ceiling.
Justin held up a finger, went to his desk, and returned with a brown paper package. He offered it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Yours,” he said. “You’ve done the work after all.”
I blinked and then tore the package open. Inside was a Wilson baseball mitt.
I stared for several seconds. No one had ever given me a present before—not one that was meant for me, and not just some random, charity-donated Christmas package with a label that said: FOR: BOY. And it was an excellent glove. George Brett had one just like it. I’d been to two Kansas City Royals baseball games on field trips when I was little, and they were awesome. So was Brett.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. Oh, come on. Now I was gonna cry? Sometimes I thought I was kinda goofy.
Justin produced a baseball, a brand-new one that was still all white, and held it up, smiling. “If you’re up for it, we can go outside right now.”
I felt really tired and hungry, but I had a brand-new glove! I shoved my hand into it until I figured out where all my fingers were supposed to go. “Yes,” I said, pushing myself up. “Let’s do it.”
Justin bounced the ball up and down in his hand a couple of times and grinned at me. “Good. When all is done, I think you’ll find baseball a rewarding experience.”
I followed him outside. It didn’t matter that I was tired. I was practically floating.
***
I opened my eyes, standing on a random Chicago sidewalk, immaterial and unseen. I turned my right hand palm up and focused upon that sudden kindling of light and hope, crystallized by the memory of that moment of triumph and joy.
“Flickum bicus,” I whispered.
The fire was every bit as beautiful as I remembered.

Ghost Story Chapter 20, Page 228-231