In a bad way. Ol’ fate has sure been having some fun with me lately. In a cat and pet hamster kind of way. Five months ago, when I turned thirteen and began my apprenticeship, my master Gideon told me (no, wait—make that ordered me) to keep a journal. He said it’s a good way to practice my writing skills. And it’d help me remember everything I was learning. That it would be a record of the twists and turns in the path of my life’s journey. (His words, not mine.) He also said that when I got older, I’d appreciate its magic. At the time, I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. But now I understand. He was right. Of course, Gideon is right most of the time. Not that I would ever tell him that. Because he’d use it against me, somehow, to do extra chores or more training or something like that. He’s tricky that way. But, in all fairness, he is right about a lot of things. Maybe because he’s over three hundred years old. Age and wisdom and all that. To the humans of our hometown, High Springs—about an hour south of Denver—Gideon looks just like your average blue-collar guy in jeans and work boots.
