"Gods," Professor Milton exclaimed as he turned to face them once more, having written the word in big, bold letters on the whiteboard. "The givers of hope, the causers of many a great suffering, and receivers of many whispered prayers throughout our 6,000-year existence as a civilization."
Andrea had to give it to the man. In the four lectures she had attended, he always seemed to switch on and capture their attention. This was despite the fact that he looked like a literature lecturer from any other ordinary school—perhaps one who ran to keep fit, from time to time. She had contemplated coming up to him several times since her dream with Anansi, but she still did not know whether or not to trust him. Anansi seemed to have no misgivings about the plan, but that failed to inspire confidence. For all Andrea knew, the man was just as much of a loon as her other lecturers seemed to be, and might even encourage her to pray. Although she knew that she was being unfair, the man had shown himself to be very rational and knowledgeable, without coming off as a nutcase.
Worse yet, with Anansi's flop of a warning, holding off on asking about her connection to him did not seem like a good idea.
Julian, she thought—and was immediately struck by a feeling of great despair. Three weeks—three weeks since I've been here, and he hasn't come to see me once…
"Now, I feel remiss to have to introduce such a controversial and divisive module," Milton said with a sigh, "but unfortunately I see no other choice."
He scanned the room before snapping his fingers and pointing at Andrea. "Ms. Salem."
Andrea sat up straight. "Professor?" she asked.
"Please remind us where we left off last week."
"We finished off module one, sir—how the Source's connection to our mind, body and soul allows for the Gods we worship to, sometimes and in some way, take form."
The professor smiled before nodding his head. "Very good, Andrea. That was a perfect summary."
Go Andy!
"As Ms. Salem has so eloquently put it," the professor said, turning back around to write on the whiteboard, "sometimes, through an accumulation of belief being poured back into the Source, an aspect of the Source can arise as a God."
She felt tempted to pull out her Grimoire to stare at the spider-web once more. "But sometimes, no matter how many people believe in a god, that god does not take shape in the Source. Why is that?"
His eyes scanned the lecture hall; he had a few options to choose from. He finally settled on Oliver Humber, whom the class called "Oliver Twist" because he came from a notably powerful—but poor—magician family. Andrea did not care for using that nickname.
"Mr. Humber, if you could please indulge me."
Oliver was not the most confident individual—who could be, with a class like this?—but he was at least smart, which was more than she could say for a good chunk of the class. He was scrawny and of middling height—a terrible combination—with orange hair and fiery eyebrows shaped in a devilish style. He cleared his throat, trying not to croak. "Too many different types of thoughts, sir—they… they scatter the idea of the god, I think…"
Professor Milton was good enough to intervene here before Oliver's confidence led him down an embarrassing road. "Good, Oliver. Yes—oftentimes the idea of a god can mean a different thing to different worshippers. If I believe God B is benevolent but you believe he is cruel, which form takes shape? Or the idea of that god is not consistent enough over time to form, or the faith did not have enough followers. Take, for instance, Mongolian Shamanism."
Andrea made it a point to look back at Oliver and give him a reassuring smile and a thumbs-up. The boy saw it and blushed before she turned back to look at the board.
"The Mongols' belief in their shamanism was flexible, to say the least. Belief was too subjective, and easily discarded for other faiths like Islam or Confucianism. Their religious inclusivity, though widely lauded, may also indicate a lack of willingness to truly believe in the way that the Source requires. And you can thus see how there would've been a lack of concentrated belief—too diffuse to truly affect the Source."
Professor Milton smiled and acknowledged the hand in the back. "Mr. Lipton, if you have raised your hand to complain that we have covered this before, then allow me to beat you to it."
He pointed at the word 'God' once more and said, "In short, what best forms a God in the Source is between belief and emotion—if not a substantive mix of both. For the former, it is simple. People A create a religion centered around God A, and if enough of them truly believe, by the time they die and their souls return to the Source, viola—God A becomes 'real', in a sense."
She looked over to say something to Aisling, but the girl's expression showed that she was wound up tighter than a fist over a found dollar. "The latter is the emotional aspect. For instance, humans can be capable of substantial greed. And thus, through those emotions, a God of Greed could form in the Source from the cumulative force of that desire."
Andrea watched another hand go up, and Milton nodded to acknowledge it. "Ms Petche?"
"Sir," she said in that shrill voice of hers, "then why do these gods not answer prayers and stuff? Shouldn't there be a Christian God who answers all prayers?"
"These non-magicians," Aisling muttered, rolling her eyes, "sure are ignorant."
Andrea raised an eyebrow, but her friend did not seem to notice her confusion.
Professor Milton smiled. "Finally—now we get into it. Oftentimes, you young folk are too concerned with speaking up on religion for fear of offending someone," he said. "I believe Professor Robertson will get into it with you, if he has not already done so. Who here can tell me of the Give-and-Take, or, as it is more commonly known, the Gambit?"
Many hands shot up this time, but Milton looked past them and pointed at Aisling. "Ms. Ryan—I have not heard a Ryan's voice in ages. Save me from this turmoil."
Andrea had never seen Aisling hesitate, but she did. Aisling cleared her throat and said, "The Gambit, or the Give-and-Take, is when one tries to make a deal with the Source. In exchange for receiving something, one must give up something else in turn—usually of comparable value."
Milton fixed his glasses and nodded. "And why, then, do all magicians not constantly make deals with the Source for rewards and boons?"
"Because of the risk," Aisling responded, as if reciting from a textbook. "The Source is spread out between billions of people—never mind insects and animals. Getting its attention is like trying to call someone standing across a room filled with five orchestras."
That made Milton smile, and their professor rewarded her with a round of applause, which some classmates joined in. "Ms. Ryan—well done. Yes, students: the Source does not give its attention without reason. And worse yet, the Give-and-Take is the most perilous part of the Gambit. Can anyone here tell me about this particular aspect?"
He looked toward the back of the class before smiling. "Mr. Smith."
"The Give-and-Take is the part of the deal one makes with the Source," he said, actually reading from a textbook like the lame he was. "One must give first to the Source before it can even hope to take."
"Thank you, Mr. Smith," the professor said. "I am glad to know that you are literate. I was beginning to wonder."
The jab was met with small laughs and Eric's smile, showing there were no hard feelings. To Eric's credit—as annoying as his voice could be—he was a pretty jovial dude. "Yes, as Mr. Smith has so eloquently put it, the Source requires one to give before an answer is given, although there have been very rare instances where asking alone has resulted in the asker receiving."
"Miracles…" Andrea muttered, and somehow the word had reached the professor's ears. He did not identify her, but he did smile to let her know that he had heard.
"Miracles," he said. "But for the rest of us, we must give up something, and even then, there is a very high likelihood your sacrifice will go unanswered. How high, you ask? Well—in truth I must now utter words that any educator or researcher hates to say: I do not know."
He wrote on the board and turned to say, "The nihilistic among us might say one in one million. The most zealous members of the Gods' Eye might claim it's ten percent. Most put it as one-in-one thousand chance of success. And what then stops us from asking one thousand times over and over again?
"Yes, my beloved students. The Give—the sacrifice. One must give up something in order to even have a chance of receiving. The worth of the gift is heavily tied to what is being sought. So if one has a thousand of something to give and give immediately, then what they seek must be damn near worthless to even bother trying."
Andrea wrote down what he said, and was certain that she was going to be through with this book by Christmas break, given how compelled she felt to take notes during the lecture.
"An example," Professor Milton said, pondering. "Say you are trapped in a hole that is thirty feet deep and there is an eight-foot rope. You can jump fifteen feet at the most. You are desperate and starving, and so you see no choice but to make the Gambit. What can you give to double your jump? You have perhaps five jumps left in you before you become too weak to even make a genuine attempt. So—what do you do?"
He looked out at the class for answers, and a handful of hands shot up. "Ms. Hugh?"
"I swear I'll never be able to jump again if I get to jump thirty feet just this once," she said.
"I would promise to give up all my money to charity," said Juliet Capell, trying a little too hard to seem perfect.
There were more shouts and suggestions throughout the lecture hall. One student promised to only eat cat food; another said they would promise to burn their most precious item; a third offered to give up access to the internet for a whole year.
"I'd promise that should I fail, I would then dig the hole deeper," Aisling said, silencing the hall. "And if that does not work, I would launch a fireball to burn the rope." Her words cut through the noise, and the professor stopped and cocked his head once they reached him. "Oh? And should that not work?"
"And if I fail the jump thereafter, I would break both my arms."
Professor Milton was thoroughly hooked now, and leaned forward to ask, "Oh yes, Ms. Ryan—a good idea. And what next?"
"I would promise to turn off my shroud after my next jump, to stop reinforcing my body should I fall."
Professor Milton began to laugh, and not in an endearing way. "I am almost frightened to ask what you'd be willing to sacrifice should that fail. Come then, Ms. Ryan—do not disappoint me now. The Source and I are waiting; you have one last go at it, what do you then give?"
Aisling pondered it for a moment before shrugging. "I would promise that all I have suffered, I would do unto the next person I meet…"
Milton said nothing for a moment, then clapped his hands together. "How selfish! Ms. Ryan— I do not dare speak for the Source, but were I to, I would say that you would most certainly get out of the hole." He then smiled reassuringly. "I only feel sorry for the next person you come across."
Andrea did too; she only hoped that the next person was not her…
She did not have to look at her phone to know that they were nearing the end of the lecture, and Milton seemed to notice as well, closing his book to give the class a final address. "I fear I have not set the pace I wished; I had hoped to cover far more today. But there is no Gambit I am willing to make to get more time with you all," he said—and even Andrea snorted. "So, I must bind you a fare-thee-well."
She got up and watched Milton packing his bag. Now is your chance, stupid, she told herself. Go up to him and tell him what is going on!
"Hey there," a voice said to her as she moved toward the professor. "You're Andrea, right?"
She turned to see a boy of middle height standing by the desk she had shared with Aisling—a lean and tanned youth with a nice smile and doe-shaped brown eyes.
"I might just be," she said, trying to recompose herself. "Depends—who's asking?"
His smile grew. "I've been hoping that the rumours were true—that you were American after all."
It only hit her then that he had a thick accent, revealing that he might be from the South, or maybe a more southern part of the Midwest.
"Well, if it's a fellow American asking," she said, holding out her hand, "then yes—that's me. May I ask your name?"
"Liam," he replied, wrapping a strong hand around her own. "Liam Baker."