The Man Who Was Magic (19 page)

Half the members of the audience were still rocking in their seats and slapping their sides, exhausted, and the other half were on their feet shouting, waving handkerchiefs and calling upon Ninian to return.

He was pushed out onto the stage again to receive his ovation, indicative of his acceptance into the Guild of Master Magicians, in utter bewilderment and failure to realize what was happening. Then he shambled off trailing ribbons, rubber flower garlands and pieces of scenery, his coat tails still smoking. As he passed Adam and Jane he was unaware of his victory and was weeping with shame and humiliation.

“I knew it,” he moaned, “I’m ruined! It’s the end! I should never have tried it. I can’t understand it. Things have never gone quite that wrong.”

“But Ninian,” Jane cried, “you’re a success! Adam helped you.”

At this moment the Master of Ceremonies came rushing up, seized Ninian’s hand and began to pump it. “Congratulations!” he shouted. “You’re a hit! You were tremendous! Funniest thing I ever saw in my life. You’ll be a sensation with that act. The Great Robert wants you to come to his box to felicitate you personally.”

And a crowd had already gathered around Ninian to slap his back, shake his hand and cry, “Great!” “Marvelous!” “Wonderful!”

Slowly Ninian began to appreciate his luck that by the enormity of his failure he had succeeded. And as he suddenly caught Adam’s eye, he saw that the red-haired magician was smiling at him. Thereupon Ninian found himself filled with an inexplicable anger. “It was you!” he shouted at Adam. “You’ve done it to me again! Now they’ll expect me to do that all the time. Why can’t you mind your own business and leave me alone?” And with that he rushed off.

Jane called after him, “Ninian, Ninian! Don’t go!” and then to Adam, “Why is he so angry that you made him a success? He didn’t even say thank you.”

“Never mind,” Adam replied, “he will one day.”

The curtain closed. The Orchestra Leader motioned to his men: “No music for this one,” and they all filed out from the pit through the exit beneath the stage.

Surprised, the members of the audience consulted their programs and read there, “No. 8. Adam the Simple in—Magic.”

With the rustle of the pages and the subsequent murmur that went up, it seemed as though almost a tremor had run through the house. For the name and the modest billing brought back to the minds of everyone what had been whispered about the town. Added to this was what they had been hearing from the agitators that very night before the show, between numbers and during the intermission.

It had been all of a piece with the early rumors—the stranger who called himself Adam the Simple wasn’t one of them at all, that is to say a professional sleight-of-hand artist or stage conjurer, but a creature who had experimented with the Black Art, sold himself to the Devil and now with his hellish tricks perfected was come to make them all look like fools and take the bread out of their mouths.

There were many among them who had laughed at this kind of talk, but others were quick to seize upon something sensational and if nothing else, Malvolio and his gang had succeeded in spreading doubt and uneasiness and creating an atmosphere of tension among the magicians and their families.

From the others on the bill, they had looked forward purely to entertainment. The whisperers had managed to endow the final act with something sinister.

Whereas the prior candidates had given their routines fanciful names, such as “Carnival of Flowers,” “Cards, Cards, Cards” or “The Ladies Vanish,” Adam’s plain designation of his act as “Magic,” in view of what they had been hearing, gave the word for the first time in their memory a curiously baleful quality. What did he mean by just “Magic?” The five letters, which up to that time had spelled no more than a delightful way of earning a living, became fraught with menace.

For many thousands of years primitive man had been held in terror of what he believed to be supernatural manifestations. Civilization had calmed and dispelled these ideas, yet deep down, long hidden away, were remnants of these ancient fears. It had needed only Malvolio’s campaign to bring them to the surface again.

The house lights dimmed and the audience, which had been rustling and buzzing and murmuring, now fell into a tense hush. In the silence before the curtain rose, Malvolio coughed three times. The cough was a code to his friends planted about the theater and meant, “Watch me now. When I give the signal, you all know what to do.”

From the left, the right, the center and the rear plus the balconies as well, came a chorus of three answering coughs meaning, “We are all ready here.”

The announcer appeared at the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, and now the final act of the evening. From the village of Glimour behind the Mountains of Straen, the last candidate for admission to the Master’s Guild—Adam the Simple!”

The names and the mention of the mysterious mountains sent another rustle through the spectators and when the curtain went up there was a further sensation. For it revealed that all the scenery, backdrop and wing masks had been removed or hauled up into the flies, along with every vestige of props, leaving nothing but the bare boards of the stage and the brick wall at the back.

Adam picked up the clothes rack he had brought from his dressing room and said to Jane, “Well, here we go. Remember now, what you’re to do.” He felt himself strongly tugged at by the child, with an urgency that could not be denied.

Clinging to his lapels, she looked up into his face and cried, “Don’t! Oh, Adam, please don’t!” as though by means of that magic box with which he had endowed her, she had all on her own been able to peer into the future or guess the catastrophe that awaited them.

“It’s too late now,” Adam said quietly. “Don’t be afraid, Jane. Come!” and he marched out upon the stage. Obediently Jane tripped after him.

And at that very moment, Mopsy, locked away in the Museum, had repeated once again in his despair, “Oh, if I only had some of Adam’s magic!”

And then, quite suddenly, he sat up and said to himself, “Mopsy, stop it at once! All this moaning and wishing! You may not have magic, but you have brains. Aren’t you always telling Adam, ‘Your magic and my brains—what a team!’? Come on now, use them! Adam is always saying you’re the cleverest little dog he’s ever known. Prove it then! There must be a way out of here and you’ve got to find it.”

And having thus given himself a scolding, he arose and began yet another tour around the Museum.

It was undeniably spooky. The devil in red leered at him with his glass eyes. The warrior in armor had his sword upraised, as though he were about to cut off someone’s head. The Gypsy fortuneteller, sitting over her crystal ball, pointing a finger, was watching him slyly. The Turk at the chessboard wore a most fierce expression on his waxen face. The skeletons hung motionless, their bones showing in the gloom, and the clown band had its instruments poised. Over all, clear up to the ceiling, towered the Jack-and-the-Beanstalk Giant and even in the semi-darkness Mopsy could see the whites of his eyeballs and and the two ivory fangs protruding from his mouth.

It took courage to turn his back on all those monstrous effigies to carry out his search, but Mopsy summoned every ounce that he had. If Adam and Jane were to be saved, this was no time to play coward.

Around and around he went, sniffing, poking and prying. But he
was
using his brains this time, for he said to himself, “It’s no use my wasting time at the doors. I’ve tried all those and they don’t work. I shall have to find something else. I must, I must, I must!”

But what that something else was, he did not know. Still, he continued his quest.

Thus it was that he came upon an object he had not seen before, simply because he had not been looking for it. It was a black box fastened to one of the pillars supporting the ceiling and its door was open. Inside it Mopsy could see a handle of a large, electric switch in the “Open” position and over it a lettered sign which read:

DANGER!
D
O
N
OT
T
OUCH
By Order of The Council

Danger to whom?
flashed through Mopsy’s mind. The one who touched it? Or the Council? And what kind of danger?

And then something inside Mopsy said, “What does it matter? I can’t be any worse off than I am now.” So, he got up onto his hindlegs, holding onto the box with his left paw and placing his right one on the handle of the switch, he pulled.

The results were immediate and sensational.

The Museum was instantly flooded with light and filled with the most terrifying sound as every automaton, figure, group and replica became animated.

With a terrible crash, the knight in armor brought his sword down onto the floor (he would most certainly have cut Mopsy in half, had he been there). With a rasp, a blare and a “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay” the clown band began to play. The Turk bared his teeth and shouted, “Checkmate!” The Gypsy fortuneteller smirked, shook her head and cried, “Beware of a dark stranger!” The Giant stamped his feet and roared, “Whooooooooo! fe, fo, fi, fum!” Smoke and flames came from the mouth of the red devil; all the skeletons began to dance and clack their bones. The mechanical horses galloped and the Chinese dragon undulated, thrust forth a forked tongue and exhaled sulphurous vapor.

But that wasn’t all. Bells clanged, horns tooted, whistles blew, eerie lights flashed, steam hissed. There were banshee shrieks and the hooting of owls and mocking laughter, while simultaneously the facsimiles of the Egyptian, Greek and Assyrian temples came to life with the clashing of gongs and braying of trumpets. The god Moloch opened wide his fiery jaws to receive the sacrifice, as priests chanted; the Greek sibyl cried, “Woe, woe unto ye all!” And the Egyptian gods with heads of birds and beasts, screeched, barked, squealed and whooped.

It was all too much for Mopsy’s nerves. He began to run, giving forth shrill cries of “Help! Help! Let me out of here!” And the faster he ran, the worse it was with seemingly every figure snatching, grabbing, pointing, glaring, hacking at him, the noises torturing his ears.

Round and round he tore, pursued by the pandemonium until he thought his heart would burst when, suddenly, a door was flung open and a voice cried, “Here, here, what’s going on? Who pulled that switch?” It was the janitor of the Museum.

Mopsy did not linger to reply. In a flash he was between the man’s legs, through the door, up the steps and out to freedom. He gathered his last, remaining strength to dash across the Town Square and headed for the Auditorium.

XIX

T
WO FOR THE
M
ONEY

T
he red velvet curtains had lifted and on a bare stage against the background of a brick wall, the audience saw a slender, red-haired magician in faultless tail coat and white tie, a child in the traditional, sequined assistant’s costume with a short cape thrown around her slim shoulders. A standing clothes rack was all they had brought on with them.

It was the custom in Mageia, a matter of politeness, to greet the appearance of each performer with a welcoming round of applause. Yet now there was none. It was as though before he had so much as raised a finger, the stranger had cast a spell that lay heavily upon the house.

No one had ever presented himself thus to them before, on a stage empty of everything but a coat rack.

For professionals that they all were, it said more clearly than if he had spoken, “I have nothing to conceal and don’t need any of your props, mirrors, trap doors, lighting, etc.”

They seemed to feel the same challenge in the hat set a shade too saucily on one side of his head, the strange eyes that might have been just that much too bright and knowing, the thin face, the crinkled nose and the wide mouth, combining in an expression slightly mischievous.

That beast in the darkness, known as an audience, waited. And thus for a moment they measured one another, the silent spectators breathing almost in identical rhythm and the two motionless figures regarding them from the stage.

The performance began with an imperceptible movement of Adam’s finger towards Jane, after which the magician stood at the side of the stage, chin cupped in his right hand, his elbow in his left, watching her.

The child dropped him a curtsy and another towards the Auditorium. Then in accordance with the instructions she had memorized and rehearsed in the dressing room, she rolled the coat rack on its wheeled stand down, close to the footlights. There she proceeded to demonstrate exactly what it was and what it was for.

Jane turned it this way and that so that everyone could see, tapped it to show that it was solid and then took it apart, removing the crosspieces and unscrewing the pole from the stand. With the poise of a veteran, she showed all the parts separately and then put it back together again.

Up in the stage box, The Great Robert remarked, “Well, well, who would have thought she had it in her?”

Peter said, “I suppose she’ll get a swelled head, now.” He was burning with jealousy.