Authors: Michael Bedard
Emily found her favorite bench, tucked against the trunk of a tall pine. She took her cigarettes from her purse, lit one, and took a long drag. So it had come to this – sneaking cigarettes on the sly. Ah, well. She removed her hat and set it down on the bench beside her. How wonderful the feel of the breeze against her skin, the scent of blossoms in the air, the play of sun and shade on the emerald grass.…
“Ah, here you are,” said a voice behind her, and a hand alighted on her shoulder. It was Miss Potts.
“I was hoping you might be here,” said Emily.
“I’m rarely anywhere else these days,” said Miss Potts as she sat down beside her. She looked very prim in her dark flowered dress, with a little lace at the cuffs and collar, her silver hair drawn back into a bun.
Emily noted with quiet concern that her friend’s shoes were caked with mud and the laces had snapped in several places.
“I’ve brought you these,” she said, taking a bouquet of daisies from her bag and handing them to her. She also took out a pair of scissors she’d brought from her sewing basket and set them on the bench beside her.
“Lovely,” said Miss Potts, admiring the flowers. “Are they from your garden?”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve let my garden lapse. I haven’t felt quite up to it since – oh, never mind.”
“No, do tell me.”
“It’s nothing, really. A mild heart problem. One expects such things at my age.” It was too sobering a thought for such a pleasant day. Emily tucked it quietly away. “Shall I get some water for those?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Would you, my dear?”
A little brass vase was set in a hollow in the ground close by the bench. She pulled it out, put the flowers in, and filled it at a nearby spigot. She took the scissors and tidied up the grass a little, and then put them back in the bag as she sat down.
“There. That’s got things looking a little more Protestant, as my dear grandmother used to say.” A runner panted by along the path, raising a hand in greeting. “Ah, to be young again,” said Emily.
“Yes, indeed,” mused Miss Potts.
“My niece has come to stay with me for the summer.”
“How nice.” Miss Potts reached up and pulled away a blade of dead grass that had caught in the hinge of her glasses.
“Yes, but I fear for her.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Because this is the year it’s due to come round again.”
“I see. And have you told her?”
“Yes, everything. She thinks I’m mad, of course. How could she think otherwise? I am.”
“Nonsense. You are a poet – a very good poet. You see more than most.”
“I’m afraid for her. I shouldn’t have allowed her to come. It was foolhardy. After the last time, I deliberately destroyed everything that had any connection with the show. I hoped that might end it.”
“There is no end. You must know that. It will come around again at the appointed time. Have you been dreaming it? That’s a sure sign.”
“Yes, but it’s different this time.
He
is the same, but the show is different. She found a playbill in the shop,” she said, reaching into her purse to take it out. She had worried the old thing into tatters. Unfolding it, she showed it to Miss Potts. “I’ve dreamt the entire show as it’s laid out there, all except the last three illusions. What can it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“And there’s something else. A strange boy has appeared from out of nowhere. She has befriended him.”
“You know the magician can assume any shape he chooses.”
“I know.”
“And he has taken the shape of a boy before.”
“I know, but what should I do?”
“The only thing you can do, my dear: watch and wait – and be ready.”
“I’m not as strong as I once was. I’m not sure I’m equal to this.”
“Have faith. Strength will come from somewhere you least expect.”
“I hope you’re right.”
They sat together quietly for a time. Then Emily gathered up her belongings and put them in her bag. “I should be going now,” she said.
But when she turned to say good-bye, Miss Potts was gone.
Delicate plumes of water fanned back and forth across the grass as she made her way back along the cemetery path. Near the front gates, she passed the Linton memorial, a large granite obelisk with the family name carved on its side and, below, the list of the Linton dead.
Had she paused to look, she would have noticed a new name added to the list, the letters cut sharp and clean in the stone, still untouched by weather and time.
O grabbed a corner of the felt and gave it a yank. Several of the tacks holding it in place popped free. One pinged off the window, narrowly missing her head. A cloud of dust rose from the old material and filled the confined space. She gave another yank – more flying tacks, more dust. This time the material tore, and she suddenly remembered what Emily had said about the fabric of
time tearing in places, allowing things to pass through.
By the time she’d pulled up all the material, she was coughing like a maniac. She bundled it up, careful to avoid the bristling tacks, then climbed out of the display area and waited for the dust to settle.
She wondered exactly how long the old felt had been in the window. The wood underneath looked ancient. She got a plastic bag from behind the desk and dumped the old material in. Climbing back into the window, she pried up the remaining tacks with a claw hammer and swept the area thoroughly.
She fetched the new fabric she’d bought, a large pair of scissors from the desk drawer, and a staple gun from the battered tool chest on the back porch.
It would have been nice to have another pair of hands to help, but Emily had vanished shortly after breakfast, saying there was someone she had to see. The woman was as high-strung as Psycho, wary of everyone and everything. She was constantly looking over her shoulder as if someone was following her.
The condition was contagious. Just being in the shop alone now was making O nervous. The shop ghosts were growing bolder. She kept seeing figures flitting in the shadows, kept hearing furtive little noises in the far room. Switching on the radio, she hoped a good dose of jazz might frighten them off.
She climbed back into the window and unfolded the new piece of fabric. As she draped it loosely over the two shallow tiers that descended to the display area, she was reminded of the steep slope of the ravine where she had followed Rimbaud the other day. It had been a totally crazy thing to do. And what had she gained by it, other than to deepen the mystery surrounding him?
She fit the material roughly in place and trimmed away the excess. She had just started turning the raw edges under and stapling it down, when she had the odd sensation of being watched. She swung around. Rimbaud was standing at the window, staring in.
It might simply have been her imagination, but she couldn’t help but feel there was something different in the way he looked at her. She continued feeling it even after he came inside and offered to help lay out the new felt.
They knelt side by side in the display area, tucking and stapling. It went a lot quicker with the two of them working, though it was a tight squeeze in the narrow space. Normally, she would have been happy to be this close to him, but now she felt almost afraid.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“No, nothing.”
“You seem awfully quiet.”
“Just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. I kept waking up with noises – raccoons or something – on the roof.”
They finished tacking down the felt. While she set up the new display, he roamed the store, searching for a book. At that moment, Emily walked through the door. O felt her heart sink. Her aunt would be sure to think it was more than mere coincidence the two of them were together in the shop in her absence. She scrambled out of the window to greet her.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked.
As Emily leaned in to look at the new window area, O glanced over her shoulder, trying to get Rimbaud’s attention. He was nowhere in sight.
“It looks great.”
“How was your visit?”
“Oh, fine. It’s a lovely day. We sat on a bench and chatted.” She put down her bag and took off her hat. “I need to talk to you.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about that boy.”
“Emily, maybe we –”
“No, it can’t wait. I’m worried. There’s something you need to know.”
There was a quiet creak of floorboards, and Rimbaud appeared at the far end of the aisle, by the desk. For a long moment, the two stood facing one another. Rimbaud seemed larger, more imposing. He wore a curious expression on his face. The air was charged with tension.
“Did you find anything?” asked O, as cheerfully as she could manage.
“Yeah, this,” he said and came to show her the book he had chosen.
“Perfect,” she said. “Thanks again for your help with the window.”
“My pleasure.” With a quick nod in Emily’s direction, he was out the door.
O and Emily traded glances. Then Emily picked up her bag and walked back through the shop and upstairs to the flat.
O stood looking out the window. She was glad Emily hadn’t seen the book Rimbaud had selected. It was a book on magic.
A
mong the things ranged onstage prior to the magician’s performance that night was a long low wicker basket, somewhat the shape of a coffin. During the show, the magician drew many of the props he required from it. The children were amazed at the sheer number of things he took from it, and when they felt it could not possibly contain one more thing, the magician removed yet another object from the basket. It seemed to be a bottomless well from which he could draw whatever he wished
.
Finally, however, it appeared he had come to the end of it. For now the magician walked over to the basket and, instead of reaching into it, turned it on its side so that everyone in the room could see it was quite empty
.
“How are we to proceed with the show?” he asked. “For it seems our inexhaustible trunk is exhausted. But wait, there is one small item left.” The audience strained to see what he saw inside that they could not
.
As he reached into it, one or two children noticed a glint of metal catching the candlelight. And, as the magician
straightened, they all saw the long curved blade and the jewel-encrusted handle of the sword he held in his hand
.
“This sword, my friends, was a gift to me from the sultan of Khadiz. It has been through many battles and tasted much blood, but none who possessed this sword has ever tasted defeat. Now, alas, it is far from the battlefield and waits patiently for the next illusion in tonight’s show, when, for a brief time, it will be called back into service
–
for the illusion entitled the Indian Basket
.
“I will require the assistance of a volunteer
–
some brave, adventurous spirit who is not afraid of darkness or danger. And, of course, for assisting in the show, our volunteer will receive a copy of the professor’s little book, which explains the secrets of the magical arts you are witnessing tonight.”
A murmur went through the room as neighbor turned to neighbor, each wondering if the other might have the courage to venture up onstage. Finally, a boy sitting by himself near the back of the room stood up. He was tall and thin, and his clothes were too small for him
.
There was an awkwardness to his movements as he made his way toward the stage, as if his limbs were wired together like a marionette’s. The other children shifted over slightly to let him by, muttering to one another and tittering into their hands, so that the sound of it moved through the room. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, too shy to meet their gaze, as if he was used to their laughter and had turned inward to shut it out
.
As the boy stepped from the shadows into the flickering light of the stage, the magician welcomed him and asked him his name. He muttered something inaudible as his eyes scanned the ground at his feet
.
The children laughed louder now, more assured in their mockery, as though the boy had been brought onstage for their amusement. His feet did an unhappy shuffle against the wood of the stage, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his side. It appeared to take every ounce of his courage to stand so exposed before them
.
The magician understood it all. “Tell us your name again,” he said, “so that even the mouse in the corner over there can hear you.” And his hand fell lightly on the boy’s shoulder. A shudder went through the boy, and he raised his eyes to look the magician full in the face
.
“Carl,” he said, with a boldness no one would have expected of him moments before. “My name is Carl.” He looked deep into the magician’s eyes, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side, as though words were passing between them that no one else in the room could hear
.
“Very good,” said the magician. “I’m sure even the little mouse in his hole could hear that.”
The boy smiled, and with that smile appeared to come a new confidence. The children looking on were stunned into silence. But the boy took no notice of them. His attention was all on the magician’s eyes
.
“Now, Carl, I would like you to take this sword and examine it carefully. Remember, the blade is very sharp.” He held the sword flat in the palms of his hands and passed it to the boy. As the boy took it by the handle, his eyes danced over the jewels, glimmering in the candlelight
.
“Now, Carl, this sword possesses great power. It was a sword only the bravest of the sultan’s warriors was allowed to touch. It brought invincibility to its bearer in battle.”
A smile passed over the boy’s face, and he raised the sword
.
“Can you feel its power?” asked the magician
.
“Yes,” said the boy. Everyone in the room could hear him now
.
The magician raised his hand in the air, and an apple appeared in it. “Now, Carl, I would like you to pass the sword very lightly over this piece of fruit to demonstrate to our audience just how sharp it is.”