Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories Read online

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  Introduction to

  THE MAGIC MAN by Charles E. Fritch

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  At Chuck Beaumont's funeral twenty years ago, a man came up to me and introduced himself "I'm Bill Shatner," he said. And of course he was-Captain Kirk himself, beamed down to planet Earth for this sad occasion to pay his respects to a fine writer and a nice guy inexplicably cut down in his prime. Shatner had already appeared in Chuck's film The Intruder. If fate had played a kinder hand he might also have appeared in television and movie Star Trek adventures with interesting and literate screenplays sculpted by the fine creative hand of Charles Beaumont. What incredible journeys he would have taken us on, what strange new Beaumontian worlds we might have explored. The mind boggles! Beaumont is no longer with us (God knows why; I don't), but we do have a wealth of his stories, a literary treasure trove that brings back fond personal memories for me. I remember, for example, the reading of many of these stories in manuscript form to a group of writer-friends gathered around Chuck's table in the kitchen of his North Hollywood apartment. And for those of you who had not the good fortune to know this man, you can discover him through these stories; it will be an effort well worth your time. "The Magic Man" is one of my favorite pieces. Some stories written a generation-plus ago date badly, but this one seems timeless. I had not read it in a quarter of a century, but once again, all these years later, I delighted in and admired Chuck's magic in building a story: the smooth phrasings, the just-right metaphor or simile in just the right place, the rhythm of the sentences that makes the images flow with fluid grace even as the story unfolds. The casual reader would not notice the bricks and the mortar, and a good thing, too, or, as in the story itself, the magic might go away. The story illustrates another truism that Chuck had learned: stories that meant something should be about real people. The pretty word, the clever phrase, the unusual gimmick are fine if they fit, but by themselves they are not enough to sustain the delicate magic for very long, and stories that have only these artificial devices fade quickly and are soon forgotten. "The Magic Man" is one of Chuck's stories that will not be forgotten. When it came to telling a story, he was a craftsman, a wordsmith, a magician who mesmerized his audience with the tools of his trade: a typewriter, a free-wheeling imagination, and a gift for telling tales about people who lived and breathed in his and their universe. He created a magic that lives on, for just as surely as the character in the story that follows, Chuck Beaumont was himself a magic man!

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  THE MAGIC MAN

  by Charles Beaumont

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  In the clear September moonlight now the prairie lay silent and cool and the color of lakes. Dust coated it like rich fur, and there was only the night wind sliding and sighing across the tabled land, and the wolves-always the wolves-screaming loneliness at the skies: otherwise, silence, as immense as the end of things. Dr. Silk thought about this as he tried to pull sleep into his head. It had been a long day, full of miles and sweat and blasting sun, and he should be sleeping, like Obadiah, resting for tomorrow, the Lord knew. Why else had the night been created? Yet, here he was, wide awake. Thinking. With his knife-sharp brittle thigh, the old man sought some supporting softness in the thin straw mattress. Then, at last, feeling the covers slip to the floor, he snorted, swung his feet over the side of the pallet, and sat for a while, rubbing the back of his neck. "You got troubles, Doctor?" Obadiah's voice was mildly alarmed; if he had been awakened it was impossible to tell. "You sick?" "No troubles," Dr. Silk said, shaking his head. "Got to get a breath of air is all." "You want to be careful and not take the cold." "I'll be careful." Outside the wagon, the night was chill. Dr. Silk got out his hand-carved pipe and sat down on the wagon steps and watched the wind for a while. He watched it race along the prairie, lifting dust and making little gray dances, and he began to think, as he had many times before on just such nights, of the invisible life that surrounded him, existing in unseen magic. Magic. He held the word, smiled, and glanced along the wagon. Its colors were faded now, but in the glow of moon they blazed: reds and yellows and oranges and bright greens. And the big-lettered printing, vivid with scroliwork: THE MAGIC MAN Wonders Performed Before Your Eyes! Dr. Silk began to feel good again, after… months. It must be months. He forgot about the cold, pulled at his pipe, and let tomorrow take form. It warmed him. For something wonderful was going to happen: tomorrow Dr. Silk-no; Micah Jackson-the foolish, cranky, asthmatic old man who creaked when he walked, who snuffled and sneezed and coughed and wandered the land in a wagon, mostly lonely, mostly tired-this prune-wrinkled sack of ancient bones-would disappear. Allakazam! Micah Jackson would disappear. And in his place there would be an elegant gentlemen in a brocade vest and a black top hat and a suit as dark as midnight: The Magic Man, Doctor Silk-Prince, Emperor, Bringer of Mysteries and Wonders and Miracles. Tentatively, his fingers made an invisible coin vanish: he leaned back and thought now of the children. Of their fresh faces and their wide wondering eyes. In a while his pipe died, but he did not notice . Then dawn came, slowly, spilling its cold light over the desert. Leather-toned dust had mounded up around the wagon wheels and the still sleeping mules, high, as if the rig were some forgotten tomb unburied for an hour. Dr. Silk blinked crusted eyelids and wondered whether he'd actually dozed off. It didn't seem so. But, in any case, he felt just fine. "Obadiah!" It was very early. Far ahead and low he could see the moon, waferthin, unreal, ready to wink instantly out. And it was deaf-quiet. "Obadiah!" He knocked the pain out of his bones and moved up the steps. "You aim to sleep all day?" The old Negro's eyes came open; a sheen of silver covered his face. "Morning," he said, uncertainly. "Morning. How about some breakfast?" "You want breakfast?" A glass of applejack usually sufficed for Dr. Silk. He disliked soft foods and was fearful of anything that might cause further damage to his already chipped and cracking plates. "Of course! Coffee, and beans, and maybe a couple biscuits." "Yes, sir. Biscuits." Obadiah dressed quickly, and began to rummage. "We must be getting close." "If we move," Dr. Silk said, "we ought to reach Two Forks by late afternoon: three, four o'clock, the way I see it." "How about the medicine?" Obadiah gestured toward the rows of empty bottles strapped to the wall. They were labeled: DOCTOR SILK'S WONDEROL-A SOOTHING REMEDY FOR HEADACHE, STOMACH CRAMPS, QUINSY, DIZZINESS & OTHER AILMENTS. "Well, I'll mix up a batch pretty soon." The Negro paused. "Didn't we sell an awful lot to the people last time we was to Two Forks?" "We did indeed," Dr. Silk said. He frowned. "Obadiah, how many times have I got to tell you? There's nothing whatsoever harmful in Wonderol. If the folks think it'll cure them, it's got just as good as chance as anything else." "Yes, sir." Obadiah tottered down the steps. "But one of these here fine days," he muttered, "we going to be running around all covered with a lot of tar and feathers, you see…" Dr. Silk laughed. He walked over to the large brassbound trunk that sat in the corner and pulled up the lid. He began to remove things. Colored squares of cloth came out first, transparent, weightless as gauze. These he transferred to a smaller box. Then serpentines uncoiled from the trunk; and bright gold hoops came out; and decks of cards and rubber bottles and disembodied hands and a stringless banjo that could make sweet music. Wonder followed wonder. The knife that was sharp enough to slice through wire but could not even scratch a child's soft flesh; Black Ben, the wooden bandit who could speak and sometimes did, if you asked him to, politely; the rose bush that grew on the head of a walking stick- all the miracles of Pandora's box, and more, one after another, carefully sorted and placed and made ready. When he had finished here, Dr. Silk got a stiff brush and went to work on the black suit that hung from a hook. Dust flew and the old man cursed and then it was time for breakfast. "Hitch up the mules, Obadiah!" "But you ain't et." "I'll eat on the way. Hitch 'em up!" And they traveled, then, groaning and rattling, over the flour-soft desert. Dr. Silk fussed with his food and filled the Wonderol bottles and fussed some more; at last he could wait no longer. He stripped off the dirty woollen trousers and checkered shirt
. He stood before the jouncing mirror. He waxed his mustaches until they were as sharp and wicked and hard as scimitars. "Easy, Obadiah, dammit. Easy!" He climbed into the tight black suit. He put on the brocade vest, a dazzle of mossgreen. He looked again into the mirror. Well, there you are, Doctor, and who says you aren't handsome-and sighed. Then, sitting up so as not to wrinkle the suit, bracing himself against the wagon wall, he fell fast asleep. ". . . the Magic Man! The Magic Man!" "Where?" "Right there, comin' down the street, can't you see?" "It is, it's him-he's back!" "Hey, Ma, look! Dr. Silk!" Drowsing elders leaned forward on torn cane-backed chairs; large women turned their heads and tried to hold onto their children; all over, people came out of doors and peered through windows and stopped what they were doing. "By God, here we go again!" And suddenly the street was a tumult of dogs and children, yipping, yelling, running. "Come back here, James, you listening to me?" Everyone watched, as the familiar wagon grew larger. And thought: Has a whole year really passed? Has it? There was Obadiah, sitting erect, expressionless, a dark gentleman with tight white hair, looking exactly as he'd looked the first time; and Dr. Silk-a monarch, an Eastern potentate, a devil and a god-smiling mysteriously at the running people. "Hi, when's it gonna be?" a young girl cried. And the others: "When's the show?" "You gonna do magic for us?" "Tonight-it'll be tonight, won't it?" Dr. Silk smiled and waited until they had crossed the town and reached the open edge; then he nodded to Obadiah and Obadiah squealed the brake blocks and scrambled down, arms filled with cardboard posters. "Let me take a look at one of them things." One of the men in the gathering crowd came forward. "What's it say, Mr. Fritch?" "Tonight," the man read aloud, "at eight o'clock. Says we're all invited to attend a show given by the world's greatest-God Almighty, what's that?" "Prestidigitator," Dr. Silk supplied. "Magician." The man scowled, and continued. "Wonders-performed-never-before-seen-by-the-human-eye. All-new. Watch-miracles-as-they-happen. See-the-enchanted-rose-bush. See-rabbits-appear-out-of-empty-air. See-the-great-card-mystery-" The man stopped reading. "Tonight?" "Tonight. Eight sharp." "Hiii!" The children began to swarm over the wagon, like mad puppies. A boy whose face was a violent explosion of brown freckles climbed up and hollered: "Hey, where you been?" "Traveling, son." "Like where, for instance?" Dr. Silk jumped down and started to talk. The crowd parted and formed an aisle; grown-ups mumbled excitedly, striding off, while the children went with the Magic Man-the older, and braver, ones, those who remembered last year, by his side; the younger ones following timidly behind. Obadiah remained. When the posters were all up, he would construct the stages, in secret. "Traveling like where?" "Oh," Dr. Silk said, casually but loudly enough for all to hear, "like China." "China!" "And Paris-France, and London." "Really?" "How about Egypt?" called a voice from the rear: a thin, awkward child, too excited to blush. "By all means," Dr. Silk laughed. "You don't think I'd miss Egypt, do you?" "And Germany-was you there?" "Oh, yes." "Bet you never went to Africky, with all the cannibals!" "Now that's where you're wrong, young man. Some of my best friends happen to be cannibals." "Is your man a cannibal?" "Obadiah? Well…" Dr. Silk stopped, suddenly. "I wouldn't want this to get around, but-" He stopped and turned his head in all directions, while the children held their breath. "Can you all keep a secret?" Dozens of small heads went up and down, solemnly. "Well, that man of mine used to be-No; I'd better not tell you." "Tell us!" "No. You'd get scared and run home. You'd tell your daddies and then they wouldn't let you come to the show." "No sir! We wouldn't say a word." A boy not much larger than a prairie dog tugged at Dr. Silk's black trousers, and said, in a high squeaky voice: "Honest to God!" The Magic Man sighed, and squatted. He put his arms around nearby slender shoulders. "All right. Now you understand, I wouldn't tell nobody else but you. Well, sir, that old man of mine used to be the wildest, fiercest cannibal on the whole Sandwich Island." "The Sandwich Island? Where's that at?" "Why, boy, don't they teach geography in the schools any more? That's in Darkest Africa, right near the Indian Ocean." "Oh." "We were just passing through, you see, when all of a sudden, our ship was attacked by head-hunters. It was something, all right. Anyone here present ever been attacked by head-hunters?" No one said a word. "Seven foot tall they was and blacker than the ace of spades, and ugly? Enough to make a body wake up in the cold sweats of a night. They'd all snuck on board without making a sound, and bust in on us. We didn't have a chance. Them devils had special swords that would slice through a stair-rail in one swipe, while we had our fists and that's all. Plus being outnumbered eleven to one. People, I'm not ashamed to say that I was nervous. Everywhere I looked, heads were flying off from folks I'd been chatting with only a few minutes before. I heard the captain start to yell, 'Git back, ye no-good heathens'-but he never finished what he was going to say, because one of the head-hunters had creeped up and lopped off his head clean as a whistle. Having no weapon, I caught it on the fly-" "You caught what on the fly, Dr. Silk?" a voice quavered. "The captain's head. Got it by the hair, you see, and started to swing. Luckily Captain Ruyker was a Dutchman, and it's a known fact that Dutchmen have heads as hard as rock. We clouted our way through six or seven of the devils, the captain and me-knocked 'em galley west-but then, when I got to the rail, I seen it was no use. I was a goner. You all know what a crocodile is?" "Yes, sir." "Well, that ocean was just crawling with crocs. I couldn't jump in and swim for it or I'd be et in two minutes. And I couldn't turn back, either, because there they was, madder than hornets, them head-hunters, coming at me with their swords. Either way I was due to be somebody's dinner." A girl in a gingham dress whispered: "Why didn't you use your magic?" Dr. Silk shook his head. "That wouldn't have been fair," he said. "Would it?" "I guess not," the girl sighed. Dr. Silk straightened up, careful not to groan. A boy with round eyes and pale cheeks said: "What'd you do then?" "Well, between crocodiles and cannibals, a smart man will always pick cannibals. That's what I did, too. 'Come on,' I told them. 'I'll fight you by twos or by threes!' But they didn't listen. Just kept coming. Then when I closed my eyes and could almost feel that blade zipping through my neck, they surprised me. Picked me up bodily and threw me in a canoe and we paddled down the Amazon to this here place, the Sandwich Island. That's where they all lived, you see. Well, I got there and in two shakes those head-hunters had me in this pot-great big old pot, like a kettle, rusty, made of iron. My hands was tied, so I couldn't do nothing but watch while they poured in the water and threw in some apples, bunches of carrots, and about ten heads of lettuce - "What were they aiming to do, Dr. Silk?" "That's a silly question, boy." Dr. Silk's voice sank to a dreadful murmur. "They were aiming to cook me alive." A girl put her hands to her lips. Some of the older boys giggled nervously and fell silent again. Now they were all walking. The grown-ups on the porches didn't bother them because they knew Dr. Silk and they knew what he meant to the children. Secretly, a lot of them wished they could join the crowd and listen to the wonderful stories; but, of course, that would not be fitting. Passing the Two Forks Feed and Grain Store, mincing along, barely moving at all, Dr. Silk and his parade made those with book learning think of the Pied Piper of Hamelin… "What happened then, sir?" "Well, you might know that along about now I was beginning to feel pretty low. The flames was crackling and the water was boiling and those seven-foot black demons sat hunched down on their hams, waiting. Just-waiting." "Did you holler?" "Wouldn't do no good. Who'd hear me?" "Goddy." "I began to sweat some then, and I could see myself all decked out on the table with an apple stuck in my mouth, when there came this eerie kind of scream. Like this"-Dr. Silk cupped his hands around his mouth and emitted a low cry, something like an owl, something like a coyote-"Owoooo! 'What's that?' I said, but they just looked sad and wouldn't answer. Then I saw over across the island, by the water, was a great big castle made out of colored rocks." "That's where the noise was coming from?" "Right. And it wouldn't stop, either. Owooo! Owooo! Sent the cold shivers down my spine. But I seen there was no sense in my worrying about that-not with the water bubbling and boiling all around me like a stew. F
inally there was nothing else left to do, except…" "You magicked them!" "Only a little. I said the magic words that made the ropes around my hands and feet vanish and in a second I was out of the pot. Say, I want you to know that I did some running then! Dripping carrots and lettuce and what-all, I kept about two feet ahead. Anyone here ever try to dodge a spear while they were running?" No one ever had. "It wasn't easy. I could feel them shafts whistling by my ears no more than an inch. Looked like I was done for, when one of the spears got into my shirt: it must of been tossed mighty hard, because it lifted me up off the ground and carried me right across the island like a bird. Probably would of dumped me smackdab in the ocean if I hadn't got off, too. But I did get off, and landed right at the door of the castle. Heard the screaming, then, louder than before, so I rushed in, slammed the door in the nick of time, and went to investigate." "Was it a haunted castle?" Dr. Silk frowned. "Boy, I could tell you it was haunted, but that would be a lie." "Just an ordinary castle?" "Ordinary as it could be, except for all the shrunk-up heads on the walls. Well, I went through a lot of corridors, and then sure enough, there, laying in state, was the king of Sandwich Island. It didn't take no more than a glance to see he was ailing with a rare tropical disease, the kind that makes your toes drop off. And holler? You'd of thought he was trying to call home a god. And there I was. It was my opportunity to run out the back way and escape to my freedom-but I couldn't do it." "Why not?" the freckled boy asked. "Because of the king. You never let a man die without trying to help, do you?" "But them head-hunters are gonna get you any second!" "It was a risk I had to take. Moving fast, I reached into my satchel and brought out a bottle of special medicine. I could hear the door splintering, so I cracked the neck of the glass on the wall and opened the king's mouth and poured her all in. And do you know what?" "What?" "By the time those cannibals busted in, their ruler was setting up, well as the day he was born. Of course, that changed their attitude in a hurry. They wanted to shake my hand, but I refused, after what they had done to Captain Ruyker and my friends on the boat. Still, they said, I had to be paid back. So the king thought a spell and finally decided to give me his son for a slave." "Obadiah?" "None other. He's been with me ever since, and a truer friend you couldn't ask." There was the sound of held-breath suddenly released. "Does he ever try to-" The girl in the gingham dress still looked terrified. Dr. Silk smiled. "It's only happened twice since that day in 1840. You may be sure I made him take back the heads and apologize. I don't think there's anything to worry about now." Down the street, coming out of a saloon, with his arms full of posters, Obadiah stopped and grinned, widely: a crescent of glittering white shone from the dusky face. He waved. The children shuddered. "Well," Dr. Silk said, "you kids run along now. I'll be seeing you tonight." "You got any new magic for us?" "Oh, lots of new magic, son. You wait." "We'll be there. We will." The dust snowed up around all the skinny wool-wrapped legs as the children broke and scattered and ran home to count the minutes. Dr. Silk chuckled, straightened his shoulders, and walked imperially to the Wild Silver Saloon. Its pleated batwings swung noiselessly inward, and back. He made his way to the stained oak bar and said, "Applejack, please," and began to dig for coins. The bartender set down the glass. "On the house," he said. "Thank you very much." "You're the magician." "I am." "I seen you last year when you was in Two Forks, and the year before that." The bartender was a huge man: clumped black hair covered his arms and head, the tops of his fingers, the top of his nose, like the pelt of a muddied coyote. It was strange to see such a man smile. Yet he smiled now, and Dr. Silk wondered for a moment how it would have been if Micah Jackson had just walked in instead of the Magic Man. "Putting on a show tonight, are you?" "Yes, indeed. I hope that you can come." "I'll do that," the bartender said, "if I can get me a substitute." He went over to a thin man at the end of the bar and Dr. Silk watched and listened and forgot that there lived a lonely, withered old man named Micah Jackson, too tired to care, too old to run, ready for death to catch up. The men in the bar had their eyes fastened on him. As they would if he were the President: more than that, though, more than mere respect. These were adults, some of them with years painted into their faces, tottering grandfathers; and still, were their eyes much different from children's, now? He studied their eyes in the big bar mirror. There was respect, yes; a little fear, perhaps; and love-certainly there was that, abundantly. Why? he wondered, as he always did. Was it because he was a man who could fool them with illusions? Only because he knew how to make pigeons fly out of an ordinary hat? He threw down the rest of the applejack and hoped this wasn't the answer. The liquid warmed a path. Perhaps, he thought, it was because he brought a little honest wonder into their lives one night out of the year . Then he remembered the prairie that surrounded this small and weary town. And the applejack made him want to turn and say something to the men. You don't have to wait for me, he wanted to say. Just open your eyes: there's magic in the air. Show me a tree, I'll show you a trick no magician alive could ever do. The dust underneath your boots is a riddle to keep you up nights: What did it used to be before it was dust? Mountains? And the sun! Hey, keep your eyes on the yellow ball-now it's there, now it isn't. Where does it go to? And why? A stone, a hill, a lake-now there's tricks that are tricks, gentlemen! There is magic for you. And I'd give a lot to figure out how they're done, yes, sir, a lot . But he didn't say any of this. Instead he ordered another drink and reached over and calmly withdrew a bouquet from a small man's vest. The man jumped back and stared. "Better shut your mouth, Jeff," the bartender said, winking, "or he'll be taking something out of it you won't want to see!" The man closed his mouth and everybody laughed. They gathered around, then, at this signal. "Show us another one now, come on. Give us a rabbit." Dr. Silk vanished the bouquet and pulled a cartwheel from nowhere. "Give us a rabbit!" "Now, boys, I got to save something for tonight. Even magicians have to eat, you know." "That so? I'd of thought you'd conjure up a steak whenever you felt like it!" "Well, that's true. But they never taste so good, somehow. Though I do remember one experience when I had no choice in the matter. It was in Russia, and I hadn't et anything but bugs for seventeen days and nights . . The bartender leaned forward, wiping slowly at a thick glass mug. "You was in Russia?" "Oh yes," Dr. Silk said. "Got a good friend there-only man I know who can outshoot me. He once knocked the wings off a beetle at fifty paces. And-well, when things get on the dull side, I take a little trip and visit him. Of course, he's always glad to see me, since if it hadn't been for Doc Silk, he'd probably still be sitting on that flagpole…" Every man in the bar had now joined the group. Dr. Silk looked around, took a breath, and began to talk. He knew they would believe him. After all, how can you doubt the word of a man who pulls roses out of the air? Obadiah rang the bells; the crowd hushed; Dr. Silk walked through the curtained tunnel from the wagon to the stage. He bowed gravely. A creature he was from another world, as strange in this tiny Kansas town as a comet. Oil lamps from below threw unearthly light across his face, curving the shadow of his mustaches up into the squints of his eyes. He was unreal. At any moment he might turn into a hawk or crumble into a little heap of stars or snap his fingers and change night into day. "Ladies and gentlemen-" His voice was smooth and deep, a roar of ocean. "-and good friends!" Far away there was the snorting of restless ponies; otherwise the town was silent, gathered here. Children sat on boxes or their fathers's shoulders: a few were squeezed as close to the platform as they could get, squirrel-eyed already, watching. "The wonders I have brought to you tonight are here for your edification and enjoyment. They were taught to me by an East Indian princess, in exchange for saving her life. Before that eventful happenstance on the Fiji Isles, I was an ordinary man, possessed of no more powers than you… or you…" His finger jabbed out, pointing to one and then to another. ". . . or you. Then I learned the Mysteries of the Ages, and dedicated myself to bringing them to the people of the United States, my home. Later on I'll tell you all about a magic remedy that you can't get anywhere else-you all know it by
now. But first: On with the show!" And with a twist of his wrist, Dr. Silk plucked a crimson handkerchief out of the air. While the people watched, he balled the cloth into his fist, held it, and said, "Allakazam!" and shook loose five handkerchiefs, all knotted together, all different colors. Applause tumbled out over the stage. Shouts and laughter and shrill little cries. Micah Jackson's body became inhabited by a demon: the demon made legs hop that could never have hopped otherwise; the old man in the black suit moved about the stage with youthful, fluid grace, prancing, bowing, skittering. Rapidly, he pulled wonders from his sleeves. He borrowed a young cowboy's hat and broke six eggs into it and then made the eggs disappear: Presto! He showed the people two bright yellow hoops, eternally joined as the links of a chain. Strong men tried to pull the hoops apart. Clever men searched for the tiny hinges that had to be there, and weren't. Ordinary hoops? Very well. Rickety-rack, pom pety-pom! And with a flourish, Dr. Silk separated the hoops and sent them rolling away. The applause was guns going off now, it was horses stampeding. Dr. Silk ate it and drank it, and knew that of all the places he had ever been, Two Forks loved him most. He'd actually thought he had been slipping, losing the love that nourished him-and listen to them now! Obadiah, looking fierce and mysterious in the light, as a head-hunter ought to look, put the miracles away with immense style. Sometimes-on times like this-the old man seemed to forget that he had joined Dr. Silk as the result of a bet: he seemed to remember far-off jungles of Arabian Deserts or floating islands in the clouds. Obadiah was old, he partook of the wonder against his will. Now Dr. Silk was crawling inside a coffin, and the eyes of the people broadened, and their fists clenched, and their breath stopped in their throats. Obadiah's voice boomed majestically. "Will somebody from the audience kindly step up and nail down the lid?" A farmer let friends push him up onto the stage. He grinned foolishly, and winked, and put his shoulders into the hammer. The farmer went back into the crowd, full of triumph. "He's foxed now, you can wager. He's in that box for good!" Obadiah stretched his arms and held up a lavender curtain and counted: "One! Two! Three! Four! Are you ready, Doctor?" "Ready!" And there was Dr. Silk, standing by the coffin, bowing. The people stomped, shouted, yelled, thumped, while the children kept crying, "How'd you do it? Tell us how you did it!" The miracles went on, wrapping the people of Two Forks tighter and tighter in the spell. Time ceased to exist, while rabbits hopped out of top hats and cards flew loose like wild pigeons, only to fly back again, and chairs and tables floated on the still night air. "Pick a card, sir. Any card." (The pains were coming back, getting into his bones.) "Well, I don't know-" "Got it?" (Hot pains, knifing. Get away!) "Yeah, I guess so!" "Is there-" Dr. Silk had to gasp to keep the hurting from his body "-is there any way I could have seen that card, sir?" "Not that I know of there ain't." "Sure about that?" (Better now; a little better; passing.) "Yeah." "All right. The card you're holding… might it be the ace of spades?" "God bless us, that's what it is, sure enough!" "Thank you, sir, thank you. And now-" The people of Two Forks listened to a speech made by a villainous looking dummy, they watched silver dollars appear from their vests, from their ears, from their hair… (The pain gathered in his heart, punched, and subsided.) "If you found it on me, dammit, then I figure it's mine!" And all the while, the children screeching, "Please tell us! How'd you do that one, Dr. Silk? Did it really come out of nowhere? Show us how! Please!" Finally, it was time for the last magic. Perspiring, Dr. Silk told them about the years he had spent in Ethiopia, and how the maharaja had refused absolutely and how he'd had to creep into the palace in the dead of night, at great risk to his life, in order to steal the enchanted basket. "Is it empty, sir?" "Empty as it can be!" "Nothing whatever inside? Hold it up for everybody to see, please. Nothing there?" "Nope." "I'd like a strong man, please. A man with muscles, who knows how to throw." "Go on, Doody! Go on." "Ah, thank you. Now then, I want you to take this empty basket and throw it straight up into the air, as high as you can. Is that clear?" "Just toss it up in the air, you mean?" "That's right. Ready? One… two… three… Throw it, sir!" The man threw the basket: it sailed upward. All eyes held it. Then there was an explosion, and eyes jerked back to Dr. Silk, who stood on the stage with the smoking pistol in his hand. The basket fell back to the stage, rolled, was still. "Mr. Doody, would you care to remove the lid?" The man poked tentatively at the basket's woven teapot lid. It fell aside. "The Lord!" And out of the basket shot a hundred snakes! Red ones, green ones, yellow ones-jerking, twitching serpentines, like a rainbow come suddenly apart. Dr. Silk looked over at Obadiah, who grinned and winked and immediately hauled out the boxes of Wonderol. The people stood smiling out as far as you could see. Bowing, Dr. Silk listened to their applause; he listened and felt the love as it cascaded over the oil lamps. And he knew it was the sweetest, most marvelous feeling that could be: he wished he could do more-something to repay them for this love which, if they knew it, kept him alive, nourished him, let the heart of Micah Jackson beat on. If he could make them see the magic around them, that would be a repayment-but how many ever saw this magic? No, he couldn't do that for the people. Yet-. "How'd you do it?" The high-voiced softly shrill question had become a chant. The children were ecstatic: "Tell us, tell us, please!" Begging, imploring. Would he do this for them, would he, please? Dr. Silk felt the applejack-"Mr. Jackson, if you don't cut it out, you'll be dead in a year, I promise you"-and his head seemed to dance with the children's question. Then, all at once, he knew. He knew what he could give the people. He knew how he could say thank you and say good-by, gracefully, forever. "All right," he called. "Gather round, now!" "What are you gonna do? You gonna… show us how the magic's done? Are you?" Dr. Silk looked at them. You know better than this, he thought, and he thought: It is because you're going to have the big tricks explained to you in a little while and you know how you'll feel and you want them to feel the same? No. It isn't. And it isn't a test, either. Or anything. Just a way to repay them. "Yes," Dr. Silk said, "I am." Obadiah's jaw fell. He walked over quickly. "You ain't really?" he said. "I am. The children want it, Obadiah. I'll never be able to do anything else for them-you know that. And just look at their eyes." "I wouldn't Doctor, swear to the Lord." "He's gonna show us!" The clapping began again. Everyone pressed close, expectant, waiting. "Don't do it," Obadiah said. "Let's just sell us some medicine like we always do and scat." But Dr. Silk was already reaching into the black box. He removed the enchanted hoops. "Now I want you to pay close attention," he declared. "We will." "Shhh!" Carefully, then, with exaggerated simplicity, he showed how there were actually three hoops, how two of them fit together and where the third one came from. "See?" The children squealed incredulously and clapped their hands. Someone said, "I'll be damned, I will be damned." "Show us more!" Dr. Silk felt the pain again. "You want to see more?" he asked. "You really and truly do?" "Yes!" Obadiah grunted and sat down. "Very well." And Dr. Silk went on to show them the magic cane, and how it wasn't magic at all. "See," he smiled, "the flowers, which ain't real, they fold up, like this, inside the head. They're there all the time. Then I just press this here spring and it releases them. I bought it in Chicago at a warehouse…" One by one, carefully, Dr. Silk explained his miracles. The deck of cards that contained nothing but aces of spades; the eggs that really weren't eggs at all; the coffin that had no bottom… "Just lift it off, you see, and put it back. Just like that!" Gradually the squealings died. The audience thinned. But the Magic Man did not notice: he could think of nothing but the love the people had given him and how he must repay them. So he did not feel the wrinkles jumping back into his face, or the dust of far-off places falling from his suit, or hear the way the crowd was turning quiet; or see the children's faces, with their hundred dimming lights. When at last he had come to the enchanted basket-snakes coiled neatly in the flase bottom-Dr. Silk stopped, and blinked away the wetness. "We're all magicians now," he said, his smile poised, waiting. There were murmurs beyond the flickering of the lamps, and shufflings. The people were silent. They looked at one anothe
r furtively, and a few giggled, while a few wore angry expressions. Slowly, they began to disperse. The people began to go away. Dr. Silk felt the pain another time, more strongly than ever before: almost a new kind of pain, wrenching at his heart. He saw the boy with the freckles who had been with him this afternoon. The boy's eyes were moist. He paused, staring, then he wheeled and tore away into the shadows. "But, I thought you wanted-" Dr. Silk saw the dark night faces clearly. No one looked back. The bartender from the Wild Silver Saloon seemed about to say something-his face was red and embarrassed, not angry-but then he turned and walked off too. In moments the tiny stage, the wagon, stood alone. Dr. Silk did not move. He kept staring over the lights, just standing there, staring. "Boss, let's go. Let's us go." "Obadiah-" Dr. Silk took a hold of the Negro's thin shoulders. "They didn't actually believe in me, did they? Did they honestly believe I could-" Obadiah shrugged. "Let's us get on out of here," he said. Then he began to pick up the tarnished wonders, quickly, and hurl them into the box. "All right." Dr. Silk looked down at his hands, at the lint-flecked, worn black suit, at the cracking patent-leather shoes. "All right." He thought of the children and all their dying faces, of the men and their faces-hard and astonished and dumbfounded as if they'd heard God snore, and watched Him get drunk, and found that He was no different from them, and so, once more, they were left with nothing to believe in. He felt the pain come rushing. "Why? Lord, tell me that." Dr. Silk went through the curtained tunnel back into the wagon and sat down on the straw pallet and sat there, quietly, and did not move even when the wagon lurched and began to sway. After a long time, he took off the black suit, the green vest, the white shirt. He got the wax out of his mustaches. Then he went to the window and stood there, looking out over the prairie, the moon-drenched, cool eternal prairie, moving past him. For hours, for miles. And while he stood there, the hurting grew; it came back into his body, piercing, hard, familiar hurting. "Why?" The wagon stopped. "You feel all right now, Doctor?" Obadiah held onto the door. He looked frightened and lost. The Magic Man studied his friend; then he snorted and leaned back and closed his eyes. He tried not to think of the people. He tried not to think of Micah Jackson asking How's it done? and then learning as he would, so soon now, so very soon. "It reminds me of the time," he said softly, "in Calcutta, when I went six months without hearing the sound of a human voice…" Obadiah walked over to the pallet and sat down, smiling. "I don't recall you ever mentioned that experience to me, Dr. Silk," he said. "Tell me about it, would you, please?"