The Conjurer
A Short Story
Hardly anyone noticed as the man came up to the bar and sat down. Weathered overalls and a white shirt; he looked like anybody else. The bartender came over smiling, and the man said something that seemed to surprise her. She disappeared into a room behind the bar, and a moment later the innkeeper came out.
“Two drafts!” a man shouted from the end of the bar.
“One moment!” the bartender said and reached for two pitchers from under the table.
The innkeeper approached the man in the overalls, and they spoke in hushed tones. Someone looking closely would have seen a brief glow light up both their faces and the innkeeper’s eyes going wide. But nobody was looking. Not yet.
The innkeeper came around the bar and led the man to a small, elevated platform at the end of the room. The man in overalls stepped up to it, and a few people began to notice. The din quieted a tone, and the men at the nearest tables looked at the innkeeper. He smiled at them.
“Gentlemen!” he roared. “And ladies.” He smiled and bowed at the two rugged women at a nearby table.
“We have a Conjurer with us.” He gestured at the man on the platform. The Conjurer bowed to scattered applause.
“I thank you for this opportunity to perform,” the Conjurer said. “Work as a Conjurer is hard to find, and a good audience is harder.”
There were a few uncertain laughs.
“It has been several months since I’ve performed,” the Conjurer said. “So I hope I’ve found myself a good audience.” He smiled. The innkeeper frowned. The crowd was silent.
“I see my words do not have the effect my art does.” He chuckled to himself and spread his hands. Two sparkling globes of light appeared above them, and with a sound like shattering glass, they flew into a thousand glittering pieces that drifted to the ground like snow and faded to nothing. An awed sigh rippled over the room.
The innkeeper backed up a step and signaled the bartender who nodded and began to blow out the candles in the room.
The Conjurer and his audience dissolved into darkness, and a single point of light remained, pulsing red, then green, then blue, in time with the sound of a chime. An unseen harp played a sweeping arpeggio as the point of light blossomed into a rose-colored bundle of fractal flowers.
So the show began.
Carrie flipped through the letters. They were all from October–the man her sister had loved, the man who had disappeared without a word. The traitor. She tossed the letters back onto the table, wondering whether it would be better to burn them. What would her sister want?
Her sister was dead.
Carrie picked up the first letter on the stack and looked at it with distaste. April, the man had called her. Some sort of childish epithet, no doubt. An epithet that seemed too fitting for Carrie’s liking. Like spring and flowers and melting snow.
A name like that almost made it seem like the man had really loved her.
Dear April,
People say I’m brave. They say that I’m courageous. They say I have confidence in my skills and that I’m unafraid to take risks.
If they were right, I would not feel so anxious. As it stands, I would rather they think me a fool and a coward. That would be closer to the truth.
All I can think of is this gig with Lord Ferdinand, and how Jared’s over the moon. How I might burn it all to ashes.
I couldn’t get myself to practice today. Not even a simple flicker of light.
When are you planning to come back?
With love,
October
Dear April,
You have such a way with words, and I am loath to admit your letter gave me hope.
You are right. Fear is natural.
What I’m most afraid of is that fear is what stops me.
Though today I practiced for the first time in weeks. Just a simple display, one that I’ve done before, but I was almost frightened at how much I enjoyed it.
Jared’s been at my place almost every day, begging me to show him what I have planned, but I don’t have anything. None of the displays I’ve created are suitable for this kind of audience. Not intricate or magnificent enough. I’ve had to lie to him to get him to leave.
These letters have been all about me lately. For that, I apologize. I hope your studies are going well. Have you found a supervisor yet? How’s Carrie? Whatever happened to Martha?
With love,
October
Dear April,
Your reply is likely still on its way to me, but I felt I had to write to you today.
It’s tomorrow.
I’ve nearly run out of money, and if Lord Ferdinand does not want me, I’ll have to beg for another sponsorship from Jared to cover my debts. Something tells me he won’t be so generous this time.
I heard from somebody that a man can make a living as a Conjurer performing at inns in the South. People appreciate art down there. The thought won’t leave my mind, and it’s making me nervous.
I’ve been reading the letter you sent me two weeks ago for courage. You really do have a way with words. It’s everything I try to do when I conjure and more.
I don’t really know why I’m writing this anymore. I should be practicing, but I don’t want to. I did come up with a display for tomorrow. Jared thinks it’s good, but it’s a rough act no matter which way you look at it. I’ve learned to trust Jared’s judgment though. In any case, I don’t have a choice.
I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow.
Wish you the best.
With love,
October
Carrie put the letters down again. Artists, all the same. Coming and going on whims, scribbling sweet nothings on paper, dripping empty words from their mouths, tracing pointless images in the air.
What use was it all when people were starving and killing and dying? What use was it when Allie was gone? Carrie snatched the letters off the table and threw them into the fire. The flames leapt up, and the letters blackened and shriveled to ash.
‘Prodigy Conjurer’ Performs Baffling Disappearing Act
November 2, 1797
On the Saturday eve of November 1, 1797, in the late General Corde’s Hall of the Arts, a thousand gentlemen and their wives gathered to witness a display of Conjuring sponsored by Lord Ferdinand. The display was to be performed by a new Conjurer who has gained himself a great reputation performing for small audiences around the city over the last year.
The Hall was filled more than an hour before the show was set to begin at eight o’clock. However, when time came, the Conjurer did not make his appearance. An immediate inquiry was made to determine the cause of the delay, and it was quickly ascertained that the Conjurer had never arrived.
Businessman Jared Wendall Detained as a Bankrupt
December 14, 1797
The name Jared Wendall rose up in the circles of wealthy businessmen three years ago with the unprecedented success of his rifle design. Of common origin, Jared Wendall is the inventor of several remarkable weapons and machines. The commercial success of his designs has attracted a number of wealthy individuals interested in investing in his new inventions.
It came as a surprise to many when the Commission of Bankruptcy issued a warrant for his arrest last night on account of his insolvency. Investors in Jared’s projects are scrambling to assess the value of his remaining assets.
A Guide to Travels in the Southern Country (1813)
Chapter XII: Art and Culture (Paragraph 15-17)
Whereas the North values the art of Conjuring as a High Art–and has shaped the aesthetics of the art to that extent–the South has a markedly different perception of it. There, it is seen as a pleasure for the common man. One may frequently observe displays performed by all manner of Conjurers in inns and pubs and on the street. In the South, they say where there are men, there are Conjurers. No matter how mean or low his station, with a few pennies, or even for none, a man in the South may enjoy this elegant art.
It has also been said that the skill of the Conjurers in the South exceeds that of those in the North. Having spent some months in the South, the author of this guide assures the reader that this claim is true.
Southern Conjurers often travel from inn to inn and city to city, never staying long in one place. In recent years, one Conjurer has made a name for himself performing at multiple inns in one night, putting on a spectacular performance, then disappearing for months at a time before reappearing in a different city. Locals have begun calling him the Fleeting Angel.
October 23, 1797
Dear October,
Perhaps you will not see this in time, but I hope you do.
I am leaving tomorrow by ferry to come and see you.
I should arrive in time for your performance. I miss you more than anything.
Sincerely,
April
The air thundered with the sound of lightning and cymbals, and streaks of light, white and blue and deep indigo, flashed in impossible patterns. The streaks intensified, and behind them, subtle but impossible to miss, a line of golden light traced the horizon and rose like the sun. It ascended, up and up, becoming a wall, and then a golden dome that covered the entire sky.
The streaks of light stilled, and the thundering quieted.
The golden sky now began to shimmer and tremble, and a chorus of silver chimes rang softly. Golden dust drifted down from the dome, leaving patterns, tiny and intricate, until slowly, gently, the sky seemed to melt into a magnificent piece of golden lace embroidery. The chimes sighed with the sound of crashing waves, and a bell tolled in the distance, all the while the golden lace pulsed and rippled like the garments of some angelic being. The patterns, the details, the sheer complexity forced themselves onto the senses, overwhelming them, and the effect grew more and more intense, becoming almost unbearable…
The sky went dark.
The crowd gasped.
Before them, in the darkness, a single point of light throbbed red, then green, then blue–in time with the sound of a chime.
The point winked out, and there was nothing.
The candles were relit, and Carrie found herself flushed and breathless. She turned to Martha who seemed to be in the same condition.
The room erupted into applause, and Carrie turned back to the front of the room. Every man in the inn was standing, and the Conjurer smiled and bowed. She got to her feet, joining in the roaring applause. She may have been crying Bravo! but it was lost in the sea of cheers.
The Conjurer bowed again, and the coins came, even without him asking. Copper and silver, and even a glint of gold. Carrie had no coins to spare, but if she did, she would have given them. Perhaps all of them. She had never seen anything like it before. Likely no one in this room ever had, nor ever would again.
The Conjurer smiled, and his eyes swept across the room. They came to her and rested there, but only for an instant, before he was bowing again.
Carrie stopped. That man…
She turned to Martha who had also frozen.
They looked at each other.
Outside the inn, the church bell tolled twelve times in its tower, indicating the end of a day and the beginning of another; the end of a month, and the beginning of another.
It was October.
This story remind me of play "Magic" by G.K. Chesterton
But in that play the Conjurer has a happy ending with the girl he loves.