“I was invited.”
“As was I. This wouldn’t have something to do with ‘a matter of great importance, academic and historical,’ would it?”
Michael stared, his mouth agape. “Exactly that. How did you …?”
Galen held up a plum-colored envelope identical to the one Michael had received, which was poking out of his jacket pocket.
“Well,” said Michael resignedly, “I wonder what sort of dilemma our mysterious host has that requires the attentions of a Professor of Ancient Literature and a … what exactly was it you teach again?”
A faint scowl crossed Galen’s features before he replied. “Music Theory. But our host is not so mysterious.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s here on the club handbill,” said Galen, handing him a stiff yellow sheet covered in gaudy black print. “He’s a Zen Illusionist, whatever that is supposed to mean. He’s called Obscuro.”
* * *
The thin layer of sawdust which covered the floor was the first sign that it was no ordinary nightclub; a conclusion signed and sealed upon a glance at the menus, which were tabloid-sized, and bore a portrait of a jovial Mexican man in a sombrero on the front cover, even though nothing in the menu could be considered even remotely Mexican. The selection seemed to consist mostly of alcoholic drinks of uncertain lineage, Viennese pastry, and according to the back cover, various personal care and hygiene products.
After what seemed an interminable wait, the club finally began admitting everyone in the left line, much to the growing irritation to those in the right. Michael and Galen, having presented their identical orange tickets to a surly, mustached man with a swarthy complexion and wearing a low-slung hat, moved through the curtained area at the front and into the main room. There were some twenty tables situated in threes across a rectangular space. At one end was the bar and kitchen; at the other, a small, curtained, makeshift performing stage built of two sets of steps and a riser.
To the left of the stage was a beautiful antique easel, intricately carved with looping scrollwork and sculpted cherubs, which bore an aluminum-framed black sign of the sort used for menus at coffee shops and convention centers hosting Shriners’ banquets. On it smallish white letters spelled out the highlights of the evening’s show, although with a questionable degree of fidelity: The master Zen ilusionist OBSURO, performing feats of wonder and astonishment - tonite only.
The tables were draped with a coarse, gray-green fabric, and they were being bussed by a slow, smallish man who, save for the addition of a beard, was the twin of the ticket-taker. Michael and Galen chose a table on the left, about ten feet from the stage, and waved down the waiter.
“Yah?” he said gruffly. “Vat you vant?” He spoke German, but with an odd inflection, as if he’d learned it from cereal boxes.
“I’ll have a vodka and orange juice,” said Galen.
“And I’ll take a … umm, a gin and tonic,” said Michael.
The stubby little man shook his head vigorously—not unlike a mangy cat shaking off a dunking in the river. “Nah—ve got no vodka, und ve got no gin.”
Galen let out a barely suppressed sigh of frustration and rolled his eyes heavenward, while Michael began to closely scrutinize the menu. The waiter began tapping his foot impatiently; other patrons were taking their seats for the show, and were looking for service—which was, apparently, just him.
Michael looked up at Galen. “Do you mind if I just order a pitcher of something? I’ll treat.”
Galen shrugged noncommittally, and Michael pointed to a listing in the menu. The little man scribbled something on an order pad, then scooted away. A few minutes later he returned with a pitcher of creme soda and two tubes of mint-flavored toothpaste. Galen looked at the fare, then looked questioningly at Michael.
“Don’t look at me,” Michael protested. “I ordered beer.”
“You asked for beer, and he brought us soda and toothpaste?” Galen said in irritation as he craned his neck, looking around for the surly waiter.
“Ah, the toothpaste is mine,” admitted Michael. “I’ve been out for days, and thought while I was here…. Anyway, creme soda?”
Galen muttered a silent curse under his breath, and pushed his glass forward.
* * *
“I’ve been hearing about this ‘Obscuro’ for months,” said Galen, “Ever since he started at the University last Fall. I understand his performances are quite unorthodox, even by illusionists’ standards.”
“Mmm,” said Michael. “And he’s a student, you say?”
“No,” replied Galen with a touch of smugness. “He’s faculty. You may have heard about him at the beginning of the year—the child prodigy who only goes by one name?”
Michael looked up at the still empty stage with a renewed interest. “Am I to understand that the magician we’ve come to see …”
“Illusionist.”
“Whatever—is actually the new celebrity head of the Mathematics department at the University?”
“The very same.”
“Interesting. Do you have any idea why he wanted to invite us? I mean, I can’t see a lot of correlations between the three disciplines, or even any cross-interests, to be honest.”
“Agreed—though I did find several points of interest in your treatise on Anglo-Saxon bardic forms.”
Michael smiled, flattered and more than a little surprised. “You read my work?”
“The occasional piece that overlaps my own interest,” replied Galen. “As a Vice-Rector, it is my responsibility to remain cognizant of all of the academic publications of the faculty, but a few of your writings have not been without a certain grace.”
“Ah, thank you,” said Michael. “Do you publish?”
Galen stirred his drink and glanced up at the stage, then back at his companion. “No, not so much anymore. When I quit performing, I largely quit writing as well, so most of my efforts have been constrained primarily to my lectures.”
“You used to perform?”
Galen’s eyes widened, as if he could not believe what he was being asked. Then, they darkened again, lids dropping heavily as he replied. “I used to perform. Not for several years, though.”
“I’m sorry I missed it,” said Michael encouragingly, having also missed the changes in his companion’s countenance. “Perhaps if you …”
He paused as the lights around them flickered once, then again. The performance was about to begin.
The lights in the small club dimmed, leaving only the warm, wan glow from the scattered cupped candles on several of the tables. Then, from the darkness, a voice, smooth and supple, began to speak.
“All that there is in the world, is contact, and interpretation.”
As the unseen speaker said this, a single spotlight was projected on the closed curtains upon the stage, where two hands appeared through the divide, palms held towards the audience. Michael glanced back at the source of the light and was astonished to see that there was none. The voice continued.
“Contact is the instant when we are made real to ourselves, and the world to us. Contact solidifies, confirms, reassures. Contact gives us the base upon which we build our understanding of the universe around us.”
The hands folded about themselves, as if in the act of washing, then positioned themselves for that familiar child’s illusion wherein an index finger positioned over both thumbs, one folded, one open, appears to separate a single thumb from one hand. Several patrons in the club, many jaded intellectuals, emitted loud groans.
“All interaction, all true understanding, takes place at the moment of contact—without contact, nothing can be proven. Thus, contact is essential.”
At that instant, the hands performed the thumb trick—with both thumbs—and then promptly tossed them into the stunned audience.
No one screamed or moved, but there were more than a few gasps, and several patrons crossed themselves. One of the thumbs, its stump rounded and bloodless, had landed on an un
occupied table at the front of the room; the other had bounced off of the same table and was leaning against the bottom step on the right side of the stage. The now thumbless hands rotated slowly, so as to allow a full, unobstructed view to all, who saw that there were no discreetly tucked digits, nor were the thumbs covered. They were simply gone from the hands.
A stout fellow at the table to the left of the one with the thumb stood and was about to voice what everyone in the room felt, which was that it was a childish and amateur trick for someone who advertised himself as an illusionist not merely a magician to start a performance by hurling some fake plastic thumbs at his patrons who paid good money to see him even though he had a lousy sign and no interesting props or animals and didn’t even have an assistant with nice breasts like every other self-respecting performer in his field.
At least, that was what he meant to say. What he actually said was unclear, but came out sounding a little bit like “Urk”, or “Gurk”, and no one else said anything at all, because they had all seen the same thing he did, at exactly the same instant; and to be fair, “Gurk” was not entirely shameful as responses go—not when the sky turns green or water turns into carrots or a dog turns into a cranberry quiche or thumbs believed to be plastic suddenly begin to squirm with life.
As the room watched, mute, the thumb on the table wriggled about for a moment, then turned over and began creeping, a thick inchworm with a shiny carapace, to the edge of the table and over. A few people in the room gave a small start when it hit the sawdust covered floor, then began to carve a trail, arrow-straight, towards its companion near the steps, now itself writhing about.
At the steps, the thumbs began working in tandem; Obscuro was apparently right-handed—the right was the stronger of the two, balancing then thrusting upwards the weaker of the digits, before itself jumping to the edge, where the other would nudge it to safety. Then, the dance would start again.
Eight times, repeating the motions over and over, the seventy-odd witnesses in the audience watched breathlessly as the crawling stubs of flesh made their way to the stage, then across to the center, directly beneath the hands. The thumbs paused, as if seeking permission, then disappeared underneath the faded velvet fringe of the closed curtains. In the pool of light four feet above, the hands, which had neither moved nor disappeared, suddenly balled into fists. A moment later, they opened, palms out—eight fingers, two thumbs, all attached, all in working order, no blood, no fuss, no muss.
The circle of light slowly began to expand, broadening to a size large enough to allow the owner of the hands to step through onto the exposed stage. “Greetings and salivations,” purred the lithe, intensely prescient young man who stepped forward, arms spread in a gesture of openness. “You’ll please take note, that at no times did my fingers ever leave my hands,” he said somberly. “My thumbs, however, have a different and more wide-ranging set of goals. I am Obscuro, and if the evening goes well, we may learn something while I entertain you. If it does not, at least those of you drinking the cream soda will not remember the experience in the morning.”
“What is he talking about?” whispered Galen, who hadn’t touched his drink.
“The soda,” replied Michael. “It’s got to be at least 70 proof.”
They both looked inquiringly at the waiter, who showed his bottom teeth and gave them a thumbs-up.
Obscuro continued. “For my next demonstration, I need a volunteer—have we anyone in the audience with an artificial leg? Wood is preferable, but any leg will do.”
There was a brief tittering among the crowd, and a few utterances of disbelief, but after the trick with the thumbs, no one was really inclined to speak up too loudly.
“Aha!” exclaimed Obscuro, pointing triumphantly to a dark corner at the rear of the room. “Do we have a leg?”
“Yes,” said the woman who had stood, blushing. “I have a wooden leg.”
“Wonderful, wonderful!” said Obscuro, “And it’s wooden as well! Dear friends, tonight is indeed a night of marvels! Come, come dear woman,” he said, gesturing her to the stage. She made her way to the front of the room, smiling in shy apology as she brushed Galen’s side in passing. The illusionist took her hand and guided her up the steps, then reached above his head and pulled a stool out of thin air.
“Christ,” exclaimed Michael. “Where’d he hide that? There are barely any light fixtures up there, much less a place to conceal a chair.”
Galen merely narrowed his eyes and watched.
Seating the fortyish woman, who was slightly round and darkly pretty, on the stool at dead center of the stage, Obscuro looked at her with a piercing gaze, then placed one hand on her chest and the other on her right leg.
“I wonder how he knew which leg was the wooden one?” asked Michael.
“Shh,” hissed Galen, “I want to hear this.”
Obscuro stared intently into her eyes; she was not moving, hardly daring to breathe. Those seated in the front could see the faint rise and fall of her blouse as she inhaled, and the light flutter of her heartbeat where his hand lay upon her breast. His other hand slowly traced an invisible tattoo across her thigh, then made its way down to her knee, then her calf. He knitted his brow in concentration, then moved his hand further down to her shin, her ankle, then her foot—and suddenly, a spark lit his eyes and he gifted her with a smile of dazzling brilliance.
“Your foot—toes, to be more specific. This is what you miss, isn’t it?” He whispered, softly, but firmly enough that it could be heard clearly throughout the pin-drop quiet club. “Walking through the grass in the Wienerwald, to the waterfalls—that was the sensation you most missed when you lost your leg, isn’t it?”
She nodded, tears beginning to streak her face. “Yes,” she whispered. “When I was a child, my father used to take me on long walks in the woods, and when I lost my leg in the accident, I …”
“Shh, shh,” said the illusionist. “Concentrate. Focus solely on me. Now, I want you to listen—I cannot give you your leg back, but I can help you regain what you lost, the thing you miss. I can do this thing because contact is stronger than interpretation, and cannot ever be truly lost. Can you trust me on this? Will you trust me?”
A nod. A hesitation. Then, another nod, this time more firmly.
Obscuro smiled in acceptance, then closed his eyes and dropped his head to his chest. For a moment, it seemed as if nothing had happened. Suddenly, the woman’s eyes snapped open and she flung herself upwards and out of the chair. The illusionist stood back out of the primary light, his face bathed in sweat, and watched.
She stood, trembling, looking down at her feet as if in disbelief. The audience had begun to murmur, as they still had no idea what was taking place on stage, or indeed, if anything had taken place at all. Then, she slipped off her shoes, and pulled up the cuffs of her slacks, revealing two healthy human feet, and ten wiggling toes.
“Aw, that’s a crock!” the stout man in the front said loudly. “She’s a plant. How’re we to know she ever had an artificial leg at all?”
In response, the woman, moving as if she were in a trance, continued pulling at her pant legs, revealing pink flesh on the left …
… and on the right, above the ankle, the polished sheen of walnut.
Dispelling any other claims of fraud, she unselfconsciously sat on the stool and began removing her slacks, first the left leg, then the right, then stood exposed to the room, a tearful Venus, reborn before their eyes. Below the lace fringe of her panties on the right was what could have been an Iron Age garter belt, holding a heavy wooden prosthesis in place. The dark wood was occasionally shot through with bright streaks of metal, where it was hinged for movement at the knee and again at the ankle—but below that was living flesh and bone.
Obscuro remained in the shadows, silently watching the reactions of his audience. In particular, he was watching his two invited guests, but they, along with everyone else in the room, were too flabbergasted to notice.
“Astonis
hing,” stuttered Michael.
“It could be a cast of some sort,” said Galen. “I don’t see how, but …”
A similar sentiment had begun making its way around the room, but no one had given voice to it before the woman, now standing, reached down, unbuckled the harness …
… and removed her leg.
At this, Obscuro stepped forward and helped her hop back to the stool. She held the leg against her, like a child, and he placed one hand back on the sleek wood and the other back on her breast.
“Close your eyes,” said Obscuro, “and think about the woods you walked as a child. It’s not a story, or a fable—you were there, you felt the grass, dewed and pungent between your toes; the crackle of leaves fallen, but not yet turned in their colors.”
As he spoke, the toes at the end of the leg began to slowly curl inward, then flexed and rolled, as if walking an unseen trail. Obscuro’s eyes flickered downwards for an instant, and he leaned closer, whispering in a breathy monotone that carried the width and breadth of the room. The candles were casting shadows into the air that seemed to thicken and darken, and it seemed as if the scattered sawdust was taking on a green tang. No noise filtered in from outside, and even the sounds of the kitchen had ceased. Nothing existed at that moment save the memory of a contact, channeled to dozens of people through the whispered urgings of a slight, earnest illusionist, and the common motions of a phantom foot made real in the trance and the smoke.
The whisperings were inaudible now, as Obscuro moved closer to her ear, pressing gently with his hands. She was whispering in return, and some of the patrons began to feel faintly uncomfortable, as if they were witnessing a very intimate moment, which, in a sense, they were. He continued tracing the subtle patterns on the wood, ebony in the dim light, and her hands where she gripped it tensed and relaxed to an unknown tempo. Perspiration stood out in bright beads on his face and exposed forearms, and he was leaning closely enough that his tongue occasionally flicked lightly against her skin. Against her chest, his fingers shifted almost imperceptibly, and he felt her swell in response. She was breathing more quickly, and the toes on both her feet were curling ever more tightly. He lifted his chin and spoke, his voice sharper now, and her eyes rolled back as she sat up more stiffly; her thighs flexed together, and her breath came in short, quick gasps. It was as her feet suddenly arched that those watching saw the metallic blue polish on the nails of the left—and pure, clear nails on the right.
The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One Page 5