The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One

by James A. Owen

  After a few moments, her eyes slowly opened and looked at the illusionist, who held her gaze; he carefully removed first one hand, then the other, and stepped away. He knelt and picked up her crumpled slacks, then helped her reattach her leg before pulling back the curtain so that she could dress in privacy.

  Including Obscuro, only three people in the room noticed that the woman’s right foot was again wood, dark and seamless.

  He looked about at the tables, then bowed, slowly and regally. Michael began the heartfelt and wild clapping, followed closely by Galen and the stout disbeliever at the front. Then, the room exploded in thunderous applause.

  * * *

  The lights came back up as the ticket-taker announced a short intermission. Michael ordered another pitcher of cream soda, which Galen was now downing rapidly, and a couple of pastries. The woman who had gone onto the stage appeared from behind the curtain, face still flushed, although she seemed much more composed than during the performance. She took her seat near several other patrons, who were oddly reticent to speak to her about the unusual experience, which in the light and resumed bustle of the club seemed days past rather than minutes.

  His thoughts a whirlwind of speculation and conjecture, Michael was going to speak to Galen on some conclusions he was forming about the extraordinary spectacle they’d just witnessed, when a courteous voice addressed them both: “Professor Gunnar-Galen, Professor Langbein—thank you for coming. I’m pleased you could make it.”

  Obscuro, the Zen Illusionist, was standing at their table with a tray holding a pitcher of creme soda and two Twinkies, his eyes reflecting the orange candlelight.

  “Call me Galen,”

  “And I’m Michael. Thanks for inviting us,” Michael said, pumping the smaller man’s hand as he placed the tray on the table. Galen was about to say something, but had begun peering at the snack cakes with an undisguised expression of disgust.

  Obscuro nodded in understanding. “Mr. Rutland and Mr. Burlington buy all of their supplies from the same distributors that service convenience stores and gas stations,” he said as he refilled their empty glasses, “and it seems to go over well with the college crowd.”

  “In Vienna?” Michael snorted. “Not fifty feet from a dozen of the finest bakeries in Europe?”

  “I’ll tell you a story,” said Obscuro, turning a chair backwards and sitting. “Once, when I was in Portland, I was visiting an author whose main claim on enduring popularity was a comic book, which had been turned into a cinema vehicle for one of those blonde starlets who seems more silicone than flesh and blood, and covers the fact with only two dots and a dash. At his studio, however, I saw his other, lesser-known works—tales and images of remarkable insight and complexity, revealing him to be a creator of great and subtle gifts. When I asked him how someone so obviously talented could waste the time and effort needed to create the breasts-and-bullets lowest-common-denominator material when he could be devoting himself to more substantial works, he looked at me, smiled, and said, “Hey—sometimes you just want a Twinkie.”

  Michael laughed, snorting his creme soda; Galen simply blinked.

  “Have you been enjoying the show thus far?” asked the illusionist.

  “To tell you the truth, we’re both pretty amazed by what we’ve seen,” Michael said honestly. “Absolutely amazed.”

  “Are you?” said Obscuro, with a touch of surprise which seemed genuine, “I’m not certain why—I haven’t yet gotten to the part that I invited you to see.”

  “Well,” said Michael, “just the bit with the thumbs was worth coming for, but what happened with that woman …”

  “That had little to do with me,” Obscuro said modestly. “I never walked where she walked, and I never lost my leg, as she did. I had contact with her tonight, briefly, it’s true—but any magic that took place on that stage came in the door with her.”

  “For her it was magic, you mean,” said Galen. “For us it might just as well have been an illusion.”

  Obscuro arched an eyebrow at Galen, then smiled as if pleased. “I see my point was not lost on you, professor,” he said, his tone respectful. “If you remain as perceptive for the rest of the evening, then I think I can guarantee it will not have been a waste of your time to attend. Ah, but I see I must resume the show,” he said, standing up in response to a waved signal from the sullen bearded waiter. “If you gentlemen don’t mind staying a bit longer, I should like to talk with you after the performance.”

  “Certainly,” said Galen. “We’ve not yet discussed this matter of ‘historical importance’ which you noted in your invitation.”

  “Rest assured, dear professor, we shall.”

  “I have one more question, if you don’t mind,” said Michael. “Why ‘Zen Illusionist?’”

  Obscuro looked at him, curious. “Because sometimes illusions are what they are, and no amount of magic can conceal that reality.”

  “Like the woman’s foot?” Michael asked, glancing over at the table where she was sitting, trying not to sneak shy glances at the illusionist. “What was the reality there? Was it real, or wasn’t it?”

  “Exactly,” said Obscuro. With a slight bow, he turned and moved quickly up the steps where he disappeared behind the curtains.

  * * *

  The lights dimmed once again, and this time when Obscuro appeared on stage, he was sitting on a plain wooden chair. “All that there is in the world, is contact, and interpretation. Unfortunately, for true contact to occur frequently takes commitment and an inordinate amount of time for those of us destined to live out mortal lifespans …” —as he said this, Michael felt the odd sensation that it was spoken with deliberate emphasis, and that the illusionist had also deliberately avoided looking at himself and Galen as he did so—“thus, the rest of humanity must make do through the more fleeting means of interpretation, occasionally subsisting on actual contact, like a stone skipping over the surface of a lake. But there is one grace in interpretation—its powers are broad, and can affect many people at once; and each in their own way may make a contact of the experience, be it a simple evening of entertainment, or …”— said with a wink to a table in the left rear —”a walk in the Wienerwald.”

  He paused. Then, eyes glittering, Obscuro leaned forward in his seat, so that the spotlight cast a wan shadow across his features. “Illusions are formed,” he continued, voice as delicate as a mist, “when a reality is specifically presented for interpretation.” As he spoke, his chair lifted off of the stage with a lurch, then rose several inches off the floor. “But should just one—any one—of the interpretations see the reality for what it is, then the illusion is lost.”

  The chair rose higher and higher. Suddenly the quiet was broken by the harsh, braying laugh of the stout man in the front, who pointed at the stage. “Hawhawhaw! It’s a bar! There’s a frickin’ bar holding up the chair!”

  On cue, the lights brightened momentarily, revealing a thick, velvet-black bar attached to the back of the still rising chair. Through the curtains, a motored winch, purring softly, could be glimpsed still creating the illusion.

  “Hawhawhaw!” laughed the man, “I knew it! I knew he couldn’t …”

  He stopped laughing, because the chair had stopped—and was slowly starting to rotate. In seconds, it had turned a full one hundred and eighty degrees, and the illusionist’s head was now pointing at the floor. Obscuro continued speaking, as if nothing had been said.

  “It is also during that moment of interpretation when magic may happen—for if any interpretation is strong enough, it can become a reality in and of itself—and those are the moments wherein worlds are made.”

  Saying this, Obscuro stood up—down—from the chair, and began to casually stroll across the ceiling above the audience.

  Amidst the gasps and delighted whispers, the illusionist wandered about the scattered path formed by the fights, occasionally stopping to blow a sheen of dust from the sculpted glass globes, hanging just below his head.


  “Now, does anyone know what they are seeing? Can anyone tell me that I am not walking on the ceiling?”

  “You’re not walking on the ceiling,” Galen said drolly.

  “No?” said Obscuro, feigning surprise. “Very well—I am not walking on the ceiling.” He bowed deeply, and before another heartbeat had passed, the room completely turned upside down.

  Several women and more men than would later admit it screamed; most of the audience, jewelry and eyeglasses dropping from open pockets to the ceiling below, now clutched desperately at their tables, trying not to fall to the where the illusionist stood staring up at them with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  Michael, a little dizzy and trying not to vomit, peered at the floor above his chair. “Hey,” he asked, chewing on his lip, “what’s keeping the chairs down? I mean, up?”

  Galen answered him coolly, “They remain because he is walking on the ceiling. His interpretation is strongest.”

  “That’s right,” said Obscuro. “My interpretation, thus, my magic.” He snapped his fingers and suddenly the room was reoriented. Still reeling, the patrons scanned the ceiling, now in its proper place, for the illusionist—who was now seated back in the chair onstage.

  “And now,” he continued, arms open, “For my final illusion, I’d like to ask for some volunteers—not to participate so much as contribute.” He reached into the air above his head and pulled down a stovepipe hat; it was a bit beaten, much as if it had come directly from Lincoln’s head. The illusionist turned it over and blew off the top, producing a small tempest of dust.

  “Forgive the hat,” he said, a dapper smile on his face, “it’s not seen much use lately—no proper use, that is. But I’ve found that the things which come out of hats are often more interesting than what went in—or are, at the very least, more enlightened.”

  Obscuro gestured broadly to the crowd. “Now what shall we put in first? I have it—does anyone have a silver comb? Anyone? Ah, yes, here we have it,” he said as the item was passed to the stage. “Thank you. Now, I need a man’s watch—preferably a very expensive one? Do we have…? Ah, yes … thank you.”

  This went on for nearly a quarter of an hour, until the illusionist had obtained an object from everyone in the room, with the exceptions of Michael, Galen, the woman with the wooden leg, and the stout heckler in the front. “Very good,” said Obscuro, pleased. “This is a fine mix, an excellent mix.”

  He began to reach into the hat, then paused, hand upraised. “But,” he said, “this is also a magic show, is it not? And how can I perform proper magic without the right magic words? Does anyone know a magic word I might use?”

  The crowd, enthusiastic to participate since the show had become interactive, eagerly volunteered the usual suspects: “Abracadabra!” “Open, sesame!” “Ala-peanutbutter-sandwiches!” but Obscuro waved them all away. It was obvious he was not going to proceed until he had satisfactory magic words. Members of the audience began shouting out names of favorite pets —”Molly!” “Thurber!” “Ginger!” “Mocha!”— and common items —”Carrots!” “Doorknobs!” “Windowpane!” “Seawater!”— and even nonsense words —”Fermal!” “Micsel!” “Arrabord!” “Flurkle!”— but the illusionist was having none of them.

  Suddenly, he slapped his head as if he’d realized the error of a novice. “Of course! Of course none of these words work—interpretation is an illusion, and through your contributions I’ve made contact with too many of you who might see past it. No, to make the magic work, I need words from someone who will see nothing but the illusion—you!” he exclaimed, pointing at the stout man. “A word! Quickly!”

  The man looked about for a moment, then said “Portrait!”

  “Good! Excellent! Another! You!” This time pointing at Michael.

  “Ah, primeval?”

  “Wonderful! Marvelous! Another!”

  “Backwards,” offered the woman with the wooden leg.

  “Remarkable! Fantastic! One more!”

  “Beginning,” said Galen.

  “Aha,” said Obscuro, pointing at him. “One of the best, most wonderful of magic words. Now, let us see what these words have wrought,” he finished with a flourish, plunging his hand deep into the smoke-gray hat.

  The first item he pulled out was the first item that went in—the silver comb. “Who does this belong to? Speak up, please.” An older woman seated near the bar raised her hand. “Thank you, madame,” said Obscuro, flinging the comb into the air, where it spun and shone in the dim light as it arced gracefully into the outstretched hand of the woman whom it belonged to …

  … who suddenly became Obscuro, Zen Illusionist.

  The speechless crowd stared at the spot where the woman had been, where the illusionist now sat fingering the silver comb. The change had been instantaneous—one moment she was there, the next she was Obscuro …

  … who continued his act onstage. Where there was one, there were now two.

  “Next,” he said as if nothing extraordinary had occurred, and it was perfectly natural for one self to be performing while another ordered a drink at the bar, “we have the gentleman’s gold watch.”

  “And fob,” offered the large Bavarian merchant who had contributed it.

  “And fob,” said Obscuro, tossing it underhand to the merchant, who, the moment he touched it, transformed into Obscuro.

  Again and again, the stage Obscuro continued pulling objects from the hat, each of which he endowed with arcane pronouncements, before throwing it back to its owner who invariably turned into another Obscuro. When nearly an hour had passed, the room was full of identical illusionists, all drinking creme soda, eating Twinkies, and generally being a very appreciative audience.

  Finally, the last item was returned, the last Obscuro transformed, and the room grew quiet waiting to see what would happen next. The four who remained from the original audience sat transfixed, with more than a little trepidation and the beginnings of fear. The illusionist onstage looked about, the fatigue and strain of the performance beginning to show in his features. “Very interesting,” he said quietly as he surveyed the room, “so much here that I thought to be interpretation, when it was contact after all. Look around, you four—what have you seen tonight?”

  “I saw a miracle,” said the woman with the wooden leg, “and a part of me I didn’t know I could still have.”

  “I don’t know what I saw,” the stout man admitted honestly.

  “Well,” said Michael, “I think I’ve seen the difference between illusions and magic.”

  “I see,” said Galen, stressing the tense and glancing about the room, “a Zen Illusionist.”

  “Well done,” said Obscuro. “And that is the end of our show.” With a twist of his hand, he donned the hat and in an instant, the lights dimmed to near darkness. When they flickered up again a few seconds later, every person, every duplicate Obscuro in the room, vanished. Michael, Galen, the woman, and the man sat alone among twenty empty tables.

  The lights dimmed a second time, then flared, and all was as it had been—a roomful of people eating, drinking, and trying their best to enjoy a performance that was at once confusing and terrifying.

  Michael and Galen looked at one another with equal expressions of stunned shock. Before either of them could speak, the spotlight appeared once more on the center of the curtains, and the illusionist’s now familiar hands reappeared holding the hat. “Ah,” came the smooth voice, “but we have not quite finished, have we? Every good performance requires an encore, and I think this has been a night that will not be soon duplicated.”

  The curtains parted and Obscuro moved to the front of the stage, then to one side and down the steps. Hat atop his head, he wove through the tables directly to the woman in the corner, who was smiling bravely, but was visibly trembling. The illusionist smiled gently and locked her eyes to his, then again placed his hand on her chest and one on her leg—but this time, instead of tracing gentle letters, he gripped it with an intensity and
a strain that made his teeth clench and cords stand out on his forearms. She cried out and there was a sudden, splintering sound; The others seated at the table scooted back in their chairs, and Galen and Michael were just about to leap to her aid when her cry of fear turned to a shriek of surprise and delight.

  Obscuro stepped away from her and slumped against the wall; she jumped to her feet—both of which were real. Her right foot was pale and pink, and far thinner than the left, but it was flesh. Hesitatingly, she inched away from the wooden shards and splinters now piled around her table in the sawdust, reeling in shock and disbelief. She looked at Obscuro, her eyes filling with tears, then hobbled from the room when he nodded his acceptance of her unspoken gratitude.

  Wordlessly, he removed the hat and moved to the man who had heckled him throughout the performance. On Obscuro’s approach, he rose from his seat and the illusionist looked him up and down, estimating. Obscuro raised one eyebrow, a direct question, and the larger man nodded, biting his lower lip and twisting his hat in his hands.

  Michael craned his neck, peering carefully at the big man—why did he seem so familiar? Michael was sure they had met, but it could not have been a significant occasion, else he’s have rung a clearer bell in Michael’s head. He finally dismissed the itch—the fellow had probably been a pick man on a dig, or some such thing.

  The illusionist measured the man a moment more, then reached into the stovepipe hat and withdrew an iron bar, which he promptly shoved into the stout man’s forehead.

  “Dear God!” Michael screamed, a half-instant after he saw Galen jump up and grab Obscuro by the arms, “What the hell have you done?” The patrons began shrieking and clambering over tables and chairs to escape, and for a few moments, the illusionist stood in the eye of a human hurricane.