The Phantom's Apprentice

by Heather Webb

  Papa squeezed my hand and brought it to his lips.

  I rewarded his gesture with a smile. After, I gazed at the pair of rich black curtains draping the stage. Two balconies nestled against the wall on either side of them, and along the ceiling, a frieze of instruments popped from the upper casing. Lanterns lined the proscenium, flickering brightly in the otherwise dark auditorium.

  Just then, the curtain twitched and shivered and a gentleman emerged from between the center of its folds. His silver beard consumed most of his face, and his round middle straddled his legs.

  My heart leapt into my throat. This was it!

  “Good evening, ladies and gentleman.” He folded his hands and placed them on his belly.

  The last of the murmurings died away.

  “I am Monsieur Pichon, owner of the Theatre Margot. Tonight, I am pleased to present the greatest illusionist Paris has ever seen.” The audience gazed at him, captivated by his words. “He will enthrall you with bodiless musicians, amaze you as a woman disappears before your eyes.” The man lowered his voice, and slowed his words for effect. “He will astound you when he raises the dead.”

  Deep silence enveloped the theatre.

  “Never before has anyone seen such feats on one stage,” Pichon continued. “Please welcome the Master Conjurer!”

  A trio of latecomers climbed over the audience and seated themselves directly in front of us, the largest man blocked my view of the stage. Frustrated, I leaned to my left. The brim of my hat brushed the gentleman next to me and he glared. I couldn’t miss the show! I leaned to my right, toward Papa. He smiled and allowed me to crowd him. Still, with the other person in front of him, much of the stage was obstructed from view.

  As the curtains opened, a smattering of applause rippled through the room. The stage was empty, save for one small table and chair in the middle of the platform. Two torches sparked to life on the recessed wall, revealing a figure standing on the left side of the stage. Still, shadow obscured most of his body. As the illusionist stepped forward, the crowd murmured. I couldn’t make out the gentleman’s features; between his hat, the lighting, and my position, it was impossible. Furious, I crossed my arms over my chest like a petulant child. I could hardly see! Then I remembered Papa. Quickly, I dropped my arms and folded my hands in my lap, hoping he didn’t notice my frustration. He didn’t feel well or want to be here at all, but he had come for me. I sneaked a glance at his face. He looked as if he might faint. His brow scrunched into a frown, his pale lips quivered, and perspiration dampened his forehead.

  “Should we go?” I whispered, covering his hand with mine. “We can leave if you’re not feeling well. Return another time.”

  The crowd gasped.

  My head jerked toward the stage. What had I missed? A blond woman in bejeweled clothing and mask, and a top hat with mesh, bowed and backed away until she disappeared behind the curtain. His assistant, I assumed.

  “Do we need to go?” I slipped my hand under Papa’s elbow.

  “No, min kära. Enjoy the show. I can endure.”

  For the following hour, I shifted between worrying over Papa as his body curled into a half-moon, and studying the conjurer’s performance. To my dismay, I could only guess two of the illusionist’s secrets.

  I glanced at Papa again. His skin had taken on an ashen hue.

  “I insist we go,” I whispered in as firm a tone as I could muster.

  “I insist we stay.” He placed his hand upon my knee. “I don’t want to disappoint our hostess, or you, my dear.”

  I longed to watch the show, but not at the expense of his comfort. Madame would understand, and I could return another time . . . someday.

  Papa raised his eyebrows in a question, waiting for my consent. At last, I nodded and trained my eyes back on the stage.

  Each illusion grew more complicated than the last: sleight of hand, birds escaping their cages, and a disappearing act. I shifted to see better, but with Monsieur Blockhead in front of me I despaired at how much of the show I lost.

  “This cabinet is empty,” the illusionist’s voice boomed. “Mademoiselle Cartelle will now step inside.”

  The assistant reappeared in a showy ensemble of sequins and gold beading. She flourished her hand to present the empty cabinet.

  I shifted to my left and peeked between the two seated in front of me.

  The assistant climbed inside the cabinet.

  I gazed intently, examining every detail. The structure sat on four legs, about a meter off the ground. No one could disappear from its bottom, and no curtain or fixtures were attached to the top of the box.

  The Master Conjurer closed the cabinet and, within seconds, flung open its doors. The assistant had vanished, and the crowd roared with delight. With a swift motion, the illusionist closed the doors again and quickly reopened them.

  Mademoiselle Cartelle smiled and waved at the crowd. Her gesture fed the excitement of the already-cheering audience.

  I grinned, impressed by the conjurer’s clever trick. How had he done it? The woman had reappeared so quickly. Perhaps there was a revolving door inside the cabinet. I envisioned the hinge, fixed with a special spring. But we would be able to see the door from our seats.

  “Do you know how he did it?” I leaned over to whisper in Papa’s ear.

  He smiled, in spite of himself. “Magic.”

  A stagehand emerged from the wings to remove the cabinet.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen, the act you have come far and wide to see.” The Master Conjurer’s voice dropped lower than his natural tenor.

  All noise ceased. Gone were the odd coughs and whispers, the creaking chairs. Despite my understanding of illusions, doubt mingled with fascination. I wanted to believe, even if it wasn’t real. What did mankind truly know about the soul? We could only guess at the realities of life beyond the grave.

  The air grew saturated with fear.

  “There comes a time when we must all face death.” The conjurer paused as the fear thickened.

  Suddenly, I found it hard to breathe. I couldn’t help but think of Papa, and the way illness eroded his fiery nature. One day, his light would go out.

  I squeezed his hand again.

  “We cross the threshold to the beyond,” the conjurer continued. “Are we still in pain, or do we pass on, blissful in the release of our fleshy selves? Some believe our darkest moments leave their marks on the soul.” His voice dropped once more. “And for those, we are punished.”

  The lamps on the walls went out.

  A few women shrieked, cleaving the tension in the air.

  The illusionist had been difficult to see before, but now I could hardly make out his form on the stage.

  “Tonight, I shall call on the spirit world, and summon those who have a message to share with us.”

  “He’s a devil!” shouted a man in the audience.

  Others shushed him.

  The illusionist’s voice turned coaxing, liquid. “Let the border between worlds dissipate. We beseech you, spirits, to come forth with your troubles. Let us guide you from this earth to a resting place, once and for all.” He held out his right hand, palm up. “Come! Come to us. We can assist you.”

  The silence in the hall grew heavy, crushing us against our seats.

  I stared in amazement as a prick of light gleamed in the space over the conjurer’s hand, and grew into a pulsing orb.

  A collective gasp arose from the audience.

  The orb grew bigger and elongated, stretching to take on a human form. An ethereal light encapsulated its limbs and finally, a blurred face emerged.

  I gaped, in spite of myself.

  “Who is it?” a voice called out.

  “Silence, please!” the illusionist commanded.

  The spirit held out his hand and pointed at the audience.

  I gripped the edges of my seat.

  “What does it want?” someone shouted.

  “Who do you seek, spirit?” the illusionist asked.


  The spirit floated across the stage and pointed again, toward the back of the theatre.

  “Someone in this audience will pass from this world soon,” the Master Conjurer said. “The spirit has come to warn us.”

  Fear pooled in my stomach. I clutched Papa’s arm. This was an illusion, I reminded myself. No one was going to die, not yet. Still, my agitation increased. I glanced over my shoulder. Something wasn’t right. The energy in the room had shifted.

  The crowd murmured. A few couples jumped to their feet and left the theatre in a disenchanted huff.

  The illusionist ignored the disturbance and spoke to the spirit again. “Can you tell us how this death will take place? Or perhaps, how to avoid it?”

  The ghost slowly raised his hands to his neck.

  A man stood and waved a fist in the air. “This is a hoax!”

  Others strode to the exit.

  More spectators jumped to their feet, shouting. Papa struggled to stand.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, tugging at his coat sleeve.

  With all the breath he could muster, Papa shouted, “Mademoiselle Cartelle!”

  I stood, confused. Had his illness affected his brain? “Papa, please. Why are you shouting at the assistant? Sit down.”

  The assistant stared out at the crowd, eyes finding us at last. Her mouth fell open. In a second, she was at the conjurer’s side, directing his gaze toward us. Embarrassed by Papa’s uncharacteristic behavior, I focused my attention on helping him back into his chair, hoping the assistant and those who rushed toward the exit would obscure us from the illusionist’s view.

  The assistant returned her attention to the illusionist.

  “Remain calm, everyone,” the conjurer shouted over the crowd. “We must not spook it.”

  Some laughed at the illusionist’s pun.

  “You’re a demon!” A man hurtled insults at him. “How else could you call on the dead?”

  The audience shouted back and forth at one another until the din grew to a roar.

  The spirit faded—just as a trapdoor on the stage flew open and smoke billowed into the theatre.

  In the same instant, I smelled it—the unmistakable odor of charred wood.

  “Fire!” someone screamed.

  Panic surged through me like a rushing river. I’d heard of theatres catching fire, trapping the patrons within. Few survived.

  Papa attempted to stand again, but a cough clogged his throat and he fell back into his chair. I struggled to help him up. His lungs seized and his body convulsed. I watched in alarm while he fought against the disease. When he finally regained his breath, I dragged him to his feet.

  The audience pushed and shoved, devolving into a terrified mob.

  I clutched Papa against me, horrified at the scene unfolding. Quickly, I evaluated the chaos. We were opposite the door, across the room. God help us.

  “We have to go. Now.” I pulled Papa’s arm.

  He fell into another fit of coughing and couldn’t stop. “I-I need a minute,” he rasped through labored breath.

  Rubbing his back, I glanced at the stage.

  Two men lunged at the proscenium. My mouth fell open as I watched one of them smash a lantern open with a club, lighting both club and curtains on fire. Flames devoured the fabric within seconds, spread across the ceiling, and engulfed a crossbeam. The fire swelled as if the entire theatre had been doused in something flammable.

  I hauled Papa forward with all my strength. Halfway there. Eyes glued on the exit, I focused on the only thing that mattered: making our escape.

  Just then, a horde of men pushed past us. I lost my grip and Papa staggered and fell. A blur of black coats and colorful gowns flew by as others rushed ahead. Someone shoved me out of the way.

  I fell to my knees beside Papa, people streaming around us.

  “You have to get up,” I shouted. “We’ll be trampled!”

  He curled into a ball, clutching his handkerchief. The entire square of fabric bloomed red with blood. Half pushing, half pulling, I dragged him toward a wall away from the stampede, a prayer on my lips. There was no escaping until the crowd thinned. I looked back at the stage, my eyes stinging with smoke. The proscenium—the entire outer frame—was ablaze, yet two men and the assistant still lingered there. The illusionist and the man with the club wrestled on the stage floor.

  I frowned in confusion. What was happening? The assistant screamed and launched herself at another of the attackers. A scene in a nightmare. All around me people heaved against each other to escape, smoke choking the air. No one could help the conjurer, least of all me. Tears spilled down my cheeks, washing the sting from my eyes, if only for a moment.

  The crackle of splintering wood rent the air.

  For an instant, a deafening crash drowned out the screams. I cried in terror, clutching Papa’s hand. A beam had broken loose from the ceiling, crushing rows of seating and the bodies of the unlucky.

  We were going to die. I was going to die—at sixteen. I would never sing again, never again watch the sunset in a blaze of gold, never fall in love. Suddenly I despised myself, my childish desires. My love of magic, a foolish pastime, would be the death of me—and of my beloved Papa.

  Papa collapsed against me.

  Tears bathed my cheeks as I watched him choke on ash-filled air. With a trembling hand, he touched my cheek, then lay on the floor beside me.

  I glanced at the exit. The crowd had thinned! We might still make it, if we could skirt the pile of wreckage and avoid the caved-in ceiling. It was then I noticed them—the people dragging themselves toward the exit on broken limbs, and the others who lay lifeless with impaled torsos.

  I covered my mouth with my hand. We must go now. I reached for Papa’s arm, prepared to drape him across my back, if need be—and stopped.

  A trickle of blood snaked down his chin. He gasped a final time and then his body relaxed. His head tilted away from me.

  “Papa?” I screamed, gathering his head in my lap.

  The light faded from his eyes.

  “Papa! Don’t leave me,” I sobbed, my lungs burning. “How will I do this without you?”

  His glazed, unseeing eyes stared up at me. I buried my face in his neck. My body shook with sorrow until my head grew faint. I couldn’t breathe.

  The fire consumed all, sucking the remaining air from the room.

  I leaned my head against the wall, too weak to move. There was no time. The fire would consume me, too. I surrendered to the smoke, the heat on my skin, the grief searing my insides.

  A black graininess invaded the edges of my vision, and I closed my eyes.

  2

  I didn’t know how long I lay against the wall, laboring for breath, images of my paltry existence swimming behind my eyes. The tug of darkness grew stronger by the second; it seemed calm there in the abyss, alluring in its oblivion. I reached for it, grasping at curled black ribbons that undulated at the edges of my mind. In the darkness there would be no pain.

  The spirit on stage had been correct. Someone would die tonight. Many already had.

  Something tugged my arm.

  With immense effort, my eyelids peeled open a fraction, but I didn’t have the strength to lift my head.

  A bloodied hand reached for me.

  In the next instant, I was yanked to my feet. My legs collapsed beneath me and I pitched forward into someone’s arms. A hand slid under my legs, and I felt myself hovering above the ground.

  “Papa,” I moaned with what little strength remained. My head lolled backward.

  My rescuer tightened his grip, and we escaped to the safety of the street.

  I awoke with a start and found myself in bed, surrounded by lace-covered pillows and frothy blankets. The haze of sleep dissipated, and I squinted at the onslaught of daylight. As reality washed over me, the hollow in my chest split open and pain gushed forth once more.

  Three years had passed, and still I dreamed of fire, terrified screams, and Papa’s unseeing eyes. I felt
the burn of smoke in my lungs. My hand rested on my throat. I had sung every day since Papa’s death in a feverish plea for his forgiveness, wherever he might be. Somehow, he had to know how sorry I was; I had to show him. It was my fault he had died such a horrible death. Had I enjoyed a hobby fit for ladies, we wouldn’t have been at the show at all. My girlish desires had taken my only family from me.

  Now, at the grand age of nineteen, I was certain of only two things: I would become a celebrated singer at any cost, and I would never again dabble in illusions. Perhaps then, someday, I would no longer despise myself.

  My beautiful oaken box lay safely locked in the bottom drawer of my armoire, my cards and trinkets along with it. I’d nearly sacrificed it to Madame’s fireplace, but I couldn’t bring myself to destroy it. I had already lost too much to fire—I would give it nothing more.

  I slipped from bed and went through the motions of my daily toilette, though I didn’t know why. I had nowhere to go. Still, if I didn’t, I would melt into sleep and while away my days in bed. Lose myself in a torrent of loss and loneliness. I toyed with a dove-shaped brooch that was on my vanity tabletop. The jewelry had adorned my dress the day of Papa’s funeral. Madame had ordered a small burial service in one of his favorite places—the Bay of Perros, in a small church plot overlooking the sea—even though we had no body to bury. It rained so hard that day, the water drove sideways from the sky, soaking my mourning gown through until it sagged on my frame. The argent waters of the Atlantic had churned and thrashed against the shore, unsettled under a bleak sky. As unsettled and bleak as I felt that day—as I did still.

  Thankfully, Papa had chosen well in Madame Valerius, to whom he had entrusted my future.

  After his burial, she took my hands in hers and said, "Christine, you are not without friends. Please, let us remain living together as before.”

  I embraced her, grateful for this lovely woman who owed me nothing and offered me all. I couldn’t imagine how I had earned such kindness.

  Drawing myself away from memories, I started for the large brass cage in the salon near the window. As I removed the cloth covering it, my trio of canaries blinked, blinded by the sudden light. Within seconds, they rustled and flapped their wings, and greeted the morning with a song. Outside of an occasional game or a walk with the maid, Claudette, the birds were my only source of happiness.