Phyllis Wong and the Waking of the Wizard

by Geoffrey McSkimming

  Despite her impatience at not being told the story yet, Phyllis couldn’t help grinning. ‘How on Earth—?’

  ‘No one else could ever do this one,’ Wallace told her. ‘My famous Levitation of a Stranger from an Ordinary Chair. Although, of course, you, my dear, are not exactly a stranger.’

  Daisy looked all around, and turned an uncertain circle in Phyllis’s lap.

  ‘Santo cielo!’ came a loud gasp from inside the café. In an instant, a thin waiter had swanned across to the table, his dark eyebrows raised to the roof of his forehead as he beheld Phyllis and Daisy floating above the chair.

  Quickly, Wallace rearranged his hands and arms, and Phyllis and Daisy plunged down onto the chair again.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘Arf,’ arfed Daisy.

  ‘The little-a girl,’ stammered the waiter. ‘She and-a the dog . . . they were—’

  ‘They were waiting to place an order,’ Wallace cut in. ‘My, the sun is hot for this time of year, isn’t it? A friend of mine was here only the other day and he got a mild dose of sunstroke sitting out here . . . he saw all sorts of strange things . . .’

  The waiter’s mouth was wide open.

  ‘Now,’ Wallace said to Phyllis, ‘what would you like, my dear?’

  She ordered a hot chocolate. Wallace ordered an espresso coffee and a bowl of water for Daisy.

  The waiter, stunned into bemused silence, nodded and scurried away.

  ‘Okay,’ Phyllis said. ‘I’ll interrogate you about the Levitation of a Stranger from an Ordinary Chair later. But now—’

  Wallace gave a big sigh. ‘Alexander Sturdy. Yes, my dear. Let me regale you with his strange and unfortunate history.’

  And not a moment too soon, Phyllis thought. The waiter returned and, looking warily at them, deposited a bowl of water on the ground, next to Phyllis’s chair. Phyllis popped Daisy onto the cobblestones at her feet, and the small dog lapped at the water. The waiter hurried off. Then the young prestidigitator sat back and waited.

  ‘Alexander Sturdy.’ Wallace Wong repeated the name with an air of sad puzzlement in his voice. ‘He’s from the theatre, originally. A performer of great talent, once upon a time.’

  ‘A magician?’ Phyllis asked.

  Wallace shook his head. ‘No, my dear. A ventriloquist. In the early twentieth century he was at the top of his profession. Had a dummy named Norman, Narky Norman—a weird-looking little chap with an oversized head and a shock of thick auburn hair, much like Sturdy’s own hair, but more messy. And the eyes . . . ooh, those eyes!’ Phyllis saw her great-grandfather shudder. ‘They were dark, jet, glossy black, and they seemed to follow you around the room if you wandered into Sturdy’s dressing room to see him.’

  ‘Sounds creepsville,’ said Phyllis.

  Daisy had lapped up enough water, and she jumped silently up to settle on Phyllis’s lap again. Phyllis stroked her soft, warm fur and listened as Wallace continued.

  ‘I found him a tad . . . as you say, creepsville, yes indeed. But he was just a dummy, nothing more. Narky Norman, I mean. Alexander Sturdy, when I first knew him, wasn’t so bad. In fact, we got along well. He used to watch my act from the wings, and he always enjoyed my conjurations. And I enjoyed his voice-throwing . . . he could make that ugly little Narky Norman sound so lifelike, you’d swear he’d been born of woman, not of wood.’

  At that moment the waiter, wearing a worried expression and carrying a small silver tray with the hot chocolate and the coffee, reappeared. He placed the drinks quickly onto the table, whipped the tray up under one arm and then hurried away, hoping that he wouldn’t have to return to this table with the man with the glowing green eyes and the girl and dog who had floated.

  Phyllis sipped her hot chocolate. ‘So,’ she said, licking the chocolate from her lips, ‘you and Alexander Sturdy were friends?’

  ‘We were.’ Wallace downed the espresso in one gulp. ‘We spent a lot of time together, in between shows. We even attended a couple of lectures given by Albert Einstein himself, you know. In about 1915. I was getting very interested in what Einstein was saying about the Fourth Dimension, and his theories on Spacetime—the dimension where Time and Space are linked, and where Time is totally dependent on Space. And I shared my enthusiasm with Sturdy. He, too, became fascinated.’

  Phyllis interlocked her hands, folding one pinkie over the opposite thumb. ‘Is that why he became a Transiter too?’ she asked.

  Wallace frowned. ‘You know, my dear, I always felt as if I’d been tricked there. I never told Sturdy about my experiments and my researches into the whole Transiting business . . .’

  ‘Then how come he—?’

  ‘He was always a skulker,’ said Wallace, cutting her off. ‘He was the lurker of all lurkers. He knew how to move more silently than any man or woman I have ever encountered. He’s almost balletic, the way he can pass from one place to another so quietly . . . a very useful trait when one works in the theatre and has to be mouse-quiet backstage. He’s extremely graceful, for a man of his size.’

  ‘So that’s why Daisy wasn’t on the alert back at Stonehenge,’ said Phyllis, her brow furrowing. ‘She would’ve barked her snout off if she’d known he was up there by that lintel stone.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ said Wallace. ‘And that’s how I think Sturdy found out about Transiting. He spied on me. I believe that he was skulking somewhere when I made my first, early experiments—when I found the early Pockets and Transited fleetingly, before I finally disappeared “for good” in 1936. I think Sturdy watched me and, in a sense, stole my secret. And he obviously also has the gift of being able to see the Pockets. Thus he became a Transiter.’

  Phyllis pushed a lock of hair back behind her left ear. ‘But why does he want to kill you, W.W.?’

  ‘At first I thought it was because of a show girl.’

  ‘A show girl,’ repeated Phyllis, one corner of her lips curling into a half-smile. She had heard her great-grandfather speak of show girls more than once before.

  ‘Mmm. “Maracas” Estevan was her name.’

  Phyllis’s eyes went bigger.

  ‘Ooh, Phyllis my dear, she was a lovely person! So bright and always happy, and clever to boot—she could hold her match in any sort of conversation. She had a fine general knowledge, and the most beautiful smile . . .’ Wallace took a deep breath and his bright green eyes scanned the soft clouds above the piazza. ‘She dazzled, Phyllis. She was bubbleacious, but not an empty-head, unlike so many others I knew. She had brains and beauty. And her legs . . . oh, my, she had legs that went all the way up to—’

  His eyes had come back to his great-granddaughter, and he gave a small cough. ‘But I digress,’ he said, straightening his bow tie.

  Phyllis raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ll say you did.’

  ‘Yes,’ he went on quickly, ‘well, Maracas and I struck up quite a friendship. We were all working the Froux-Froux Levité Opera House in Paris, I remember. She was appearing in some of the big dance numbers during the shows. Apparently, Alexander Sturdy also took a shine to Maracas, and asked her if she’d like to go boating with him one afternoon when we weren’t performing. Well, she turned him down—she told me later that she didn’t mind him so much, but she felt uncomfortable with Narky Norman, and Sturdy always took Narky Norman with him in a small bag wherever he went.’

  Phyllis screwed up her nose. ‘Weird, all right.’

  ‘But Sturdy wouldn’t take no for an answer. He kept asking her if she would step out with him, and each time she politely refused. And each time this happened, he started looking at me in a different way . . . his eyes became harder, colder, more like flint. He soon stopped speaking to me altogether, snubbing me backstage and even trying, on one occasion, to sabotage my dove pans. Luckily I was onto him.’

  ‘So just because of a show girl—’

  ‘Not any show girl. Maracas Estevan!’

  ‘So just because of Maracas, he’s now following you all over the place, trying to kil
l you?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s been following me all over the place, all right. All across Time. In Moscow once, a runaway carriage came crashing down the street and almost flattened me. I heard Sturdy’s laughter as the carriage smashed into a wall. And another time, in Melbourne, a block of sandstone came down off a bridge into a rowboat in which a lady friend and I were, up until that moment, spending a very pleasant afternoon. After we swam ashore, I saw Sturdy fleeing the scene.’

  Phyllis shook her head. ‘That’s a bit of an overreaction, isn’t it? Trying to kill you because he was jealous of you and Maracas?’

  ‘I’d agree,’ Wallace said, ‘if that were all there was to it. No, Phyllis, something else happened around about the same time. Something peculiar, to put it mildly.’

  Phyllis caressed Daisy’s neck. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, towards the end of our sixth week at the Froux-Froux Levité Opera House, the management hired another act—another ventriloquist, Phyllis. A performer by the name of Perkus. Hercule S. Perkus. Now, this was a most unusual thing, unheard of in fact, to have two ventriloquists on the same bill! We were all amazed that the Froux-Froux Levité Opera House would do such a thing, and Alexander Sturdy was especially angered. He was incensed! Oh, I’ve never seen a ventriloquist so irked!

  ‘But then, when we watched Hercule S. Perkus’s act on the first night of his engagement, we understood why he had been hired. Oh, my dear, none of us had ever seen the likes of this before! Even I was amazed, for what Perkus did was truly astounding! And I believe that it was Perkus’s act that finally tipped Alexander Sturdy over the edge . . .’

  A vent unhinged

  Phyllis leaned closer. ‘How?’ she asked urgently.

  ‘What did Hercule Perkus do?’

  ‘It was almost magical, Phyllis,’ Wallace told her, his eyes green-throbbing and twinkling.

  ‘Magical?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but in a different sort of way to our magic. Perkus had a dummy named Jasper. Jaunty Jasper. A dapper little chappie. Nothing like Narky Norman—no, Jasper was almost normal-looking, apart from the bulging eyes and the hinged mouth, of course. I remember, the first day I met Hercule S. Perkus, I walked into the wings and I saw a young, dark-haired boy sitting quietly on a chair, and I went up to him and said hello—I needed to get past to fetch my Japanese Inexhaustible Box from a skip behind him—and he didn’t answer. So I said hello again, and still he ignored me. So I said hello a third time . . . raised my voice a little, thinking that perhaps the young chappie was a bit deaf, or daydreaming or something. Still no answer. Then Hercule S. Perkus appeared and introduced me to Jaunty Jasper, picking him up as he did so. Well, when Jasper’s eyes swivelled towards me, and he greeted me in his squeaky voice, I realised exactly what he was. Hercule Perkus and I had a good chuckle, and he told me that it happened all the time . . . that Jasper was so lifelike, people often treated him like a real boy.’

  ‘And Alexander Sturdy felt jealous, because Jaunty Jasper was a better dummy than Narky Norman?’

  ‘Oh, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. The first time we saw Perkus perform with Jasper, as I mentioned, we were amazed. This is what happened: Perkus opened his act with Jasper singing a song, a very funny song called “But Now She’s Fully Recovered”—and then they did a routine where Jasper was incessantly cheeky, always answering Perkus back. Eventually Perkus got fed up with Jasper. He put him on a chair, centre-stage, and then left the stage in a huff.’

  Wallace paused, and his face filled with wistful wonder.

  ‘And?’ said Phyllis. She took another sip of her hot chocolate, waiting.

  ‘And then, just as the audience began to grow restless, and all eyes were fixed on the huge stage, empty as it was except for Jaunty Jasper on the chair, the amazing occurred. Jasper’s head turned. He looked off into the wings, where Perkus had exited. Then he turned his head back to the audience. And he opened his mouth and spoke!’

  There was a short silence. Phyllis looked at him, expressionless. Although she felt bad to disappoint her great-grandfather, she didn’t feel as amazed as Wallace clearly expected her to be. ‘He was mechanical,’ she guessed. ‘He was one of those automatons, those little wind-up mechanical people who could do things like write or draw. Yes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe he was. I was standing in the wings next to Perkus—my spot was coming up later—and I observed Perkus closely. I’m convinced he wasn’t throwing his voice out into that dummy. Nor was he working any remote-controlling device; he had his hands clasped gently before him, and no movement came from any of his fingers.

  ‘And then, things got more amazing. After Jasper made his speech, he got down off the chair, completely unaided, and walked to the front of the stage. There, by the footlights, he stopped and stared out at the audience, his head turning from side to side. Then he placed his hands onto the stage and stood on his head, before doing six stunning cartwheels across the entire stage!

  ‘Oh, Phyllis, you should have heard the gasps from the house! An enormous, thrilling surge filled the theatre and the wings. Maracas Estevan gasped louder than anyone, I think. Everyone present that night was truly amazed and astounded!

  ‘Everyone except Alexander Sturdy. He was watching from the wings, standing next to the Whistling Ottersoff Brothers, who had already performed. I could see the glaring hatred in Sturdy’s eyes. He was convinced that Jasper was the result of some new sort of technology, some undiscovered kind of mechanics, and from that day I think Sturdy became completely hateful—almost derangedly hateful—to the idea of anything new, whether it be scientific or technological or whatever.’

  ‘How do you think Jasper was done?’ Phyllis asked, intrigued.

  Wallace Wong smiled. ‘Ah, my dear, I have often wondered. But, even though I know so much about the workings of our stage magic, I really have no idea how Jasper moved of his own accord. It is as puzzling to me as the abandoned jellyfish in the unremembered hatbox of Lost Property—’

  ‘How did the act end?’ Phyllis interrupted him.

  ‘Ah. After Jasper had stopped cartwheeling, Perkus strode onto the stage, clicked his fingers loudly, and Jasper collapsed into a heap. Perkus picked him up, took a bow and then exited to his dressing room. The applause was thunderous!

  ‘The next day, Alexander Sturdy was sent a letter from the management, telling him that his act was no longer required. No one saw Sturdy or Narky Norman at the theatre again.’

  Wallace stopped and leant back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head and staring up at the fluffy white clouds.

  Phyllis, stroking Daisy’s back—Daisy had fallen asleep in the warm sunlight—reflected on all he’d told her. Then something occurred to the young conjuror. ‘Do you think,’ she suggested, ‘that Sturdy thought that you had anything to do with it? You and he had been going to listen to Einstein and finding out more about Spacetime together . . . maybe he connected you with Jasper?’

  ‘Ah. The idea had shown itself to me too, my dear. It could perhaps be why Sturdy has been pursuing me and trying to do away with me. A haunted, unhinged man will stop at nothing, for he knows no reason . . .’

  Phyllis said, ‘Hmm.’

  ‘So, Phyllis, now you know what I am looking for and what I am having to deal with in my search for the great Myrddin. What do you think?’

  ‘What do I think?’ she repeated, puzzled.

  ‘I mean, do you wish to be my co-investigator? Do you want to help me to find the wizard?’

  Phyllis didn’t need to think twice. ‘You bet your wand I do!’

  Wallace Wong smiled. ‘It may be dangerous, Phyllis. And you will find yourself searching without me, for I cannot guarantee to be with you at all times. But, rest assured, I will do my best not to be far away. And you will have Daisy, who is a superb watchdog.’

  Phyllis nodded. ‘I’ll be careful,’ she told him.

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ her great-grandfather
said. ‘Now, I had better get you home. I think there has been enough excitement for one Transit today.’

  Phyllis sighed. ‘Okay. But before we leave . . .’ She reached down and took out her Transiting journal from the bag at her feet. ‘Do you mind if I copy that information you read to me? What that monk wrote?’

  ‘Certinus of Alsace?’ asked Wallace, taking his own journal from his pocket.

  ‘He’s the one.’

  ‘Not at all. A capital idea!’ He flipped open the book and slid it across the table to her.

  Carefully, in her neat writing, Phyllis transcribed the words. She concentrated especially on the last paragraph.

  ‘The truth is something different. The truth is that the wizard has not left us. He still resides in our world, and he will for another millennium. The wizard may appear to have gone, but he will dwell near the minds of men for another thousand years. He will always be needed. He will be closer than he seems.’

  When she’d finished, she closed her journal and slid Wallace’s book back across the table.

  ‘It is wise and wonderful to be equipped with words,’ he told her. ‘And there are two other things I want you to have.’

  He produced the Sphere of Greater Temposity and the Date Determinator and placed them before Phyllis.

  Phyllis’s jaw dropped open. ‘But . . . won’t you need them?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, I have some more experience in Transiting than you, my dear. I have quite a bit up my sleeve. I can rely on that, and on my wits. No, I think these two items will be far more valuable to you, and what you may be about to face . . .’

  Phyllis didn’t know what to say. She picked up the objects, one in each hand, and closed her fists gently around them.

  At that moment the waiter returned, wearing a suspicious gaze. ‘Will-a there be anything else-a?’ he asked, his eyes fixed on Phyllis in her chair.

  ‘No,’ said Wallace. He fished a wallet from his coat, took out some Italian lire and placed the notes on the waiter’s gleaming silver tray. ‘Grazie,’ he nodded.