The Magical Book of Wands

by Raven M. Williams

  After a moment's pause, she said, “Replacing the rain cap's out. Our volunteers aren't getting up on roofs.”

  I didn't blame them.

  “And replacing siding calls for more construction work than they're prepared to do. They can rip out drywall, paint, clean, remove debris,” she offered, her tone hopeful.

  “I got that done,” I replied, trying not to sound apologetic. “I'm trying to hire help for the other stuff but I’m not having any luck.”

  “You and everyone else in Port A.” She sounded as weary as I felt. “There's so much need and so few tradesmen to go around. They're coming in from Oklahoma and Louisiana, it's so bad.”

  “Yes, you're right,” I said, chastised. My despair mounted. That feeling of helplessness threatened to overtake me. “Oh, but wait. I do know someone who could use cleaning and debris removal.” I described the mess at Mr. Xerxes's house.

  “We can take care of that,” she said, her tone brightening. “When would be a good time for us to send some workers?”

  “Tomorrow morning? No, wait. The day after?” Tomorrow I would take my neighbor Elmore's advice and confront the agency representatives in person.

  “That'll work. We just need the address and a way to contact you.”

  I supplied the information. “I'll meet them there. Thank you,” I said, and ended the call.

  I wondered how the ailing man himself was doing and called the hospital which told me little since I was not next of kin.

  In a new tab on my browser, I launched a search for Francisco Xerxes. People would remark that you could find out anything about anyone if you knew where to look. With so much personal information publicly available not to mention willingly shared on social media, I was bound to come up with something.

  I learned Xerxes wasn't a Greek name; Xerxes had been a king of Persia. He invaded Greece at one point, though, so I wasn't that far off.

  And there was a Xerxes butterfly which I found to be interesting but not useful information. I scrolled to another page of search results and learned about a menswear shop and an opera by that name. I narrowed my search by adding “Texas” and still came up with no leads.

  I searched for Katy Xerxes and even the first name variations with no success. There might be news about the woman somewhere, but under a married name if she was his daughter.

  Maybe an image search would improve my luck. The Images view gave me many thumbnails of paintings and sculptures picturing a kingly man from an ancient time, several butterflies, and a scene from the performance of the opera. As I scrolled down the page, one photo caught my eye, perhaps because it was black-and-white. It pictured a man on a stage but it wasn't an opera set. Except for a long folding table, a straight-back chair, and a tall narrow wooden cabinet, the set was bare. Wearing a tuxedo, the man stood to one side and at the other, a young girl, a preteen. She too wore a tuxedo jacket along with wide-legged tap shorts. I zoomed in on the photo but couldn't make out faces shadowed by the brims of their top hats. With his goatee, the man could be Mr. Xerxes. I wondered if the girl was Katy.

  I followed the link to the publication in which the photo first appeared, a corporation's annual report. The photo was a shot from a magic show put on as part of a fundraising event to benefit one of the corporation's philanthropies. The caption identified the magician as “Phrancisco the Great,” aided by his assistant, Kassandra.

  Kassandra. I would never have gotten that from “Katy,” I thought. So was that Katy in the photo? I squinted at the image, trying to make out in the slim figure an adolescent version of the baby in the photo in Mr. Xerxes' home.

  I scanned the annual report dated decades ago. If that was Katy in the photo, she would be a grown woman now, in her late thirties. If Mr. Xerxes was ten years or so older than I, Baby Katy came late into his life.

  Had Mr. Xerxes worked for the corporation and was the magic act a hobby? He might have been a professional entertainer hired for the event.

  I simply needed more information. I wondered if Mr. Xerxes had regained consciousness and would be able to talk. I wasn't far from the hospital.

  From the hospital’s gift shop, I picked up a small bouquet of flowers. I stopped at the nurses' station to ask if it was OK to visit the patient.

  The nurse behind the desk glanced at a computer screen. “He hasn't been doing well, but you can check on him.”

  “I never did find out what's wrong with him.”

  “We've been treating him for mycotoxin poisoning—black mold. It aggravated Mr. Xerxes' preexisting respiratory issues and his age doesn't help.”

  “Is it OK to give him these flowers? They won't make him worse, will they?”

  “No, they shouldn't be a problem.”

  I didn’t find the man’s wizened and gray complexion encouraging. “Mr. Xerxes?”

  I thought I saw his eyelids flutter but he didn't speak. I set the flowers on the beige steel dresser opposite and pulled a side chair closer. “I'm sorry you're having so much trouble getting back on your feet.” I got no response.

  “You keep asking for Katy but no one knows who she is. I'll try to find her but sir, you must tell me more.”

  It seemed that he sucked in more oxygen. In a choked voice he murmured “Gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where? To Austin?” I asked, recalling the annual report but his head lolled to the side and I could get no further response from him.

  I drifted home, poured a needed glass of wine, and took a seat on the couch. As I sipped, I toyed with the crystals on the table. Light from a western-facing window beamed in. It splintered into shimmering rainbows in the goblet's facets, and gathered the sun into a glowing golden glow in the bottom of the glass.

  When he told me that the crystals were mine, Mr. Xerxes said that Enlil called me. I dug out my dictionary which defined Enlil as a Mesopotamian deity, the name from ancient words meaning “lord” and “storm” or “wind.” Mr. Xerxes wasn’t that far off; a storm wind delivered the box of crystals to my yard.

  Gunsmoke whined, demanding his happy-hour treat. By the time I returned to my drink, the sun had moved. The goblet once again was a simple crystal glass. I took it out to the balcony. Gunsmoke followed and poked his head between the railings. The silent street raising no cause for alarm, he took up position in the canvas sling of his director's chair, and settled in for a pre-dinner nap.

  My glance fell on the mountains of trash lining the curb. If I were a magician, I could make that disappear. I held up the goblet, caught the light, and narrowed my eyes at the tiny sun glowing at the bottom of the glass. I stared through it at the rubble and pictured the curb clear, but nothing happened.

  Silly, I scolded myself. It was a goblet, meant for imbibing magic potions no doubt. I rose from my seat and leaving the door ajar for Gunsmoke returned to the couch and regarded the other objects.

  The globe—it must be a crystal ball. That was a tool of divination. With it I could envision the future. Could I have foreseen Hurricane Harvey? Had I known about the storm's path in advance, I could have warned the entire city.

  I chuckled. We didn't need no stinkin' crystal ball. We had a warning courtesy of the National Hurricane Center. Some people chose to ignore it, trusting their own instincts or experience. Hmm, I thought. Fortunetelling was tricky. Just because I could see into the future didn't mean anyone would believe me.

  I wondered what the crystal heart was for. I guessed for casting love spells. I doubted that was any easier than fortunetelling. In affairs of the heart, people got good advice all the time from well-meaning friends, but did they take it? I shook my head. People tended to follow their urges.

  I fondled the little crystal cat. Cats were popular as witches' familiars, weren't they? Familiars guided and protected the witch as she went about her evil work. But this one was so cute, perched on stubby crystal legs, the light glittering in its clear belly. With its faceted face upturned it appeared to look at me beseechingly with tiny black button eyes. Its sweet express
ion got me thinking that in the right hands, a familiar could make good things happen. I glanced up and glimpsed Gunsmoke headed for his food bowl. He didn't seem to be a worthy candidate for a familiar. I couldn't say he had ever protected me from anything. In fact, once or twice I came close to tripping on him in the dark and almost landed flat on my face. The chaos of evacuation had stressed him as much as me. When days passed and he didn't eat, drink, or even use the litter box, I panicked, fearing he would die in that motel room. I whooped with relief when on the third day he sampled some treats and that night slept draped across my ankles as usual. Though he seemed his old self, I was certain the episode had cost him one of his nine lives.

  I regarded the tiny crystal figure with gossamer wings of the finest gauge wire, studded with glitter. Was it a fairy or an angel? Many people who didn't believe in magic believed a guardian angel looked over them. Was that what this one was for, to answer a summons for protection and guidance for a magician about to embark on a perilous course of action?

  Mr. Xerxes had full complement of tools, I thought.

  I picked up what I was now certain was a magic wand. Maybe it worked like a laser pointer, concentrating magic power on a target and amplifying its effect. Chuckling, I returned to the balcony and looked at the garbage lining the street. How disturbing it was every time anyone drove the block to face the ugly reminder of the destruction the storm had wrought, to be confronted with evidence of the loss, and the specter of the mammoth rebuilding tasks they all now faced. The city had tons of waste to remove to give access to essential services alone. It would be weeks, perhaps months before the municipal waste department would clear residential streets. If only I could wave a magic wand and make it go away.

  I picked up the wand, stretched out my arm, and drew an imaginary line encompassing the whole subdivision. I closed my eyes and pictured the trash dematerializing, leaving curbs and driveways neat and clean as they had been before the storm. I envisioned my neighbors smiling, their hearts lightened. My hand tingled. Was that from its magic powers or from gripping the wand so tightly? My arm got tired and I let it fall to my side and raised my eyelids.

  Nothing had changed.

  I huffed in disappointment. Silly goose, I chided myself. Did I expect the garbage to go poof? I suspected I needed to utter an incantation. What would that be? I had no idea. Would it be in English, in Latin, or in some arcane tongue that only magicians spoke?

  This magic stuff was much harder than I expected.

  Chapter Seven

  A sliver of light between the curtains told me I had overslept again. My second clue that the day was well underway was that Gunsmoke had left the bed. I found him lying in front of his empty bowl. He glared at me. I fed him breakfast and got coffee going. Over the coffeemaker's gurgle I heard the rumble of heavy equipment. Was a neighbor getting repairs made? I should run over there and try to persuade the workers to fix my house next.

  I peeked out the front window. An enormous dump truck stood parked at my curb. Chomping like a baby Brontosaurus, a Bobcat filled its jaw with trash and carried it to the dump truck. The driver hopped down from the cab and shoveled up the small bits left behind.

  I hadn't hired anyone to haul off debris. I wondered if a neighbor had and the equipment operators were at the wrong address.

  I carried my coffee outside and approached the Bobcat driver. “Excuse me,” I said. “This is great but are you sure you've got the right address?”

  With a bandana, he mopped a face reddened from exertion. He frowned. “Yes, ma'am, I most certainly am. We're cleaning up the whole neighborhood. Your homeowner's association board arranged for it yesterday.”

  Like magic, I thought. Was it a coincidence that the debris was getting removed or did my exercise with the magic wand have something to do with it? “Oh, carry on then,” I replied. “This makes such a difference. Could I, uh, get you a cold water?”

  His brow smoothed and he smiled. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  I fetched him a chilled bottle and returned to finish my coffee. “I'm off to see the agency representatives,” I said to Gunsmoke. “Wish me luck.” As if to express sympathy, he head-butted my ankle.

  While downtown I could stop at the grocery store. I not only needed milk, fresh vegetables and fruit, I needed to resupply the pantry. Every year on June 1, the official start of hurricane season, I dutifully followed preparedness advice and stocked up on non-perishable items: canned food and juice, peanut butter, and Spam. It was all stuff that I rarely ate and at the end of the season, I would donate it all to the food bank. Not this year. Emergency supplies intended to sustain one senior lady for a few days proved inadequate for a house full of guests including two growing boys and their father, all of whom worked up appetites by laboring in the yard. Even the Spam got eaten. I fried it up for the boys for breakfast.

  I needed light bulbs, too. Replacing a burned-out bulb in the bathroom left me with one spare. There would be no getting any from our local Ace hardware store, located in the same ruined shopping center as the coffeehouse.

  Just in case, I grabbed a handful of cash. In addition to loading up on bottled water, nonperishables, and batteries, I prepared for hurricane season by having extra cash on hand, never dreaming I would experience conditions so dire that credit cards were useless.

  I chuckled and tucked the magic wand in my purse. Who knew when a little magic would come in handy?

  The highway funneled me onto the two-lane Alister Street, downtown's through street. A four-way stop sign replaced the traffic light missing from the first intersection. I paused. Parked at an awkward angle at a gas pump in front of a shuttered Stripes convenience store was not a car but a seagrass-covered powerboat. Not that it could have gotten any fuel; with the store closed, the gas pumps didn’t work, giving credence to the advice to keep a full tank during emergencies. I congratulated myself on filling up before heading for the island.

  The derelict remains of formerly jaunty—some would say garish—souvenir shops were now anything but emblematic of a vacation destination. Displaced, the huge concrete shark with gaping jaws that had served as the backdrop to many a tourist's photos blocked what remained of one store's entrance.

  I weaved around mounds of trash and excavators grabbing bucket loads to pile into the biggest dump trucks I ever saw. The liquor store's walls had collapsed around shelves which stood in the center of the rubble, holding broken liquor bottles. The popular Moby Dick's restaurant was buried under the haystack the storm made of its enormous palapa roof. The city's commercial center looked like the playset of a petulant child who had thrown an epic tantrum.

  Forget about picking up anything at the IGA; the grocery store was closed. Pop-up canopies manned by volunteers offering bottled water, shovels, clothing, and tetanus shots dotted its parking lot like giant toadstools.

  A chest-high stack of shrink-wrapped cases of bottled water walled off the playing field adjoining the Presbyterian Church. Yet more pop-ups stood behind them. I wondered if it was a revival meeting until I spotted a huge banner declaring, “Cowboy Camp David. Free Food. Free Water. Free Hugs.” I drew closer and saw smoke billowing from barbeque trailers. People stood in lines for food being dished up from deep tinfoil pans by volunteers. Other stations offered diapers and cleaning supplies.

  My destination came into view: two cream-colored clapboard buildings set in an L configuration around a courtyard.

  Cars filled every slot at the Community Center. Like mine, most of them needed a bath. The city's two car washes were out of commission. My garden hose was buried under debris, assuming it was even still there. Washing the car in the driveway was for the time being out of the question. My vehicle's cleanliness seemed a petty concern in light of the fact that some people had lost their car entirely.

  I tried to turn onto a side street, but there was no street, only a swath of trash through which threaded a narrow footpath. Houses that stood for decades had been reduced to tarpaper shacks. Corrug
ated metal boat barns were crumpled and flattened as if made of tin foil. The scene resembled photos of battle-torn Syria or Britain after the WWII bombing. If I didn't know better, I would find it hard to believe an entire city thrived here ever, much less a mere two weeks ago.

  Under the assumption it was closed, I pulled into the lot of Billy Joe's café. I didn't think Chef would mind my appropriating one of the eatery's parking spaces, especially considering how often I ate there.

  As I stepped from my car, I noticed a throng of people outside the café. Could it be open? Nothing else was, not the Dairy Queen or even the franchise pizza places. I guessed because it was built on a deck, the café escaped flood damage. I mounted the three wooden steps.

  Seated at the picnic tables in front of the café, people drank from foam cups and ate with plastic forks from takeout containers. The door to the café stood open and I got behind the person standing in line.

  “What's going on?” I asked the ball-capped man ahead of me.

  “Chef's giving away breakfast. Free. As long as the food lasts,” he said.

  Envisioning dry, mealy reconstituted dehydrated eggs and white sandwich bread, I asked, “Really? How can he do that?” Restaurateurs ran on close margins under the best of conditions.

  “Folks he knows in San Antonio and Austin donated food and he's cooking it. Runnin' off a generator.”

  I wasn't in such dire circumstances as to need free food. However, I had planned to resupply from our grocery store only to find it shuttered. The aroma of bacon got my tummy rumbling.

  The darkened interior held dining chairs upended on tables and stacks of shrink-wrapped cases of bottled water. Positioned in front of the service counter, long folding tables held steam- and warming-trays, and tall aluminum coffee urns. Perched atop a stool at my elbow, a glass pickle jar bore a sign reading “Donations.” I tucked some of my unspent evacuation cash into the jar and advanced with the line.

  Flushed-faced kitchen helpers ferried out tinfoil pans of fresh fruit medley, bowls of salsa, and carafes of orange juice. Behind a long table, the café's waiters and waitresses ladled cream gravy over baking powder biscuits and dished up scrambled eggs, bacon strips, sausage links, and pancakes. While a bowl of cold cereal was my typical breakfast, I did what I often did at a buffet and took a little too much of everything. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the urn and carried it to an open spot at a picnic table where I sat next to a lady I didn't know. It reminded me of mealtime at summer camp, complete with flies which no one seemed to mind much.