Magic

by Audrey Niffenegger

  “You’re insane.”

  “Am I?” His hood shadowed his eyes, but I could feel the weight of his gaze just the same. “You have experienced no consequences?”

  I thought about the incidents I’d witnessed: the muti guys wiping out; Lindiwe slipping in the suicide scene blood; the fender bender en route to the SARA offices.

  Just coincidence, right?

  Right?

  I cleared my throat. “Say someone had been close to the cat and this bad energy stuff. What could they do about it?”

  He shrugged. “They would have to wait for it to disperse.”

  “And how long would that take?”

  He sighed. “You should not be here. I have worked hard to clear this area. It is too late. I cannot help you.”

  I climbed back into the van. My hands were numb, and it took several attempts before I managed to fit the key in the ignition. Driving as if the van was made of glass, I took the first off-ramp, turned around and began heading back towards Cape Town.

  I almost screamed as the approaching shriek of emergency sirens filled the air.

  It was the last straw.

  I pulled over, locked my doors and fumbled for my cell phone. It might all be bullshit; it might just be coincidence, but I was past caring.

  When my sister answered, all I said was: “You win.”

  I hoped she knew how the fuck to cleanse a cat.

  THE WRONG FAIRY

  AUDREY NIFFENEGGER

  Madness and creative inspiration aren’t very distantly related. Here, Audrey takes the father of a very famous writer and explores the nature of his ‘illness’. There is magic in the creative process and there is the magic our mind can conjure in order to help us cope. This is a rich tapestry of a tale by an extraordinary writer that shows us a glimpse of another world.

  THE MAN SAT on the bed and looked about him. There was a wash stand, a pink china bowl with its chipped pitcher, a wing-backed chair by the small barred window, a worn carpet, a small bookcase, a desk, an ashtray, a waste basket, a wardrobe and a lamp. The bed had whitewashed iron fittings, like a servant’s. His own things were piled in a heap at the foot of the bed, his clothing and his painting materials, his books and his pipe; all he needed was there except the bottle, the most important thing.

  “You’re trying to kill me,” the man said to his son. His son stood in front of the door, as though to prevent the man from leaving, or perhaps in order to slip away more efficiently.

  His son was a substantial young man with an impressive moustache. He looked prosperous, even sleek, but also very unhappy. “No, Father,” he replied. “We’re trying to help you.” He didn’t sigh, though he wanted to.

  The man appeared much older than he actually was, and this was certainly because of the drink. The drink had brought him here, had compelled his family to commit him to the care of this dreadful place. Now he was here and they were going to keep him from drinking. He groaned.

  “You can’t imagine.”

  “I can,” his son said rather grimly. “And you mustn’t try to escape again. We were lucky to find you a place here. Foudoun won’t have you back after the way you behaved.”

  “Where am I, then?”

  “Montrose Royal Lunatic Asylum. They call it Sunnyside; there used to be a farm of that name on the property.”

  “A lunatic asylum?” He felt faint. “Is everyone here insane?”

  “No, the staff are very sane indeed. And the patients look mild enough. You’ve got a private room; no one will bother you here.”

  The man stared at his son. “Will you ask your mother to come and visit me?”

  The son shook his head. “Better not.”

  The man stood up and the room reeled. His son steadied him, helped him back to the bed. It was a long time since he had been so physically near his son. He gripped his son’s arm and felt him recoil slightly, involuntarily.

  “Please,” he said.

  “Father–” his son began to reply.

  Someone knocked on the door and then opened it. His son straightened and stepped away from him. The matron looked in at them impassively. “Your driver was asking if you’ll be much longer, Dr. Doyle?”

  “Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes, Mrs. Brewster.”

  The matron continued to stand there.

  “Give my love to the girls. And Mary,” the man said with an effort at a smile, conscious of the matron’s gaze.

  His son said, “I will,” and “Be well, Father.” Then he embraced the man and stepped through the door after the matron. The key turned in the lock. The man lay back on the bed and waited.

  THE HORRORS WERE upon him. He was infested by insects that marched across the underside of his skin like directionless armies. He could feel each tiny foot as it touched each nerve. He was hot, hotter, he was going to burst into flame. Water, he thought he said, but no intelligible word came out. Every sound in that unfamiliar place was amplified. Footsteps in the hall, cool wet clothes wrung into the basin, the tap of metal against glass. People stood by his bed and whispered. Someone said, “...seizures.” They put something cold and hard in his mouth and they restrained him. Crawlers massed at the edge of his vision, their etiolated limbs waving and gesturing at him. Great storms possessed him, then blackness. Nurses came and went, sunlight crept into the room and then it was night. He thought he was at home. His family sat at the table eating oyster soup. His daughter Ida seemed about to recognize him, but then her eyes slid across him and fixed on her mother. He spoke to each of them in turn and in turn they ignored him. He wept. Later he stood on a stony beach and saw birds, small and massed at the horizon, multitudes of birds, all kinds, flying toward him slowly. As they came close, he saw that it was a host of angels and that one among them was Death itself, his own Death, red and magnificent. “Take me,” he said. He closed his eyes, lifted his arms and waited. Nothing happened.

  He opened his eyes. The beach was empty and quite silent, the waves rolled and the wind blew without a sound.

  “I have been watching for you,” a lady said.

  He looked about him but saw no one.

  “Here I am,” she said. He turned. A lady stood near him. She was young, but regarded him with a serious, even severe expression. Her short brown hair was loose and cut a bit wildly, as though she had been recently ill. She wore a white tunic and her arms and feet were bare.

  “Aren’t you cold?” he asked her. He was shivering, himself. He noticed that there was a tortoise the size of a Hackney cab standing near the lady. It was looking at her with adoration and nodding gently.

  “No, I’m not cold at all; it’s you, you’ve got the chills.” The lady snapped her fingers and the wind died. He felt better at once.

  “Charles Altamont Doyle?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, somehow not surprised. “You know my name?”

  “Of course. We know a great deal. Everything.”

  He did not like to think what everything might encompass. “And – have I died?”

  “No, don’t be silly. I sent him away.”

  “I wanted to die,” he said. “I was quite ready.”

  “The Queen prefers that you live. She enjoys your paintings of us and she wishes you to paint according to her own specifications. She will send you instructions once you have recovered your health.”

  “Yes,” he said, without comprehension. He blushed and wondered how Victoria had heard of his work.

  “Not that queen. The real Queen,” said the lady.

  “Of course,” he said. He was about to ask the lady who this other queen might be when he heard a loud noise and found himself in his bed at the asylum. A char stood by the fireplace, one hand to her mouth in alarm, the other holding an empty coal scuttle. The door opened and Mrs. Brewster entered in a fury.

  “Milly!” she hissed. “What on earth was that noise? And oh, dear, look at all this coal all over the floor! Pick it up at once!” She glanced at him and her expression softened.<
br />
  “Mr. Doyle, good morning. How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” he said. He raised his head to look at her and the room spun around. “Still alive.”

  “Yes,” she said. “We nearly lost you.”

  “I was sent back,” he said. “I’m supposed to make some paintings for the Queen.” Too late, he realized that he sounded like a lunatic.

  Mrs. Brewster was used to this. “Well, let’s get you washed and you shall have some nice beef broth and then we’ll see about those paintings. I’m sure the Queen can wait until you’re steady on your feet again.”

  THE FITS CAME and went and his hands trembled so much that sometimes he could not hold a spoon. But his health did improve and on a good warm day he could sit on a bench in the sun on the grounds; he could sit in the common room and watch the other inmates watching him. He studied the habits of the staff. He adapted himself to Sunnyside’s routines. Some of the other patients were alcoholics like himself, and of these he made friends with two Irishmen and talked politics happily with them for hours. Time passed slowly at Sunnyside.

  Weeks went by before he attempted to draw. The nurse had laid out his watercolours, pencils, sketchbook and brushes neatly on the desk, as though he might perform surgery with them. He noticed that they had taken away the little knife he used to sharpen his pencils.

  He wrote his name and the date, 8 March 1889, on the first page. On the second page he made a drawing of the lady he had met on the beach. He sketched the huge tortoise behind her, roughed in the waves and the shore.

  “That’s not a very good likeness,” the lady said.

  He turned to find her sitting in the wing chair looking prim.

  “How did you get in here?” he asked. The door was kept locked.

  She smiled. “I have a knack.” She looked around. “It’s rather shabby, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not as grim as some places I’ve been.”

  “No,” she said. “That’s true.” She was silent for a long while. He waited politely, unsure what hospitality he should offer. At last she said, “Are you ready to take up your position at Court?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t understand. I’m not allowed to leave.”

  “Oh, pish, you needn’t worry. You’ll be back before teatime.” She stood up and handed him a small branch of fir. “Keep hold of that. And bring your painting things.” He gathered the paints and other supplies. The lady clasped his hand, and immediately the room vanished and they were walking very quickly down a long tiled corridor with a crowd of strangely dressed people.

  “Please!” he said, “Please could we walk more slowly?” He was dizzy and gasping for breath. “Where are we?”

  “Paddington Underground station.” The lady stopped by an unmarked door. “Here we are. Close your eyes.” He did. He felt the lady tug at his dressing gown and he opened his eyes to find them both standing in a meadow. The ground was damp under his slippers. He felt a fit coming on. “Oh, bother,” he heard the lady say as the storms overtook his brain.

  HE WOKE IN his bed, trying to remember his dreams. He felt blank. There was a stick in the bed with him. He held it up. A fir branch. Well, he had kept hold of it, at least.

  HE BEGAN DRAWING every day. He drew heraldry, elves, birds. He drew a giant squirrel holding a screaming baby. He drew people with absurd facial hair, Mrs. Brewster’s tea kettle, the maids at their work. He drew the lady being menaced by a massive pole cat.

  “I suppose you think that’s amusing,” said the lady.

  “Yes,” he said. “Do you?”

  “I don’t have much of a sense of humour,” she said. “You would do well to remember that.”

  He nodded.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, almost kindly.

  “Not well,” he said. The insects-under-the-skin feeling had been troubling him all morning.

  “Ah. Then perhaps we should leave our journey till another day.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble...” He faltered. “Could I make the paintings for the Queen here in my room? I should be glad to paint anything she likes.”

  “Oh, but she particularly wanted portraits made of all her children.”

  “How many does she have?”

  “Thousands.”

  “Dear me. That’s... prodigious. But I’m sure I will be dead before I can make so many portraits.”

  The lady smiled. “You needn’t worry. We can keep you alive for as long as you like. Nearly forever. We are quite long-lived ourselves, and it’s no great trick to loan you a little extra.”

  He thought of his death, which had been so near, so inviting. He wished he could ask the lady to hasten death toward him. But he thought that must be wrong. “Thank you,” he told her. “But I don’t wish for anything that isn’t mine.”

  “What do you wish for, then? For you must have a reward. The Queen would have it so.”

  He thought carefully. “Perhaps... something for my son Arthur? Good luck?”

  The lady nodded. “We will watch over him. But for yourself?”

  He hesitated. “Do you have any strong drink, at your Court?”

  The lady laughed. “We have wonderful spirits, much nicer than anything you have had.”

  He stood and held out his hand. “Lead me there, and let me have a drink, or two, and I’ll paint all Her Majesty’s children.”

  “Done,” said the lady. He gathered up his painting things and she gave him another fir branch. Then she compressed him until he was seven inches tall and she put him in her pocket. He felt marsupial, but it was much more comfortable than going along on foot. They rushed through Paddington and across the meadow. The lady opened a hole in the ground and they made their way through narrow caves. She stopped, took him out of her pocket and said, “Now you have to walk.” She made herself seven inches tall so they were again the same height. The caves opened into caverns. Light was always just ahead; he could not see the source.

  They came to a room which had a table laid for a feast. “Stop and rest,” said the lady. “And have your drink.” She poured a dark, syrupy liquid into a glass. He drank it and felt restored; he felt better than he had in many years. “One more?” She refilled his glass and he drank up. His brain seemed to heal. The fog lifted. He grinned at the lady and she smiled back. “Now, here we are,” she said, and she led him into the next room.

  The room was enormous. He could see the ceiling but not the walls. There were a great many things in the room, too many for him to make sense of at first. When he looked carefully, he could see piles of things. Each thing was spherical, illuminated, each one was in motion. He drew near to one pile and looked into a sphere. Some children were building a snowman. They were in a city. A large shiny vehicle passed by the children, moving under its own power, like a train. One of the children threw a snowball at it. In another sphere there was a war going on, something exploded and he turned away quickly. Lovers embraced in strange clean white bedrooms. Water gushed from pipes into bathtubs, no servants had to carry the water. Bodies were stacked naked in mass graves. Machines. Murder. Magic. He saw things he had no words for.

  He turned to the lady, who was standing in an empty space looking depressed. “How do you like it?” she asked him.

  “It’s overwhelming,” he said. “What is it?”

  “The Queen’s children. The future.”

  “This? I thought... I imagined that fairies were...”

  “Small and pretty with little gauzy wings?” The lady shook her head. “I’m sure we were, once upon a time. The Queen is nostalgic, and she likes to think of her children the way we used to be. She thought perhaps you would be able to see us that way. She hoped you might reimagine us.”

  “For that you need a genius. Or a lunatic. I’m only an artist and a drunkard.”

  The lady looked at him carefully. “At least you’re honest about it,” she said. She held out her hand. He took it and they began the long walk through the caves.


  BACK AT SUNNYSIDE he applied himself to his task. He filled the sketchbook with incorrect, out-of-date fairies. Fairies riding on the back of a pheasant, fairies flying through the night sky. Fairies feasting, frolicking, courting and scheming. The lady came whenever he ran out of paper. She peeled each fairy off the page and tucked it into her pocket. “How many more?” he asked her. “Lots and lots,” she always said.

  One day she pocketed the last fairy. She leaned over Charles Doyle and took his pen in her hand. “Here is a drawing for you,” she said. In his own style, she drew a full-length portrait of him, standing in profile with one hand outstretched in greeting. Facing him, she drew his death. They shook hands.

  Charles Doyle smiled. He slumped forward; his death was a simple, quiet one. Under the drawing the lady wrote Well met. She laid down the pen and left the room.

  SHUFFLE

  WILL HILL

  There’s an element of sleight-of-hand in Will’s story, and not just in the content of the tale itself, but in its structure. As this is a story about cards, this is somewhat apt. But it is also a story about gambling and about what makes a gambler. In particular, it is a story about a gambler playing to lose, in order that he can be free.

  WATCH CAREFULLY. THAT’S what I always tell them.

  You know the game. Three cards, my hands, your money. The red backs of the cards moving in tight little circles, quicker than your eye can follow, no matter how fast you think you are. No way for you to win, we both know it. You pay your money and I show you what’s beyond you. What’s beyond anyone.

  No way to win. Unless I let you.

  Watch carefully.

  THE ARM AROUND my waist is warm and soft as it guides me up the stairs and out of Johnny’s basement. My head is pounding and there’s a blanket around me and I’m holding my clothes in my hands and I can’t stop crying. My hands and forearms and stomach are soaked with blood and the policeman looks at me like I’m an animal as the paramedic straps me down onto the stretcher.