The Masquerading Magician

by Gigi Pandian

  “This voice of mine nearly got me into a whole world of trouble.”

  I raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “You’re right that we should get away from here before we talk,” Tobias said, glancing around the gray and confining cinderblock-like structure.

  “This way.”

  Tobias took my elbow and held me back. “Let me pick.”

  “Pick what?”

  “I bet I can guess which car.”

  “Cars didn’t exist when we knew each other.”

  “But cars have personalities. Take me to the right floor, and I’ll guess yours.”

  “You’re on. And this is the right floor.”

  “I get three tries, right?”

  “Something tells me you won’t need it.”

  Tobias walked directly up to my green Chevy truck. It was certainly one of the oldest cars in the parking garage. I saw a couple of others from the 1960s, but nothing besides my pickup was from the forties.

  “That obvious?”

  “I may have cheated. You’ve got myrrh in here. Who has myrrh these days? I can smell it. I still could have guessed right in three tries, even without the scent of myrrh.” He pointed at a black Mustang. “That would have been my first guess. You hated bicycles. I figured you’d be a car person. But myrrh?”

  “It’s a good air freshener. And you really were a lot more observant than I gave you credit for.”

  “When you’re in servitude,” he said, leaning against the truck with a confidence I would have expected in a man who grew up with servants of his own, “you learn how to speak little but see everything.”

  I unlocked the truck. Tobias gave a low whistle as he climbed inside.

  “You fix this up yourself?” he asked.

  “I did. Like you said, I’m a car person. Fixing the interior and the engine has a similar energy and rhythm to working in an alchemy lab.”

  He picked up the cassette sticking out of the tape player. A flash of anger—or was it confusion?—crossed his face. “If you knew what I was, why didn’t you ever try to find me?”

  I frowned. “I was about to ask you the same thing. But I didn’t know what you were until I saw your photograph online yesterday—”

  “This tape, Zoe. This is my song. ‘Accidental Life.’”

  I stared at him. The reason for my love of the song clicked into place. “You’re the Philosopher?”

  He returned my shocked stare with a grin. “You really didn’t know?”

  That’s why his voice had felt so familiar. Like home. A man I’d once cared for who’d become an alchemist. I shook my head and laughed, feeling tears escape my eyes again. “I was always drawn to this song, but I never knew why.”

  “Truly?”

  “By the time that song came out, you should have been about a hundred years old.”

  “It was my hundredth birthday. That’s why I wrote the song. I realized I couldn’t give this ‘gift,’ if that’s what it is, to anyone else, and I needed an outlet to deal with that. I never dreamed it would take off. When you’re on the way to being famous, everyone wants a piece of you. You can’t have any privacy.”

  “And you can’t have any secrets—not ones you want to remain secret, anyway. Which is no way to be invisible, like we have to be.”

  He nodded.

  “I always wondered why The Philosopher never recorded another song.”

  “Now you know why. It was reported that he moved to Mexico to find himself. He was a philosopher, after all.”

  I shook my head as I started the car. We drove in silence for a few minutes as I exited the parking garage.

  “Even though I didn’t know you’d become an alchemist,” I said slowly, “you knew about me. Why didn’t you contact me? You didn’t think I’d help you again? I understand you’d want to put those times behind you—”

  “Shoot, Zoe. That wasn’t it. You know those were different times. I did try to find you once. I heard that you’d moved to Europe. I never got involved with the society of alchemists—mostly a bunch of traditional white men, especially at the time. Are they hassling you? Is that why you’re so upset and why you tried to find a friendly face from your past?”

  “Not exactly. It’s complicated—”

  “You’re preaching to the choir.”

  “My story will make more sense if I can show you something I’ve got at my house. An alchemy book that’s unlike any other. We’ve got a few minutes until we get home. Why don’t you tell me how you became an alchemist? And are you in touch with other true alchemists?”

  Tobias ran his long fingers from the dashboard to the eight-track and shook his head. “I don’t know any true alchemists, in the way that you mean it. The spiritual alchemists are kindred spirits in many ways, but they’re interested in perfecting their own souls, not seeking out the Elixir of Life. I’ve watched them age.”

  “But you saw through me in such a short time.”

  “I saw much of what you did with herbs to heal me, so the next time I fell ill, I sought out herbalists. It was then that I realized nobody else was doing what you did.”

  “Lots of herbalists use family Bibles and put their own energy into the tinctures they create to heal people,” I said. “What made you think what I did was anything more? I was careful—”

  “That you were. But not everyone’s favorite book is in a strange code, and not everyone works only when they think nobody else is looking. I doubt anyone else noticed.”

  “But you did.”

  “I didn’t think much of it for years. Then once I learned to read, I read everything. It was about ten years after you knew me that I found a word for what I saw you doing: alchemy. I was intrigued, because you were unlike anyone else I’d ever known. I was lucky to know many kind people in my life—conductors, other abolitionists, and just plain old folks who didn’t like to see another human being suffer. Alchemy had been pretty much discredited by then, so books were cheap to come by. I liked so much of the philosophy—transforming one’s life. Taking the impure and making it pure. Plus”—he paused and laughed his deep laugh—“I enjoyed the puzzles of the coded pictures.”

  “And you always liked puzzles.”

  “You remember that?”

  “I’d forgotten until this very moment.”

  “About fifteen years after I started toying with alchemy, I had my breakthrough.”

  “The Philosopher’s Stone and the Elixir of Life.”

  He nodded. “I transformed myself from that scrawny, scared pile of bones into a spiritually and physically healthy man.”

  “You look great, Tobias.”

  “You look pretty damn good, too, Zoe. You used to be skin and bones yourself. I hardly ever saw you eat, and you always had dark circles under your eyes. But even though you look healthier than when I knew you, there’s something … ”

  “When you knew me, I didn’t feel I deserved to be taken care of.” I felt for my locket. “I healed others, but never myself. I didn’t take care of myself until decades later. A fellow alchemist helped me realize that if I wanted to heal others, I first needed to heal myself.” I smiled at the memory. “That’s when I transformed myself by eating to take care of my body. Cooking with the plants I used in my laboratory.”

  “But … ”

  “But what?”

  “I can see there’s something wrong with you, Zoe. You’re sick.”

  I stole a glance at Tobias as I shifted gears and turned off of Hawthorne. Was it still that obvious? I thought I was doing better that day. “You can tell?”

  He shrugged. “I help acutely sick people every day. You’re not at that stage yet, but it looks like you’re on your way. It’s not only your sallow skin, but your jeans are at least two sizes too big. That can’t be good.”

  I sighed. If I survived the wee
k, I was going shopping. “I’m getting over the effects of a taxing transformation.”

  “Whatever type of transformation it is that you’re messing with,” Tobias said, “you’re in dangerous waters. You need to stop before it kills you.”

  Thirty-Three

  “I shouldn’t judge,” Tobias said. It was clear he regretted his directive from a moment before. “I haven’t seen you in two lifetimes. I don’t know what’s going on with you.”

  “You’re right that I’m sick,” I said. “But don’t worry. It won’t last much longer.” I spoke the truth. Either I’d figure out how to get Dorian back and cure him, or I’d die trying.

  “I always wondered something,” Tobias said. “I feel bad even asking, since you gave so much of yourself to the cause … ”

  “You can ask me anything. You’re probably the oldest friend I’ve got.” I reached for my locket. I’d lost so many people I cared about. It was nice, for once, to find someone.

  When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper, so soft I could barely hear him over the hum of traffic around us. “We were all so poor.”

  “You’re wondering,” I said, “why I didn’t simply make gold?”

  “Knowing what I know now, it’s a fair question.”

  “I’m great at spagyrics—”

  “Plant alchemy, sure.”

  “The thing is … ” I paused as I pulled into the driveway. “I never got the hang of making gold.”

  “Truly?”

  I sighed as I turned off the engine. “Why does everyone think making gold is easy?”

  “Damn, woman, nothing worthwhile is easy to come by.”

  “Did you forget you’re talking to the woman who saved your life?”

  He laughed heartily. “I wish I had some gold left to say thanks. It looks like this house could use a top-notch repairman.” He stepped out of the truck and eyed the tarp that covered a sizable chunk of the roof. As he reached back inside to lift his overnight bag, I was again struck by his physique. Tobias was at once the same good man I’d known 150 years before, and also a completely different person.

  I pointed at the roof. “That’s why I’m wearing ill-fitted clothing. A winter storm did in a section of the house and ruined most of my clothes. I haven’t had time to shop for anything that fits properly.”

  I led him into the house. Tobias dropped his bag next to the green velvet couch and followed me to the kitchen. Out of habit, I looked around for Dorian, even though I knew he was across town in police custody. The gargoyle was either in an evidence locker or in a lab being examined for trace evidence. If I ever saw him again, I’d never hear the end of it.

  “You looking for someone?” Tobias asked. “You live here with someone?”

  “That,” I said, “is a more complicated question than you realize. Let me get us some sustenance first. Coffee or tea?”

  “I’ve never met an alchemist who could stomach coffee.”

  “Come to think of it, I believe you’re right.” I opened the curtains, lit a burner, and set a kettle on the stove. “But that espresso maker isn’t mine.”

  “Oh, the mysterious roommate.” Tobias stood in front of the espresso machine and breathed deeply.

  “You said you didn’t like coffee.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t like coffee. I said I can’t drink it. The scent of coffee is one of my favorite things on earth. Sometimes I’ll brew a pot to act as potpourri. But the last time I fell off the wagon and drank a double espresso, I was awake for days.”

  “The trace amounts of caffeine in chocolate is all I can take,” I agreed. “I didn’t realize that metalurgic alchemists were sensitive to plant compounds.”

  “I’m primarily a spiritual alchemist. Couldn’t you tell from the lyrics of ‘Accidental Life’?”

  “But you mentioned you’ve been making gold.”

  “I’ve become somewhat of a generalist—by necessity. You been to Detroit lately? They need all the help they can get.”

  “Your email didn’t mention what you’re doing there. You said you help acutely sick people, and I noticed you wear a bloodstone on a necklace chain. Let me guess. ER doctor?”

  “EMT. An emergency medical tech. The paperwork is easier than if I were a doctor, but I still get to heal people. Some of the guys who ride with me in the ambulance were wary that I keep a bag of herbal remedies with me, but ever since I saved a man from bleeding to death using cayenne pepper, they don’t give me grief.”

  “Ouch. You didn’t learn that one from me. I prefer less painful ways to slow bleeding.”

  Tobias moved away from the espresso maker and looked past the glass window box above the sink into the backyard garden. “Your backyard is both a medicine cabinet and a chef’s dream garden.”

  “Speaking of which, have you eaten breakfast?” I lifted a domed copper lid from a platter of misshapen blueberry scones, oatmeal nut cakes, and whole grain three-seed muffins. Dorian always brought home the less aesthetically pleasing baked goods from Blue Sky Teas. He was convinced that only the most perfectly shaped creations were worthy of being sold to customers at the teashop. Personally I preferred the misfit pastries. “They’re all vegan. And none of them have coffee in them.” At my insistence, Dorian had ceased making espresso ginger cookies that looked identical to chocolate cookies. The ginger masked the smell of coffee, and I’d accidentally nibbled on them more than once.

  But Tobias wasn’t paying attention to the platter. He was still staring out the window. “What happened to that corner of the garden?” He tilted his head toward the section I’d pulled to make Dorian’s life-saving tea.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s—” The kettle gave a high-pitched scream. “Why don’t you pick a tea, then I’ll get the book I wanted to show you and explain everything.” I opened the cabinet that held an assortment of loose-leaf teas. They were hand-dried herbs stored in glass jars.

  Tobias selected a flower blend of goldenseal, calendula, and chamomile. The kitchen was bursting with fresh and preserved foods and had no room left for a kitchen table, so Tobias carried the platter of breakfast pastries to the dining table in the large living/dining room. I brought a steeping teapot along with two mugs looped around my fingers to the solid oak dining table, then went to retrieve Dorian’s book.

  Tobias was already biting into a second deformed pastry when I sat down at the table.

  “Ignoring their odd shape, these oat cakes are heaven on earth, Zoe. Heaven on earth.” He gave a contented sigh as he ran his calloused fingertips along the edge of the table. “And this table is older than I am.”

  “Not quite. I bought it from the man who carved it in France shortly after the Railroad wrapped up and I was no longer needed.”

  “You were still needed, Zoe. I wished I’d had you around so many times … Now—” He clapped his hands together. “Is this old book what’s making you look so sick and sad today?”

  With a dangerous backward alchemy book, a dead man, a dying gargoyle, and missing loot … “I don’t know where to start,” I said.

  “I do,” a deep French voice cut in. “She needs help because of me.”

  Thirty-Four

  saint-gervais, france, 1860

  Under the moonlit sky, the shadow creeping slowly across the roof might have been mistaken for a man. But this man was smaller than most—and had wings.

  Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin wondered if his years of creating illusions had played with his mind. Was the belief that he had brought a stone gargoyle to life some form of insanity? The creature seemed so real! But perhaps it was an illusion. He, of all people, knew the power of illusions. They convinced the mind that the impossible was true. This could be an elaborate hoax constructed to fool him. Yes! That must have been what was going on, for what other explanation could there be?

  It took him severa
l days to revise his opinion. There was no illusion on earth that could explain the living, breathing creature who looked to him for answers he didn’t have. Nothing except for the possibility that the alchemy book he’d read from contained real magic.

  His wife had a strong constitution, so Robert-­Houdin considered sharing the secret with her. But he knew what she would do. She would say it was the work of the Devil and send the gargoyle away. But Robert-­Houdin knew the creature was no devil. He was as innocent as his own children upon their birth.

  The creature did not cry like a baby, but in other ways he was much like a child. He craved food and attention, as all newborns did.

  However, unlike a newborn, the gargoyle spoke some Latin and possessed an acute intelligence; though Robert-­Houdin’s Latin was poor, that much was clear. It was impossible to deny the creature’s existence, nor would he relegate him to a freak show. He would raise the creature as his own flesh and blood. Was it not his own work that had brought the gargoyle to life?

  But calling him “creature” wouldn’t do.

  “Dorian,” Robert-­Houdin said. “I will call you Dorian.”

  To his family, it appeared that Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin isolated himself as he worked in secrecy on the greatest illusion of his career. Nobody was allowed to enter his studio. No one. Under any circumstances. If anyone dared defy him, they would be written out of his will.

  Needless to say, they all obeyed.

  In the solitude of his studio, the old magician taught Dorian, whom he came to think of as Dorian Robert-­Houdin. Dorian quickly picked up several additional languages, and also excelled at stage magic.

  Unlike most men who worked in seclusion, Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin didn’t forget to eat. If anything, his family observed that his appetite doubled, perhaps even tripled, in size. On top of that, he became a picky eater, insisting on the highest-quality foods.

  In truth, Robert-­Houdin’s appetite lessened as he came to grips with the import of what he’d done, and he cared not what he ate. It was Dorian who had a voracious appetite and who craved superior meals. When not given the finest foods, he would sneak out at night to obtain them himself. It wouldn’t do to have Dorian seen, so Robert-­Houdin made sure to bring the gargoyle his favorite foods.