DID YOU KNOW THAT YOU SHOULD NEVER CUT YOUR NAILS ON FRIDAY OR SATURDAY UNLESS YOU WANT BAD LUCK? THAT IN ROMAN TIMES IT WAS SINFUL TO CUT YOUR NAILS ON THE NUNDINAE (EVERY NINTH DAY)?
HAVE YOU EVER HAD A TOOTH REMOVED AT THE DENTIST'S AND LEFT IT BEHIND? YOU'RE PLAYING WITH FIRE. JUST ONE BAD-MINDED PERSON IS NEEDED, PLUS YOUR TOOTH, TO MAKE YOUR LIFE A MISERY.
CALL THE BODY SHOP NOW; WE DISPOSE OF HAIR, TEETH, NAILS AND OTHER MATERIAL IN A DISCREET AND SAFE MANNER, ENSURING THERE IS NO DANGER OF MISPLACED PIECES IN THE WRONG HANDS.
CALL THE BODY SHOP NOW TO RECLAIM YOUR PEACE OF MIND.
The people Andra worked with were well-read when it came to the dead. They started calling her "little weasel" for her love of pieces. One man there mistook her interest for ghoulishness, and told her long and vile stories. He was the one who named her Little Weasel. He told her a story, which she repeated to Marvo:
The Little Weasel
There was a city, many years ago, before time was such a clear and certain jailer, which was a place of great strength to witches. Nobody wanted to be buried there, because the witches would take the form of weasels and bite off the ears and noses of dead bodies waiting for final rest. They used these in their spells, and they became so feared that the squeaking of a weasel was said to be a portent of death.
Travellers to this city found great welcome though, and word spread of the joys to be found there. The women were sensual and free; the men strong and friendly. The rare female traveller was given safe haven as the men were.
It was not a very healthy town, though, not for visitors. Sickness prevailed, and the doctors were kept hard at work sending word to bereaved families. The witches of the town did not mind where the noses and ears came from; foreign blood never hurt anybody. The city prospered for many years until the day a weasel ran through the main street, squeaking death. A week later, a great flood took every life, visitor, local and witch alike.
#
Andra was hurt by the story because she knew the weasel was meant to be her. Marvo sent a numbing to the man's tongue.
"D-do you like your job, L-l-little Weasel?" asked the man the next day. He was now a stutterer and the sharpness was taken from his words. His comment was meant to be a joke. No one could like her job. Andra, however, found it to be spiritually rewarding work. The pay was good; it needed to be. Only the rich could afford the service; the poor must dispose of their own waste.
All pieces had to be kept separate. Little plastic bags were provided, at barely a cost to the owner of the business. Less than a cent each, and the clients paid a hundred dollars, to fill them with hair, nails, teeth, faeces, urine. The bags were collected weekly and burnt in individual fires. It was this which cost the money; the individual handling required. It was very important not to mix the bags up, and it was the combination of physical grossness and high responsibility which put people off.
Cure or curse worked the same way. A prevention to disease was to inject that disease. And the way to break a witch's spell was to use the elements of witchery; the victim's hair and nails, sealed in a bottle and buried at the front door will break a witch's spell. Andra was happy, because, instead of scattering the ashes individually, she kept them in a large glass jar. One day she would find a use for the grey flecks.
She kept them safe, though. No witch would use such a small piece of a person to cast a spell. Andra did not think she would ever be caught keeping the ashes, because she did her job so perfectly. She had no witchbreaker sniffing about her walls, wanting to catch her at it. No cunning watcher to spoil her fun.
Marvo found her dedication to her work enticing. He knew that difficult tasks were not always completed. He saw buildings half-finished, holes half-dug, cardigans half-knitted. Andra would do anything and complete everything. She had no fear of failure. Failure was part of experience; it was to be expected, not avoided. She felt no disgust. Marvo didn't either; he saw far worse on TV.
Marvo watched a lot of TV, often with the sound down. He seemed to prefer it that way. He would laugh when the characters laughed, without hearing the joke.
She didn't like TV, didn't like the passivity of viewing it. So when it was on she watched Marvo, saw his face become childlike and innocent as he watched. "You are so passive when you watch that box," she said. He nodded, reached behind the couch for some dried fruit he kept hidden there.
As part of her job, Andra often went to the Hall of Mirrors, where the psychics met and read palms. This was where they often found clients, amongst the superstitious, the believers. She was paid for being a mirror, and she enjoyed the work.
Andra dressed differently on those days. Marvo though she looked mysterious, with blackened eyebrows and darkened eyelids. Her make-up was more than other women wore. Other women thought adornment meant seduction of the male, and seduction of the male meant enslavement to the male. But Andra wore the make-up on her eyes because she was superstitious and suspicious; she trusted nobody but Marvo. She believed any one was capable of shooting darts at her from their eyes, darts to put a spell on her and entrap her. The make-up reflected any darts, and it provided her protection from herself as well. Sometimes she committed an act before she was aware of the consequences, and the make-up prevented her from sending out unhealthy darts when she didn't really want to. Looking daggers at someone could have a different meaning.
"Welcome, welcome," they said at the Hall of Mirrors. They gave her a table of her own. They let her be a mirror; let her sit and reflect the people's hopes and desires as they shuffled through.
Andra did not perform the tricks the others did. No cards, tea, palms or crystal. She merely sat and watched their faces, let them talk and offered help. The queues were not as long at her table. She was not a popular witch; she didn't show off or tell them wonderful things.
Less and less did the patrons visit her, so she sat silent and watching for hours on end, the babble rising and descending around her.
She was asked to leave the day after she had just a single customer, an elderly man who was ill with a disease he didn't like to mention. She said, "You must tell your family and friends. They'll hate you when you've gone, when they find out anyway, they'll hate you for not trusting them."
The man reported her to the organisers.
"She's not a witch," he said, "she didn't tell me a thing about my past, didn't even know my mum was dead."
They asked her to leave.
Marvo tried to help, but Andra already understood that everyone has a different idea of "witch".
• • • •
With Andra at home more often, Marvo gave up watching TV all day, and they practised magic. Andra would find herself transported to different rooms, holding bunnies or tigers, then returned to Marvo. They became very good. They understood each other, and he trusted her.
Marvo and Andra began to give children's shows in the park, setting up the table and performing simple magic. It meant Marvo felt comfortable calling himself a magician, and that he felt ready to meet with others like him.
They spent hours, Marvo doing tricks, Andra watching. She didn't comment for a long time when he erred; she was afraid of offending him. Then, when she gained confidence, she was strict, cruel, and Marvo loved it. Making him practise again and again.
He pulled out his messy list of magician's names to show her.
"These are all the magicians in the country. One day I'd like to meet them all, to see if they're like me," he said.
"Why don't we go travelling and visit them? Or you could invite them to stay here." Andra waved her arms around their home. Sometimes the emptiness of it frightened her.
"I might hate most of them – though I was thinking of having a party, like that time on TV, when there was a long table of food, and everyone stood up and ate, and the drink person gave drinks to them all. That would be good."
"I can help you arrange it," Andra said, picturing herself at the side of the greatest magician, weaving her own magic, making him glow
in the dark.
"There will be only magicians there. No assistants," he said, his eyes closed, thinking. He didn't know she thought herself part of him. Didn't realise the hurt he'd inflicted.
He started at the top and called his way down. He had no prejudices of age, sex or place of residence. All magicians had a chance to prove they were real to him.
"I'm calling from the Wizards' Guild," he said to each one. "Our annual Christmas party is next week and we haven't yet received your response. It's a food-and-drink-supplied bash at the House of Dreams showroom."
Marvo did not bother about how much money it all cost. He only needed to tap a pocket for the money to transfer itself to his own. Andra sometimes wondered about where the money came from, because he lived in a large home and used food and electricity without a thought. He organised his party with no expense spared. She never asked him, though, and did not really seem to care.
He waited for the days to pass, until he could see his people all gathered together. He never failed to be astonished at the number of pretenders who existed by playing with the belief of the people.
Marvo could see these dabblers on his streets. There was a man with sharp, short hair, his white scalp visible. He had a thin, pointy face, like a 3D triangle. He wore a large grey overcoat throughout the year. The only indication of summer was the slight sheen of sweat which covered his face. His eyes were large and they glowed.
In his hand he carried grubby plaited leather bracelets he made himself. He carried them loosely and gestured with them at people. They were woven with weak spells; the spells were so unattractive, no one was drawn to them. Few bought them. One teenage boy bought; he didn't understand. He bought one for a girl he liked, hoped if he strapped it on she'd be his. But the spell was not of love, the spell was for eyesight. His eyes grew wide and staring and he became frightening to look at. Once he removed his bracelet his eyes shrank to normal size, but they were so small, and in comparison he looked like a pig.
Marvo's cat clawed his shoulder if he watched these people for too long.
Andra watched Marvo preparing for his big night, the night he would meet the wizards and the magicians. They were never apart now and she felt lonely at the thought of him away for those hours.
"Good luck," she said. She did not ask to go with him. She knew he would say no and she was not ready for rejection from him.
Most of the magicians invited had agreed to attend. There were over three hundred of them, and Marvo, as drinks waiter, met them all. They were a colourful group, his magicians, flamboyant show-offs, all competing for attention. They wore purple suits, black cloaks, tight red trousers, pirate shirts. They admired Marvo's cape.
Marvo paid for the drinks and they drank as much as people do when it's free. There were tricks played. Like comedians, magicians like to impress each other even more than they like to impress an audience.
Marvo found them inspiring to be around, from a performance sense. He watched their flourishes, their flashy smiles, their passion.
He found only one true magician, a woman called Betta. He spoke to her throughout the night; she recognised him as well. She left early, asking him to come to her house the next day. Marvo played on till dawn with the false magicians and arrived at her house just after 7am without sleeping.
"Keen!" she said, standing in fluffy pyjamas. She took him in and made him toast.
"You know about your role in the world?" she asked. She was a serious woman.
"I'm a magician."
"Yes. But what is in your magic which keeps this world existent?"
"There I'm not sure."
"Have you seen the mist? Smelt it? Felt it?"
"Yes. It's often near me."
"We are the only ones who can see it. The others don't see. Their vision is blurred, interrupted, but they feel that they see all. This is your true reason for existence; it is the reason you live."
"Do you know of my strange beginning?" Marvo asked.
"We all have strange beginnings," she said. "I spent the first years of my life in a nest on a mountain to save me from slaughter."
"I was saved from slaughter."
"Our births are heralded to those who know. They let us live until we can form conscious thought, so we will know why we died, remember it for next time, pass it consciously to the next. Then they try to kill us."
"How many survive?" Marvo asked.
"Perhaps two in one hundred. And there are two of us per million population. That is why our magic must be powerful. Also why you must end your seeking for others. We must not be together. We must never die together. We are born alone, we stay alone and in pain."
Betta began to cry quietly. She showed her age this way. She was not young. Marvo comforted her, wise that the pain of age is the worst, the pain and the knowledge that it would not cease until death. "You know we are here, be satisfied with that. Find someone who understands magic. Not a fake. Many fake magicians are our enemies. They become magicians to seek us out and destroy us. Perhaps, as a performance magician, you may distract them from your truth. Never lose awareness, though, be always aware."
"I know something," said Marvo, "I know something you may not know. Do you have a brother or a sister?"
"No. My older sister was killed when I was five."
"An accident?"
"Yes. She followed me into a pipe. I came out the other side, she was stuck. They could not get her out for a long time; she suffocated. It was a very small pipe. An eight year-old should have known better."
"I never had a sibling," Marvo said. "It's hard for me to understand how losing one would be. But let me tell you this: I know that no magician should have a sibling. I know that they are never born, or they are killed before we gain our strength. I know this is because they could become adversaries, very powerful adversaries, because they would know us, have our blood, and use our powers to their own advantage. Brothers and sisters are dangerous to us."
Marvo thought of Andra's sibling who died in the womb. Her story was where he learnt this lesson. He wondered if this was an indication of her power.
Betta realised she was talking to the most powerful magician she had met. She continued his education, though; he needed knowledge he did not yet have.
Marvo listened to her and ended his seeking.
He was full of news when he returned to Andra, but she wanted to hear none of it.
"Boring," she said as he described the party. "She sounds like a bitch," she said as he spoke about Betta, toast and true magicians. He realised that she was sick with jealousy, that she had missed him so much her body ached. He picked up his cat and stroked him. The cat refused to purr; he was angry with him, too.
"Tell me a story," she said.
"I'm trying to," he said. "One about purple suits and disappearing vodka."
"A different story, Marvo," Andra said. When she felt discarded her skin looked blue.
"Why don't we find someone to tell us a story together?" Marvo said. "Why don't we share a story?"
So they put on clothes which wouldn't frighten people and walked out. She wore brown pants and a soft cream jumper. He wore a short-sleeved shirt which showed off white, hairy arms.
"You pick someone," Andra said. "You're the expert at finding good stories."
They walked through the city streets until they saw a man in a business suit and bare feet.
"That's the one," Marvo said.
The man muttered to himself. He handed them a grubby card which said, "I can no longer help you."
"We don't need help," Marvo said. "Do you?"
"I don't. I don't. It's all the fault of my birthday."
Marvo felt great satisfaction. He was about to hear about a strange birth, his favourite kind of story. "Tell me," he said. "Tell us. Tell us about it."
Born on Christmas Day
I was born on Christmas Day. Always expected to die on Good Friday (a euphemism for Bad Friday, did you ever realise that?) and, depending on my mood on
that day, would either stay in bed to avoid danger or go out seeking it. I always thought I was special.
Everyone confirmed this when they heard my birthdate.
"Are you religious?" was a common question. They thought that because I shared Christ's birthday, I would embrace his teachings.
"I believe in what is truth," became my standard answer. To get rid of them at first, but then it started to become reality. I'd write down thoughts as they came to me, things like: The sky is blue – heaven is the sky. People with blue eyes are heaven. People with brown eyes are earth. People with green eyes are nature. People with grey eyes are the rocks. People with hazel eyes are nourishment. People with no eyes are everything.
I began to read these aloud. I imagined myself the world's greatest preacher. I began to talk in loud, confident tones, handing out advice to all in my path. I dressed well so people would trust me. I told them anything that came into my head. I filled a book with my little pieces of wisdom. I even believed them myself. Especially when the book appeared in print; that seemed to make it all real somehow.
Mistification (Angry Robot) Page 9