Gently, she pushed Daisy back down into the bag, and then she closed the top. She held the bag aloft, over her head, and she spoke in the mysterious sort of voice she always used whenever she said magic words: ‘Abracadabra . . .’
The second gentleman leant back and scribbled that down.
‘Now you see her,’ announced Phyllis. She brought the bag down and held it in front of her. Then she opened it wide, as wide as it could be opened, and held it out so that the two men were able to see down into the inside of it. ‘Now you don’t!’
The men craned their necks and inspected, as best they could from that distance, the interior of Phyllis’s shoulder bag. It was empty! All they could see was the black velvet lining, and nothing else.
Phyllis put her hand under the bag and pushed the empty black interior upwards, turning the bag inside-out.
‘The dog has vanished!’ gasped the second man.
‘Vanished into thin air!’ said Phyllis, holding the bag higher to afford them a better view.
‘Vanished into thin air,’ repeated the second man. ‘I like that. Aye, a fine way to put it.’ And he quickly wrote the phrase down, his feather quill dancing away in the gloom.
‘Astounding!’ exclaimed the first man.
Phyllis turned the bag the right way inwards. ‘And now,’ she continued, ‘for a change . . . let me produce some change.’
She placed the bag carefully at her feet again and reached inside (she gave her furry companion a good work, Daisy, you’re a star sort of pat as she did this). She fiddled about for a moment, then took out a long yellow fan. Phyllis straightened up and, with a snap of her wrist, the fan opened. Finely penned Chinese calligraphy was painted in red along the fan’s folds.
Phyllis wafted herself with the fan, and then waved it in wide circles about herself. The graceful curves it made through the air were like the wings of a beautiful, bright bird floating through the sky.
She showed the fan on both sides as she let it sail around her. Then, with another snap of her wrist, the fan was closed again.
Phyllis saw a metal pot at the front of the stage, a few feet in front of her. She advanced towards the pot, deciding to use it in this trick. She raised the closed fan before her and waved it. In a blink, a big, shiny gold coin appeared at the top of the fan!
She reached up with her other hand and took the coin. This she held between her thumb and first finger, giving her spectators a good view of it. After a few seconds, she tossed the coin across the stage and into the metal pot. It made a loud CLINK sound as it dropped inside.
(It also made a sort of squelchy sound, which Phyllis hadn’t expected. She thought that the pot was probably a spittoon, and it probably had contents that she didn’t want to think about too closely.)
The men upstairs looked at each other, then turned their attention back to the stage.
Phyllis raised the fan again, and once more a large, gleaming gold coin appeared at the end of it. She took the coin away, held it up for all to see, then again she tossed it into the spittoon. There was another CLINK and a soft squelch.
She repeated the action another five times, every time making a beautiful gold coin appear and every time taking it, displaying it and then throwing it into the spittoon. The action grew faster as each coin appeared and was deposited into the spittoon. CLINK squelch CLINK squelch CLINK squelch CLINK squelch CLINK squelch! (Phyllis was glad that this trick didn’t require her to retrieve those coins from that insalubrious receptacle.)
Finally, she opened the fan and displayed both sides. The fan was empty—there were no pockets or compartments or secret places on it. It was just an ordinary, elegant fan.
Both men upstairs clapped warmly.
‘Most wonderful!’ said the first.
‘Excellent, indeed, madam!’ called the second.
‘Thank you, sirs,’ Phyllis said, taking a small bow.
‘Now, let us hear thy song.’
‘Um . . .’ Phyllis stared up at the two shadowy men. ‘My song?’
‘Yes, thy song. Of course all actors—all performers—must present a song as part of their audition. We need to hear if thou art able to carry a tune, and do it sweetly.’
‘Oh.’ Phyllis thought quickly. A song . . . Then she remembered a tune that she had heard her great-grandfather performing in one of his first Hollywood movies, a short comedy titled Neddy Noblock Comes to Town. She’d learnt the words to the song by heart when she was younger and she thought she could remember most of them now. There was something special about the song; it always reminded her of W.W. and, now that she and he were sharing the secrets of Transiting, it would take on a new importance for her as she sang it here.
But, she thought, it might need a little something to liven it up.
‘Well?’ one of the men called down. ‘Are we going to be blessed with thy singing or shall we wait here all day?’
Phyllis smiled up at their silhouettes. She crouched down, plunged her hand back into her shoulder bag (Daisy gave her fingers a quick lick), delved around in there for a bit and pulled her hand out again.
Then she took a deep breath, counted to three in her head and, with all the loudness she could muster, she began to sing:
‘First you bring me laughs, then I have
sorrow,
you’re just here today and gone
tomorrow,
why am I left here on my own?
Tell me, why must I always be alone?
‘I want to travel with you,
do what you do,
see what you see—and I’ll be happy.’
The two men looked at each other and—unbeknown to Phyllis—they both winced. For, to tell the truth, Phyllis Wong was far better at performing magic than she was at singing songs.
Then, as she sang on, Phyllis raised her right arm towards the men in the balcony, and a long arc of brilliant yellow flames whoooooooshed out towards them. It shot across the stage before petering away to nothing.
‘Ye Gods!’ exclaimed the first man.
‘Zounds!’ cried the other.
Phyllis sang on:
‘I want to skip when you skip,
flip when you flip,
dip when you dip—and I’ll be happy.’
Phyllis raised her other arm now, and sent a long shower of fire off to the left. Whooooooooosh! It blazed for mere seconds before disappearing.
‘If you go north to south,
or east to west,
I’ll follow you, I will,
and everything will be best.
‘I want to travel with you,
do what you do,
see what you see—and I’ll be happy.’
Another brilliant blaze shot out from her right hand with another soft whooooooooosh!
Then something unexpected happened: as Phyllis kept singing, and as she shot out the flames from her hands, music started to play—jaunty, chiming music that accompanied her words and kept the tune perfectly. Phyllis looked around, but she couldn’t see where it was coming from. The men above looked around, too; they were likewise surprised.
The unexpected, chiming music swelled her up with a new gusto, and she sang on:
‘I want to travel with you, could be a
treat to
do what you do, it’d be sweet to
see what you see—and make it snappy!
‘I want to skip when you skip, if I could only
flip when you flip, we won’t be lonely,
dip when you dip—and I’ll be happy.
‘If you go north to south, let me too,
or east to west, you ought to know,
I’ll follow you, I will,
and things will be best.
‘I want to travel with you,’
(Flames shot to the left—whooooosh!)
‘do what you do,’ )
(Flames shot to the right—whooooosh!
‘see what you see—and I’ll be happy.’
Suddenly the music stopped
abruptly, and the ruddy-faced man who had shown Phyllis onto the stage burst forth from the wings. He was brandishing a long sword in one hand, and with the other he was holding, by the scruff of the neck, a short red-bearded person with a balding head and spectacles.
‘What witchcraft is this?’ the ruddy-faced man demanded angrily, pointing the sword at Phyllis. ‘What sorcery? Fire from the fingertips?’
Phyllis snatched up her bag and backed away, but he came closer.
‘And red-bearded dwarfs?’ The man’s cheeks were turning even more scarlet. He looked up at the two men in the box. ‘See, sirs, what I find backstage, banging away on empty and half-filled beer bottles with a couple of spoons? The sorceress brings a dwarf with her! ’Tis evil, that’s what it be! ’Twill bring a plague upon our house!’
Phyllis was trembling.
The two men in the box stood. Then the second man, still holding his quill and writing paper, vaulted swiftly over the front of the box and landed in a crouching position on a big pile of dark purple curtains that had been put in the groundlings’ pit, ready to be hung later.
Gracefully he stood and faced Phyllis, his single gold earring glinting, as were his dark, deep eyes.
Phyllis gasped. For the first time, she was able to see the man’s face—a face she had seen in paintings and engravings many times recently. ‘Mr . . . Mr Shakespeare,’ she stammered.
William Shakespeare slid his quill and paper into the side pocket of his dark brown coat. He straightened his broad white collar and said to the man with the sword, ‘Nay, Ralph, she is not a sorceress.’
‘But the fire, Mr Shakespeare,’ said the ruddy-faced man, his blade still pointed at Phyllis, his hold on the dwarf still firm. ‘She brings the flames; she brings the dwarf! She be diabolical!’
‘Nay, Ralph, what you saw was merely the latest thing in stagecraft. A new invention for the theatre. I have heard that in the distant Orient the actors possess such marvellous effects. I have been told that things of fire are harnessed there and used for great spectacular occasions . . .’
‘I . . . I’m not a witch,’ Phyllis said, looking nervously at the point of the man’s sword. ‘I’m a stage magician.’
‘That she is,’ said William Shakespeare.
Slowly, the man lowered his sword, but his eyes still harboured a blazing distrust of Phyllis, and a terror of the dwarf he was holding.
By this time the other gentleman had arrived in the groundlings’ pit. ‘That be right, Mr Heminges?’ asked Ralph.
‘Aye, Ralph,’ said John Heminges.
Ralph grunted, and shook his head—he was still not fully convinced.
Now that Phyllis was no longer getting the death-stare, she got a good look for the first time at the red-bearded dwarf who was squirming in Ralph’s grasp. ‘What the dickens?’ she blurted.
‘What the dickens?’ repeated Mr Shakespeare. ‘That is good . . .’ He whipped out his quill and paper and scribbled it down.
Phyllis’s mouth was open as she watched the dwarf struggling. ‘Let me go!’ he was grumbling. ‘Stop bumping me!’
‘Bumping?’ Shakespeare said, stroking his short beard. ‘I like this, too.’ Quickly he wrote down the word.
‘Let him go, Ralph,’ said John Heminges.
With a forceful shove, Ralph released his grip.
‘What art thou doing here, dwarf?’ asked Mr Heminges.
‘I . . . I just . . .’ began the short fellow.
‘I know why he be here,’ said Ralph, his sword moving through the air like the tail of a cat, ready to pounce. ‘He’s here to steal. He’s here to sniff about for your plays, Mr Shakespeare!’
At this, Shakespeare’s manner seemed to change. A dark look crept across his face, and he glared at the dwarf. ‘Is that right, thou false, cunning villain?’
‘Steal?’ squeaked the dwarf. ‘No, no, no, I’m with her!’
Phyllis gasped. ‘How?’
Shakespeare turned his glare to Phyllis. ‘Well, Phyllis Wong? Is this the truth?’
Phyllis just shook her head in disbelief. She didn’t know what to say.
‘Tell me,’ Shakespeare said to her, taking a slender pearl-handled dagger from the garter on his tights, ‘why exactly be thou here? Thou didst not arrive at the Globe to audition for our company, didst thou?’
Phyllis was sweating. She clutched Daisy in her bag close to her side. ‘I . . . I came to . . . to warn you about Cardenio,’ she said desperately.
Mr Shakespeare’s eyes widened with fury.
‘Cardenio?’
Phyllis nodded.
Shakespeare glanced at John Heminges. Then he said to Phyllis, in a low and wary voice, ‘How know’st thou of Cardenio? Nobody is privy to this work. I have barely finished writing it. How art thou aware of it?’ He came towards her urgently, the dagger before him.
‘Mr Shakespeare, you must safeguard it,’ Phyllis urged. ‘Someone is going to steal it! You must—’
‘We must ensure that you and your short companion do not tell anyone of this!’ Shakespeare interrupted her. ‘We are having too many of our plays being copied and pirated by rogues who come in here, stealing my words, writing them down as the actors deliver them on the stage! Now you tell me that my new play is to go this same route? Before it has even been performed? We must stop you from your felonious purpose!’
While everyone was watching Phyllis and Shakespeare, the dwarf, unseen, reached into a pack he was wearing strapped to his back. He pulled out a small black console and pressed a button on its side.
‘Aye,’ said John Heminges. ‘It was lunacy of us to even watch this girl. Children should not be in the theatre, and girls are not allowed on the stage—why, we would be arrested and the theatre shut down if it were discovered!’
‘Aye,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Our curiosity got the better of us today. Ralph, take them to the property room beneath the stage. Lock them away until we decide what shall be done with them!’
‘It be my pleasure, Mr Shakespeare.’ Ralph went to grab them. ‘Come with me, ye dwarf and sorceress!’
‘Come get an eyeful of THIS!’ shouted the dwarf. He thrust the console at Ralph, Shakespeare and Heminges. All at once, a crazy pattern of bright, flashing, strobing lights blazed on the screen and a cacophony of zapping, crashing sounds erupted. It was as if a hundred thunderstrikes were colliding in fierce, chaotic confusion.
The three men were dumbstruck, their eyes transfixed to the screen as they blinked at the stunning brightness of the display, trying to comprehend what they were seeing.
‘Come with me!’ urged the dwarf, grabbing Phyllis by the wrist.
She did not resist. The dwarf threw the console at the men—with his quick reflexes, Shakespeare caught it—and then the dwarf raced offstage, hauling Phyllis with him. She clutched her shoulder bag tightly as they fled.
Shakespeare, Heminges and ruddy-faced Ralph stood mesmerised by the alien technology in their presence. By the time they realised what had happened—quite a few spellbinding minutes later—Phyllis, Daisy and the strange red-bearded dwarf had crossed London Bridge and were getting their breath back, hidden behind some big oak barrels in a quiet laneway near Billingsgate.
Short explanation
‘How on Earth did you get here?’ Phyllis asked Clement.
‘Easy,’ he replied, taking off his semi-bald wig with the red hair around the sides, and scratching his neck under his bushy red beard. ‘I just followed you.’ He straightened his glasses and gave her a proud grin.
‘What?’
‘I followed you.’ He patted Daisy, who was sitting alertly on Phyllis’s lap.
‘But how? How could you follow me?’
‘Easy.’ He pulled a see, you’re not the only clever one sort of face.
‘Clem!’ she said in her tell me or I’ll throttle you sort of voice.
‘Well, the first time, I followed you back to that printer’s. I watched you from outside the window.’
She thought back
. ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said, remembering Isaac Jaggard spying the red-bearded dwarf looking into his shop. ‘But Clem, how did you follow me?’
‘Ha. It was simple. You left your key in the elevator.’
Phyllis shut her eyes, nodding.
‘I was miffed,’ Clement told her, ‘that you didn’t want to hang out. At first, I was. I thought that if you didn’t want anything to do with me, then I didn’t want anything to do with you. But then after a while I got bored with that. And I got bored out of my eyeballs with all the extra xylophone practice Mum made me do when she saw me hanging around the apartment. So I figured I’d find out what you were up to.’
‘Uh-huh?’ Phyllis said.
‘So, yeah, I came over to the Wallace Wong Building that day and hid behind one of those big pot plants in the lobby and then I saw you going down to the basement . . . those little windows in the doors in the elevator are good for seeing who’s in there as they go up or down. I knew where you were, at least, but also that I couldn’t get down there because it’s always key-controlled. The elevator, I mean. But I came out and pressed the button anyway, just in case. Then, when your key was still in there, I was in luck! The elevator came up, I got in and went down to your secret basement—man, Phyll, I had no idea you had all that stuff down there! Far out! And you were nowhere to be seen, but I could hear you tossing stuff around somewhere, so I hid near the stairs.’
‘You promise me you’ll not tell anyone about the basement? That’s my secret place.’
‘Cross my aorta nineteen different ways,’ he said, making a star-shape across his chest with his index finger. ‘Hey, Phyll! You’re a time traveller!’
Phyllis looked at him. ‘We don’t use that expression, Clem. I’m a Transiter. And you’re with me,’ she said slowly.
Clem gave her a we’re in this together, Phyllis Wong sort of wink.
She looked exasperated. ‘But aren’t you freaked out by the Transiting? I mean, it’s not something you do every day, like going to the store or crossing the street . . .’
‘Why would I be freaked out?’ he asked back. ‘Man, I’ve done freakier stuff playing Gloaming: Asteroid Zombie Scrolls of the Drynachan Moors or Dancing with the Zombies. Hey, apart from all that wind and stuff, this is like a walk in the park!’
Phyllis Wong and the Return of the Conjuror Page 18