Phyllis Wong and the Return of the Conjuror

by Geoffrey McSkimming

  ‘I sincerely hope not,’ he said. ‘That’s the worst part of my job, I don’t mind saying.’

  ‘I bet it is.’

  ‘There,’ said Barry, making sure the pistol was safely ensconced in the pantaloons, but not so snug that he wouldn’t be able to whip it out quickly if he needed to. ‘That should do the trick.’

  ‘No, it’s me who does the tricks.’ Phyllis tried to make a joke, but her voice sounded flat.

  Nevertheless, Barry Inglis winked at her (which was, for him, the equivalent of a smile). ‘It certainly is. There is not a finer prestidigitator in all the world.’ He took the pistol out again and returned it to the holster under his coat. ‘I just wanted to make sure I could stow it there, for tomorrow. For tonight, it stays with me.’

  He began putting all the bits of his costume back onto the hanger. ‘I think, for now, you should try to get some sleep. You’ll need all your alertness for the day to come.’

  Phyllis nodded. She watched her friend take his costume and return it to the rack.

  With a last look around the backstage area, Barry crept back to the curtains. ‘I’ll just be out in a box up there,’ he whispered. ‘You rest, and I’ll see you all in the morning before the other actors arrive.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good night . . . or, rather, good morning, Miss Wong.’

  ‘See you, Chief Inspector.’

  He gave a small nod and faded away through the gap in the curtains.

  Phyllis plumped up a few cushions and formed a sort of mattress. Then she lay down and rolled over onto her side. A few minutes later she had drifted off into a light, not-far-from-consciousness sleep.

  Entrances and exits

  ‘Heavens above!’ gasped Barry Inglis. ‘There must be thousands of people out there!’

  He, Phyllis, Clement and Daisy (in Phyllis’s shoulder change bag) were looking out from one side of the backstage area into the auditorium. The rain had stopped falling and, like a tide coming steadily in, the Globe was filling with people: well-dressed people trickling into the boxes all around the upper regions, and more boisterous, eager folk noisily flooding the groundlings’ yard.

  ‘Man,’ said Clement. ‘This place sure is popular!’

  ‘It’s what they used to do before movies and TV,’ said Phyllis. ‘The theatre was everything. That’s why my great-grandfather became so famous in his day. He used to pull crowds like this with his magic.’

  Daisy could sense the growing air of excitement and anticipation out there. She gave a short, sharp bark, and then another.

  Phyllis patted her snout. ‘Yes, Deebs. Settle down.’

  Barry pulled down his doublet and straightened his sword. ‘It’s like being at a baseball game,’ he observed. ‘This crowd . . . easily must be two thousand . . .’

  ‘Closer to three,’ corrected William Shakespeare, coming up to them with a large cedar box. ‘I just checked with the ticket seller. We’re just a whisker under the three thousandth patron. The house will be packed.’

  ‘Sardine time,’ Clement said, smirking.

  Barry Inglis looked at the box that Will was carrying. ‘Cardenio?’ he asked.

  ‘The foul papers,’ confirmed Will. ‘The complete play. Every word writ by myself. The only parts missing are the short speeches of the character thou art playing, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Which I will return to you at the close of the performance,’ Barry said. ‘When I have played my part. Thanks for letting me hang onto them . . . it’s good to know I have them with me in case I get a sudden loss of memory.’

  ‘As agreed,’ Will said. He placed the box on a table by the back wall. ‘It is double locked, and I have one key.’

  ‘And I the other,’ John Heminges said, coming backstage.

  Phyllis went over to the table and ran her hands across the box. Her fingers tingled as she realised the importance of what was inside.

  ‘It is precious, young conjuror,’ Shakespeare said to her. ‘As thou well know’st.’

  ‘Beyond precious,’ Phyllis murmured to herself, her hands still pressed onto the chest.

  ‘We’ll look after it,’ Clement said confidently, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘Won’t we, Phyll?’

  ‘Arf!’ barked Daisy.

  ‘And, pray keep the vanishing pup still during the performance,’ said Will. ‘The groundlings do not like distractions.’

  ‘She’ll behave,’ Phyllis said. She took her hands from the box and looked around. ‘How about if Clem, Daisy and I hide over there?’ she asked, indicating a large pile of baskets and property skips in the corner, to the left of the foul papers box. ‘Behind all that stuff?’

  ‘As good a place as any,’ agreed Barry. ‘We should be able to hear Clement’s signal from there, if Colley arrives while we’re onstage.’

  Just then the other players came backstage, some of them dressed as soldiers, some as courtiers and some as women (some of the ‘women’ players wore closely curled wigs and large hooped skirts which swept widely around them on all sides, and Clement had to jump out of the way when one of them came close to him).

  ‘Ten minutes to opening,’ said John Heminges. ‘Time to be still and to prepare our thoughts.’

  Barry gave Phyllis a wink, and cocked his head in the direction of the hiding place.

  She winked back, trying to force a smile above her nerves. ‘Break a leg, Chief Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘I shall do my best not to follow your wishes literally,’ he said. ‘Thank you for the thought though, Miss Wong.’

  Phyllis grabbed Clement and led him to the baskets and skips. Quietly they ducked behind them and settled.

  ‘I wish we could see the play,’ grumbled Clement. ‘I feel like we’re missing out on all the action back here.’

  ‘We’ll be able to hear it,’ Phyllis said. ‘They’re just on the other side of that wall. And we’ll be able to work out what’s going on from the way the audience reacts as well.’

  ‘I hope there’s zombies in it,’ Clement said, making sure he had a good hiding place to peek at the table and the chest.

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ said Phyllis, rolling her eyes.

  In the theatre, the noise from the audience was rolling around like low thunder coming from far away. A new feeling started to fill Phyllis’s insides, joining her nervousness: the amazing feeling of quiet, mounting eagerness that she always got before a performance, whether she was due to perform herself or about to watch others.

  She loved that eagerness and the way it fired her up.

  She patted Daisy as she waited for the show to begin. Clement rearranged one of the smaller baskets on the pile in front of him so that he had an unhindered view between it and the basket next to it. Now, satisfied that he could see the foul papers box clearly, he sat back and waited too.

  Then the trumpets sounded from the musicians’ gallery directly above them. Both Phyllis and Clement started at the loudness of the blasts, and Daisy barked loudly.

  ‘Arf! Arf! Arf! Arf!’

  ‘Shh,’ Phyllis quietened her.

  The trumpets played a small fanfare, light and pleasant and loud, reflecting the excitement that was filling the Globe. Then the music stopped abruptly, and the noise from the audience subsided, fading away until there was barely a sound.

  From the stage, Phyllis, Clem and Daisy heard an actor declaiming boldly:

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of our fair metropolis! Welcome, one and all, to our great wooden O, this most excellent theatre in the city of London. Welcome to the mighty Globe!’

  A loud cheer erupted from the groundlings, and applause swelled from many of the upstairs boxes.

  Phyllis tingled and held Daisy close. She peered around the baskets and saw Barry Inglis waiting with all the other players. He was moving back and forth, almost as if he were doing a little jig on the spot. She had seen him perform the same sort of movement when he played tennis, while he was waiting for his opponent to serve the ball at him.
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br />   The actor onstage continued: ‘For thy enjoyment on this afternoon of the twenty-ninth day of the month of June in the Year of Our Lord, sixteen hundred and thirteen, under the reign of our mighty King, we present, for the first time ever, Mr Shakespeare’s latest epic tale—The History of Cardenio!’

  More cheers and clapping came from the house. Phyllis saw John Heminges, dressed as Cardenio in the costume of a strange-looking hermit, give Will a hearty slap on the back.

  William Shakespeare smiled at his friend, but Phyllis detected a certain grimness behind the smile.

  ‘And now,’ declared the actor onstage, ‘without further ado, I pray that thou wilt gently judge our efforts. We strive to serve thee, and to present thee with the entertainment thou so rightly cravest. Behold, ladies and gentlemen: The History of Cardenio!’

  To a huge surge of applause, the actor came backstage to join his fellow players. ‘They seem a likeable house,’ he said to Will and John Heminges.

  ‘A fine thing,’ Shakespeare nodded. ‘That we need this afternoon.’

  The trumpets above sounded an alarum, and Shakespeare turned to Heminges. ‘Enjoy it, John. Play with thy customary gusto and they will love it.’

  John Heminges put his index finger to his forehead, giving the Bard a small salute, as he always did when he was about to go on stage in a premiere performance. Then he pulled down his hermit’s hat, pushed his tatty cloak back across his shoulders and went through the curtains onto the stage.

  ‘And we’re off,’ Clement said loudly to Phyllis.

  ‘Shhh!’ One of the actors, who was costumed as a matronly woman, shushed him.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Clement whispered back.

  The matronly woman pursed her lips at him and turned her attention back to the stage.

  ‘Man,’ Clement muttered to Phyllis, ‘I’m glad ladies don’t really look like that. Imagine if that was your mother . . . I’d rather cuddle a porcupine than—’ He stopped, noticing that Phyllis was looking vexed. ‘Hey, Phyll,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean your mother . . . I wasn’t thinking . . .’

  Phyllis said, ‘Huh?’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything about your mother,’ he whispered, embarrassed.

  She blinked at him. ‘No, Clem, it’s not that. It’s something else.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Just keep your eye on that box.’

  Something the actor had said in his welcoming speech had given the young magician a jolt. Something about the date. It sounded familiar.

  She moved Daisy off her lap and pulled her journal out of her coat pocket. Quickly she flipped through it to where she’d made her various notes about the Globe and Jacobean London.

  The pages fell open to an entry with the date as its heading: June 29th, 1613.

  Phyllis’s eyes widened. Her blood ran cold. This can’t be today, she thought desperately. Not today, of all days!

  ‘Phyll?’ whispered Clement. ‘What’s up?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just . . . never you mind, Clem. You just keep watching that box.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, puzzled. He turned to peek again.

  Phyllis’s mind raced. Maybe I can stop it, she thought. Maybe I can prevent the awfulness that’s coming . . .

  As if in answer to her thought, the letter that W.W. had written her dropped out of the back of the journal. The words near the end of his letter seemed to leap out at her:

  Never attempt to change the course of Time or the events of what humankind calls History. To do so will upset the everlasting equilibrium of eternity.

  As Phyllis read those words she felt sick. She knew that something truly awful was going to happen, something much bigger than the possible theft of Cardenio, this very afternoon. And there was nothing—nothing that would be right—that she could do to stop it.

  The Chief Inspector patted his pistol, tucked discreetly into the folds of his red velvet pantaloons. He was hidden behind the curtains by the doors leading onstage, looking out across the theatre. He was waiting to go on.

  Nearly all the other players were waiting further from the stage, in the green room off to the right. When their cues came, they would hurry from there directly in to the performance. Only Barry and one other actor, who were due to make their entrances soon, were here, close to the stage.

  The audience had been enjoying the play. There had been laughter, and shouting when the action had hotted up on stage, and pin-dropping silence during the sad and lonely bits and even some booing and hissing when some villains had tried to steal from Cardenio. Barry had kept one eye on the action and the other on the house. From where he was, he hadn’t been able to spy the curly-haired figure of Vesta Colley anywhere.

  Suddenly he felt a sharp nudge in his ribs. He jumped.

  ‘You’re on,’ hissed the other actor next to him, who was wearing a lanky-haired wig for his part as an old soldier. ‘Make haste, man, they have given thy cue already!’

  ‘Good lord,’ muttered Barry. He took a deep breath, hitched up his hose where they had sagged round his knees, straightened himself fully, and strode onto the stage. The old soldier followed him out.

  Phyllis listened, her heart pumping with the dread of the afternoon and with nervousness for the Chief Inspector—her insides were a maelstrom of emotions. She heard him begin to deliver his lines on the other side of the wall:

  ‘Cardenio, I bring thee word,

  The Knight seeks thee out,

  And therefore hither I come.

  Quixote thinks thou a madman, so long a

  fool,

  And he is intent to discover your state.

  Methinks thy afflictions come wi’ the

  passing

  Of the Hours. For, like the tides that all

  befall us,

  Time travels in diff’ring paces with

  diff’ring persons.

  I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who

  Time

  Dawdles withal, who Time rushes withal

  And who he stands still withal . . .’

  He sounds a bit shaky, Phyllis thought. But he’s keeping it together . . .

  John Heminge’s voice came boldly in response:

  ‘I have no desire for meeting thy master,

  For it shall lead to the fury of two

  desperate men

  Oppos’d by winters of discord and

  fighting, Transported by calamity and—’

  ‘Phyll!’ Clement grabbed Phyllis’s arm. ‘Look!’ he whispered urgently.

  She snapped her head around and peeked between the baskets.

  ‘That shadow,’ Clement said softly.

  Phyllis’s eyes widened. She held Daisy firmly in her lap and watched.

  A dark shadow was seeping across the floorboards in front of the table with the box on it. It spread steadily, growing bigger as it came closer to the table. Then, smoothly and silently, the shadow seemed to bleed upwards, rising over the table legs and onto the table itself, covering the foul papers box like a blanket of darkness.

  There was the sound of soft, determined footsteps, and then the shadow became defined: a set of legs, a torso, two arms and a willowy darkness at the top of it, enveloping the box and the table and the corner of the backstage area where Phyllis, Daisy and Clement were hiding.

  ‘It’s her,’ whispered Phyllis. ‘It’s the lady from the auction! It’s Mistress Colley!’

  Vesta Colley had been carrying a small cloth bag, and this she dumped quietly on the floor beside the table.

  ‘I’ll whistle,’ Clement whispered to Phyllis, putting his fingers to his mouth.

  ‘No!’ Phyllis pulled his hand away. ‘Remember what the Chief Inspector said. We have to wait till she’s got the foul papers in her hands. We give the signal when she’s actually stolen them!’

  Clement frowned but said nothing.

  Vesta Colley stood before the box. She looked down upon it with a greedy gleam in her good eye, and a covetous smile sp
reading across her lips. ‘Here it is, Glory,’ she said to her companion in her fur collar. ‘Here is Shakespeare’s play. See the initials on the box? W.S. This is what we are after—that which is inside will change the course of our days!’

  Glory gave a quiet squeak and nuzzled her snout against her mistress’s neck.

  Vesta Colley withdrew one of her wheellock pistols from her boot. She turned it in her hand so that she was holding it by the barrel, with the handle away from her. Quickly she looked around the backstage area, at the same time listening to the sounds coming from the stage. She waited a few moments; then, when Cardenio’s speech became louder and more passionate, she held the pistol aloft and brought the thick wooden handle crashing down against the locks on the box. John Heminge’s booming voice, on the other side of the wall, muffled the sound of the locks cracking off the box and clunking onto the floor.

  ‘Now?’ asked Clem.

  Phyllis shook her head. ‘Wait till she’s got the play in her hands!’ she whispered.

  Vesta flung open the lid of the box and peered inside. Her smile grew bigger. A sheaf of papers, neatly tied with a dark red ribbon, greeted her. ‘There it lay’st. The richest of the riches. The fools of the twenty-first century will bid themselves silly for this!’

  She slid the pistol back into the top of her boot and reached into the box. Her multi-ringed, bejewelled fingers snatched out the manuscript of Cardenio. She laughed quietly.

  ‘Now!’ urged Phyllis. ‘Whistle now, Clem!’

  Clement put his fingers back to his mouth and blew hard.

  Nothing happened.

  Phyllis looked at him. ‘Go on!’ she hissed. ‘Whistle!’

  He tried again, blowing onto his fingers until his cheeks turned scarlet. Still, nothing. The only noise he produced was like a sparrow’s burp.

  He pulled out his fingers and whispered, ‘It’s the teeth! I haven’t got the fake teeth in. That must be why I could whistle so loud before!’

  ‘Blimey Charley!’ gasped Phyllis.