White

The Magician’s Evening

rAChel DenhAm-White is still waiting for the Dune movie to be released

The multicoloured handkerchiefs had been pulled from the sleeve, the coin discovered hiding behind the lady’s right ear, the pigeons miraculously freed from their cage. The show was over. As the chattering patrons filed out of the sawdust ring, buoyed with incredulity and candyfloss, the magician carried his props back to his tent. It was at the very back of the circus; leaning haphazardly to the side, it bore a practically uniform pattern of patches and tears. It was old. Like him. It was worndown and close to useless. Like him. But it still served its purpose.

The inside of the tent was bare but for a camp bed, a chair, a primus stove, and a table, topped with a small mirror. All eyes were instantly drawn to the mirror. It was a simple disc with a backing of wood and amber, blocky, even crude from a distance. But up close, it was clear this was no ordinary mirror. It did not seem to reflect, but rather distort, its surface smooth but surreuptitiously etched with whorls and spirals. It was like looking at your face through a slightly rippling pond. The image was still there, but warped: an almost familiar stranger.

The magician smiled. The mirror had been in his life nearly as long as the loneliness, but he still remembered the time before when his nights had been barren patches of black unmarked by dreams, when the wanting had been so damn strong. But then he had found the trinket in a tiny antique shop and they had been together ever since. They completed each other.

He set the props down in a cluttered pile beside the camp bed. Instantly, the handkerchieves unfurled, spilling out over the ground. He cursed, and bent down to collect them. They were such flimsy things, but capable of sparking so much wonder in the right person. He thought of tonight’s audience, adults pushing to the front as eagerly as children. They were so desperate to believe, that they’d look past whatever lurid

Art by PAuline Wong

trick was in front of them and try to see the magic. He envied them. He was bereft of that naivety.

Well, almost.

He glanced towards the mirror, looked away and then glared back, hungrily. He could never resist.

He sat down on the rickety chair, drew a candle from his pocket and set it on the desk. Like the mirror, the candle looked like something from another world; tiny designs etched into every square inch, the beeswax bound with ropes of herbs. He struck a match. The wick caught and flared to life, the air suddenly growing heavy with the astringent smell of thyme. A comforting smell. Homely, yet exotic. The magician sighed. The sigh subtly turned from a sound of exhaustion, to an exhalation of all his worries and woes. It was time. Taking the candle in hand, he tilted it towards the ground. The wax ran out of the candlewick in a silky pearlescent stream, but then froze in midair, hardening into a small, white platform. The magician raised the candle. More wax trickled out, pooling on the platform and then shaping itself into a raised step. Then another. Then another. No matter how much the candle burned, the wax never seemed to run out. The steps were at knee-height, translucent, fatty-looking and smelling of thyme and oil. Now they reached chest height. The magician could not lift his arms any higher. He made his way onto the lowest step, carefully building the staircase as he began to climb up towards the ceiling.

The magician rose through the canvas roof as if it were made of mist. He could feel the cold wind whipping at his face, but it did not bother him. Nothing could shake his balance. The steps climbed higher and higher, the staircase extending before him

adorned with dripping wax curlicues. He could see the lights of the circus but the individual torches and cookfires were no longer discernible, forming glimmering glowbugs in the obsidian night. He climbed higher. He was nearing the cloudbank, a layer of white and grey forming a pillowy blanket against the sky. Carefully, he raised his hands and swept away some of the milky air, adjusting the staircase to reach right up to the very top. But he did not need to worry. Once he stepped onto it, the cloud felt as solid as the ground so far below.

Pure, unadulterated joy filled the magician’s heart. He wanted to scream, to tap-dance wildly across the clouds, to holler at the distant ground, to make himself heard. But he restrained himself. There would be plenty of time tonight. Carefully, he put the candle in his pocket and, straightening, whistled three quick notes into the jeweled sky. He knew they could hear his call.

One by one, they came to him. Each star carefully arranged her petticoats and glided down to meet him. They formed a sparkling ring, smiling coquettishly at the magician, inviting him to come closer. He spoke their names. Their smiles grew wider, their eyes brighter and their feet began to tap with anticipation. The magician walked towards his favourite and took her in his arms, her hair frothing about her face in a glimmering halo. Her smile was the widest of all.

There was no music. One by one, they all began to dance.

The magician smiled. The magician in the mirror, his face pale white against the charcoal night sky smiled too. The magician carefully lowered the mirror, and took himself off to bed.