Public Embarrassment

Every exquisite, handcrafted, plush velvet seat in the Grande Theatre sold out mere days after the announcement of the performance, his first in nearly twenty years. “Witness the Return of the Inexplicable Erskine!” announced the signs that were plastered on seemingly every building in town, in finely-written cursive script. The entire populace was abuzz with gossip and rumor about the old magician.

“He was locked away in an asylum,” whispered the withered busybodies in the tea shop.

“He was captured and tortured in the king’s dungeon, he was, for bein’ a witch,” argued the men in the taverns.

“I heard,” a small, freckled boy named Hadley squeaked, “he was locked in mortal combat with a fiery demon from the Underverse for ages and ages until he finally vanquished the creature with a glowing sword made of pieces of the brightest star in the sky and now he’s returned to us.”

None of these stories were true, of course, but the townspeople discussed and dissected each tale as if it were gospel. The return of the Inexplicable Erskine was, quite simply, a Big Deal.

The night of the performance arrived quickly and the theatre was packed with all the gentlemen and ladies of the town, earnestly dressed in their finest clothes. The crowed murmured to one another, “What sort of trick do you think he’ll perform for us tonight,” and, “How exciting,” while the musicians in the orchestra pit were tuning their instruments. (Just one musician, actually, an African man named Kiano, whom the magician had befriended many years ago during an expedition.)

Backstage, an elderly man was twisting and contorting himself into a tuxedo made of the richest, blackest fabric you’d ever seen. It was like staring into midnight. Thousands of tiny, almost invisible sequins were embedded in the pants and jacket so that when the light hit just right you were dazzled by their radiance.

Twenty years have passed since the Inexplicable Erskine last dazzled anyone. As he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt with thin, bony fingers, he thought about the last time he performed his magic for a crowd. It was a disaster.

He had been at the height of his popularity, a master of legerdemain, but when the time came for his final prestidigitation, a brilliant set piece in which he was to make the entire building, the same theatre he was to perform in that very evening, disappear from around the audience, he failed. The old, stoic theatre stubbornly remained where it was. His once-loyal fans and admirers scoffed and laughed and derided his efforts. They told him to make himself disappear, that it might be easier for him, and so he did. With his shoulders slunk down and head held low he awkwardly shuffled off the stage, cheeks aflame with embarrassment and anger.

The Inexplicable Erskine pledged there and then that he would not return to the stage until he had perfected his craft. He would journey to the farthest reaches, study with the grand masters, and only then, when he was truly ready, would he attempt another conjuration.

Now, tonight, he was ready. He would show them something they’d never forget.