I grew up in a family reasonable enough
to consider magic a frivolous waste. My father only concerned
himself with the rigid order of work, and my mother, with the wonders
of the laws of the Universe.
They were more concerned with the
potential devastating effects of humanity's continued disregard for
the global environment. As a child I was enthralled by the
unexplained effects those with power could enact on their immediate
surroundings. Though of minuscule importance, the disappearance of a
card, the reappearance of a ring, the levitation of a person, amazed
my simple soul, and I observed the performance of each spell with
devotion.
In the recesses between my daily
activities, sequestered in my room, I practiced, as my parents argued
over the mundanity of 1 or 2 degrees. My success at school, and
their mutual obsession, blinded them to my budding ambition. Over a
self-taught year, I developed the confidence to seek an
apprenticeship, and in my effort, discovered I was a naif, and an odd
one at that.
The local master, staged by the docks,
scoffed at my careless fingers, incapable of complicated coin work.
Dispatching and redrawing, seemingly from the empty air, he assured
me, were basic skills I would never satisfy. He formed his opinion
with only a cursory examination of my form, but he was correct. I
couldn't yet draw objects from nothingness, or send them back into the
void swiftly enough to fool him. Yet, I begged a boon, that he would
demonstrate a few simple tricks for my edification. He laughed and
presented a few paltry tricks, and I frowned. I knew his initial
evaluation was faultless. I would never recreate his deceptions as
he enacted them.
I would improve them, with a skill
he would never understand, not cunning, but concentration. In his
showy deceit I'd discovered disappointment. The magic of the gaudy
entertainer consisted entirely of illusion, contained no substance.
In spite of this revelation, I persisted on my chosen path.
The lairs of popular magicians are
popularly portrayed as littered with debris and accentuated by a
single ostentatious machine, the centerpiece of the performer's act.
Yet I disdained, and did not require such frivolous implements to
distract my audience. I had no audience, and I preferred my
situation. Nights I toiled in blackness, which I believed the
optimum environment to practice the basic elements of my craft, the
drawing forth and the dissipating.
A year of study, and I returned to the
Walrus and The Upturned Hat, where I expected to be met unrecalled
and indifferent. This particular meeting left a singular mark upon
my memory, and I remember the new location, the original mooring had
been claimed by the sea, and I remember the difference between the
original location's shabby appearance by the sea side, and this new,
resplendent temple. The encroaching disaster, the sole topic at
home, already impinging upon the minds of the people, had encouraged
the destitute to spend money more casually on escapist entertainment.
Without a flicker of recognition, the
Walrus himself, forlorn over his removal from the shore, drew me
in, as if I were an unshucked oyster, and offered tricks and toys for
my amusement. I played with his obliviousness, pretending to prefer
the playthings, when I only wanted to proffer my new skill. At last
he said, of course, he whose fingers shall always fumble the coin,
can attempt any trick which pleases him.
And abashed at my revealed pretense, I
dropped my quarter onto the floor, where he snatched it, inspected
it, and returned it, snorting with great huff of discontent.
Without another word, I squeezed the
quarter between my two sweat slicked palms, and made a single turn in
space, nearly tumbling in anxiety, and he snatched the silver coin
from betwixt my hands as easily as one flicks on a light switch. He
laughed one deep grunt, and began to turn, but without reply I began
again.
With eyes seeing only the action, blind
to the world, I spun again, and when he pried apart my clasped
fingers, the Walrus fingered only space. He stumbled in
astonishment, and as he composed himself, I repeated the action in
reverse, revealing the quarter in the hollow of my hand. He
inspected its face, recorded the date (2035) wrote his initials on
it, and made me repeat my achievement three times until he was
satisfied. Each time, I moved with more determination and less
hesitancy, until under his precise eyes, I acted with complete
confidence.
I've never seen anything like it, how
does it work he asked, and I begged his forgiveness, for though he'd
shared his simple tricks freely, I needed to deceive him. My need
was greater than he could imagine.
But while I might forbid him my
knowledge, I could not withhold my act. He insisted on my perpetual
presence at his theater, and every night I performed for real coins
which he embezzled gluttonously from my remuneration. I forgave his
transparent greed, which seemed to be the only object he couldn't
hide, for I wasn't searching for wealth. At the time, I was only
capable of a single trick, my Divine Miracle, my master promoted it
publicly, or the Damned Mystery, as he put it personally, privately.
My hope, my quest, was to use this
singular ability of mine to draw out a true magician. One capable of
not, paltry deceptions, but true wonder. My naivety, shaken by my
initial contact with my master Charlatan, had not destroyed my belief
that someone performing for the crowd must be a wielder of arcane
arts. In retrospect, I should have realized that anyone capable of
miracles or demonic phenomenon (depending on one's perspective)
would hardly waste their time on inanities, but my youthful belief
held so fast to my soul, it deflected any reasonable argument.
Eventually the Walrus demanded an
expansion of my skill, and I found I could alter for the eye, the
ear, the taste-bud, and the touch, a number of objects, to the
astonishment of the increasingly despairing public. My twin
obsessions, my search and my dedication to my craft, insulated me
from the outside world, as the once stable international structure
splinted under the ever increasing stress of sea level rise,
increased temperatures, and too few resources for a multitude of
people.
A war began, somewhere, distant and
detached from my attention. Somehow nothing seemed to touch me, not
the draft notices, nor the hunger creeping through the bellies of a
nation wrestling for the first time in centuries with crop failure
and rationing. Then one day, my brother was returned from the remote
front-line, and I realized I hadn't even recognized his departure.
In the last decade, I'd drawn a
exponentially expanding crowd of admirers, who I didn't disdain, rather I paid them no mind at all, and a continual line of
challengers, all of whom I proved as frauds.
The day my brother's body returned, was
the day I first looked up and out, at my surroundings. My quest had
devoured my attention, my conscious, and my family in the meantime.
I looked at my father's haggard face, my mother's aged anxiety, and I
found my eyes were still capable of shedding tears, though I could
have vanished them if I'd wished. I hugged my parents, and offered
them a bounty which the greed, the ignorance, the apathy of the
people and the world, and my inattention had denied them. In that
moment I swore a solemn vow in their presence, to forgo my fruitless
search, to dedicate myself to their care.
Then, in the span of seconds, we heard
a knock on the door, and I couldn't recall my pledge swiftly enough.
For it was the Magician. The Master of Masters, represented by his
messenger. Would I travel to accept his challenge? In an attempt to
offer restitution, I prepared my parents for my departure, and left
that night.
Though its only been a month since my
departure I know I shall never see them again, and that is a burden I
must bear, along with many others.
And as the audience to my final act,
you've witnessed the result. I stand before you tonight the
Champion, the Victor, but also the Fool, the Scoundrel, and the
Defeated.
Audience, I have vanquished, embarrassed, the Magician, the man who inspired a multitude, with his
grand mysteries, which I have revealed to be as simple as pencil
sketched compared to my cinematic marvels. Yet, in this triumph I
have concluded my quest in failure. I have demonstrated to myself a
simple truth, which I should have realized long ago. Though I know
not why, I am the only man capable of Magic, the true marvels, not
the sleight of hands and mental machinations, the pitiful
contrivances these men are capable of. And failure is compounded by
humiliation, abomination, and mortification. For I recognize in
myself, a deplorable deceit I've practiced against my potential. I
have been capable of so much more, and until this moment, I've
squandered it behind the shelter of others.
This was my final public act. Tonight
I venture out to enact the ministry I've been capable of for over a
decade and work for a better world.
But before I go, those of you who
remain, who hear my words, must act as if there is no hero, no
Magician waiting just out of sight to set all the vices of malignant
people right. There is no hope in searching for another, but in
recognizing the only strength resides in I.
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