The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One (6 page)

At the steps, the thumbs began working in tandem; Obscuro was apparently right-handed—the right was the stronger of the two, balancing then thrusting upwards the weaker of the digits, before itself jumping to the edge, where the other would nudge it to safety. Then, the dance would start again.

Eight times, repeating the motions over and over, the seventy-odd witnesses in the audience watched breathlessly as the crawling stubs of flesh made their way to the stage, then across to the center, directly beneath the hands. The thumbs paused, as if seeking permission, then disappeared underneath the faded velvet fringe of the closed curtains. In the pool of light four feet above, the hands, which had neither moved nor disappeared, suddenly balled into fists. A moment later, they opened, palms out—eight fingers, two thumbs, all attached, all in working order, no blood, no fuss, no muss.

The circle of light slowly began to expand, broadening to a size large enough to allow the owner of the hands to step through onto the exposed stage. “Greetings and salivations,” purred the lithe, intensely prescient young man who stepped forward, arms spread in a gesture of openness. “You’ll please take note, that at no times did my fingers ever leave my hands,” he said somberly. “My thumbs, however, have a different and more wide-ranging set of goals. I am Obscuro, and if the evening goes well, we may learn something while I entertain you. If it does not, at least those of you drinking the cream soda will not remember the experience in the morning.”

“What is he talking about?” whispered Galen, who hadn’t touched his drink.

“The soda,” replied Michael. “It’s got to be at least 70 proof.”

They both looked inquiringly at the waiter, who showed his bottom teeth and gave them a thumbs-up.

Obscuro continued. “For my next demonstration, I need a volunteer—have we anyone in the audience with an artificial leg? Wood is preferable, but any leg will do.”

There was a brief tittering among the crowd, and a few utterances of disbelief, but after the trick with the thumbs, no one was really inclined to speak up too loudly.

“Aha!” exclaimed Obscuro, pointing triumphantly to a dark corner at the rear of the room. “Do we have a leg?”

“Yes,” said the woman who had stood, blushing. “I have a wooden leg.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” said Obscuro, “And it’s wooden as well! Dear friends, tonight is indeed a night of marvels! Come, come dear woman,” he said, gesturing her to the stage. She made her way to the front of the room, smiling in shy apology as she brushed Galen’s side in passing. The illusionist took her hand and guided her up the steps, then reached above his head and pulled a stool out of thin air.

“Christ,” exclaimed Michael. “Where’d he hide that? There are barely any light fixtures up there, much less a place to conceal a chair.”

Galen merely narrowed his eyes and watched.

Seating the fortyish woman, who was slightly round and darkly pretty, on the stool at dead center of the stage, Obscuro looked at her with a piercing gaze, then placed one hand on her chest and the other on her right leg.

“I wonder how he knew which leg was the wooden one?” asked Michael.

“Shh,” hissed Galen, “I want to hear this.”

Obscuro stared intently into her eyes; she was not moving, hardly daring to breathe. Those seated in the front could see the faint rise and fall of her blouse as she inhaled, and the light flutter of her heartbeat where his hand lay upon her breast. His other hand slowly traced an invisible tattoo across her thigh, then made its way down to her knee, then her calf. He knitted his brow in concentration, then moved his hand further down to her shin, her ankle, then her foot—and suddenly, a spark lit his eyes and he gifted her with a smile of dazzling brilliance.

“Your foot—toes, to be more specific. This is what you miss, isn’t it?” He whispered, softly, but firmly enough that it could be heard clearly throughout the pin-drop quiet club. “Walking through the grass in the Wienerwald, to the waterfalls—that was the sensation you most missed when you lost your leg, isn’t it?”

She nodded, tears beginning to streak her face. “Yes,” she whispered. “When I was a child, my father used to take me on long walks in the woods, and when I lost my leg in the accident, I …”

“Shh, shh,” said the illusionist. “Concentrate. Focus solely on me. Now, I want you to listen—I cannot give you your leg back, but I can help you regain what you lost, the thing you miss. I can do this thing because contact is stronger than interpretation, and cannot ever be truly lost. Can you trust me on this? Will you trust me?”

A nod. A hesitation. Then, another nod, this time more firmly.

Obscuro smiled in acceptance, then closed his eyes and dropped his head to his chest. For a moment, it seemed as if nothing had happened. Suddenly, the woman’s eyes snapped open and she flung herself upwards and out of the chair. The illusionist stood back out of the primary light, his face bathed in sweat, and watched.

She stood, trembling, looking down at her feet as if in disbelief. The audience had begun to murmur, as they still had no idea what was taking place on stage, or indeed, if anything had taken place at all. Then, she slipped off her shoes, and pulled up the cuffs of her slacks, revealing two healthy human feet, and ten wiggling toes.

“Aw, that’s a crock!” the stout man in the front said loudly. “She’s a plant. How’re we to know she ever had an artificial leg at all?”

In response, the woman, moving as if she were in a trance, continued pulling at her pant legs, revealing pink flesh on the left …

… and on the right, above the ankle, the polished sheen of walnut.

Dispelling any other claims of fraud, she unselfconsciously sat on the stool and began removing her slacks, first the left leg, then the right, then stood exposed to the room, a tearful Venus, reborn before their eyes. Below the lace fringe of her panties on the right was what could have been an Iron Age garter belt, holding a heavy wooden prosthesis in place. The dark wood was occasionally shot through with bright streaks of metal, where it was hinged for movement at the knee and again at the ankle—but below that was living flesh and bone.

Obscuro remained in the shadows, silently watching the reactions of his audience. In particular, he was watching his two invited guests, but they, along with everyone else in the room, were too flabbergasted to notice.

“Astonishing,” stuttered Michael.

“It could be a cast of some sort,” said Galen. “I don’t see how, but …”

A similar sentiment had begun making its way around the room, but no one had given voice to it before the woman, now standing, reached down, unbuckled the harness …

… and removed her leg.

At this, Obscuro stepped forward and helped her hop back to the stool. She held the leg against her, like a child, and he placed one hand back on the sleek wood and the other back on her breast.

“Close your eyes,” said Obscuro, “and think about the woods you walked as a child. It’s not a story, or a fable—you were there, you felt the grass, dewed and pungent between your toes; the crackle of leaves fallen, but not yet turned in their colors.”

As he spoke, the toes at the end of the leg began to slowly curl inward, then flexed and rolled, as if walking an unseen trail. Obscuro’s eyes flickered downwards for an instant, and he leaned closer, whispering in a breathy monotone that carried the width and breadth of the room. The candles were casting shadows into the air that seemed to thicken and darken, and it seemed as if the scattered sawdust was taking on a green tang. No noise filtered in from outside, and even the sounds of the kitchen had ceased. Nothing existed at that moment save the memory of a contact, channeled to dozens of people through the whispered urgings of a slight, earnest illusionist, and the common motions of a phantom foot made real in the trance and the smoke.

The whisperings were inaudible now, as Obscuro moved closer to her ear, pressing gently with his hands. She was whispering in return, and some of the patrons began to feel faintly uncomfortable, as if they were witnessing a very intimate moment, which, in a sense, they were. He continued tracing the subtle patterns on the wood, ebony in the dim light, and her hands where she gripped it tensed and relaxed to an unknown tempo. Perspiration stood out in bright beads on his face and exposed forearms, and he was leaning closely enough that his tongue occasionally flicked lightly against her skin. Against her chest, his fingers shifted almost imperceptibly, and he felt her swell in response. She was breathing more quickly, and the toes on both her feet were curling ever more tightly. He lifted his chin and spoke, his voice sharper now, and her eyes rolled back as she sat up more stiffly; her thighs flexed together, and her breath came in short, quick gasps. It was as her feet suddenly arched that those watching saw the metallic blue polish on the nails of the left—and pure, clear nails on the right.

After a few moments, her eyes slowly opened and looked at the illusionist, who held her gaze; he carefully removed first one hand, then the other, and stepped away. He knelt and picked up her crumpled slacks, then helped her reattach her leg before pulling back the curtain so that she could dress in privacy.

Including Obscuro, only three people in the room noticed that the woman’s right foot was again wood, dark and seamless.

He looked about at the tables, then bowed, slowly and regally. Michael began the heartfelt and wild clapping, followed closely by Galen and the stout disbeliever at the front. Then, the room exploded in thunderous applause.

* * *

The lights came back up as the ticket-taker announced a short intermission. Michael ordered another pitcher of cream soda, which Galen was now downing rapidly, and a couple of pastries. The woman who had gone onto the stage appeared from behind the curtain, face still flushed, although she seemed much more composed than during the performance. She took her seat near several other patrons, who were oddly reticent to speak to her about the unusual experience, which in the light and resumed bustle of the club seemed days past rather than minutes.

His thoughts a whirlwind of speculation and conjecture, Michael was going to speak to Galen on some conclusions he was forming about the extraordinary spectacle they’d just witnessed, when a courteous voice addressed them both: “Professor Gunnar-Galen, Professor Langbein—thank you for coming. I’m pleased you could make it.”

Obscuro, the Zen Illusionist, was standing at their table with a tray holding a pitcher of creme soda and two Twinkies, his eyes reflecting the orange candlelight.

“Call me Galen,”

“And I’m Michael. Thanks for inviting us,” Michael said, pumping the smaller man’s hand as he placed the tray on the table. Galen was about to say something, but had begun peering at the snack cakes with an undisguised expression of disgust.

Obscuro nodded in understanding. “Mr. Rutland and Mr. Burlington buy all of their supplies from the same distributors that service convenience stores and gas stations,” he said as he refilled their empty glasses, “and it seems to go over well with the college crowd.”

“In
Vienna
?” Michael snorted. “Not fifty feet from a dozen of the finest bakeries in Europe?”

“I’ll tell you a story,” said Obscuro, turning a chair backwards and sitting. “Once, when I was in Portland, I was visiting an author whose main claim on enduring popularity was a comic book, which had been turned into a cinema vehicle for one of those blonde starlets who seems more silicone than flesh and blood, and covers the fact with only two dots and a dash. At his studio, however, I saw his other, lesser-known works—tales and images of remarkable insight and complexity, revealing him to be a creator of great and subtle gifts. When I asked him how someone so obviously talented could waste the time and effort needed to create the breasts-and-bullets lowest-common-denominator material when he could be devoting himself to more substantial works, he looked at me, smiled, and said, “Hey—sometimes you just want a Twinkie.”

Michael laughed, snorting his creme soda; Galen simply blinked.

“Have you been enjoying the show thus far?” asked the illusionist.

“To tell you the truth, we’re both pretty amazed by what we’ve seen,” Michael said honestly. “Absolutely amazed.”

“Are you?” said Obscuro, with a touch of surprise which seemed genuine, “I’m not certain why—I haven’t yet gotten to the part that I invited you to see.”

“Well,” said Michael, “just the bit with the thumbs was worth coming for, but what happened with that woman …”

“That had little to do with me,” Obscuro said modestly. “I never walked where she walked, and I never lost my leg, as she did. I had contact with her tonight, briefly, it’s true—but any magic that took place on that stage came in the door with her.”

“For her it was magic, you mean,” said Galen. “For us it might just as well have been an illusion.”

Obscuro arched an eyebrow at Galen, then smiled as if pleased. “I see my point was not lost on you, professor,” he said, his tone respectful. “If you remain as perceptive for the rest of the evening, then I think I can guarantee it will not have been a waste of your time to attend. Ah, but I see I must resume the show,” he said, standing up in response to a waved signal from the sullen bearded waiter. “If you gentlemen don’t mind staying a bit longer, I should like to talk with you after the performance.”

“Certainly,” said Galen. “We’ve not yet discussed this matter of ‘historical importance’ which you noted in your invitation.”

“Rest assured, dear professor, we shall.”

“I have one more question, if you don’t mind,” said Michael. “Why ‘Zen Illusionist?’”

Obscuro looked at him, curious. “Because sometimes illusions are what they are, and no amount of magic can conceal that reality.”

“Like the woman’s foot?” Michael asked, glancing over at the table where she was sitting, trying not to sneak shy glances at the illusionist. “What was the reality there? Was it real, or wasn’t it?”

“Exactly,” said Obscuro. With a slight bow, he turned and moved quickly up the steps where he disappeared behind the curtains.

* * *