The Magician's Tower (22 page)

Oona and Deacon sat in silence, absorbing what they had just read. Her hopes drained from her like water through a hole in a bucket.

Finally, Oona said: “The Punchbowl Oracle. It's nothing but a faerie tale.”

Deacon nodded gravely. “And even in the story, it is nothing but a fictional creation. That cunning old farmer made it up in order to distract the hero from his true quest.”

Oona nodded absently, recalling how the story had spoken of a young prince on his way to rescue a fair maiden. Trapped in a treacherous dragon's lair, the maiden would not have long to live, and so the prince raced to her aid. But the journey was long, and the night before he was to reach the dragon's lair, he knew he would need to rest. Fortunately for the prince, he came across an old farmer who offered him a place to sleep. The prince accepted gratefully.

That night over dinner, the farmer told the prince of his precious Punchbowl Oracle—a magical crystal bowl that could answer any question.

Naturally, the prince, who wished to know if he was going to succeed in conquering the dragon the next day, asked the farmer if he could see the punchbowl. But when
the old farmer went to retrieve the mystical object, he discovered it had been lost.

“I must have left it somewhere on the farm,” said the farmer. “But my memory is not what it use to be. I don't know where it is.”

Since the farmer was old, and had bad knees, the prince offered to look for the bowl, partly because the old man seemed so upset about having lost it, and partly because the prince was nervous about fighting the dragon and wished to know the outcome ahead of time. For the next two days he searched the farm high and low, yet he found no sign of the bowl. Finally, on the third day, the prince decided that, bowl or no bowl, he had to be on his way to save the maiden fair. The prince graciously bid the old man farewell and rode his armor-clad steed to the top of the mountain where the terrible dragon was known to dwell.

“You have arrived too late.” The dragon laughed. “I have already eaten your precious lady. Had you not stayed so long with the old man, you might have saved her.”

“How do you know about the old man?” asked the prince, horrified that he had arrived too late.

“Because the old man is a friend of mine,” said the dragon. “There is no Punchbowl Oracle, you fool. It was just a lie to distract you from your quest. You silly princes … you fall for it every time.”

The story had ended on a rather gruesome note, with the dragon gobbling up the bereft prince, and then flying to the old man's house, where the two of them played a game of dominoes and laughed about the whole thing. Oona could see why it was such an obscure faerie tale. Who, besides that strange little Penelope Rutherford, would wish to hear such a dreary tale before bedtime?

The popularity of the story, however, was presently the least of Oona's worries. The realization that she had been fooled hit her hard, along with the understanding that if the gypsy woman had lied about the bowl, then it was likely she had lied about having the so-called “sight.” Her hint that Oona was not responsible for the burden she held was nothing more than a faerie tale in and of itself.

Oona was enraged.

“We must find Madame Romania from Romania at once!” she said vehemently. She was on her feet and reaching for the door. “We need to find out why she made up this business with the punchbowl.”

Deacon ruffled his feathers. “We do indeed.”

Madame Romania from Romania did not answer her door. Oona knocked several more times on the back of
the caravan, but to no avail. The shadows from the trees stretched out like groping hands in the failing light.

“That's two days in a row she has not been in. It would appear that Madame Romania from Romania has abandoned her caravan, Deacon. What do you say to having a little look inside?”

“Are you sure that is a wise idea?” Deacon asked, glancing nervously around.

Evening was creeping in, and the park appeared deserted. Doing her best to appear casual, like someone simply out for an evening stroll and admiring the caravan's decorations, Oona walked around the side of the wagon and stopped to read the sign painted along the side.

“Hmm,” she intoned. “You know, Deacon, the first time I saw that sign I noticed how new it looked. As if it had been freshly painted.”

Deacon glanced over the sign and nodded. “Now that you have drawn my attention to it … you are quite right. The sign does appear to be in excellent condition, if compared to the rest of the caravan.”

Oona shot a quick glance over her shoulder and then hurriedly scooted beneath the wagon. Deacon hopped
to the ground and watched Oona flip the latch on the underside of the caravan. The trapdoor swung open on its hinges.

“Fairly easy, I'd say,” Oona said, and poked her head inside.

The inner wagon was black as pitch, and not at all inviting, but Oona pulled herself inside. Something pricked her finger as she seated herself on the edge of the trapdoor.

“Ouch,” she said.

“Are you all right?” Deacon asked from below.

“I think so,” she said, and produced a match from her pocket. She struck it against the edge of the trapdoor, and the fabric-lined room filled with flickering light. An oil lamp sat on a nearby shelf, and Oona lit it, turning the dial to full.

The silver charms that hung from the ceiling glistened eerily in the lamplight, and a sudden panicky feeling stole over her at the thought of being caught. She did her best to ignore the fear.

Deacon hopped inside. “What is it you are looking for?”

Oona tore aside the curtain that divided the front of the caravan from the back, revealing row after row of hanging garments, all jam-packed together, tighter even than Isadora Iree's wardrobe.

Oona held the lamp up. “Costumes.”

“Costumes?” Deacon said. “There must be—”

“Thousands,” Oona said.

“But what does it mean?” Deacon asked.

Oona dropped to the floor and felt around the spot near the trapdoor. Several seconds later she held up a long quill.

“Here,” she said. “I pricked my hand on this when I first entered.”

“A porcupine quill?” Deacon asked.

Oona nodded. “And who do we know, Deacon, that would need thousands of costumes, and is also in the habit of keeping porcupines as pets?”

“You don't mean that Madame Romania from Romania is actually the Master of Ten Thousand Faces? Albert Pancake?”

“I mean precisely that, Deacon,” Oona said. “That is why there is a trapdoor in the middle of the wagon. This is the same type of wagon used by theater troupes around the world. The walls can be pulled open, and the floor becomes a stage.”

Deacon hopped to the tabletop. “I see. The trapdoor is used to create certain special effects during a show and would be very handy in a quick-change performance. But why would Albert Pancake wish to tell you such an outrageous story?”

“I have my suspicions,” Oona said. “But I think we should ask
him
that very question. Come, Deacon.” She turned down the oil lamp until it went out completely, and then lowered herself through the trapdoor. “I believe tonight is a perfect night for the theater.”

T
he theater was packed. When Oona inquired about tickets at the box office, she was turned away when the attendant pointed to the sign in the window.

Oona wasn't too discouraged, however. As many of the theatergoers were entering the building, she casually merged into the meandering line and slipped inside quite unnoticed, despite being the only girl in line with a raven on her shoulder.

Ushers stood guard at each of the auditorium doors, ready to check tickets and escort the audience to their
seats. With no ticket, Oona knew she would need to find another way in. A door at the far end of the lobby caught her attention. Navigating her way through the crowd of richly dressed patrons, she soon saw that the door was marked with the letters:
BSL
.

“BSL?” said Deacon. “What does it mean?”

“My guess is that it stands for ‘backstage left,' ” Oona said, and, glancing anxiously over her shoulder to see that no one was watching, she turned the knob and slipped inside. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She peered curiously around. The two of them had entered what appeared to be a long, dark corridor.

“So this must lead backstage,” Deacon said.

Oona could only hope he was correct. She had never been backstage in the theater before, and she was fascinated. More than her curiosity to see how a theater worked, however, it was her determination to discover why Albert Pancake had deceived her that propelled her forward.

The two of them slowly made their way down the narrow passageway. Oona tripped once on a stray sandbag, nearly losing her balance completely, and then shortly afterward she tumbled headlong into a pile of rope.

“Are you injured?” Deacon asked concernedly from beside her.

Oona pushed herself back to her feet. “I hit my knee,
but I'm fine. This theater life is more dangerous than I would have thought.”

Deacon chuckled as they pressed forward, but Oona didn't find it very funny. She had knocked her knee quite hard and limped the rest of the way down the narrow hallway.

At last, they exited the corridor and found themselves in the backstage wing of the theater. Long swaths of black fabric hung from the ceiling high overhead, keeping the theatergoers from seeing backstage. Oona could hear the audience taking their seats, hundreds of voices chattering away.

“Can I help you?” a voice asked.

Oona spun around to see a man leaning against a line of ropes, his arms crossing his broad chest and a toothpick sticking from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, hello,” Oona said, throwing her hand to her chest. “You startled me.”

“You ain't supposed to be back here,” said the man. His face was cast in shadow, though by the bulgy arms that stretched out his shirtsleeves, Oona took him to be someone who worked backstage, a stagehand.

“I am looking for Mr. Pancake,” Oona said. Her voice trembled slightly from being startled, and she suddenly felt very silly.

“Mr. Pancake is getting ready to perform, love,” the
stagehand said. “If you have a ticket, then you can watch him out there, with the rest of the audience.”

“But … it is a matter of life and death,” Oona lied. “I must speak with him before the performance.”

The stagehand stepped forward. Oona stiffened as he uncrossed his bulky arms, placing his hands on his hips. Oona's nerves returned in full force as he leaned down, his face coming within an inch of hers. She could smell his breath, which smelled overpoweringly of mint. “You can give the message to me, love. I'll get it to him. You can trust me.”

The man's face was still shrouded in the darkness of backstage, yet his eyes caught the light. They sparkled, and Oona cocked her head to one side, as if noticing something.

“Please keep your distance, sir,” Deacon said, puffing himself up menacingly on Oona's shoulder.

The man took no notice and did not retreat. The stench of mint enshrouded him. “Just give the message to me, missy. I'll get it to him. And hurry it up. We got a show to put on here.”

“I'm afraid that isn't possible,” Oona said.

“What isn't possible?” asked the stagehand.

“For you to give the message to Mr. Pancake,” Oona said. “Unless you give the message to yourself.”

The stagehand's head snapped back, eyes blinking. “What?”

“You are Albert Pancake,” Oona said. “The Master of Ten Thousand Faces. I recognize you.”

The stagehand stood up straight. “That's impossible. How? I mean, um, you're wrong. I'm just a stagehand. Work backstage, love.”