The Rebirth of Wonder (6 page)

Art snorted. “She work up in Salem, for the
tourists, or something?”

“
No, no.
Scotland.”

Art turned, startled. “You're Scottish?”

“
Grandmother was. I
was born in Halifax.”

“
Oh. You don't have
any accent.”

Maggie grinned. “That's not what
Grandmother's people said; they always told me I had the most awful
American accent they'd ever heard.”

“
Well, that's what I
meant, you don't have a Scottish accent.”

“
I grew up in...
well, all over North America, really. My folks moved around a
lot.”

Art was silent for a
moment before replying. “I think I might be jealous of all that
moving,” he said at last. “I've spent my whole life in Bampton. But
I'm not
sure
I'm
jealous, really; I like knowing where home is.”

Maggie grimaced. “I know what you mean, and I
don't think you should be jealous at all; I've never been sure
where I belong. If anywhere. It's not a good feeling.”

They had, by this time, emerged into the
lobby; Art locked the doors, and for good measure threw the
deadbolts. He was still upset that the Bringers of Wonder had found
the place unlocked.

Then it was back across the lobby and down
the aisle.

“
So was it Innisfree who got all of you together and
came up with the idea of staging
Return of Magic
?” Art asked, as much
to make conversation as to get an answer. He found Maggie easy to
talk to, and wanted to keep it that way, not let an awkward silence
develop.

“
Well, sort of,” Maggie said. “I mean, the Bringers of
Wonder, the group, was originally formed, oh, maybe seventy or
eighty years ago, when M... when Mr. Innisfree wasn't around. And
they always intended to do this – a production of
The Return of Magic
, I mean – but it wasn't until Mr. Innisfree turned up that
they actually thought they might pull it off. They'd sort of let
the group fall apart, but when he turned up everybody got back
together. Except that I'm here instead of Grandmother, of
course.”

“
Is Innisfree the
director, then?”

Maggie hesitated slightly before answering,
“Yes.”

“
So this play,
Return of Magic
– who wrote
it?”

Again, she hesitated.

“
I'm not really
sure,” she said at last. “You'll have to ask Mr.
Innisfree.”

Art nodded as he let her go up the steps to
the stage ahead of him. He figured he could look it up at the
library.

They were almost to the stage door when
Maggie asked, “You said we weren't like theater people. What did
you mean?”

Startled, Art glanced at her, then reached
for the doorknob. “I mean you aren't,” he said.

“
How?”

“
It's hard to
explain, if you've never worked in the theater,” Art said, opening
the door. “There's a sort of... a sort of fellowship in the theater
that you people don't seem to have. I mean, actors bicker with each
other, and compete for parts, and try to upstage each other, but
they always know they're all really on the same side, that they
need each other.”

“
We know we need
each other,” Maggie protested, stepping out into the
sun.

“
But you don't know you need
me
,” Art said,
following her. “I'm theater, too, and you people just about threw
me out of here.”

“
Well, we aren't
used to having strangers watch us while we prepare,” Maggie
explained.

“
But you
should
be,” Art replied. “Actors
love an audience, any time, any place, practically.”

“
Oh, I don't know,”
Maggie said. “I'd always heard that stars get tired of fans and
spend half their time trying to get away from the
public.”

“
That's not the same
thing. Besides, you people aren't movie stars.”

“
You're just angry
because you feel we've shut you out.”

“
No, I'm not,” Art
said, locking the door behind them and carefully keeping out of his
voice anything that could be taken as a sign of resentment. “I
don't care if you do, honestly; I was just surprised, because it's
not like any theater people I ever saw before. But if you're
magicians, that explains it – magicians have trade secrets to
protect.” He looked around.

“
Hey, Art!” someone
called.

He turned, and spotted Marilyn on the
sidewalk. He waved.

He turned back, and Maggie was gone.
Startled, he looked around, but didn't find her, or any of the
other Bringers of Wonder.

She must have run down the steps and around
the corner while he was locking the door, he decided – while he was
still talking.

That was pretty rude – just the sort of thing
he'd been trying to explain to her.

He shrugged and checked the door again, then
thumped down the steps and shouted, “Hi, Marilyn!”

They ate lunch at Arby's, on the town square.
Marilyn restricted herself to small talk until the sandwiches had
been eaten; Art, certain she was dying to know who had rented the
theater, admired her self-restraint.

When the last bite was in Art's mouth,
though, Marilyn could restrain herself no longer.

“
So what were you
doing at the theater?” she asked.

“
Just keeping an eye
on things,” Art replied, watching her closely.

“
Oh.” Marilyn was
plainly disappointed. “So nobody's renting it after
all?”

“
What made you think
someone might be renting it?” Art asked blandly.

“
Oh, you know, I
just... well, you were there this morning, and someone said he saw
your dad there yesterday. Nothing, really, I guess; I was just
hoping.” She fluttered her hands in confusion.

Art decided it would be
cruel to tease her any longer. “Well, you're right,” he said.
“Someone
did
rent
it. They were there this morning, making plans.”

“
Oh?” Her face lit
up. “Who is it? What are they doing? I mean, is it a play, or just
lectures, or something?”

“
It's a play...” Art
began.

“
It is? What kind?
Musical? Shakespeare?” Marilyn was practically bouncing in her
seat.

Art held up a restraining hand. “Whoa!” he
said. “Let me tell you!”

Marilyn grinned, and held a finger in front
of her mouth. “My lips are sealed,” she said. “Death before further
interruption, I swear by the seven sacred soothsayers of Samarkand.
Speak, O font of all wisdom!”

“
The seven sacred
soothsayers of Samarkand?” Art asked, grinning
back.

Marilyn stared at him, but didn't say a
word.

“
Well, that's
better, I guess,” Art said, “whoever they are.”

She still held her mouth tightly closed as
she bobbed her head, and made beckoning gestures; Art had to fight
down laughter to continue.

“
It's not anybody
local,” he said. “It's some group called the Bringers of Wonder – I
didn't get the details, but apparently they travel around, and have
been in business for a long time, though they haven't been very
active lately.”

Marilyn nodded, eyes wide.

“
They're all magicians, and the show they're doing is
something called
The Return
of Magic
, so I guess it's some kind of
magic show, more than a regular play.”

“
Oh, neat!” Marilyn
said, oaths sworn by nonexistent seers instantly forgotten. “You
mean sort of like those jugglers doing
Shakespeare?”

“
The Flying
Karamazov Brothers. Yeah, maybe – I don't really
know.”

“
So will they be
holding auditions or anything?”

Art shook his head. “Nope. No local people at
all, not in the show, not even backstage – at least, that's what
they've said so far. I'm only there because my dad insisted – I'm
his agent and fire marshal, more than their crew. I guess I'll be
helping with the lights, but that's... well, they don't like
outsiders.”

Marilyn blinked in surprise. “They don't?”
she said. “You mean not even theater people?”

“
Not even theater
people,” Art confirmed. “Remember, they're magicians – they're kind
of paranoid, I guess about people learning secrets about their
tricks.”

“
That's
silly
,” Marilyn said.

Art shrugged. “I won't argue,” he said.

“
So I can't work on
the show?”

“
Probably not.” Art
hesitated, and then said, “Look, if there's any chance at all, I'll
try to get you in, but I can't promise anything. They're pretty
strange.”

“
Really?” Marilyn
set her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together, and leaned
forward, resting her chin on the back of her hands. “Tell me
more!”

Chapter Six

Art swung open the stage door and stepped
into the dim, dry heat of the theater. He slid the key ring into
his pocket and found the switch for the backstage work lights.

The lights came on, faint and yellow after
the blaze of the summer sun out in the parking lot, and he closed
the door behind him.

The inside of the empty theater smelled of
dust and old wood and ancient paint, of yellowed paper and
crumbling fabric – an attic smell, a hot summer smell that Art
found wonderfully comforting. Nothing was disturbed here, nothing
was dangerous; everything was safely dead and desiccated, dried out
and folded up and put away, tucked away in neat jumbles of mystery,
in trunks and boxes, on shelves and in stacks, to be taken out only
as needed. The storerooms were packed with wonders and marvels, all
of them safely false, just sequins and tissue paper, papier-mâché
and poster paint.

Beyond the open curtain the house was dark;
the even rows of empty seats were parallel lines of deepening
blackness, stretching to an apparent infinity – but really only to
the invisible and reassuring rear wall.

There were times when Art admitted to himself
that he liked the theater best when it was empty and dark like
this, no one here but himself, with all its hidden treasures his
own, all its store of imagination unshared, no one imposing a
playwright's dreams on him. It was his own personal playhouse, in
every sense of the word.

He strolled downstage, into the dimness, his
footsteps loud on the wood; outside he could hear the distant
buzzing of summer – lawn mowers and insects and traffic, all of it
diminished by distance. The heat in the theater was stifling, his
shirt prickled with sweat, but just now he didn't care. The theater
had air conditioning – the switches were in the lobby, near the box
office – but of course, he hadn't left it turned on overnight.

He would turn it on in a moment, but for now
he wanted to just sit and think a little.

The Bringers of Wonder were due any minute;
Art supposed they would start blocking out their show. Had they
already assigned roles, decided who would provide costumes and
props and so forth?

Well, that wasn't his concern, was it? He was
here if they needed him – just as he was in his winter job, driving
a snowplow for the town. Most of the time, all he had to do was be
somewhere they could reach him, and for that they paid him ten
dollars a day; when the snow started falling, he worked, and they
paid him ten dollars an hour. Bampton wasn't big enough or rich
enough to hire full-time snowplow drivers.

When he worked depended on the whims of the
weather; in a mild winter he didn't have much to do, while in a bad
one he worked almost constantly. He was accustomed to that.

His summer work had always been different,
though; Bampton Summer Theatre had always kept to a schedule, kept
him busy for exactly so many evenings. There had always been plenty
to do – even when everything was designed and hung and wired and
gelled and focused and tested, he could find ways to tinker, to
fine-tune the lights, and there was always cleaning to be done.

And if he had nothing important to do, he
could watch the rehearsals and offer advice.

The Bringers, it seemed, were going to be
different.

He sat down on the edge of the stage and
looked out at the darkened seats, his eyes steadily adjusting. He
wondered whether it would have been a good idea to have brought a
book to read; if the Bringers weren't going to keep him busy, he'd
need something to do. Especially if they didn't want him
watching.

It wouldn't be practical to build the strip
lights he wanted; first, because he didn't have the money for
materials, and second, because he couldn't use the stage to work on
while the Bringers were there.

Well, the basement wasn't as clean and tidy
yet as it could be; this was a chance to tackle long-neglected
corners in the storerooms down there, maybe clear out old junk that
no one was ever going to use again.