Page 331 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

Against a sheet of cosmically embroidered blackness,
stars and nebulae turning through endless ink, the magician
delivered a magnificent bow to the cries and coos of the
audience, his eyes points of strange light against a rippling
canvas ceiling. Upon regaining his not insignificant height,
he began, “What is magic to the magical, if not the common
furnishings of a new world banality? This game of lost
causalities must be elevated to a new level of absurdity, to
a plane of impossibility that draws cries of incredulity from
even the insane. Why, I must illuminate the impossible,
without spilling so much as a drop of mystery. A balancing
act performed upon the cutting edge of a moonbeam, to be
sure. But rest assured, my friends, I know the words and
ways of the most calamitous magic, if such an outmoded
word supplies the things I speak of with even a speck of
specificity.” I belonged to the magician, body and soul. His
words were brilliant lights at dusk, zipping just above the
trees, setting off radon detectors and casting radioactive
shadows. I was in awe.
Mister Gone retreated from the edge of the stage, tracking
the bleeding lamplight across the gleaming stone. Darkness
rose up behind the conjurer, assuming various geometric
confusions until alighting finally upon the shape of a tall
box, carved from equal parts shade and wood. The inimitable
illusionist entered the vessel, only his glittering eyes visible,
ice chips upon a pillow of infinity. The box closed. I was on
my feet, my eyes searching but not wanting to see. I was
desperate not to comprehend, if only to prove the magician
an honest man.
The lanterns died into a universe of cooling pitch—the
silence before and after the world. The gloom was unending.
I could wait no longer, so I tested the darkness with my hand.
My touch cracked open a tall, narrow door—which looked
out upon a stage of dull stone, rows of toppled empty seats
wrapping around it on both sides. I stepped out of the box,
upon a stage, behind the ancient remains of rusted lanterns
334 | Mark Anzalone