by A. P. Fuchs
How---Before he could finish his thought, the man gestured with a finger for him to come closer.
Hesitantly, he neared him. The Magic Man must have caught the caution of his steps because he said, "Don't worry, Barry, I'm not going to bite you. You're just going to have to trust me. I can bring her back, but we have to go someplace first."
Barry stopped walking. "Where?"
The man eyed a dark area beneath the BFI bin. "Down there. I need you to do something for me. If you do, I'll bring Margaret back. If you don't, you can walk away now, no harm, no foul, just a missed opportunity."
Margaret. Anything for Margaret. I don't want to go with him. But I will. He knew my name. He knew about Margaret. I've never see him before in my life. I'll take a chance. Might as well. I've got nothing left to lose. Legs shaky, he approached the Magic Man. He took his hands out of his pockets just in case the Magic Man tried something, perhaps attempted to rob him.
"Tell you what," the Magic Man said, "I'll go in first. That way, you'll know I won't try anything." He gave Barry a knowing grin, one telling him he knew what Barry was thinking.
The Magic Man got on his belly and wriggled feet-first toward the dark spot beneath the dumpster. When his feet touched the shadow-like patch, the patch swirled, as if made of liquid, and the Magic Man's black and white spats disappeared into the goo. Soon he was waist-deep, and then was gone.
Barry stared after him wide-eyed then glanced down the alley, wondering if anyone was looking on. Nobody was around, not even a stray cat.
"What am I doing?" he said as he got to his knees and mimicked the man's movements by going on his belly, wriggling back feet-first beneath the dumpster.
The bottom of the BFI bin was a mere inch or two above his back and Barry's muscles ached with fear the dumpster might somehow fall off its invisible support and come crashing down.
"Come on, my friend," the Magic Man said from somewhere beneath him.
Friend? Barry peered over his shoulder, into the darkness that was the sharp crevice where the dumpster balanced on its rear rim.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. "Okay," he said, "here we go." He pushed against the pavement with his palms, feeling the cool syrup of the black goo through his shoes as his feet swam through it. Soon the thick cold of the goo was against his shins, then his thighs, his waist, his stomach, chest, shoulders, face, and, finally, arms and hands.
There was a ka-chunk when he dropped to the stone floor. He knew the dumpster had fallen back into place on the pavement above, the latch presumably locking itself.
Darkness surrounded him.
* * * *
That was six years ago. Or was it seven? Eight? Ten? Barry didn't know. He'd been down here too long, in this cave, away from everything and everyone. But it was worth it. It was for Margaret. The Magic Man promised he would bring her back.
"For you," Barry said to the stone floor, drool dripping from his chin. "All for you."
The cave was dank, the lighting dim. A flash of pain flared up in his shoulder blades. His forearms throbbed, the absence of blood circulating through his muscles getting to him again. His shoulders pounded in pain and another film of sweat materialized on his brow. His hands . . . he couldn't feel them anymore. They were above him, he knew, but as to what position they were in or how his fingers were curled, he hadn't the faintest idea. His wrists were bound in iron cuffs, the cuffs connected to a chain, hanging him by the arms from the stone ceiling. Only his toes touched the floor, all his weight upon them, his toes pulsing with icy pain. He yearned to touch the ground again, stand with his feet flat and give the strain on his wrists and arms a break. But it had been days since he'd been allowed to do that. Maybe weeks. Maybe months, for all he knew.
The blood that had trickled down his forearms from the iron cuffs digging into his wrists had dried a long time ago. At least the sensation of liquid running lightly over his skin wouldn't tickle him anymore. That tickle was, on some days, what he hated most instead of what the Magic Man did to him.
He was naked, the sweat on his skin causing the cool air of the cave to feel that much colder. He couldn't remember the last time he felt warm. Only when the Magic Man held Barry's palms over a candle was temporary warmth an option before searing heat took over and agony became his only consciousness. Barry never looked at his hands. He couldn't bear the thought of what they might look like now. He had undergone what the Magic Man dubbed "Candle Therapy" more times than he dared to count. The damage to his hands . . . . Despite his curiosity, no, he wouldn't look at them, not even on the rare occasions when the Magic Man lowered the chains and allowed his feet to touch ground.
On these days, when Barry was unshackled from the chains, he only had a few spare moments before the Magic Man would push him down and attach a chain to the iron bracelets around his ankles and hang him upside down for an hour or more. Each time he thought his head would explode, the blood rushing and pooling inside his skull somehow not washing away the bone before bursting out of his skin in red glory. Eventually he would pass out, and when he awoke would find himself right-side-up again.
All for Margaret.
Barry wondered when the Magic Man would come again. He wondered when his time in this cave would end and he could be released. He wondered if the Magic Man would make good on his promise.
An hour passed before the iron door sealing Barry in the stone room opened a crack. No light poured in for there was only darkness in the room beyond. Barry had never seen darkness so black before. A shrill screech echoed throughout the cave as the rusted hinges worked and the iron door opened completely. The blackness from the room beyond seemed to swallow what little light there was in Barry's part of the cave.
The Magic Man stood in the doorway, still wearing the same white-striped purple suit he wore the first day he met him. The man's fedora, however, was not there and his long, bushy brown hair hung in locks over his face. In his gangly, thin hand the Magic Man held something long and snake-like.
Barry knew what it was and immediately the gashes on his back stung with the memory of pain.
"Ready, Barry?" the Magic Man said.
Throat dry, Barry hadn't the strength to speak. All he could do was barely nod. For Margaret. Anything to see her. To touch her. To breathe her . . . I . . . . His heart ached at what he would think next: I don't care anymore. Too long down here. I just don't care, anymore. I-I don't want to go through that again. No more. All for Margaret. No more.
The Magic Man walked over to Barry's hanging form, prolonging the anticipation of the torment to come. With a gentle hand, he touched Barry's shoulder, aggravating the half-healed cuts on his flesh. The Magic Man spun him around so he had access to his back.
Barry forced himself to swallow. He braced his body for the impact of the lead beads at the tips of the leather whip's stringy end. Then he remembered he mustn't tighten his body, mustn't go rigid. It would only make the lashings worse. Taut muscles equaled more blood lost when they were torn open. He had to relax, let his body move with the lashings; move and absorb.
The Magic Man cracked the whip, its sound deafening in the small cave. The wind created from the whip's decisive cut through the air fanned Barry's back for a split second before the sharp, stinging slicing of his flesh replaced all awareness.
Eyes squeezed shut, Barry thought of Margaret and for a brief moment began to care again. Began to force himself to endure this torment just to see her.
The whip lashed across his back and blood trickled from split skin.
The fire across his shoulders forced a gasp to escape his lips. He could picture ten red slashes across his already-mangled flesh. Ten slashes. Ten lead beads at the end of the whip's frayed end.
The Magic Man lashed him again.
It was all part of the deal. The Magic Man needed to give pain so he could have the power to make anything happen.
"I'd do anything---endure everything---for you," Barry had told Margaret
during their final phone call those many years ago. And he meant it. He was proving it now.
Ten strikes of lightning slashed his back again and the warm blood oozing from the wounds was almost soothing, like an ointment. Barry gazed down at his feet, his toes straining to take some of the weight off his arms. On the stone floor the deep red of dried blood, the evidence of previous beatings, stared up at him.
I'd die a thousand times, just to see you. Margaret, I lo---I need this to stop. No woman is worth this. The whip cracked against his skin. He could feel his flesh hanging in ribbons off his back. I need this. I need to give him what he wants so I can see you again. No . . . no more. Not anymore. Kill me now. I beg you. Please. Just . . . please.
Each time the lead beads laced across his flesh, Barry's body tensed, bringing more blood to the surface, more blood to trickle down his back, his legs and pool on the floor. Soon his reactions grew farther and farther apart, the nerve endings of his torn muscles and shredded skin numbed by searing heat and pain. Before long, he stopped reacting altogether, passed out from the hell just handed to him.
It was only then the Magic Man stopped.
* * * *
When Barry awoke, his arms were spread out to either side of him. There was a sharp pain in his wrists, as if they were supporting a half-ton truck. His feet, right across his insteps, blazed with heat. Blood dripped off his toes. The cave was especially dim today. Only one solitary candle was at his feet, a small nimbus around the flame, lighting the room ever so slightly with an orange glow.
He inhaled and found himself instinctively rising up on his feet, his left foot over his right, just to breathe. His muscles strained, not just in his chest but also in his shoulders and arms. Immediately Barry knew what the Magic Man had done to him. His heart broke as he exhaled, blood running from his wrists along the underside of his forearms and then, finally, dripping to the floor.
He was crucified.
Head hanging, his legs bunched up beneath him, Barry suddenly became aware of the rough wooden pillar running up the middle of his back. The pillar then split off into a lowercase T, running along his arms, leaving only the top of the T for his head. But it hurt too much to raise his head. It was as though someone had a chain around his neck and was pulling him forward to the floor.
Sweat coating his skin, the dripping blood rolling and tickling him beneath his arms, his sides, driving him mad---Barry bellowed, and begged to be released. This was not right. He was not worthy to be punished like this---to be tortured like this---hanging from a tree. Though Barry had shunned God ever since losing Margaret, he now realized why he was here, why the Magic Man was putting him through this.
At least a partial answer, anyway.
Finally Barry knew what love was, what lengths a man was willing to go to, to be with the person he truly loved. What a Man over two thousand years ago did for a people who turned Him away.
Barry knew he was not worth it. He wasn't God's Son. He wasn't on a Holy mission to save the lost.
Suddenly, he wished he was already dead. He deserved that, death, and not being put to the test the same way the Son of the Most High had.
"Help!" The effort of exerting his voice sent a sharp pain through his chest. He tasted blood. He tried to spit it out, but there wasn't enough moisture in his mouth to do so. Panting, he tried calling out again. This time his voice was weak, desperate. "Help . . . somebody . . . somebody help me . . ."
After all those years of thinking he had nothing left to lose, he was now begging for his life. The Magic Man was in another part of the cave, somewhere behind that rusted iron door, no doubt ignoring him. Barry would give anything for another brand of torture.
Just not this.
"Help . . ." Barry said, his voice barely audible even to himself.
The pain in his arms, his legs, his chest, tore at his muscles. Then fiery pain took him and he saw no more.
* * * *
"Wake up, Barry. You're done."
A voice. Who was there? Where was he?
"I said to wake up, Barry."
An open palm slapped him across the cheek. He barely felt it. Barry blinked open his eyes and squinted at the bright light of the candle. For a brief moment, he thought he was upside down again, but then he realized the teardrop shape of the candle was upright. The flame was held before his face; beyond its glow, the Magic Man grinned.
"What?" Barry wheezed.
"You're done," the Magic Man said. He smiled this time, his cheeks rising up in wrinkles on his face.
"Done what? What did I do?" His mind quickly felt like it was floating on a sea of mush. Only fragmented memories of blazing pain and unscratched itches and unrelieved tickles filled his mind.
The Magic Man brought the flame closer. Barry felt its heat. "You're done your time with me. It's over."
"Margaret . . ." Barry barely managed.
"That's right," the man soothingly said. "You can see her now." He waved his hand to somewhere off behind him. "She's over there."
The words not sinking in, the disbelief that all the pain, all the torture, was finally at an end took him. Barry allowed the Magic Man to help him to his feet. Standing on rubbery legs, Barry glanced down at himself and in the candle's faint glow saw his legs were covered in bandages. Same with his arms, his body, everywhere. A few red blotches dotted the bandages, blood from the wounds. There was little pain.
"I gave you some morphine to help make moving about easier. Just mind your step. Take it slow," the Magic Man said. "And, of course, a special touch to aid in your healing."
Barry wasn't sure, but he thought he heard the Magic Man add, "Physically, anyway."
His dry throat made swallowing an effort. "Why---"
"No questions, please. I just needed to make you suffer, so I could come through on my end." The Magic Man took a step closer, his mouth at Barry's ear. His breath was hot and smelled awful. "She's waiting. Go to her." The Magic Man gave him the candle, its shaft thick, hot wax running down its length. A bony finger pointed to the darkness across from them.
After all those years of pain, the hot wax dripping onto his hand didn't bother Barry. Not wanting to spend any more time with the Magic Man, he wandered into the darkness, the candle lighting his way.
He checked over his shoulder only to see the man was gone, nothing but pitch black, a black with an odd depth to it that made it seem to go on forever.
Out of the darkness, the Magic Man called, "Keep going. You're almost there." There was a pause. "You're welcome."
Barry continued on for a long time, wondering what the Magic Man meant by Margaret being "over there."
His walking seemed to go on for an eternity, each moment tainted with the memory of endless years of pain.
The silence of the dark void was suddenly broken by sobbing. Barry hurried toward its source. It wasn't long before he found Margaret, hands bound above her head in shackles, hanging by a chain, her body red with blood.
* * * *
Setting it Right
Do overs away, ripped from every day
Candy coated lovers with nothing to say
A break in between, sudden and clean
Filled with a fear neither had seen
The rumblings of a watershed stir about in his head
But can never see over the love and red
And as the tide fades, he looks at the shades
Of a sudden, shattering the glass heart he'd made
When you can set it right
Laugh and count to three
And if you're lucky today all day
The Magic Man will come for thee
Blackness is heart, music is art
And he just lost her; she filled the part
Of his core squealing with loss and heartbroken feelings
Dismal and dark, he feels his consciousness peeling
No hope, no rope
To pull him to cope
With the absence of luminance
Her song made hi
m dance
Try again, try again
Laugh and count to three
And if you're lucky tonight all night
The Magic Man will come for thee
* * * *
Introduction to a Magical Origin
The story of how the Magic Man came to be has been around for a long time. Fifty-plus years, I'd say, give or take a decade.
It all depends on who's telling the tale.
When I heard it, it had taken place in 1954, fifty years ago as of this writing. A friend of mine, who'd also heard it but from a different source, said the story of how the Magic Man was born took place in 1948. A couple of years back, an ex-girlfriend of mine had also heard the story but, she said, it took place in 1967. I guess no one really knows the precise year the Magic Man came into being.
What's strange, though, is that---being the Ripper buff that I am---when I was reading about that horrible autumn in East End London, 1888, a theory as to who Jack the Ripper was and why he'd gone around murdering people was strangely reminiscent of the Magic Man tale. I'll let you figure out that parallel for yourself.
Especially on the motivation side of things.
Could it be that the Magic Man isn't some fifty-some-odd-year-old spook tale but perhaps something older? One hundred years older? One hundred-sixteen years older? Maybe the Magic Man was around before the autumn of 1888. It certainly is possible. I mean, how many ghost stories have we heard that we thought were recent but it turned out our parents had heard the same tale when they were kids? I could name a few off the top of my head, the classic one about the guy with a hook for a hand being the first to come to mind.
Regardless, the story of the Magic Man has been around for a long time. I cannot promise you the version I'm about to share is the true story, but it was the one told to me when I was eleven or twelve, sitting around a campfire at Camp Arnes, a Christian summer camp, about an hour and a bit from where I live.
