by A. P. Fuchs
What I find odd now, looking back on it, is how the legend of the Magic Man made its way into a camp that, really, was supposed to be, what, holy? Typically, dark stories aren't told at Christian camps, or any form of Christian gathering for that matter.
It makes me wonder how far the Magic Man's reach is and if there's anywhere he cannot go.
- A.P. Fuchs, October 17, 2004
* * * *
The Little Boy Who Would
It didn't really look like her, Gene thought, but it was close enough. He had drawn his mom's face and colored it in as best he could using the crayons from the same box he had since the first grade. He was in grade four now. After drawing up his mother's portrait on the six-inch-squared piece of paper, he taped it to the empty soda bottle he had brought up the rocky hill with him.
This'll show her, he thought. The anger inside still hadn't abated even though what his mom did happened about an hour before.
After setting the bottle on top of a boulder that was about shoulder height, he bent down and picked up a stone the size of a large marble, and pulled his slingshot from his back pocket. Straightening, he nestled the rock in the loading pouch. Setting the slingshot to his shoulder as though a rifle, he turned about-faced and marched ten paces.
"Ready" ---he stuck the slingshot out in front of him, one hand on the grip, the other maintaining the stone in the loading pouch--- "Aim" ---he spun around and aligned the bell of the slingshot's Y with the bottle--- "Fire!" ---he released the stone. It was a tiny gray blur as it cut through the air.
This is what you get, he thought. He was so sure the stone was going to hit the bottle and land squarely between his "mother's" eyes. Instead, it sailed right over it. Gene threw the slingshot to the ground.
"Crap, man!" he spat. It's your fault! His mom had made him so angry even his concentration was ruined.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he stood staring at the ground for a moment before bending down to pick up the slingshot. As his fingertips trailed along the ground before curling themselves under the handle, he inadvertently rubbed away some of the gravelly dust beneath the slingshot and revealed a small spot of glassy purple. Looking closer and wiping more of the dust away with the sleeve of his jean jacket, he uncovered a patch of purple crystal. If it was black it could have easily been mistaken for mica. He never knew a rock could be purple though.
A few feet away was another small mound of gravel dust. Gene went over to it, squatted down and batted it away with his sleeve, like he had the other. Beneath it was another smear of purple crystal, this one a little bigger than the other by a good inch or two around.
"Cool," he said and scratched at it, thinking maybe he could dig it up. The crystal was as part of the rocky hill he was on as were the boulders that jutted out from it.
In his peripheral, he noticed patches of gravel dust began dotting the ground around him, springing up out of the hill like weeds from dirt.
Where is it coming from? he thought.
The crystal at his feet! What if it was like gold? What if it was worth tons and tons of money? Though only nine years old, he knew the value of money and that if you had enough of it, you could get anything you wanted.
Maybe you can do whatever you want to, too? he thought.
It certainly was possible. After all, Flin Flon, where he lived, was a mining town and was founded because of gold. But how did all those miners miss the purple crystal? Were they blind?
"I don't care," he said. "It's mine now. Hear that, Ma? It's mine now! Mine, mine, mine, and with it I can get all the BB guns I want! Forty zillion of them, if I wanted to." He walked over to the soda bottle, staring a hole into his "mom." "You won't be able to tell me what to do ever again. Ever!"
Slingshot still in hand, he wound up, making sure the hard plastic of the V part of the Y would hit it square on, and swung at the bottle. Chink! The bottle went sailing, as did his mom. The tinny, glassy ring of the bottle shattering against stone made him smile.
He had more crystal to find.
Three quarters of an hour later, every small mound of gravel dust had been wiped away. Over one hundred shiny patches of purple crystal sparkled in the sun. Admiring all the work he accomplished, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.
"Where is everyone?" he said. No one had come by since he'd been up here. He should have seen another kid or four by now. Nearly everyone in his class had been on this hill at one time or another and some of the guys he knew spent nearly every day there, whipping rocks at each other, playing war. "Weird," he added.
Squinting, he glanced over the many patches of purple, hoping to see some kind of pattern. The only pattern---which seemed more of an actual design---was some of the patches were closer together than others. The patches ran in a row over a distance of about twenty feet then arced inward like the hook of a cane.
Gene followed the curve, quickly realizing his walking along the cane's arc was taking longer than covering the two right turns. The arc kept going, spiraling inward, circle after circle. Though the cane's arc originally covered about fifteen feet widthwise, Gene knew he was walking a lot further than that.
The spiral's path grew tighter and tighter with each pass. Try as he might, he couldn't take his eyes off the shiny purple patches of smooth crystal between his feet. There was this nagging feeling lurking in the back of his thoughts that told him if he did look up, he'd lose the trail and would have to start all over again. But there was more to it than that, which caused him worry. Not only was he sure he'd stray off the path---however small and tight it already was---he'd also fall off it, too; plunge forever into a void or chasm of some kind, never to be saved or found.
A minute later it felt like his eyes were spinning and turning and twisting and rolling in their sockets. His stomach contracted and expanded in sickening bursts of what he called the "puke pump." The back of his throat brought to life the taste of that morning's bacon and eggs, digested and used. His brain seemed as if it was spinning inside his skull like a plate did when you held it down with one finger and rotated it with the other.
Knees shaking, tears turning the grayish-brown of the rock and the smooth bits of purple into a distorted mosaic, his puke pump about to launch a healthy dose of chunky throw up, Gene glanced away from the path.
The ground disappeared beneath him.
* * * *
Hello, Gene.
"Huh?"
Hello, Gene.
"Who's there?"
Hello.
Gene.
"Who's talking?"
Gene, hello.
"Shut up! Turn on the lights!"
Hello, Gene.
"Stop saying my name."
Hello . . .
. . . Gene.
Screaming, Gene spun around in the dark, took a few running steps then stopped abruptly. Something was in front of him. Someone.
Gene!
A jolt shot from his hips to the base of his skull; his legs turned to jelly.
"Wh-who's there?" he asked.
Someone was there. He heard them breathing. It sounded old, like the way his grandpa breathed.
Shaking, not knowing whether to turn around, look up, or feel what or who was ahead, Gene yelped when a hand touched him on the shoulder from behind.
"Lemme go, lemme go!"
Gene. Hello. Want a BB gun?
"No! I don't want anything. Lemme go now! Now!"
I can give it to you, you know. I can give you more than one, too. I can make it happen.
Screaming, Gene shook free from the fingers grasping his shoulder and ran into the dark. Looking up, hoping to see an opening, anything that revealed where he fell, his heart broke when there was . . . nothing. No light. No hole showing a blue sky. Just darkness.
Stomping his foot, he turned in a circle again, doing his best to keep calm, but in spite of any self-reassurances he was going to be okay, his heart steadily beat harder and harder.
Gene.
The
voice. Low and spellbinding.
"Who is that? Tell me!"
I am magic. I am charm. I make everything okay.
Breaking down, face in his hands, Gene sunk to his knees. Was he going to die? Who was with him in the dark? Curse his mother! If she didn't say no to letting him have a BB gun, he wouldn't be down here. He was going to use his own money, for Pete's sake! He saved nearly every stinkin' cent earned from his paper route that spring. It was his money and he could do with it what he wanted. He deserved it! But noooo, his stupid mother had to have a hatred for guns; for any weapons. She didn't even want him to have his slingshot, but thank God for dads. His dad was able to talk his mom into letting him have the slingshot, but only if he agreed to always use it outside and never ever aim it at anyone or anything alive. That even included the trees, as far as his mother was concerned. That was why he always went to the hill every time he wanted to "fire a few off."
It's okay, Gene. I'm here for you. Do you want to go home?
"Yes, l-let me out of here." He wiped his eyes, partly ashamed he was crying. Such a baby.
Can I come with you?
His lower lip trembled as more tears came to his eyes. Try as he might, he couldn't bite back the tears. "I don't know." He wiped his eyes again. "Mom!"
The back of his throat burned from his scream. Swallowing was like trying to down a jawbreaker. "Mom . . ." Coughing, a sickening metal taste filled his mouth. He spat. It was so dark he couldn't even see he accidentally spat on his shoes. He only felt it.
"Dad! Mom! Help!" Mouth dry, lips pasty, he winced when whoever was in the dark with him spoke again.
If you had that BB gun, you wouldn't be down here, now, would you? If you had that BB gun, you wouldn't be in the dark with me. If you had that BB gun---you wouldn't be crying.
"Quiet!" he demanded. He spun on his heels and after one step found himself under the yellow of a street lamp, that antique kind you saw in history books and old movies.
The lamp cast a small circle of light, perhaps only seven or so feet from one side to the other. Gene ran to the lamppost and hugged it tight.
The post's black metal was warm and comforting.
He hung onto it for a good while before letting go. When he turned around, a glossy wooden table with round legs and a chair with a round seat were now in the circle with him. He glanced up at the streetlamp again, a brief beat of dull pain pulsing against the back of his eyes. When he looked at the table again, a deck of blue, flower-patterned cards sat neatly at the table's center.
Gene went over to it.
Sit down.
"Wha---"
I said sit down!
Gene grabbed the chair and quickly sat on it, the firmness of the voice compelling him to listen. He waited. The lamp buzzed. The air warmed.
Time to play.
Out of the shadows, a young man, perhaps twenty, stepped out. He wore a gray sweatshirt and tight blue jeans and white sneakers. His brown hair was cropped short, a buzz cut like the kind you'd find in the military. His blue eyes, gentle as a mother's touch, set Gene at ease.
"Hello," the man said. His voice was soft and clear, sounding nothing like the haunting voice Gene had heard coming from the darkness moments before.
"Um, hi," Gene replied.
The man came over, his eyes never leaving Gene's. He sat down. "We're going to play a game."
"What, um, what kind of game?" I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.
The man glanced at the cards on the table and stuck out his hand for a handshake. "I'm Bill, by the way. I already know your name."
Gene nodded. His heart sped up, but quickly slowed when Bill's reassuring eyes comforted him.
"It is a very simple game," Bill said. He picked up the deck of cards from the table then split it in the middle. "This is a deck of cards."
"Yeah. Duh."
Bill grinned. "There are two halves. One, in my left, has blue flowers on the back. The other red flowers. But remember, they are from the same deck. With me so far?"
"Sure," Gene said. Does he think I'm stupid or something? He slid his chair closer to the table. The fact he was in a strange dark place somewhere below the rocky hill didn't cross his mind. It was cozy here, like it was when you curled up in bed and hid beneath your quilt.
"Each half has two suits. You do know what a suit is, right?" Bill said.
"Yep. Hearts and diamonds and spades and clubs. Oh, and jokers, too!"
"Very good. But this deck is a little different. Each suit is numbered one through thirteen. There are no face cards. No Ace either. Just a one, instead. And no Jokers. Got it?"
"Yes." His right thigh rapidly bounced up and down; a nervous habit.
"Now, we each get half the deck, the one with the red flowers or the one with the blue." He gesticulated with each half-deck. "Now here's how the game works. We flip a coin to see who goes first. Whoever goes first can choose to lay down either one card or two. If you lay down two, each card must be from a different suit. The suits that belong to the red deck are Reason and Fear. The suits belonging to the blue are Wishes and Hope."
"How do you decide who gets what color?" Gene asked.
"The older person gets the blue. The young---"
"What if there are more than two players?"
"Then the oldest person gets blue Wishes, the next oldest blue Hope, the next oldest after that red Reason, the last Fear."
"What if twins are playing?"
"Then they take their pick. Now listen---the cards are numbered one to thirteen. You can lay down either one card or two. If you put down two, each card has to be from a different suit, okay? Scenario. If you lay down, say, a two of Wishes, I could beat it with a three or higher from the Fear suit. If I lay down a one of Fear, then you beat me and we start over with you deciding to lay down one card or two. And, of course, the same applies for suits Reason and Hope. But Wishes can't compete with Reason and Hopes can't compete with Fear. All right?"
Gene played the rules over in his head. The game seemed simple enough. It was kind of like War, but with slightly more to it.
"Yep. I got it."
"Then let's begin."
* * * *
Bill won the first three hands, Fear dominating two of them and Reason the other. But Gene came back in the fourth hand and stomped out Bill's two of Reason with an immense twelve of Hope. The victory warmed his heart and he couldn't help but smile.
"You caught on," Bill said.
"Yup, sure did," Gene said.
Bill set down a pair of sixes, one from Fear and the other from Reason.
"Say if you laid down a five of Reason and a six of Fear," Gene said, "and I laid down a seven of Hope but only a two of Wishes, that's a tie, right?"
"Depends on the numerical difference between the suits. Using your example, if you laid down a seven of Hope, you beat my five of Reason by two. However, your Wishes lost to Fear by a value of four. Which is greater, two or four?"
"Four," he murmured, then spoke up, "but what if I beat one of them by three and lost another by three, then what?"
"Then it's declared an official tie and each of us get a point. In this case, you have to beat my Fear card with a seven or higher. Same with my Reason card."
"What if---"
"Just play."
Eyeing Bill's two sixes, Gene drew one card from each of his own piles and when he flipped them over, he was relieved when he saw he had turned over an eight of Hope and a ten of Wishes.
Bill proffered a golfer's clap. "Bravo, Gene. Well done."
"Gee, thanks, Mister. Um, Bill, I meant to say."
Grinning, Bill straightened his Reason and Fear decks. Gene laid down his next card; only one this time, a one of Wishes.
Just one wish, he thought absentmindedly.
"What is your wish?" Bill asked.
"Just . . ." He bit his tongue. Mom said no. I just hoped that--- "---she would buy it for me." His heart was heavy. "All I wanted was a BB rifle. Is that bad?"
> "No," Bill said, "it is not bad. You had a desire and you had it turned down. It happens. Sometimes we don't get what we want."
Gene sat back and folded his arms, frowning. "We should."
"Do you think the world would be a better place if everyone got what they wanted?"
I know I'd be happy if I got everything I wanted, he thought. "Yeah. Then people wouldn't get mad when they couldn't get what they really wanted."
Bill paused a moment, squinting one eye. Then he said, "Can I tell you a secret?"
Shrugging first then sitting back up in his seat, Gene said, "Yeah?"
"When you beat me, there, with your stronger Wishes and Hope cards against my Fear and Reason cards, you helped someone achieve what they wanted, get what they wanted."
"I did?" How? This guy was a nut!
"These are special cards, Gene," Bill said, "and if you and I keep playing, and if you keep winning, you can help other people get what they want."
"Really? But . . . but how do I keep on winning?"
"Hmmm, well, the only bit of advice I can give you is that you listen to your heart when it comes to choosing to lay down one or two cards whenever it's your turn to start a hand. Remember, with two cards, you risk a chance of a tie and though we each get a point, someone out there gets what they want and someone else doesn't."
Then I can play just one card all the time, he thought cleverly. "Okay."
Bill said they would finish their current game then begin the next hand.
"I'm going to beat you, you know," Gene said.
"I don't know about that. There are a lot of people to help."
"Whenever you're ready."
"Let's go."
* * * *
Even after all this time, Gene was still shamed by his nakedness. The years . . . . He had outgrown his pants and underwear long ago. He only wore his sweatshirt when he was cold, but that lasted only a short time until the pressure of a boy's shirt against a man's frame was too restrictive, making it difficult to breathe.
