“You want to visit my Lost-and-Foundery?” I ask, surprised.
“But of course. I want to know everything you’ve been up to since . . . since the tragic event that separated us. I’m sure there must be lots of interesting things in your cellar. Things that have been lost for centuries. I’d love to see them, Herbie.”
I blink at Caliastra. It’s true, there are lots of curious old unclaimed things down there, and yes, some of them appear older even than the hotel itself, which has always seemed a mystery to me, if I’m honest. But then why shouldn’t a famous traveling magician be curious about things such as these? Mystery and magician are surely two words that always belong together.
“OK,” I say, giving the only answer I can think of.
And then Rictus and Tristo open the doors and we enter the Theater at the End of the Pier.
Back inside the theater foyer, I can’t help but peer over at the glass door of the amusement arcade. Everything is dark inside and just as I left it. It’s clear, though, that Caliastra and her troupe have no interest in the arcade—they walk past it without a second glance.
Mr. Mummery approaches the great double doors to the auditorium, and under the bronze gaze of old Mayor Bigley, he pulls a chain of keys from his pocket.
“I trust the apparatus is set up,” he says to both Rictus and Tristo. “We don’t want to waste any time.”
The two strange men in black answer with silent bows.
I want to ask Caliastra “What apparatus?” but I also feel another question come into my head, so I ask her that instead.
“Don’t they ever speak?” I say. “Rictus and Tristo?”
“Never,” she replies. “They are mime artists, Herbie. Didn’t you realize that?”
“Mime artists?”
“Indeed. I met them years ago in Prague, and they have been part of my act ever since. They are entirely silent, and yet with their bodies they can say almost anything they like.”
I look at the two tall, slender-built men. They turn to me and strike exaggerated poses. Then Tristo steps away but immediately bounces back, as if he has come up against an invisible barrier. Quickly he presses against the air around him with his hands as if he is suddenly surrounded by the insides of an invisible box. And the way he moves his hands is so convincing that instantly I believe that he really is trapped!
Beside him, Rictus places his hands flat on either side of his face and turns to me with an expression of grinning pantomime horror at his friend’s predicament. But then he snaps his fingers as if a light bulb has appeared over his head. He has an idea! Silently, Rictus implores Caliastra to lend him her honey-colored glass cane. She smiles indulgently and hands it over.
While Tristo continues to describe the inside of the box with panicky gestures, Rictus fits one end of the cane firmly behind its invisible lid. Then, as if the cane is a crowbar, he starts to lever it in the air, heaving with all his might. I want to shout “Be careful, it’s only glass! It’ll break!” and it takes all my self-control to remember that there is no lid—this is all a mime.
Then the invisible lid flies open, and Tristo—relief written all across his painted face—steps out of the box and embraces his friend, as if they are overjoyed to be reunited after such a terrible experience.
And despite everything, I find myself grinning and clapping.
“That’s amazing!” I say. And it was. I’ve never seen mime artists perform before. “It’s like they can make things out of thin air!”
Rictus and Tristo turn and, arm in arm, they bow for me.
“Save it for the show,” grumbles Mr. Mummery.
And he unlocks the door to the auditorium.
Mr. Mummery flips a switch and a few wall lights snap on, flicker for a moment as if unsure whether they can quite be bothered, and then illuminate the interior of the theater.
Two hundred faded velvet chairs huddle opposite the stage. They are stacked at a dizzyingly steep angle, one row above the rest, and I can easily imagine old Mayor Bigley ordering the architect of the place to cram in as many bums-on-seats as possible. Above this is a small gallery of cheaper seats, pushed right up beneath the gilded ceiling, whose view is surely obstructed by three giant chandeliers of dusty crystal and bat droppings. On either side of the auditorium there is an ornate private box for any fancy people who might have accidentally found themselves in Eerie-on-Sea.
The stage itself, the focus of all this empty-chair attention, is surprisingly small. But, as if to make up for this, the arch around it curls with so many golden rococo decorations that it reminds me of the scrambled egg I never got to eat at breakfast.
The stage curtains, threadbare with age, are pulled aside, revealing the empty, shrunken floorboards of the stage itself—half hidden by a line of enormous footlight reflectors, the backs of which are shaped like upright crabs.
Except wait! The stage isn’t entirely empty. An object is already there, under a silver cloth in the center. The drape is disturbed, as though something has crept out from underneath. Rictus straightens it, hiding the gap.
“What’s under there?” I ask.
But before Caliastra can answer, Tristo pulls down a large master switch on the backstage wall, and everything explodes into brilliant light. The entire lighting rig comes on at once, flooding the stage below with blinding illumination.
“Argh!” Mr. Mummery shoves his fists into his eyes.
“Be careful!” Caliastra shouts, also shrinking back. “Turn it off!”
Tristo quickly raises the switch back to the off position, plunging us into relative gloom once again.
“I told you before,” Caliastra snaps angrily. “We don’t need stage lights. They’re old and dangerous to use, and besides—we have our own source of light, don’t we?”
I’m left blinking purple blobs out of my eyes as Tristo waggles his fingers in apology.
“Come, Herbie,” says Caliastra then, leading me back up the aisle. “Take a seat near the middle, so you have the best view. We just need a moment to set up, and then—I promise—you will see something amazing.”
I slide along a row of seats until I find a good spot, and I’m surprised to see Caliastra sliding along, too, and sitting beside me.
“Aren’t you going to do any magic?” I ask.
“Magic?” Caliastra smiles. “Of course not. There’s no such thing as magic, Herbie.”
“Oh,” I say. “But I didn’t mean . . . that is, you’re a magician, so I thought you’d be doing some magic tricks, and . . .”
“Exactly!” Caliastra raises her slender index finger. “And just like that, Herbie, you have explained everything about my act.”
“I have?”
“I don’t do magic.” Caliastra holds up the owl on the top of her cane, turning it so that it glints with reflected light, drawing in my gaze. “I do magic tricks. When you realize that, you’ll have taken your first step toward becoming my apprentice.”
“I . . . I will?”
Caliastra swings her cane around till it’s pointing at the stage. I find my sight sliding along it to the where the mime artists are unpacking cases and setting up.
“Do you see what they are doing, Herbie?”
“Yes.”
“Then watch them closely. Don’t take your eyes away for a moment. Tell me what you see.”
“Um, well, Rictus—or is it Tristo?—is assembling a cabinet,” I say, watching the mime artists go about their work, “while the other one, Tristo—or is it Rictus?—is approaching the back of the cabinet, holding up a sparkly black cloth. I wonder what it’s for . . .”
“Keep watching,” comes the hypnotic voice of Caliastra. “Keep your eyes fixed on the box.”
And that’s when I know I’m going to see something amazing. I clutch the seat in front of me and nail my gaze to the cabinet, wondering what’s about to happen. Tristo has draped the sparkly cloth over the cabinet with a flourish, and now Rictus is spinning the whole thing. The light of the sequins
on the cloth sparkles in my eyes, and I find it hard to focus.
Then the cabinet stops spinning, and the cloth is whipped away.
“Keep watching, Herbie!”
The door of the cabinet swings open, and . . .
My jaw hits the floor.
With a cry of “Prestocadabra!” Caliastra steps from the cabinet. She twirls her cane in her fingers, smiling in triumph as she holds out one arm to the audience that isn’t there, as if the theater seats are packed with cheering spectators.
I grab my cap with both hands. Somehow I manage to turn my bamboozled noggin to look at the seat next to me.
Of course, it’s empty.
“But . . . !” I blurt out, jumping to my feet. “How did you . . . ?”
When I look back, both Rictus and Tristo are doing exaggerated belly laughs at my expense, while even Mr. Mummery manages a chuckle.
“When it comes to magic tricks, Herbie,” Caliastra calls back, leaning on her cane in the center of the stage, “people are so eager to see the magic that they forget to look for the trick. You were too busy watching the stage to notice that I’d slipped away.”
“But you spoke to me—you were right here!” I call back.
“Not quite,” replies a voice somewhere behind me. I spin around, but the seats there are all empty, too.
“It helps,” Caliastra continues, “that I can throw my voice.”
I sit down heavily.
“Hey,” says Caliastra, laughing, “I told you I’d be honest. These are my secrets I’m telling you. The secrets of my success. One day they’ll be the secrets of yours, as well.”
I say nothing. I stare at the stage and wonder if I, too, will one day be able to do the amazing things Caliastra does.
Then I shake my head. It feels as if whatever I say, and however I feel about it, I’m being pulled irresistibly into the life of this strange magician. But as I get closer to Caliastra, I drift farther and farther away from my Lost-and-Foundery, and Eerie-on-Sea, and everything I know. And away from Violet.
“Don’t look so worried, dear Herbie,” the voice of the raven-haired woman says into my ear.
And Caliastra is beside me again, sitting exactly where she was before, as if she’d been there all along.
“This is your destiny.” She leans in, as if I’m the most important person in the world and she is confiding in me above all others. “Your birthright. You are meant for greater things than lost property, my boy, and I can teach you everything. People are easily confused, and they’ll believe anything you say, once you know how to spin the right story.” Then she lowers her voice to a whisper. “It’s the greatest power in the world.”
I look up. Caliastra’s eye are glinting, but I feel the beginnings of a frown come over mine. Using tricks to get power over people seems, well, it seems a bit . . .
“That hotel manager,” the magician says quickly, with a suggestive twitch of an eyebrow. “Mr. Mollusc. You play tricks on him already, don’t you?”
“He’s mean,” I reply. “He deserves it.”
“Exactly! But just think what you could do to him once you’ve learned a few of my secrets.”
I look into Caliastra’s eyes again. I like the glint much more now. Old Mollusc has made my life miserable for long enough. With my aunt’s help, he won’t stand a chance.
“We’ll destroy him,” the magician whispers, her face so close now that our foreheads are almost touching. She laughs at the thought, and I can’t help laughing, too. “When you give me that tour of your Lost-and-Foundery, Herbie, we’ll sort out Mr. Mollusc once and for all.”
Caliastra puts her arms around my shoulder and squeezes.
And I feel more powerful already, as if together we could conquer the world.
Which is why it’s a shame that the auditorium doors burst open just then, and Violet walks in.
No, it’s not a shame that Violet walks in just then.
What am I thinking?
“Violet!” I cry, jumping up. “I . . . I was looking for you.”
“Were you?” Violet replies, striding down the aisle. “This is a funny place to look, Herbie, since I’ve never been here before. It’s just as well I stopped by, isn’t it?”
And she gives Caliastra a cold stare.
The magician rises to her feet.
“Hello again, Violet,” she says. “Why don’t you join Herbie in the audience? We were just about to rehearse our show.”
And she steps out of the row, offering up her seat for Violet.
“Thanks, but I can’t stay,” Violet replies. “My guardian, Jenny, has gone missing, so I don’t have time to sit around watching magic tricks.”
And she turns her frosty gaze onto me.
I want to say “I’m looking for Jenny, too!” or “Violet, it’s not what you think!” but before I can say anything, there’s a creak at the auditorium door, and someone else enters—someone wearing several coats and at least three hats, tied on her head by a piece of string.
“Mrs. Fossil!” I cry. Then I notice the look on her face. “Are you . . . are you all right?”
“No, I am not all right, Herbie,” Mrs. F says. “Thanks for asking. Not all right because of this!” And she waves a piece of paper in the air.
“Mrs. Fossil isn’t happy that her Ghastly Night show, the one she does every year with Dr. Thalassi, has been stolen,” Violet explains.
Mrs. Fossil hands the paper to me. It’s a poster, its corners ripped where it was torn off the pins. Caliastra’s name is printed right across the top in dramatic letters, advertising her Ghastly Night show as the “greatest spectacle that Eerie-on-Sea has ever seen.” The magician is depicted on the poster, waving her amber cane dramatically beside a strange lamp that is giving off clouds of colored smoke in the forms of weird and wonderful creatures. The date of the show, of course, is tomorrow evening.
“We paid good money for those!” growls Mr. Mummery, coming over and snatching the poster from me. And I’m amazed at the sight of him. The manager has changed out of his somber gray suit and hat and is now wearing a candy-striped blazer, with a funny little straw boater hat on his head.
“Really, Mummery.” Caliastra rolls her eyes. “This is hardly the moment to worry about that.”
“I wouldn’t have to worry,” the theatrical manager replies, “if you were actually charging something for our time.” And he holds up the poster, jabbing at the words FREE ADMISSION! with a chubby finger. “You didn’t get where you are today by giving away freebies, Caliastra, and neither did I.”
“Free?” I say. “You’re doing the show for free?”
The magician nods solemnly.
“I want the whole town to come. It’s my gift to Eerie-on-Sea to thank the place for looking after you, Herbie. It’s the least I can do.”
“But what about me and the doc?” Mrs. Fossil grabs at the poster. “We always do the show.”
Mr. Mummery, still clinging to the other end of the sheet of paper, pulls back, and soon he and Mrs. F are caught up in a full-blown tug-of-war.
“Stop!” cries Caliastra. She swings her cane in a deft movement, slicing the poster in half.
“My dear Mrs. Fossil.” Caliastra turns to the beachcomber. “I shall reserve the very best seats for you and the doctor. As experts on the legend of the Shadowghast, you will be our guests of honor.”
Mrs. Fossil, who can never stay angry with anyone for long, gives a little smile.
“Experts?” she says, putting her hands into the pockets of her waxed coat and rocking back and forward in her rubber boots. “Well, if you put it like that. And I admit, it would be good to see how a professional does it. And perhaps I can even play my hurdy-gurdy a bit, as the townsfolk arrive.”
“Of course,” Caliastra says. Then she turns to the theatrical manager. “As for you, Mummery, I have explained all this. We must ensure that everyone in Eerie-on-Sea has a night they will never forget. Now, get back to your organ, or I’ll ask Mrs. Fossil to do a
ll the music.”
Mr. Mummery scowls harder than ever. But he doesn’t seem to be able to hold his employer’s eye for long.
“But what gives you the right to put on the show!” Violet demands as opposition to the magician crumbles all around. “Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you can walk in and take over. What makes you so special?”
“It isn’t just my fame, Violet,” Caliastra replies, the hint of annoyance in her voice not quite concealed. “I have studied the lore of Ghastly Night for years. And thanks to my correspondent in Eerie-on-Sea, I have something no other performer can bring to the act: I have . . . this!”
And with that she claps her hands in command.
Up onstage, beside the object concealed beneath the silver drape, Rictus has clearly been following our conversation closely. At the sign from the magician, he seizes the drape, sweeps it away with a dramatic gesture, and reveals what is hidden beneath.
A lantern.
A large, old, tarnished, and battered lantern, made of bronze but green with age. There is a rickety chimney rising from the top, around which a sculpted serpent—no, a dragon—form is coiled. The dragon’s wings are curved on either side, like handles, and the head of the beast projects forward on a long neck, toward the audience. The dragon’s mouth is stoppered up with a silver orb, jammed between its teeth.
Rictus and Tristo both mime mock horror and retreat from the stage as if the strange dragon lamp might come alive and chase them. Despite everything, I can’t help laughing to see them clowning around.
“Ooh!” says Mrs. Fossil. “That looks old. Is it anything like the one used on the first Ghastly Night? When the Puppet Master took his revenge on old Mayor Bigley.”
“Like it?” Caliastra looks surprised. “My dear Mrs. Fossil, this is it. Recovered from the sea after all these years and restored to working order by a local expert.”
“That would be Dr. Thalassi, I expect,” Mrs. Fossil replies. “Though, he has never said anything about it to me.”
“Not the doctor, no,” Caliastra replies, ushering us toward seats. “Now, if you would be good enough to sit, we will light the lantern and rehearse for tomorrow’s big performance.”
Shadowghast Page 8
