Only now do the Others start agitating.
What Others, you ask? I wish I did not have an answer, but I cannot deny the testimony of my own eyes.
For the seated figure draped in cloak and hat, who might be Orson Welles late in life, or Gandolph in his Edwina disguise or something entirely different, sweeps closer to the chamber, like a slide that is brought into nearer focus. And Doyly has crowded near one of the etched windows to watch the Houdini image shed his chains, each muscle straining to shrug off the bonds link by link.
"Yes," Doyly says, taking the pipe from his mustached mouth. "I knew you were doomed, poor fellow. Predicted it, but I always knew you possessed powers you never admitted to. I always said that you were the greatest publicity agent that ever lived. Now prove that you are the greatest publicity agent that ever died. Come back."
Poor Ghost. He is so sincere that I feel a twinge of regret. Too bad that the Houdini we both watch is an image manipulated by the Mystifying Max on the haunted house's holographic system, if it is, in fact, the Mystifying Max with Houdini's face superimposed. The real magic here is how a man of six-feet-three can so convincingly mimic a man of five-feet-four. The cramped and chained position aids the illusion to the point of fooling a ghost, no mean achievement, Mr. Mystifying Max! Someone said that there is a fool born every minute, but you can quote Midnight Louie: it also figures that there is a fool dying every minute, too, and the Afterlife must in time get a bit crowded with as much foolishness as can be found on earth.
Meanwhile the draped black figure hovers on the periphery like a mute member of a Greek chorus. At least some people at the seance seem to see him. What a relief! I do not like to think that I am alone in the Twilight Zone.
And now I think I know who Doyly might really be. His full name has something to do with a barbarian warrior and a desert king; at least I picture a camel lot. But even Doyly is fading now as the image of Houdini turns into smoke and mirrors.
"Son," the animated dummy calls again, in vain. "I try so hard to reach you, for so long.
Forgive--"
Poor Mrs. Houdini! Her boy is the only fellow who has not deigned to show up here.
And then the flying mice come pouring down out of the rafters like, well, bats out of hell.
Hell! I would love to snag a few on the wing, but I do not snack on the job. There must be a couple hundred of the furry little gliders, but they seem like two thousand as they swoop down into the roofless chamber and bounce off the windows screeching like bad brakes.
We are talking chaos now, and I notice that the cameraman has gone a little batty, swinging his powerful light into the oncoming bats, at the still air-borne weapons. I expect we will soon have minced bat pie, but the Mystifying Max hastens to anchor the edged weapons so the bats are flopping around solo. Their built-in sonar soon guides them out of the nest of humans and things less-than. As I watch the distant figure of the hatted man comes closer to the chamber, hanging on every word Wayne says and nodding. As I watch I wonder if Gandolph knew that his Edwina Mayfair costume so resembled the huge, dignified, black-draped figure of Orson Welles late in life, or if Gandolph ever knew that he shared his house with a ghost who felt a protective urge for his successor.
And I also wonder something else, as I--and I alone--see the fabric figure of Edwina Sophie Gandolph deflate like an exhausted balloon with every word Wayne Tracey spits out.
A son was asked to forgive. Perhaps others were implicitly asked to forgive a son.
It occurs to me that there might be one other candidate for the brief possession of Sophie the soft-sculpture's passive body: Wayne Tracey's dead mother, the debunked medium, both taking revenge upon the now-dead Gandolph by taking control of the figure that represents him and encouraging her son to purge himself of the hatred that infects the living.
The dead, it strikes me from what I have seen of them here and that is more than enough for me, have had enough of hatred.
Tailpiece
Midnight Louie Encounters Pharaoh Moans
Although I have often had to put up with insults to my decedent antecedents, like many peace-loving individuals I have never had a good answer to the yahoos who bring up my crooked family tree.
Now I do.
I can now direct these low-lives to bow down and take a good look at my roots.
Not everybody is directly descended from foreign royalty, but my recent experiences amongst the ESP set have made it plain that royal blood pumps through my veins. I will not let it go to my head, though the fact that I am Somebody, that is. I will definitely let the royal blood keep rushing right to my head, where it belongs, in my brain. There is no brain-drain in Midnight Louie.
I must admit that I have not been totally candid about the manifestations at the last seance.
It seems that I have forgotten an important fact. With Kahlua on the premises with me, we have the requisite two blacks to form a feline power nexus. And Kahlua and I add up to a formidable pair of blacks.
As the human spirits fade, I retreat to Kahlua's cage to congratulate her on a fine performance. The lady sits upright in her container, still as a statue, her satin coat raised against the grain as if by static electricity.
Her green eyes out glow the blood-rubies on her collar, and she hisses like a fire hose when she sees me.
"You have erred, Midnight Louie," she announces in a hollow voice.
"Ditch the spook act," I tell her. "You're offstage now and I am not impressionable."
"You have seen truly, but you have concluded falsely. She Who Lays Before Pharaoh is indeed a forebear--"
"What are you talking about? The only Pharaoh I know hangs out at the Oasis."
"You have been allowed to see the ancient past of our Kind, but you will not be suffered to misinterpret it: I repeat, your forebear was female. You descend from the Kind by the maternal, not the paternal line. As you would bear the blessing of Bastet, remember this."
Bast! I gulp, watching the emerald fire fade in Kahlua's eyes.
She blinks and yawns engagingly. "I must have catnapped. Did I miss any fireworks?"
"Not a thing," I tell her, taking the scaffolding down as fast as I can.
I have heard it on good authority. My great-great-great etcetera grandmother was King Tut's bodyguard. I wonder if she wore a small ceremonial beard on the job? I do not wonder if I will ever pass on this genealogical tidbit to Midnight Louise. She already has too high an opinion of herself.
As for myself, I have always lived by a strict moral code, and now also will follow the statutes of Bast, which were written down about the time that Hammurabi was entering law school.
There are several of these statutes, but I have not had time to memorize every one.
I believe that they go something like this:
Be kind to animals.
Be kind to humans.
Never leave a whisker unlicked (or a leaving unburied).
Walk softly and carry a big tail.
Do not walk in the rain if you can help it.
Share your favorite resting spots (i.e., every soft, high or warm place in a human domicile) with the human residents thereof on occasion.
Show evil-doers no mercy.
Know how to keep a secret
Of course, it is not easy to abide by this aristocratic noblesse oblige. I have always done it instinctively, and now that I know my antecedents, I will work harder than ever to become worthy of their precedence
Besides, the Divine Yvette will be really impressed when she finds out.
MNL
P.S. If you're not planning any psychic journeys to ancient Egypt, you can reach Midnight Louie at the other end of the spectrum (in Cyberspace) at his (and my) homepage: http://www.catwriter.com/cdouglas
--CND
Carole Nelson Douglas Mulls Black Magic
Now that Midnight Louie has discovered that his ancestors have held such exalted positions as Pharaoh's footstool, he'll be even harder to put in his proper place. Pe
rhaps I can convince him that author's footstool is the modern equivalent of the ancient role, but I doubt it. It's pretty hard to pull any wool over a cat's eyes, yet those beautiful features--particularly the vertical irises--have also been the source of much cruel superstition about cats.
Superstition surrounds spiritualism, too, and people are as easily misinformed and misled.
Arthur Conan Doyle, a doctor by training and the creator of the world's most prominent scientific detective in Sherlock Holmes, later in life became a stout believer in communication with the dead. He was fascinated by Harry Houdini both as the ultimate self-promoter and as a magician, insisting that Houdini's astounding feats of escapism had to rely on dematerialization.
Houdini roundly resisted attributions of paranormal powers. In a superstitious corner of his magician's heart, though, he sometimes wondered if, by repeatedly defying apparent physical laws, he might actually draw on some sort of cumulative psychic skill.
In the end, Houdini's skepticism won out over his emotional needs. Despite his extreme desire to remain connected in death to the mother he had literally adored in life, he left behind the means to debunk any who would falsely claim Houdini had been drawn back from death to perform at various seances. Such claims were often made and never proven.
The magician's personality is even more intriguing than the feats he performs. (And may explain why so few are women.) As Edmund Wilson pointed out, the mythic role of magician combines functions of the criminal, the actor and the priest. I would add to that roster the role of detective, for the magician concocts tricks and always has the means to explain them to the larger community. Few lay bare their own machinations, but many have turned investigator, like Gandolph, to reveal the shoddy hoaxes of spiritualists who want to defraud as well as to deceive.
Criminal, actor, detective, priest. Which of these four roles will prove the key to the Mystifying Max's character? Only time (and perhaps Temple) will tell.
Cat with an Emerald Eye Page 37
