Magic Words

by Gerald Kolpan

  Adelaide held out her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Meyer. The Professor has told me so much about you.”

  “It’s my great pleasure, Miss Scarcez. You are as bright and pretty as Alex’s letters have painted you—actually, more so. He has often written that without you, he would disappear into one of his own hats.”

  Adelaide flushed and smiled. “You are most kind.”

  “But professor? Really Alex, I believe you become more like Compars every day. What’s next? Herr Docktor?”

  “No, cousin, I think I’ll leave that one to dear brother. He’ll need it in retirement. One gets so many ailments at his age. Is his lordship here?”

  “I’m afraid not. Lacking the Meyer-Herrmann blood, Standing Bear thinks it is beneath him to earn his keep as a performing seal. Still, he assures me that he will happily spend any funds we might raise through the perversion of our dignity. Where’s our Red Rose?”

  “Her highness has remained at our apartments today. The press, which follows her every move, has been told that she has a touch of the neuralgia. But between you, me, and about a dozen deeply offended Egyptian gods, I’m keeping her under tighter wraps these days. It’s getting more and more difficult to take her for an airing without she starts yapping, and not in Arabic. Last week an Iranian or an Iraqi or some such filthy wog ran up to her and started jabbering in god-knows-what. Our Lady-Jane told him to, and I quote, “go fuck yourself.” Luckily he didn’t understand English any better than he spoke it, and so she remains unexposed except onstage, but that’s hardly a matter of language.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Julius said. “I was glad to receive your wire. Apparently our appointments are all arranged.”

  “The best venues holding the best people with only the best of intentions,” Alex said. “I have told them that yours is a worthy cause. I have also scared most of them shitless by intimating most subtly that should they decline to donate, the forces of darkness both white and Indian would be most displeased.”

  Their laughter was interrupted by a commotion at the top of the gangway. Looking toward its guardrail, Adelaide could see two men in white carrying some sort of long object. As they made their way down, she saw it was a hospital gurney. Strapped to it was a man, his long gray beard resting upon the blanket that covered him. Directly behind them followed a ramrod-straight officer she assumed to be the ship’s surgeon and, behind him, a young Indian. He was thin but with the kind of muscle that reminds one of bridge cables. When the gurney finally reached the dock, the man lying on it gestured for the Indian to halt; he lowered his hand slightly and then pointed it at Julius.

  “I warned you,” the man said, his voice the very sound of misery. “I told you this here trip would come to no good.”

  “Well, it would help if next time you got one of those tingles up your spine, you got it before we left America instead of at mid-ocean,” Julius said, gesturing toward his companions. “My cousin Alexander. I believe you have met.”

  “Ahoy, Prophet,” Alex said.

  “And this is his charming secretary and indispensible factotum, Miss Adelaide Scarcez. Miss Scarcez, Mr. John Nathan McGarrigle and our young friend, Mr. Wind Whistler.”

  The young Indian nodded shyly in the lady’s direction; Prophet John ignored her completely. “Young Jules, tell ’em to let me out of this thing. We’re on dry land now.”

  Julius chuckled. “John, this is England. Nothing here can be described as dry; and I’m not about to overrule the doctor.”

  “What did he do this time?” Alex asked. “Take the wheel from the captain because his bones told him you were headed for an iceberg?”

  “No,” Julius said. “His crime was more an affront to common sense. We were all of us sick as dogs, but the prophet here somehow decided that straight bourbon whiskey was the best cure for motion sickness. It wasn’t. Two hours later, it took me and Wind Whistler here to keep him from hurling himself over the side. By this morning, when everyone else had recovered, he was still so sick I nearly took a pistol to him myself.”

  “That’s right, whippersnapper,” Prophet John said, his lips twisted in disgust, “tell everyone. Shout my humiliation to the world. None of that changes the fact that I still say comin’ here was a fool’s errand.”

  Julius shook his head. “What say you, doctor? Will it be all right to release this young man, or will he try to steal the Crown Jewels?”

  A minute later, John McGarrigle was released and on his feet. He glared at Julius, tipped his hat to Adelaide, and stomped off across the pier toward a sign picturing a large tankard.

  “Perhaps he’ll get lost,” Alexander said.

  Julius smiled. “I shouldn’t worry. Prophet John can track a black cat through a coal mine. He should have no trouble finding us.”

  Alexander turned and whistled loudly through his teeth. At the sound, four matched grays headed in their direction drawing a large and elegant black landau. As it came to a stop, the magician invited the little party to board.

  “You know, Adelaide,” Alex said, “Southampton is where Julius and I left Europe for America when we were only boys. I fear much has changed since that day.”

  “I can well imagine,” Adelaide said. “But then it seems natural that such a great port should alter over time. Don’t you think so, Mr. Meyer?”

  Julius was silent for a moment. The horse’s hooves filled the silence in the coach.

  “I believe Alexander doesn’t speak only of Southampton, Miss Scarcez, but of our whole world. When I disembarked in Philadelphia all those years ago, I was only little Julius and he young Sasha. Today, I am Mr. Julius Meyer, Indian expert and Speaker of the Ponca whom the Indians call the Boxkareshahashtaka—the Curly Head, the Chief with One Tongue. And he? He is Herr Professor, Mr. Alexander Herrmann, the Great Herrmann, known everywhere as Master of the Mysterious and the World’s Greatest Magician.”

  Julius paused and looked out the window to see the huge hulk of the Berengaria receding into the water.

  “Yes, Miss Scarcez: for us, the world has certainly changed—if for no other reason than this promiscuous accumulation of names.”

  The little plainsman spurred his horse across the wet grassland. Its hooves made a sound almost like crashing cymbals as they pummeled the ground and water.

  Screaming, the big palomino flew over a green hedgerow and landed. The rider bent low to its mane, relieved that the horse did not slip and fall onto the soaked field. It had been only an hour since the rain had gone; and while he worried about a firm footing, at least he didn’t have to think about whether the sun was at his back and/or in his eyes. It was high noon.

  The Indian, younger even than his adversary, rode a horse so red that from a few feet it looked composed of Jefferson County clay. He could feel the pony’s feet slide beneath him as he made straight for his adversary. He reached back into his quiver and produced an eagle shaft painted in rings of blue and black. Holding the red tight with his legs, he notched the arrow into its bowstring, pulled back, and released. It missed the plainsman by inches.

  The white man whipped the palomino into a zigzag pattern, hoping to avoid the next bolt. Putting his spurs to the palomino, he reached down and pulled a Sharps buffalo gun from its saddle scabbard. Now it was the Indian’s turn to weave, knowing that at this range, one shot from the fifty-caliber rifle would explode his body. The plainsman cocked and shot. The report was like a cannon. The bullet whizzed past the pony’s flank, close enough to split its tail.

  Now the men were too close for shooting. The Indian rode straight for his enemy and leaped from the saddle. As he grabbed the white around the shoulders, his momentum sent both men tumbling from the palomino’s back onto the sopping ground. In a moment, they were up, the Indian raising his tomahawk, the plainsman a Bowie knife. They circled each other, breathing heavily, hatred glaring from their eyes.

  The white attacked first, tackling the Indian by the legs. The brave fell to the ground with a splash, but managed to raise his
tomahawk, striking his enemy twice in the head. The plainsman stabbed down once, deep into the belly of the savage. The pair made feeble attempts to rise but it was no use. In a moment, their weapons lay useless on the ground and they were as still as the live oaks on the hillside.

  Lady Caroline Carstairs screamed in panic, which gave permission to her female guests to give voice to their own horror. Directly beside her, the Baroness de Rochambeau fainted and was luckily caught by her husband before she could fall to the damp pavilion floor. The Duchess of Cornwall, known throughout Britain as its greatest lover of horses, had to be restrained in her effort to comfort the two now-riderless animals. Captain Richard Wilkinson-Barre, the Seventh Earl Carroll, whom everyone assumed was made of sterner stuff, fell into a nearby chair and put his hands to his mouth, the better to contain his nausea.

  Flushed and panting, Lady Caroline brought her fan to her face. She was used to scandal, yes: but what was a bit of financial chicanery or illicit sex compared to a double murder on her polo ground?

  Just as the alarm threatened to engulf the entire gathering, the plainsman, dressed in a magnificent fringed jacket and trousers, scrambled to his feet and motioned for calm.

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, what you have just witnessed symbolizes what for eighty years has been the state of relations between the white American and the Plains Indian. Conflict has been our milk and meat, death our father and mother. The result, as you have seen today, is tragedy on both sides: once-vital men lying dead by the hundreds and thousands, food for buzzards and fodder for further hatred and rage.”

  Julius Meyer turned on his heel and called to the young Indian in Ponca. He rose, standing tall and straight. The audience burst into relieved laughter and loud applause.

  Julius once again held up his hands for silence.

  “Permit me to introduce my fellow play-actor. To my left is Mr. Wind Whistler, esteemed horseman and decorated warrior of the Ponca tribe.”

  Whistler bowed awkwardly. The crowd clapped and shouted even louder. There were cries of “capital!” and “jolly good!”

  “The exciting battle you have seen today,” Julius said, “is not an event that occurs willy-nilly. Weeks of painstaking rehearsal have gone into every move made by my friend and myself and our no less courageous mounts. And while our little drama amply illustrates the terrible waste of life and treasure that American policies toward the Indian have caused, we also mean it to show you good lords, ladies, and gentlemen that hard work and cooperation between the white and red races, such as went into creating our display, can produce a quite astounding result—and that the two peoples can, even in the face of a poisoned history, live together upon the land that God made for all his children.

  “It is in this spirit that we have come to England. No people have known the blessings of freedom more fully than the British. There can also be little doubt that there are no people on earth more fair-minded and honorable than the sons and daughters of John Bull. With this in mind, my cousin and your friend, Professor Alexander Herrmann, suggested that we journey here and seek your help so that you, who represent the finest of society, will aid us in our fight for legal redress and support us in our struggle to feed and clothe those tribes our government has cheated and abandoned.”

  The two men bowed again. They entered the wooden pavillion and were met with hearty handshakes and cries of “well done.” Lady Caroline offered her hand to Julius. He brought his lips within an inch of her glove.

  “Mr. Meyer, I suppose I should be very cross with you. You gave me and my guests the most terrible fright.”

  “I apologize, Lady Caroline,” Julius said. “But we felt it necessary to make our point in a most dramatic way and deemed that this was exactly the kind of presentation required.”

  “Don’t be concerned, Mr. Meyer. Your little pantomime was the most thrilling thing that’s happened around here since Lord Carstairs discovered a new brand of gin. As Alexander may have told you, I welcome anything that will relieve the monotony of this country existence. So I suppose I should be grateful to find that a certain amount of theatricality runs in your family.”

  “I am afraid I must plead guilty to that trait, ma’am. I have often been criticized for it in my home country. But I believe that people learn better when they are not bored—and if a bit of showing off can be put to work for a good cause, well, no one is harmed and many may be helped. But I was so hoping to meet Lord Carstairs today. He is well, I hope?”

  Lady Caroline sighed. “His Lordship sends his regrets. He was apparently informed this morning that a single grouse still survived somewhere on the property and has taken his gun and gone in search of it. Generally, he isn’t enthused by anything that doesn’t involve the killing of small creatures or insults to butlers and groomsmen.”

  Lady Caroline took Julius’s arm and presented him to the various guests. As usual, his tongue amazed. How was it that this wild little ruffian could speak perfect French to the French and textbook German to the Germans? Where did he learn his courtly ways and impeccable manners? And how, by the end of the night, did he manage to walk away from the gathering with pledges totaling more than ten thousand pounds? Perhaps there was something to the rumor that beneath the buckskin and beads beat the heart of a son of Abraham; and after all, weren’t they all like magnets when it came to money?

  Seamus Dowie did his best to hold his cup in the proper manner, but tea had never been his drink.

  Even back in Ireland, where his mother seemed to brew it by the gallon, he had never taken a shine to the stuff and only drank it when he was sick or when forced to by the presence of company. The tiny sandwiches it came with were even more problematic. Between his huge, thick fingers, they seemed the size of a pencil eraser; and when he bit into one, it was difficult to not wolf what little was there. To him, they didn’t seem like actual food, just fluffy little clouds of vinegar and salt and slices of things thin enough to taste like nothing.

  Princess Noor-Al-Haya had a different attitude.

  For her, a private booth in a fine hotel was heaven with food. Here, dressed in one of her newest frocks, the tedious work and everyday death of Nebraska seemed even farther away than it was in miles. The little sandwiches and cakes were delicate and delicious, as subtle as grilled elk was gross. Best of all, with the curtains drawn around the booth, she could speak in a language of which she was supposed to be ignorant, the waiters having been rewarded for their discretion in advance.

  “Are ya enjoyin’ that teacake there, yer highness?”

  Noor raised her eyes from the morsel in her fingers, dabbed her mouth, and swallowed.

  “We’re alone, Seamus,” she said. “When we’re alone, it’s Lady-Jane.”

  Lady-Jane. As regal as the name sounded, to him, it was impossible. At the very least, using such a name was disrespectful to the efforts of his master.

  For months, he had watched as Professor Herrmann worked on her every aspect, transforming her from a harlot and savage into a consort fit for a prince. If she slouched, he made her walk about with a book on her head. If she swore, he replaced her oaths with the proper expressions for a woman of her station so that “shit” became “oh, bother” and “fuck a duck” transformed into “dear me.” Lady-Jane? No. She was a princess to him now, and fit to be addressed only as such.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Seamus said. “It’s just that I haven’t been alone with ya often enough to get used to either name.”

  Lady-Jane laughed. “Not enough? More like constantly. Hardly a day goes by these days that Alex doesn’t figure a way to throw us together. Seamus, take the princess for her fitting. Seamus, the princess looks a bit peaked. Tomorrow, you’ll take her riding in the park. You know, Seamus, I can’t make it to dinner on Wednesday, so will you accompany her highness to Sherry’s? There’s a good fellow. Well, he doesn’t fool me at all, Irish. If there’s one thing a whore can do, it’s smell pussy.”

  Dowie was shocked by her words but also a
roused by her earthiness. The refined setting combined with the salt of her tongue excited him perhaps even more than the times he had seen her backstage struggling with a costume or veil, naked and perfect.

  “Then ya believe there’s another woman?”

  “Probably more than one. Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn. I’ve learned enough about men to know that they’ll go to a lot of corners to find what they’re looking for. Take that stuck-up tart, Caroline Carstairs. I only had to shake her hand to know she was Alex’s twist. But she’s no threat. Her family is broke—what they call ‘land-poor’ over here—and her whole clan butters their bread from the tub of that addled old cock she married. She’s not going anywhere. If she has some fun with Alex, well, that’s all it is.

  But Miss Adelaide—she’s another story.”

  Seamus’s heart leapt up and he felt a shiver through his limbs.

  “Do ya believe the master’s in love wit’ her?”

  Her laugh went right through him. “I’m not sure the Great Herrmann can love anyone after he’s done with himself. No, it’s her that’s in love with him. He’s got her bamboozled, hypnotized. Or maybe she just gets hot because he’s mine. Plenty of girls like that in the world.”

  Seamus felt an ache in his back teeth. “Well, I imagine he’s got great gratitude to ya, miss. You bein’ in the act has brought in bigger flocks than we’ve ever had. A decent man might think to stay away from another woman in thanks for that.”

  Noor laughed again. “That’s the way you would think, good Catholic boy. No, I can smell her all over him: that soft perfume and dancer’s sweat. When he’s talking to reporters, when he’s tinkering with his tricks, even when he takes me at night, I can smell her.”

  Seamus felt his face go red. It was not only her nearness that tortured him but the casual sensuality with which she spoke of her rival’s scent.

  “What will you do?” he asked her.

  Princess Noor placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. Her face became soft—soft as it was whenever Alexander entered a room. He was astonished. She was giving that softness to him.