The Rebirth of Wonder

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  There were no signs that anything had been done toward organizing a performance; nobody was pacing out blocking, no scripts were in evidence, no one was giving direction.

  Maggie, seated on the edge of the stage, turned at the sound of the door. She hopped up to her feet and crossed toward him, as several of the others cast unfriendly glares in his direction. Innisfree took a quick look, then turned and disappeared into the shadows farther up the balcony's slope.

  “How's it going?” Art asked Maggie as she approached.

  “Oh, fine,” she said. “How was your walk?”

  “Fine.”

  “We're almost done for today, I think.”

  “But it isn't even noon!” Art protested, startled.

  “Oh, well, today was just sort of preliminary,” Maggie said, with an offhand gesture. “You know, make sure everyone knew where the theater was, make sure we all knew each other, and so on. We can't really start on anything until the moon... I mean, until tomorrow night.”

  Tituba and the other – Faye, had someone called her? – moved away a little as Art and Maggie walked downstage.

  “Make sure you all knew each other? I thought you folks had been together for a while,” Art said.

  Maggie shook her head. “Not really. We all knew of each other, I guess, but... well, Ms. Morgan wasn't on speaking terms with some of the others for the longest time, and Merle's been away, and I'm sort of filling in for my grandmother, I'm not... I haven't been around as long as the others.”

  Art nodded. “How'd you people get together, then?”

  “That's hard to explain,” Maggie said. “Family connections, you might say.”

  “Sure.” Art stopped walking. “So today was just introductions? That's why there aren't any scripts or anything?”

  “That's right.”

  “Are all the parts cast, though?”

  Maggie hesitated. “I think so,” she said.

  “So who do you play?”

  “Oh, I'm just in the chorus, really.”

  “What's the play again?”

  “The Return of Magic. It's not exactly a play, it's... it's a performance.”

  Art nodded. “Hope it goes over. Bampton's kind of old-fashioned; about as experimental as anyone's ever gotten around here was when they tried putting on Shaw's Man and Superman. And that was a disaster – must've been less than a third of the audience that stuck it out to the end.”

  “Oh, we're not worried.”

  “Well, that's good, I guess.” He looked around, and then added, “Guess I'll go clear out that stuff downstairs. When you folks are ready to leave, let me know, and I'll lock up.”

  “All right.” She smiled at him, then took his hand for a moment, gave it a quick squeeze, and turned away.

  He watched her cross back to the edge of the stage; then he marched over to the stairway and down into the crypts.

  Chapter Five

  “Art?”

  At the call Art looked up from the pile of dust and wood shavings that he'd swept together. The wrap and mask and lantern and the rest were all safely stashed away in the appropriate storerooms, which just left sweeping up.

  “Art, we're going now; you can lock up any time.” It was Maggie's voice, coming from the stairwell.

  “Thanks,” he called back. He leaned the broom against the wall, fished the key ring from his pocket, and headed for the steps.

  After he'd locked the door at the foot of the stairs he found that Maggie was waiting for him on the second landing.

  “Mr. Innisfree said to tell you we'd need to be in by noon tomorrow, but we won't be doing any more mornings,” she told him as he climbed the steps toward her.

  “That's fine,” he said. “I never heard of anyone doing theater work in the morning anyway.”

  “Well, I haven't done much theater,” Maggie said. “I don't think any of us have, really, except maybe Ap... Mr. Tanner.”

  He reached her level, and the two of them proceeded up the narrow steps with her in the lead. “Why are you all doing it now, then?” he asked.

  “Oh, well, The Return of Magic is special, and when Mr. Innisfree offered us a chance at it...” She shrugged.

  “It's special?” Art asked. “I never heard of it.”

  “Hardly anyone has,” Maggie agreed. “That's one reason it's special.”

  They reached the door at the top of the stairs and emerged backstage.

  “Well, if it's like that,” Art asked, “how'd you people hear of it, then?”

  “Well, we're all interested in... well, magic,” Maggie explained.

  “Stage magic, you mean.”

  She smiled crookedly. “Yes, of course, stage magic.”

  “That explains things,” Art remarked. “You mentioned magic before, too; I should have realized. No offense, but you folks don't look or act much like any other theater people I've worked with – but magicians, yeah, I can see that.” He closed and locked the stairway door, after making sure the lights were all out.

  He looked around and found the stage and wings empty.

  “The others have gone already,” Maggie explained.

  Art nodded. “If you want to go on, I can finish up myself.”

  “No, that's all right, I'm not in any hurry.”

  “Okay, then, next stop is the lobby.” He led her around by the stage-right steps, rather than jumping over the edge, and made his way up the aisle.

  Maggie followed.

  “So, you said your grandmother got you into this?” he asked, just to make conversation.

  “That's right.”

  “She was a magician?”

  “She was... well, she liked to claim she was a witch.”

  Art snorted. “She work up in Salem, for the tourists, or something?”

  “No, no. Scotland.”

  Art turned, startled. “You're Scottish?”

  “Grandmother was. I was born in Halifax.”

  “Oh. You don't have any accent.”

  Maggie grinned. “That's not what Grandmother's people said; they always told me I had the most awful American accent they'd ever heard.”

  “Well, that's what I meant, you don't have a Scottish accent.”

  “I grew up in... well, all over North America, really. My folks moved around a lot.”

  Art was silent for a moment before replying. “I think I might be jealous of all that moving,” he said at last. “I've spent my whole life in Bampton. But I'm not sure I'm jealous, really; I like knowing where home is.”

  Maggie grimaced. “I know what you mean, and I don't think you should be jealous at all; I've never been sure where I belong. If anywhere. It's not a good feeling.”

  They had, by this time, emerged into the lobby; Art locked the doors, and for good measure threw the deadbolts. He was still upset that the Bringers of Wonder had found the place unlocked.

  Then it was back across the lobby and down the aisle.

  “So was it Innisfree who got all of you together and came up with the idea of staging Return of Magic?” Art asked, as much to make conversation as to get an answer. He found Maggie easy to talk to, and wanted to keep it that way, not let an awkward silence develop.

  “Well, sort of,” Maggie said. “I mean, the Bringers of Wonder, the group, was originally formed, oh, maybe seventy or eighty years ago, when M... when Mr. Innisfree wasn't around. And they always intended to do this – a production of The Return of Magic, I mean – but it wasn't until Mr. Innisfree turned up that they actually thought they might pull it off. They'd sort of let the group fall apart, but when he turned up everybody got back together. Except that I'm here instead of Grandmother, of course.”

  “Is Innisfree the director, then?”

  Maggie hesitated slightly before answering, “Yes.”

  “So this play, Return of Magic – who wrote it?”

  Again, she hesitated.

  “I'm not really sure,” she said at last. “You'll have to ask Mr. Innisfree.”

  Art n
odded as he let her go up the steps to the stage ahead of him. He figured he could look it up at the library.

  They were almost to the stage door when Maggie asked, “You said we weren't like theater people. What did you mean?”

  Startled, Art glanced at her, then reached for the doorknob. “I mean you aren't,” he said.

  “How?”

  “It's hard to explain, if you've never worked in the theater,” Art said, opening the door. “There's a sort of... a sort of fellowship in the theater that you people don't seem to have. I mean, actors bicker with each other, and compete for parts, and try to upstage each other, but they always know they're all really on the same side, that they need each other.”

  “We know we need each other,” Maggie protested, stepping out into the sun.

  “But you don't know you need me,” Art said, following her. “I'm theater, too, and you people just about threw me out of here.”

  “Well, we aren't used to having strangers watch us while we prepare,” Maggie explained.

  “But you should be,” Art replied. “Actors love an audience, any time, any place, practically.”

  “Oh, I don't know,” Maggie said. “I'd always heard that stars get tired of fans and spend half their time trying to get away from the public.”

  “That's not the same thing. Besides, you people aren't movie stars.”

  “You're just angry because you feel we've shut you out.”

  “No, I'm not,” Art said, locking the door behind them and carefully keeping out of his voice anything that could be taken as a sign of resentment. “I don't care if you do, honestly; I was just surprised, because it's not like any theater people I ever saw before. But if you're magicians, that explains it – magicians have trade secrets to protect.” He looked around.

  “Hey, Art!” someone called.

  He turned, and spotted Marilyn on the sidewalk. He waved.

  He turned back, and Maggie was gone. Startled, he looked around, but didn't find her, or any of the other Bringers of Wonder.

  She must have run down the steps and around the corner while he was locking the door, he decided – while he was still talking.

  That was pretty rude – just the sort of thing he'd been trying to explain to her.

  He shrugged and checked the door again, then thumped down the steps and shouted, “Hi, Marilyn!”

  They ate lunch at Arby's, on the town square. Marilyn restricted herself to small talk until the sandwiches had been eaten; Art, certain she was dying to know who had rented the theater, admired her self-restraint.

  When the last bite was in Art's mouth, though, Marilyn could restrain herself no longer.

  “So what were you doing at the theater?” she asked.

  “Just keeping an eye on things,” Art replied, watching her closely.

  “Oh.” Marilyn was plainly disappointed. “So nobody's renting it after all?”

  “What made you think someone might be renting it?” Art asked blandly.

  “Oh, you know, I just... well, you were there this morning, and someone said he saw your dad there yesterday. Nothing, really, I guess; I was just hoping.” She fluttered her hands in confusion.

  Art decided it would be cruel to tease her any longer. “Well, you're right,” he said. “Someone did rent it. They were there this morning, making plans.”

  “Oh?” Her face lit up. “Who is it? What are they doing? I mean, is it a play, or just lectures, or something?”

  “It's a play...” Art began.

  “It is? What kind? Musical? Shakespeare?” Marilyn was practically bouncing in her seat.

  Art held up a restraining hand. “Whoa!” he said. “Let me tell you!”

  Marilyn grinned, and held a finger in front of her mouth. “My lips are sealed,” she said. “Death before further interruption, I swear by the seven sacred soothsayers of Samarkand. Speak, O font of all wisdom!”

  “The seven sacred soothsayers of Samarkand?” Art asked, grinning back.

  Marilyn stared at him, but didn't say a word.

  “Well, that's better, I guess,” Art said, “whoever they are.”

  She still held her mouth tightly closed as she bobbed her head, and made beckoning gestures; Art had to fight down laughter to continue.

  “It's not anybody local,” he said. “It's some group called the Bringers of Wonder – I didn't get the details, but apparently they travel around, and have been in business for a long time, though they haven't been very active lately.”

  Marilyn nodded, eyes wide.

  “They're all magicians, and the show they're doing is something called The Return of Magic, so I guess it's some kind of magic show, more than a regular play.”

  “Oh, neat!” Marilyn said, oaths sworn by nonexistent seers instantly forgotten. “You mean sort of like those jugglers doing Shakespeare?”

  “The Flying Karamazov Brothers. Yeah, maybe – I don't really know.”

  “So will they be holding auditions or anything?”

  Art shook his head. “Nope. No local people at all, not in the show, not even backstage – at least, that's what they've said so far. I'm only there because my dad insisted – I'm his agent and fire marshal, more than their crew. I guess I'll be helping with the lights, but that's... well, they don't like outsiders.”

  Marilyn blinked in surprise. “They don't?” she said. “You mean not even theater people?”

  “Not even theater people,” Art confirmed. “Remember, they're magicians – they're kind of paranoid, I guess about people learning secrets about their tricks.”

  “That's silly,” Marilyn said.

  Art shrugged. “I won't argue,” he said.

  “So I can't work on the show?”

  “Probably not.” Art hesitated, and then said, “Look, if there's any chance at all, I'll try to get you in, but I can't promise anything. They're pretty strange.”

  “Really?” Marilyn set her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together, and leaned forward, resting her chin on the back of her hands. “Tell me more!”

  Chapter Six

  Art swung open the stage door and stepped into the dim, dry heat of the theater. He slid the key ring into his pocket and found the switch for the backstage work lights.

  The lights came on, faint and yellow after the blaze of the summer sun out in the parking lot, and he closed the door behind him.

  The inside of the empty theater smelled of dust and old wood and ancient paint, of yellowed paper and crumbling fabric – an attic smell, a hot summer smell that Art found wonderfully comforting. Nothing was disturbed here, nothing was dangerous; everything was safely dead and desiccated, dried out and folded up and put away, tucked away in neat jumbles of mystery, in trunks and boxes, on shelves and in stacks, to be taken out only as needed. The storerooms were packed with wonders and marvels, all of them safely false, just sequins and tissue paper, papier-mâché and poster paint.

  Beyond the open curtain the house was dark; the even rows of empty seats were parallel lines of deepening blackness, stretching to an apparent infinity – but really only to the invisible and reassuring rear wall.

  There were times when Art admitted to himself that he liked the theater best when it was empty and dark like this, no one here but himself, with all its hidden treasures his own, all its store of imagination unshared, no one imposing a playwright's dreams on him. It was his own personal playhouse, in every sense of the word.

  He strolled downstage, into the dimness, his footsteps loud on the wood; outside he could hear the distant buzzing of summer – lawn mowers and insects and traffic, all of it diminished by distance. The heat in the theater was stifling, his shirt prickled with sweat, but just now he didn't care. The theater had air conditioning – the switches were in the lobby, near the box office – but of course, he hadn't left it turned on overnight.

  He would turn it on in a moment, but for now he wanted to just sit and think a little.

  The Bringers of Wonder were due any minute; Art supposed
they would start blocking out their show. Had they already assigned roles, decided who would provide costumes and props and so forth?

  Well, that wasn't his concern, was it? He was here if they needed him – just as he was in his winter job, driving a snowplow for the town. Most of the time, all he had to do was be somewhere they could reach him, and for that they paid him ten dollars a day; when the snow started falling, he worked, and they paid him ten dollars an hour. Bampton wasn't big enough or rich enough to hire full-time snowplow drivers.

  When he worked depended on the whims of the weather; in a mild winter he didn't have much to do, while in a bad one he worked almost constantly. He was accustomed to that.

  His summer work had always been different, though; Bampton Summer Theatre had always kept to a schedule, kept him busy for exactly so many evenings. There had always been plenty to do – even when everything was designed and hung and wired and gelled and focused and tested, he could find ways to tinker, to fine-tune the lights, and there was always cleaning to be done.

  And if he had nothing important to do, he could watch the rehearsals and offer advice.

  The Bringers, it seemed, were going to be different.

  He sat down on the edge of the stage and looked out at the darkened seats, his eyes steadily adjusting. He wondered whether it would have been a good idea to have brought a book to read; if the Bringers weren't going to keep him busy, he'd need something to do. Especially if they didn't want him watching.

  It wouldn't be practical to build the strip lights he wanted; first, because he didn't have the money for materials, and second, because he couldn't use the stage to work on while the Bringers were there.

  Well, the basement wasn't as clean and tidy yet as it could be; this was a chance to tackle long-neglected corners in the storerooms down there, maybe clear out old junk that no one was ever going to use again.

  All the same, bringing a book might have been clever. He would plan on dropping by the library tomorrow morning and finding something good. Someone had mentioned a couple of possibilities – had that been Jamie, during rehearsals for A Midsummer Night's Dream? Or George?