The Rebirth of Wonder

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Oh.”

  For a moment, the two of them stood there on the stage, looking at one another; Art glanced around at the door, wondering when the others would arrive.

  “There are costumes downstairs?” Maggie asked, breaking the silence.

  “Sure,” Art said. “Wanna see?”

  “Lead the way.”

  Art did just that.

  The first costume room was on the north side of the central passageway, next to the stairway and across from the prop room; the ancient paneled door was painted green, with a cardboard sign held on by thumbtacks, ink that had once been black but was now faded to pale gray on a card that had once been white but was now brown and speckled.

  Wardrobe, it said.

  This wasn't the only room that held costumes, but the others were considered dead storage; all the good stuff was supposed to be in this one. After some experimentation, Art found the appropriate key; he opened the door and groped for the light switch.

  Maggie pushed the door wide as the light came on, and stared in.

  A lone bare bulb cast yellow light on a long, narrow room; to either side a steel pipe extended from end to end at about eye level, with dozens, perhaps hundreds of costumes and empty hangers hooked over it. Both pipes sagged in the center from the weight of the clothing. Above each pipe ran a single long shelf, stacked with hats and hatboxes. The room's far wall was rough stone painted white; centered in the stone was a small black door, of normal width but only about five feet high.

  Maggie stepped in and ran her eye down the row of costumes on the left, then turned and looked over the row on the right. There were gowns and robes galore, and several bodysuits of plush or velour for use in simulating animals. There were cheap imitations of tuxedoes, cut correctly but made of thin cotton; opera capes, togas, doublets, and various period garments. Velvets, silks, sequins, and gold braid abounded.

  “I don't see anything really witchy,” Maggie said. “What's through there?” She pointed at the black door.

  Art followed the pointing finger and stared, baffled.

  He had seen the door when they entered, of course, and surely he had seen it before, whenever he came into the wardrobe room, but somehow he didn't remember it.

  Where could it go? That was an outside wall; anything beyond it would be under the parking lot.

  “I don't know,” he admitted.

  “Really?” Maggie turned to stare at him.

  Art shrugged. “Really,” he said.

  Maggie marched down the length of the room, grabbed the knob, and tried to turn it.

  “Locked,” she said.

  Art was curious now. How had he missed ever noticing that door, in all the years he had hung out in the theater?

  “Hang on a minute,” he said. “I've got all the keys here; let's see if one of them will open it.” He marched up beside her and began trying keys.

  None of them fit.

  He went through the entire ring twice without finding a single one that would fit in the keyhole. Finally, disgusted, he flung the entire ring against the wall. It struck with a jangle, and fell to the floor; he glowered at it.

  “Well, it's not important,” Maggie told him.

  “Yes, it is,” he protested. “I'm supposed to know what's going on around here, and I don't. I don't remember any door in here, and I'm supposed to have a key for every door and I don't have a key for this one, and there are things in the prop room that shouldn't be here – just what the hell is going on here, anyway?”

  “I don't... I don't know,” she said, taken aback.

  “And then there's you people,” he shouted, turning all his accumulated anger and frustration on her. “You appear out of nowhere, come and go mysteriously, like a bunch of spies or something, you're putting on a play nobody ever heard of that you haven't started advertising with just three weeks to go, you've got no sets, no lights, you're a dozen of the most strangely-assorted people I've ever seen, you won't say where you're staying, you won't let anyone watch you do anything – just what the hell is the big mystery, anyway, lady?”

  Maggie blinked back tears.

  “I can't tell you,” she whispered.

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  “I can't tell you that, either.”

  “Oh, hell.” He scooped up the key ring. “Look, you people just have fun tonight, okay? I'm going to leave you all to your own devices. You can find your own witch costume. I'm going out for a walk, and if you finish up before I get back, use the phone by the lightboard to call my house, and either I'll be there or someone will take a message.” He turned, and stamped away, down the passage and up the stairs.

  The Bringers of Wonder were on the stage, standing in a ring around the chalk circles, arguing about something. He paid no attention as he stamped out, slamming the door behind him.

  Outside, the sun was down, and the sky was the deepening liquid blue of summer twilight. Three white birds, startled by the slam of the door, fluttered out from under the eaves and soared away on the evening breeze.

  He stared after them. Where had they come from? He had never noticed any birds nesting there, and certainly not any like those. They weren't seagulls or pigeons – they were smaller than gulls, more graceful than pigeons; he couldn't place them.

  His anger dissipating, he marched down the steps to the asphalt.

  To the west the last glow of sunset gleamed above the treetops on Christie's little farm – if you could really call it a farm. Two acres of pasture, chicken coops, and vegetable gardens, inhabited by an old man, two horses, and a dozen hens – not much of a farm, but the closest thing left in Bampton. Spanner was still out in the field, quietly cropping grass in the gathering gloom; his companion, little Sparkle, was nowhere to be seen.

  To the north was a row of quiet little houses, his family's own among them; to the south was the center of town, where the tourists passed through and sometimes stopped on their way to more interesting places, and where the locals did their shopping when it wasn't worth a trip to the Burlington Mall.

  It was a quiet, pleasant place, Bampton was; Art was used to that, and he liked it that way. If he wanted excitement or confusion, he could go into Boston or Cambridge.

  What were these people doing, these Bringers of Wonder, bringing their mysteries here?

  He looked east, out toward Thoreau Street, along the side of the theater. Black asphalt shingles along the roof, red-painted eaves, red-painted clapboards, down to the whitewashed stone of the foundation – where could that door go? It would have to come out under the parking lot, but there wasn't anything under the parking lot.

  It didn't make any sense.

  Maybe it didn't go anywhere; maybe it was a fake, a practical joke. Or maybe it opened into a tiny little clothes-press, inside the stone foundation wall.

  He couldn't figure it out, and after a moment he stopped trying and just started walking.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Dad?”

  Art's father looked up from his magazine. “Hi, Art,” he said. “They quit early tonight?”

  “No.”

  The elder Dunham glanced at his watch. “It's only eight-thirty,” he said. “Seems early to me.”

  “They didn't quit yet. I walked out. I'll go back to lock up later, I guess.”

  His father put down the magazine and sighed. “What's the problem? They doing something illegal, or dangerous, or something?”

  “No, it's nothing like that,” Art said. “Just a... a personality conflict, I guess. I felt like... well, there have been some weird things happening, and I needed to think, so I took a walk.”

  Paul Dunham looked at his son silently for a moment. “Okay,” he said at last, “but I hope this isn't going to be a regular thing. I want you in there, keeping an eye on the place.”

  “I don't do all that much of that anyway, Dad; I spend half my time in the basement while they're doing mysterious secret stuff.”

  Dunham frowned.

  “Anyw
ay,” Art said, “there was something I wanted to ask you about.”

  “What?”

  “That door in the wardrobe room, the room next to the stairs, the black door in the outside wall – none of the keys you gave me will open it.”

  Art's father frowned again, this time more puzzled than annoyed. “What door?” he asked.

  “In the basement, in the first storeroom on the left, with all the old costumes on hangers.”

  Dunham thought for a second, then said, “I don't know what door you're talking about. There should be keys for all the doors on that ring.”

  “Well, I couldn't find a key to fit that one.”

  Dunham sat for a moment longer, staring at Art, then asked, “What do you want me to do about it? I don't know what door you're talking about, or why you want it open at all.”

  Art explained, “Maggie Gowdie – she's one of Innisfree's people – anyway, Maggie and I were downstairs looking to see if we had a costume that would fit – she plays a witch – and she asked if there were more costumes on the other side of this black door, and I don't remember ever even seeing the door there before. I tried to open it, tried every key on the ring, and none of them fit.”

  “There isn't any door there,” Dunham said.

  “That's what I thought, but we saw it.”

  His father stared at him for another moment, then stood. “Come on,” he said. “Show me.”

  They could hear the Bringers' voices even before they reached the porch steps, but could not make out words; father and son looked questioningly at each other. Normally, one could not hear much through the theater walls.

  Art shrugged and opened the stage door, and they heard Kier Kaye shouting, “...isn't working, Merle!”

  Several other voices chimed in, as Innisfree tried to reply and Art stepped in. He glanced back at his father, who waved him on without saying anything.

  They crossed the stage-right wings to the basement door as the Bringers continued to argue among themselves, but then, as Art grasped the knob, the argument suddenly ended. In the abrupt silence the click of the latch was clearly audible.

  Startled, the Dunhams turned to face the Bringers, and the Bringers turned to see the Dunhams.

  A rain of pink and red flower petals was settling softly and noiselessly to the stage, and to the hems of dresses and the laces of shoes and the seams of pants; Art did not see where they had come from.

  Maggie was not dressed as a witch, nor was anybody else in a recognizable costume, though Granny Yeager still wore her kerchief and Karagöz his turban.

  “'Scuse us,” Art said. “Small problem in the basement.”

  The Bringers stared at him, and then at each other, as Art led his father down the basement stairs. By the time they reached the landing the Dunhams could hear voices behind them, speaking again but no longer shouting.

  In the wardrobe room, the instant Art flipped the light switch Paul Dunham stopped dead in his tracks and stared.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  Art didn't say anything; he waited.

  “Now, how the hell did I ever miss noticing that?” the elder Dunham asked himself aloud. “Art, I swear I never saw a door there before, but there it is.”

  “I had the same reaction,” Art said.

  “None of the keys will open it?”

  “Nope.”

  For a moment longer, Art's father stared at the black door. Then he asked, “Where does it go?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Art said.

  Dunham shook his head. “Art,” he said, “it's a complete mystery. I mean, it's obviously always been there, but I swear I never saw any door there before this minute. Son of a bitch. Must've been something hanging in front of it or something.”

  “So what do we do about it?” Art asked. “Do we hire a locksmith?”

  “Yeah,” Dunham said, “I guess we do. It's not an emergency, they charge extra for weekends – but Monday morning, first thing.”

  Art nodded.

  “Arnie Wechsler's good,” Dunham said. “That's who I've always used in the business. You want to call him, or should I?”

  “I'll call, I guess,” Art said.

  “Good.” Still staring at the mysterious door, Dunham began backing out of the room. “Guess I'll leave it up to you, then, and get on home.”

  “Okay.” Art decided against accompanying his father; after all, he still had to lock up after the Bringers left. And he wanted to talk to them, anyway – or at least to Maggie.

  Maybe he could do that immediately; the Bringers hadn't looked as if they were doing anything terribly secret. “I'll walk you upstairs,” he said.

  Together, the two ascended the steps.

  Innisfree was waiting for them at the top. Behind him, onstage, the other eleven Bringers stood watching.

  “Mr. Dunham,” Innisfree said, spreading his hands. “An unexpected pleasure to see you here, a real delight!” His accent was almost Cockney this time.

  “Mr. Innisfree,” Dunham said. “I was, ah, just checking on something downstairs.”

  Innisfree smiled. “And is all in order and as it should be?”

  “I'm not sure,” Dunham admitted, “but it isn't anything to worry about.”

  “Well, that's good, that's good, that's fine, then.”

  Dunham stared at the smiling magician. “Was there something you wanted?” he asked.

  “Well,” Innisfree said apologetically, “I'm afraid it's your son I need to speak to.”

  Dunham glanced quickly at Art, who shrugged ever so slightly.

  “I'll get on home, then,” Dunham said. “Call if you need me.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Dunham waved to the others as he walked across to the stage door. He hesitated, looking back at his son and the tall foreigner. Innisfree smiled, and Art waved good-bye.

  Then Dunham was gone, out into the warm summer night, and Art turned to face Innisfree.

  “Is there a problem?” He wondered whether Maggie had said anything about his storming out.

  “You might say so, yes,” Innisfree said; he was eyeing Art contemplatively, as if trying to determine not the best way to say what he had to say, but rather, how much to tell.

  “I've been staying out of your way,” Art said.

  “Indeed you have, lad, and therein lies the problem.”

  Art blinked.

  “It seems we misjudged our capacities, and we do, indeed, need your help,” Innisfree said. He paused, and quickly amended that. “Or at least, we might.”

  “Um... just what did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, we merely ask that you not leave the building during our rehearsals. Working in the cellars is fine; we can find you there easily enough. When you took your walk tonight, though – well, it was worrisome.”

  “Worrisome?” Art looked around, puzzled. The other Bringers were still just standing there, watching the conversation – didn't they have anything better to do?

  Perhaps they didn't. “Was there something you needed help with?”

  “Oh, we managed, we managed,” Innisfree said hastily. “We just wanted to ask you not to leave the building during our rehearsals.”

  Art stared at the tall man, trying to figure this out.

  The Bringers of Wonder had, right from the first, made it absolutely clear that they didn't want any outsiders around, and that outsiders included Art. Now they said they needed him to be in the building.

  Anywhere in the building?

  And they weren't asking him to help with anything. They just wanted him in the theater.

  Did that make any sense at all?

  No.

  This might finally be a chance to find out just what the heck was going on, though.

  Or maybe not; maybe it was just as they said.

  “I don't understand,” he said. “Do you want me to help out or not? Because if you don't, what difference does it make where I am?”

  “Well, we want you close
by, just in case,” Innisfree said with a smile.

  “So how about if I get some fresh air in the parking lot?”

  The smile vanished.

  “We'd prefer it if you stayed inside the building.”

  “Well, but I don't feel like going back downstairs – it's sort of musty down there, and my allergies are acting up.” This was a lie; Art had no allergies.

  Innisfree glanced over his shoulder at the others.

  “I could sit and watch,” Art suggested.

  When Innisfree didn't answer immediately, he added, “And once I've seen the play, I could help with lighting it – I notice you haven't started rigging lights yet.”

  Innisfree sighed.

  “We're not ready for that yet,” he said. “Perhaps, if not the basement, there's something to be done out in the lobby?”

  Art considered.

  “All right,” he said. “I can find something, I'm sure.”

  Innisfree smiled again. “Fine! That's fine, then! Thank you, Arthur, my lad!”

  “No problem.” He closed the basement door, checked the lock, and made his way slowly up the center aisle.

  He could feel a dozen pairs of eyes watching him.

  He wondered whether Innisfree knew what he was doing. Did these people not want someone watching just because it would make them nervous, or was there something they really didn't want him to see?

  If the latter, they'd just blown it, because in the little corridor behind the box office was a peephole with a clear view of the stage. It was there so that ushers could let latecomers in without interrupting anything important, so that actors making entrances from the rear would know when to appear – it was a normal and obvious feature of the theater. Ordinarily he would never have used it to spy on the Bringers, if they had simply told him they didn't want anyone watching, but all this nonsense about not leaving the building, and sending him out to the lobby...

  Well, if they didn't have the sense to realize he might be able to watch from there, it wasn't his fault.

  He smiled to himself, and almost skipped the last few steps.

  He was finally going to see them rehearse The Return of Magic.