The Loblolly Boy and the Sorcerer

by James Norcliffe

  That sounded intriguing to the loblolly boy. ‘I don’t see how that could be dangerous?’

  ‘Think about it, little loblolly boy. Some people’s destinies are very unpleasant. Your own for instance?’

  That was such a cutting comment it reduced the loblolly boy to silence.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Captain. ‘I’m really pleased to be me right now.’

  ‘I suppose you are,’ said the loblolly boy. He hadn’t meant to sound bitter or sarcastic, but he realised it had probably come out that way.

  However, the Captain was again in such a contented state, he either did not notice or was not bothered about the loblolly boy’s tone. ‘Wouldn’t it just be easier to find another Sensitive and Exchange, if you’d rather not be a loblolly boy any more?’ he asked.

  The loblolly boy shook his head. ‘Been there, done that,’ he said firmly. ‘No, I don’t want any more Exchanges except the one that makes me Ben again.’

  The Captain sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’d probably feel the same if I were in your wings.’

  The loblolly boy looked up. This sounded a little more promising. ‘Then you’ll help me?’ he asked hopefully.

  The Captain shrugged. ‘How can I help you? I’m just an old man who lives in a cabin by the sea.’

  Liar, thought the loblolly boy. He knew the Captain was no mere old man. Mere old men couldn’t even see him for a start, nor know anything about the world of loblolly boys and goodness knows what other worlds. Mere old men did not have mysterious telescopes that could see your destiny. The Captain was not merely old either. He was positively ancient.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the loblolly boy. ‘And I reckon you could help me.’

  However, the Captain only grunted, then stood up and moved over to inspect the crabs in the pot.

  ‘Looking good,’ he said. ‘Looking pink.’

  The loblolly boy wondered whether that was what being in the pink meant. He didn’t think so. ‘What about that song then?’ he asked. ‘You said that would help me.’

  ‘Did I?’ the Captain said.

  The loblolly boy thought about that. Probably the Captain hadn’t said the song would help him, not in so many words, but he figured that was what he meant. Why sing the awful thing otherwise?

  ‘Could it help me?’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ the Captain said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Whether you’ll allow yourself to be helped.’

  The loblolly boy shrugged. This was all too pointless and was leading nowhere.

  ‘I still have no idea what the song was about.’

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘I am. I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘What do you remember?’

  The loblolly boy shrugged again. ‘I remember the bit about the frying pan and the fire and stuff about Jugglers and a Gadget Man.’

  ‘What about the Jugglers and the Gadget Man?’

  The loblolly boy thought, screwing up his nose with the effort. ‘I have to seek them …’

  ‘What else?’

  Again he tried to remember. He visualised the Captain sweeping furiously at the banjo and braying out the words.

  ‘Would you sing it again?’

  The Captain shook his head. ‘No. In the interests of music, I will not sing it again.’

  ‘Hmmm. I remember fear and beware … That’s right … Trust?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the Captain. ‘They’re fickle.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means they’re unpredictable. They might help you; they might not. You might think they’re helping you but they’re tricking; or you might think they’re tricking but they’re really helping you.’

  ‘They don’t sound much use, then,’ said the loblolly boy, disappointed.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said the Captain. ‘Look at it this way, you’re going to need all the help you can get.’

  ‘Even if I can’t trust it?’

  ‘Even so,’ said the Captain. His tone was serious and the loblolly boy realised he meant it. ‘But just be careful,’ he added. ‘They’re like a two-edged sword.’

  ‘A two-edged sword?’

  ‘It can cut both ways.’

  ‘But it can still cut,’ grinned the loblolly boy a little ruefully.

  ‘Precisely,’ said the Captain.

  At that point he drove his knife into the pot and then pulled it out and held it up with a crimson crab pinioned on the end. The crab’s legs were no longer gesticulating. The eyes on their little stalks were brown and sightless.

  ‘Lovely!’ exclaimed the Captain. ‘Pity you can’t try one of these.’ He broke off a leg, and then pushed the crab off the knife and onto a platter. Then he snapped the leg in two and sucked at it. The loblolly boy shuddered.

  ‘You didn’t mention the Sorcerer,’ said the Captain.

  ‘The Sorcerer?’

  ‘Remember? The Jugglers, the Sorcerer and the Gadget Man.’

  The loblolly boy nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Don’t forget the Sorcerer,’ said the Captain. ‘Be particularly careful with him. He’s the most fickle of the lot!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  1

  The loblolly boy left the Captain in a confused state of mind. He’d wanted better advice. He’d wanted encouragement. Instead, Captain Bass, if anything, had made him more apprehensive than before, more anxious and more fearful. The Captain left him in no doubt that the path ahead would not be straightforward. Instead it would probably be difficult, dangerous and, most depressing of all, possibly unsuccessful.

  In this unhappy condition, the loblolly boy hardly knew where he was flying. What help had the Captain offered? An instruction to move like a crab. A stupid song with a stupid mixed message. The so-called helpers were possibly going to be just as much a danger as a help. In any case, he knew nothing about them or how to find them. For all he knew they were just figures in an old sea shanty, no more real than the so-called fifteen men on the dead man’s chest in that other old song.

  Really, the Captain had offered nothing at all except to look after his Hornby engine.

  The loblolly boy had handed it over a little reluctantly even though he knew that looking after it himself on his quest would be a nuisance.

  ‘I’ll make sure you get it back,’ the Captain promised.

  For some reason, the loblolly boy knew he would, all the while knowing that if and when he ever wanted the engine back it would be because he had Exchanged for the final time and was once more living in the world of flesh and blood. How the Captain would know when this would take place and where he would be at that point, he didn’t even want to think about.

  ‘If you manage to Exchange …’ added the Captain.

  At these words the loblolly boy experienced that chill, that shrinking feeling.

  There are no guarantees, the Captain was saying.

  We are saying if, not when.

  2

  He must have passed over the hills and then over the city in this troubled way, hardly aware of direction, simply flying automatically, veering left or veering right without purpose. He was high enough in the sky for obstacles to be no problem and birds seemed to either see or sense him, so there was never any possibility of a collision.

  Then he was beyond the city and flying over countryside. Some noise, perhaps the shriek of a gull, perhaps the chime of a bell, brought him back to his senses and he blinked and looked about. There was a small town below. A main road passed through it, busy with traffic. There was a cluster of shops, a bridge and the shine of a winding river bordered by green clumps that were probably willow trees. Beyond the shops there was a large sprinkling of houses set on suburban streets.

  It did not look like the sort of place Janice would be. She preferred large cities with neon lights and department stores, malls and the glossy aisles of supermarkets.

  Given this, he had decided to ignore the place wh
en his attention was caught by an activity taking place on what looked to be a domain on the edge of the town. There were the roofs of a marquee and an alley of brightly coloured tents, fairground rides, and a crowd of people all in a circle, dense at the centre and thinning at the margins. A fair, he thought. A country fair. He’d rather liked fairs as he associated them with his mother and father. He remembered their holding his hands before letting him go bravely to ride the coloured and gently bucking horses on the merry-go-round.

  Curious, he descended rapidly and circled the domain at a much lower altitude. He was right. It was a country fair. The marquee had pride of place, but the alley of tents looked more interesting and this was where a lot of people were wandering about. There was a tame little Ferris wheel and a spinning octopus that moved so slowly it looked more likely to put people to sleep than thrill them.

  However, what really caught his eye and then stopped his heart was the focus of the circle of people he’d seen from on high. They were crowded around a small circular podium that was painted to look like a big bass drum.

  It was the flash of the flames that especially grabbed his attention. Flaming torches, flung high, caught, and almost at the same time flung up again.

  The centre mast of the marquee poked through the canvas and the loblolly boy landed lightly on the top and seized hold of it. He stared in astonishment at the sight before him.

  The crowd applauded from time to time, but mostly gasped in wonder. Three Jugglers dressed in black leotards and wearing black domino masks were throwing the torches into the air. They were brilliant. Each was manipulating three torches so that at any given time at least one, possibly two torches were in their hands, the others in the air. Moreover, they were standing angled back to back so that each was facing a different direction 120 degrees from her neighbour. It was clear from this vantage point that they were young women with long fair hair.

  Fascinated, the loblolly boy gazed at the performance. He had never imagined such dexterity possible, or such daring. He’d tried juggling himself and it was hard enough with little bean balls. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be with awkward torches like large flaming ice-cream cones. Nor could the crowd who continued to gasp, clap and cheer. The torches were flung high but at such an angle they always found a grasping hand before being flung again. As each torch flew, its flame streamed through the air in a following arc. The torches must have been gas-fuelled as they never stopped burning.

  All at once, impatient to see more closely, the loblolly boy flew down to ground level.

  He had never quite accustomed himself to the fact that to ordinary people he was invisible. Among people he was always self-conscious although no one was ever conscious of him. He landed beyond the outer line of the crowd and then he squirmed through to the front, automatically apologising, despite knowing that nothing he said could be heard by ordinary ears.

  Three Jugglers.

  This was too much of a coincidence.

  These could only be the Jugglers the Captain had sung of.

  They stood on the podium, a perfect example of perfect concentration, never missing a beat as the torches were juggled in three rhythmic wheels of flames.

  He stood immediately before one of the Jugglers so that if she happened to glance his way, and if she were a Sensitive, she would spot him.

  He did not want to wave in case he caused her to lose concentration and perhaps drop one or all of her flaming torches.

  He presumed she was a Sensitive. The Jugglers would have to be able to see him. How else, otherwise, could they possibly help or, for that matter, hinder him?

  However, the Juggler, if she did see him, paid no attention to him whatsoever. She continued with the amazing display. The loblolly boy realised that the torches must have been cleverly weighted for the Jugglers always managed to catch them by the narrow end of the cone before flicking them up again.

  And then there was yet a further astonishment, an astonishment that made the performance not merely amazing, but miraculous.

  The loblolly boy suddenly realised that the domino masks the Jugglers were wearing had no eyeholes, no eyeholes at all. The Jugglers were performing completely blindfolded.

  Suddenly the gasps and cries of the crowd were more understandable. The performance seemed to defy possibility.

  The Jugglers were performing to loud music, music which was rhythmical and the loblolly boy supposed the regular rhythm was of some assistance, were any assistance necessary, to their miraculous act. He could see that the music was coming from a boom box operated by an older woman, also dressed in black, who was seated on a stool to one side of the bass-drum-like podium.

  Immediately the volume increased dramatically to a staticky crescendo and then was switched off altogether. This was a signal for the act to conclude and the Jugglers quickly and wonderfully, dextrously caught the last of the torches and laid them on the stage in front of them. The older woman hurried up on to the stage and doused the flames with a pad on a stick.

  The crowd stamped, whistled and cheered, and the Jugglers acknowledged the applause each with a small bow and a little smile.

  The loblolly boy waited for them to take their blindfolds off and perhaps acknowledge the applause more expressively, but this they did not do. He hoped that when and if they did so, he personally might be acknowledged. However, there was to be no acknowledgement of his presence either.

  Instead, the older woman — the loblolly boy suspected she might be the Jugglers’ mother, as he presumed from their similar looks that the Jugglers were sisters — gathered the now doused torches and thrust them into a basket. She quickly collected the stool and boom box and then remounted the podium. She stood at the steps as the first Juggler reached and gripped her upper arm. One of the other Jugglers had meantime taken the arm of this Juggler, and the third had taken the arm of the second. Thus yoked together like the wagons on his Hornby train set, the mother and the three sisters made their way off the podium and down the side-show alley.

  Only at this point did the loblolly boy realise the obvious truth.

  The Jugglers were blind.

  3

  The loblolly boy followed the Jugglers down the side-show alley, past the grinning clowns with their open mouths moving left to right and hungry for ping-pong balls, past the rifle range with its collection of big pink elephants, kewpie dolls and cuddly orange tigers, past the candy-floss machine, the ghost train, the palm reader, and through the crowds of people dazed and battered by the blare from a recorded Wurlitzer organ.

  At one point they came to three fairground mirrors. These had attracted a crowd of giggling spectators pointing and laughing at their distorted reflections. Thin people became huge balloons with pointy little heads and tiny retreating legs, in another mirror people stretched into coat-hanger-like wiriness, bent like unbelievably skinny bananas, and in the third people were reflected into a row of sausages with fat legs, narrow waists, fat stomachs, narrow chests, fat necks and narrow heads. Standing among the laughter, the loblolly boy sought in vain for his own reflection, but to the mirror, as to the crowd about him, the loblolly boy was completely invisible.

  He sighed, and turned away. One day, he thought. One day soon. Then, remembering himself, he hurried once more after the Jugglers and their minder-mother.

  Eventually the Jugglers, now holding hands, moved into the domain proper and away from the hustle of the fair. The loblolly boy could see that they were heading for a small group of campervans parked by the willow trees beside the river. Sure enough, when they reached the nearest campervan, the mother put the boom box, the stool and the basket down and unlocked the door. The Jugglers entered one by one and the mother followed, closing the door behind her.

  By this stage the loblolly boy was only a few metres behind them. He paused now to ponder his position. Clearly the Jugglers wouldn’t be able to see him, and he was quite sure the mother couldn’t. On one or two occasions he had been directly in her line of vision b
ut she had given no indication of having been aware of him.

  On the other hand, these surely must be the Jugglers the Captain had alluded to. It was far too much of a coincidence otherwise. In that case, somehow or other, he should try to make contact.

  If they couldn’t see him, then they might be able to hear him.

  It was worth a try.

  Feeling then that he had nothing to lose, the loblolly boy approached the campervan and made his way up the aluminium steps. He knocked at the door.

  From inside a voice said, ‘Ma, somebody’s at the door!’

  Then another voice, presumably the mother’s: ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  Then the first voice again: ‘Well, I did.’

  Then a second voice. ‘So did I.’

  And a third added. ‘Answer the door, Ma. You’re getting deaf in your old age!’

  Clearly the mother was out-voted, for while he heard no further verbal response he did hear footsteps clumping towards the door. Then it was flung open, and the woman stood before him. She had steel grey hair pulled back into a bun and a lined olive complexion. Her eyes were heavily made up with lilac eye-shadow and black mascara. However, they stared right through the loblolly boy into the distance beyond. Then they quickly scanned back and forth and, apparently finding nothing, the woman slammed the door in his face.

  ‘Deaf am I? Well there was absolutely nothing there!’ the loblolly boy heard her snort.

  ‘Funny,’ he heard one of the voices say. ‘I could have been certain. Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure as the nose on my face,’ said the mother.

  ‘You must be pretty sure then,’ giggled another voice. ‘That’s quite a nose you have there. I’ve bumped into it several times.’

  ‘None of your lip, young lady!’

  At that point, the loblolly boy knocked again, but even more loudly this time.

  ‘What did I tell you!’ demanded one of the Jugglers.

  ‘What did you tell me?’

  ‘The knocking. There it is again!’