‘Rubbish!’
‘I heard it, I tell you.’
‘Answer the door, Ma,’ said another Juggler.
‘Is the world going mad?’
‘Probably.’
‘Probably just kids playing a silly game. But open it.’
The loblolly boy pounded on the door once more.
‘Look, for goodness’ sake,’ demanded a voice. ‘Are you going to tell me you didn’t hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
‘Ignore her Miriam. She’s going deaf. Or stupid. Open it yourself.’
This time, the door opened and one of the Jugglers stood there. The mother came up and stood peering over her shoulder.
‘There’s nobody there,’ said the mother.
The Juggler, no longer masked, stared sightlessly in front of her.
‘Hello?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘Probably just the wind or something,’ said her mother, but not unkindly, ‘or something in the trees. Come on Miriam, close the door now.’
‘Hello,’ said the loblolly boy. ‘May I come in?’
‘Certainly,’ said Miriam stepping aside and opening the door more widely.
‘What’s up with you Miriam?’ asked the mother, a little impatiently now. ‘I ask you to close the door and you throw it open more widely.’
‘Sorry,’ said the Juggler named Miriam. ‘I just had to let him in.’
‘Let him in? Let who in, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Our visitor,’ said Miriam, finally closing the door.
4
‘Who are you?’ asked Miriam.
‘I’m the loblolly boy.’
‘The what?’
Although it was a large campervan, it was quite cramped inside. At one end were four bunks arranged two up two down, and at the other end was a small galley-kitchen. The fold-down table between these two areas had been pushed up to make a little more room. Now he was inside, the mother had retreated to the kitchen and the other two Jugglers were sitting on one of the lower bunks. They looked inquiringly in Miriam’s direction as she stood beside the loblolly boy still adjacent to the door.
‘What was that, Miriam?’ asked her mother.
‘Your mother can’t see me,’ whispered the loblolly boy. ‘She’ll think you’re talking to yourself.’
He reached for her and took her hand. Miriam looked startled at the touch.
‘What’s the matter, Miriam? Cat got your tongue?’
Miriam reached toward the loblolly boy and felt his face. She patted around his face and found his shoulders. Continuing to pat around his shoulders she found his wings and gave a short gasp.
‘Are you an angel?’ she whispered.
‘She really can’t see me,’ whispered the loblolly boy. ‘And she can’t hear me either. If we talk she’ll only hear your side of the conversation.’
Although this information must have sounded utterly bizarre, Miriam seemed to take it in her stride. She nodded in the direction of the loblolly boy’s whisper, and then put a finger to her lips. The loblolly boy understood. He was to be quiet and she would be quiet.
‘What is it, Miriam?’ demanded her mother. ‘Is there something funny going on?’
‘It’s nothing, Ma,’ she called to her mother. ‘Just muttering.’
‘That’s not to be encouraged,’ said her mother. ‘You know what sort of people mutter?’
‘Nutters mutter, I know,’ said Miriam. ‘I probably just need some fresh air. Join us outside girls?’
‘What do you mean, fresh air?’ demanded the mother. ‘You’ve only just come in!’
‘I know,’ said Miriam, ‘but I’m already muttering.’
‘Well, don’t be long and don’t go far.’
That seemed to be the permission they needed, and so Miriam reached for the door and opened it. The loblolly boy hurried out before her and the sisters followed. Miriam reached for his hand and he led them around the back of the campervan to a picnic table under the willows by the river. He explained where and what it was and guided them to it. Before long all four were seated, two on each side.
‘This is our visitor,’ explained Miriam who was sitting beside the loblolly boy. ‘He says he’s the loblolly boy.’
‘Loblolly boy?’ asked the Juggler directly opposite her.
‘I don’t know,’ said Miriam. ‘I think he might be some sort of an angel.’
‘Angel?’
‘He has wings on his back.’
‘I’m not an angel,’ said the loblolly boy.
‘Then what are you?’ asked Miriam.
‘I’m not sure. Just the loblolly boy.’
‘Ma can’t see him,’ explained Miriam.
‘Or hear me,’ added the loblolly boy.
‘That’s why she couldn’t hear any knocking at the door.’
‘Weird,’ said one of the others. ‘Then how come we can hear him?’
‘You must be Sensitives,’ said the loblolly boy. ‘Certain people seem to be able to see and hear me. You can. Your mother can’t.’
‘Seriously weird,’ said the third Juggler.
‘I don’t understand any of this,’ said the second Juggler. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know either,’ said Miriam. ‘Well, loblolly boy, or whoever or whatever you are, perhaps you’d better explain …’
‘You might think it’s weird,’ said the loblolly boy, ‘but believe me, it’s just as weird for me. And the whole story is very complicated …’
‘Try us,’ said Miriam. Then she added, ‘I’m Miriam by the way, and this,’ she pointed across the table, ‘is my sister Marianne, and this,’ she pointed diagonally, ‘is my sister Lucinda.’
‘They ran out of ‘M’s when they got to me,’ smiled Lucinda.
‘Well?’ persisted Miriam.
And so the loblolly boy gave the three sisters a hurried account of all that had happened to him since his first Exchange. He focused especially on his recent encounter with the Captain and the message of the Captain’s song.
‘You see, the song was very specific about Jugglers, so when I saw you guys it looked like a prophecy was being fulfilled,’ he concluded.
‘You must have, I suppose,’ said Marianne, ‘All the same, we had no idea we were being celebrated in some crazy song. In fact, I rather think you have the wrong Jugglers.’
‘Agreed,’ said Lucinda. ‘And I have to add that we have no knowledge of any Sorcerer or Gadget Man. I think this is a case of mistaken identity.’
The loblolly boy looked from one sister to the other. They looked sincere enough, but then he remembered the song’s warning. And he remembered the word ‘fickle’.
‘What about Captain Bass?’ he asked. ‘Have you ever come across him? I mean, he sang the song about you.’
They shook their heads.
‘Never heard of him,’ said Marianne.
‘Are you sure?’ asked the loblolly boy, almost persuaded that he had miscued completely.
‘We must be the wrong Jugglers,’ said Marianne.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Lucinda softly.
The others looked at her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ said Lucinda, ‘if we were the wrong Jugglers, then we wouldn’t be able to talk with this loblolly boy, would we? I mean, Ma can’t. Why can we?’
‘That’s right,’ said Miriam.
‘What did he say we were? Sensitives? It’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly,’ said the loblolly boy. ‘That’s what I thought straight away. This is too much of a coincidence.’
‘Okay,’ said Miriam, ‘that’s as may be, but if we are the Jugglers who are supposed to help you there’s one small problem.’
‘What’s that?’ asked the loblolly boy.
‘It’s that we haven’t the slightest idea how we can help you. We have no idea where your father and this woman and the boy have gone. We’ve never heard of them before you mentioned them just before.’
>
The loblolly boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know either. All I know,’ he said stubbornly, ‘is that the song talked about you guys. The Captain hinted you might be able to help. He didn’t say that you would know how …’
‘We don’t,’ said Marianne.
‘He also talked about crabs,’ said the loblolly boy.
‘Crabs?’
‘How they move sideways …’
He was on the point of mentioning that the Captain had also mentioned that any one of the people in his shanty could be a danger rather than a help. He changed his mind, though. These blind Jugglers seemed quite unlikely to be a danger. They seemed sweet, if somewhat puzzled, young women. Their help, if such help was to be forthcoming, would probably not be something they would be able to consciously provide.
But how could they provide it?
‘Perhaps the birds might help,’ suggested Lucinda.
5
‘Another one of our acts,’ explained Miriam. ‘When we juggle with the torches it’s spectacular because it all comes from us, our skills and our techniques; but when we juggle with the birds it’s a partnership. It’s more to do with the birds and the way they have been trained to perform. We’re almost incidental.’
‘How can they help?’ asked the loblolly boy.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Miriam. ‘It just seems that the birds may be of more help than the torches.’
‘Or us,’ said Marianne.
‘It’s not that we don’t want to help,’ said Lucinda. ‘It’s just that we can’t think of any other way.’
The loblolly boy said nothing for a while. Then he said, ‘Thanks. I guess you’re right. I suppose it’s in the lap of the birds. What do I do then? Do you have a show tomorrow?’
The Jugglers reached for each other and held hands. The loblolly boy suspected this was their way of looking at or perhaps conferring with each other.
‘We do,’ said Miriam after a pause, ‘but we’ve decided to have a special show tonight for an audience of one.’ She gave the loblolly boy a smile. ‘If you could be here at midnight, we’ll try to make it a memorable performance.’
‘Thank you,’ said the loblolly boy. ‘You and the birds at midnight then.’
‘It’s a date,’ said Miriam.
Then the Jugglers extricated themselves from the picnic table. The loblolly boy took Miriam’s hand and guided them back to the campervan.
Before they went back in, he allowed Lucinda and Marianne to touch his wings. Miriam, ran her fingers over them as well.
‘They’re huge,’ she whispered.
‘Are they?’ asked the loblolly boy. He’d never considered whether his wings were large or small before.
‘Compared to the doves they are,’ said Miriam.
‘Anyway,’ said Lucinda, ‘we’d better be getting in. Don’t forget — midnight.’
Seconds later, the door slammed shut and the loblolly boy was standing alone outside the campervan.
He should have been feeling exultant, but he was feeling a little troubled.
The Jugglers seemed such sweet people, yet according to the song they should be — what was the word? — fickle. Untrustworthy. Unreliable.
He should beware of them according to the Captain, but he couldn’t believe these lovely girls would wish to do him harm.
Then there was something about the idea of birds. What was it the Captain had said? Birds of a feather stick together.
He had been talking about Janice and the boy who had taken his life.
But that was just a silly expression.
Tonight he’d be dealing with real birds.
The metaphorical birds would have to be dealt to later.
6
Much later, the loblolly boy returned to the domain. The fair had long since locked its doors and the side-show alley was shuttered and deserted. The small group of campervans slept in the shadows of the willow trees but the domain itself was bathed in a soft yellow light from a full moon, round and gold like a great cheese.
The loblolly boy had filled in the time exploring the town and surrounding countryside, not that there was a lot to explore. Certainly he found no other Jugglers nor any sign of the so-called Sorcerer or the curiously named Gadget Man.
Eventually, he found a roost on the top of a building across the way from the post office, as the post office had a small tower with a large clock. He waited until the hands were almost at midnight before standing, stretching, then jumping up into the moonlit air.
He landed not far from the Jugglers’ campervan. He did not have long to wait. Within moments it seemed, the door opened and the three Jugglers carefully emerged, each carrying what looked to be a tall split-cane bird-cage.
Earlier, Miriam had asked the loblolly boy whether he were an angel. As the Jugglers stepped down from their campervan, the loblolly boy all at once wanted to ask the same question of them, so striking was their appearance.
They were no longer in their black leotards and domino masks, but were wearing long white shifts the loblolly boy guessed were their nightgowns. These, along with their long fair hair falling over their shoulders, gave them the look of angels, the sort of golden-haired white-gowned angels you find on Christmas cards and this angelic air was only accentuated by the soft glow of the moonlight.
‘Are you there?’ asked Miriam.
The loblolly boy had been so taken with the vision of the Jugglers he’d been lost for words. Remembering himself, he called, ‘Yes, I’m just over here.’
He hurried towards her and took her hand.
‘We have the birds, look,’ she said, holding up the cage. There were three white doves in the cage. They huddled together on the same perch, each grumbling softly in fluting dove talk. Their feathers were fluffed out although the evening wasn’t in the least cold.
‘You’re going to juggle with these?’
‘Sort of,’ said Miriam. ‘It’s not so much juggling. It’s more of a shared enterprise.’
‘Where do we go?’
‘We just need an open space.’
‘Over here.’
The loblolly boy led the Jugglers to an area of open playing field about equidistant from the huddled tents of the side-show alley and the little group of campervans.
‘I’m still not sure …’ he began when the little group reached the point he thought best suited their needs. He was going to say he still had no idea what they were hoping to achieve by this performance.
Lucinda seemed to understand what he had been about to say.
‘We thought,’ she said, ‘that if this song really did foretell our being able to help you then there was only one way that might be possible.’
‘The birds,’ said Marianne.
‘You see,’ said Miriam, ‘we really have no idea of knowing where you should go to find what you’re looking for. Our world is a world of darkness, of a campervan and a rather small podium.’
‘You have your own wings,’ said Lucinda, ‘but the birds have our wings. They’re the only thing we have to guide you.’
‘So?’ asked the loblolly boy.
‘So if the birds know where you should be headed, then they’ll take you there,’ said Marianne.
‘I see,’ said the loblolly boy. He felt a welling disappointment.
This all seemed highly unlikely. He looked again at the fluffed up doves. They were all clucking crossly now. He imagined all they wanted to do was roost for the night, not be flung up in the air. The more he looked at them the grumpier they seemed. More than that, apart from one extremely baleful glance, they appeared to be completely and utterly uninterested in him.
Perhaps that was because they couldn’t see him at all. If so, the only place they were likely to lead him was up and down the garden path. All in all he was probably in for a wild goose chase, or rather a tame dove chase.
Still, he was grateful to the Jugglers for trying. It was good of them to get up in the middle of the night on the slim off-chance that this performance wi
th their bad-tempered birds might help him.
‘Why would the Captain have said you might not be this kind?’ he asked Miriam. ‘He said I should seek your help but that I shouldn’t trust you. You could be dangerous.’
Miriam placed the bird-cage on the grass.
‘Oh, I think that’s understandable,’ she said.
‘Is it?’
‘I think so.’
‘I don’t think it is.’
‘It’s not us you shouldn’t trust,’ said Lucinda. ‘It’s you.’
‘Or, rather, your wishes, your desires,’ said Marianne.
‘I still don’t follow,’ said the loblolly boy.
‘We could simply be the means of granting your desire,’ said Miriam.
‘Just an instrument,’ added Marianne. ‘Neither here nor there.’
‘So?’
‘So we help you achieve your desire.’
‘So how is that dangerous?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked Marianne.
‘Your desire might come true,’ said Miriam.
7
There was little to say to that and, sensing that the conversation was over, the three Jugglers readied themselves for their performance. Each released her doves from the cage, some needing encouragement or admonition. For a short time the birds lurched about on the grass in an ungainly way while the three sisters assumed their performance position, back to back as they had on their big bass-drum podium: each facing a different direction, with arms outstretched not unlike the logo of a Mercedes Benz. Only when the Jugglers were in position and one gave a low whistle did the birds all at once ascend into the air.
They only climbed a few metres, however, before taking up their own positions. The loblolly boy marvelled at the discipline. One dove landed on each outstretched wrist while the remaining three hovered overhead. Then, at a signal, the Jugglers first lifted one hand then the other — each time a hand was raised a bird would lift into the air and hover briefly and each time a hand was lowered a bird would land on that wrist. At each movement the birds would change positions so that there was a constant circular movement of dove landing, dove lifting, dove hovering, dove landing; and orchestrating this wheeling dance was arm lifting, arm falling, all in perfect rhythm. White wings, white sleeves, rising, falling, all in a starry moonlit darkness.
The Loblolly Boy and the Sorcerer Page 4
