Part 20 (1/2)

THE MAGIC MAN.

by Charles Beaumont ---------------------------.

In the clear September moonlight now the prairie lay silent and cool and the color of lakes. Dust coated it like rich fur, and there was only the night wind sliding and sighing across the tabled land, and the wolves--always the wolves--screaming loneliness at the skies: otherwise, silence, as immense as the end of things.

Dr. Silk thought about this as he tried to pull sleep into his head. It had been a long day, full of miles and sweat and blasting sun, and he should be sleeping, like Obadiah, resting for tomorrow, theLord knew. Why else had the night been created? Yet, here he was, wide awake. Thinking.

With his knife-sharp brittle thigh, the old man sought some supporting softness in the thin straw mattress. Then, at last, feeling the covers slip to the floor, he snorted, swung his feet over the side of the pallet, and sat for a while, rubbing the back of his neck.

”You got troubles, Doctor?” Obadiah's voice was mildly alarmed; if he had been awakened it was impossible to tell. ”You sick?”

”No troubles,” Dr. Silk said, shaking his head. ”Got to get a breath of air is all.”

”You want to be careful and not take the cold.”

”I'll be careful.”

Outside the wagon, the night was chill. Dr. Silk got out his hand-carved pipe and sat down on the wagon steps and watched the wind for a while. He watched it race along the prairie, lifting dust and making little gray dances, and he began to think, as he had many times before on just such nights, of the invisible life that surrounded him, existing in unseen magic.

_Magic_. He held the word, smiled, and glanced along the wagon. Its colors were faded now, but in the glow of moon they blazed: reds and yellows and oranges and bright greens. And the big-lettered printing, vivid with scroliwork: _THE MAGIC MAN_.

_Wonders Performed Before Your Eyes!_ Dr. Silk began to feel good again, after. . . months. It must be months. He forgot about the cold, pulled at his pipe, and let tomorrow take form.

It warmed him.

For something wonderful was going to happen: tomorrow Dr. Silk--no; Micah Jackson--the foolish, cranky, asthmatic old man who creaked when he walked, who snuffled and sneezed and coughed and wandered the land in a wagon, mostly lonely, mostly tired--this prune-wrinkled sack of ancient bones--would disappear. Allakazam! Micah Jackson would disappear. And in his place there would be an elegant gentlemen in a brocade vest and a black top hat and a suit as dark as midnight: _The Magic Man, Doctor Silk--Prince, Emperor, Bringer of Mysteries and Wonders and Miracles_.

Tentatively, his fingers made an invisible coin vanish: he leaned back and thought now of the children. Of their fresh faces and their wide wondering eyes. In a while his pipe died, but he did not notice .

Then dawn came, slowly, spilling its cold light over the desert. Leather-toned dust had mounded up around the wagon wheels and the still sleeping mules, high, as if the rig were some forgotten tomb unburied for an hour. Dr. Silk blinked crusted eyelids and wondered whether he'd actually dozed off. It didn't seem so. But, in any case, he felt just fine.

”Obadiah!” It was very early. Far ahead and low he could see the moon, waferthin, unreal, ready to wink instantly out. And it was deaf-quiet. ”Obadiah!” He knocked the pain out of his bones and moved up the steps. ”You aim to sleep all day?”

The old Negro's eyes came open; a sheen of silver covered his face. ”Morning,” he said, uncertainly.

”Morning. How about some breakfast?”

”You want breakfast?” A gla.s.s of applejack usually sufficed for Dr. Silk. He disliked soft foods and was fearful of anything that might cause further damage to his already chipped and cracking plates.

”Of course! Coffee, and beans, and maybe a couple biscuits.”

”Yes, sir. Biscuits.” Obadiah dressed quickly, and began to rummage. ”We must be getting close.”

”If we move,” Dr. Silk said, ”we ought to reach Two Forks by late afternoon: three, four o'clock, the way I see it.”

”How about the medicine?” Obadiah gestured toward the rows of empty bottles strapped to the wall. They were labeled: DOCTOR SILK'S _WONDEROL_--A SOOTHING REMEDY FORHEADACHE, STOMACH CRAMPS, QUINSY, DIZZINESS & OTHER AILMENTS.

”Well, I'll mix up a batch pretty soon.”

The Negro paused. ”Didn't we sell an awful lot to the people last time we was to Two Forks?”

”We did indeed,” Dr. Silk said. He frowned. ”Obadiah, how many times have I got to tell you?

There's nothing whatsoever harmful in Wonderol. If the folks think it'll cure them, it's got just as good as chance as anything else.”

”Yes, sir.” Obadiah tottered down the steps. ”But one of these here fine days,” he muttered, ”we going to be running around all covered with a lot of tar and feathers, you see . . .”

Dr. Silk laughed. He walked over to the large bra.s.sbound trunk that sat in the corner and pulled up the lid.

He began to remove things.

Colored squares of cloth came out first, transparent, weightless as gauze. These he transferred to a smaller box. Then serpentines uncoiled from the trunk; and bright gold hoops came out; and decks of cards and rubber bottles and disembodied hands and a stringless banjo that could make sweet music.

Wonder followed wonder. The knife that was sharp enough to slice through wire but could not even scratch a child's soft flesh; Black Ben, the wooden bandit who could speak and sometimes did, if you asked him to, politely; the rose bush that grew on the head of a walking stick-- all the miracles of Pandora's box, and more, one after another, carefully sorted and placed and made ready.

When he had finished here, Dr. Silk got a stiff brush and went to work on the black suit that hung from a hook. Dust flew and the old man cursed and then it was time for breakfast.

”Hitch up the mules, Obadiah!”

”But you ain't et.”

”I'll eat on the way. Hitch 'em up!”

And they traveled, then, groaning and rattling, over the flour-soft desert. Dr. Silk fussed with his food and filled the Wonderol bottles and fussed some more; at last he could wait no longer.

He stripped off the dirty woollen trousers and checkered s.h.i.+rt. He stood before the jouncing mirror. He waxed his mustaches until they were as sharp and wicked and hard as scimitars.

”_Easy, Obadiah, dammit. Easy!_”

He climbed into the tight black suit. He put on the brocade vest, a dazzle of mossgreen.

He looked again into the mirror. _Well, there you are, Doctor, and who says you aren't handsome_--and sighed.

Then, sitting up so as not to wrinkle the suit, bracing himself against the wagon wall, he fell fast asleep.

”. . . the Magic Man! The Magic Man!”

”Where?”

”Right there, comin' down the street, can't you see?”

”It _is_, it's him--he's back!”

”Hey, Ma, look! Dr. Silk!”

Drowsing elders leaned forward on torn cane-backed chairs; large women turned their heads and tried to hold onto their children; all over, people came out of doors and peered through windows and stopped what they were doing.

”By G.o.d, here we go again!”

And suddenly the street was a tumult of dogs and children, yipping, yelling, running.