Chapter 10: The Family

15 September 1974, Minneapolis

THE SHOWBOX changed his Sunday schedule and gave The Great Paris a short matinee and a two-act early evening performance. He hurried to get the required props in place and the lighting tech, Wayne, approached him.

“You really knocked them out last night,” Wayne said.

“Thanks. That kind of show really takes a lot of energy. I was exhausted.”

“I’ll bet. So, management decides to capitalize on it and do a full bar-close and reset between your shows today so they can collect from two crowds,” Wayne chuckled.

“How are they managing it?”

“No cover for the first show. That way, no one gets pissed about paying money and then being told they have to leave. But they’ll still drink. Also, they’re going to have them leave by way of the restaurant with a promise that everyone who goes from the bar up to the restaurant will get a 10% discount on their meal. These guys will do anything for the moola.” Wayne scraped his fingers together.

“I hope they don’t expect me to work up to the kind of trick I did last night in half the time,” Paul sighed. “It’s not part of the two-act show.”

“That’s good. The rest of your act is terrific without the spectacular piece. That will bring people back for shows next weekend.”

“Hmm. I should work up to something really spectacular for next Saturday’s final performance,” Paris mused. “Maybe I could make the whole audience disappear.” Wayne looked at him startled. Paris laughed. “Usually, when that happens, it means the show is a total flop.” They went over the plan for two shows and everything went well.

Until after the last act.

Paris returned to his dressing room and found a flower with a note attached on the dressing table. Fumbling with it, he finally managed to get it open and read the scrawled note.

I’m so sorry we can’t get together this evening, but I’m really looking forward to dinner with you Monday. Bring a deck of cards.
XOXO Serepte.

He got a burst of adrenalin through his system as he thought of Serepte and the fact that she had sent him a note. He wished she had included a phone number. He wanted to talk to her. The only way he could do that would be to show up at her house unexpectedly and that would be incredibly rude. And desperate. Paul called Mark, his taxi driver, and asked him to take him somewhere to eat. Mark recommended Nikolas’ as the only place he was certain was open this late on Sunday night.

The food was good, the atmosphere lowkey, and music filled the room. Paul came down from his performance high and Mark took him back to his hotel. He fell into deep slumber.

16 September 1974, The Metéora

“You need to leave this place and eat something. If you wait any longer, you will be too weak to get down.” The voice startled Rebecca and she looked up at the black-robed monk who addressed her.

“Who are you? I did not summon you.”

“So far, you have not been successful at summoning anything,” he said.

“And you can do better?”

“I am here.” He looked at her and then folded into a cross-legged position opposite the cold ash of her fire. She looked at him intensely and then sat back.

“You were here that week. You said you had to leave after Andrew’s funeral. Why are you here now?”

“Everything is connected, Mrs. Allen. This spot, where you built your fire, is the same spot where we kindled Andrew’s funeral pyre. I still miss that old man. He was my friend,” the monk said.

“It was almost twenty years ago,” Rebecca wept. “I can’t ... I can’t recall his face. His touch. I’m forgetting Wesley!”

“That is why your summoning will not work. The best you could call to you is a poor recollection.” He nodded. It required a perfect picture of an object to summon it, and even then, it was hit and miss.

When Mrs. Weed was instructing her in Edinburgh—training her after her initiation—she warned Rebecca about summoning a person and taking responsibility for whatever was forced upon her world in order for the summoned to appear. Rebecca was dense and so Mrs. Weed suggested they summon something that would be harmless. Rebecca suggested summoning an eagle. They did a bit of research and discovered that Golden Eagles had recently begun nesting in the Lake District. It seemed to be a perfect target.

They returned to Keswick between gatherings of the great circle, and in the garden of a sister, cast a circle and created a summoning spell, visualizing the golden eagle and calling it to them. Rebecca was disappointed when they released the circle and no eagle appeared. Nor did one appear the next day. That evening the sister, Mrs. Weed, and Rebecca went to eat in a charming little restaurant with formal linens and fine china. Rebecca was beginning to reconcile her disappointment with the summoning with the reality that no eagle would magically fly through the windows of the restaurant when a piercing whistle brought her head up.

Some twenty feet away and behind the bar, a server was making a demitasse of coffee at a huge brass boiler. The escaping steam had caused the whistle that drew her attention. Rebecca thought how good a strong cup of coffee would taste and as she contemplated the idea, her eyes roamed over the beautiful brass boiler of the machine. The top of it reached almost into the low rafters.

And there stood her eagle.

Its wings were outstretched as it balanced atop the boiler with fierce beak pointing toward the floor. Neck and head were stretched out almost straight beneath the shoulders that supported the powerful wings. And it was golden. Even in the soft candlelight of the restaurant, it gleamed. Rebecca could not take her eyes from it and soon Mrs. Weed and their coven sister turned to follow Rebecca’s gaze. After they all looked at the magnificent creature, it began to lose its luster and was simply the brass casting of an eagle that decorated the boiler.

“There are very few pure images in the human mind, dear,” Mrs. Weed said. “You summoned a golden eagle and instead of it flying to you, you were drawn to it. No matter how fiction would cast it, summoning is not a reliable way to bring something into your presence.”

The monk held her gaze and Rebecca hung her head, tears flooding her eyes.

“What will I do? What can I do?”

“Find a better place to start,” he answered flatly. “You did not come to the pinnacle when Andrew’s bier flamed. This place has no meaning to you. Go someplace that refreshes your memory.”

“I have sought the mountain with no success. I have sought their homes with no success. I don’t know what to do. Can’t you guide me?” she begged.

“That is what I’m attempting to do. I’m telling you to summon the thing you remember most clearly from your time here. Summon the emotion, not the object. Then let your feet bring it to you. Physically, I can do nothing for you. I’m not here. But my soul somehow remains chained to these rocks.”

“Prometheus,” Rebecca whispered, realizing who the old monk must be. “The Unbound’s uncle.”

“It is nice to be known by that rather than my own epithet.” He looked around at the late afternoon in Greece. “There are worse places I could be bound. I must go now. The sun is about to rise where I live. I’m waking up.” He stood and his image began to fade. Rebecca’s stomach gave a loud growl, signaling the length of her fast.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She needed only decide the emotion she remembered most clearly.

16 September 1974, Minneapolis

Paul awoke late on Monday morning. He had strange dreams during the night, but as always with the memories of his life, the dreams faded with the morning light and he soon found himself unable to remember what he dreamed.

He took his time, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper in the hotel restaurant. Then he decided to take a sauna and pamper himself during the day while waiting for time to go to Serepte’s house.

In the hotel fitness center, Paul found the sauna and relaxed in the heat. After fifteen minutes, he emerged, dripping sweat and stepped under the poolside showers. The whirlpool was next to the showers and Paul stepped toward. It stared at him as he stood by the edge. Its bubbling waters discomforted him. He knew the movement of the water would soothe his muscles if only he would let it, but he had not been a swimmer for as long as he could remember. The rest of his family in Maine were water people, fishermen, but Paul’s first memory was a strong man pulling him from the sea and breathing life into his lungs. He simply could not trust himself to the water again.

He daringly put his foot into the steaming bath and it tugged at him, begging him to immerse his body in the hot frothy water. He sat on the edge with both feet dangling in the tub. It made him weak with its warmth and motion. It should be so easy. After a few moments of debate, he swung out of the bath and got shakily to his feet. It was as if they were anchored for some short time in a different world.

After Paul had showered and shaved, he returned to the restaurant for lunch. He wasn’t that hungry, but he hated being cooped up in his hotel room. This time he rummaged through his cases and pulled out several notebooks with his memories written in them. He searched for material he could add to his shows through the week.

He needed parlor tricks for tonight, that was obvious. Serepte’s note had confused him. He had thought that they were creating something together that didn’t have to do with him entertaining all the time. But she had requested a deck of cards. Maybe she was planning to teach him a trick or two. He’d met one of her housemates and she seemed like a nice older woman. He’d try to pick tricks that would appeal to that age woman.

Tricks weren’t the only thing in his notebooks. They contained his memory. From the time he learned to write, he put everything important in his notebooks. His parents guessed that he was in his early teens when he was fished from the ocean. But Paul had no memory. He knew nothing of his former life. After searching for parents and relatives, the Mansfields had applied to adopt the boy. His physical responses were good. He could walk and feed himself. Cognitive skills were poor. He gibbered and made strange almost musical sounds. They taught him to speak as if he were an infant, but his more developed vocal range made learning language much faster. His mother home schooled him and by the time Paul was in what they believed was his late teens, he was ready for high school courses.

Through all that time, Paul’s hands seemed to know magic. His mother was not happy about it and insisted he not use the ‘gibberish’ he had spoken as an adolescent newborn. But in his notebooks, Paul had tricks, diagrams, and eventually notes about the places he had visited when he left home. He had even encoded his gibberish with squiggles in his notebooks. By the time he left college, he was only about five years behind his estimated real age. He celebrated his birthday on the date his father rescued him from the sea and the family simply added ten for convenience sake, though all suspected he was older than that. According to his celebrated birthdays plus ten, he was now 29 years old, but in many ways still felt like a teenager.

16 September 1974, evening at the apartment

“Do you have a performance this evening?” Mark, the cab driver asked when he picked Paul up at the hotel. It was almost like having a private car available for his use. All Paul had to do was call the dispatcher and ask for Mark to pick him up.

“Mmm. Not the way you mean it,” Paul sighed. “I mean, I’m not performing at the club, but I have a date. Sort of. It looks like it will go fine as long as I keep her and her housemates entertained.” He gave the driver the address.

“This is the young woman you met at your show a few days ago, yes?”

“Yes. I thought it was something special when she asked me back for a picnic on Saturday, but Sunday she left a note in my dressing room telling me to bring a deck of cards tonight when I have dinner with her housemates. That usually means to be ready to entertain people.”

“Hmm. Don’t be too certain,” Mark mused. “I saw something in her eyes when she rode with you. Something when you walked her to her door. I don’t think she sees you as an evening’s entertainment.”

“I hope you’re right, Mark. I like her. A lot. I haven’t had a serious relationship in ... a long time, if ever. I guess I’ll just wait and see.”

Paul paid the driver and walked up to Serepte’s door to ring the top bell. It took a minute before he heard feet coming down the steps from above and then the door was cracked open. A short blonde with sharp blue eyes swept up and down his six-foot frame. Paul felt like he was being put under a microscope in just a few minutes.

“Uh ... I’m here to see uh ... Serepte. She invited me.” The blonde nodded, but did not open the door wider.

“Do you know any magic?” she demanded.

Ah. A gatekeeper. Well, Serepte told him her friends were very protective. He started to answer the question and then thought of the deck of cards in his pocket. Now Serepte’s strange request almost made sense. He just wished she had explained the rules of the game she was playing.

Paris pulled the cards from his pocket and bowed to the woman. He showed the front and back of the fanned deck in his hand then arced the cards from his right hand to his left. He cut the deck four times, each time showing an ace of a different suit. He shuffled the cards once and turned over the top four cards to show all four aces together. Placing the remainder of the deck back in his pocket, he tore the four cards in half and half again. The pieces, he pressed firmly into his inquisitor’s hand and closed it around them. He tapped her closed fist with his forefinger and then tapped his own hand opposite hers. He flipped his hand up showing all four aces restored to full cards. At his gesture, she turned her hand over and opened the fist. Her hand was empty.