One Short

Aulie delivers copious amounts of white smoke into the main tent, covering the floor and concealing the pancake risers under a thick squidgy blanket of eerily inviting fluffiness. The main lamps are dampened and then switched off, leaving the low-angled footlights as the only source of illumination inside the portable pavilion. An ornate green throne, decorated with large nuggets of polished amber and coloured glass made to resemble sparkling emeralds, appears from behind one of the many hanging curtains. Two quins, their painted-on merriment hidden under large sable cloaks, adding to the next act’s theatrical value, push the throne’s wheeled base up the small ramp and directly in to the centre on the second of the three pancakes. The audience watches expectantly; eyes riveted to the spectacle placed before them. The performer who sits on this throne is adorned with the attire of the mystic, the seer. The knower-of-things-that-aren’t-usually-known-by-normal-type-people. The man seated before them is… that guy.

Elbows on the armrests and head hung low revealing the back of his neck and the turned-up starched collar of his golden sorcerer’s coat, One Short waits just long enough before dramatically lifting his head (which isn’t easy wearing the massively inflated head-wrap perched on his noodle) and showing his sage-like visage, which is really just a load of metalicised powder slapped all over his face that just happens to look very effective when lit by these low-slung lights.

At this part, One Short always keeps his eyes closed and strains his remaining ear to hear as many gasps from the onlookers as he can with his limited facility for auralogical detection. The most he’s ever actually counted was three, but he tells most of those he speaks to about it that he once had thirty-four gasps in a single performance. Pedra’s usual dismissive, scathing response when she hears this that the number thirty-four may at first sound rather impressive but they all, in fact, came from the sober women One Short accosted well after the show had finished.

A minute or two of gasp counting (zero) and One Short opens his eyes, his signal to Sonny to carry on with the act. Sonny, the ringmaster, walks into an expanding spotlight, sending Aulie’s smoke spiralling behind him as he moves through it, with arms outstretched and a welcoming smile spread widely across his face. He makes a point to look at all areas of the seated customers to stress that his show, Carnavelle, is for each and individually, put on just for them.

Sonny has always been unsure of One Short and his ‘mystic’ routine, act number twelve on the running order of tonight’s performance. One Short himself had admitted to Sonny years ago that he, and I quote, ‘wasn’t able to read everyone’s mind, just some of them’. And Sonny has never seen One Short actually click with a mind he was able to read. There was that guy that took his ear off with the knife, which is how One Short got his name, but that was different. Anyone, as far as Sonny was concerned, could see that that one was a smek. Took no special talent, reading that one.

But the show has been running for years now and this is the first time the troupe has been allowed to perform in Grave Cotland. It has the potential to be an incredible earner, there’s a lot of money in this town. So, before addressing his audience, Sonny makes a silent, heartfelt wish that one of those readable minds One Short was on about is in tonight.

‘Through the ages,’ Sonny begins his monologue, ‘many have seen and many have heard, the sages have known the unknowable.’ His arms moving about in tried-and-true stage fashion, he waves his hands in front of him like he’s polishing a large pane of glass. ‘But One Short the Greatest…’ Sonny snaps to attention and points his extended fingers in the powdered man’s direction, ‘…knows more… and sees more… than… them… all.’

No one applauds at this introduction, but this is Grave Cotland, remember. Tough crowd. Not easily impressed.

‘Right.’ Sonny reverts to his usual showman’s demeanour. ‘What we need now is a volunteer.’

He places one hand on his hip and another evaluatingly to his chin.

‘Anyone?’ He ventures, scanning the crowd.

A single unsure hand raises from the expensive seats and catches his attention. The hand is attached to a young girl, maybe eight.

‘Here we are, our first victim, sorry,’ he corrects his pseudo mistake, ‘our first recruit.’

There were a few chuckles he’d heard at the victim joke so this may not turn out to be as bad as he first thought.

He starts an appreciative clap and the audience joins in. The girl stands nervously and, encouraged by her parents, unsurely steps towards the spotlight.

‘It’s all right, my dear, there’s no need to be afraid. This one won’t hurt you.’ He indicates One Short, patiently waiting on his throne and ready to get on with his part of the show. ‘It’s Peke you’ve got to watch out for.’

A lone quin springs lolloply from the shadows and shoots a small stream of water from an oversized rubber fish towards Sonny as he bounces past, managing to land a small splash on the small girl’s frightened face. She tenses and freezes where she stands. A collective gasp as she remains motionless for a moment. She looks to up to Sonny, a scream poised in her throat, and sees that Peke’s squirting cod nailed Sonny right in the face, leaving his false moustache dangling from his upper lip like a damp slug. She slowly smiles and it grows to a giggle because, as he should, Sonny looks very silly.

‘Oh, that was close.’ Nik says under his breath watching from the wings stood next to, no prizes for guessing, Pedra. Pedra’s the aerial acrobattess who swings on the silks in the opening act.

Sonny places his hand on the little girl’s shoulder and bends his ear close so he can hear when she speaks.

‘What’s your name, my dear?’

‘Denny.’ She says quietly.

‘Let’s hear it for Denny, everyone!’ He shouts to the audience.

They clap and he carries on.

‘What I have here for you, Denny, is a piece of paper and a pencil.’ He pulls these from a hidden pocket in his coat. As he hands them to her, ‘And all I want you to do for our show is to pick a number, and don’t tell me! Pick a number between seven…’ He scans the audience melodramatically, ‘…and nine. Can you do that for me?’

‘Yes.’ Denny says again quietly.

‘I knew you could, I just ask because it builds up the tension.’ He says.

‘I know.’ Denny knowledgeably responds.

‘Excellent. And if you would write your number down on the piece of paper in your hand, our One Short the Magnificent will divine, with his extra-humanly powers, what you have written!’

Sonny stands triumphantly, expectation beaming from his smile. But again, not much of a reaction from those he’s hoping to stir.

This could really go either way he thinks nervously.

Sonny ushers Denny back to her parents in the front row as one of the becloaked quins brings out a wooden box on a tall stand.

‘Show Mummy and Daddy what you’ve written, my dear.’ Sonny says to the girl.

He places a flat hand by his mouth and says discretely to the rest of the onlookers, ‘We try to keep it easy for the little ones.’ A smile and an over-animated wink to the crowd and he positions himself to open the box.

‘Ok, Denny, bring your paper here, crumple it up, don’t let anyone see it! And drop it in here and the magic… shall… begin!’

She does this and returns to her seat between her parents.

Sonny closes the box’s lid and pulls from behind it a set of small chains, sets it over the front of the box and attaches an old padlock to secure it closed. He takes the key and presents it to Denny then returns to the box to wrap up.

‘I have not seen what Denny’s written.’ He starts. ‘One Short has not seen what Denny’s written. In fact, nobody, except Denny and her kin have seen what she has written. We, Denny and I, through the course of our chatting, have not been within ten feet of the throne on which sits our sage of the ages, One Short the Fantastical, and as an added measure, he currently has his good eye tied behind his back.’ Wink. ‘Bearing all of this in mind, he will now, though his gift of being able to see easily… the unseen, recite what has been written on Denny’s piece of paper… locked away, secured in this old wooden box.’

A hush descends in the big tent and a drumroll is rolled from somewhere behind the mystic’s throne. One Short closes his eyes again and rubs his fingertips at his temples to indicate the masses of brainwork that’s happening on the inside of his cranium. He’s happy doing this because it’s really good powder he's wearing; it doesn’t rub off, even when he’s sweating.

The roll builds in a crescendo and the drum suddenly stops. The crowd is expectant and One Short returns his elbows to the armrests and opens his eyes, looking directly at Denny.

‘Eight!’ He says unremarkably.

A lingering hesitancy drifts around the tent like a bad smell from an overfed horse.

A murmur begins amongst the patrons. Denny returns One Short’s gaze. Sonny smiles awkwardly and tugs at his shirt collar.

But all this is part of the show.

‘Fake!’ Someone shouts. ‘That’s no magic!’ Someone else. ‘I can’t believe we had to pay for this!’ The comments continue.

One Short shows the palm of his right hand to the nay-sayers, stopping the waggling tongues from their waggling.

He waits a few heartbeats, then continues.

‘Point!’ He says defiantly.

Eyebrows raise all round. Denny hasn’t blinked since the drumroll finished.

‘Six!’ One Short says, a ghost of a smile rising on his lips.

‘Seven!’ He continues.

‘Five!’ He sees Denny grinning back at him.

‘Three!’ Who’s reading whom, he wonders.

‘Zero!’ The mystic punctuates.

‘Nine!’ He concludes.

One Short winks at eight-year-old from his sparkly throne.

And Denny winks back, accompanied with an assured smile.

The silence in the tent is deafening.

‘Mummy? Daddy?’ Sonny asks loud enough for everyone present to hear. ‘Is that what your Denny wrote?’

An incredulous Mummy says, ‘It is exactly what she has written.’

The crowd erupts in a thunderous applause as One Short closes his eyes again and begins to contemplate what to have for lunch.

‘Grave Cotland,’ Sonny thinks as he takes in the adulation, ‘not too bad a place after all.’

The End.