Last Flight of the Magnificent Pratt

When Walter Pratt saw the red envelope in his mailbox, he knew he had finally won. After forty miserable years, he had struck a fatal blow against the New East Carborough Society of Magicians, Illusionists, and Practitioners.

His first clue was when their lawyers stopped calling. Well, he disconnected his phone, but that was beside the point. His second clue was when Harold came by with a “final warning”. Harold, in his five-figure suit and dollar store smile.

“Please, Wally, reconsider. Whatever your beef with the Society is, there’s a proper procedure to address your grievance. One that won’t end your career and bury you.” He adjusted his tie. “In litigation.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Walter said, and then he shut the door on his one-time friend. Besides, at sixty-three years old, what career did he have to risk?

And now, the letter. They were throwing in the towel. They had to be.

The envelope was thick, a sanguine red. Irresistibly smooth against his skin, made of something like velvet. No stamp, hand delivered, his name embossed with gold thread: Walter Pratt, Apprentice.

It was a surrender. He grinned, did a giddy circle, and took it into his kitchen. There he set it on the counter, and watched it for a quarter hour. It was a surrender, wasn’t it? The Society made it unambiguously clear they didn’t want him publishing his book, and three days ago he pulled the trigger anyway.

True Real Magic! The Tricks Magicians Don’t Want You To Know: Card Tricks, Sleight of Hand, Props, Levitation, Sawing People In Half, Disappearing Things, And Others. The title alone took up three-fourths of the cover, and Walter stuck to it despite his publisher’s protests. It was projected to be “a pretty good seller in the young teens’ demographic.”

What if it wasn’t surrender? What if the Society was retaliating?

Walter inched his ear towards the envelope, but he didn’t hear any ticking. Still, better safe than sorry. He called the neighbours to have them send their son Billy over, “To help around the house.” The kid was rubbish at lawn care, but maybe he’d redeem himself as a minesweeper.

“You want me to open your mail?”

“Yes, and read it to me.” Walter adopted his sad-old-man face. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“Eyes are just fine,” Billy drew out, “for pointing out every blade of grass that ain’t mowed to ’xactly 1.5 inches.”

“Whatever! What do you care? There’s a fiver in it for you.”

“Ten.”

“Ha!”

“Or I walk. The Gelmers’ need weeding done, and I ain’t no charity.”

Walter grumbled and handed over a ten. I hope there is a bomb.

There wasn’t. Nor was there a puff of ominous white powder when Billy opened the envelope, nor even glitter.

“Dear blah-blah,” Billy skimmed. “Let’s see. Says here you’re invited to collect a lifetime achievement award, big party, keynote–”

Walter snatched the letter. “Give me that!” Oh, the paper wasn’t paper at all, it was milk-smooth vellum. Where did the Society get the money for this? Not like they ever had a budget to advertise his gigs. But Billy was right.

“Dearest Walter. For your contributions, the Society would like to bestow upon you a Lifetime Achievement Award.” There was a gala tonight, all his peers would be there. The letter went on.

Not at all the response he expected.

“What I don’t get,” said Billy, “is what achievement? I mean, what do you do all day? Ain’t you some kind of kids’ birthday clown?”

“I am a magician! It’s fun for all ages! Get the hell out of my house.”

The thought that this was a trap occurred to him. It would be just like the Society to lure him somewhere with no witnesses and permanently disappear him. But they did roll out the vellum, and Walter realized he believed what he said. He was a magician, and a damn fine one – and it was high time the Society recognized it.

But he’d be smart about it. Besides, it was a gala, it wouldn’t do to go alone. He called his one-time girlfriend Linh. One-time wife, almost, except she wanted kids and he hated Billy.

“It’s so good to hear from you, Wally!” She’d long ago conquered English, though never quite got rid of the accent. “You deserve some recognition. But I can’t go with you, sorry. I’m a grandma now! Yay! I have recitals to see.”

“Sure Linh. I get it.”

“Wally. Listen. This is a happy day. You’re getting what you always wanted, and what you deserve. Don’t hold on to old grudges.”

“Sure, Linh.”

“I mean it. You’re sixty-three years old. Start being happy.”

“Thanks, Linh.”

Walter ended up hiring an escort named Theresa.

The venue was the Joan Highland Centennial Hall at the Shaftesbury Convention Centre. Harold met them outside when their taxi pulled up, his arms wide.

“Wally! So glad you could make it!” Harold wore his ceremonial Master of the Society robes – a gaudy thing of cascading red and gold silks – because Harold had never been ignored by the Society bigwigs.

“Yes, well.” Walter extricated himself from Harold’s hug. “Frankly I’m a little surprised. What with all the threats, legal and otherwise.”

Harold threw his head back with laughter. “Oh dear, yes! Oh dear, oh dear!” Theresa joined in laughing. “My goodness, but you sure got us good. We fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.”

“Fell?” Walter snatched Theresa’s hand, which had started massaging Harold’s be-silked bicep. “Who fell? Fell for what?”

“C’mon, Wally. We’ll catch up later. They’re waiting for you inside.” Harold led him into the cavernous convention room. Hundreds of white-clothed tables dotted the mauve carpet, each of them holding a half-dozen tall candles. Upon each were also decks of cards, metal hoops, handkerchiefs – an appetizer of legerdemain.

Every table he passed, people smiled at him and waved. Seemed like everyone in the Society was here. And for some skin crawling reason, they brought their pets, too. Cats lay on the tables and dogs lay underneath. Owls sat perched on shoulders and snakes draped around necks. And when Walter saw the first of many rats, his stomach churned.

But the people were waving books at him too. His books. It took him a moment to recognize his own face grinning back at him, from the bottom one-fourth of the cover. He was everywhere. Every single guest had their own copy of his exposé on the world of magicians.

The thought of all the sales made his skin tingle – and then it shrivelled by the nagging why. These people had spent months screaming at him to keep their secrets. This had to be a trick.

Walter’s table was right near the stage, and instead of a chair they had given him an ornate throne. Theresa and Harold sat on either side of him, and when he took his seat he was startled by the whole room clapping and hooting.

“They love you!” Harold said, grinning.

“But why!?”

He didn’t have time to think about it. There was a red flash on the stage and a fwoosh of sparkling blue smoke, and when it cleared an ancient man stood at the podium. His billowing blue and gold robe identified him as the Grand Master of the Society, though that time-ravaged face and those milky pink eyes could only belong to one man: Nasir al-Tajir.

The flash, dead simple pyrotechnics. The smoke, a mechanism in the stage – though the blue sparkles were a nice touch. The appearance, the oldest trick in the book. Nasir had just been crouching behind the podium. Well, admittedly impressive for a man pushing a hundred. Actually, that was the real magic. Far as Walter could tell, Nasir hadn’t changed in appearance at all over the past forty years.

Nasir raised a hand with a finger extended, and a small bird landed upon it. Everyone said it was a cuckoo, but how would Walter know? They all lied to him anyway. But the fact was Nasir always had his bird nearby. How long did cuckoos live? Maybe he swapped them out.

“My noble witches and warlocks,” said Nasir, his voice two tombstones grating against each other. “We are gathered tonight to recognize the contributions of a remarkable member of this most honourable Society.” The crowd cheered. “Through undeterred force of will and courage, he manufactured a crisis that united us in a way we haven’t been united since John Dee.”

Walter had no idea who that was, but he recalled a Society bake sale a few years back, where someone had brought store-bought cookies. Maybe it was that guy. Either way, the crowd muttered somber approval.

“And then, having brought us to unity, he showed us the dangers of single-mindedness! We, who are the Ever Vigilant, so easily allowed our attention to drift. We fell for the simplest of ruses.” Muttered approval from the audience. “Yes, Sisters and Brothers, he demonstrated that we are not infallible. Our hubris, too high. If we are to be the Ever Vigilant, we must be: ever vigilant!”

The crowd cheered uproariously. Walter propped his head up with his arm and sighed. Leadership just loved waffling on about such rubbish instead of focusing on useful things, like finding a new cape supplier since Winston’s shut down.

“And now, without further ado, I call upon the man of the hour to join me on stage. Walter Pratt, if you will!”

Everyone stood, thundering applause as he mounted the steps. More when he shook Nasir’s ghoul hand. Standing in front of a crowd was Walter’s bread and butter, and yet he felt an inexplicable chill as Nasir rambled on about lifetime achievement.

Lifetime achievement. It really did come at the end of your life, didn’t it? And what exactly was his achievement? That he spilled the beans about magic tricks? That he spent forty years pulling things out of people’s ears?

God, Billy is right, the little shit. Worse, birthday clowns had been eating his lunch for years. Those guys didn’t kid around.

“What a wonderful little book!” said Nasir, holding up a copy for the cheering audience. “Look at all these amusing little tricks, these quaint little deceptions. Pick a card! It’s all quite creative for the mundane.”

“Fuc–” began Walter, but the roar of the audience drowned his objection. It took trembling effort not to strike the old man. Walter knew his tricks were as good as anyone else’s. Better even! Certainly better than those of a brittle centenarian who had never, in living memory, actually performed.

“I would ask you for an autograph,” Nasir said, “but we all know how dangerous it is to give your name away to our Dread Patrons!” The audience lost it. Someone fell off their chair, they were laughing so hard.

Walter was bemused. Certainly, he’d had his share of bad clients, like that damned Jacob Martin who dragged out paying his fee for nearly fourteen months, but he failed to see what was funny about it.

Unless, of course, the audience was laughing at him.

“I’ve a question for you, Pratt.”

Walter must have zoned out, because Nasir was now holding a golden statuette of an onion of all things.

“One we’re all wondering. What inspired you to write such a thing? I mean, as a smokescreen it’s brilliant. Hiding in plain sight.”

Oh, no, it wasn’t an onion. It was one of those pots that witches had at Halloween. Still a weird thing to have, given it was April.

“It’s absolutely a perfect distraction for the, erm, muggles, as it were. But the question remains: where did you get such an idea? These tricks are the heart of banality itself. Amusing, certainly, but it’s all handwork. Smoke and mirrors. One does not even begin to tread a ley line, nor channel the first smidgeon of mana.”

Oh, Christ! The little plaque on the statuette had his name on it. Was this his lifetime achievement award? Is that all he was worth to these people? A frigging Halloween onion!?

“So, tell us. Wherever did you even get the idea for these parlour tricks?”

Walter glared at Nasir. Glared at those cloudy eyes, cold as a distant star.

“You want tricks? How about I show you a trick. A real disappearing trick.”

“Oh?” Nasir looked out at the crowd, and they roiled with excitement. “Sure, sure! That would be splendid.”

Walter grabbed the mic from the podium and opened his mouth. But before he could give them a piece of his mind, he fumbled it and it fell on the floor. The speakers around the room whumped and feedback screamed.

Close enough. Walter marched off the stage, the silent room watching him.

When he got home, he packed his magician’s things into a trunk, slammed the lid, and shouted into the empty house, “I am retired!” He sat at his computer looking up what retired people do, and fishing caught his eye. With any luck, the sales from his book would let him get a boat.

Linh was right, it was time to start living.

“Hey, Wally,” said Harold.

Walter shrieked and nearly tossed his laptop onto the floor.

“Sorry for startling you. Hey, listen! Everyone absolutely loved your disappearing trick!”

Walter sputtered, and finally managed a “What!?”

“They loved it.”

“But why!? I just stormed off! I basically told them to kiss my ass! I mean, I thought it anyway. And it was in my body language.”

“Well, you had us going again. Here we thought you were just going backstage to get some components, and considering how long it was taking, we were expecting a real big ritual. Like, the kind of channeling–”

“–channeling?–”

“–yeah, like historically big, like the time Marcus Aurelius made Earth’s other moon vanish, or when Merlin–”

“–wait, what!?–”

“–right back into the stone. That kind of thing. But no, you got us again. You just walked off. Total misdirection. I gotta tell you, Nasir was ecstatic. This whole ‘mundane magic’ thing is really taking off.”

Walter huffed. “I am way too sober for this. Listen, I’m glad you guys had fun or whatever, but I’m out.”

“Out?”

“Done. Finished. Finito. Officially: retired.”

“Oh, I see,” said Harold. He withdrew the lifetime achievement statuette from one of his sleeves and put it in Walter’s hands. “I hear you. We all need a break, and surely you deserve one. But listen–”

“–nope, don’t care.”

“Okay, but if you ever did, your whole little mundane tricks thing really caused a stir. Lots of interest. If you ever wanted to do consulting, you’d have a lot of customers lining up.”

“I said I don’t… consulting, you say?”

“Oh yes. Even Nasir’s trying his hands at the card stuff. Lots of customers. Big money.”

“Oh. Well… maybe I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask, buddy.” Harold checked his watch. “Well, I suppose it’s time I was off. Let you catch some sleep.”

“Right, thanks. Oh wait! How the hell did you get into my house?”

Harold chuckled. “Good one! Teleporting of course.”

“Telewhating?”

“Cheers,” said Harold. Then he clapped his hands, once, and vanished in a flash of green light.

Walter dropped his Halloween onion.