The Magician's Elephant: Chapters 1–2

That day in the market square, in the midst of the entirely unremarkable and absolutely ordinary stalls of the fishmongers and cloth merchants and bakers and silversmiths, there had appeared, without warning or fanfare, the red tent of a fortuneteller.

Attached to the fortuneteller’s tent was a piece of paper, and penned upon the paper in a cramped but unapologetic hand were these words: The most profound and difficult questions that could possibly be posed by the human mind or heart will be answered within for the price of one florit.

Attached to the fortuneteller’s tent was a piece of paper, and penned upon the paper in a cramped but unapologetic hand were these words: The most profound and difficult questions that could possibly be posed by the human mind or heart will be answered within for the price of one florit.

Peter read the small sign once, and then again. The audacity of the words, their dizzying promise, made it difficult, suddenly, for him to breathe.

“But I cannot do it,” he said to himself. “Truly, I cannot, for if I do, Vilna Lutz will ask where the money has gone and I will have to lie, and it is a very dishonorable thing to lie.”

He stepped away from the sign and came back to it and stood considering, again, the outrageous and wonderful words.

He stood in the small patch of light making its sullen way through the open flap of the tent.

“Doubts! Doubts? Explain yourself."
“Sir, I cannot explain myself. I have been trying the whole way here. There is no explanation that will suffice.”

Later that night, when the candle was quenched and the room was in darkness and the old soldier was snoring in his bed, Peter Augustus Duchene lay on his pallet on the floor and looked up at the ceiling and thought.

Later that night, when the candle was quenched and the room was in darkness and the old soldier was snoring in his bed, Peter Augustus Duchene lay on his pallet on the floor and looked up at the ceiling and thought.

And his heart, startled at such treachery, astonished at the voicing aloud of such an unsoldierly sentiment, thumped again, much harder this time.

And his heart, startled at such treachery, astonished at the voicing aloud of such an unsoldierly sentiment, thumped again, much harder this time.

He intended to conjure a bouquet of lilies, but instead, the magician brought forth an elephant.

As for the magician, he was immediately, at the behest of Madam LaVaughn, imprisoned.

There was, all about her, a great hubbub and roar. The elephant ignored it. She wanted nothing more than for the world to hold itself still.

The old soldier had talked at great length and in excruciating detail about what Peter must purchase with the coin.

“Actually, see if you cannot locate bread with mold growing on it,” said Vilna Lutz. “Old bread is a most excellent preparation for being a soldier. Soldiers must become accustomed to rock-hard bread that is difficult to chew. It makes for strong teeth. And strong teeth make for a strong heart and therefore a brave soldier. Yes, yes, I believe it to be true. I know it to be true.”

"...To say the lies of fortunetellers' is a redundancy. What comes from the mouths of fortunetellers is by definition a lie, and you, Private Duchene, you must, you must, find the smallest possible fish.”

“In any case,” he continued, “they was all sitting there, the nobility, the ladies and the princes and the princesses, all together in the opera house, expecting nothing much. And what did they get?”

There was no predicting what Vilna Lutz would say or do when he was in the grips of one of his terrible recurring fevers.

The sky was almost always thick with clouds, but sometimes, if the magician stared long enough, the clouds would grudgingly part and reveal one exceedingly bright star.

“I intended only lilies,” the magician said to the star. “That was my intention: a bouquet of lilies.”

But standing on the stage of the Bliffendorf Opera House, before an audience that was indifferent to whatever small diversion he might perform and was waiting only for him to exit and for the real magic (the music of a virtuoso violinist) to begin, the magician was struck suddenly, and quite forcibly, with the notion that he had wasted his life.

But standing on the stage of the Bliffendorf Opera House, before an audience that was indifferent to whatever small diversion he might perform and was waiting only for him to exit and for the real magic (the music of a virtuoso violinist) to begin, the magician was struck suddenly, and quite forcibly, with the notion that he had wasted his life.

So he performed that night the sleight of hand that would result in lilies, but at the same time, he muttered the words of a spell that his magic teacher had entrusted to him long ago.

He reached out and placed a hand, one hand, on her chest and felt, for a moment, the solemn beating of her heart.

And when he was commanded, later that night, by every authority imaginable (the mayor, a duke, a princess, the captain of police) to send the elephant back, to make her go away, to, in essence, disappear her, the magician had dutifully spoken the spell, as well as the words themselves, backward, as the magic required, but nothing happened.

The elephant remained absolutely, emphatically, undeniably there, her very presence serving as some indisputable evidence of his powers.

The elephant remained absolutely, emphatically, undeniably there, her very presence serving as some indisputable evidence of his powers.

And so, no matter what words he may have spoken to the star that occasionally appeared above him, the magician could summon no true regret for what he had done.