The Man Who Was Magic
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Authors: Paul Gallico
THE MAN
WHO WAS MAGIC
An enchanting journey to the fabulous hidden city of Mageia, wherein dwell the master magicians of the world, and a behind-the-scenes glimpse into the mystery called magic.
If you look for Mageia on the map, it is located somewhere to the east of west, just to the north of south and only a mile or so over the impassable boundary of Time.
This is the hidden city, home of the masters of misdirection, lightning practitioners of the-hand-is-quicker-than-the-eye, entertainers of young and old. There is no routine of bewilderment they do not know.
Innocence and belief had long since fled from Mageia and even the children had access to the secret books of tricks and knew there was no such thing as real magic.
One of these was Jane, daughter of The Great Robert, Chief Magician, Mayor of Mageia and Grand Master of the Inner Circle. She was eleven and knew how to produce paper flowers from an empty tube or confetti from a silken handkerchief, but not what made a tree grow or made the stars come out.
One day from beyond the dark, impenetrable Mountains of Straen, there appeared a young wandering magician and his talking dog, Mopsy, to knock for admission at the bronze gates of the city.
No one was aware of it, not even himself, but his presence constituted a danger to many within the walls. For it seemed that his magic might be different from theirs.
This is the story of how innocence came to Mageia, faith was restored to a child, and what happened when the city and its inhabitants met T
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BOOKS BY PAUL GALLICO
Farewell to Sport
Adventures of Hiram Holliday
The Secret Front
The Snow Goose
Lou Gehrig—Pride of the Yankees
Golf Is a Nice Friendly Game
Confessions of a Story Writer
The Lonely
The Abandoned
Trial by Terror
The Small Miracle
The Foolish Immortals
Snowflake
Love of Seven Dolls
Thomasina
The Steadfast Man
Mrs. ’Arris Goes to Paris
Ludmila
Too Many Ghosts
Mrs. ’Arris Goes to New York
The Hurricane Story
Further Confessions of a Story Writer
Scruffy
Coronation
Love, Let Me Not Hunger
The Hand of Mary Constable
The Day the Guinea Pig Talked
The Day Jean-Pierre Was Pignapped
Mrs. ’Arris Goes to Parliament
The Golden People
The Day Jean-Pierre Went ’Round the World
Three Legends
The Silent Miaow
The Man Who Was Magic
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 66-18064
Copyright © 1966 by Paul Gallico
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
Jacket painting by Bunty Miller
To the child Virginia was
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
: THE COMING OF THE STRANGER
CHAPTER II
: THE CITY OF THE MAGICIANS
CHAPTER IV
: ADAM FINDS AN ASSISTANT
CHAPTER V
: FUSSMER THE FABULOUS
CHAPTER VI
: NINIAN THE NONPAREIL
CHAPTER VIII
: PLAIN AND SIMPLE MAGIC
CHAPTER IX
: HUMPTY TOGETHER AGAIN
CHAPTER X
: FEAR COMES TO MAGEIA
CHAPTER XI
: MOPSY BREAKS UP A DINNER PARTY
CHAPTER XII
: THE PECULIAR PICNIC
CHAPTER XIV
: THE GATHERING STORM
CHAPTER XVIII
: ONE FOR THE SHOW
CHAPTER XIX
: TWO FOR THE MONEY
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ADAM
An unknown magician from Glimour
MOPSY
his Talking Dog
THE GREAT ROBERT
Mayor of Mageia, Chief Magician and Head of the Guild of Master Magicians
Mrs. Robert
his wife
JANE
his daughter
PETER
his son
FUSSMER THE FABULOUS
The Town Clerk
NINIAN THE NONPAREIL
An inept magician
MALVOLIO THE MIGHTY
An evil Magician
Magicians of Mageia
Wang Fu
Rajah Punjab
Abdul Hamid
Dante the Dazzling
Frascati the Fantastic
Zerbo the Matchless
Professor Alexander
Mephisto the Mysterious
Boldini the Brilliant
Saladin the Stupendous
The Gatekeeper
Citizens of Mageia, Candidate Magicians, the Stage Manager, the Orchestra Leader, the Museum Janitor, Stagehands, Electricians, Sceneshifters.
THE MAN WHO WAS MAGIC
A Fable of Innocence
I
T
HE
C
OMING OF THE
S
TRANGER
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he stranger, dusty and travel-stained, accompanied by the small mop of a dog at his heels, emerged from the cool darkness of the woods where they had spent the night and paused for a moment in wonder at the first sight of their goal, Mageia, the magical city.
Perched upon a crag, seen from the valley below with its stone wall and towers, battlements, spires and turrets rising above, shining in the early morning sunlight, it gave the impression of an island floating in the sky. Before proceeding up the winding pathway that climbed to the foot of the great, bronze gates, the stranger wondered whether perhaps it was no more than the grandest illusion created by the world’s illusionists who lived there.
“Look, Mopsy,” he said, addressing his dog, “there it is! Do you suppose it’s real?”
“Well,” the dog replied, “as long as we’ve come this far, why don’t we go the rest of the way and find out?” He was one of those small, close-to-the-ground, shaggy affairs, so hairy in fact, that it was difficult to locate the dog part of him. When one looked one felt that somewhere beneath the cascade of fringe there was the suspicion of a pair of bright eyes and a black button nose and sometimes the hint of a pink tongue. But one certainly could not be sure where his body ended and his legs began, or how much of his tail was tail and how much was him.
The dog, however, was no ordinary one, for he was able to talk. Or, at least, so the aspiring, young magician who was his master claimed and up to that time no one had ever taken the trouble to prove that he couldn’t.
“That makes sense,” said the stranger. “Come on, then, up we go.”
He was a personable fellow, lean and clean of limb, narrow-waisted and wide-shouldered, the very picture of a brave, youthful adventurer. He had short-cropped, curly, copper-red hair and strange, light-greenish eyes that almost disappeared in the crinkles at their corners when he smiled. His nose was rather long and humorous, and went with a wide, friendly mouth. It was the kind of face which if one were a nice person, one liked immediately and if one wasn’t, one didn’t and felt rather irritated by its gaiety.
But what was most odd about him was that he was clad in the garb of forgotten times; hose of soft doeskin with a shirt and jerkin of the same material. A cap with a pheasant’s tail feather was perched jauntily on the side of his head. His worldly belongings were crammed into a large knapsack hung onto his back and he had cut himself a thick staff of oak to help him on his way. Into its polished top, he had carved his name—“ADAM.”
Thus they came to the foot of the magical city of Mageia. The smooth bronze gates, twelve feet high, showed not a sign of a handle or a knocker, but over to one side was a round push button with the word “Porter” above it. Adam pressed it.
He heard a sliding sound from above and, looking up, saw that a window had opened far up in the door. Peering out was a venerable, old gentleman with a long, white beard that fell at least a foot below the sill. He was wearing a rather battered silk hat, and Adam could see he was clad in evening dress as well.
In a voice that was as dry as the rustle of autumn leaves, he asked, “Who are you? Where do you come from? And what do you want?”
The traveler doffed his cap politely and replied, “My name is Adam. I have come from Glimour, behind the Mountains of Straen. I should like to apply for admission to the Guild of Master Magicians. I was told that this was where I must come.”
“Ah, yes,” said the old man. “Elimination trials going on this morning in the Town Hall; finals tomorrow night in the Municipal Auditorium.” He leaned farther out to get a better view of the stranger and said, “Are you one of us? Only magicians allowed in here.”
“Well yes, in a way. But I hope to be a famous one someday, like those I’ve heard about from Mageia.”
“What do you mean, in a way? Are you a magician, or aren’t you? Can you do tricks?”
“A few.”
“What kind?”
“Only the very simplest, sir,” Adam replied. “Just magic, the ordinary sort. That’s why I’ve come here to try to learn more.”
The old man said, “Hmmm. I’ve never seen a magician dressed like you before.”
Mopsy sat down and cocked his head up in the direction of the speaker and said, “Oh, you haven’t? That seems to me a very personal remark. What’s wrong with his clothes?”
“Hush, Mopsy!” said Adam. “We must be polite.”
“What was that you said?” asked the old man.
“I was only speaking to my dog. I’m sorry about the clothes, but they’re the only ones I have. I suppose I might be able to procure others inside?”
“Oh yes, you’d have to,” answered the man. “Uniform requirements: white tie, top hat and tails, like mine unless you’re one of those Oriental chaps.” He was a retired magician whose fingers were now too stiff to allow him to perform and so he had been given the job of gatekeeper. Then he added, “Did you say you came from over the Mountains of Straen? That’s nonsense! No one has ever crossed them. It can’t be done.”