The Magnificent Man

I started writing this a while back. I'm probably going to add to it, but for now it's a good stopping point. Let me know what you think.

“The stage is set. The curtain rises. The story has ended.”

“What,” I said bewildered, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

That magnificent man spun around to face me. “Precisely,” he said pointing the top of his cane towards me, “It doesn’t make any sense, to you.” He spun his cane around and pointed to himself, “But it does to me.” He turned around, his cape billowed out behind him as he strode to his bookshelf. His hand flourished as he explained, “The stage is set, that’s obvious. The curtain rises, so the audience can see the stage. But the story has ended, yes, it's possible. Now, I’ll add another detail. The actors take their bow.”

It hit me, “Curtain call!”

Without turning, the man pointed the jewel on his cane at me. “Precisely," he said, "it’s time for the actors to take their final bow, and hear the applause. It’s time for the orchestra to receive their own applause and recognition. It’s time for the conductor to take his bow. Time for the extras to hear cheering just for them. For the leads to find out if they have done their job well. And it’s time to for the director to pat himself on the back for a job well done. All that applause for all those people."

“Sir, is there a point to this?” I asked.

“Of course not! I just like to hear myself talk, and to seem clever,” he said spinning around again, “Do you think I’m clever?”

I blinked at him and opened my mouth to answer. He beat me to it.

“Of course you do! I’m the cleverest thing out there, and I’m not just saying that just to say that. I’ve met some clever people and every time I have out clevered them.” He winked at me and spun his cane in the air for added flourish.

“Sir, is clevered even a word?” I asked.

“Dunno, if it isn’t, well it is now!” He turned around and pranced off towards a row of shelves that lead deep into the magnificent library that went with that magnificent man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had killed many people. He had corrupted many souls. He created so many demons. His past became his past so long ago, that he himself didn’t quite remember everything he did, or everything he was, at least that’s what he told me. I used to wake up in the middle of the night and find him in his conjuring room, working on some complicated ancient spell that we both knew he would never get to work. I always figured that those nights were the nights he remembered. That man, that magnificent man. What demons did he create? I always wondered. What souls has he corrupted? I don’t dare ask him my questions. One time I brought it up, he got a look in his eye that I had never seen before and told me, “You don’t want to know, not really.” That look. It was so unlike him. For a brief moment, I saw past his magnificence and saw his soul, haunted and fighting its own demons. I never asked him about demons or souls again. I still wonder about them though. I remember the day I met him. It was the day my parents died and my older sister left me. I was only eight then. Eight years ago, I met him. That magnificent man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We lived in a small town that had a small school and a small library that doubled as a book shop. It had a small market and a small square and a few small shops along Main Street. It was small, but the people were nice. It was one of those towns were everyone knows everyone and word travels fast. My family lived in a small house just outside of town. My sister, Violet, was fifteen at the time and fancied herself the smartest and prettiest girl in town. My family owned the library that doubled as a book shop. Mom worked as the librarian. She tended to help kids with their English papers and any research they had. Father took care of the business side of things. He kept track of what books had just come out and which books might sell the best. It was a nice place on the corner of Main Street and West Nightingale. It was right next to Mrs. Pasley’s Café. People would buy their coffee, pick up a book and sit at one of the tables out front. We had a deal with Mrs. Pasley, who was actually a Ms. Pasley, but thought Mrs. sounded better. If one of her customers showed us their receipt from her café, they would get a discount, or extended loan, on a book. If one of our customers showed her their receipt from us, they would get a discount on a medium coffee, or tea, and a free cookie. The promotion would run once every two or three months for two weeks. “Too keep the novelty of it,” my father would say. Each time both establishments would get nice revenue boost. Life was good. But that day, my old life ended.

I was at school when it happened. A man came in to our library-book shop. Why he did what he did, no one knows. He shot himself after he shot my parents. Father was in the back, taking inventory of the new shipment of books; Mom was at the front desk, reading. He came in when the place was empty. Mom was shot first; point blank and straight through her head. Father was next; same way, point blank, and straight through. My sister was the one who found them. She had just come in to start her shift. She saw Mom, dead, her blood dripping from the back of the chair. Her book was on the floor, stained red from the blood on the ground. Violet ran into the back room to find Father, but tripped over his body and the gunman's. She ran outside, covered in blood, and finally screamed. 

Mrs. Pasley came and got me out of school. She kept me at the café while the police examined the bodies and the scene. My sister got questioned about what she found. It was almost dinner time when they let us go. Violet was silent as we walked home. She stopped at the end of our drive way and told me that she couldn’t handle going back to our house or the shop. A car pulled up and a guy that I hadn’t seen before got out. She handed him her bag and gave him a long kiss. Then she said good bye before getting in the car with him and driving off towards who knows where. That was the last time I saw her. I went up to the house and packed a suitcase with some clothes and my favorite books. I grabbed the money from my piggy bank and some food. I still don’t know why I left that house, but I did. I walked back down the driveway and looked at the road. If I went straight, I would be going back into town. If I went right, I would be following my sister. I didn’t know which way left went, but I went there anyway. I walked a while, passing a few more houses before seeing the “Thank you for visiting” sign. I ate the food I brought and walked some more. Night had fallen and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep going or rest for the night. That’s when I met him.

“Are you lost?” he asked. He was wearing a long gold coat and had a silk hat to match. In his hand was a staff, or cane of sorts that had a blue gem on the top. His eyes were a dazzling emerald and his hair was dark blond with highlights. He was a little bit taller than my father. I blinked back at him, my mind still processing the man and what he was asking. He chuckled and asked again, “Are you lost?”

“Well, I’m not dead, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said. That's when everything caught up to me, “My parents are lost though and I won’t ever get them back. They lost to a man with a gun. My sister is lost as well, ran off with some guy I’ve never seen. I suppose I’m lost as well, I don’t know where I am or where I’m going.”

He looked stunned to hear such words come from an eight year old’s mouth. Then he got a look, a look I would come to know as the “I might be mad, but I have an idea” look. He crouched down to my level and looked me straight in the eye. “You seem to have a decent head on your shoulders. Tell me, are you bright, quick-witted, or maybe even brilliant?”

I looked at him quizzically and said, “My teacher would always write on my essays, ‘very well written’ and ‘why are you the only one who actually got the point of this.”

His eyes lit up and he smiled. “Come live with me,” he said, “I know I’m just this strange man you’ve just met on the side of the road, but come live with me. Trust me, please.” He stood up and held his hand out to me.

I looked at his hand and up at him then back at his hand. I wondered if it was a trick, if he was just going to dump me somewhere else if I went with him. I looked back at him and something told me that if I went with him, my life would change. I decided that he was better than wandering aimlessly. I took his hand and said, “Okay. I’ll go with you.”