Malki the Magnificent

Malki the Magnificent
Malcolm Prendegast, aka Malki the Magnificent, wandered head down in a shuffling gait towards his dressing room, his mind adrift with childhood images of his father “encouraging” people to sing like Frank Sinatra or howl like a wolf at the bright stage lights. Nothing like that had happened this evening; Malki’s show had been an unmitigated disaster, as he failed to render any of the audience into a trance. Making matters worse, the snotty nosed teenagers had booed and jeered him throughout the whole session. His father would be ashamed.
Roughly bumping open the dressing room door he stomped lethargically to his chair, the echo of his trademark patter “look into my eyes, look into my eyes” still ringing impotently in his ears. His makeup had run, completing his embarrassment; his core temperature had risen with each failed recitation, the bright red flush of his face running with black eyeliner. Makeup that was supposed to give him a mysterious look now made him appear clownish. Apt, you could say, given his comical performance.
By normal standards, he didn’t have the capability to be a member of the Institute of Conjurers and Entertainers or ICE as it was commonly known, but his father – Marvin the Magnificent’s thirty year tenure had guaranteed his only sons’ entrance and apprenticeship.
A small affair, the dressing room afforded two chairs and a long mirror rimmed with thirty two light bulbs. He noted that only nineteen of these had the capability to cast any light. A hat stand adorned the end wall, devoid of traditional headwear, instead swathed in an assortment of wigs, boa’s and sequin dresses held over from last night’s performance of Charleston Nights.
Tucked into a corner of the mirror protruded an oblong envelope. Hand written in a cursive script were the words Malki the Magnificent. Leaning forward he tentatively grasped the document, turned it over, and with a podgy finger tore it open, extracting a single sheet of paper.
Malcolm, the Crystal Ball of Miracles has been taken by the League. You are the only person available to retrieve it. Please use all efforts to get our icon back. Remember, only a true believer will triumph!
It was signed simply - His Eminence.
Malki leaned back in his chair, a mixture of shock, horror and despair on his face. The crystal ball. Stolen! How could this be? The League was a reference to the League of Debunkers, a small group of idealists who believed that magic and special talents didn’t exist and who wanted to see ICE disbanded. They knew how important the crystal ball was to the Institute and how losing it would have long standing repercussions on mystic talents.
But what can I do? I am only a novice. I can’t possibly help? Wiping black streaks from his face, Malcolm realised, that, with every other member away at the annual Conjurers and Entertainers conference in Brighton, he really was the only hope for the Institute.
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Face pressed against the frigid glass, Malcolm peered intently into the darkness, the moonlight’s reflection and the condensation from his breathing, making it difficult to gauge whether the interior was empty or not. The building, a converted grain store, was a two storey rough-cut stone affair, featuring tiny windows, thick stone sills and sash frames. Like most old villages, the grain store was situated just on the villages’ outskirts at the end of the main street.
Malcolm had made his way directly from the theatre, believing the Leagues’ headquarters the logical place to start his search. Not bothering to change his black robes had flowed behind him casting bat-like shadows on the cobbles as he moved awkwardly from lamp to lamp, a newly set look of determination across his face.
Locating a partially open window he clambered through. Catching his foot on the sill, he lost his grip, fell and landed unceremoniously on the floor, the familiar flush of heat crawling up his face as quickly as his new found resolve began to fade. Using moonlight as a guide, and with the soft swish of his cape sounding like a carpenters rasp as it rubbed against his trousers, he crept from room to room searching for the crystal ball. Despite the lack of illumination he avoided turning on any lights, save anybody saw him from outside.
Ascending to the second floor he paused momentarily to listen. What was that? His ears moved in sync with his head, twin satellite receivers picking up a slight shuffling noise from behind him. Apprehensively, he swivelled his large frame. Immediately the wind was driven from his chest. What felt like a cannonball, whacked into his stomach, instantly followed by a chop to the neck. Years of largess caught up with him. Overweight, unfit, winded and now off balance, he could merely raise his hands to his head. A final blow stunned him and he collapsed to the floor.
Rough hands grasped him and rolled him onto his back.
A whiny voice shot out of the dark, “Wot do we do wif ‘im now den?”
“We’ll tie him up, leave him in the cupboard and deal with him later. Get moving, the ceremony starts soon” a voice ordered. Shaking off his grogginess, Malcolm felt something familiar about the voice of his persecutor.
“OK chief. Can’t wait’ til’ tonite. It’s gonna be a blast.” Two derrick-like arms engulfed him whilst the other man bound his hands and feet.
“Right. Dump him in the cupboard then, and let’s be off” the voice intoned, an image of the speaker instantly materialising in Malcolm’s mind. Involuntarily he shuddered, recognition now dawning on him. The voice grew softer as the two men clomped down the stairs, obviously congratulating each other. As they reached the lower level, Malcolm heard the older man say “if we hurry we can start the ceremony on time at the castle.”
Slumped in the darkness, sucking in the stench of the big man’s sweat and choking on billows of dust thrown up during his ordeal, Malcolm struggled against his ties. Working away at his restraints he considered his predicament.
After ten minutes of painstaking effort, Malcolm managed to free one hand, a further five and he was standing, shaking uncontrollably and weighing up his options. Right he told himself it looks like they plan to destroy the crystal ball at the castle, and soon. But what can I do? I can’t go to the police. They won’t believe me and I can’t call for help with everybody away at the conference.
Indecision caused him to question his ability to continue. Perhaps I should just go home he told himself, fighting a mixture of despair, embarrassment and shame at the ease in which he was prepared to give up.
Fighting an overwhelming tide of despondency, he conjured an image of his father and realised he couldn’t sit idly and let the League destroy the crystal ball. Holding the picture steady, he resolved to continue to the castle on his own.
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The driver kept a wary eye on him even after he climbed out of the taxi. Throughout the ten minute drive, the cabbie continually cast glances at him through his rear view mirror. The guy was clearly uncomfortable, conveying a man dressed as black as night, sporting a bruise face, torn shirt, wearing a cape that looked like it had been dragged across a cement factory floor.
Making his way through the castle grounds he found the ceremony underway. Six people, dressed in robes and bare headed, were chanting. The crystal ball was in their centre, resting on a pedestal; a large mallet stood propped against the stone plinth.
From his hiding place Malcolm considered his options. A hypnotist of any quality would simply jump out and begin chanting their mantra, immediately rendering the group into a trance. Unfortunately, thought Malcolm, I can’t even render a willing audience into a trance, let alone a group of cynics.
Several ideas ran through his mind, but he immediately dismissed each. He kept returning to the obvious choice. Simply run through the group, grab the crystal ball and set off. He had no doubt, that given his physical stature, he would be caught. But what else, can I do? Downhearted, he knelt on the damp grass; the prospect of defeat coursing through is body. Ahead of him the chanting had built to a crescendo and the central figure bent to retrieve the mallet.
With no other option, and with the ceremony seemingly coming to a conclusion, he set off, madly dashing from concealment and stumbled into the circle. Grasping the crystal in both hands amid astonish gasps, he lumbered off in the direction of town. Screams of indignation from the group were closely followed by the hurried thump of feet in pursuit.
Recognising that he wouldn’t outrun his pursuers, Malcolm headed into the twists and turns of the castle maze. His only hope was forcing them past him and allowing him to double back and make his escape. As with most of his childhood lessons, Malcolm immediately forgot the rules for navigating a maze - keeping to the left hand wall - and instantly found himself hopelessly lost. Taking a pathway to his right he confronted a dead end. Damn he thought to himself, I need to get a bit further in. Retracing his footsteps, he heard the hurried voices of his pursuers growing louder, forcing him to retreat. He crouched silently in a corner, prickly branches scratching his ears and neck.
As he cowered, crystal ball clutched tightly to his chest he flinched as a familiar tinny voice called out, “Ere ‘e is chief. Found th’ little bleeda hidin’ in th’ corner,” the memory of those vice like hands immediately sent a chill crawling up his spine.
More people crowded into the narrow space until he was completely surrounded. Looking frantically around he knew he was trapped. The thorny hedge was too high to climb and the branches trailed all the way the ground preventing him from crawling under. The maze itself was only four feet wide. With six adults blocking his way he stood no chance of breaking through. His options seemed minimal, at best.
With despair rising from within, he pleaded, “please, please let me go. Why do you need this anyway, it is only a piece of glass.”
“That’s what you think, but your father and others of the Institute believe that the crystal ball is the holder of all human talents. It is an abomination and needs to be destroyed.”
“Yeah! Dastroyed, eh boss?”
“Shush now, Brian. Hand it over Malcolm and we promise to let you go unharmed.”
Not wanting to give up the artefact, but left with few options, he leapt to his feet and manically began chant his hypnotists mantra.
Calling upon hope, luck and a miracle he began to speak, slowly at first, “Look into my eyes, look into my eyes” each chant gaining in rapidity, his voice becoming higher and more strained as it had little effect. Astonishingly, several members of the group began to laugh at him. Their sniggering caused him to feel small and even more insignificant.
Malcolm felt a rising despair and in desperation mentally called out to his father for guidance. A low rumbling voice awakened in his mind. “Malcolm, only a true believer will triumph!” Sensing some hidden meaning he redoubled his efforts, back straightening as strange sensation washed over him. An extraordinary impression of power coursed through his heart and felt his tension ease. Maintaining the chant, he began to relax further. As he did, the crystal ball began to throb in his hands. Malcolm immediately recognised the change inside him and redoubled his efforts.
Returning his focus to his aggressors, he perceives that the transition has touched them as well. Teh faces of each were serene, reflecting a far off look, their eyes blank and their bodies still. Malcolm suddenly realised that he has rendered them into a stupor. The League members were in a trance!
Stepping towards to the group, he instructs them not to move until he has been gone for thirty minutes and that they should forget about the crystal ball forever. As he walked away, he turned back to the group, leaning closely, and whispered one final instruction into the leaders’ ear. With a flourish of his cape he quickly disappeared into the dark.
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The following day, and with the crystal safely ensconced at ICE headquarters, Malcolm and His Eminence are strolling along Main Street. In celebration, they are off to lunch. Gently guiding the old man’s wheelchair ahead of him, Malcolm spots the Chief Constable. Without pausing for breath, he calls to the policeman. “Hey, Chief! Crystal Ball!”
The reaction is instantaneous. A look of serenity folds across the policeman’s face, with arms and legs bent, gentle clucking sounds began to emanate from him. Combining with his arms, which flapped like wings, the chief of police started scratching the pavement with his feet. The effect made him look like an overstuffed chicken.
“Malki, you devil” said His Eminence applauding loudly, “I do believe you have mastered your art.”
“Yes father, I do believe I have.”