In the world of Magic half the fun was in challenging one’s fellows. New tricks were subjected to the most invasive scrutiny. Playing to large crowds could make you rich, but stumping the experts brought fame and respect.
Performing the bit was quite simple. As each audience member entered, they were asked to write down something on a card no one else knows; the more personal the better, and then to seal it in an envelope. During the show he would ask a volunteer onto the stage and claim he can read their mind. In very solemn tones the Master Showman gave them instructions to place their letter on a nearby stool and then think very hard about what they had written. Then he lifted the “peep stone” to their forehead and read off the words which appeared. The crowd knew that DePraeco had never had a chance to read the card in any way. Yet time and again he correctly guessed what they were thinking. On the rare occasion of a dispute the envelope was opened and his subject would publicly read what he himself had written, precisely the words offered by the Magician.
Despite numerous attempts to explain his success, no one was ever able to fully uncover the truth. Willard was continually awestruck that strangers would air out their dirtiest laundry for the world to see. Obviously they believed that a shady business deal or political intrigue would be far too complex in detail for some magician to guess. They were always wrong.
Yet as they finished their tour of Africa, DePraeco grew moody and short tempered. His name was hailed throughout the world as the Best Illusionist alive and golden coins from a hundred nations filled his pockets. But this was not enough. While not on stage he was sullen, complaining always about one thing…lack of power.
For Leonardo DePraeco had become so good at magic that only one spell eluded him. He wanted to raise someone from the dead. Nor was it enough to merely create the impression of a resurrection. Only killing someone onstage; their being pronounced dead by a physician; and then bringing them back would suffice. Day and night he pondered the method of doing this final act which could never be topped. And Nachton was his intended victim.
After their last performance in Marrakesh, Leonardo announced to Willard that they would be leaving for the United States the next day.
“Despite what you may think, I do not yet know all the secrets. There is a man, a most gifted man, who possesses the means by which I may become the greatest performer ever. He will not part with it easily but I think I can persuade him. If our mission should prove successful then I shall one time perform the Ultimate Illusion. My name will be forever associated with the giants of our art. And then, my dear and faithful apprentice, Leonardo DePraeco will disappear into a quiet retirement and Nachton the Great shall carry on as his own Master.”
There are no words capable of expressing how Nachton felt. Though his tutelage had been harsh and the companionship of little emotional benefit, here was Leonardo saying that he was now ready. This was the moment he had strived and suffered for all his life. And when he made a name for himself, when casinos and promoters vied for his time, then he would travel home to see his parents. And they would be proud of him on his own terms.
Their travel to America was clouded by intrigue. Not a single performance was booked; no advertisements; no interviews; nothing. The midnight flight from Cairo to London was unusually crowded with important men among whom DePraeco effectively hid. He kept changing taxis at odd intervals as if he felt they were being followed. The next morning found them on a cross-Atlantic flight to Washington DC under their real names which worked to conceal their identities far better than any fake passport.
Despite having been on the road for nearly two years, there was little time for homecomings. DePraeco ordered Willard to prepare for an extended tour of the Pacific Islands.
“We will be leaving the day after tomorrow. Make the arrangements for hotels and travel according to this itinerary.”
Willard took the three sheets of paper and examined them idly. He had been performing this chore for some time and was now quite good at it.
“Also, take a nap this afternoon. Tonight we will be going to see the man of whom I spoke. He is a nocturnalist…lives at night and sleeps during the day. I dare say he would be far less likely to give me the item I require if we were to awaken him prematurely.”
That evening they hired a cab with directions to deliver them at the corner of 14th and Quincy streets in northeastern DC. It was a very pleasant and quiet neighborhood. On one corner sat St. Francis Hall and to the east was the very old Mount St. Sepulchre Franciscan Monastery. It was to this place they turned their steps. Willard wondered aloud what a magician would be doing here but DePraeco shushed him and moved toward the entrance. The gates were closed but this presented no issue as the pair moved off to their right where the outer fence drew close to the street. There in the garden rose a large domed structure. Willard had no idea what function is could serve other than to provide a quiet place for meditation. The Master however did not remove his eyes from the elegant brownstone arches.
Suddenly he leapt over the low fence and moved swiftly through the flowerbeds. Willard was shocked but after a moment followed DePraeco’s lead. Once inside the dome he saw the older man closely examining some of the architecture. Within seconds he flashed a look of triumph and pushed hard on a single stone very high on the wall. The slabs of granite under their feet began to drop and form a circular stair going deep under the floor.
They descended the flight of steps and found a small rough hewn chamber about 20 feet below the surface. It resembled a dungeon with torches resting in sconces, iron rings set in the wall and a low ceiling which dripped water every few feet. DePraeco lit a smoky torch and led off, having to bend over slightly to avoid the sharp fingers of rock dangling from the roof.
They had gone two or three hundred yards when they found the path completely blocked. Willard began to look around for another lever or trap door through which they could pass. Leonardo however stood perfectly still and began to sing:
Sono venuto a vedere il mio fratello
Una mia madre amata
Che ci possono essere riconciliati
E dio al di sopra di ogni altro[1]
A tiny spot of light appeared at the foot of the wall before them. It rose, tracing a line along the wall until it had outlined an arched doorway. DePraeco looked sharply at Willard, his yellow eyes flashing in the torchlight.
“You are to stay here. Do not listen to what is said inside. I will return soon.”
Looking older than ever because of his stooped position, Leonardo passed through the arch and knocked on a wooden door beyond. It was opened by a man with the same sharp features, bushy eyebrows and thin build as DePraeco. Willard guessed that the two were probably related.
Alone in the passage, the world was timeless. Leonardo had taken the torch with him and so Willard stood in vast emptiness for what seemed like an hour. He leaned against the cool stone wall just to know that he was not floating in an utter vacuum.
A burning curiosity began to grow within him. Who was this man? And what did he have that could bestow that wondrous power on DePraeco? He edged down the tunnel until his hand lit on the wooden door. Gently he pressed his ear against it and listened. There were two muffled voices inside. One was unmistakably his Mentor, with his imperious tone and clipped meter. The other was not so much different as subdued, its owner having found depths of humility that Leonardo rejected long before.
Willard dropped to his hands and knees hoping to catch any faint whispers which might leak from the small gap between door and threshold. There was much he could not understand. They kept alternating between English and Italian with a bewildering rapidity. Even the few words he had picked-up during his time with the Magician were not helping now. Eventually their voices rose to almost shouts and in their rage they spoke in a fine cultured English.
“Brother, I cannot help you do this! I regret the day I gave it to you in the first place. Give it back now and you might still be able to repent.”
“Repent!? Are you mad? What do I have to repent of? Nothing! What I have done is not evil, even in the sight of The Church. You take yourself too seriously.”
“That thing to not to be trifled with! Its powers are greater than you understand. Please, if you will not return it, then do not use it anymore.”
“Would you have me return to the starving failure I was before? This has been the instrument of my success! How else could I have become famous, wealthy and admired? Now, I ask again, ‘Will you give me more?’ This one looks willing to become my servant.”
“No Leonardo, do not touch it! Nooooo!!!!!”
Willard fled back down to the archway just as the door was flung open and DePraeco staggered out. Bright white light flooded the hall so that everything was stark and colorless. His Master tripped forward and leaned heavily against the wall opposite the room he had just left.
There stood Leonardo’s brother silhouetted by the light from within and wearing the black cassock of a monk. He was crying from eyes as hard as flint; a man desperate to maintain his self-control.
“Bring my brother back inside, he has no place out there anymore“, whispered the monk.
Willard ran forward and tried to lift the old man up but as Leonardo’s face turned to his own he saw massive dark sores breaking out around his eyes. The nose was falling in onto itself even while a thin trickle of blood streamed forth. His eyebrows and lashes fell in a cascade to the floor.”
“Wh-what’s wrong with him?” Willard asked in a frightened tone.
The other DePraeco looked closely at Willard and said, “He has been struck down for his insolence and blasphemy. There is no mortal cure for the curse he brought upon himself.”
At these words Leonardo seemed to find his inner strength. He stood almost straight in the low tunnel and swelled with indignation.
“Cursed? I care nothing for your curses. We will leave now and do not expect to ever see me again.” This last word was spat out as if it were the very power of death.
Willard looked intently at the monk who had retreated against the stone walls of the tunnel. Upon his face was revulsion mixed with anger and the deep disappointment of betrayed love.
“Brother, stay with me. I can take care of you. Together we may be able to reconcile you to God. He is merciful and in time…”
Fire blazed in the older man’s eye. Usually this meant a terrible fury and Willard blanched away from both men. Then his master’s gaze softened into the cunning look of one who has found the answer to a long perplexing problem.
“Brother, I will consider your offer of gentle kindness. Give me leave for a few moments.”
Leonardo retreated some way down the tunnel, dragging Willard with him. After turning a corner they stopped and DePraeco whirled around on his charge, yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness.
“Look in my eyes Willard. Now is the moment for you to learn the final secret I have to give.” He heaved a deep sigh, as if saying goodbye to a dear friend, then handed Willard a letter. “Leonardo DePraeco will now leave the world outside. This is his will. All his possessions will pass to Willard Hoffmann and may he make good use of them.”
It was then that Willard felt the most curious sensation. A numbing cold began to spread from his extremities, climbing up his arms and legs, spreading through his torso. Soon he could only feel a tiny portion of his own head. He could not move in any way, nor hear clearly, nor speak at all. Suddenly DePraeco collapsed onto the tunnel floor. Willard was in a panic. What could he do?! Then without conscious thought, in fact against his own will, he stepped forward and lifted the aged illusionist onto his feet. In a dreamlike trance Willard moved back to the door, rapped hard and waited.
The portal opened violently and the monk rushed forward to help support the unconscious man. Then a voice which was Willard’s but also wasn’t, spoke, “Sir! He fainted. We were talking and then he was on the floor. Can you help him? Please, can you help him?!”
“Leave him with me. He took care of me for years after our parents died. Now God has given me the chance to return the service. Go back to your life and do not worry about my brother. There is nothing science or medicine can do for him now.”
He must have forgotten that the young man was there because Friar DePraeco half-carried his brother into the chamber and closed the door behind them without another word. Willard stared at the closed chapter of his long life and turned the page on another. He walked confidently down the tunnel without the aid of a torch, by the light of his brilliant yellow eyes.
[1] I come to see my brother / The one my mother loved / That we may be reconciled / To each other and to God above.
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