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Old Baltazar came ‘round every Wednesday evening.
Didn’t matter what time of year it was, or whether it was sunny or raining or snowing. Come Wednesday, there he’d sit, fourth stool from the end of the right side of the bar—bartender’s right, that is—holding court. Can’t say as many folks listened to him most of the time. Can’t say as he even listened to himself. But that didn’t stop him from talking.
Of course, you spend time that close to a man who talks like old Baltazar, week after week, year after year, well, you pick up a few things. Ideas, like. Bits and bobs. Facts, maybe—some of ‘em anyway, but lore, too, and hard to say if it’s an art or a science in telling the difference. Maybe there isn’t any difference. Maybe it’s all the same.
You might say that was the point of the whole thing, The Alchemy Club. Started as a high-minded affair, rich old men telling other rich old men why they were right about this and that, and why everyone ought to listen to ‘em. Not many left as can remember those meetings first-hand, but those as do say they were all bluster. Only substance in those meetings is the same one that’s served at the Club today, and that’s a whole lot of alcohol.
It’s just a tavern now, really. Sure, the old Alchemy Club sign hangs out front and there’s a good bit of dusty paraphernalia cluttering up the shelves in between the bottles and glasses, these cucurbits and alembics and lutes and the like. But no more meetings, not even an official chapter. Not here, maybe not anywhere—not anymore. Still, the place tends to draw a certain type of folk, and old Baltazar, he was exactly that type of folk.
That’s not to say it’s all old men nowadays. Far from it. Lots of different folks—not just young and old, but men and women and people from all different places and backgrounds. The one thing that brings ‘em together, that binds ‘em all as sure as a round of whiskies after midnight, is that they all traffic in what they call “the arts.”
Science, most know it as now. A few old timers still call it magic. Whatever they call it, they use a lot of fancy words, the kind that are meant to make a man feel like he doesn’t belong if he doesn’t grok to it, you know? But underneath all those syllables, it’s not so complicated. They’re just trying to understand the world around them. Trying to explain why things happen, and maybe figure out how to make them happen. Same as any of us. Rest of us just don’t smell so much like brimstone, and thank all the gods that ever were or might be for that.
Every so often, some young gun, just out of school and high on the smell of vellum, comes around packing a bag of hoary old chestnuts. “Really, isn’t magic just science we don’t understand yet?” they’ll say as though they just up and invented the notion and it’s the freshest thing going. Old Baltazar, though, he has none of it. Never does.
“Bullshit!” he’ll yell. “Don’t be an idiot!” That knocks the young ones down a peg or two, especially the ones as are used to only being told how smart they are.
Sure, they try to save face. Get that smug little smile. I’ll just humor the senile old man, you can practically hear them thinking. “Then what is magic?” they’ll ask, every single one of ‘em, every time. Not looking for an answer, mind you—asking the question just to prove that they were right in the first place.
But old Baltazar, he gives ‘em an answer all right, and it’s just about as plain and blunt as the nose on his face. “Magic is magic,” he says, “and science is science.” He’ll give ‘em a good look up and down. “Any idiot with a book can do science. Even you, probably.” They’ll spit and sputter, but he doesn’t let ‘em get going. “Magic, though…that’s something different altogether. Not everyone can do magic. Sure as hell you can’t. You wouldn’t even know what it looks like.”
Of course, these young ones, they’re in it now, up to their fool necks and no way out but to grab hold of something, anything, and try to hold on tight. Flailing about, tossing out words like darts and hoping one of ‘em finds the board. The boldest ones, both the smartest and the stupidest, get to the same place right quick, and that’s to say, “Then show me some.”
And old Baltazar—that’ll set him to cackling, all right. Right on the edge of sanity, that laugh, and never in your life have you heard a sound so confident, or so tired. “Stand back,” he’ll mutter, climbing off his stool, pushing his drink aside, and rolling up the sleeves of his robe so his arms, all skin and bones and liver spots, can move freely.
What he does next—and I’ve seen it a hundred times if I’ve seen it once—it’s tough to put into words. Presses his palms together, interlaces his fingers, pulls his hands in against his chest, closes his eyes. Mumbles something down into that scraggly gray beard of his, bits of food stuck in it, and extends his hands out away from his body, fingers still locked together. And then…
Something happens.
You feel it first. A little ripple, like when it’s so hot outside the air warps and shimmers around you, only in this case it gets cold, so cold your teeth set to chattering. You don’t have more than a second to think about that, though, before the lights start in. Big bursts of color—brilliant shades of blue and green and red and purple and hues that don’t even have names, all coming out of his fingers and shooting around the room. They start dancing across the bar, the floor, even on your clothes—can’t feel ‘em, mind you, but if you wave your hand through ‘em you know you’ve touched ‘em, because those colors, they respond. Jump around, like water flowing around your hand, coming back together on the other side, or maybe they split in two and zigzag off across the room in a different direction, cut in half like your hand is as keen as the blade of a new-forged knife.
And that’s when things get really interesting. Those little bits of light, they stop dancing around and they start transforming, mimicking whatever happens to be nearby—might be a mug or a glass or a beaker or a bottle, or could be a walking stick or a book or an orange. They turn into those things, but you can see right through ‘em, and they shimmy their way over to whatever it is they’ve copied and somehow become part of it, like they were the shadow essence of those things all along, and now when you look at those objects, they seem more whole, fuller, realer in a way you just can’t explain.
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Those of us as have seen it before just shake our heads and stay silent, and damn near reverentially so. Privilege of a lifetime. For those who haven’t…well, their heads just about explode, and not a single one of ‘em can string together more than three actual words for quite a while, though gods know they give it a try and start shouting a whole bunch of made up ones. There’s good reason folks say he’s the last true wizard in the world.
Time was not too many folk were brave enough to challenge old Baltazar. Something changed a few months back, though, when one of those young cocks, preening and strutting his way through the door, walks right up to the old man, like a mosquito making a beeline for a bare leg.
“I got some magic for you,” he says as he holds up an empty cup, smug and sure of himself in the way that only young folk can be. “Not science. Magic.”
Old Baltazar, he looks the kid up and down, from his wavy chestnut hair to that wispy excuse for a mustache to his novice robes, and he just snorts. Gestures to an open space at the bar, an invitation to have at it.
Young buck struts up and sets that cup of his down and orders himself a nice, cool glass of water. “Going to need something stronger than that,” mutters a wag at the end of the bar, a lady who’s been around just long enough to know better.
“Ordinary glass of water, right?” says the young buck, holding it up for all to see. Takes a drink. “You want to try it?” he offers to old Baltazar, who waves the glass away.
Young buck holds the glass up again, says, “You all see it, right?” General grunts of agreement. “In a moment, you won’t. Science says matter can neither be created nor destroyed, but magic says otherwise. Magic says I can make this water disappear.”
Young buck closes his eyes, starts mumbling some nonsense words Lays it on thick, like he’s summoning up a demon from the very depths of hell. His eyes pop open, and he starts to pour the glass of water into that cup of his.
Sure enough, he’s true to his word. Water goes into the glass, but then it’s gone. Just up and vanished, and I hear more than one gasp from the crowd, all of ‘em hanging on young buck’s every word and gesture. He pours about half the glass of water into the cup, which is still just as empty as a bird’s nest in the last days of summer, and then raises it and drinks from it one more time. Smacks his lips so loud you can hear it outside the tavern.
“That’s another way to make water disappear, but we all know that didn’t disappear—it’s just going to turn into something else later.” Guffaws around the bar. Young buck’s won most of them over with his chutzpah.
But not old Baltazar. Old Baltazar plucks a bit of bread from somewhere deep within his beard and tosses it on the floor. Clears his throat and looks fit to spit, but he knows better than that, thankfully, even if he never listens about the food. Swallows his phlegm and says, “Science.”
“No, sir—magic,” says the young buck. Packs about as much condescension as possible into that three letter word, “sir.”
“Sodium polyacrylate,” retorts old Baltazar.
“Here we go,” says the wag.
“Give me that cup,” says old Baltazar, plucking it up off the bar. Dips his fingers inside it and runs one of ‘em around the bottom of the cup. Holds it up, all covered in light gray sludge. “Sodium polyacrylate,” he says again, and he wipes it off on the sleeve of his jacket.
“Clear as day,” says the wag, nodding, and several other heads bob up and down in agreement. “Better luck next time, young buck,” offers an old-timer.
Old Baltazar, he says nothing, of course. Just goes back to his beer, that one beer he’ll nurse for hours. Another notch on his belt, and as scrawny as old Baltazar is, goodness knows he needs plenty of notches to keep it cinched tight.
And so it went week after week, month after month, again and again. Wasn’t quite every time he came in, but as often as not, someone, usually young—and the young ones were always men, of course—or, on occasion, a savvier, more experienced scholar would challenge old Baltazar. He’d shoot ‘em right down, one by one.
Sometimes he’d pontificate at length, as ornery a cuss as you can imagine, but other times he’d just shout in scientific shorthand and delight in the crestfallen faces of his challengers.
“Coulomb’s Law!”
“Tyndall effect!”
“Hooke’s Law!”
Wasn’t a single thing he didn’t have an answer for, and old Baltazar, he had bite to his bark. “You call that magic?” he asked one unfortunate lad. “I pissed more magic than that in the latrine ten minutes ago!”
Every once in a while—a rare thing, to be sure, but not unheard of—someone would come along who’d show something that made old Baltazar have to sit and have a bit of a think. One of those times, I thought sure he was stumped. A woman from Faraway, just entering her middle years, not a regular but something of a familiar face around the Club, sidles up next to old Baltazar and says to him, “I’ve got something to show you.”
She’s smart. Not coming in guns-a-blazing and making miracle claims the ornery old bastard can swat away. Nice and cordial. Just a real soft opening gambit. “Something to show you.” She beckons him to follow her outside.
Of course, whole bar up and follows, and a minute later everyone’s standing in a little clearing ‘round the corner. Lady from Faraway’s standing there with a whole setup—she’s got a track running along the ground, round in shape, just a few feet in diameter. Holds up a little box and takes the top off. Tips it forward a bit so old Baltazar, and everyone else, can see. Inside sits a little white disc, wisps of smoke coming off of it.
The lady from Faraway reaches in and scoops up the disc, kneels down next to the track. Holds the disc a couple of inches above it with her right hand and waves her left hand over the top of it. Says a few words no one seems to understand and then lets go of the disc.
And there it sits. Just floating there in the air—damndest thing. Gasps all around from the crowd, of course—no one’s seen anything like it. But the lady from Faraway, she’s not done. Mutters another word and then taps one side of the disc. It scoots forward and zooms around the track, hovering above it. After a couple of times around, she reaches down and stops it. Looks up to make sure everyone is watching, then tilts the disc forward so it sits at a 45-degree angle to the ground. Says that same word again, give it a little tap, and round and round the disc goes again, staying locked in that same position, inches off the ground.
But she’s not quite done. The lady stops the disc one more time, says those strange words again, and then lifts it a couple of inches higher. Gives it a touch and sends it back ‘round the track. That disc keeps moving, not dipping up or down, staying locked in the line where she set it. Gods’ honest truth, and you figure there’s got to be at least one honest one among ‘em, numerous as they are.
Well, you can imagine all of the oohs and aahs. Heads shaking, tongues wagging, all kinds of buzz. Old Baltazar, he doesn’t say a word. Just walks over and squats down next to the track, those knobby knees of his creaking and groaning the whole way down. He looks left and then right, passes his hand over the top of the track. Squints at the disc, still floating in space, just inches above the ground. Mutters something under his breath and, with a grunt and some none-too-polite words about the aging process, heaves himself back to his feet. Looks over at the lady from Faraway, studies her carefully.
Give her credit—she doesn’t flinch, not one bit. Doesn’t even blink. Just clasps her hands behind her back and waits him out. She’s got guts, that one. Not too many as can withstand a stare down from old Baltazar before they start babbling like idiots.
Old Baltazar points a crooked finger at the disc. “Magic, is it?”
The lady just inclines her head, doesn’t say a word. See, this is where most of the others go wrong. They get cocky or they get defensive, and they both lead to the same outcome: saying something stupid that old Baltazar can pick apart quicker than you can take a shot of whisky. But not the lady from Faraway. She keeps her cool, doesn’t overcommit.
Say this for old Baltazar—he’s a tough one, but if you’ve been around him long enough, you know he’s not unfair. Mean, sure. Cranky, absolutely. But for him, see, it’s not about ego. Not about being right. It’s about someone else being wrong, and so far, the lady hadn’t said anything he could refute.
Old Baltazar studied the track one more time and bent down to give the disc a little push of his own. It glided through the air, staying on its fixed path above the track, no visible guardrails keeping it in line, but staying in line just the same. If anything looked like magic, that was it.
He stands up, old Baltazar, and he looks at the lady from Faraway. A look can say a lot, and this one does—says I respect you, but also I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. “Quantum levitation,” he says, sweeping his hand over top of the track.
“You’ve got a superconductor there,” – old Baltazar points to the levitating disc – “only it’s a mix of materials that cool at different temperatures. Hard to make it a perfect diamagnet. So when you cooled it down, and you can see how cold it is from the steam coming off, it pushed out most of the magnetic fields inside of it. But not all of them—there’re impurities in there, and the magnetic field lines are still pinned in there. That creates little swirls of electricity. Everything around it, though, is a superconductor.” Old Baltazar gives a little nod. “The magnetic fields make it levitate and lock it in place, and with no resistance, no friction, that little disc will just keep going and going until you stop it.”
The lady from Faraway, she steps forward and offers a little bow. She opens up the little box and puts the disc into it. Without saying a word, she starts to pack up the track.
“Nice little bit of science,” says old Baltazar gruffly as he heads back into The Alchemy Club, everyone in his wake.
And so it goes, on and on. After a time, it finally starts to happen less, these challenges, and more often as not old Baltazar gets left alone. Just keeps muttering to himself, though, and seems more and more agitated as the weeks pass. Gets to coughing with some frequency, that frail frame of his shaking with every spasm. As you might imagine, no one wants to sit next to him, so space at the bar is wide open.
Weeks pass, but comes a day when someone finally approaches old Baltazar again. Barely more than a lad, smooth black skin of his face not even covered in peach fuzz yet. Somehow seems timid and confident at the same time.
Lad steps up next to old Baltazar, gestures to the seat to his right. “May I?” says he.
Old Baltazar, he just grunts. Doesn’t even look at the lad.
Lad does something a little unusual before he seats himself. Reaches into one of his pockets—and he’s got pockets to spare, big ones and little ones all over his robe—and what does he pull out? An egg. Looks like a plain old chicken egg. Holds that egg up in the air and peers closely at it, giving it the once over, maybe even the twice over. Nods when he’s done, satisfied, and sets the egg down on the chair.
Everyone’s focused on the lad now. Even old Baltazar gives a gander, but just a short one, and then he’s back to muttering into his beer.
Lad steps up onto the footrest of his stool and straddles it, then lifts his behind high up and brings it down, nice and gentle, on that egg. And then he sits, letting all of his weight fall onto it. Sharp crack and it’s yet another mess that’ll need to be cleaned up when it’s closing time, another late night with the rag and the mop.
Once his backside’s on the stool, lad acts like nothing happened, though every eye in the place, except old Baltazar’s, is fixed on him. He reaches back into one of those big pockets and pulls out a deck of cards. Casually starts to shuffle them. Nice and easy for a moment before he starts getting fancy, all kinds of riffles and cascades and butterfly cuts. Still can’t get old Baltazar’s attention, though.
So the lad turns to the man on his other side, his right, sets the deck in front of him, and says, in the time-honored way of all magicians, “Pick a card.”
“Any card?” says the man just a bit sarcastically. No novice, this graybeard, and not giving the lad an inch.
“Any card,” says the lad obligingly.
Graybeard decides to humor the lad and cuts the deck solemnly. Draws the top card, looks at it, then looks back at the lad.
“You remember that card now,” says the lad, and graybeard nods. Graybeard sets it back down on the table and the lad slides it into the deck. Starts back up with this cuts and shuffles and riffles, all razzle and dazzle and razzamatazz. Can’t take your eyes off him, he’s that good, though old Baltazar gives him a side eye at most. Funny thing though—as smooth as his shuffling is, all of the lad’s other movements are gangly and awkward, like a baby deer who isn’t quite sure all four of those legs belong to it.
Lad finishes shuffling and fans the cards across the bar. “Now,” he says, “I bet I can pick your card straightaway on the first try.” His voice cracks a bit and there are chuckles around the bar.
The wag shouts, “Card trick’s old enough to drink, but the lad isn’t!”
Lad takes it in stride, gives the wag a smile, turns back to graybeard. Looks at him and then peers down at the cards intently. After a moment, he plucks one from near the middle and holds it up. Three of diamonds.
“This is your card,” the lad says, confident as a man who just drank two beers and decides to try turn on his charm for the lady at the end of the bar.
Graybeard shakes his head and offers up a smile. “Afraid not, lad.”
“Okay, no problem, no problem,” says the lad, undaunted. Picks up another card. Jack of clubs. “This is it.”
“Nope,” says graybeard. Gives a little chuckle and shakes his head at the others gathered around the bar.
Old Baltazar couldn’t care less. Not even sure he knows what’s happening, so intent is he on staring into his glass.
“This one?” says the lad, now sounding a bit tentative as he picks up a third card. Eight of spades.
Graybeard shakes his head.
“This one? This one? This one?” Lad holds up cards in rapid succession. King of diamonds, ace of spades, five of hearts.
Graybeard just keeps shaking his head and the laughter around the bar gets louder. Not kind laughter, either—the sort you hear when a crowd has turned on someone and is enjoying watching him squirm.
Lad gets frantic, holding up card after card until he gets to the last one on the bar. “This must be it!” Holds it up. Ten of clubs.
Graybeard gives a rueful smile. “Wish I could say yes. But it’s not that one either.”
“But I’ve gone through all of the cards,” says the lad.
“Don’t know what to tell you, son,” says the graybeard.
“Well, except one,” says the lad.
This gets everyone’s attention. “What do you mean?” says the graybeard.
“That one there.” Lad points. “Under your coaster.”
Graybeard looks befuddled, but lifts up his coaster. Sure enough, there’s a card there. He flips it over. Queen of hearts.
“That your card?” says the lad, all that confidence back in his voice.
“Well, I’ll be,” says graybeard. “How did you…?”
“Magic,” says the lad.
It’s a loaded word intended to provoke and everyone in the whole place knows it. All eyes turn to old Baltazar. He cracks open a peanut, lets the shell fall into that mess of a beard. Chews and chews, grinding the nut to dust and then swallows hard. Takes a sip of his beer. “Bullshit.”
Lad clutches his chest and feigns offense. “Sir! It is really and truly magic.”
“Be magic if you could get that beard clean,” offers the wag with a gesture toward old Baltazar. He gives her a glare, but everyone else gives a laugh.
“Sleight of hand,” says old Baltazar. “Skillfully done, I’ll grant you. But nothing magic about it.”
Lad looks like he’s about to protest, but then shakes his head. Gives everyone a rueful little smile. “I should have known I could never fool you. The ‘last of the wizards.’” He gathers up his cards, shuffles them once, then tucks them back into one of his pockets. “I guess it’s true what they say, then—there isn’t any magic left in the world. It’s all just science and tricks. Nothing that can’t be explained.”
“So it is,” says old Baltazar. He’s bored by it all. Just another night of frauds and hucksters and wannabes trying to make a claim to fame.
“It’s a shame, really,” says the lad. “I wish I’d been born earlier. To see the real magic. To live in a world of wonder. Not that science is so bad, mind you.” Lad gestures to his robes. “I wouldn’t be studying it if it was.” Gives a big sigh and shakes his head one more time, looking older than his years. “But still—I wish…well, I wish it wasn’t gone from the world,” says the lad.
Lad reaches out to shake graybeard’s hand, drops a couple of coins on the bar—a kind gesture, that, and much appreciated—and turns toward old Baltazar. Lad says, “At least I got to share some bar space with you for a few minutes. Can tell my grandkids about that one. Though guess I need to have some kids first. Not quite ready for that.” Gives a sheepish grin, hops down off his stool, and heads for the door without a backward glance.
Bit of commotion as he walks out the door. Lots of murmurs, and those turn to big, gut-busting guffaws as folks see some broken eggshells on the lad’s chair and, sitting upright where the lad was just a moment before, sure as day and ready to call out the sunrise, a full-sized rubber chicken.
Round of applause lights up the bar, and a man too deep in his cups offers to buy everyone a round, which he’ll regret later. Of course, that sends up a cheer. Gets busy then, pouring drink after drink, and it takes a few minutes for things to calm back down.
Then, finished pulling the last beer, the strangest thing happens. The corners of old Baltazar’s mouth twitch. Once, twice, a third time. Then, defying all the laws of gravity and all the odds of chance, they turn upward, and a whole murder’s worth of crow’s feet stomp their way around the corners of his eyes. A strange sound bubbles up out of his mouth, something never heard in the Club before. Like the honk of a goose rolling over top of a tin pan.
Turns out, contrary to what anyone might think, even old Baltazar can laugh.
He shakes his head, tosses some coins onto the bar—again, much appreciated—and then stands up. Gives a small nod and says, more to himself, than to me, “Glad I got to see it one more time.” And then he walks right out the door without so much as a look back.
Hasn’t come back to the Alchemy Club since. Bet a hefty amount of gold he never walks through these doors again.
Soft as he said it, a few other folks heard old Baltazar’s last remark and set to grumbling after he left. Crowd that smart, see, they like to parse every word. What was “it,” they all wondered? That particular card trick? Most folks agreed that wasn’t it—a good trick, sure, but definitely not magic.
The thing with the rubber chicken, maybe? Folks got a chuckle out of that, but none of them, not the regulars or the old-timers or the wag or the cocky young hotshots, could fathom as how it would impress old Baltazar, the last true wizard in all the world. Wasn’t even science, they said, and it sure as shootin’ wasn’t magic.
But I tell you true, friend. I may be just a tavernkeeper, and my line of work involves pouring drinks, not mixing chemicals. But I been at it a long time, and I come to know a few things over the years, listening to all these smart folks going on and on about this and that. And there’s one thing I know for sure.
Making someone, anyone, but especially someone as ornery and world weary as old Baltazar smile, turning the sourpuss scowl on that weathered old face into a look of pure joy and making those jowls twitch and shake…doing that with nothing but a few words and a simple act anyone might learn given enough practice…there’s no science in all the known world as can explain that.
That, my friend, is magic. Pure and simple.
Last call’s in ten minutes. You need anything else, you just let me know.
Sean Gibson is the author of several stories starring Heloise the Bard, including the #1 bestselling comic fantasy The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True (which Publishers Weekly drunkenly gave a starred review), “You Just Can’t Hide from Chriskahzaa,” and The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple. He also wrote the Victorian-set fantasy thriller The Camelot Shadow and its prequel short, “The Strange Task Before Me.” Most recently, he contributed the short story “Chasing the Dragon” to the anthology Dragons of a Different Tail. He has written extensively for Kirkus Reviews, and his book reviews have also appeared in Esquire.