Magic

The magic is gone, he’d say and then he’d shake a fat, white rabbit out of his black top hat. The rabbit would land on the ground heavily like a scoop of ice cream. Then it’d fall apart into white mice. The mice would scatter off and the children would cheer, but no-one would really argue--the magic was, indeed, gone. His performances had become a routine, nothing more than a habit and he seemed to suffer greatly from it. After a show he’d pack up his things--his chains, and wands, and colorful handkerchiefs--and melt away into thin air because he didn't want people to see him off stage anymore. He didn't use to mind but now that the magic was gone he had grown shy, and weary of everyone's pitiful glances. So he’d walk home invisible, occasionally kicking at the leaves that littered the pavement. Passersby would confuse him with the wind. On those rare occasions when he did leave the cover of his invisibility cloak, his expressions were tragically violet like a winter evening.

Once the children asked him why the magic was gone, and he said, I don’t know, I don’t know! but the children thought he did. They insisted. He upset them by saying, the magic is gone for the same reason that people die. The children didn't inquire any further because they were aware that no-one knew why people died. Instead they asked politely if he could make a quarter disappear. He nodded and made their quarter disappear. The children clapped. Then they wondered if now they could have their quarter back, please. He conjured up a brand-new quarter for each one of them and then excused himself. After that he didn't make anything disappear or reappear anymore, not even himself, and gave the fat, white rabbit away to an animal shelter.

He spent the days locked up in his house; every night he could be seen sitting on his window sill, with the windows wide open and the white curtains waving around him. He had stopped eating and so it looked as if he were slowly, week by week, melting away in the moonlight. When asked what he was doing he’d say, I’m looking at the stars and studying their constellations because that's where the magic has gone. He was hoping it might come back for him. For three months he waited until one night the magic did return, if only briefly. It made the stars twinkle, and lifted him up gently from the window sill--his body was light and fragile now like a dry autumn leaf. He rose towards the waning moon until he was merely a dot and then gone, entirely.

The children were distraught at first but came to terms with it eventually. They made a promise to each other to always remember him the way he had been the first time they had seen him perform: a towering figure on the stage, his black cloak billowing; the magic all around him, waiting at the tips of his fingers, within the quiet smile upon his pale and slender face.