Reckoning of Boston Jim Read Online Free PDF Page B

real. Perhaps it would be better to tell the Dora woman of their entertainments. Of, say, the girl who was sent to the ghost world. A chisel was thrust through her temple. Blood flowed from out of the wound, from out of her mouth. Her eyes popped out of bloodied sockets. She was cast into a fire from which ghostly voices came and was not seen again for five days until another ceremony brought her back, healed and whole. Yes, Boston could tell her of this, and also of the wild men who tore flesh from each other to feast upon. And of the great masks that flew about the houses and transformed—now a bear, now an eagle, now the face of a man in torment. It was theatre and trickery, all of it, but was also a way of making deals with the spirit world. As such it had some purpose. Not like this idiocy.
    â€œAnd now for our main billing of the evening, an Electromagician and Spiritualist of the highest order, on his final world tour before retirement, Ladies and Gentleman of Victoria please welcome the esteemed Professor Eliab Theophilus Hinkeman of New York City!”
    The piano plays a dignified strain and the curtains part again. Professor Hinkeman has a shock of silver hair, a neat silver beard. He stands motionless on the stage, one hand grasping his lapel, the other a thick cane. Beside him is a young woman in an unadorned dress of palest grey. He introduces her as Miss Frielan, orphan niece, faithful assistant. Then says: “Ladies, gentlemen. Be warned. The faint of heart should take their leave now, for I am about to show you what lies beneath the skin of the world.”
    The crowd mutters and shifts. The ladies glance at their escorts, lean closer.
    â€œI require a volunteer for my first exhibit. From him I will pull the very form of his soul. It will not cause pain, nor injury. It will not affect him in any way. My talent is only to make clear what is before us all if we but only look.”
    A young man clambers onto the stage at the encouragement of his friends. He has scrubby moustaches, a jaunty hat. His friends call out “Leewood, Leewood.” He shields his eyes with his hand, mouth agape, looking out into the audience as if he were a sojourner sighting a country of dangerous marvels.
    The Professor frowns in concentration, reaches behind Leewood’s neck and pulls a rabbit from out of his collar. The rabbit twists in the Professor’s grip. The audience hoots and laughs. So it is a comedy of sorts. The Professor puts the rabbit into a bag held by Miss Frielan and studies the bulbous eyes, the reddish hair of the next volunteer. He claps his hands over the man’s ears and yanks out two goldfish. Miss Frielan holds out a bowl of water. The Professor bows. The crowd shouts for more and the Professor obligingly pulls a snake from the pocket of a bespectacled, clerky fellow who scowls and shouts “ridiculous.” It is a simple trick, but it may make the Dora woman laugh if he tells her of it. Certainly the men about him are guffawing so hard that some are near to choking.
    The Professor now makes a matchsafe vanish and then appear in the pocket of a man at the back of the crowd. He stands playing cards end to end until they reach the proscenium. He speaks constantly to draw attention from the deft movements of his hands, from what shouldn’t be seen. Speaks of his soldiering youth, of his escape from the Sultan’s prison with aid of a beautiful harem girl, of impossible landscapes of sand, of his apprenticeship in magic in the dens of Goa and Seville, of the loneliness of his life, until Lila, dear Lila, Miss Frielan, his orphan niece. “Stand centre stage, my dear.” She is pretty and demure in the light of the coal lamps and candles, someone’s cherished daughter, someone’s faithful sweetheart. The Professor passes his hands over her eyes and she takes on the aspect of one asleep. He assists her to stretch out on a table, then holds his arms over her. The