Shattered Veil - Chapter One

The following is chapter one of my new story. Whadaya think? It hasn't been edited so I'm sure the grammar is atrocious.

Holding one of my father’s old journals brought to life a painful memory long buried in my mind. The soft, black leather journal, filled with fantasy and magical stories from my father’s youth felt awkward and unfamiliar. My mind, flooding with memories, felt heavy and tired as I eagerly read page after page. His hopes, dreams and prayers for me scribbled in handwriting I had not seen in years. Sliding my right hand over the black India ink made me feel as if he were still alive; still teaching me the craft.

I am a third generation illusionist, magician and stage performer. My father, Charles Black, mesmerized audiences for over thirty years, winning every award known to magicians. He was named Magician of the Year twice and Las Vegas Performer of the Year three times. Known for cutting edge imagery, classic illusions and straight up magic, he dominated the craft – our craft.

Following in his footsteps, I learned from the best; watching his every move. Training and studying with the world’s best illusionists and magicians paid off. I have the top rated stage show in the world and a hit television show. Selling out the theatre night after night for three years confirms the critics are right – my father passed the torch to me and I’m on top of the world.

Not really, my father died three days ago. He was 87 and had been living in a nursing home the past two years. Alzheimer’s took his memory and ability to communicate. He had not known me for over a year. I visited twice weekly. He thought I was an entertainer the home brought in to perform magic tricks for the residents. Painfully, I watched his strong hands wither into frail, bony appendages once called fingers.

Turning another page in his journal, my heart sank. He had written about a conversation I wanted to forget. The entry dated – August 1, 1985. The day we argued. The day I told him I didn’t believe in spirits, demons, angels or any other magical creature God supposedly created. I can still see his eyes, filled with tears and hurt. Reading his entry broke my heart again.

Although, we moved on from that conversation and our relationship was strong and vibrant, he longed for me to believe what he believed. Ghosts and goblins are at the bottom of my list. To me, magic is illusion, slight of hand, not real. To dad, It was real. He believed in what he called the spiritual world. I believe in the physical world.

Most of his possessions had been stored in my house since he moved into the nursing home. Except for his clothes, family photos, important personal possessions and one black trunk. It was in the truck, I found his journals. With shaking hands and tearful eyes, I read over his life. He was even more amazing than I ever imagined.

The house had been empty about four hours. Hundreds of people stopped by after the funeral all asking me if I was okay. If I hear that question again, I’ll scream. The silence of my empty home was louder than ever. Alone with my memories and regrets, I walked into the kitchen. Still carrying his journal, I marveled at the food. It looked as if someone catered a party for three hundred people. Two roasted turkeys sat next to three baked hams. There were more casseroles than I had ever seen before – at least thirty. Casseroles aren’t my thing. I wonder what leftover scraps people mix together and bake, calling it a casserole.

My dad loved Thanksgiving. That’s probably why there was turkey, ham, dressing, sweet potatoes, corn, beans and enough bread for an army. Sitting at my kitchen table, I read my dad’s account of my first Thanksgiving. I was only three months old. Reading about my mother’s happiness only made me miss her more. She died when I was fifteen. My dad said that’s when I stopped believing in magic.

Roberta Sanchez, my housekeeper, said she would come early tomorrow morning to clean the kitchen. I told her not to worry that I could clean. She insisted I wouldn’t do it right so she was coming about six. I’m tired I thought. Not sleeping for seventy-two hours will do that to you.

My feet felt as if they weighed one hundred pounds as I consciously had to make myself pick them up one by one to walk up the stairs to my bedroom. Resting at my bedroom door, I glanced at his journal again. Clutching it tightly in my hand felt as if I clutched him; like he was still alive. Knowing I needed to sleep, I continued reading. My first birthday, the first card trick he taught me, and the first illusion I performed on my own.

Blinking longer and longer, my gaze grew blurry as I nodded to sleep. Occasionally, I opened, focused and tried to continue. It was like reading a great novel, except it was his life; my life. A life I had somehow forgotten.

Sleep won and I finally crashed; falling into deep sleep. The dream came quickly just like before. The dream is what kept me awake the past three days. It was so real and scary the last time I slept, I never wanted to sleep again. He’s coming. I hear the hoof beats in the distance. The rhythmic tribal clumping repeated over and over gaining volume as the rider approached. He’s coming, the voice said again. “No,” I shouted out loud in my sleep.

The hoof clumping stopped as I looked into the deep blue eyes of the rider. His eyes were as clear as crystal and deep as the ocean. The most perfect shade of clear blue I had ever seen. His presence shook the ground. Reaching his hand toward mine, he said, “Let’s go, Daniel.” No one but my parents called me Daniel. In school, I was known as Danny. And my stage name was Black. No first name, just Black. It was because my performances had become dark over time, more and more sinister. Darkness was always around.

The rider, he was light. He seemed to glow. This time, I took his hand when he reached my direction. Lifting me onto the back of his saddle, I realized his power and strength. Without another word, he popped the reins, kicked his feet into the sides of the massive horse and like lightning we were racing. Racing into nothing with, clouds all around. Looking down, I realized we weren’t on the ground. We were flying. There was no sound either. The tribal beating of the hoofs had been replaced with the sound of nothing – just wind blowing in our faces. Yet, I couldn’t hear a sound.

Just then, we left the clouds behind. We were definitely flying, as I noticed the world below. “Space, we’re in space,” I shouted. He said nothing. I could hear myself screaming in my head but still no sound could be heard. Seemingly suspended between Heaven and Earth, I caught myself marveling at the vast ocean and land mass. It wasn’t as bright as I had seen in satellite photos from NASA.

Quickly we descended. The beast was flying but didn’t have wings. The rider seemed to control the thoughts of the horse, guiding it to the ground. Hearing the familiar thundering hoof beats let me know we safely landed. Looking around, I realized this wasn’t Las Vegas.

“Where are we?”

Looking into his fiery eyes, I knew this was my stop. Climbing down, I asked again, “Who are you?”

“I will come back when it’s time.”

Marveling at his presence, I watched in amazement as he flew into the night. Looking up, I noticed more stars than I had ever seen. Their brilliance shown as if all the electricity from the earth had been given to the sky.

At this moment, the street was full of people talking. It was immediately busy, like they appeared from nowhere. Trying to blend in and figure out where I was became my first priority. Hoping I was safe, hoping I would wake from this nightmare soon.

Looking across the street, I noticed what appeared to be an old world market, like something you would see depicting ancient Egypt or Arabia. It was closed for the night. The huts covered in blankets along with the carts pushed close to the entrances gave it away.

I continued walking down the street looking for a place to hide or sleep or really a place to wake up. As I walked, I listened to the people speak a foreign language. It was like nothing I had heard. Yet, strangely, I found myself understanding what they were saying. Apparently, there was a new magician in town. How ironic I would dream about a magician I thought.

Following, two men closely, I listened. This magician grew up here and was back in town performing. I noticed what looked like a hotel. Walking across the street, I was nearly run over by a man riding in a chariot behind two horses. He was moving quickly but not as quick as my ride I thought as he roared past.

Finding myself at the counter checking into the hotel was like an out of body experience. I watched from behind as I checked into a room.

“Breakfast is at sunrise,” the dark-skinned man said.

“Thank you.”

Not wanting to seem like a fool or terrorist, I didn’t ask the obvious questions like “Where am I? What year is this?” Things like that needed to be kept quiet. Handing me a lantern and a pouch made of animal skin, he smiled. Sensing my confusion, he motioned to use the liquid in the pouch to refill the lantern. It was oil. Using the lantern as my only source of light, I followed a servant to my room.

Bowing before he left, the young man backed toward the door, never letting my eyes catch his. It was as if he knew he was inferior. Lighting a lamp on a small wooden bedside stand, I lay on my back. Looking at the thatch ceiling, I desperately wanted to sleep or wake up, whichever took me home.