The Chilling Room presents...

The Garden of the Strange

by Caleb Strange.

About the Chilling Room

The Chilling Room is an on-going collaborative project between magicians Luke
Jermay and Caleb Strange. Combining their complementary skills, they explore a
common vision of what magic can and might be. Their work strives to be innovative,
intimate, and magical. And it is, they hope, always audience-centred, and infused with
meaning.

Currently, they are creating a new show, and are also developing their own venue - an
ambitious theatrical space that they call... The Chilling Room.

Acknowledgements
Firstly, I would like to thank my good friend Luke Jermay, without whose sterling
efforts, feedback, and generous support this book would not have been written. Your
invention and your artistry is an inspiration to me, my gentle friend, and it has been a
delight and an honour to work with you.

Secondly, I would like to thank my good friend David de Léon, whose hard work,
generosity, and skill have dressed my bare words so elegantly.

Thirdly, I would like to thank all my friends and the staff at themagiccafe.com and
bizarremagick.com. Your encouragement, hard work, and ideas are greatly
appreciated. In particular, I would like to thank Steve Brooks, Doug Byrd, and
(latterly) Kay and Tory, for creating and maintaining these wonderful and important
places.

And finally, and with every fibre of my little heart, I would like to thank the various
members of my family for all their love, support and patience. Truly, you are the
sweetest blossoms in my Garden of the Strange.

No part of this publication may be stored by any means or reproduced without

written permission from both the publisher and author. All Rights Reserved
Luke R. Jermay Inc..

(Note to David: I would like the following dedication to be on separate page.)

Dedication:

For Linda and our unborn child,

and Thomas our wonderful son.

The lost king

Once upon a time, in the land between two seas, there lived a king - the ruler of many
domains. He was wise, and rich, and powerful, and loved by all his people.

And yet one day he became confused. A grey befuddling sorrow descended on his
heart, and he said, ‘Every life is its own prison, and every kingdom is a cage.’ And,
with these words, he lay down sadly on his bed, curled over, and waited to die.

Now, for days... months... years... he remained there, watching the seasons curtsy and
go: barely noticing the thousand doctors and sages and priests who tried, in vain, to
cure him of his condition.

Until one day, there arrived at the palace the strangest fellow, who told the king that
he’d not come there to save him, but, rather, to help him to die.
‘For I am a magician, your majesty,’ he said, ‘and I have come to take you to the
Garden of the Strange.’
And the lost king sighed, and out of his eyes, like great stones, two tears rolled.
Wearily he cried, ‘At last! At last! I’m going to die.’

But the magician shook his head. ‘All in good time, your majesty,’ he said.

‘First, I have something to show you...’

Hunting Mammoths in the Rain

In short:

An ancient symbol, carved on rock, induces a rich stink of memory in a volunteer.

Other members of the audience also share this powerful experience.

Presentation:

You are outside with your audience. Together you have spent the day exploring an
ancient ceremonial landscape: one rich in stones, and stories, and strangeness.
Everybody has been enchanted by your magical tales, which you have performed next
to moorland barrows and by sun-dappled streams in piebald glades. Throughout the
day, many of your guests have shared their own thoughts and memories, and the
group is growing close. And now, as you near your journey’s end, and the day delves
slowly into night, the dark keen shovel of the sky is becoming wet with a million
stars.
You are heading for the final site, a beautiful collection of ‘cup and ring marks’ -
intricate twists and shapes, carved into bedrock over five thousand years ago. And as
you walk up the small hill, you explain that these curious symbols are to be found,
albeit in differing forms, all over the world. A rich and varied legacy from the silent
past. And yet no one, so you claim, neither mystic nor scholar, neither poet nor priest,
knows truly what they mean. Of course, there are plenty of theories. Some say that
these ‘cup and ring marks’ are simply boundary markers. Others claim that they are a
kind of language, a writing. And yet others propose that they depict the energy
patterns of the earth itself. Yet these beguiling ideas, like all theories perhaps, are but
themselves stories that we tell in the silent shadows of mystery. And so it is that, as
you near the top of the hill, you admit that you have your own ideas as to the meaning
of the stones; then you grow quiet.

Suddenly, two figures loom out of the twilight and block your path. Each of them
carries a long staff, and they stand before you in stern welcome. You become instantly
serious, reverent even, and you silence the rest of your party with a gesture. The two
figures nod a solemn greeting, which you return. Then all is very still.

There is a long pause. Eventually another figure appears, beating a drum, and the two
strangers leap back; the ends of their sticks burst into flame. Slowly, the night
becomes a cauldron of light and smoke and fire, as the two figures swirl and reel their
staffs with great grace and skill. And the drum thumps its timeless song, borne along
by the pounding of hearts. Lines, circles, spirals, stars, all are burnt hot-coal white
into the twisting air. And rushing through the darkness, as on dragon wings, there is
ever the hefting rasp of lashing flames. This unearthly dance builds to a dazzling,
deafening climax, and then, once again, all is still. You pause, catching your breath.
Then the spell is broken, and you dash forward, clapping and embracing your fellow
performers. ‘Thomas, Adam, Janet,’ you say, ‘that was wonderful.’ And your guests
sigh, knowing at last that it was all part of the show.

Briefly, you allow the mood of the evening to relax again, so that people can chatter
and laugh. But, soon enough, you take a deep breath, and prepare yourself for the
ceremony ahead.
‘Light the torches,’ you command, and your fellow performers ignite them in a ring of
fire around the site. The fluttering torch-light flaps like a tent, over the stones.
‘This is what we’ve come to see,’ you say, pointing to the ‘cup and ring marks’. You
hold your hands inches over them, as if feeling the warmth of dulling embers. Then
slowly you lower your hands, and with deep thoughtful affection, you stroke your
fingers over the ridged and pitted stones. You invite your guests to join you, and, as
they trace these marvellous patterns with their fingers, all that you need to say is,
‘Five thousand years old. Five thousand years old.’ When everybody is done, together
you move a small respectful distance away from the stones.

‘It is said,’ you begin, ‘that in the centre of our mind, like a great seed from which we
sprang, is a gnarly primeval structure that we call the primitive brain. In its folds and
its creases, tucked away from general view, lurk archetypes and race memories older
than time itself. Somewhere in there (you tap your head) is the agonising crack of
hominid back, as our ancestors first stretched up in glory, off of their hands towards
the sky. And deeper in we may find the flash of tooth and fang - the dreadful bellow
of night things unknown. All in there.’ (Once more you tap your head.)
‘Now, in hunter-gatherer societies today, the visionaries, the wise people we call
shamans, they use their special skills and knowledge to go back into this primitive
brain, and explore its forbidding territory. In trance and reflection, they travel back to
this trackless land, with only patterns, such as these, to be their guide. These stones,
then, are maps of the primitive brain.’

From your rucksack you remove an old, dirty leather-pouch, wrapped in a protective
sheet. You close your eyes, lower your head, and squeeze the bag. You pause to think,
then, quickly, you open your eyes, look up, and gently smile. Thus have you chosen
your volunteer. And silently, with firm tenderness, you take her hand, and lead her
back to the ‘cup and ring marks’.

‘This is the rag bag of a modern Siberian shaman,’ you say, lifting the pouch. ‘Barely
a hundred years old. I’ve, er, borrowed it from the university.’ You open it, and let
first your volunteer, and then the rest of your audience peep inside. They see an
assortment of bones and teeth, feathers and stones.
‘Inside,’ you explain, ‘we find a variety of fetishes. Sacred objects believed to have a
special, sometimes spiritual connection to this hidden kingdom.’ Again you tap your
head. Then you remove a black feather from the bag. It has a label tied to it, which is
numbered, not unlike an archaeological specimen.
‘Crow,’ you say, as you pass the feather into the audience for their inspection. Then
you remove another object. This time, a small piece of amber, again with its own
numbered label. You pass this fetish round, saying, ‘Sun-stone.’

‘Now, the shamans believe that each of these objects, when used in conjunction with
rock art, can induce or revive pre-historic memories - tribal experiences lost in the
ancient centre of the brain. Rachel (for that is the volunteer’s name; you learned it
hours ago on your walk), in a moment I want you to turn away from us, reach into the
bag, and choose an object for your memory journey. One object.’ You hand her the
bag. ‘Examine it closely, in secret. And do not tell us what it is. Only you should
know what you’ve chosen. What is in your mind. Then return the object to the bag,
and turn back round.’
When Rachel is done you open your rucksack, and she drops the rag-bag back inside.
You take another deep breath.

Gently, you turn her to face the stones. Then softly the drumming starts again, in time
with your breathing, which you have matched to hers. And you say, ‘Rachel, as you
look at the stones... the pattern of lines on the rock... while you become aware of the
sounds of the night... and your breathing... as you feel the rise and fall of your chest...
and you can see the light of the torches playing on the stones... while you listen to the
sound of my voice and begin to wonder... how far you have relaxed already... while
you listen to my voice you can see how the pattern swirls and twists... as you focus
and relax... watching the light dancing over the stones... moment by moment, inch by
inch we are becoming more and more relaxed...loose and fluid... as things
expand...you can visualise this happening... you understand.’
(Your hands wave over the stones.)
‘You see strange as it may seem, you can actually see the lines of the pattern, right
now as you listen to my voice... relaxing... as you see what I mean... now... really...
seeing the stones. Can you see the lines like I can? You may imagine them becoming
fluid and loose... as you see the energy curling and coiling... chasing its own... tail
(pronounced ‘tell’)... me, you can see the lines moving now?’ Pause and wait for the
answer. ‘Tell me how the lines are moving now? In twists? In swirls?’ Pause and
wait. ‘We can see them turning and revolving, as they shift and contort. And we
begin to wonder how much is the rock is becoming plastic.’

When Rachel has confirmed this weird experience, you get her to sit down. And as
you gently bend her head forward, you say, ‘You can relax onto the ground as you
breathe deeply now and relax.’ Then you turn to the rest of the audience, and say,
‘It’s weird, you see, weird, but the lines do move.’ Sweep your hands in circles as
you say this. ‘Really you can see them twitching and folding all the while you keep
looking at them dancing. And when you see the movement, you can sit down.’ The
drum pounds more intently, and, as the theatre continues, one by one, the other guests
sit down.

You return to Rachel, and, crouching before her, you gently lift her head and brush
the hair from her face.

‘Rachel, look at me. Look at me. Clear your mind.’ Pause. ‘Remember the bag?
Good. Now, little by little, I want you to go within, back to your memory. Together
we’ll go back, and explore your memory. Understand? As clearly, as strongly, as
vividly you can, I want you to revive your memory, and explore this forgotten land.
But in silence. Remember only in silence. Not a word, not a gesture, not a nod of
assent. And I will try to tell you what I can see of your memory. Good.’

You look about you, at the stars and the faces and the flames, and it is all good to you.
Then, with exquisite slowness and precision, you place your hands onto the rock, and
you drag your fingers over the grooves, as if reading Braille. It is as if what you see of
Rachel’s memory is written there in the stone. Slowly you begin, unsure: your mind
groping for pictures, your words hesitant. Yet quickly enough, the memory overtakes
you, and, as your hands range faster over the stone, you become ever more fluent;
until it seems that your words are coming through you, and not from you. And all the
time, throughout this spoken vision, the drumming switches gear appropriately, and
matches your voice.

‘Wet...wet. I’m on the ground. On wet ground. I can smell the earth, rich, stinking.
I’m, I’m...crawling. Yes, I’m down on the ground, crawling.’ You look up, back
towards your audience and nod, encouraging them to see what you see. Once more
you feel the rock with your hands, but look puzzled. Your breathing becomes more
heavy. ‘Something’s wrong. I’m scared. Terrified. Sick with fear... shivering.’ You
lift your head as the truth dawns. ‘I’m... hiding.’ Again a pause - quite long this time;
then, with a start, you turn your head. ‘There’s something there, near me in the
undergrowth. Something... moving.’ You voice vanishes to a hoarse whisper, then
you sigh in relief. ‘It’s okay. It’s a man. I know him. I know him. He crouches near
me. He’s small... squat. But there’s something about his skin. It looks... wrong.’ Mime
reaching out and touching this person. ‘Ah. It’s mud. There’s a coat of foul, dark mud
all over his body.’ You touch your own chest. ‘On mine too. Now... we get up.
Crouching low still. Behind the ferns, on the edge of the forest.’

Now the picture changes. You breathe more quickly, almost in fear, as your words
begin to flow. ‘We can feel it. Feel it through the soles of our feet. The ground. The
ground is shaking. Thump! Thump! It’s coming. It’s coming. In the trees. Coming.
Ahhh. God look! The trees! It’s pushing them aside like tinder. Look. Over there.
There’s a hole in the forest. A terrible space. I can see the grey sky. Everything is
cracking, splitting, falling.’ You stand up in terror, as if you can actually see this
marauding ‘it’.

‘It’s passing us. Oh God. It’s huge! The noise, the awful noise. Thump! Thump! It’s
right there. We can see it. Touch it. An arm’s reach away. Brown hair, long and
coarse. And the stench. The stench of something lost, forgotten, blasting into the
head.’ Pause, as you watch ‘it’ pass. ‘And then it is gone.’ You mime a gestured
conversation between you and your remembered companion; you are hurriedly
making plans. Then suddenly, the memory seems to overpower you, and you leave the
ring-marked stones, to rove wild-eyed amongst your guests. There is a desperate,
breathless intensity to you - a fearful, animal brawn.

‘Now! Now we’re out of cover. We’re running. Clattering out of the wet wood. We’re
gasping with fear, yet still we shout. Bawling till the blood trickles down our throats.
Now others are here - blasting out of the undergrowth, all around us - joining in the
chase of this monstrous thing. A clamour now, a desperate clamour of beaten sticks
and stones, crashing through the scrub. And this thing. This lumbering thing, lurching
on before us.’ Needless to say, the drumming is frantic at this point. You jerk to a
violent halt, and hurl invisible stones at this ‘thing’. There is a weird, verbless look on
your face. And then, from the Cro-Magnon core of your being, comes a terrible
primordial scream.

‘Ahhhh! Running again. Screaming. The blood pounding in our heads. Our stubby
feet bruised and bleeding. And still we run. The sticks still banging. The stones still
ripping. And then the cliff. Ahead of us the cliff. Chase it over. Chase it over... A
flash of tusk... a whip of hair... Then...’ Crash and hold your hands together, as the
drum smashes one last time. Your whole body sags, exhausted. But you are
triumphant. You lift up your ravening face exultant to the stars, and proclaim, ‘It has
fallen. The great beast has fallen. It is dead!’

For a long time you crouch there, weary. The echoes of your voice slowly fading in
the hills. Till there is, again, only the night, and the stir and little murmur of its
sounds. Then stiffly, you move back to Rachel, and look deep into her eyes.
‘It’s over, Rachel,’ you say. ‘Over. Now we’re back. You can relax. You did very
well.’ Chastely you kiss her hair. Then quietly you ask, ‘What did you remember?
What was your memory?’

She looks at you, with eyes moist but bright, and whispers, ‘I was hunting mammoths
in the rain.’

Details:

Okay, I put my hands up. This is rather intense - a wildly ambitious piece of bizarre
theatre, which will stretch your dramatic skills to the full. However, if you’ve got this
far, stay with me, and I’ll outline my thinking as to how we can make it work.
In performances of this kind, I believe that the work you do before the routine is at
least as significant as the work you do in it. So the setting, both physical and
psychological, is of great importance. You will have noted that this routine comes at
the end of a long enchanting day, when you have already beguiled your audience with
magic and stories. Carefully, therefore, you have established the requisite atmosphere
of trust, acceptance, and gentle credulity. There has been a journey, not necessarily a
literal journey (although I do recommend the ‘walk’ idea), but a definite sense of
progression. So that when you finally get to the stones, it feels very much like an
arrival. All this sets the mood, and enables what follows.

Now, it is vitally important that you make this final location seem special - apart,
different, sacred even. In the routine, as presented here, I have used torch-swingers to
‘sanctify’ the site. They bid you a stern, almost threatening welcome. And crouched,
as they are, in darkness, when they stand up they seem to appear from out of nowhere.
Yet their music and flames also entice and enchant, and help to establish a sense of
ritual and mystery. It is as if you and your guests are being prepared somehow,
perhaps even judged, before you can enter the site and see the stones. Additionally,
the whirling spirals of flame implant a suggestion - a visual template of moving,
coiling lines, that will help greatly with the subsequent suggestive effects, as well as
adding to the sense of thematic wholeness. Now, not everyone will use these jugglers,
I know, which is fine. But when planning your performance, please understand their
function, and try to replace them with something corresponding of your own. One
final point, the ring of torches round the site defines and creates your performance
space. There is the pool of light, and the black void beyond. Powerful stuff.

The ‘cup and ring marks’ are ubiquitous in my native Britain, and any fellow Brits
wanting to perform this in an authentic setting will be able to find suitable locations.
Rock art itself appears globally, in various forms. There’s nothing to stop you using
your own local brand of Neolithic art, and tailoring the routine appropriately. If you
can’t find anything near-by, but still want to work ‘authentically’, then why not make
something? Find a cave, get out your paints, and create your own Lascaux. Or if you
want to work nearer to home, then get a large flat stone carved appropriately, and put
it into a shady part of your garden. At a push, you could even paint or draw something
on a piece of wood or card. But whatever you use, please try to keep that sense of
arrival, that sense of stepping through a gate into someplace strange. This is not, as it
stands, a routine for table-hopping (although I do perform the ‘lines moving’
sequence in just such workaday situations).

If at all possible, I urge you to keep and use the drummer. He or she will greatly
enhance the mood of your presentation. Initially, the music helps to establish a sense
that something special is happening. But later, the rhythm is used to help Rachel relax
- it mirrors her breathing, to which you have matched your own. The drum’s slowing
tap calms everybody down, and prepares your guests, physiologically and
psychologically, for what is to follow. And, of course, in the ‘hunt’ sequence the
beating drum provides a thousand sound effects, and drives on the stampeding drama.
I should add that didgeridoos also can be used to good effect here. As a matter of fact,
in Aboriginal society these ancient instruments are used to tell stories by themselves;
each toot, wah, and squeak represents a different animal, person, or thing. So their
skilled use in this routine would be both apposite and powerful.
As for the ‘lines moving’, well this is effected, primarily, through linguistic
suggestion, as in Luke Jermay’s effect A Twisted Palm. You will find extensive notes
on this in his excellent book 7 Deceptions. See also the work of Kenton Knepper.
Briefly, you use language in such a way as to occupy Rachel’s conscious mind, while
your suggestions directly access her unconscious mind and its resources. Put simply,
you empower Rachel to dream while she is still awake. Now if this is to work, then
your suggestions must be indirect (‘while you become aware’; ‘you can imagine
them’).Think of such linguistic chicanery as encouragement, rather than injunction.
Further to this, your words are ambiguous. (‘You see what I mean’ - does ‘see’ mean
here ‘perceive by the eye’, ‘understand’, or ‘imagine’? Perhaps it contains all these
meanings?) Syntax and punctuation are also puzzling and equivocal. (‘How much is
the rock is becoming plastic’ is not a typo. Similarly, do you say ‘chasing its own tail’
or ‘tell me’?) All this artful vagueness allows Rachel to find/make her own meanings,
and construct/experience her own reality. In addition, you have hidden simple
messages (embedded commands) that work directly on Rachel’s unconscious mind.
These words (found in bold type) are spoken at a different volume and/or tone. This is
done subtly; slightly turning the head, so that the embedded commands come from a
different direction, will often be sufficient. And finally, and perhaps most important
of all, your manner is confident and persuasively assured.

Also to these ‘wonder words’, I have added one or two theatrical subtleties, which
you may find helpful. Firstly, the flickering light of the torches automatically creates a
sense of movement, even before you plant your suggestions. Shadows scutter and
deep grooves twitch, all because of the changing light, and this really does help to get
things started. (Please note that all the suggestion effects in this book use such
‘Convincers’.) Secondly, as we have seen, the fire-juggling helps to establish a
memorable visual pattern, to which your guests can, and will, refer. Finally, there is
the business of people sitting down when they, too, see the lines move. Now, not only
does this theatrical device enable everybody to see exactly when the other guests are
experiencing the visual distortion, but also the sight of people sitting down, itself acts
as a suggestion. ‘Oh, they’re seeing it,’ people think. ‘Perhaps I can see it, too.’ Also,
through peer pressure, people will sit down even when they see no effect. Who wants
to be the last person standing, when all their friends are sitting down? Therefore, this
business of standing then sitting, although it sounds incidental, is actually part of the
method and theatre. So I suggest that you keep it. Think of it as being like little effects
happening spontaneously throughout your audience.

Now for the memory induction. Well, it’s our old friend dual reality, combined with a
force. The shaman bag is filled with many varied objects, each of which has a label.
These labels lend the fetish objects an air of academic authenticity, so treat them with
according care. Now, on the tags of the two objects you hand out for general
inspection, namely the feather and the amber, there are large numbers (each different),
as if part of a cataloguing system. Also on these labels, in smaller type, is the phrase
‘From the Pitts Rivers collection, Oxford’ or something similar. However, on the
numbered label of every other object in the bag, instead of this ‘From the Pitt Rivers
collection’ phrase, are the words ‘Induces the memory of hunting mammoths in the
rain’. Therefore, when Rachel privately chooses one of these objects, so the force is
set. But your other guests, who know only of the ‘Pitt Rivers’ phrase, suspect nothing.

If you look closely at the language used in this routine, you will observe that it is
ambiguous, especially the phrase ‘your memory’. To the volunteer, this phrase means
the particular group of words that she read on the label - i.e. a specific memory, of
hunting mammoths in the rain. To everybody else, however, ‘your memory’ seems to
refer to Rachel’s general memory - in this instance, the vast collection of primitive
brain experiences from which she appears to recall the mammoth hunt. Now because
Rachel has seen other spectators freely handling the fetish objects (i.e. the feather and
the amber, which she herself never touches), then she reasonably assumes that there
are ‘Induces the memory’ phrases on all the labels, and, also, that all these memory
phrases are different. Therefore, the trick, as it appears to her, is simply a divination,
with you using your magical skills to determine the particular object that she chose.
However, and this is where the dual reality comes in, to your other guests (who know
nothing about this ‘Induces the memory’ phrase) it appears as if you step
miraculously into Rachel’s mind, and experience the specific memory awoken
therein. Either that, or Rachel is a stooge, and you can’t have kept a stooge hidden all
day.

Finally, let us examine the most powerful part of this routine, namely your graphic
re-creation of the memory itself. Now the effect you’re trying to create here is not
some flashy revelation of a divined thought. Rather, your goal is to evoke the hunting
memory so vividly, so intensely, that Rachel and your other guests will experience it
in some very real way. So thrillingly, so convincingly do you act out this remembered
scene, that it will appear, to at least some of your guests, that you have triggered
something deep and primitive inside them - a tribal memory that had, up to now, lain
dormant. This, then, is really the magic of Hunting Mammoths in the Rain - this
theatrical induction of an elemental state. Rachel’s confirmation of the mind-reading
‘hit’ at the end, is merely the fat on an already meaty and succulent kill.

But how to do this? Well, firstly, the location is tremendously evocative. It has a
theatrical power all of its own. And we will return to this idea of al fresco magic,
again and again in this book. There is a timeless, tingling wonder to star-light, that
60-watt bulbs fail singularly to match. Secondly, you have already established that
magical things can, and do happen. The entire day has been a trek through various
realms of enchantment and delight. Disbelief has long been suspended, and your
guests are now following your ‘script’. Thirdly, you have progressively narrowed the
focus of your spectators, so that, by the end, all that remains for them are your words,
and the feelings and pictures they evoke. The blinding torches, the mind-lulling
drumming, even the structure of the routine, all have helped to concentrate the
attention of your guests and attune them to your world. Finally, the language of the
chase sequence is designed to draw people inexorably in. For example, the subtle
shifting of first person singular to first person plural, turns what seems to be a
personal experience, into a communal one. As with the visual distortion, so everybody
is included, until finally your guests lose themselves, and run as one with the roaring
pack. I should add that such sly use of language is another of this book’s recurring
themes. Words themselves can be wands.

Final thoughts:

There is something deeply persuasive about ambitions which carry the weight of their
convictions. This perhaps is the real secret to Hunting Mammoths in the Rain. After
all, who but a mad fool would lead a group up a hill in the middle of the night, if he or
she were not certain of success? Truly, the reality we define is the one, ultimately, we
create.

This, then, is our purpose in this book - to explore the hinterland of wonder. Those
places where the familiar tracks fade, and the land becomes wild and strange. As
such, The Garden of the Strange will not be to every magician’s taste. But if you find
yourself still with me, my fellow travellers, then let us steel ourselves for the journey,
as we take our first few curious steps.

In your hands

In short:

A client’s question is answered in stunning symbolic fashion during a tarot reading.

Presentation:

The following effect can be used occasionally to intensify the impact of a reading. I
will assume that you are familiar with the art of cold reading, and possess the requisite
skills. I must warn you, however, that this is strong stuff. The staging and the
suggestions combine to create a powerful psychological effect. And with power
comes responsibility.

You begin by asking your client if she has a particular question or problem that she
would like to explore? You listen closely to her reply, and then say, ‘I believe that the
tarot is a way of getting in touch with our intuition. Both yours and mine. The
symbols on these cards release sources of energy from deep within the unconscious.
By working together, we can tap this energy, and through collaboration, solutions will
present themselves. The answers are in your hands.’ As you say these final words,
you place the pack into her hands, with a little squeeze, and then get her to cut the
cards.

The reading proceeds as normal, though you take care to work in the following
phrases:

‘Solutions will present themselves.’

‘I can see that you’re a resilient person. Whatever materializes, you will use your
intuition to do what’s best for you.’
‘Though it may take some time, the answers will come to you.’
‘I see meaning manifesting itself in many things for you.’
‘Out of thin air.’
‘Strikes you.’
‘Out of the blue.’

You also encourage the client to examine her cards, and explore their symbolism for
herself. What do the images mean to her? What resonates? What sheds light? What
simply feels right?

As your reading draws to a close, you say, ‘Listen. If you’d like, we can try something
special. A psychological technique that might ring bells, and help you to listen more
closely to your intuition. Okay?’ She agrees. And so, on a beautiful sheet of
hand-made paper, you slowly draw a large circle. ‘This is your sub-conscious,’ you
say, ‘a vast, expansive place. This line is no more of a boundary than the horizon.’

You give her the pen, and then say, ‘Relax. Listen to the sound of my voice, and
relax. Your conscious mind is growing quiet...quiet. Now, I want you to tap the nib of
the pen onto the paper, like this.’ Illustrate with your finger. ‘Listen to the sound it
makes. Tap. Tap. Softer now. Almost inaudible. Like the first pitter patter of rain on a
tent. Tap. Tap. Hush. Hush. Becoming even more quiet. Only the sound of the rain.
Only the sound of the rain.’

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a delicate blue butterfly brooch appears on the table.
Remarkably, it seems to symbolically answer the client’s question. She is very
shocked. You watch her for a long time, quiet and still. Then moving very slowly, not
daring to break the spell, you wrap up this fine object in the sheet of paper. Then, with
an encouraging nod, you place this parcel into her hands and squeeze. ‘The answer’s
in your hands,’ you smile. ‘But...’ she begins. ‘Present’, you say, squeezing her hands
again. And you leave this precious gift with her, so that its meaning can flutter lightly
in her heart.

Details:

Before we look at the psychological complexities of this routine, I will first explain its
simple mechanics. When you reach into your pocket for the pen, you finger palm the
object to be materialized. This object is still palmed in the pen hand when you draw
the circle, and remains there when you place the pen down. This quietly suggests that
the hand is empty. As the client relaxes and looks down at the paper, you place the
object on the top of your head, as you smooth down your hair. You have already
performed this action several times, so that it now appears natural and familiar. As the
client listens to the pen tapping, you very slowly tilt your head forward, letting the
object drop to the table. It is important not to appear to move immediately before the
object materializes. Also, I suggest that you have something soft and yielding
underneath the paper, so that the object doesn’t bounce or damage the table. This
production method reads poorly, I know, and seems unfeasible, but there are several
things working in its favour. Firstly, the materialization is done in the context of a
reading. Trickery is not expected. Secondly, the client is focusing all of her attention
down onto the paper. She should not be looking at you. Thirdly, the lighting for the
reading is atmospheric (read dim), coming from a lamp on the table. The cards, and
both your faces, are well lit, but the top of your head is in shadow.

In addition, the language you use greatly enhances the effect of the object’s arrival.
Those little words you included such as ‘materialize, manifest, out of thin air, present,
strikes you, etc.’, work together to create a sub-conscious impression. As with all
suggestions, they should be gently emphasised through voice and gesture. Please note,
however, that you’re not trying to ‘tip’ the effect here, and expose what’s about to
occur. Rather, you’re conditioning the spectator to see things in a particular way when
your magic happens. Sure, in actuality, the object simply falls off your head; but the
implanted words define a very different reality. The brooch really does appear to
‘materialize...out of thin air’. Now this principle, of enhancing the reality of a
particular effect through prior suggestion, is rather useful. With a bit of thought and
linguistic subtlety we can transform many of our present routines. One further point,
scatter these operative words throughout your reading, to maximise their suggestive
effect.

Language use also helps to create the impression that the object is a symbolic answer
to her question (‘solutions present themselves...the answer is in your hands’ etc.).
Once again you are conditioning the client to view events in a particular way. Phrases
such as ‘meaning manifesting itself, the answer will come to you’ help to associate
the object with the word ‘answer’. Also, and importantly, you have constantly
encouraged the client to search for her own meanings - to think symbolically. Indeed,
the very nature of tarot cards, rich as they are in imagery, further encourages the
interpretive approach. So when yet another symbol appears, this time in the shape of
the object, your client is conditioned to understand it imaginatively, and she conducts
a transderivational search.

Let me say that I think that this kind of encouraged collaborative interpretation, is a
therapeutically sound approach for readings in general. One of the reasons cold
readings work is that people have a tendency to look for correspondences between the
stuff in their lives and the words that the reader says. By urging the client to make her
own interpretation of the cards, you are simply taking this one stage further, and
enabling her to take responsibility for the reading and its consequences.

The central aim of the routine is to encourage the client to use her own intuition and
wisdom in searching for answers. Several things work to this end. Firstly, the state of
shock she experiences when the apport arrives is conducive to intuitive thinking. Her
rational mind is stopped, and she is more receptive to the messages of her
sub-conscious. Secondly, this intuitive state is directly associated, anchored if you
will, with and to the object itself. At the end of the reading you say, ‘The answer is in
your hands,’ as you squeeze her hand. Amongst other things, this squeeze helps to
anchor the intuitive state to the object. When she handles it again, the intuitive state
will be re-triggered.

The sheet of paper also has a psychological part to play. It represents the client’s
unconscious, and it is here that the object materializes. This implies that the brooch,
too, rose from the depths of her unconscious. And this connection is reinforced when
you wrap the object up in the paper. This charming gift, therefore, is a ‘present’,
which, in turn, is a sly echo of the earlier phrase ‘solutions will present themselves’.
The brooch is the client’s solution.

The final factor here is the relaxation exercise. This induces the feeling that
‘something is happening’. NLP practitioners can modify their language use to favour
the preferred representational system of the client, to increase the level of relaxation.
As you may have noticed, I’m an auditory kind of guy.

The object itself must be chosen with care. It must be something into which meaning
can be invested, and from which it can be taken. An archetype, if you will, that
answers the client’s question symbolically, rather than literally. And as the object is,
in effect, a gift, something that the client may treasure for a very long time, it is only
proper that it is attractive and worthy of being cherished. I generally use pebbles,
sea-sleek and smooth, on which I’ve drawn (in gold relief-paint) natural shapes, such
as birds, fish, or leaves. These simple stones are quick and inexpensive to make, and,
once varnished, look rather attractive. I should add that they also make excellent ‘cup
and ring marks’, if so decorated, for candlelit close-up performances of the Hunting
Mammoths in the Rain ‘lines-moving’ effect.

Final thoughts:

There is a lot happening in this little effect, and it all serves to maximise the
emotional impact of the routine. Ultimately, the gift is precious because it symbolizes
a process. The process of reaching down into the self to find one’s own answers. And
pretty though the brooch may be, it is what this token represents that makes it truly
magical for the client.

The Collector
In short:

A story about collecting.

Presentation:

You are seated at a table with your audience, and you courteously ask them if they
would like to hear a story. They would. This is what you say:

‘There were two men on a train - a man and another - watching the world slip
smearily past the window, like ice off a new shovel. Now, the man was a punctilious
clerk, with a filing cabinet for a soul; unimaginative and officious, his little life was
ordered in neat and ledgered rows. Yet, it was with a certain pride, and shy joy, that
he removed some various pictures from his case.’
(You spread a good two dozen photographs on the table, for all to see.)
‘“That’s an interesting collection,” said the other. “May I?”
“Please do.”’
(You gesture over the photographs, and the spectators begin to examine them. As
each picture is lifted, you explain, conspiratorially, in the character of the clerk, what
they are.)
‘“Edith Brown, at The Elms Nursing Home. Died six hours later. Last known
photograph.”
“Barry Graham, service station CCTV. Rolled his car on an icy road and was killed,
just ten minutes after this was taken. Last known photograph.”
“The Robinson family, waiting to board, at the airport. Plane crashed on take off. All
killed. Last known photograph.”
“Hmm,” sighed the other, sadly. “So this is what you collect? Last known
photographs?”
“I expect you think I’m weird,” said the man, “but I’m interested in death. How it
approaches us. Aren’t you?”
“I’m interested in how people approach it,” said the other. And the train clattered on.
“You have an extensive collection,” said the other. “It must be difficult obtaining such
items.”
“Erm...yes,” said the man.
“It would be wrong, of course, if you haunted hospitals, to take pictures of the dying.
Or lifted the bruised cameras of the dead from accident scenes. Or even, in the guise
of a policeman, sipped tea with the grieving, and pilfered those treasured last snaps.
That would be wrong.”
“Terribly,” said the man, and he grew quiet. The train crossed points with a sudden
jolt.’
(Now you examine some blurry enlargements of eyes.)
‘“And these are..?”
“Oh,” said the man. “I thought if I zoomed in on the face, then I might catch a
glimpse of death. You know, reflected in the eyes.”
“And did you?”
“No,” said the man, sadly. “I don’t think so.”
“Of course,” said the other, “some say that, at the point of death, life falls away in
flakes, like a quiet snow, until all you see is a drifted white - a vast tundra of nothing.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” said the man, and he shivered. The compartment was rather cold
today.’
(Rather impertinently, as the other, you reach into the man’s case, and remove a small
wallet of blank photographs.)
‘“What are these?” asked the other. “They don’t seem part of your collection.”
“Please be careful,” said the man, uncomfortably. “Don’t get them mixed up. They
didn’t come out.”
“Ah, I see. May I?” And with the languid grace of one who has spent long years
playing patience (solitaire) by a mirror, the other slowly laid them down on the table.’
(You have been mixing and turning over the five blank cards, then dealing them in a
row, during the last three exchanges.)
‘“Shall we play?” said the other, urbanely. Again, the carriage jolted. Distractedly, the
man turned over the first picture.’
(You act surprised. It’s a photograph of people getting onto a big red train.)
‘“Beautiful, isn’t she?” said the other.
“That’s this train..,”
“Yes,” he smiled. “I thought you might like it for your collection.”
The little clerk stared down at the pictures.’
(You stare, then suddenly shiver. Fearfully, you turn over the next blank card. It’s a
picture of a man getting onto the red train, a selective enlargement of the first.)
‘“That’s me,” said the man, and his icicle-long fingers trembled.’
(In the character of the clerk, you turn over the next two ‘blanks’: zoomed-in pictures
of the man’s face, then only his eyes. One card remains.)
‘“It’s time,” said the other.
And, with quiet dread, the man reached across to the final picture, and turned it over.
Cold, blank, pitiless. Like a quiet snow.
“All you see is a drifted white,” said the other, and he stood up.
The man made to speak, but the words popped empty, like bubbles on his lips.
The other elegantly adjusted his hair.
“You see, I, too, am a collector,” he smiled, and the big red train screamed into the
final bend.’

Details:

It would be easy to dismiss this as a simple packet trick, given a hokey bizarre
treatment, but let me share some of my thoughts about this routine.

First of all, I must say that I’m a great believer in the power of stories, and I tell them
often in performance. The right one, told at the right time and place, can have a
therapeutic, even enlightening effect on an audience. Told well, they lend your work a
certain depth and charm. Stories can also be used to transform a ‘small’ act. Table
hoppers can transport people to places beyond the budget of even the wealthiest
illusionists, and a one-person show can become peopled with a cast of thousands.

Of course, as Peter Marucci has asserted, it is essential that the stories we use are
strong enough to be told without a magical effect. Too often, I believe, we work
backwards from an established effect, trying to fit the story to the magic, rather than
the magic to the story. The tale we tell should be our starting point. And, if we dare
not tell it in our show without the safety-net of some magic, then we should, perhaps,
find a stronger and more appealing story.

Once you have your story, then it’s a case of letting the magic grow organically from
its rich soil. In The Collector, the packet trick ending arises from the story. It is
thematically consistent with the story, and does not ‘play’ as tagged on. The
sequential turning of the cards, and the progressively closer ‘close-ups’, are given
power and meaning by the rest of the story. Even the final blank card, which in a
standard ‘printing’ effect would have to be palmed off, or explained away, becomes
an effect itself, because of the details of the story.

Stories can also have powerful suggestive effects by themselves. They can make us
laugh. They can make us cry. And, in this case, they can make us feel the chill of fear.
These responses are entertaining by themselves, but, as magicians, we can subtly
re-interpret them, to create new effects. The above story is a ‘chiller’. Audiences
shiver at the ending. By making the odd suggestive use of ‘cold’ imagery, we not only
increase this feeling, but we also subtly connect it to the blank card. The chill the
audience feels becomes the chill of the vast tundra of nothing. Of death itself. This is
not, necessarily, understood consciously, but it does have a deep impact. And so some
members of your audience will feel the temperature drop markedly, and even claim
that the blank picture is deathly cold. Of course, additional suggestions can increase
these sensations.

It is important, I believe, to think of story telling as a performance, and not just a

recital. In spinning the yarn, you discretely assume the protagonists’ personalities,
both in use of voice and body. For instance, my ‘other’ character in this routine is
urbane and refined: a cross between Boris Karloff and James Mason. This should be
done delicately, with subtlety; you should not sound schizophrenic or possessed! But
if artfully performed, the 3 to 4 minutes spent telling this story will be deeply
satisfying, both for your audience and for yourself.

The pictures themselves are a collection of blurry, and not so blurry, candid shots of
people getting onto trains, lying in bed, waiting in airports, and so on. CCTV images
can be faked from scanned photos, in a simple computer art package. Keep a camera
with you, and snap what seems useable. You will have fun creating the 20-30 images
you need. The ‘printed’ pictures at the end of the routine need to be more carefully
staged. Photograph a friend getting onto a train. On the computer, create the
‘zoomed-in’ enlargements, and print them out onto good quality photo grade card,
leaving the back blank. Make a matching double-blank card. I suggest you use a
landscape orientation, 3 inches by 5, and leave a small white border around the
pictures. The simple ‘sideways’ sleights allow for this larger size.

The packet trick portion of the routine is simplicity itself. If you are unfamiliar with
the sleights used, refer to Jerry Mentzer’s Counts, Cuts, Moves and Subtlety for
further details. The packet is assembled beforehand, as follows:

Double blank at the bottom, then on this ‘card’ place the final zoomed-in photograph
of the eyes, picture side down. Then the enlargement of the face, again picture side
down. Then the enlargement of the man getting into the train, face down, and, on top
of the packet, the general picture of the big red train, picture side down again. Order
from the top is 1, 2, 3, 4, double blank.

As the ‘other’ character in the story languidly examines the blank pieces of
photo-stock card (referred to, from hereon, as ‘cards’), you perform the following
moves:

1. Holding the packet from above (Biddle grip) in the right hand, you turn that hand
face up, to show the face of the bottom, blank card. Turn the right hand palm down,
and take the top card into the left palm, with the left thumb. This is, of course, Brother
Hamman’s Flushtration move.

2. Repeat the Flushtration move, bringing the new top card in the right hand into the
left, with the thumb, so that you are left with two face down cards in the left hand.
Card 2 on top of card 1.

3. Turn the right hand palm up, and put these cards under those in the left hand. Flip
this left hand packet over.

4. Take the cards in the right hand, from above (Biddle grip), and with the left thumb,
remove the top card face down into the left palm. Repeat this action with the next
right hand card. Then, as you go to repeat this action a third time, as the two cards in
the left hand go under the three in the right, at the same time as you grip the left hand
packet with the right hand fingers and thumb (Biddle grip) leaving it in the right hand,
your left thumb removes the packet of three cards in the right hand as one, into the left
hand. This should appear that you simply thumbed off another card into the left hand.
Actually, the two hands secretly swapped their respective cards. Thumb off the
remaining two right hand cards into the left, one at a time. This is of course, the
Hamman Count.

5. Flip over the packet and repeat the Hamman Count.

6. Repeat steps 1, 2, and 3. The cards will be left in their original order, and can be
dealt face down on to the table, ready for the finish.

Do not make a big thing out of showing the photo cards blank. Be consistent with the
story and its characters. You are not doing a trick. You are Death, patiently mixing the
cards, playing your suave game. Remember, these are blank pieces of photo-stock
card, left over from printing. Not playing cards with pictures on them. So, size and
handle them accordingly.

Final thoughts:

Oftentimes, when you scatter a story over an audience like this, things will root and
grow. It is important that you allow your guests time and space for this to happen. So,
be quiet and still, and wait for their response. Occasionally, you will find that it feels
appropriate to tell another story. In performance, I sometimes follow The Collector
with this ancient tale:

One morning, in Small Town, a servant was out shopping in the market, when he saw
the bony figure of Death. To the servant’s horror, Death pursued him through the
stalls, and it was only with luck and cunning that the servant eluded him, and returned
home. Breathlessly, he told his master all that had happened, and the master said,
‘You are a loyal and faithful servant. It pains me to think of Death hunting you in this
manner. Go, take my finest horse, and hurry away to the Big City, where you can
more easily hide.’ And so, with immense gratitude, the servant thanked his master,
and did exactly as he said. He reached the tall gates of Big City, just as the sun set.

Now, the master was greatly annoyed to lose his finest servant, and his finest horse, in
this manner, and so, late in the afternoon, he went to the market, to give Death a piece
of his mind. He found the bony figure sipping tea.
‘Who are you,’ began the master, ‘to terrorise the hard-working servant of a
respectable man? Tell me, what did you think you were doing, chasing the poor
wretch through the market like that, and sending him mad with fear?’
‘Forgive me,’ said Death, politely. ‘It was not my intention to frighten your servant. I
only wanted to ask him what he was doing here in Small Town, when I have an
appointment with him, this very evening, in Big City...’

I’ll take your hand, my love, and we’ll remember

In short:

An elderly lady feels young again, and mistily dreams of her first sweetheart.

Presentation:

I developed this routine at a time when I was working frequently in residential and
nursing homes. As such, it is written to be performed for women of a certain age, but
you may find some of its ideas more broadly useful. I apologise to all female
magicians at this point. This routine can be performed by women for men.
Unfortunately, as you will see, the rhythm of the language used in the routine is very
important, and I was not able to maintain the poetic effect when I used inclusive
language. That is entirely my failing, and I apologise.

You have established an atmosphere of trust and gentle respect. To further this
intimate mood, you light a candle, and then ask a more senior member of your
audience (Martha) if she would like to help you with something special. She agrees.
You ask her to relax, and to think of the name of her first sweetheart. She smiles
dreamily, and then secretly writes this name down (William). And slowly, gently, you
ask her to reach back to that magical time, when the world was new, and the sap of
youth filled her bones. She listens to your voice, only to your voice, and the joys and
the pains of her long life since fall away, and she is young once again. And then,
looking within yourself, as if at a picture of her memory, in a rich firm voice you
slowly say:

‘It has been a beautiful summer’s day, full of warmth, and sounds, and richness. You
have danced under branches heavy with scented fruit, and sprawled through the hours,
the sultry hours, with your limbs long, and supple, and new. But now, at last, the long
day is burning into night, and an evening spiced with whispers, and murmurs, and
breezes.’
(You hold Martha’s hand.)
‘Once again, he is with you, your sweetheart, this gorgeous hunk of loveliness,
holding your soft hand as you walk through the fields. The grass is cool and fresh, and
it tickles your toes. And with every step you can feel the warm sap of life coursing
through your veins. You laugh, and with a sly silvery smile in your voice, you say,
“Now where do you think you’re taking me, my handsome one?”
And he laughs his deep laugh, and squeezes your hand in his strong, hot fingers, and
says, “To a secret place, my love, to a secret place.” You sigh, and close your eyes,
and let him walk you down through the shimmering air. And you listen to the dusk,
and the zephyrs in the trees - the lips of the evening as they mutter and hum.’
(With your free hand, you have encouraged her eyes to close.)

‘You stop, and he says, “We are here, my love, we are here. Open your eyes.” So you
look, and your heart melts at the lovely thing that you see. For there, on the bark of a
towering tree, is a heart, freshly cut, and two wonderful names: yours and his.’
(She has opened her eyes.)

‘You look at him, and he smiles, and you reach out to the bark, and touch. And with
the flat of your hand, you trace the tender lines he has carved.’
(You place you hand flat against hers, palm to palm, fingers pointing upwards, and
you move it slowly, in circles, as if feeling the tree.)
‘The knots, and the loops, and the swirls of love. And you think to yourself:
“When I am old and grey and full of sleep,
And you my love beneath the clayey ground,
This little love will yet remain.
This moment’s summer shall not fade.
In wind and snow, in storm and rain,
In death, here yet will the stand the names,
Martha and... William.”

‘And through blurry, joyous eyes, you see him turn his lovely face to yours, and the
warm night lives with a thousand voices.’

You look for a long time into Martha’s eyes, really looking - seeing the young
delightful woman inside them still. And together you smile. And she tells you all
about William, and how lovely he was.
Details:

Once again, a story is used to transform a very simple effect. As with Hunting
Mammoths in the Rain, the story seems to externalise an internal process, though in
this routine, the memories you evoke are far more personal. In essence, we are telling
stories about the lives of members of our audience. I believe that this is not only
entertaining, but that it can also be therapeutic and energising. Especially if we find
the right story.

People, generally, have a tendency to self-mythologize. In this routine, we are merely

encouraging this process, by blurring the boundary between actual memory and
fantasy. When we tell the spectator, ‘You do this... you say that,’ we define a present
moment, an experience in the now, a guided fantasy. Yet, at the same time, these
moments are also experienced (by Martha) as a kind of perfect memory. How her
memory should be.

At the very worst, Martha experiences the story as a very pleasant guided fantasy. We
very attentively spend some time with her, and help her dream. For a few delightful
moments, she feels young and glamorous again.

However, I’ve found that, more usually, Martha experiences the story as a real
memory. This moment, carving the names on a tree, is a very common memory for
people of a certain age. When we tell the story, we cold read, and alter the details
slightly, to match Martha’s particular memory. The field can become a park, and so
on. However, something more subtle can happen here. Because of this tendency to
self-mythologize, and the malleability of memory, if there was actually no such tree in
Martha’s life, then there is every chance, during the effect, that she will believe that
there was. We direct her internal experience with the story. It becomes real. Fantasy
and memory merge.

Of course, for the rest of the audience, it appears that you do actually read Martha’s
memory. She is obviously experiencing something special, something real, and she
does not contradict you, because of the language you use. We do not confront her, and
say, ‘This is what happened. I’m reading your mind.’ But our actions do suggest that a
connection is made. At first, we ‘go within’, and speak hesitantly, choosing our words
carefully, with great precision. However, in time, we become so in tune with Martha
and her experience, that the words tumble out of us easily and joyfully. It comes to
seem that the language is so romantic and poetic, precisely because we are describing
her actual, beautiful, and present experience.

Please note that artful language use is very important in this routine. The rhythm of
the words is lulling and hypnotic. This helps Martha to relax, and it helps to induce
the internal experience of the story. Also, of course, the ‘purple’ prose suits the
romantic nature of the memory we’re trying to invoke. However, it is important that
we say the words in the correct manner. The voice should be rich and firm, yet
calming and tender. Read the story out loud a few times, and get a feel for it. Taken as
a whole, the romantic story and the richness of poetry and rhythm, are very evocative
and suggestive. They have a powerful effect. When I’ve performed this routine,
people have often looked younger, somehow.
In addition, there is an intimacy and tenderness to this routine that requires us to
behave accordingly. We work to establish rapport, and we enhance the effect by
squeezing Martha’s hand and looking into her eyes. The touching and the eye-contact,
the attentiveness and the listening, combined with the classic courtship rituals of open
palms and upturned wrists, make this a potent and dangerous mix. I hesitate to use the
word ‘sexual’, but I do not know how else to describe it. A well-meaning intimacy: a
humanity, but with decidedly romantic overtones. So, above all, we must treat Martha
with the utmost respect. If we are not comfortable briefly becoming her surrogate
beau; if we are condescending and patronising; if we do not truly want to make her
happy; if we are not interested in her very precious thoughts; if all we want to do is
show off, then we leave this well alone.

Before you launch into the story, it is important to establish several things. Firstly,
that this sweetheart memory is happy. We do not want to open up old psychological
wounds. Secondly, we must find out if Martha is happy with us prying into her
memory like this; this is sharing, not prurience. She must also be comfortable with us
revealing her beau’s name. Finally, we should avoid making assumptions as to the
gender of the sweetheart. Listen to the pro-nouns Martha uses. And avoid specifics,
until you know.

As for technical method, well we use our favourite billet read. I recommend Richard
Busch’s work Peek Performances for excellent examples. Of course, if the routine is
performed for Martha alone, with no other spectators, then when she closes her eyes
during the effect, there is nothing to stop us from boldly reading the name, while she
cannot see. I’m with Corinda on this. Being clever for the sake of it, is usually stupid.

Final thoughts:

Some people will be thinking, ‘Now, how often do I work for women of a certain age,
and do they tip anyway?’ And many would have reached for the weed-killer, when
they read all that flowery prose. However, I believe that this principle, of telling
stories about our spectators, so as to increase the emotional and psychological impact
of an effect, is very useful. There is a temptation, when we do a billet read, to place
great emphasis on the information that we secretly obtain. All those hours of reading
and practice deserve some recognition, after all. However, in this routine, I have often
found that Martha expresses no great surprise when I reveal William’s name. Why
should she? Of course I know his name. I’ve told her everything else about this lovely
man! Observers are more impressed by the name revelation, but for Martha, it is so
congruent with everything else she has felt, that it comes as no great surprise.

No. This is not a simple billet read. If I had to describe it to Martha before we began,
I’d say, ‘I’ll take your hand, my love, and we’ll remember.’

Stepping as through a waterfall

Effect:

A borrowed coin bends, and then melts visibly away, as you relate a chilling story.
Performance:

(You are performing by the light of an old hurricane lamp, spinning yarns. On the
table, before you, is an ancient, battered log book, and a sea-stained chart of the North
Cape. You run your hands over these objects, coming to rest on the map. You pause,
and then begin your salty tale:)

‘The sea. The fathomless sea. Something about it. Something beyond us, unreachable,
like the horizon. Yet always enticing, that steers us forwards like a sinking star. The
ballad of the brawling sea - the shanty of the blackening sky.

‘And my very favourite nautical tale concerns the old good ship The Xanadu, and her
gentle captain, Mr. William Joseph Spenser. This is his log.’

(You open it. As well as charts, figures, and its daily round of entries, this log
contains old sepia-tinted photographs of the good captain and his ship. You pass them
round for inspection.)

‘The captain, Captain Spenser, was a salt long-seasoned, as ancient and worn as his
ship. Like her, he was stained to the heart by the typhoons and calms of all the five
oceans. But his eyes were still sharp, and his fine mind sparkled like a blue pebble in
a silver stream.

‘So, imagine...imagine it is 1898 and spring: a spring that has come cold, and late, and
with little grace. The Xanadu is working north, from Hull, with a cargo of coal, bound
for Archangel and the Barents Sea. At first, the journey is uneventful, and Spenser’s
log deals mainly with the weather.’
(You begin to read from the log’s yellowing pages:)
‘“May the 10th, and the sky is building patiently, stone on stone. Sea as dark as
grapes.”
And the next day, by a tallow dip, he writes:
“Wednesday, and the weather up. Sea explodes on the prow.”

‘For the next week, the storm lashes the little ship savagely. The men grow quiet and
sullen. But the experienced captain clutches the weather-rail grimly, and gamely holds
the course. About him, the North Sea rages. The great waves spout upwards, and
collapse down onto the deck as a pounding slaver. The Xanadu judders, and at times
seems to quite vanish under this frenzied slaver. But she has known worse, and
always she writhes back into sight, and ploughs doggedly on.

‘At the end of the week, the weather breaks, and there are three days of livid calm,
with the sky all silver and olive. But then something unexpected happens, to make the
good captain write his next log entry in an altogether more deliberate hand:
“Oh God, we are all mad! All of us mad.
Shaken by terror like...like a toy in the hands of a furious child.”’

(You start to move your hands above the map.)

‘Let us pause. As you can see, this is a map of those notorious waters, off the North
Cape, where strangeness happens, where the sea bends... in these coiling lines, it is
said, ships warp and twist, and the sea buckles in these coiling lines. And men, good
men, are lost - melted clean away. Now, such is the Barents Sea.’

(Some of the spectators see the whirling contours of the chart start to swirl and twine.)

‘Interesting. Very interesting,’ you say. You borrow a coin, and place it deliberately
in the centre of this whirlpool. ‘The Xanadu,’ you say, meaning the coin. You turn a
page in the log, and continue in Spenser’s voice.

‘“At first we feared madness,” he writes. “Some vapoured coinage of the brain.
Reality crumbles in these waters. The universe itself is unhinged. But we are not
grown mad, and, by Christ, I swear we have seen, every man, these wondrous and
fantastic things. It started with the sea. The flat shape of the sea. I can barely describe
it, but it reels and gibbers. The water round us clays and oozes like a restless tar. And
to see it churns a sailor’s heart. Then last night, last awful night, as I stood on the
poop deck, ranging for north, I looked up, and my God, I do declare, I failed to find a
single friendly star. I have sailed around the world a damn dozen times, and I know
the constellations like a poem, but I swear to God, the heavens here are full of the
strangest shapes. It is not a human sky! The vast canopy bulges and crumples. The
stars deform and slew.”’

(You pick up the coin, and hold it at your finger tips. Slowly, very slowly, it starts to
visibly bend, as you continue with the log:)

‘“Today, this palsied madness reached my ship. Inch by slow inch, plank by plank,
she wilted. Stem to stern, twisting, kinking, warping. Folding over unhurriedly, like a
dropped knife through molasses. The Xanadu is lost.”’
(The coin, now completely wilted, drops to the table.)
‘“We cannot stay anchored here; the ship will be gone by morning. So I am decided.
Tonight, we will take the longboat, and make a dash for freedom. Let us cross this
coalescence, or let us perish and disperse. May God protect us all! Captain William
Joseph Spenser, 23rd May 1898.”

‘The Xanadu was found later that year, trapped in the ice off Kanin. Her long boat
gone, and her cabins empty. She was horribly distorted, her stout beams plaited like
soft willow. No man who saw her blamed this twisting on the ice. And yet, at the
subsequent enquiry, the coroner concluded that the captain and his crew had been
seeing visions. This, at least, seemed clear from Spenser’s log. Every man made
shiveringly mad by some unknown and terrible illness. And there, for eighty diffident
years, the matter rested.

‘But just when the water seems settled and clear, and the shelf paddle-shallow and
smooth, then along can come something that sheers and plunges, and leaves us
groundless, teetering on the edge of an abyss.’

(You pick up the coin, and handle it loosely, as you say this. Still it seems to bend.
You carefully place it back on the map, and continue:)
‘In the spring of 1984, the M-Class trawler Sea Ranger was fishing deep off the North
Cape, when a routine radio transmission became garbled and strange. Before
communications were lost, the captain reported that the sides of his ship were
beginning to melt. The bulkheads were bulging like wet cardboard. And as each
section softened, it would seem to disappear. Dissolved in the twisting sea. “We are
dwindling,” the captain said. “Dwindling away. Help us, Christ, help...” The rest of
the message was lost in static.’

(You are pressing and rocking the bent coin on the table, with your fingers, and she
seems to be melting down into the surface of the map.)

‘See now. She is going. Fading. Dispersing. Watch. Down into the table. You can
see her shrinking, down into the sea... waves... she is going. She goes. She is gone.’

(The coin has vanished. You pause and are still. Then, as you rub the empty surface of
the chart with your fingers, you say these final words, stopping all extraneous
movement completely after the word ‘malleable’, to become preternaturally still:)

‘There are places on this earth where the universe is cracked, where the solid is
malleable. Or at least one place, off the icy North Cape, where men have become lost.
Stepping as through a waterfall, into the lonely cave behind.’

(You lift the map, and turn it over. The coin is not there. But on the back of the chart,
clearly printed, is the legend ‘Chart 342, Barents: Property of the Sea Ranger.’)

Details:

Once again, the setting is very important when you tell this story. You almost want
your audience smelling the sea before you begin. Props can help here. Use the
battered old hurricane lamp, and the log book and chart. Consider whether some
subtle sound effects (murmuring seas and creaking rigging etc.) might not enhance
your presentation. As for props, well the log book should look authentic: old and
grand, and much-used (tea staining can work wonders). Write on its pages in sepia
ink, in an ornate hand; fill it with convincing detail. The modern chart, also, should be
aged, but not look ancient. Put in some wrinkles, and the odd stain. Also, you will
need to emphasise/add swirling contour/depth lines; these will visually help the
suggestive elements in the routine. Finally on this subject, I encourage you to let your
guests handle these props, the photographs, and so on. There’s a certain
thought-provoking charm in holding such items. It enriches the spectators’
experience, and helps to define your character. And, of course, it helps to establish an
atmosphere that is open and conducive to entertainment.

Once again, I’ve tried to make the effects rise out of the story. They are illustrative of
it, and consistent with not only the central theme, but also with each other. There is a
sense of progression: the sea melts; the token of the ship melts; the ship fades away;
the ship is gone. These moments help to drive the story, and maintain interest.

The first effect, where the lines on the map swirl, has been examined in detail in
Hunting mammoths in the rain, where you will find additional references. To avoid
repeating myself, I refer you there. I have highlighted the words you may want to
emphasise, including the homonymous ‘sea’. Once again, stuttering half-light, in this
case from the hurricane lamp, helps physically to establish the visual effect. However,
it is not strictly necessary to perform the line-swirl in the story, and if you are
uncomfortable with this sort of effect, then please feel free to ignore it. The theatre
and the magic of the routines in this book are sometimes enhanced by suggestion, but
they are never entirely dependent on it.

If you are keen to explore these techniques, but don’t know where to begin, then let
me share with you some of the things which have helped (and still help) me.

Firstly, it is always useful, before you begin an effect, to identify those spectators who
are naturally responsive to suggestion. I’ve found that yawning is one very effective
way of doing this. Therefore, if the general decorum allows, I will deliberately yawn
to note which spectators yawn with me. (I also use this test before routines such as I’ll
take your hand, my love, and we’ll remember where I want the volunteer to respond
empathically to a story.) Another, slightly more involved, means of testing is to say
something like: ‘Tonight, you may touch up...on things handy, uplifting even as,
who knows, you scratch the surface of who knows what is within. Now...’, and then
observe which members of the audience respond to the suggestion and touch their
nose (like you, dear reader, may just have done).

Secondly, there is nothing to stop you developing these ‘Jedi’ skills on unwitting
friends and family, so long as your practice is responsible and discreet. Actually, you
already employ and encounter suggestion every day of your life. (Consider that
infuriating golfing opponent, who, when the match is all-square and you’re teeing up
on the eighteenth, slyly mutters, ‘Whatever you do, don’t hit it in the water!’ Or that
bedtime-story that you read to your restless child, where every other word seems to be
‘sleep’.) Suggestion is not the speculative brainchild of over-reaching magicians. It is
a widespread and powerful influencing force. And you already know how to use it.

Digression over. Next comes the bending of the borrowed coin, which I have adapted
from a routine (Wilting Coinage) in Stephen Minch’s excellent collection of PK
effects Mind & Matter. Obviously you switch the borrowed coin for a matching
pre-bent one. To make the bent coin, wrap it in cloth, and use pliers and/or a vice to
bend it (across the middle) to 30º angle. To switch the coin, I offer two methods: both
start with the bent coin classic palmed in the right hand, with the crease of the bend
against the skin. In the first method, you slide the borrowed coin (with your left finger
tips and thumb) along the table towards you, as if you are going to pick it up. When
you reach the edge of the table, the coin is secretly lapped, and the left hand comes
away, still apparently holding the coin behind its fingers. As the left hand moves
above and across the table, in the right hand you secretly drop the bent coin into a
loose finger palm. As the left hand lifts up with its supposed coin, the closed right
fingers go to meet it, as if to take the coin. As the fingers meet, the right thumb pushes
a third of the bent coin into view; it will be supposed that this is still the borrowed
coin. In the second method, the right fingers do the initial sliding back of the coin on
the table. As with the first method, as the borrowed coin reaches the edge of the table,
it is lapped. Simultaneously, in the right hand, the bent coin is dropped from the palm,
down onto the fingers, where it is pushed, by the thumb, a third of the way into view.
If you use this second switch, take care not to move the thumb too much, as the
switch is made.
The coin should now be at the right fingertips, with the fingers pointing upwards, and
the back of the hand towards the spectator. The coin bends away from you, as you
look, and about a third of it is visible from the front. To make it ‘bend’, push the coin
very slowly upwards with your thumb, over your fingertips, so that it goes round the
outside of your forefinger. This is a sort of squeezing motion, where, as more of the
coin comes into view, it rotates round the outside of the forefinger tip. From the front,
the coin is seen to droop down, as if it is bending. This effect can be further enhanced
by lowering and turning the right hand anti-clockwise slightly, as the coin droops. Try
this in a mirror. It is quite deceptive.

As for the coin melting into the table, this happens partly through suggestion, and
partly by your actions. Remember to handle the coin loosely, as if it is still bending.
The odd subtle use of the pivoting move, detailed above, can help. Then, with the coin
ridge-side up on the table, with the seam perpendicular to your body, press the tip of
your right forefinger on the back edge of the coin, so that it pivots up at the front
edge. As you press the coin and rub it (with a tiny circular motion), very slowly move
the forefinger to the centre of the coin, and let the front end of the coin tip down. Do
this slowly, whilst pressing down on the coin, and it looks, from the front, as if the
coin is getting lower and lower, and sinking into the surface of the chart. Also, I
should mention, that it is important that the table surface is soft and slightly yielding.
This heightens the impression of sinking. Use a good table cloth rather than a close up
mat, if you can. This is not a ‘trick’ as such, this is parlour theatre. So try to keep your
props and movements natural and unmagician-like. Finally, of course, the suggestions
augment the physical effect, just as the earlier visible bend augments these
suggestions. You can’t lose! Which makes this a good place to try out these
techniques, if you are generally wary of them.

For the actual vanish, as you rub the coin with the right hand, the left hand makes a
large circular motion over the top. This not only casts a moving shadow, which adds
to the visual deception, it also allows you to swoop down and steal the coin with a
Raven. This is a dealer’s item, so I can’t go into details. However, its use does
determine the nature of your bent coin. Newish two pence pieces work fine here in the
UK. Of course, you can use any ‘empty hand’ moves you want before the vanish, but
please keep them subtle. Your story-telling is the main thing in this routine, so avoid
show for show’s sake. As for the Raven set up, I suggest that you wear a jacket for
greater reach. You will also have to hook-up on the run, but as you are seated at a
table, this should not prove difficult. When the bent coin drops to the table, attention
automatically follows it; this creates an ‘off-beat’ in which you can set-up.

Finally, don’t neglect the business of lifting the map up at the end of the routine. This
gently suggests that the coin has sunk downwards. That it has disappeared in a
direction moving away from you. Of course, do not underline this. One of the
advantages of story-telling magic is that something which, generally, would look
illogical and phoney, can make perfect sense in the context of a story. Here you turn
the chart over to show the name Sea Ranger: no other reason. Yet the quiet suggestion
is made.

Final thoughts:
I have included this effect to show that it is possible for us to tell longer stories, and
still hold an audience’s interest. Indeed, I believe that there are advantages to be found
in the expanded form. For one thing, the added breadth gives us room to perform
sequences of related effects. In this routine the effects have a sense of progression.
This adds to the drama of the story, and it adds to the impact of each subsequent
effect. Also, as our magic is thematically consistent with the story, then we have a
dramatically valid reason for performing it. Metal-bending, here, is not about
showing-off, debunking, or merely puzzling people. No. The magic acquires meaning.

And finally, in case anybody wonders how you got hold of the Sea Ranger’s chart,
when she vanished without trace, you say that after a full and extensive search, one
piece of flotsam was found: this chart, sealed in its tube, bobbing in the cold cold sea.
And from a shelf you remove the metal tube, and guess what? It is bent, and twisted,
and gnarled. Distorted, by some unearthly force.

Wishing star
In short:

In a spectacular variation on the weather-control theme, you summon a shower of

shooting-stars, in answer to your audience’s wishes. Honestly.

Presentation:

You are outside, performing in a large open space, such as on a beach or in a garden.
It is a warm clear night, and a large circle of burning torches, lit shoulder-high,
surrounds you and your audience. Near one edge of this circle is a small bonfire. The
sky is moist with stars.

You have been talking about wishes, life’s deepest, purest dreams; and each one of
your guests has written just such a wish on a small piece of paper, which they keep.
You pass your hands near the fire, and the air tingles with a thousand golden lights.
Then you begin:

‘Wishes. Sparks blown out the smithy. Gleams forged in the soul. Fast as the stars are
slow, they flare and die.’
You drop your own wish into the flames, and it crumples and burns.
‘In our lives, so many things accrete around our dreams, keep us leaden on the
ground. The path of destiny blazes in the sky, and yet we choose to scrabble in the
dirt.’

You have started quietly, but now your voice grows in energy and heartfelt power.
‘Now in folk belief, it is said that once we are so rooted, then only a powerful magic
can drag us from ourselves: can hook us, once again, to the sky. So mote it be. We
will summon them. They will come. Tonight, from every corner of the sky, the
wishing-stars will come. They will shoot across the sky, and we will wish quickly,
even as they fall.’

Once again, sparks dance over the bonfire as you wave your hands. With great
concentration, you bang a large sounding-bowl, so that it rings out eerily, like a gong.
Then solemnly, and one by one, you snuff out the torches in the sand, until only the
bonfire burns and crackles. Then, with an evangelist’s inspiring passion, and not a
little of his perspiration, you say:
‘It begins here. The dark track to your dreams. The burning away. The sailing free.
Go. Step away. Step away from the fire and find your own private space. Then look
up. Look up to the sky!’

Your audience scatters widely over the dark beach, like change from a tumbled purse
- into the shadows they spill. You bang the bowl, and as it sounds, you look up.
Chanting to the heavens you cry:
‘They are coming. The wishing-stars are coming. You will see them streaming across
the sky. And when you see your special star, wish quickly, wish fervently, wish with
every flashing fibre of your heart. Then reach up with your written wish, and point.
Point to where you saw your dream dazzle in the sky.’

Your guests are now widely dispersed, sitting on the sand and looking at the sky. You
move amongst them with terrific energy, banging the bowl and casting the occasional
sparks into the fire. And you say, with deep-bellied command, ‘We summon them -
they will come.’
Suddenly, an arm is raised. A wishing-star has come, and a guest has seen its furrow.
You rush to this ‘star-spotter’, a policeman as it happens, and you say, ‘Drop the
paper in the bowl.’ He obliges. You place your hands on top of his head, as though in
benediction, then quietly you say, ‘Two men look out through the same bars. One sees
mud, and one the stars.’ This has great meaning for the policeman, and you stare at
him deeply for a long time. Then you ask, ‘Your wish, how can you make it so?’ He
starts to answer, but you place your fingers to your lips to gently shush him. Then you
leave him. He is lost in thought.

You continue to summon these stars, and many more are seen. Each time an arm is
raised, you go to that person to take their slip; then you bless them with an inspiring
fragment of verse. After a while, most of your guests have seen a shooting-star, and
your bowl is full of slips. So you drop these token wishes into the fire, saying, ‘To the
stars - to the beautiful stars,’ and they curl and burn.

Of course, one or two people have not yet seen a wishing-star. So you bring these
unfortunates, individually, back to the fire. And slowly, in the flickering light, you
divine their particular wish. One woman, for instance, is thinking about travel - she
likes meeting new people, seeing new places, trying new food. She has been working
very hard recently, you tell her, and needs, no, deserves a rest. You open her paper
(with her permission) to confirm your reading. Her wish says, ‘Holiday,’ and you
smile. Then, as you crumple the paper into a ball, you say, “Make your wish.”
Without delay, you hurl her paper over the fire, where it bursts into blinding flame.
And for one glorious moment, her very own wishing-star sears like a comet in the
night; then, all too quickly, it is gone. ‘Your wish,’ you say. ‘How can you make it
so?’ and before she can answer, you lead her back to her place in the brooding dark,
where she is left to ponder.

Eventually, all your guests have seen a wishing-star (of one kind or another), and as
the evening turns colder, everybody gathers back together by the fire. People chatter
excitedly, but your powerful presence quietens and stills them. Then, with earnest
gusto, you say, ‘They have come. The wishing-stars have come. And we have wished
quickly, and fervently, and with every flashing fibre of our heart. We have reached
out to meet them with our dreams.’
Once more the bonfire sparks at the wave of your hand.
‘And now your journey begins. Take that step. For the road is yours, and it is blazed
with a million stars.’

Then as your voice echoes away, suddenly behind you, and with ravishing joy, three
rockets blast into the sky, and burst: blossoms glistening on the dark branches of the
night.

Details:

This routine is pitched halfway between a magical ceremony, and one of those
motivational self-help lectures that cost three month’s salary to attend. You should
approach it accordingly. Your aim here is to charm and beguile people, yet also to
energise and inspire them. You really do want the members of your audience to blaze
a path to their dreams. Your theatrical magic motivates them to do this. This routine is
a celebration, an event, and, potentially, a very special moment in someone’s life.

You might be wondering how you go about summoning the shooting-stars? Well, as I
suggested, it’s a variation on the old cloud-busting stunt. In essence, you are
re-interpreting an event (in this case the falling of a star) before it happens naturally.
Hence, your use of ritualistic paraphernalia and liturgical language; these devices
become the supposed cause of the subsequent reality. You really do appear to
summon the wishing-stars. “We summon them - they will come”, you say. You have
all the gear and presence of a star-summoner. What else could you be doing? So when
the stars appear, as they naturally will, you get the credit. Besides, everybody is
included in this; all of you are responsible for the success, or otherwise, of the
ceremony. So if anyone complains that they’re shivering in the dark and nothing is
happening overhead, then you urge them to ‘Wish harder.’

I can see you worrying, but trust me, the shooting-stars will come. Vitally, they come
with much greater frequency than most people imagine. Rare will be the clear summer
night when you go out looking for them, and they do not appear in the first ten
minutes or so. Fortunately for we star-summoners, most people do not know this.
They think a falling-star is a rare celestial event, seldom seen. But the only reason
people do not generally see them is because, simply, they never look. All you’re
doing is getting them to look. There is no reason to wait for the Leonids, or any other
reliable shower to perform this routine. Trust me. Summon your wishing-stars on a
clear summer’s night, and they will come.

Of course, there’s a bit more to it than this. One or two theatrical elements further
help the summoning. Firstly, the sparks over the bonfire (iron filings, taken from a
pocket, and openly thrown) make powerful visual suggestions. Secondly, sad to say,
many people will not know what they’re looking for. Planes will be mistaken, the
planet Venus, and if a satellite is misidentified, well... ‘You know, I’ve never seen one
last that long before. That’s amazing.’ Thirdly, the ring of torches at the start of the
routine dazzles and blinds eyes. This keeps the appearance of those shooting-stars on
cue. Only in the darkness, away from the flames, can one’s eyes re-adjust, and
become sensitive enough to see the shooting-stars. And that is exactly when you start
summoning them. Fourthly, by scattering your guests hither and thither, and getting
them to do the pointing thing, you theatrically turn a couple of shooting-stars into
dozens. How can people know if they saw the same star? They were looking up at the
sky, at the time, and can have no idea when those other arms were raised. Similarly,
how can they tell what patch of sky their neighbours are pointing at? It is impossible
for them to know who saw what, when and where. Your moving about, blessing and
chanting, further confuses the issue. Fifthly, some people, on seeing many arms thrust
into the sky, will succumb, either through peer pressure or fancy, and raise their own
arms, even when they have seen no falling-star. ‘I’m not sure what I’m looking for,
but I don’t want to seem a fool, so I’ll put my arm up. Anyway, I think I might have
seen one. Yeah. I’m sure I did,’ and so on.

The ‘trick’ part is very simple. All wishes, apart from your own, are written on flash
paper. You switch the collected slips for matching (but non-incendiary) billets, before
you drop them in the fire. As you are working in the dark, over large distances, and as
your audience is looking up away from you, and as no-one suspects anything anyway
(you’re just burning their paper, you’re not doing anything), then this switch should
not prove difficult.

A simple switch can be effected by adapting Annemann’s coffee cup steal. You hold
the bowl from above, the left fingers reaching down, and gripping the side. As you
approach the bonfire, simply steal the original slips from the bottom of the bowl, and
hold them under the left fingers against the side of the bowl. In your right hand, you
have some previously palmed non-flash billets. As you reach into the bowl to
apparently retrieve spectators’ slips, it is these non-flash billets you remove; then you
drop them into the flames, where they burn normally. Then, as you watch these billets
burn, you take the bowl into the right fingers (from above, as before), and turn the
bowl over to show that it is empty. At the same time, your left hand moves away,
stealing the original billets in a finger palm. These billets are later pocketed.

This kind of thing is my favourite misdirection principle. You do the move when you
don’t do the magic, and vice versa.

For those ill-starred spectators who do not see actual shooting-stars, well you must
lead them, one at a time, to the bonfire, while the rest of your guests are left looking
heavenward. Hopefully, any remaining ‘unfortunates’ will get lucky while they wait.
Anyway, as you lead the first luckless guest to the fire, you take her billet, and
(secretly) do a peek. Busch’s Enlightened Peek (from Peek Performances) suggests
itself here. Then you build a reading around this peeked information. Avoid simply
blurting out ‘Holiday,’ or whatever, but, rather, make your reading positive,
empowering, and inspiring. Then, no more than mildly curious, you check the
accuracy of your reading by opening the spectator’s wish. (This, incidentally, proves
to her that there has been no switch of billets.) Then as you say, ‘Make your wish,’
you throw this paper wish over the flames, where, to your guest’s considerable
surprise and delight, it flares up celestially bright. Now how wonderful is this? Only
the ‘unlucky’ few get this royal treatment. Only they get this personal shooting-star.
This is my favourite aspect of the routine. No-one misses out. Everyone sees a
shooting-star.
Wishing Star - or, rather, the more basic effect of star-summoning - made its debut in
1999 (on a campsite in Cornwall), when a fellow-camper, returning, no doubt, from
the commendable performance of his nocturnal ablutions, tripped up over me in the
dark, as I lay looking at the stars, oblivious to all. The following is a (very) rough
approximation of the ensuing conversation:

‘Hey! What are you doing down there?’ asked the camper.
‘I’m looking for shooting-stars,’ I said.
‘You’ll be out here all night looking for them,’ he muttered.
‘Not so,’ I said. ‘Not if I make a wish first...’

And despite the unpromising start, a successful star-summoning was the eventual
result of this encounter. I should add that I have performed the effect several times
since, usually ad-lib, and I have always found it to be convincing.

Now, I recognise that routines such as Wishing Star raise issues of credibility. There
is, after all, only one rational conclusion to be drawn from a star-summoning event:
trickery, at some level, must have been involved. But then, it has never been my goal
to stamp people indelibly with the belief that I am possessed of supernatural powers. I
am interested only in two things: the inducement of a state of wonder in my guests,
and what that wonder can then do. Therefore, I need only suspend disbelief
temporarily for my magic to take effect. Even transitory wonders can be agents of
enduring change. And even trickery can be a motive force for good. The poet and
painter William Blake wrote, ‘God forbid that Truth should be confined to
Mathematical-Demonstration.’ And I would add, ‘God forbid that Magic should be
confined to Box-Tricks, Debunkers, and Clowns.’

There now follows a collection of pithy stellar sayings which can be muttered
meaningfully to your guests, when their arms are raised. Learn several, so that you
can fit an appropriate saying snugly to each guest. If no match is possible, then no
matter. As always, people will find their own meanings in whatever words you say, so
long as you say them significantly.

Heaven O heaven! What do we here, in this land of unbelief and fear? The land of
dreams is better far, above the light of morning star.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art.

Twinkle twinkle little star. How I wonder what you are.

My soul, there is a country far beyond the stars.

One small step for (a) man - one giant leap for mankind.

Houston, we have a problem.

One star differeth from another star in glory.

Oh never star was lost here but it rose afar. Look East, where whole new thousands
are.

Still the stars do fall and fall.

Per ardua ad astra.

And the stars look very different today.

A star looks down at me and says: ‘Here I and you stand, each in our own degree:
what do you mean to do?’

Look at the stars! Look, look up at the skies! Look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air.

And each in his separate star shall draw the thing as he sees it.

And all I ask is a tall-ship and a star to steer her by.

When you wish upon a star.

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.

It’s time for the human race to enter the solar system (Vice President Dan Quayle).

And so on. Get a Dictionary of Quotations and find your own, if these do not suit.

Final thoughts:

Once again, I admit it, this is an ambitious piece of magical theatre, rather grandly
presented, with the very night-sky as your backdrop and canvas. It is, of course,
perfectly possible to pare the routine right down, and summon the falling-stars as you
would bust a cloud (as I have recounted), with little of the hoo-hah and ceremony. But
I have tried to invest the appearance of the shooting-stars with deeper meaning. This
present routine is as much about inspiring people to think about how they might
achieve their dreams, as it is about you controlling celestial events. Simply put, I
believe that Shamans and Showmen have more in common than the phonetic
similarity of their names. This routine, I hope, explores the common ground between
the two.

As for the fireworks at the end, well, I suggest you keep them. Three rockets will not
break the bank. Indeed, if someone else is paying, you might want to end your show
with a proper firework-display. I can’t think of a more appropriate and beautiful way
to end your enchanting evening.

They will remember this night - when they all looked up, and every honest wish
seemed answered by a star.

Bubbles
In short:
A story about bubbles, and what they contain.

Presentation:

This is a deeply emotional routine, so you spend some time arranging your thoughts,
before you begin. Then you say:

‘It seemed endless, that summer, when I met Stephen Jones, playing marbles on the
common, at the back of our street. I don’t remember now, but I think that first time, it
was Stephen who won, and this marble passed between us as a prize.’

(You hand out a large, much-loved marble, and continue.)

‘A hundred times or more, that summer, it changed hands; for we played till our
knuckles were raw with grit and blood. And when the days grew too hot and slow and
long for playing, we’d lie on the grass, and watch the blue wonder of the sky. And all
about us the field hummed and shone. We were five years old, and he was my best
friend.

‘Of course, we grew up, and the marvellous newness of life flaked away. Yet still the
marble was won and lost, at running and football, then golf. Even, on one occasion,
when Stephen stole the girl we’d both been chasing. Six frantic days later though, and
to my secret delight, this first romance turned teenage bad, and Stephen returned the
marble with a rueful smile. “I think you won that one after all, Paul,” he said, and we
laughed and were friends again.

‘We saw less of each other in later years - moved away for college, and then work.
But still we’d find time for the odd game of golf, fierce but friendly, with always the
marble as our prize. Then one summer, when we were both 29, I heard an awful thing,
and rushed home to see him.’

(You sigh at the memory, and pause briefly.)

‘He was propped up in bed, in his old room, come home from the hospital to die. He
was thin and weak, looked 60 years old. His young body bones and angles.’

(You start to cry as you struggle for the words.)

‘“Stephen,” I wanted to say, “Stephen I’m sorry. So sorry you’re lying in this room
with this terrible thing eating you away. I’m sorry you’ll never meet that nice girl now
and settle down, nor have kids. You’ll not grow old and wise and fat. I’m sorry you’re
leaving me, old friend. So so sorry.”
But all that my tears would let me say was, “Stephen..!”
“I know,” he said, “I know.” And he placed his hand on my head as I wept.’

(You struggle to re-compose yourself. Then you unscrew a small bottle of bubble
juice, and, a little wistful, you remove the wand.)

‘Eventually, Stephen said, “Tell me Paul, what is the primary substance of a bubble?”
This was so unexpected that I laughed. “I don’t know,” I said. “Detergent, I suppose.”
He leant forward. “Everybody thinks that, but they’re wrong. It is, of course, air.”
And with a precious breath he blew a soapy bubble. It rolled for a moment, for a
dazzling rainbow moment, then was gone.’

(You have also blown a bubble, and watched it fall and die.)

‘I didn’t understand. “And..?” I asked confused.

“And, you old dunderhead, when a bubble bursts, what happens to this central
portion, this air?”
“Well.. it’s gone.”
“No.” He shook his head firmly. “It endures still in the wider air, dispersed. Only the
form is lost - the essence remains.”
I dared my heavy eyes to look again at Stephen, and he was smiling.

‘We blew bubbles for a short blessed hour, till he grew tired, and I had to go. Before I
went, I offered him the marble.’
(You take the marble in your hand and look at it closely.)
‘He looked at it for a long time, and then placed it back in my hand.’
(You place the marble in a spectator’s hand, and close her fingers round it.)
‘“See you next Tuesday,” I said.
“Maybe,” he smiled. Then as I was going, he added, “You know, you’re a bubble too,
old friend.”
He died that night, with a soft long sigh.

‘The funeral was unreal. The clod of thrown earth on wood, final and grim. He was
scattered, I knew, but I felt the marble was now his. So I reached into my pocket (take
the marble from the spectator), and was about to let it go, when I knew I should keep
it, and hold it ever dear.’
(You notice that the marble has marvellously changed.)
‘For caught in the glass, as broad as his smile, was a bubble, where before no bubble
had been. A beautiful shining peacock moment, that would shimmer oh forever.

‘I put it back in my pocket, and all over the earth, the goodly earth, the soft wind
sighed and dispersed.’

Details:

This is a heavy, emotional routine, and you should expect sighs and thoughtful pauses
from your audience, rather than applause. Ideally, you would all go out into a garden
after this, to blow bubbles and be lost in thought.

I’ve deliberately left the central image of the bubble open to a wide range of
interpretations, so that people of all beliefs can accept it, and use it to reflect. It is,
however, profoundly poignant, and people, yourself included, may find themselves
teary-eyed. Consequently, Bubbles is a difficult routine to perform. It lays you open
emotionally, and makes you vulnerable. Yet, I’ve found that it also has a soothing and
cathartic effect. People remember it. I do not want to go into further performance
details, as this is a deeply personal routine, and you will need to find what works best
for you.
Technically, it’s another switch, of course. You will need to hunt round toy shops
looking for a marble with a large bubble in it; then find a second marble, without the
bubble, which otherwise matches the first. This will be good, nostalgic fun.
Alternatively, you could look for a marble with a myriad of bubbles, as these are more
common than the single bubble beauties. Obviously, if you use one of these
effervescent super-nova types, you will need to re-word the ending.

The non-bubble marble is passed round your audience, from left to right, as you talk.
In your left hand, finger palmed, is the bubble marble. You collect the original marble
in your right hand, and hold it at your finger-tips, with your thumb at the back. The
back of this hand faces the audience, and the fingers point up.

You perform the false transfer as follows. As you begin to turn the right hand
anticlockwise and down, its back still to the audience, allow the momentum of the
marble to roll it into the crook of the right thumb, where it is held loosely in a kind of
Downs’ Palm. The larger movement of the hand disguises this smaller movement.

As the right finger-tips, apparently still holding the marble, reach the left hand, the
left hand turns palm up, so that as the left hand marble comes into view, the right
fingers touch it. It helps if the right fingers move the left hand marble slightly, as if it
skidded as it ‘arrived’. Therefore, the whole sequence looks as if you simply placed a
marble from your right hand into your left.

Then quickly reach forward, to your left, and put the bubble marble into a spectator’s
palm, and close her fingers round it. Turn her hand palm down, to prevent peeking.
As you reach across to this spectator, the right hand comes back slightly, over the
edge of the table, and you lap the original marble.

These moves switch the two marbles, even though the original one seems visible at all
times. Note, you can risk having the bubble marble briefly in view, as the two look
similar. But keep the left hand in motion, to prevent closer inspection.

Final thoughts:

This routine was inspired by several sad events in my life, and is, therefore, very
precious to me. There is a marble, and there was a friend. But there was no bubble.
And yet, it is my fond hope, that when I am lying in that last lonely bed, chewing the
fat with an old friend, I will talk about marbles and bubbles, and work this little
switch one last time. A final effect, before I, too, burst, and am softly dispersed.

Safe Hands
In short:

A chilling and bloody story about revenge.

Presentation:
This thoroughly nasty routine should help to dispel the notion that you always need
the bogey man to be Bizarre. I have chosen to stage it on a very grand scale, but don’t
let that put you off. It works with equal squalor and unpleasantness in much more
intimate settings. To get an impression of the impact the story has on the spectator, I
suggest that you read it straight through, the first time, without the bracketed stage
directions. The story itself begins here ***.

You are performing in an old warehouse/gutted factory. In the middle of this vast
menacing space is arranged the rather eccentric audience-seating. Something like an
opulent Bedouin interior, with cushions and carpets and throws; but with, also, the
occasional luxurious green-leather sofa, and wing-backed chair. Maybe even a
chaise-longue or deux. This unusual location and setting offer several theatrical
advantages, namely:

1) The huge empty space has the echoes of a cathedral. Your voice can ring out, and
silences become intense. Sound effects come from anywhere in this huge arena. The
audience is surrounded with sound.

2) The audience sits well away from any comforting walls. An oppressive void
surrounds them when the houselights dim.

3) The vastness of the space allows for much physical movement in your show. In fact
the whole audience can move to new locations, if you so desire; you have space to
spread your performing ‘wings’.

4) Lighting also can be creative. Sometimes the only light comes from a rusty
oil-drum brazier. ‘Rooms’ can be created from pools of light.

5) The informal demarcation between stage and audience lets you blur some of the
preconceptions we have about theatre. For one thing, you are able to move much more
easily amongst your audience, and do very intimate work.

6) In this big show even close-up effects can be performed, using the following neat
idea. Behind the performer is a big wall, and you use this for projection. Sometimes
these scattered images form your scenery. Sometimes, as we shall see, they
accompany an effect. And sometimes, a CCTV camera is used to film the tiny
close-up effects that you do within the audience, so that when the image is projected
fifty feet tall on the wall behind you, then everyone can see.

7) The images on this big-screen can be used to distract and misdirect. Similarly, the
CCTV can limit your audience’s field of vision (as happens with any television
work); this has obvious magical applications.

8) Finally, this grand yet informal set-up allows you to hold friendly unscripted
discussion periods, when people can chat with you about the ideas raised in your
show. These moments are entertaining of themselves, but you can also use them to
‘sow seeds’ for later.

On with the show. This is the actual routine:

(Behind you, a black and white photograph of a bland-faced military type is projected
on the wall, as you begin your story:)

***
‘Dr. Luis Ramon was the kind of man who gave torturers a bad name. No ordinary
sadist, he was a genius in the world of pain. Sure, there were other capable men, eager
to beat the soles of a prisoner’s feet, or stub out cigarettes in his eyes. But when the
Paragonian Secret Police wanted terror, searing and absolute terror, they would send
for Ramon. Ever reliable Ramon. Even the President called him “Safe Hands”.’

(All throughout this introductory passage, assorted images of oppression and

nameless horror have flickered past on the screen behind you. But now, as an assistant
is wheeled out, strapped tightly to a trolley, the lighting shrinks to one dirty spot. All
around you, in the darkness, there are faint sounds of metal scraping and people
sobbing and generators humming. Seedily, you expose your assistant’s midriff, and,
with grubby fingers, place towels around the flesh. Then, with not a little of the
character of Ramon, you say:)

‘Now Ramon’s methods were subtle and unique. He spurned the rusty knife and the
sizzling electrode, and, instead, relied entirely on his own naked hands. But, oh, what
hands. What gifted instruments of terror they were.’

(You have been wiping your assistant’s skin with cotton. But now, as you continue
with the story, your hands shockingly penetrate into her belly, and then root around
obscenely inside. This produces, perhaps not surprisingly, a large amount of blood.)

‘How they would prise the flesh of the stomach open, dividing it softly, and then
reach wetly within. How he plundered his victim’s body.’

(You remove a ghastly string of gristle from your assistant‘s body, and then, as
Ramon, you sniff it. Then still in the character of the torturer, you say:)

‘“Your pancreas - shall I remove it all?” he would ask. And mad with retching dread,
the prisoner, or as often as not, his family, who were forced to watch, would blurt out
truths and half-truths and lies, and confess all. Then, grinning wickedly, Safe Hands
would wipe away the blood to reveal the prisoner unharmed - well, physically
unharmed. It was all a pretence. A horrible visceral pretence, barbarous and cruel.’

(You also have wiped away the bloody mess, to reveal the skin of the stomach
unharmed. Your assistant is pushed perfunctorily away. The lights brighten, and
behind you images of revolution, and then clinics and pilgrims, are projected. The
sound effects quietly match the pictures, as you continue:)

‘Then came the revolution, and Paragonia lurched from dictatorship to corrupt
democracy. Ramon, understandably, hid. For six months, he lost weight, grew a
saintly beard, and paid the finest surgeons to trim his familiar features. When he
eventually emerged, he was a new man, and he turned his dexterous fingers to an even
more lucrative, if less satisfying, occupation. He became a healer, a psychic-surgeon.
Now, though, when he delved into a victim’s body, he removed sickness and tumours,
and other sundry things. Or so he said. And the desperate and the dying, from all over
the world, flocked to his clinic, with their dollars and fruitless last hopes. And still
they called him “Safe Hands”.’

(You have been walking around your audience, miming this surgery with
blood-stained hands. Then, from around your neck, you remove a small ancient phial,
and as you continue with the story, you display it, and the CCTV system projects it
greatly magnified on the back wall.)

‘Now, around Safe Hands neck was a phial of dried blood. The congealed and crusted
remains of some martyred saint, over six hundred years old. This holy blood was said
to run fresh in the presence of God, but in Safe Hands’ care, it remained obstinately
solid. A determined and stubborn clot, that yet did little to deter the thousands of
pilgrims who crowded his clinic, and made Safe Hands a very wealthy man. Yes, for a
long time, life was very good to Dr. Luis Ramon.’

(Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the lighting is reduced to a single dazzling spot. And
all about you, in the shadowy void, comes an almost sub-sonic throb, which feels like
a pulse. And this pulse beats quicker and quicker.)

‘And then, ironically, a grumbling appendix sent him scuttling north, to the finest and
shiniest hospital his ill-gotten gains could afford. And so it was, on his final day,
Ramon found himself in a green gown, lying on an operating table, tetchy and
impatient. The phial of sacred blood was clasped hotly in his hands.
“Please breathe normally,” said the anaesthetist, and the gas began to hiss. Safe Hands
closed his eyes, and waited.

‘After a short while, he heard a voice say, “That’s enough,” and then heavy thumbs
squeezed open his eyes. The bright room trembled like a rubber sheet, and smeared
blearily into view.
A green shape loomed, and said, “Good afternoon, Dr. Ramon. Yes, we know your
real name. Please, don’t try to move. The drugs have left you completely
immobilised. But not, I’m happy to say, insensitive to pain. You will feel every little
thing, before you die here later today.”
Safe Hands tried to scream, but he lay pressed under a shroud of heavy stillness.
The green shape chuckled. “Of course, nobody knows that you’re here. The great
healer, who could not heal himself, came in secret to our hospital.”
A tray of metal things was moved closer to Safe Hands’ head. The green shape busied
itself with something.
“In case you’re wondering why we’re doing this,” said the other voice, “I saw you
torture my father to death, twenty seven years ago. And my good friend, the surgeon,
lost his dear wife, when she came to you for treatment, and you insisted she end her
chemo.”
Something that was probably a knife glinted in the shiny darkness of the room.
And the green shape said quietly, ‘Relax, Dr. Ramon. You’re in safe hands.”’

‘And the knife began to cut, and the phial fled to the floor like a scream. Then all that
moved... was the blood.’

(And, as the pulse reaches a startled crescendo, the blood in the phial shakes loose,
and, once more, runs fresh and free.)
Details:

I have included this particular staging to show just how ambitious and powerful
Bizarre Theatre can be. I recognise, however, that few performers will find this
specific approach practical. It is fortunate, therefore, that the central story obeys the
Marucci Rule (namely, that it is interesting and entertaining enough to be told by
itself, without any fancy staging or magic). Consequently, this story can be performed
on a much more intimate scale, be that in the parlour, or by the camp fire, or even, if
you think the diners have the stomachs for it (pun intended), in the restaurant or bar.
Furthermore, even the psychic-surgery demonstration is optional, so long as you
relate the description of it with unseemly relish, and accompany your sickening words
with an appropriately revolting mime. (This, incidentally, is how I have generally
presented this routine.)

If you do decide to perform your own psychic-surgery, then it is easily accomplished.

First of all, you need to construct your grisly load. To do this, fill a small plastic bag
with stage-blood, and add small strips of fatty bacon (dyed dark with food colouring).
Tie off this bag, and hide it in a bowl of cotton-wool swabs, at the back of your
assistant. As you wipe your assistant’s tummy with these swabs, steal the load in your
hand, and as you knead the stomach with both hands palm down, rupture the bag. The
moment the bag breaks, move one of your hands down, apparently into the stomach,
so, as the blood oozes out, it appears that you have, just that instant, broken the skin.

One or two moves further add to the nauseating effect, the most important of which is
the notorious stomach-penetration move. With your left hand flat on the stomach, and
also concealing the remains of the bag, your right hand, with fingers pointing straight
down and its back to the audience, thrusts into your assistant. As the hand moves
deeper, you secretly bend your fingers backwards, at the first knuckle. From the front,
and covered as it is by the left hand, the right hand seems to go down into the
stomach. To further this unsettling effect, you can briefly remove your left hand
(palming the burst bag) to show your right fingers apparently deep within the gory
mess. To extract your right fingers, simply replace the left hand and reverse the
moves. This move can also be performed by the right forefinger, which, when
‘inserted’, can slide across the stomach a couple of inches. Once again, do this only
briefly.

The fragment of pancreas is, of course, a piece of bacon pulled from out of the burst
bag by the right fingers. For maximum gross-out and theatrical effect you should drop
this nasty piece of tissue into a clear bowl of water, placed in full view of your
audience, near your unfortunate assistant. This string of bloody gristle will float and
turn most unpleasantly, in the reddening water. Finally, when you wipe away the
blood with the towels, you carry away any remaining incriminating pieces of bag or
bacon. Then you show that your assistant is unharmed. If you do go for the grand
staging, judicious use of CCTV will increase the impact of the entire effect.

Of course, psychic-surgery can also be performed on a volunteer, but for this routine I
strongly suggest that you use an assistant. After all, you are recreating, albeit
theatrically, an appalling act of torture. It is a deeply disturbing violation, and I would
be very uncomfortable subjecting a member of my audience directly to it. Also, I feel,
you would lose the ‘reality’ of the moment. Performed on your assistant, it plays as
theatre. Rather like the eye-gouging scene in King Lear, no sane person will believe
that the events of the drama are actually happening. But this does not lessen their
impact. Perform it with Uncle Frank, though, taken from your audience, and it will
not be taken seriously; the torture is simply too extreme to be believed. You will get
giggles and sniggers, and that is not what you want. Of course, it is perfectly possible
to perform psychic-surgery on your guests in other circumstances, if you are so
inclined. But you will need to insist that your patient looks up at all times, so that they
cannot observe the shenanigans on their belly. ‘Moving your head could be dangerous
- keep very very still,’ you tell them.

As for the phial of blood, well, you will need to make a thixotropic gel. If you do not
know what this is, then, I implore you, make do with thickened ketchup. The
following is chemical magic, and, as such, is hazardous. Therefore, I do not advise
any of my readers to attempt to make the following preparation, unless you know
exactly what you are doing. If you do decide to make the blood, then you must
understand that you do so entirely at your own risk, and completely of your own free
will, and that, by attempting to make the preparation, you have accepted that it is not,
in any way, my (or the publisher’s) responsibility.

1) Mix 10g FeCl3 (an irritant) with 20g CaCO3 in 100cm3 of water. You will get a
deep red suspension.

2) Pour this suspension into a suitable length of dialysis tubing, and close the tubing.
Place the tubing in a beaker of distilled water for four days.

3) After four days, pour the contents of the tubing into a clean beaker, and add 1.5g of
NaCl. A thixotropic gel, with the consistency of ketchup, will form in about an hour.

4) Gentle shaking will cause the gel to liquefy. If left, it will re-solidify.

The workings of the effect should now be obvious. The main point to note is that care
must be taken not to liquefy the gel prematurely, through rough handling.

Final thoughts:

I’m very fond of this routine. It takes two much maligned phenomena, namely
psychic-surgery and the ‘Naples’ blood relic, and invests them with fresh meanings.
For me, this is a much more interesting approach than the pure but often smug
debunking, that generally accompanies such effects. Smart-Alec performers make me
decidedly uncomfortable. When I’m before an audience I want to be a story-teller,
and not a zealous advocate of my own world view. Indeed, I would even go so far as
to say that the beliefs and the ideas presented in my stories, do not, necessarily, reflect
my own. No. Stories create their own realities, and challenge the teller and the listener
with their ambiguity.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that there are more important questions that our
audiences can be stimulated to ask than, ‘I wonder how s/he did that?’
Junior
In short:

A canine-toothed nibble of comic whimsy.

Presentation:

You are seated at a table with your spectators. Somebody has asked you if you have
any children of your own, and you nod, almost pained. Then you lean forward, and in
a conspiratorial tone, you begin:

‘There’s always been something strange about my son Jack. From his earliest days he
was... special. I know every doting parent says the same fond thing, but... well look.’

Somewhat exasperated, and not a little embarrassed, you drop an early photograph of
Jack onto the table. At first glance, he seems to be your average, murderously cute
baby, with saucer-fat eyes, and a happy smile. However, on closer inspection, the
spectators can see, in that gummy mouth, a pair of out-sized and pointed teeth.

‘He was, needless to say, bottle fed.

As time passed, so Jack... developed.’

More photographs are placed on the table, for your spectators to pick up and chuckle
over. The first picture is of a toddling Jack, dressed in black, and rather less cute this
time. As babies go, he looks rather intense and fierce, and his infant curls have been
swept back into a Dracula point. The second picture shows Jack sitting in a high chair
at his second birthday party, looking even more vampiric. Now he is wearing a dark
cloak, and his cake, although it has the usual complement of bright candles, is made
less cheery by the fact that it is shaped like a coffin.

‘And his peculiar proclivities emerged.’

Once more, a collection of surreal snaps are placed on the table. The first shows a
determined Jack sinking his teeth deep into your arm. He has caught you by surprise,
and his razor-sharp little gnashers are evidently causing you not a little pain. The
second picture shows you and Jack on a family holiday. He appears to have staked
you out on the beach, and he is patiently waiting for the tide to turn. Finally, there is a
close-up of the little monster’s face. He has been eating something, and his cruel
mouth is smeared with what you prefer to think of as ketchup. The fangs are still
there, as is the greased-back hair, but now his eyes are bloodshot and hypnotic, and
his skin is deathly pale.

‘He had no time for Bob the Builder, or Tinky Winky.’

Another picture of Jack holding a Teletubby - a ripped-off head in one hand, and a
limp body bleeding its stuffing, in the other.

‘This was his favourite toy.’

You shudder as you hold out a small Dracula doll in the palm of your hand. The
sinister cape and the bloody malevolence of its eyes detract, somewhat, from its
general cuddliness.

‘We sent him to school, but there were... problems.’

On to the table goes a cutting from you local paper. The headline reads:
Nursery horror as midget fiend strikes again!

‘Jack just didn’t fit in.’

A class photograph of smiling, well-adjusted children. Jack looms behind them on the
back row, scowling like a shadow.

‘And although Jack’s teacher, Miss Hooley, tried...’

Poor jumpy Miss Hooley, pictured looking startled. She would look the model
educator were it not for the string of garlic cloves around her neck, and the crucifix
she thrusts in mad fear towards the lens.

‘... she left, unexpectedly.’

A picture of a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. Once again, Jack lurks darkly.

‘On the advice of a friend, we got him a pet...’

Picture of a delightful little hamster, with a tiny pink ribbon .

‘But Fluffy was nocturnally afflicted, and although Jack seemed to thrive after it’s
arrival, the hamster... did not.’

Picture of a small, Fluffy-sized mound of soil in the garden, on top of which is a

crude, lolly-stick cross, with the inscription:
Fluffy - gone to a better place.

‘Last week, things took a turn for the worse...’

A headline from a tabloid newspaper. It reads:

Queen’s corgis butchered by
Creature of the Night.

‘... and we knew that we had to act. So, sadly, we slunk down into the basement
where our darling son slept. But we were too late. For as the sun set, Jack snapped
open his blood-red eyes, and he...’

You shudder at the memory, and look at the doll in your hand. It starts to rise slowly,
inexorably, from the palm of your hand, with considerable menace.

‘God forgive me! I didn’t have the heart to spike the little guy, so I drove down the lid
hard, and nailed him in tight.’
You clasp your other hand over the doll, and hold it fast. You lift your cupped hands
to your ears, and listen.

‘He’s been like that now for 10 days, and between you and me, he sounds pretty
peeved.’

Your hands shake, as if the doll is trying to escape. Then all is still, and you wipe the
doll off your hands. You start to unbutton the top of your shirt.

‘I don’t know what we’re going to do. It’s not like my family...’

You peel back the collar of your shirt to reveal a dark something. You lean towards a
spectator, and gesture for her to look at your collar-bone.

‘... It’s not like my family at all.’

The lady can see that your body is improbably hirsute. It is more like fur than hair she
thinks, and she leans in for a better look.

Suddenly, your face gleefully contorts into a savage, feral snarl, and you bark loudly
and ferociously at her. Then you look moonwards, and howl like a hungry wolf.

Details:

This snappy piece of lunacy is rather fun to perform, and it is one of my favourite
pieces for parties and bars. To get a feel for it’s lively brevity, I suggest that you read
it through again, without the stage-directions, or the descriptions of the photographs.

Comic though it is, it is important that you avoid hamming it up. You should play the
routine ‘straight’. Of course, no one will seriously take you for a bizarrely concerned
parent, but it is funnier if you let the photographs tell your gags - the deranged Jerry
Lewis to your put-upon Dean Martin, as it were. Also, try to create a delicious
ambiguity with your story. This engages your audience, and stimulates their
imagination. Therefore, when you prepare your photographs, make sure that the truly
horrific is only suggested, and off-camera. This encourages your spectators to become
participants, in so far as they have to imagine, for themselves, the exact nature of the
Nursery horror, or of poor Miss Hooley’s demise. Good humour, like good magic, is
a collaboration.

In addition, by inviting your audience into your weird little world, you remove the
aggression out of the werewolf ending. Sure, it will make people jump, gasp, and
splutter with delight. You might even need to replace the odd spilt drink. But, in the
context of this routine, it feels more like a playful flirtatious slap, than a full-on punch
in the face. You do not impose this story on the audience; rather, people come along
for the merrily insane ride. They even, curiously enough, identify with you and your
situation. For all parents know this general dilemma - the gorgeous, infinitely loveable
infant, who is, yet, an intruder: an invader who takes over your once orderly life. And
whilst most people, happily, do not spawn Dracula Juniors, it is not without reason
that parents occasionally refer to their children as, ‘Little monsters’. Junior lets them
explore and express these often repressed feelings, safely and comically.

Actually, looked at coldly, the subject matter of the routine is stark and grim in the
extreme. There is, after all, a self-confessed scene of attempted filicide in your story.
Yet it plays very lightly. There is a frothy skewed logic to events, that fits nicely into
a Bizarre show. Also, the routine usefully releases some of the tension that your other
effects may have created. Do not overlook this when planning your show. Constant,
unrelieved chills oppress, and rarely entertain. They also work against each other, and
lessen any impact. It is the giddy rises on the roller-coaster that make the drops seem
so deep.

The doll is, of course, a variation on the standard rising voodoo doll effect. There are
several dealer’s items on the market, but the most common uses the slightly alarming
method found in the Okito rising pencil. Basically, an L shaped pin at the foot of the
doll is secretly, and carefully, inserted into the top layer of skin on the heel of the
cupped hand. When the fingers are unobtrusively straightened, so the tethered doll
pivots, and appears to rise. Look around toy shops, especially at Hallowe’en, to find
something cute that you can adapt. As for the hairy chest, if the testosterone shots are
still not working, then I suggest a piece of artificial fur. You could even, if you have a
physique that will not put people off their dinners, have this fur on your back, and, as
you turn round to show people your sleek wolfish shoulders, you could slip a set of
joke-shop fangs into your mouth, ready for the snarled finish.

As for the photographs, well, find a happily compliant nephew, granddaughter, or son,
obtain parental permission, and snap away. A bit of photo editing on your computer
will do the rest. Fangs can be added to old baby pictures; a bit of cut and paste will
produce the class photo, the ambulance shot, and the coffin cake. Above all, have fun,
and see what you can come up with.

Finally, when you perform Junior, pause only briefly as you throw out your pictures.
Allow enough time for people to pick them up and chuckle, but then move quickly on.
You certainly do not wait for your spectators to pass each picture round, as if
subjecting them to a dreary viewing of your holiday snaps. The photographs
accompany the effect - not overwhelm it. People should be free to pick up and
examine the ones that catch their eyes, so that they get their own unique glimpse of
your twisted little world.

Final thoughts:

This is a friendly and, above all, fun routine. You will enjoy performing it. Although a
pleasant diversion, it also expands your audience’s understanding of your character.
You become more rounded to them, and, ironically, more human. Indeed, when the
laughter dies down, you may find people wanting to show you photographs of their
own little monsters. If this happens, welcome it warmly, and be delighted that they
want to share these things with you. It is a fine and precious honour. Receive it with
grace.

A certain charm
In short:

An embarrassing situation is resolved in a pleasing and most civilized manner.

Presentation:

From an ornate box you remove a treasure - a delicate, yet stunningly beautiful
amulet. It is a gorgeous latticed thing, and you handle it with evident pleasure. You
graciously pass it out to your spectators, for them to examine and enjoy. And then,
with barely suppressed enthusiasm, you begin your tale:

‘A Star of the Newborn - a filigree knot of rare delight. Centuries ago, in the deserts
of Arabia, nomads would place such objects in the swaddling cloths of sleeping
infants, to ward off misfortune. So beautiful, so perfect were these charms believed to
be, that even the most mischievous of djinn would be frozen in static rapture at the
sight of such dazzling glory. And, you know, when I think of them twinkling in the
dark desert night, like tangled braids of stars, I have to think that the nomads were
right.

‘Unfortunately, in later years, the precise skills of manufacture were lost, and the few
remaining Stars of the Newborn have become highly prized and treasured. Now, I
would like to...’

You are interrupted by a sudden commotion. Sausage-fingered George, a member of

your audience, has, somehow, managed to drop this precious artefact. Reflexively, he
slides his chair back, and reaches under the table. Ominously, there is a crunching
sound, and then a low moan from George. Crestfallen, he sits up, and holds out the
now mangled antique like a badge of shame. Everybody is terribly still.

Poor George, to be fair to him, is mortified. He looks sadly at the carnage in his hand,
and pours out a heartfelt apology. You listen impassively. Eventually, George has a
troubling thought. ‘What was it worth?’ he stammers. You remain very still. Your
face, even now, free of emotion.

Suddenly, with elaborate grace, you fold out your right arm, and open your hand. It is
a controlled, commanding gesture. George, ruefully, hands you the Star. Then with
the faintest brushstroke of a smile, and with exquisite refinement you say, ‘Every
action, performed by a friend, has a certain charm.’

Your smile becomes warm and full and generous, and then, almost as if it is a matter
of trifling consequence, you rub your left hand over your right, and the broken object
is instantly repaired.

Details:

This is the nearest I get, these days, to a breakaway wand. Generally, I’m
uncomfortable with sucker routines. I believe that it is obvious to the audience that the
box or the wand or whatever, was designed to fall apart in the volunteer’s hand: that it
was your intention to embarrass, make fun of, or even humiliate him or her, for the
sake of some cheap laughs. When we perform, we invite our audience in; they
become guests in our particular world. Such teasing, mocking, and bullying is not the
behaviour of a courteous host.

Therefore, in this routine, the amulet breaks by ‘accident’. The situation is still
embarrassing, but it’s nobody’s fault. Clearly it was not your intention that this
expensive unpleasantness should happen. Yet, elegant well-bred devil that you are,
you resolve the situation with dazzling charm.

George is a stooge, or what I like to call a ‘fellow performer’. The routine can be
worked without his help, but I think that it is desirable, where possible, to avoid
putting a real spectator in such an awkward, and apparently costly position. I will give
an ‘impromptu’ sort of version of this routine later, but for now, let’s stick with
George.

To avoid the expense of a new amulet every show, George switches the pristine Star
for a previously mangled one, when he bends down under the table. This is easily
done, but to make things simpler, have George quietly drop the pre-mangled Star
ahead of time, so that it is already in position. He can drop the original amulet in an
open bag, which is subsequently closed by his leg, as he reaches down, which leaves
him clean. Find a switch that suits your particular circumstances, and use it. As for the
crunching sound, again there are several ways of doing this. A plastic cup under
George’s arm, or in his jacket pocket, can be broken when he bends down; or, if it’s
that kind of event, cocktail sticks, tooth picks, or breadsticks can be trodden on.
Please note though, that this sound effect is not meant to be a gag. You don’t want a
great whoopee cushion of a noise. Just a soft, suggestive snap.

Obviously, you repair the object with a switch. I use a Raven in the left hand, with an
undamaged, duplicate amulet in a thumb clip palm in the same hand. As the left hand
wipes away and over the right hand, the gimmick steals the mangled item; then as the
left hand moves back, the duplicate is deposited in the right palm with a little rub.
Please note that the right palm is kept covered as the switch is made.

Your manner once the amulet is broken is loudly impassive. Certainly not cold or
challenging, but rather blank and quiet, like a mirror. Of course, you warm up
considerably when you say your charming line, becoming gracious and generous. To
further this feeling, at the end of the routine you can wipe your hands together, as if to
say, ‘It is forgotten, my friend. The slate is wiped cleaned.’ This is not done as a
‘move’, to show the hands empty. Rather, this small dismissive gesture is theatrically
expressive.

This routine, this brief interlude, speaks volumes about your character, and it creates a
wonderfully supportive atmosphere. It can be done with any valuable object that is
about to feature in one of your routines. Remember that it should appear as if you
brought out the object intending to do another routine. It is broken accidentally, and
repaired on the spur of the moment. For all this to make sense, you must go on to
perform the next routine with this object. An object which has been closely examined,
but which now (because of the elegant switch) could be gaffed, if so needed.

Final thoughts:
The restoration of the amulet is enchanting, symbolic, and rich with meaning. I advise
you to keep it. However, much of the charm of this effect is due to the stunningly
courteous phrase with which you put everything right. Therefore, although in ‘real’
life, when that gorilla of a guest kicks a glass of red wine over your finest Persian rug,
physical restoration, unfortunately, might not be possible, it will be possible to say
(perhaps through gritted teeth), ‘Every action, performed by a friend, has a certain
charm.’ And though this impromptu approach is sleight-lite in the extreme, it is not
without its magic. Nor, indeed, without a certain charm.

The Koestler Protocol

In short:

A spectator mentally selects a target picture, which you are able to duplicate under
test conditions.

Presentation:

Conversation has turned to things parapsychological, and you ask your guests if they
have heard of the Koestler Protocol. Some have, some haven’t; but to all, the name
sounds convincing, and reassuringly scientific. Ah, you say, it’s an interesting story -
perhaps they would like to hear it? And, fortunately, they would.

‘The primary curse of Parapsychology,’ you explain, ‘was, and is, cheating. Even
something simple, such as one person telepathically transmitting a picture, for another
to draw - even something as simple as that was prone to deception. Ear-piece radios
(tap your ear), secret codes (scratch your chin with mock innocence), and more
(pause, then tap your nose conspiratorially), all have been used to fool the men and
women in white coats.’

‘In the 1950’s,’ you continue, ‘and with the reputation of Parapsychology withering in
the critical glare of the wider scientific community, Dr Robert Koestler realised that
the only sure way to exclude the possibility of cheating was to observe the
‘transmitter’ and the ‘receiver’ simultaneously. In other words, the two test-subjects
had to be monitored closely, by the same person, at the same time, and in the same
room. This arduous procedure revolutionised Parapsychology, and it has come to be
known as The Koestler Protocol.’

You invite one of your guests (Timothy) to assist you with recreating The Koestler
Protocol Test 3 - a simple drawing duplication. ‘Please relax,’ you say. ‘This is one of
the hardest things we can do. But if it doesn’t work, no matter. We can try something
else. There’s no need for either of us to feel bad.’

‘In a moment, I’m going to ask you to clear your mind, and choose a target picture.
Now in standard tests, people might draw a house, or a sunny face, flowers - that sort
of thing. But The Koestler Protocol is special, for it encourages a wider range of
responses. I’ve known people to draw camels, wishing wells, spacemen, all sorts of
exotica. Obviously we won’t use those choices tonight, as we recreate Test 3, so put
those target pictures from your mind. Good.’
Once again you encourage Timothy to relax, and then, picking up a medium-sized
ring-file, you explain, ‘One more thing - so they can’t accuse us of cheating, when
you draw your target picture I want you to keep the ring-file close towards you like
this.’ You hold the open file close to your body, by way of demonstration, then close
it. ‘That way, I won’t be able to peek - or anybody else, for that matter. Now, are you
ready?’ Timothy nods, and you pass him the ring-file.

‘Good.’ You take a deep breath. ‘Open the ring-file. You should see a blank sheet of
paper. Yes?’ Timothy nods. ‘I want you to clear your mind. Let it become as blank as
the paper.’ Pause. ‘Now, you begin to see target pictures. Choose one - choose a
target picture. Picture it in your mind, exactly as you see it. Now, let that image burn
deep into your brain. Lines of fire in the darkness of the head. Good. You’re doing
very well. Now, I want you to copy your target picture onto the blank page. Big and
bold. Exactly as you see it, transfer it...from your mind. From your mind, onto the
page.’

Timothy secretly draws an intricate picture of a shell. When he is done, you tell him
to take his picture out of the file, and keep it hidden from view. Then he should close
the ring-file, and, in whatever way feels right for him, attempt to transmit his image
into your mind.

For a long time nothing happens, but you remain encouraging and positive. Then
suddenly, with a jerk, the lines come, and you quickly make your picture. With a
blink, you realise that you are done. Hesitantly, almost apologetically, you hand your
picture to Timothy, and he gasps. You pause, then, as he begins to speak, you ask, ‘Is
that anything like what you saw?’ Then more firmly, ‘Like what you had in mind?’
Timothy nods mutely, and, in a daze, opens up his picture, and holds it next to yours.

And the two shells look very handsome together, matching closely as they do.

Details:

I would like to deal with this routine a little differently, if I may; so, in a page or two,
we will explore how it can be developed further, and discuss some additional
presentation ideas. But first, let us examine the method, which is a combination of
two well-established principles, namely secretly limited choice and sound-reading.

You will have noted that the introductory spiel implies that Timothy’s choice of target
picture will be completely free. That he could, if he wishes, draw camels, or
spacemen, or a thousand other peculiar things. However, in reality, this is simply not
the case, for on the inside cover of the ring-file (on the left-hand side) is an official,
and academic-looking document headed, ‘The Koestler Protocol Test 3 - Target
Pictures:’. Underneath this authoritative heading are five or six simple line drawings
(more on these later), and the names of what each represents. The routine is so
worded that it suggests to Timothy that he must follow a particular procedure, when
undertaking Test 3. He realises, on opening the file and seeing his ‘instructions’, that
part of this procedure is the limited choice. And so he complies. That, then, is the real
reason for all this ‘Koestler Protocol Test 3’ chatter. It makes Timothy feel as if he is
taking part in an established scientific test - one with its own inviolable course of
action.

Further to that, close inspection of the routine’s language reveals how precisely
Timothy is directed to choose his target picture, and then copy it exactly, as his own.
Yet the other spectators are given no sense of his limited choice. From the outside, it
appears that Timothy makes a free and entirely mental choice: that he pictures
something in his mind, and that, from there, he copies it down. You will note that this
linguistic ambiguity continues to the very end of the effect. One more point, because
of the way Timothy holds the ring-file, as per your instructions, the other members of
the audience are unable to see the secret sheet of drawings. All they think the file
contains is a blank sheet of paper (‘You should see a blank page’), which, of course, it
does, on the right-hand side. But on the left-hand side, unknown to them, is the Test 3
sheet.

Of course, very occasionally, the volunteer needs additional instructions. If this

happens, you say helpfully but firmly, ‘Just copy a target picture...’ then you pause,
and wait for him or her to start drawing. Then you add, ‘...from your mind. Draw what
you see in your mind.’ For extra security, the target picture document can be headed,
‘The Koestler Protocol Test 3 - please choose one of the following target pictures:’,
which makes things absolutely explicit. But I find this a little too blatant, and have
never used it.

Sound-reading is covered extensively in other places, such as Step 2 of Corinda’s

seminal 13 Steps to Mentalism. If you are unfamiliar with this under-used technique,
then let me introduce it to you. Briefly, you must listen closely to the sound the pen
makes as it draws on the paper. With practice, you can determine not only the number
of lines drawn, but also whether these lines are curved or straight. And knowing this
helps you to identify the shape drawn. A circle is one continuous curved line, a square
is four separate straight ones, and so on. Finally, rough paper and a thick marker pen
exaggerate the sound differences further.

In general, when sound-reading is performed, the whole audience is aware of the

limited choice: that the volunteer chooses from a finite set, such as five E.S.P. cards,
or whatever. Yet in The Koestler Protocol, because we limit the choice secretly, it
appears, to the wider audience, that Timothy’s choice is boundless. And this, I
believe, is a small, but useful, improvement. Therefore, when you come to select your
Test 3 drawings, I strongly advise you to pick a diverse range of targets. Avoid an
obviously limited set of symbols, such as the nine planets or the signs of the zodiac.
In addition, although your drawings can be as simple as your sound-reading skills
require, because each target picture has its own label, even the most basic image can
represent something grand and obscure. Therefore, dots on a page can be labelled
‘Measles’ - a tall triangle with a thick stem is a ‘Christmas tree’ - three concentric
arches a ‘Rainbow’ - or two neighbouring arches and a hooked line ‘The Loch Ness
Monster’. In the above routine Timothy drew a spiral with a short end-closing line
which we had labelled ‘Shell’, but it could have just as easily been labelled ‘Fossil’. It
will not be difficult for you to come up with a range of simple shapes that are easily
distinguishable through sound-reading, to which you then give exotic and diverse
names.

I believe the other advantage in combining these two methods is that it addresses one
of the perceived weaknesses of the dual-reality principle; namely that, although
everybody else might be baffled, the volunteer, often, is not. And even if his or her
on-stage reaction is not suspiciously low-key, you depend entirely on his or her
continuing silence and cooperation, for the wonder to last. Of course, the way round
this problem is to combine methods, and, in this case, because the sound-reading is
strong in its own right, then finding out about the limited choice will not greatly help
the curious spectator. However, it is best to be prepared, so if you do get ‘caught’,
then say, ‘I’m sorry, I thought we all realised that. Perhaps I wasn’t clear. That’s how
Test 3 works.’

It also helps to discreetly coach the spectator as he/she returns from the stage. Derren
Brown is a master of this. If I feel that people may mingle and chat once the routine is
over (as happens at private parties, for instance), then I will say something like, ‘I feel
so pleased for you. You did great. That’s so difficult to get right. How did we do that?
Strangeness is just wonderful when it happens, and though people may try hard to
understand it, they’ll never know. Let’s simply enjoy it, and feel proud that, when
they ask you what has happened, you can truthfully say, “You know, I’m not sure.
You tell me.”’

Finally, an idea that may appeal to those performers who like to work under test
conditions. In The Koestler Protocol it is perfectly possible for the transmitter and the
receiver to appear to make their drawings simultaneously. To do this, you will need
your own ring-file which contains two sheets of blank paper, next to each other. At a
given signal, Timothy starts to draw his target picture. At the same moment, you start
to doodle on the first blank sheet, as if making your own drawing. Actually, you are
listening out for his ‘shape’, and as soon as you identify it, you reproduce it quickly
on your second sheet. Because Timothy’s picture is unfamiliar to him, and he is
copying it carefully, you can, if you draw quickly enough, often finish ahead of him.
Your picture is folded before he’s put the cap on his pen. One way to slow Timothy
down is to include extraneous detail on the periphery of the target pictures - a camel
and some palm-trees around the base of the a pyramid, for example. Timothy will
usually draw the triangle first, and once you hear it, you’re off. With a little practise,
you can finish before him. Truly baffling, even for those in the ‘know’.

The other way to do this is to use one blank sheet of paper, and an additional six
pre-drawn sheets, each of which has a copy of a different target picture. Each of these
sheets is cut to a slightly different length, and arranged (in your ring-file) in an
overlapping index, with the longest sheet at the bottom, and the shortest (the blank
sheet) at the top. The working should now be obvious. As before, you doodle on the
blank sheet, all the time listening out for Timothy’s shape. As soon as you have
identified it, you appear to finish your own drawing, and then remove it from your
file. Actually, you leave the doodle where it is, and, in its place, rip out the matching
target picture from your ring-file index. One final point, your blank sheet of paper
should be thick enough to prevent ink bleeding through to the pictures underneath.

Anyway, enough detail, let us now look at some alternative ways to present this basic
routine. Firstly, we shall do some remote-viewing:

A wet weekend in Bognor

You and your guests have been talking about holidays - resorts have been reviewed,
and memories shared. You mention that you know of an interesting parapsychological
experiment based around the theme of dream-holiday destinations. With the group’s
permission, you would like to perform this experiment now. They are intrigued, and
invite you to continue.

The ubiquitous Timothy is handed a ring-file (labelled ‘Remote Viewing Protocol’),

and you tell him, as he opens it (cagily, as per your instructions), that he should see a
blank sheet of paper. He nods. You tell him to pick a target location - somewhere that
he has visited, or can picture in his mind. Then you say, ‘In a moment, I want you to
write the name of this target location on the blank paper.’ An idea crosses your mind.
‘No, tell you what, let’s keep your choice entirely in your head.’ You ask him to sit
back, relax, and imagine himself there.

You pause a while, then frown, and say, ‘I can see a drawing associated with this
place - that represents it. Yes, am I right?’ To everybody else, this suggests that you
have seen a picture of Timothy’s location in his mind. To Timothy this means, ‘look
down at the Protocol sheet’. Then you tell him, ‘To help focus your mind, and clear it
of this unhelpful image, I want you to draw it on the blank sheet of paper. Get it out of
the way. Copy the image exactly as you see it, onto the blank sheet. That’s it, clear it
out of your mind.’

You pause and take a couple of deep breaths. ‘I am in a large space,’ you say, not
waiting for confirmation. ‘There’s a lot of colour... and movement.. and light. I’m
walking down this street, and I can see hundreds of other people. Happy. Lots of
kids.’ The smile fades slightly, and your head tilts and turns, as if buffeted (but don’t
overdo it), and you say, ‘Now somewhere else, sitting down in... some kind of
vehicle, a... car, on red rails. Moving swiftly. Screaming. Laughing. Stop!’ You slam
down your hand, and jerk to a halt. ‘Now singing and dancing. Excited children. The
smell of food. Strings of lights across the sky.’ You close your staring eyes, and start
to draw. ‘And a face. A big round friendly face, two big round ears, a nose... no a
snout, and a smile as broad as the world.’ You sag slightly, then refocus, and open
your eyes. You look down and smile, as you recognise what you have drawn.
‘Where were you?’ you ask. ‘Disneyland,’ Timothy laughs, shaking his head. And,
laughing too, you show him your picture. A smile as broad as the world - Mickey
Mouse.

The working here will be obvious. The file has a secret list of ‘Target locations’, with
associated drawings. ‘Disneyland’ is represented by one large circle, with two smaller
circles for ears. But Timothy could just as easily have chosen ‘The Pyramids’ (a
triangle), or ‘Sugar Loaf Mountain’ (an arch with a cross on top to represent the statue
of Christ). And so on.

Another idea is to have twenty or so target locations on the Protocol sheet, only six of
which are well-known, or, indeed, real. So that when Timothy is asked to choose a
target location that he has visited or can clearly see, although ‘The Bogshawe Tripe
Factory Botanical Gardens’ intrigues him, he cannot picture it, and so is stuck with
‘The Eiffel Tower’ and ‘Stonehenge’. This little detail is a useful way of limiting an
apparently large number of choices to but a few. However, in this particular routine, I
can see it complicating matters unnecessarily. Besides, Timothy is the only one aware
of this extra choice, so I suggest that you stick to the original idea of just six target
locations.

I can’t stress enough that the emphasis in this routine is on reading thoughts, not on
duplicating drawings. Indeed, you go so far as to suggest that the only reason that the
drawing is made is to clear your view into Timothy’s mind. The picture is
unimportant. If anything, you claim, it hinders the mind-reading. Therefore, you
should make no attempt to compare drawings at the end. If Timothy wants to, that’s
fine, but please do not force the issue.

In the mind-reading section, you want to give the impression that you are vicariously
experiencing the sights and sounds and feelings in Timothy’s imagination: that you
are not just looking at a single picture, you are there. To do this effectively you must
picture yourself there. Sense a thousand busy voices around you. Taste the tang of
onions on the breeze. Thus, to Timothy, you come across as the tour-guide to his
fantasy. But to the rest of the audience, you seem to read his mind.

One feature of this approach that I have not mentioned before, is that some of your
guests will piece together your descriptive clues long before Timothy says
‘Disneyland’. With a little encouragement, you can make this mean that they too read
his mind. This is a little bold, but when you open your eyes at the end of the vision,
before looking down at your drawing, you can say, ‘Stand up if you’re picking this
up, too.’ Then when Timothy says ‘Disneyland’, you say, ‘Who else got that? Stand
up.’ Look at these brave souls, smile, and encourage the rest of the audience to clap
them, as you turn over your picture. Of course, as far as the standees are concerned,
they’re only standing because they puzzled out some clues, but, to the rest, they are
mind-readers. As I say, this is a bold ploy, but you will find that once people are
standing, and receiving your generous praise and applause, they are unlikely to want
to contradict you.

The Memory Bowl

Next, a presentation for Bizzarists. ‘There are those,’ you begin, ‘who believe that life
is a web of infinite complexity - a shimmering most delicate lattice, that is all things,
and endlessly lovely. Each individual thread connected to the wider whole.’ You
place an ornate bowl of water onto the table. ‘Take this Memory Bowl, for example,
whose little waters stir when we think fondly of our past.’

Alice, a friend of Timothy, is asked to choose a vivid childhood memory. She

prepares to note it down in an ancient-looking volume - not unlike a grimoire -
entitled ‘The Book of Memory’. But because this is a magickal ceremony, and not
some sterile test or trick, you suggest that it might be better if she just remembers her
particular memory. And so this she does. Unfortunately, however, there is an image
associated with this memory that is ‘obstructing the way to her mind.’ So, to clear her
mind you tell her to copy the image down into the Memory Bowl. And you
demonstrate how, noisily scraping the bowl’s base with your metal wand as you draw.
Intrigued, she complies; then, at your invitation, she looks hard and deep into the
water.

For a long time, nothing happens, but eventually, the surface of the water ruffles, and
words come popping out of you like corn from a smoking pan. ‘Hot - I’m hot. A little
weak... dizzy. I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. Days are like clouds,
drifting. I want to scratch - know I shouldn’t. Oh! Fresh sheets cool beneath me.
Sitting up now, feeling a bit better. Soup. Colouring-in. The spots are going. I feel
strong again.’

And Alice’s memory? Perhaps you picked it up too? Stand up if you did. She was
thinking of that time she had measles as a kid.

By now the working should be obvious. Pick six common memories, and find token
pictures to represent them. Then, having used sound-reading (the clunks and scrapes
from the bottom of the bowl) to establish the chosen memory, work those acting
skills, and tell the appropriate story in the first person. Not only is this ‘I do this, I see
that’ more emotionally immediate, it is also less directly challenging than just blurting
out ‘You’re thinking this’. You are not so much describing Alice’s experience, as
defining it through your own. There’s a big difference.

Oh, and as for water ruffling in the bowl, well you blow, inconspicuously and quietly.

The danger in this routine is that Alice fails to make the requisite tell-tale noises when
she draws her picture on the bottom of the bowl. If this happens, you can suggest that
that pesky image is still blocking your access to her memory, and that to remove this
image completely, she had better copy it down onto some paper.

In the normal course of events, however, no actual physical image is made; so do not
be tempted to make your own drawing. This routine is a ritual sharing of memory -
not some silly magic trick or lab-coat endorsed experiment. And although it works
well for candlelit table-hopping, you must approach it sensitively and seriously.

In a very real and powerful way, Alice is tracing the raw stuff of her life into the
water, and there is something poignant and beautiful about this. To write one’s
memories onto the surface of the water and then watch them swirl bewitchingly away,
is, at once, deeply sad, and deeply true. So please treat Alice kindly. In the words of
Stevie Smith, she may be not waving but drowning.

‘It’s a lovely evening, why don’t we go for a walk?’

I’m a passionate advocate of performing magic outdoors, which is perhaps surprising,

as I come from a notoriously damp and rainy city. Of course, I’m not suggesting for a
moment that we should decamp outside for every performance. Al fresco magic is
very much a sometime thing. However, the enduring popularity of street-performance
(festivals, ghost walks, the odd Blaine T.V. special) suggests that there is a taste for
the experience of strangeness under a roving sky. I believe there is a market for it, too,
and one day, we magicians will hurl again our words of power to the stars.

So imagine, if you will, walking on a late summer’s afternoon, down from the hills to
the blue coolness of a lake. The magician has led you to a still, unearthly place, and it
does not surprise you when he calls it the ‘Remembering Pool’. Things happen, and,
as in the old forgotten ways, memories are swept into the lake’s sleeping waters. And
the past becomes the now. (Hint: use a large thick-set twig to draw, and pray that you
can decipher the splashes. If not, there’s always the option of the drawn-on-paper
backup. Incidentally, your ‘Book of Memory’ for this routine - and the two that
follow - should be a slim expensive journal, elegant and ribbon-tied: think New Age,
rather than Medieval.)

Or imagine an evening on the beach, under a westering sky, when a nightmare is

shared and drawn in sand. Remarkably (your back is turned), you describe this
remembered dream. Then you turn round, take your guest’s hand, and together you
watch it wash, line by line, into the restoring sea. (Yes, it is possible, with practice, to
sound-read lines stick-drawn in sand or on pebbles.)

Go on, look outside your window right now, and tell me that it is not a lovely evening
for a walk. Okay, so it might be raining, as it is here. But you get my point.

Final thoughts:

Some readers will no doubt be thinking that I’ve taken a perfectly serviceable piece of
mentalism, and ruined it with sentiment, heavy breathing, and whimsy. So be it. If the
initial routine suits your character, and matches what you want your magic to say,
then that’s great. I’m glad you’ve got at least one useable thing from this book.
Seriously, though, I urge you to consider this one last variation. (Before I begin, I
should explain that ‘sparkler’ is the British name for those small hand-held fireworks,
much favoured by mittened children. I should not need to add that when sparklers are
drawn through the air, they make faint but discernible sounds.)

Remember remember the 5th of November

You are at a bonfire party, and an enchantress, a worker of wonders, asks you to think
of a precious childhood memory. Before you know it, she has handed you a sparkler;
and, charmer that she is, she asks you to use it to draw a token image of those happy
thoughts, onto the dimming fabric of the air. And oh what fun! You’d quite forgotten.
Gosh, that takes you back! The smell of it. The sound of it. The sight of it. Ravishing
tinsel streamers hung on the shoulders of the night, that all too soon slip away, and are
gone. Yes, she has beguiled you out of yourself, and when, finally, the sparkler
splutters out and dies, you feel very sad.

Yet, this bewitching lady turns back to face you, and she smiles. And her words
become as sparks above a fire, streaming out in whispers, and telling you of that day
by the sea - the very one you remembered - when the beach-ball bounced for ever in
front of you, and there seemed no small horizon, nor this adult limit to your view. Oh
how precious is this memory, and how brilliantly she has made it shine. You become
lost in a special place for a long long time. And when, eventually, you turn to thank
her, she is gone - folded back into the night like a dream.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that we are the makers of wonders, my gentle
friends, and we are the dreamers of dreams. Life is but the briefest glory - we burn
brightly, then are gone.

Let us dazzle, while we may.

Synchronicity

In short:

A spectator shares a dream, and something wonderful happens. A profound,

meaningful coincidence - synchronicity.

Presentation:

You are performing for a small group of people. The evening has had an intimate,
almost informal feel. People have been encouraged to share their experiences, and you
have artfully demonstrated your listening skills. The conversation turns to the subject
of dreams, and you offer this story to initiate discussion.

‘When I was about twenty five, I was unnerved by a recurring dream. Every night it
would appear, but the really annoying thing was that, whenever I awoke, I would
instantly forget it. Broke like a biscuit when I tried to grasp hold of it with my mind. I
knew that it was important. That it was trying to tell me something. But no matter
what I tried,’ mime the crumbs falling through your fingers, ‘arggh! It was gone.’

‘This desperately frustrating situation lasted a month. Two. And then a rather bizarre
thing happened. At the time I lived in a flat (apartment) over a shop, and the doorway
was down some steps. The entrance-hall was actually beneath ground level, like a
cellar. Anyway, the light-fitting in this hallway started eating bulbs like they were
candy. I’d put a fresh one in first thing in the morning, but, pop, by tea-time, it would
have burnt out. It wasn’t a dud batch. The bulbs worked fine in the rest of the house;
but put them in the hallway, and pop! And this happened every day for a month.’

‘Coming, as it did, on top of the dream, this was all I needed! I hadn’t exactly lost my
mind, but it was definitely misplaced. And so it was, one evening, that I found myself
in a foul temper, standing on a chair, removing yet another blasted bulb. When out of
nowhere came the thought, “Perhaps these two things, the dream and the bulbs, are
connected somehow? And...”’ you make an expanding gesture with your hands, ‘as if
by magic, my dream appeared instantly whole in my mind. I can still remember it
today.’ You pause, teasingly. ‘The dream? Oh, it was about me installing lights in a
dim and dark cellar.’

You encourage your guests to comment on this story. They ask questions. ‘No,’ you
answer, ‘from that moment I never had the dream again. And yes, the lights were
fixed. Worked perfectly from then on.’ And the meaning of the dream? ‘Well, I
believe that this particular dream was a notice of unrealised being. A materialization
potent with meaning. For in those days, I was a very rational, analytical person. The
dream encouraged me to envision a more expansive view. To shine some light in my
cellars, as it were. Of course, my conscious mind didn’t want to hear all that, and so
the meaning was made unignorably solid. Literally solid. The internal was expressed
externally, as a meaningful coincidence. What Jung called Synchronicity. Anyway,
that’s my dream.’
Again you pause, and create room in your routine for your spectators to talk. Some
laugh. Others share dreams. Eventually, you ask, ‘Does anybody have a bothersome
dream? Not, perhaps, a nightmare, but something puzzling, a little disturbing even?’
Stuart, one of your guests, describes such a dream, that has troubled him, on and off,
for several years. It is about a horse. When he’s finished you say, ‘Hmm. Interesting.
What do you think it means?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me!’ he jokes.

And so, together, you look at the images of Stuart’s dream. You explore associations.
You alter the sub-modalities. Everybody shares their own ideas. And, it transpires,
many have had similar dreams.

Finally you say, ‘I’d like to teach you something, Stuart, if I may? A psychological
routine that will help to make things clearer for you.’ And on a piece of beautiful
paper you draw a large circle.
‘This is your subconscious - a vast, expansive place. This line is no more of a
boundary than the horizon. When we dream, images appear in the mind like marks on
a page. Look at the page, the blank page, and relax. Your mind becomes clear. Blank.
Now, take the pen, and, as you think of your dream, mark the paper. Draw whatever
you like. Lines. Circles. Squiggles. Smiles. Whatever looks right for your dream. The
symbols, the substance, the meaning of your dream, coming into view’.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, something appears on the table, in front of Stuart. He is

startled. You watch him for a long time, quiet and still. Then, as you begin to wrap the
object up in the sheet of paper, Stuart splutters, ‘It’s a horse!’ The object is, indeed, a
small model horse, matching his dream exactly.
‘It’s your horse, now,’ you say, giving him the parcel. And, as you squeeze his hands
round this bundle, you add, ‘It will not frighten you again.’

Details:

This routine is best performed for small groups of about a dozen people - certainly no
more than twenty. Too large a number can spoil the intimate atmosphere. I think of
this routine as a therapeutic group experience: not as a trick. It is a positive,
transformative event. So please, save it for special occasions, and try to keep things
cosy and informal.

Unfortunately, the method does not guarantee synchronicity (a ‘hit’) every time. More
on this later. For now, if it becomes clear that there will be no match to the spectator’s
dream, then your ‘out’ is to segue into In your hands; but instead of using tarot cards,
you cold read from the symbols of the dream. As before, you encourage a more
collaborative process, where the spectator thinks symbolically, and uses his intuition
to arrive at satisfying answers to his questions. Of course in this case, no further
mention is made of synchronicity. Your dream is remembered simply as an interesting
story. The apport still occurs, as in the earlier effect, but it is seen as a fresh and
meaningful answer to the spectator’s question. Not synchronicity.

If it is possible to match an object to the dream, then you perform Synchronicity as

presented above. Here, the emphasis is more on the material of the dream. Encourage
your audience to discuss the imagery and the associations of the dream, helping Stuart
to see it afresh. This process may well prove to be therapeutic for him.

The psychological use of language in this effect is similar to that found in In your
hands. Please refer to that routine for a more detailed explanation. Scatter phrases
such as ‘manifest content of the dream/bring the meaning into focus’ to intensify
impact.

Where this routine does differ from the earlier one, is in the nature of its
psychological effect on the spectator. You are enabling Stuart not only to understand
his dream, but also to control it. The paper wrapping suggests this; what was scary
and intangible, is now solid and packaged. It is his horse now, to keep or to throw
away. Further to that, when any dream is discussed and chewed over in this manner, it
rarely resurfaces. It is as if it has been noticed, and the psyche tends to move on. So it
is entirely possible that this troublesome dream will not return. (This has been
confirmed to me, subsequently, by two such ‘Stuarts’.) If the dream does recur, then
enough has happened psychologically in the routine to enable Stuart to feel in control
of his fear. And the final suggestion ‘It will not frighten you again’, anchored to the
object, underlines this for him.

Of course, if the participant presents a particularly disturbing dream, then it is not

your place to deal with it here. This is not a panacea for nightmares. Move on to
something else entirely. I believe that, as entertainers, we should seek to affect our
audiences in positive and personal ways. This makes what we do potentially
therapeutic. But that does not make us therapists, and we should behave accordingly.

Occasionally, the proffered dream is pleasant in feeling. If this is the case, then
change the ending as follows. After a sufficiently long pause, to allow Stuart to realize
that the object matches his dream, you say, ‘A remarkable dream.’ Nod as you wrap
the parcel, then handing it to him, with a smile and a squeeze, you say, ‘It’s in your
hands now.’ This suggests several things. Firstly, that the good feelings of the dream
have been copied to the object. Secondly, that object is connected intimately to Stuart,
and his unconscious. And finally, that Stuart is responsible for puzzling out his own
life.

The technical method is similar to In your hands, with the object palmed when you
get the paper and pen, and then secretly loaded onto the head. Do not be frightened of
trying this. The misdirection is strong, and the loading method works even before
several people. It just takes guts. Please refer to the earlier effect for details. To bring
about synchronicity (a good match), you have several dozen small objects on the
inside lid of your attaché-case, held in place by loops of elastic - five or six rows of
eight to ten. When you open your case to get the paper, you steal the appropriate
object. Please note that these objects are used to represent several things, without
seeming ambiguous. For instance, a small plastic Monopoly house can match a dream
about houses, or hotels, landlords, estate agents, games, and so on. A fig leaf can
match trees, forests, and even nudity dreams. Below, you will find a list of suggested
objects:

CAR, BOAT, PLANE, TRAIN, HOUSE, LEAF, FLOWER, HANDCUFFS,

TICKET, EXAM, TEETH, HAIR, GUN, KNIFE, WINGS, STAIRCASE, CROWN,
RING, SHOE, DOG, CAT, HORSE, COW, SNAKE, INSECT, SPIDER, LION,
ELEPHANT, DOOR, LABYRINTH (DESIGN ON JEWELLERY),
LIGHTER/MATCH, BAG, BOTTLE, PHONE, WHEEL, PILL/STETHOSCOPE,
KEY, STAR, BALL, STONE, SHELL, EGG, SPADE, RAINBOW, CAMERA,
CASTLE, CUP/TROPHY, FEATHER, MIRROR.

Trips to toy and craft shops will furnish you with most of the requisite objects. Think
about how you can match your objects to different dreams, without the ‘hit’ seeming
strained.

One final suggestion is to perform this routine with an accomplice. After the dream
has been recounted, you ask the host, actually your accomplice, if she can find some
paper for you. She says, ‘Hmm. I’m not sure. I’ll see what I can find.’ While she is
out of the room, crashing through drawers, apparently looking for some paper, she is
actually sifting through a large collection of several hundred objects, to find a good
match. This improves the odds of a ‘hit’. When she returns with a sheet of wrapping
paper, asking, ‘Will this do? It’s all I could find,’ she has the object palmed, and is
ready to do the dirty work herself; she places the object surreptitiously on her head,
and then lets it fall, as before. This helps with the misdirection, in so far as it reassures
the nervous performer, but it is not strictly necessary.

Final thoughts:

Synchronicity is a challenging routine that places many demands on the performer.

It’s an awful lot of work for something you may choose, like me, to perform only
occasionally. Also, the synchronicity effect is not guaranteed, and although the ‘out’
is still strong, is it really worth the bother?

Well, imagine this. You go to a rather wonderful party at a friend’s house. The
evening sparkles as enchantingly as your dress. Now, during an interesting discussion
about dreams, you tell your friends of that faintly bothersome dream you have, from
time to time, about the lion on the beach. Talking about it seems to help, and the
performer teaches you a captivating relaxation exercise. You are made to feel very
special. And then the miracle happens. A tiny lion appears in your hands, out of
nowhere, and the dream seems not so scary after all.

It is real magic, my friends, and you can make it happen.

Sinne Eater

In short:

A story about eating.

Presentation:

You are seated, with your audience, around a large table. It has been a fine, convivial
evening, and together you have enjoyed good food, conversation, and stories. Easeful
and replete, you pause to enjoy the warmth and crackle of the hearty fire. Of course,
by now, one or two of your more perceptive guests have sensed that troubling
weirdness, that stirs at the centre of your complex heart. But, be that as it may, there is
yet no sense of the foulness that waits for them on the table, lurking, as it were, even
as you begin your tale.

‘Cambridge. 1768. Late Michaelmas term. The gnawing wind seethes off the dark
fens, and festers in the chimneys of town. Dr Thomas Acton, Fellow of Kings
College, sits snugly by the fire in his study, toasting plum-cake.’

With a fork, you spear the spicy bun from the basket in front of you, and briefly mime
warming it at the fire. Then, in the character of the doctor, you take a refined gourmet
bite, and savour its rich flavour round your mouth. Then you remove the partly-eaten
cake from the fork, and put them both down onto the table. You continue:

‘The doctor is a tall thin man, who yet moves powerfully and with keen, bird-like
deliberateness. And so it is that he, not unlike a sparrow with its worm, relishes his
food even to the last greasy speck. His tongue slimes away a final crumb, and then,
with arch slowness, he turns his head, and to his visitor he says, “Now sir, you may
explain yourself.”
Jacob Merrick steps closer to the fire, and roughly clears his throat.
“Well sir, I be such a man as a sinne-eater.”
Doctor Acton pats the silk cap on his shaven head, his wig being for the present time
taken off, and placed on its block on a side-table. “Continue,” he says with poorly hid
contempt.
“Ah,” smiles Jacob Merrick, “the doctor’s as kind a soul as I ever see. Now, in
Hereford, it be the custom at funerals to hire such as me, to take upon hisself all the
sins of the party deceased. In manner thus, the corpse is brought out, and laid on the
bier; and a hunk of cake also, to be placed over the corpse. Whereof, for the
consideration of sixpence, I devour all the sins of the defunct, and free the good sir or
lady from the trouble of walking, now that they are dead.”
The wind stirs in the chimney, and nibbles the flames.
“You waste my time Merrick,” says the doctor disdainfully. “You are not in Hereford
now, more’s the damned pity.”
“Ah, but sir, to be sure, I have a yet other ability, singular as coral.”
“Which is?”
“Well, sir...” Jacob Merrick smiles and takes stock of the doctor’s room.’

You look about you with greedy eyes.

‘Such gaudy treasures to be had this winter’s night. There on the table, see, by
Acton’s elbow, a silver tray, and some calf-bound books, and a gold tobacco box, and
a glass of liqueur. “All that will be mine,” Merrick thinks, “when I jiggle the juicy
bait.” His eyes narrow, and he says, “Let it be proposed that a man, such as I, could
see, let us say, into another man, such as be yourself, and that then the first man could
know, by his rare and special fancy, that this second gentleman has upon his soft
hands the blood of twelve poor men.”
The windows tremble in the teeming wind, and coldness eats into Acton’s heart.
Faintly he says, ‘And what would be your course, sir, confronted by such a
gentleman?”’

In the character of Jacob Merrick, you lift a fresh plum-cake, and hold it out
dramatically, between both hands. It is large, and round, and marked with a star. Then
you say:

‘“Well, doctor, for twenty guineas, I would hold a cake thusly above his head, and
draw out the warps and putrid baseness from the marrow of his soul. Yea, even into
the fabric of this confection would they go, and this gentleman would he then be
relieved. For twenty guineas, I would do so.”
The doctor feels his stomach turn, and, disgustedly, he spits on the floor.
“To be sure, sir, you are a carrion rogue,” he whispers, “that do sicken me with blight
and brutish stratagems.”
“Think you so?” hisses Merrick, lifting the plum-cake towards Acton. “When you can
see the foulness moving in the dough. When, yet I verily do know, that any man can
see corruption ravaging his victuals.”’

You hold the cake in shaking hands, and, over the next few minutes, several
spectators swear that they can see small, stuttering movements coming deep from
within it. You also are staring at it, stock still, save for your quivering fingers, even as
you say:

‘Doctor Acton’s eyes reel and gibber, as, surely, he sees the plum-cake eaten from
within by God-knows-what horror. Oh! something squalid and repugnant is writhing
obscenely there inside, like knuckles under skin. And then, relief! The college-bell
sounds the quarter-to-the-hour, and the dreadful spell is broken; this queasy
phantasmagoria is stilled, and the loathsomeness is ended.’

You have dropped this foul food onto the table, with no little relief; then wiping your
brow, you say:

‘With shaking hands, Acton lifts a kerchief to his brow.

“And, may it be supposed, that your repugnant...services are absolutely discreet? Not
any soul is apprised of your presence here tonight?”
“Not a one, sir,” smiles Merrick. “Like a thief in the night, I have come.”’

With startling, violent power, you stand up suddenly. Then, as you spit the doctor’s
next words, you snatch up the fork and slash it, as if across Merrick’s throat, before
returning the implement directly to the table.

‘“Then thief, so be gone!”’

You jerk, slightly, as if under the blow, and then pause. Slowly, you become the
cunning Merrick, smiling yet, but with confusion and shock, and then understanding,
crawling inevitably over you.

‘Jacob blinks, and barely feels the black point of the fire-iron slashing across his
throat. But the judder of his chin perplexes him, and he is disturbed by Acton’s look
of devilish triumph.’

You totter, then drop weakly into your chair. You lift your hand to your throat, and
say:
‘But soon enough he understands why there is now a strange hissing in his ears, and a
hot wetness soaking down his shirt. The blackness devours him, span by qualmish
span, and his head lolls. And, like little splashes, he hears what he takes to be words,
swimming an ocean away.’

As you say Acton’s next words, you slowly become possessed of his jubilant fury.
And, inch by inch, you rise from your chair, and tower fearfully, in triumph.

‘Acton rages, “Ye Gods! What delicious fools these grubbling curs be! To me! To
think he comes to me when, already, twelve such prognosticators I have wiped from
the face of the earth. Aye, so easily removed, occasioning not the merest notice.
Those such as yourself, sinne-eater! For did you not know that, in this brave new age,
there are no laws save only those of Science? And no gods, save only Newton and
Hume? It is a glorious booted age, that will not rest till it has stampèd out illogic and
superstition. And I am at its bidding. With the heel of Reason (you stamp), have I
crushed out a sickly twelve. And now, Merrick, it is thirteen.”’

You look down at Merrick, as at a drowned dog, and say:

‘Jacob Merrick collapses. Excitedly, the doctor bends over him, and hears the last
delicious bubbles frothing wetly in his throat.’

You lean forward.

‘Then Merrick whispers, “No more shall your food be clean...” Then he convulses,
and dies.’

With a deep sigh, you sit back down into your chair.

‘And for a long while, there is no sound, save only the doctor’s contented purring, as
he watches the swirls and steam of his butchery. But then the college bell sounds for
Hall, and Acton suddenly feels very hungry. Across the Quad he hears other scholars
scurrying to the Refectory, and High Table. And so, with great appetite, he readies to
join them. But first, let him enjoy one dainty last morsel from his exquisite repast, so
to whet his ravening belly.’

You spear Merrick’s plum-cake with the fork, and lift it delicately to your mouth.

‘He lifts the cake to his fat lips, and...(you sniff) savours it.’

Almost imperceptibly at first, the fork and the plum-cake begin to shake in your
hands.

‘But what is this? Some devilry no doubt, moving foully through the dough. A filthy
crawling in the very fabric of his food. There it is! Aye, like knuckles under skin.’

The shaking is becoming violent, and, much alarmed, you snatch the cake off of the
fork, and down onto the table. Yet still the cutlery continues to shake in your fingers.

‘Then Christ! This corruption, this putrid baseness, even as he watches, yet it is
spreading. Violently his hand shakes, and then, ah! The iron fork withers. It has quite
decayed.’

The audience gasp as they see one of the prongs of the fork bending. Yes, it is clearly
bent, as you drop the loathsome thing back onto the table. Then with grim,
unavoidable fascination, you turn your eyes back to the plum-cake.

‘And now, quietly, the plum-cake is stirring on the table, eaten from within. And
words are rotting in the doctor’s head. “No more shall your food be clean.”
Weakly, he reaches over, and breaks open this dainty, and it erupts with foulness.’

In great dread, you break open the plum-cake, and flinch. Your gorge rises. For the
body of the cake is thickly alive, utterly infested with maggots. By the hundred they
spill out, over your trembling hands, and slop white and obscene onto the table. You
drop the cake in horror, and spew out these final words:

‘And, bitterly, he tastes the canker of his wretched heaving heart.’

Your bow your head, and it tics and shakes. And, much disturbed, you so remain, for
an unpleasantly long time.

Details:

If we are to regard magic as an art, then I strongly believe that we must invest it with
more meaning than the common ‘I fooled ya!’. Puzzlement is not the same as wonder,
and although, occasionally, it can be mildly entertaining, baffled head-scratching adds
little to the wider human experience. A sense of wonder can transform lives.

One of the qualities of wonder is that it can be explored. It has a range and depth that
dazzles and entices. Therefore, in this routine, many meanings swarm and teem. (That
does not, necessarily, make Sinne Eater art, but I hope that it makes it interesting, and
maps out new territories for the audience to explore.) Most obviously, there are the
emotional meanings - primarily guilt, horror, and repulsion. But also, the audience
will find many intellectual meanings, such as: there are more things in heaven and
earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy; actions have consequences; and guilt is a
subtle, but devastating corruption, that can gnaw at the very vitals of a woman or man.
By imbuing our magic with such content, we engage our audience at the deeper level,
which furthers the routine’s charm, and, in turn, its deception. Simply put, your guests
have more delicacies to chew over and digest than the bland standard fare, ‘I wonder
how s/he did that?’ This is misdirection through thematic depth and complexity.
When the story and the drama and the characters of a film are good, we do not bother
so much to wonder about the mechanics of its special effects.

As in all stories, these multiple meanings coalesce into symbols, and one of the most
powerful elements of story-telling magic is that we can illustrate our meanings
concretely. The symbols become solid. Therefore, in this routine, the central theme of
consumption, that guilt can consume as well as be consumed, erupts in the final image
of the maggot-infested bread. The magic expands the story, and the story expands the
magic.
This approach can be very satisfying for both the audience and the performer, but it
can be taken further. Sinne Eater directly associates the sense of revulsion and horror
that your guests feel at the end of the routine, with its themes of guilt and sin. Guilt, if
you will, becomes a sickening and ugly thing, tangibly real. And having established
this connection, and induced this precise emotional state, we can explore it. This we
shall do, to therapeutic effect, in the next routine We eat what we are.

Of course, the historical nature of this routine makes it particularly challenging to

perform convincingly. It is a story difficult to tell. The constant switching between
two very different characters, and the demands of making sense of the eighteenth
century dialogue, will test our acting skills to the full. I think the key here is to create
space in the routine - use silence to allow people the time to absorb and understand
what you are saying, and time for them to appreciate the period detail. Our goal is to
transport the audience, in imagination, not only to a different geographical location,
but also to an elsewhere in time. There is a kind of duo-consciousness induced when
we hear a good story; we sit round the table in the twenty first century, yet,
simultaneously, we exist in the study of an eighteenth century Cambridge don. And
this experience, of being here, yet also elsewhere, can be very satisfying. Evoke it
well, and your audience will be enchanted.

The plum-cake also helps to set the historical scene. It is an old, unfamiliar food,
strangely spiced, but not unpleasant - literally a taste of the past. To be strictly
accurate, in the eighteenth century ‘plum-cake’ was a type of fruitcake, but I liked the
name, and kept it. Unfortunately, fruitcake is a little too crumbly for our purposes, so
you will need to root around to find something locally, that works for you. In Britain,
hot-cross-buns and large tea-cakes work fine, as do some scones. All these can be
shop-bought, but, as I prefer the imperfection of the home-made (it feels more
historically authentic) I have included a recipe (!) for you to play around with. Of
course, any food could be used, so long as it meets the dramatic requirements of the
routine. However, if you intend to follow this routine with We eat what we are, then
please resist the temptation to use bread. The ritual in the second routine, if bread is
used, becomes reminiscent of the Christian rite of Holy Communion. You may well
offend some of your guests horribly. If you can’t find anything to use, then:

Warm 150ml milk, and add 1 beaten egg - dissolve in 55g Muscovado sugar and 20g
fresh yeast. Leave in warm place for 15 minutes.

Rub 55g margarine into 455g wholemeal flour, 1 teaspoon salt, and 2 teaspoons
mixed spice, and make into a dough, with the liquid. Add 40g currants, 40g sultanas,
and 50g of mixed finely chopped figs and dates.

Knead and place in warm bowl, slightly sprinkled with floor, and leave in warm
place, to rise for 1 hour.

Knead the dough, then mould into round 90g bun shapes. Leave to stand for a few
minutes, then cut a star onto each.

Place on warm greased baking sheets, cover with damp cloth, and leave to rise for 30
minutes.
Glaze buns with milk or beaten egg, then bake at 220ºC for 15-20 minutes. Cool and
use as fresh, or wrap and freeze.

Let us now leave the kitchen, and look at how this effect works. Once again, there are
one or two technical subtleties in the language of the story. Many will be already
familiar. Interestingly, the very fact that the period dialogue requires some attention to
be comprehended, actually helps to wrap people up in the experience, and to suspend
their disbelief. People have to listen closely, and this leaves them receptive for your
suggestions and embedded commands. They attend to your words, but are not
conscious of your linguistic and psychological skulduggery. It is kind of like
misdirection through the use of slightly obscure language. Of course, one can overdo
this ornate obfuscation. I am reminded that the Delphic oracle of Apollo Pythias fell,
in time, to giving its answers in prose, because the people were beginning to laugh at
the poorness of its versification.

As for the suggestions themselves, well, apart from the

writhing-movement-in-the-bread effects (which can be ignored, or further developed
as you desire), language also enhances the maggot production at the end. Throughout
the routine, the imagery is grubby, and primarily concerned with consumption - things
eat other things from the inside out. Not only is this unpleasant and squalid of itself,
but it also, as in In your hands, conditions the spectators to see things in a particular
way when the magic arrives. Reality is defined through quiet suggestion so that, in the
end, it feels like the maggots consume the bread from the inside out - not that you put
them there. And, of course, from a literary point of view, this unified imagery creates
a sense of thematic wholeness, and intensifies the drama.

The most disturbing suggestive effect in Sinne Eater is the use of words such as
‘sicken’, ‘queasy’, and ‘stomach turn’. Only little words, but I’ve found that they
significantly increase the feelings of revulsion that your guests experience at the end
of the routine. (In the same way that you might have responded to my sly use of
‘flinch’ and ‘gorge rises’ in the stage directions! Seriously, I wanted to implant an
emotional state, a flavour of the routine, not only to ‘sell’ it, but also to induce a mild
distaste that you will be able to use in performance.) And if any of your guests are not
thoroughly revolted by the end of the routine, then the final, hidden commands of
‘retch’ and ‘heave’ will finish them off. I should add that this ‘gross out’ element is
not done for its own sake. (Though I believe, as artists, we can explore just about any
emotion through our art.) The key here is that this induced revulsion is thematically
and theatrically appropriate. And, as I stated earlier, we will use this temporarily
unpleasant state very much to the psychological good in We eat what we are.

If you remain unconvinced as to the efficacy and power of these linguistic subtleties,
then I invite you to apply these methods to your own work, and then observe the
resultant effects. What have you got to lose? These techniques are certainly not new
with me. No less a theatrical magician than Shakespeare explicitly encouraged his
audience to ‘Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts,’ (Henry V). And if this
present book were a different work entirely, then I would cite example after example
of the Bard’s psycho-linguistic trickery. Now, I’m not for one nanosecond equating
my work with his. My point simply is that long centuries before Caleb Strange split
his first infinitive, other writers (infinitely more competent and skilled) were alive to
the fact that words, also, can be wands.
As in The Collector, I have tried to make the magic grow organically from out of the
story. We use plum-cake and a fork because they are central to the drama. Not
because we want to show off our dexterity or psychic ability. The fork bends and the
maggots appear in the food because they demonstrate, graphically, our themes of
consumption and decay. Therefore, the magic is expressive of the story, and
consistent with it. It is a metaphor made real.

Mechanically, this effect is very simple to do. It is possible to load the maggots into
the cake in the same way that you would insert a coin into a bread-roll. (You will need
to whittle out a small hollow ball from another cake, and fill it with maggots; then
insert this infested load, from underneath, into the fresh cake as you break the cake
open.) However, my preferred approach is to pre-load the plum-cake with maggots.
To do this, you will need to make a small cut in the underside, and, as carefully as
possible, scoop out some of the cake, to make room for your maggots. Insert them by
the spoonful, and close up the cake with glue or sticky-tape, to prevent escape. You
do not have to use an edible glue for this; no one is going to eat this plum-cake! And,
although you should carefully repair the underside of the bun, with careful handling
the cut will not be seen. One important point is that you must not hollow out the entire
centre of the roll. You need to leave at least one part solid, so as to be able to spear
and pick up the cake with the fork. Finally, practise to see how roughly you can
handle the cake without it splitting. And don’t forget to wash your hands.

Now, and this is very important, you do not put this pre-loaded cake into the basket at
the beginning of the evening, and leave it there. Clearly, you must drop it in at the
very last moment. You do not want somebody to bite into it by mistake. Well, maybe
you do, but that is your business. Anyway, when you stand up to get the basket from a
side-table, so as to begin the routine, you palm the prepared cake; then when you pick
up the basket from above, you secretly add the cake to the basket. As ever, this is not
a ‘move’. You are simply getting the basket and putting it on the table. The larger
movement of standing up and walking to the side-table, will hide the smaller
movement of palming the cake. Besides, as you walk across the room, your back is
turned to the audience. Make your plum-cakes as big as your hands can handle. In
these circumstances, even a large cake will not be difficult to hide. One more point, it
is important, having added the cake to the basket, that you keep track of it. You do not
want to dramatically open an empty plum-cake at the end of the routine. Nor, I should
imagine, do you want to bite into the maggots by mistake.

The basket itself has been left on the side-table, with other nibbles, and throughout the
evening, several people have availed themselves of your hospitality. Therefore, it
appears, subsequently, that any one of them could have bitten into a maggot
sandwich. This is distinctly unsettling. It also tends to exclude the pre-loaded
hypothesis from the thinking of the curious spectator. Even you would not dare to
leave such a thing in the open, and risk accidental consumption.

As for the fork bend, well, the prong is pre-bent, to about 30 degrees. Bend an outer
prong directly forward. (It should look like a straightened forefinger on an otherwise
cupped hand.) The fork is in the basket when you bring it to the table. You can get it
there in several ways. The fork can be placed unobtrusively onto the side-table, when
people have finished eating, and hidden either amongst plates of half-eaten food or
other cutlery. If this does not suit, you can sleeve the fork as you palm the plum-cake,
and then apparently pick it up from the side-table as you get the basket. Whatever, the
fork should be to hand, ready to be placed openly in the basket, when you fetch the
cake. Once again, do not make a song and dance about this. It’s a fork - not a prop.

With the fork in the basket, you sit down at the table, and put the basket down. Then
you quickly pick up the fork, and use it to spear the cake, thus hiding the bent prong.
Thus, Acton warms and eats his plum-cake. Then, having disposed of any uneaten
crumbs, you put the fork back in the basket, and hide the bend between the
plum-cakes, or you put the fork on the table, directly in front of you, with the bend
hidden behind the basket. In either case, the bent prong is hidden in plain sight, and
the fork is handled casually. Similarly, the fork is returned to its ‘hiding’ place
immediately after the assault on Merrick.

At the end of the routine, you pick up the fork, and quickly spear the maggot cake;
then holding the fork vertically, with the food on top, you gently shake them both
backwards and forwards, in a plane perpendicular to your body. As the shaking
becomes more violent (but not so violent that you shake open the cake), you snatch
the cake off, and put it onto the table. The fork-prongs are pointing upwards, with the
bent prong towards the spectators, but because you are now shaking the fork quickly,
backwards and forwards through an inch or so, the bend is still invisible. To display
this bend, and make the fork appear to corrode and decay, gradually slow the shaking
down, and, at the same time, tilt your hand forward, so that the fork shakes in a less
vertical plane, and the prongs begin to point directly away from you. Then, as the
shaking slows to a stop, you rotate your wrist, so that the now horizontal fork is in a
plane parallel to your body. All this is done in a matter of few seconds. Please try
these movements in front of a mirror, and you will see the fork appear to bend.

Final thoughts:

Sinne Eater undoubtedly induces a sense of revulsion in the spectator. Consequently,

you will need to think long and hard about where and when you perform it. One idea
would be to weave your stories into an evening of good food, good wine, and good
company. Such a civilised event, where a variety of dishes are served, from different
places and different times, speaks gilded volumes about your character. The different
courses could structure your evening’s entertainment, and provide the inspiration and
starting point for some of your effects. (‘Ah, that was delicious, I love Indian food.
And that reminds me of a story from that magical sub-continent...’)

Of course, you will need to consider the impact that such a routine will have on the
audience’s perception of your character. You cannot just drop this routine in, and
hope for the best. A table full of maggots can instantly undo an evening’s worth of
carefully nurtured rapport.

Finally, I urge you to examine exactly why you want to evoke such a strong and
unpleasant reaction. When story-tellers shock and unnerve, they do so purposefully,
and with good reason. Let us now look at such a reason.

We eat what we are

In short:

In a communal act of courage, you and your guests resolve long-troubling memories.

Presentation:

Sinne Eater is finished, and the table festers like an open corpse. Revulsion is
spattered in the heart. After some time, you blink out of your stupor and notice the
heaving mess before you. Good host that you are, you sweep it carefully away into a
box, and clear the top of the table. Then you say, ‘Would that the wreckage of the
heart were so easily tidied - so readily made good.’

You step over to the side-table, and wash your hands thoroughly in a bowl of warm
water. Meticulous and precise, almost as if you are performing a ritual ablution. And
you comment, ‘Or that guilt and shame could be washed so completely away.’

You dry your hands, and return to the table, to pace around it, saying, ‘Yet we all
have things that gnaw us from the past - moments of thoughtlessness or folly. The
coin taken from our mother’s purse, the hurtful lie, the purloined sweet. Grubby
things that we cling onto, and choose not to forget.’ As you prowl around the table,
you look at each guest in turn, and then, firmly, you state, ‘We will face these
memories, now, together.’

You light a candle and place it on the table, and then, on a sheet of paper, you draw
the rough outline of a plum-cake, with, at its centre, a star. Then you put this paper
down, and you sigh. A memory has come. Guilt eats into your heart like an eclipse,
and its shadow haunts your eyes. You take a deep breath, and begin:

‘When I was a boy, 11 years old, my Great Gran had a stroke, and I went to the
hospital to see her. She was sat in a chair when I got there, and as I leaned over to kiss
her, she started to moan and shake. I’d accidentally trodden on her foot. It took me a
couple of seconds to realise this, but when I did, of course, I stepped away. And
then... I did something shameful. I don’t know why... but knowing that nobody else
had seen me tread on her, and knowing, also, that my Nan could not now speak, I
pretended it hadn’t happened. I was too much of a coward to apologise, and she
watched me squirm away from her, like a snake. I never saw her again, and that is
why I write “Nanna”.’ And you mark this name as a token of your guilt, within the
outline of the paper cake. ‘Who will write next?’

One by one, your guests are encouraged think of their own small moments of shame.
Then each incident is recorded, by the spectators themselves, as a word or a name on
the paper. Of course, some people also choose to tell their own story, and you listen to
each without comment - warm, empathic, and full of positive regard. Others can bring
themselves only to read aloud their written words. But, one way or another, all speak,
and acknowledge a painful incident of guilt.

You point at the plum-cake outline, now swarming with words, and say, ‘Pain. Fear.
Shame. Befoulers all. It takes courage to face them - these maggots of the heart.’ And
then, moving with purpose, and with some authority, you place an old wooden-bowl
onto the table, and finally sit down.

Everybody looks at this bowl: it holds a large, round plum-cake, marked with a star.
Recent memories are stirred, and people shift apprehensively in their seats. ‘Courage,’
you order, and your guests grow quiet, as they realise that, in all likelihood, they will
have to eat this cake.

You pick up this threatening thing, and weigh it in your hands. ‘Courage,’ you mutter,
this time to yourself, then add more loudly, ‘and so I think “Nanna”. Then you tear
off a chunk of cake, and look at it closely. There are no maggots. Yet still you say,
‘Oh how they writhe and wriggle and slither, these maggots of the heart.’ Then you
swallow the piece quickly, and command, ‘Fear begone! Pain begone! Shame
begone!’ You stamp your fist, and before the noise has ended, it is as if the shadow is
fled from your heart, and the sunshine has brightly returned.

Inevitably, you turn to the lady on your right, and pass her the wooden-bowl. ‘Now
Elizabeth,’ you tell her, ‘I want you also to take a piece of this cake, and consider
what you have written and said. Then eat it, and say with me, “Fear begone! Pain
begone! Shame begone!”’ Rather nervously, she complies, and you reach out to her
and say, ‘Now take my hand, as you feel better. So much better.’ And you nod.

The ceremony continues. Each guest, in turn, remembers, then eats, then chants. And
each is told, ‘As you feel better, take the hand of the person on your left, and then we
move on.’ Eventually, all people have eaten, and the plum-cake is entirely consumed.
And now there is a ring of hands held firmly around the table. Squeezing tighter this
grip, you proclaim, ‘All gone! All gone! All gone!’

You bow your head, and some guests start to speak - they are feeling better, they
claim - but your presence silences them. And then, with focus and tremendous
precision, you fold the sheet into a small neat bundle. You hold it up. ‘Pain. Fear.
Shame. We say begone!’ And you repeat this phrase over and over, until every person
chants as one. Then, as you intone the final ‘begone’, you touch the paper to the
candle, and it bursts into dazzling flame. Yet, despite this searing flash, the paper
lingers undamaged, and quickly you unfold it. And all the people gasp, for they can
see that, although the plum-cake outline remains, the words of shame are gone.

And holding hands tightly for one last time, to pound into quaking the table, you
shout with joy the magic words, ‘All gone! All gone! All gone!’

And the laughter rises in the bowl of the heart, as warm and sweet as cake.

Details:

We eat what we are is magic as group therapy - a potent and cathartic event, that
borrows from the theatre of ceremony and ritual to induce a very specific
psychological experience. As such, I recognise that it may not be to every performer’s
taste, and, if this is the case with you, then I apologise, and invite you to move on to
the next routine.

However, if you are comfortable with working this ‘strong’, then let us explore some
of the thinking behind this particular effect. Of course, this is by no means the first
time that magic has been used in an emotionally restorative way. Synchronicity and
Luke’s The Seventh Deception (on which this routine is largely based) are both
concerned with effecting and enabling therapeutic change in the individual spectator.
Where this routine differs, is that it is designed to be of collective benefit - it is a
communal experience - a manipulation of the many, and not the one.

That this ceremony is effective is largely due to the preparatory work of Sinne Eater,
which leaves your guests receptive and ready for this additional experience. They are
unnerved, deeply so, and in a state of tension (which not only must be resolved, but
which also leaves them more open to suggestion). Importantly, most of your guests’
negative feelings are focused on the plum-cake - the very item at the centre of your
ritual meal. Therefore, your audience has been conditioned to think and feel in a very
specific way, and thus you are more able to direct them. In particular, they now have a
strong aversion to plum-cake, and become apprehensive when you command them to
eat it. What normally would be a rather jolly cake-eating session, has been
transformed into a nerve-racking ordeal. One of the functions of a story is to create a
specific state in the listener. We eat what we are builds on the state Sinne Eater
creates.

Alongside that state, your guests also inherit a lexicon of common understanding.
Simply put, they know what the symbol of the plum-cake means. And you use these
shared meanings to direct their thinking. Therefore, by combining the two routines,
you are able to control not only what the spectator experiences, but how he/she then
interprets it. For example, your guests have already been taught that hearts as well as
plum-cakes have their maggots. By overcoming their fear of one, namely the
plum-cake, they learn that they can overcome the other. And thus they find the
courage to face the maggots of the heart. The old pattern of guilt is interrupted. There
is no time to indulge in the luxury of self-pity or self-recrimination. There are more
pressing problems to hand - namely the consumption of a potentially maggot-infested
cake. The routine’s structure compels the spectator to be brave, and when relief
comes, it overwhelms their guilt. ‘I’m feeling good,’ people think, ‘so my guilt must
have gone. Yippee!’

Moreover, certain things help to amplify and reinforce these positive feelings. The
hand-holding, for instance, is comforting and reassuring. It is also, as in Hunting
Mammoths in the Rain, coercively persuasive. ‘Oh, they’re holding hands, so they
must be feeling better. Perhaps this stuff can work for me, too.’

The confessional aspect of the routine also has power, more so because of the candour
of your heart-felt story. To be absolutely convincing, I suggest that you find an
incident from your own past. The example given here is my own. (Nothing too
spectacular though. This is entertainment, not absolution.) Anyway, the fact is that the
ceremony compels everyone to acknowledge his or her shame publicly. And because
the atmosphere you create at this point is non-judgemental and supportive, such a
confession will prove good for the soul.

To further facilitate all this emotional and psychological toing and froing, We eat
what we are uses many of the tried and tested techniques of ritual. There is, of course,
group activity - the liberating loss of individual identity as the many become the one.
In addition, there is chanting (which soothes and inspires), and repetition. All these
ceremonial trappings condition your audience to expect, and accept, positive change.
Perhaps most importantly, your character is confident, authoritative, and assured. You
know exactly what you are doing, and you are certain that the ritual will be a
complete success. Which it undoubtedly is, for are you yourself not visibly
transformed by its subtle action, and do you not shout for joy, ‘All gone! All gone!
All gone!’?

The final confirmation of all of this comes with the magical disappearance of the
words of shame. To do this, I have very slightly adapted the method to be found in
The Seventh Deception. Briefly, the original billet (with its plum-cake outline) is
actually flash-paper. As it burns away, you switch it for a palmed non-flash duplicate,
without the words of shame. The switch varies from Luke’s method only in that both
sheets now have the plum-cake outline. You will need to draw this shape onto the
non-flash billet before the show, and commit it to memory, so that you can copy the
outline onto the flash-billet in your performance. This requires a little effort, certainly,
but I suggest that, for this routine, you keep this detail. Not only is it neatly symbolic,
but it also helps to remove any residual apprehension the spectators might have about
cake!

Final thoughts:

There is a lot going on in this routine, and we have barely scratched the surface. But
the key point is that it works because Sinne Eater precedes it.

The routine’s ‘secrets’, such as they are, are to be found in its structure and its use of
symbols. We exploit the basic pattern of fear, hope, and repetition, which is to be
found in human endeavour the world over. Consequently, I believe that it is a mistake
to label such routines as religious or pseudo-spiritual. Rituals are vehicles to the
numinous, but they are not sacred of themselves. The same theatrical tricks of
directed and communal emotion, pop up in sports-stadia and political rallies the world
over. They also can be found in advertising, and even, it must be said, in more
recognised and approved therapeutic situations.

Of course, in the wrong hands, these powerful techniques could be, and regularly are,
abused. But that does not mean that we magicians must, necessarily, shy away from
exploring them. We can choose to use them, or abuse them, as we see fit.

In my early twenties, I was, for several years, a Methodist local preacher. At one time
I considered, very seriously, ‘candidating’ for the ministry. That my life did not
continue in this direction owes much to a mental and spiritual ‘long dark night of the
soul’ that lasted the better (perhaps that should read worse?) part of a decade. And
yet, my long slide into apostasy notwithstanding, there is still something of the chapel
in my work, and not a little of its theatre (I meant no disrespect by that term). We eat
what we are is a direct application of my own (not entirely negligible) understanding
and experience of ritual. And that it works, owes much to that time.

If you find yourself following me down this therapeutic route, then please remember
that, without adequate training and experience, we are not therapists per se, and we
should never behave as such. That said, however, I believe that magic can, and
perhaps should, strive to work at deeper levels than it generally does. We are, after all,
guides to the Garden of the Strange. And, as we know, all gardens are lovely places -
nooks of shade and refreshing delight.

A rose without thorns

In short:

An impromptu séance ends in an unlikely and disturbing manner.

Presentation:

You are at a party, and someone suggests that you hold an impromptu séance. Initially
you decline, but after some cajoling, you yield, and graciously accede to this request.

‘I would like to try something new, if I may,’ you begin. ‘But we will need to move
things around to create an appropriate space.’ You enlist the help of the other guests,
and some furniture is moved, and then the lights are dimmed. A candle and some
incense are borrowed. Soon enough, a table stands in the centre of the room,
surrounded by chairs.
‘Now,’ you say, ‘let’s remove this clutter.’ Drinks, bags, and other items are moved to
another room. You look satisfied.
‘Very good,’ you say, ‘we can begin.’

You ask the guests to sit at the table, and as they do so, you light the candle and
switch off any other lights. Then, without explanation, you go to each corner of the
room and lift the candle into the gloom, muttering, ‘A light in the shadows - darkness
be gone!’ This is repeated four times, and then you place the candle in the centre of
the table, and sit down.

‘I think we will try a bit of automatic-writing tonight, if you don’t mind. Do you have
a pen and some paper we might use, Graham? A couple of dozen sheets please. A pad
will be fine.’ Graham, your genial host, goes off to get some stationery, as you
continue:
‘Now, I believe that automatic-writing is simply a tool, a key, if you will, to the
subconscious mind. All that “cleansing” business is merely a ruse to awaken the
subliminal self. This is psychology. Not magic.’ You smile reassuringly.
‘Of course many other people think differently. My own esoteric mentor believes that
automatic-writing has the power to contact intelligences and entities outside of the
self: that one can reach beyond, and communicate externally with another soul. I’m
not sure about that. But I’m not so foolish as to ignore her cautionary advice. I always
protect the circle with a little spell before I begin, just in case. You never know...’
You lift your eyebrows, and smile. Then, becoming more serious and focused, you
stand up and walk round the table wafting incense as you go, smudging a smoky
circle around your guests. As you do this, you solemnly say:
‘We are here at the centre of an ever-expanding circle, resolute and strong. Ready
now to make contact. We reach out only to the good. Negative powers, destructive
energies, bane be gone! Only benevolence is welcome here. This is a sacred space.
We are protected. We are safe.’

You place the censer on the table, and sit down. Graham has returned, and you ask for
his help again. When you begin the automatic-writing, you say, you want him to
move away those sheets of paper that you fill, so that you can continue scribbling on
an empty page. You never look at the paper, you explain, so you’ll need him to do this
for you.
Happily, Graham agrees.
‘Great,’ you say. ‘Now we can begin.’

You ask the guests to relax, and tell them to listen to the sound of their own breathing.
Counting the breath in, counting the breath out. Slowly, the sound of their breathing
becomes soft and gentle as the sea, and their minds are washed clean. Everyone is
lulled into a state of quiet relaxation. Suddenly, with a jerk, your pen starts scratching
on the paper. Lines appear, chaotic and scrawled. They come slowly at first, but then
faster and faster, as you lose control of your hand. You are in a trance. Your head lolls
to one side, and your eyes half close. Your body is eerily still, yet your hand moves
with tremendous vigour - almost as if it has a mind of its own. On and on it writes.
Inexorable. The tension builds, brick on heavy brick.

At first, this mad scrawl is illegible. But then, strange deliberate shapes appear in the
squiggles, like letters from an unknown language. The sheet is torn from under your
fingers, and replaced. Another weird word appears, then everything becomes jarringly
still. The mad scratching has stopped. There is only the sound of your breathing,
laboured and heavy. And the sickening twitch of your eyes. Time judders. There is a
long pause.

At last, the pen moves again, and this time actual letters come. Clear, and distinct.
One at a time. A...G...I...L...R...O. Then violently, the pen rips through the next sheet
of paper, and your hand shakes savagely. Energy surges through your arm, and the
pen is flung away from your white-knuckled fingers. You jolt awake. The trance is
over.

You are exhausted, but your guests seem eager to piece the puzzle together. What do
these scribbles mean? Is there a message? They argue amongst themselves, but slowly
the picture emerges. Those letters, well, they’re obviously an anagram of some sort.
Look! A name! Move them around and you get ‘Gloria’. That other stuff, well it’s
backwards. If you look at it in a mirror, then you can see numbers! Look. 555 1234.
Could that be a telephone number?

Still a little weary, but intrigued by these results, you mutter, ‘Gloria 555 1234. I
wonder who she is?’
Various ribald suggestions are made as to the possible relationship, or otherwise, you
might enjoy with this mystery woman. You insist that you don’t know anybody called
Gloria, and you certainly don’t recognise that number. But curiosity gets the better of
the group, and they order you to dial the number.

You express many reservations, but eventually, and awkwardly, you comply.
Everybody hears the number ring over speaker-phone. You look decidedly
uncomfortable. The phone rings and rings, and you are about to put the receiver down
when there is a click from the other end of the line, and a young voice says, ‘555
1234, hello.’
‘Er yes, hello,’ you say embarrassed. ‘Can I speak to er... Gloria please?’
There is silence on the other end of the line, and, away from the mouthpiece, the
young voice shouts, ‘Dad...’
The guests giggle and whisper. After a short time, there is the sound of footsteps, and
a muffled conversation. Finally, a man’s voice says, ‘Hello, can I help you?’
There’s a pained look on your face, but bravely you ask, ‘Yes, I’d like to speak to
Gloria please.’
The man sighs. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ he says sadly. ‘My mum died last
week.’
A look of horror settles on your face like grey dust. ‘Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry,’ you
stammer, ‘we, er.. I had no idea.’
‘It was very sudden. There’s a notice in tonight’s paper...Can I help you with
anything?’
‘No,’ you say. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. Let me offer you my deepest condolences.’
‘Thank you. Goodbye.’
‘Bye.’
Everybody hears the line go dead. You put the phone down. You look shocked and
not a little ashamed. The giggling has stopped.

The evening continues, very much subdued, and you become pre-occupied and
withdrawn. The suspense is killing you, so eventually you ask, ‘Does anybody have
tonight’s paper?’
The latest edition is found, and, sure enough, halfway down the In memoriam column,
is the following unnerving entry:

Gloria Roberts, aged 68.

Passed away peacefully at home, whilst sleeping.
‘A rose without thorns.’

You slump back in your chair, and put your head in your hands.
‘I must have seen it somehow. I must have known...’ you say but you don’t really
believe it. This half-explanation reassures some, but most guests remain sombre. The
party deflates pathetically, like a cheap balloon. Then something wonderful happens.

You are preparing to leave, when there is great commotion at the front door. You pick
your way through the departing guests, and step into the garden. And you gasp. For
there, scattered thickly, and glimmering in the moonlight, are a thousand soft petals.
Sweetly scented. And without thorns.

Dreamily, you bend down and pick some up; then you cautiously sniff them. ‘Roses,’
you whisper, ‘roses.’ You shake your head in bewildered disbelief, and say, ‘Well
what do you know?’ You sigh, and then, with much tenderness, you lay the red petals
delicately back down on the ground.

Details:

Theatrical magic, such as this routine, allows the performer to put his or her audience
inside an unusual event. Your guests become participants rather than spectators. They
become characters in your strange and exciting world.

Several things in this routine help to engender, in your audience, this thrilling and
unusual feeling. Firstly, the suspense and the weirdness build slowly, and the plot
unfolds unhurriedly. The audience sinks deeper and deeper into the reality of the
story. More importantly, the narrative is driven by the audience members themselves.
They solve the puzzles. They coerce you into making the fateful call. They direct the
drama. (Your guests could even make the call themselves.) Also, and crucially,
nothing feels set up. The séance is impromptu, or at least it must seem to be so. The
drama has the rough edges of real life to it. Items have to be borrowed before you can
begin, and if they are not available, as might happen later with the newspaper, then
someone has to go out and get them. Finally, there is an emotional authenticity to
events. The mood lurches from the merry to the grim, and your character changes
painfully, as the spooky events confound your initial scepticism.

However, this created reality is delicately balanced. Yes it must seem natural and
authentic, but you do not want to push things too far. Done insensitively, this type of
routine could leave some people unhappily disturbed. Therefore, I have tried to take
out the thorns, so to speak, wherever possible. That is why there is no blackout
séance, or icy hands on trembling necks. That is why there is the comfort of the
protection spell. Nothing should happen that even remotely suggests that Gloria is not
a happy ghost. She died peacefully, and without pain. She was a nice person, much
loved. All things considered, she is a rather pleasant phantom. All this is expressed in
the symbol of the thornless rose. It tells the audience, subconsciously, that their
experience is positive and safe. It encapsulates their experience, and it reassures them.
The evening’s events are weird, certainly, but there are no clanking chains, or
blood-drenched fangs. No giant suspension of disbelief necessary. This is a mundane
haunting, entirely plausible. And, interestingly, it is this ordinariness which makes the
audience’s experience seem so real, and, paradoxically, so disturbing. As I say, it’s a
balancing act.

‘How-to’ wise, Graham, the party host, is not ‘in’ on it, but you will need to check
about the availability of a speaker-phone before the show. Of course, the voices on the
end of the phone belong to fellow performers. Acting skills are of paramount
importance here. The telephone conversation should seem entirely natural. In this
respect, it helps that the ‘stooges’ are off-stage, as it were - they only have to convince
vocally. Finally, of course, it is your fellow performers, not Gloria, who strew rose
petals all over Graham’s front garden. What fun!

The In memoriam notice is something that I thought long and hard about, before I
plucked up the courage to include it in this routine. Obviously, you will need to
contact the relevant department of your local paper, and arrange for your notice to be
placed. It goes without saying that you, and your notice, will have to appear genuine
to the staff at the paper, if you are to get the notice in. Clearly this is a secret that you
will have to guard especially well. I realise that many performers will be
uncomfortable with this. It does feel unethical. Disrespectful, somehow. I cannot
make this decision for you. But if you do decide to perform the routine as it is written,
then I urge you to word your notice as tastefully and unobtrusively as possible, and
don’t go bragging about what you’ve done. And finally, you cannot run the same
notice in the same paper twice. People only die once.
Ethics aside, getting the trance and automatic-writing to look convincing is perhaps
the most demanding part of the routine. Done well, the hand should appear to move
by itself, independent of the rest of your body (which remains rigid, and twisted, and
still). Personally, I find it best to hold the pen loosely in a paint-brush grip to do the
writing, as the nib moves more freely; and I do try to clear the mind and let the pen go
where it may. Also, you will need to practise writing the ‘backwards’ numbers.
Experiment until you can make them appear strange and unworldly, whilst keeping
them readable in the mirror. I also suggest that you use a recognisably local phone
number, so that it is obvious what the number should be; you don’t want to end up
having to ring up a hundred permutations. The reversed 555 or whatever, appears
first, as a group, and then the 1234. As for the letters of Gloria’s name, make them
big, and scribble over the lines several times so they have a confused, energetic look.
Practise until you can scrawl convincingly, without having to look at, or think about,
what you’re doing.

I recognise that this routine will not be to every performer’s taste. Therefore, I have
included the following, less spooky variation. It’s a wacky piece of Forteana, that I
first performed at a student party, many years ago. It’s called:

Nuts in the Garden

You are at a party, and you have been cajoled into holding an ‘impromptu’ seance.
Actually, this was meant to be your night off, but it would be churlish to decline. So
curtains are closed, hands are held; you even ask for the proverbial sign. Yet despite
your best efforts, nothing much happens, save for a sudden squall of rain against the
window, that startles some of your guests during the blackout. Eventually, the lights
are switched back on. Somewhat sheepishly, you apologise for this rare failure. You
are tired, you explain; maybe even a little drunk. Fortunately, nobody really minds,
and you all get on with the more serious business of enjoying the rest of the party.

This unsuccessful séance has been all but forgotten by the time people to start to
leave, when suddenly, there is a commotion at the front door. You hurry out into the
garden to see what all the fuss is about, and skid to a startled halt. For there, scattered
surrealistically on the lawn and in the flowerbeds, as if fallen from the sky, are a
thousand chestnuts, and peanuts, and other kernelled seeds.

Word gets round the neighbourhood, and houses empty. And pretty soon after, the
garden is covered by a very different kind of nut.

Final thoughts:

I will sum all this up very briefly. Spectators can become participants. Your audience
can enter the reality you define. The Garden of the Strange is verdant and lovely.
Open the gate, I dare you.

Hidden Treasure
In short:
Magic sparkles in an unexpected place.

Presentation:

You are at a private dinner-party, performing wonders, and the evening is going rather
well. You feel comfortable, yet energised, and supremely in control. Unhurriedly, you
take a sip of water, and then you say:

‘The search for wisdom takes many forms.

‘There was once a seeker who spent many years looking for a monastery that was
hidden in the hills. When, at last, he found this secret place, with a trembling heart he
approached the master, and the master said, “Treat others as you would be treated.”

‘Now, the seeker was disappointed, to say the least, with this commonplace wisdom.
But, tired from his journey, he decided to stay. And for a year and a day, he waited for
his second, less elementary lesson. But the call from the master never came. And he
grew, in turn, disheartened, then depressed, and then angry - very very angry.

‘One day another seeker said to him, “Seeker, I too, waited a long time for my second
lesson. But, eventually, I found it, written on a stone in the garden.”
And the seeker’s eyes lit up, and he said, “Why did nobody tell me this before?” and
he hurried outside, into the garden.

‘Well, pretty soon, he found it, the stone, and so, with shaking hands, he turned it
over, and...’
You pause, teasingly.
‘D’you know what it said? It said, “Why are you looking for a second lesson, when
you haven’t yet mastered the first?”’

Some people laugh, and some people sigh, but all are touched by this story, to some
degree. Sensitively, you wait for these disparate feelings to settle. Then, when the
moment is right, you bring out a stack of small index-cards (about fifty or so), and
start to pass them slowly through your hands.

‘My Book of Wisdom,’ you explain, looking at the cards. ‘Quotations, sayings, little
gems of wisdom, given to me by people like you, whenever I’ve performed. For
instance,’ you say, displaying a card, ‘at the end of one of my shows, an actor
gentleman wrote:

Life’s but ... a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

‘On another evening, a lady told me:

Death is not the extinguishing of the light,

but the blowing out of the candle
because the dawn has come.

‘And one night, some unknown wag scribbled:

This Superman cape does not enable the wearer to fly.’

You laugh fondly, and shake your head, then you say:

‘It’s a treasure-house of memories, and meanings, and wisdom, and I’d like to share it
with you now, if I may.’

Amy graciously offers to help you, and you thank her. You hand her the Book of
Wisdom, and as she shuffles it, you ask her to think of a personal problem or question
that is presently troubling her. Nothing too serious, you explain, but something,
nevertheless, that needs resolving. She chooses to keep this issue private, as she cuts
to a card, and silently reads what it says.

‘Well, Amy, you’re not smiling,’ you tell her, ‘so I’d guess it’s not one of the funnies.
Don’t tell me. Think about what it means - maybe it has something to tell you, an
insight that might help you resolve your problem. That’s right, read it over and over.
Turn it round in your mind like a stone. Over and over, like a cool smooth stone.
Excellent.’

You gaze intently at Amy, becoming uncannily still. Silence swells in the room like a
dark and gorgeous fruit. Suddenly you move, and this bloated ripeness bursts. You get
up and pace hungrily round the room. Evidently, you are looking for something. At
last, your eyes light upon a small stone to be found on host Gary’s mantelpiece, and
your search is over. You smile with satisfaction. ‘May I?’ you ask, as you pick up this
stone, and Gary nods.

You grin knowingly, as you hand the stone to Amy, and you say, ‘Yes..?’
At first, she is puzzled - this pebble is no answer to her question. But soon enough,
she remembers the story, and turns the stone over excitedly, looking for her lesson.
But there is nothing there. The stone is a stone, is a stone. Amy scratches her head,
and looks at you inquiringly. You smile kindly, and shake your head benignly.
‘The search for wisdom takes many forms,’ you say simply.
After a short pause, you remove a handkerchief from your pocket. ‘D’you have that
mat and hammer, Gary, please?’ you ask, and as Gary procures these items from a
nearby bookcase, you wrap Amy’s stone completely in your handkerchief. Then, very
cleanly, and clearly making no switch, you place this bundle on Gary’s mat. You
move back a little way, and then, having looked at Amy, you smash the bundle with
the hammer. The stone is heard to crack, and the audience is shocked. Did you really
break Gary’s stone? Yep.

You look at Gary, and he returns your smile. Then, you place the broken bundle on
the table, and you say, ‘Now Amy, please tell us all what you read in the Book of
Wisdom tonight.’
“The treasure is within,” she answers quietly, watching you unwrap the bundle.
You nod, and then firmly, but kindly, you pronounce, ‘So you did. So you did.’
And as you say this, the stone splits open, and glittering, hid inside, is a nook of secret
treasure - a dazzling, numerous beauty, of edges, and diamonds, and lights.

And you smile, and place this trove of wonders into Amy’s hands - and she keeps it as
a pretty souvenir.

Details:

First, the stone and its secret treasure - well, it is a geode, a rock with a natural
gem-filled hollow. Strictly speaking, ‘geode’ is actually the crystal-lined cavity inside
the stone, but when you go to a mineral/rock suppliers to buy one, they will know
what you mean. Usually these stones come ready-cut, but they can also be bought
unopened. You want an unopened one, about golf-ball size, that’s not too gaudy or
ostentatious.

The mineral shop will tell you how best to open your particular stone - some require
just one smart hit, while others need more of a pummelling. Please note, however, that
you must take great care when breaking open the stone. Unimpeded, shards and sharp
edges will fly everywhere. To reduce this risk, wrap the stone completely in the cloth,
before you bash it. And, for safety’s sake, I advise you to stand well away from your
audience when you smash the rock. I must also advise you that you perform this
routine entirely at your own risk.

The mineral shop can also supply you with the appropriate hammer, and advise you
how best to secure the stone when it is hit. I use fingers, and hope that my aim is
good. Also, you will need a solid striking-surface on which to place the geode. Please
do not use somebody’s table or parquet floor for this - take a flat stone or something
similar, expressly for this purpose. And finally, be aware that the stone does not
always open cleanly, and can sometimes have sharp edges. Please check for these
before giving the pieces to Amy. If necessary, offer to sand them down for her, after
the show.

Of course, one of the charms of this routine is that the geode is a previously
unobserved treasure, and although the samples in the shop will give you rough idea of
what the centre of the stone might look like, you and your audience will be the first to
actually see it. Therefore, it is a very real moment of discovery - a truly special and
magical event.

Hidden Treasure capitalises on your audience’s general unfamiliarity with geology.

Of course, one or two people might think, ‘Mmm, I’ve seen one of those before,’
when the stone is opened. However, all will wonder how on earth you could have
known that such a treasure was there. In effect, therefore, we are working in magic’s
oldest tradition. By that I mean, we have identified a common area of ignorance,
namely that geodes can be bought unopened and left on another’s mantel, and we
have then exploited it to effect our magic.

Interestingly, these areas of ignorance change with time and place. For instance, the
famous Robert-Houdin trick with the metal-chest, the he-man, and the electro-magnet,
is unlikely to fool even the most gullible suburbanite today. But take that same
‘sophisticated’ city dweller - knowing, as you do that he rarely looks up at the
night-sky, and when he does, he sees only a light-polluted orange mush - and summon
shooting-stars for him, and he becomes filled with the unfamiliar, and all of agog.

I believe, therefore, that we must ask ourselves what do we know that our audiences
do not? As an example, imagine a performer who lives and works by the sea. In the
summer her audience is comprised, almost entirely, of visitors. Now, it so happens
that a couple of nights a month, there’s an odd churning tide at this place - nothing
supernatural, but magical none the less. So, on these special nights, she gathers a
paying crowd, lights a fire, and from the beach bellows incantations out across the
sea. And, for a while, nothing happens; but eventually her words are answered, and
the moon-silver sea-monsters come. Of course, it’s just the noisy turning of the tide,
but these visitors don’t know this. They see wonders. Now, is she taking advantage of
these people? I don’t think so; not if she’s only selling an evening of theatrical
wonder, and not some cure for cancer. But, some may protest, these innocent
city-slickers are paying good money to whoop at nothing more than a boisterous sea,
and stain their Reeboks green with sea-weed. Surely she’s making fools of them?
Well, no. In fact I believe she is doing precisely what so many of us singularly fail to
do. She is creating magic, startling, wonderful magic, and the world is seen anew
through her art.

Digression over - let’s get back to this routine. How does Gary happen to have a
geode on his mantelpiece, and a mat and hammer close to hand? Well, these items are
yours, obviously, and before the show, you privately ask him if you can leave them in
his dining-room, as you might need them for a special routine. You don’t always
perform it, you explain, only if conditions are right, but you know his guests will
really appreciate it, if you do. Anyway, you’ll let him know, when the time comes.
Oh, and if he doesn’t mind, he can help you by fetching the hammer and the mat,
when you ask for them. Gary’s happy with this. So, unseen by the other guests, you
place the geode tastefully on his mantelpiece, as if it were an ornament, and put the
mat and hammer elsewhere, but close by.

Now, this pre-show work means that when you take the geode off the mantelpiece,
and say, ‘May I?’, it appears, to Gary, as if you’re asking him ‘May I proceed with
that special trick, we discussed earlier?’ But to the rest of the audience, it appears as if
you’re simply borrowing his stone. The mat and hammer are similarly ‘borrowed’. All
of this creates the impression that the stone-breaking is an unplanned event - an
improvised, capricious bit of genius on your part. Definitely not a rehearsed ending to
a trick. This is you seeing into the secret heart of things, and transforming the plain
into the precious. To help secure this impression, when Amy is given the stone to
keep, you can do a little coaching. You say, ‘Excellent host that he is, I’m sure Gary
would want you to have this, Amy.’ (You look quickly at Gary, as if to confirm this.)
‘So take this treasure home with you, and let us say no more about it. Some gifts are
best received not with words, but simply with a smile.’ This should stop any polite
arguments about who actually owned the stone before you gave it to Amy.

Hidden Treasure can also be performed outside, where it works well. (I used to help
facilitate weekend retreats, and often, as part of the programme of events, I would
take groups out on a ‘story-telling walk’. Hidden Treasure regularly served as my
plenary session.) You will need to ‘plant’ your geode on the ground, before the show,
so you can pick it up later. Remember though, that if this is done ‘impromptu’, then
you are unlikely to have a geological hammer on your person. ‘I just happen to have
one with me,’ isn’t going to wash. So I suggest you bash your geode open with
another stone (you will need to wrap your geode safely in the handkerchief before you
do this). If you are the bold type, you can (as I did) ‘salt’ the performance-area with
many geodes. In this case, buy stones that catch the eye, and look slightly unusual for
your location. Then, when you ask the spectator to pick up a stone that attracts her,
chances are good that she will choose one of these conspicuous beauties. If she does,
you say a short silent prayer of thanks, and proceed with your miracle. If, on the other
hand, she misses, you ask her to pick another stone, and another, until eventually she
‘hits’, and then you whittle her choice down to the geode, using an equivoque. One
more thing, if you’re into the touchy-feely stuff, then you can follow this routine with
a group rock-hunting-then-rock-smashing-open-session, where everybody finds a
treasure. Plant enough geodes for all the guests to go home with a gem.

The Book of Wisdom is basically a pack of heavy-stock index cards. Each card has a
white face, and a dark patterned back. At a push, you can use a blank-faced pack of
cards. However, I prefer the home-made look, partly because of the Book’s supposed
provenance, and partly because I find playing-cards a bit ‘tricksy’. (Please note that
I’m not saying that playing-cards are ‘tricksy’, but I believe my negative feelings
towards them come across in performance, so I avoid them. If I don’t believe in my
miracles, no one else will, either.)

On each wisdom-card’s face you draw/print a narrow rectangular black frame, about
8-10mm. from the edge (like the frame around the picture on a court card). Inside
each frame is written a different phrase - a proverb, or an aphorism, a quotation from
a book/movie, or a reference to popular culture. Choose a wide range of phrases, and
avoid the temptation to proselytise your own beliefs. This is a pack of cards, not a
pulpit. Also, it’s best if not all of the cards are po-faced or ‘spiritual’, so include a
good few funnies, and some that are just downright bizarre. Once you’ve chosen your
words of wisdom, write a few down, one per frame, and then call upon friends and
family to fill in the rest, to complete your pack.

On two or three of the cards, written in different hands, are phrases such as:

‘The treasure is within.’

‘In everything there is a secret beauty.’
‘A jewel shines in the darkness.’
‘The container is not the content.’

You will notice that each of these phrases, although apparently different, matches, in
its own way, the gem-filled geode finish. In this way, non-identical cards are used to
force the same basic idea. To ensure that Amy cuts to one of these cards, each force is
prepared as a Jontay ‘Ridge’ locator. (To do this, run the tip of a dry ballpoint pen
hard over the card’s drawn frame, using a ruler as a guide, thereby embossing the
card, and making a rectangular ridge on its back. See J.N. Hilliard’s Greater Magic,
or T.A. Water’s Trionic for further details.)

Then place three or so of these force cards into your pack, and chances are good that,
when Amy cuts the pack, she will choose one automatically. A pencil dot, or similarly
subtle mark on the back of each force card, tells you if your luck has held. If she
misses, then tell her to cut again, and repeat the process, until a force card is chosen.
Finally, it’s a nice idea to take several blank wisdom-cards along with you to each
performance. That way, your spectators can add their own words of wisdom, at the
end of the routine. Everybody feels good about this, and, thus, your Book of Wisdom
grows.

Final thoughts:

For once, I’ve avoided emphasising the psychological aspects of this routine, though,
if you wish, it can easily be adapted to more therapeutic ends (see Synchronicity etc.,
for details).

Of course, at the heart of Hidden Treasure we find a very simple card trick. But the
Book of Wisdom is no ordinary pack of cards. It has emotional appeal and depth, so do
not be surprised if your audience wants to explore it more fully at the end of the
routine or show. Indeed, I recommend that you actively encourage this process; it will
greatly extend and enhance the charm of the routine. Of course, with a normal pack of
cards, no sane person would want to do this. But they will want to look at this varied
collection of sayings. On another occasion, it could be your collection of
epitaph-cards that intrigues them. On another, your pack of famous last words. Or
curious facts. Or astounding world records. Or asinine solecisms of the great and the
good. You get the idea. To me, reading that John Prescott (currently Britain’s Deputy
Prime Minister) said to the press, as he stepped off his plane, ‘I’m just glad to be back
on terra cotta,’ is a lot more fun than turning over the dreary six of clubs. It is also
more interesting, entertaining, and memorable. So, once in awhile, put away those
often soulless pasteboards, and bring out, in their place, your very own unique Book.

This routine exploits an existing gap in the audience’s knowledge of the world, and,
as we’ve seen with the sea-monsters, such an approach can produce wonders. Of
course, many of these knowledge-gaps have already been explored in magic. But the
list of things that we do not know, grows longer by the day. New discoveries are made
that are then not widely disseminated; additionally, people tend to forget things that
were once commonly known.

So, when you pop along to the gem shop to buy your geodes, it may well profit you to
root around on its shelves for the unknown. Maybe you’ll find some petrified wood
(‘I’m telling you Barry, he took this piece of wood, and he turned it to stone’) - or put
your hands on some fossilised dung. (Err... I’ll leave this routine to you!) Anyway, the
important thing is that neither of these materials is widely known.

The world is full of these unfamiliar wonders. Hidden treasures, if you will, that have
been hoarded in darkness, and are now quietly gathering dust.

The wrong side of the road

In short:

If both dreams are recalled, then they live. And if both dreams are forgotten, still they
live. But if one dream is recalled and the other is forgotten, then they both shall die.
Presentation:

You are telling stories, and you say:

‘It was not the kind of dream that a man could easily forget - but forget it he did.

‘The long road, the wine-dark sky, the grey trees like bones close to the blind bend.
And Bobby Darin on the radio, as the red car hurtled towards him, on the wrong side
of the road. Then (you thump the table) the crash, and the steering-column ripping
coldly through his guts. And the darkness, the endless darkness, flapping and
descending like crows.

‘And though he slept like the dead, in the morning when he woke, the dream had
shattered and gone.’

You pause, and a faint smile passes over your face, as you say:

‘Then...two weeks later, he finds himself driving on a long road, with Bobby Darin on
the radio. The sky is dark and stained, and the skinny trees sickly and grey. He drops
down into third, and is steering into the bend, when the dream lashes back with a slap.
And suddenly, mechanically, he veers out of his lane, and misses the red car by
inches.’

This nifty, terror-stricken piece of driving is mimed.

‘He slams to a halt (stamp your foot, as if on the brake), and marches grimly back to
the other car, his fists full of fury.’

You bang a tight fist three times onto the table, as if onto the car roof. Then, incensed,
you say:

‘“What the hell d’you think you’re doing buddy,” he screams, “on the damn wrong
side of the road?”
‘And the other driver lifts his ashen head, and through thin lip says, “You’re not
gonna believe this pal, but two weeks ago, I had this dream...”’

Details:

This strange little story is one of those things that, once learnt, stays with you. I’ve
found that it can be dropped smoothly and seamlessly into a conversation or show, if
the moment is right. I often tell it to those people who, on discovering that I am a
performer, demand to ‘see something’. It is snappy, memorable, and, I hope,
indicative of my work. The story can also be used to ‘chill’ the atmosphere of a set,
and quickly establish the appropriate mood for a subsequent effect.

There is an effect here of sorts, I believe, and a very powerful one. But it is a sleight
of mind rather than of hand, and it happens, largely, because of the ‘twist’ at the end
of the story. This ‘twist’ instantly transforms and transposes the audience’s
perceptions of the story. It produces a moment of change and understanding that
cannot be explained, but has to be experienced. Kind of like magic, don’t you think?

Functionally, the ‘twist’ freezes the impact of the story at its deepest point, making it
memorable, powerful, and profoundly affecting. Like the lime-flash moment when
lightning strikes, although the thunder may rumble briefly on, what stays with us is
the dazzling instant of insight and fire. And, vitally, if we can structure our routines so
that our magic happens in these charged seconds, then this magic becomes something
electric and wonderful.

In many ways, this story is like a cunning joke, whose meaning is not instantly
obvious to everybody. Many people will take a couple of seconds or so to ‘get’ the
story. Of course, when your guests do ‘get’ it, they will experience a very real sense
of satisfaction - not only are they pleased with themselves for having puzzled it out,
but they are also excited at having arrived at some place new. I believe that all magic
is a journey to a new way of seeing, and that goes for stories, as well as for
prestidigitation.

Final thoughts:

Magicians, and bizzarists especially, talk and (occasionally) preach about the power
of stories. But how many of us, I wonder, dare to put this into practice, and risk letting
the story do all of the work? I know I struggled, for too long, with this routine, before
I put away the props, and let the wonder tell itself. I’m not, after all, in the business of
exhibiting skills, however long they took me to acquire. Like you, I’m an entertainer
- a communicator.

I’m not for a moment suggesting that we stop doing magic. But I do believe that there
are some things best said not in essays, or sermons, or even magic, but in stories,
plain old stories, that take but a minute to tell.

Sure, it’s a scary ride on the wrong side of the road - but thrilling too. And sometimes
it gets you to exactly where you need to go.

So ditch those props, just this once, and steer out of the familiar lane. What’s the
worst that could happen?

Go on. I dare you!

Play the film backwards

In short:

A spectator demonstrates remarkable psychometric abilities, but these are the least of
the wonders on display.

Details:

You and your guests are back in the Safe Hands warehouse, and the show is going
rather well. For the moment, the large projection screen behind you is dark, and only
the central seating-area is lit. You stand on the edge of this small bright space, holding
a reel of film, and waiting - waiting for the crowding silence to muster and still. Then,
none too soon, you step forward into the light and say:

‘Life is a passing spool of moments - a film on a reel, flickering by. And each frame is
a footstep in time - a print of what and who we are.’

You begin to run the film through your hands, looking closely at the early frames.
Then you stop, and smile.
‘I see a first shy glance across a crowded room,’ you say, holding the scene up to the
light. Then the film moves on. ‘And then a ring, and in that ring I see the shape of
every subsequent kiss and tear.’
Quicker now this strip of life passes between your hands, foot by celluloid foot.
‘The coming of children... and their growing,’ you smile fondly, ‘... and going,’ you
frown.
‘And forward now,’ you have reached the very end of the film, and examine the final
frame with tenderness. ‘...to the final scene, when the fingers grow cold, and the ring
is wet with tears.

‘All this I see in a ring - a lifetime in a single frame.’ You put the film to one side, and
continue:

‘Of course, this seeing is, most times, a matter of common sense and observation.’
You pick up an old glasses-case. ‘The glasses in this case, for instance, are old, but
scrupulously clean. And these two things alone tell us much about their former
owner.’ You click open the case and grow ever so slightly sad. Thoughtfully, you
trace a finger round one of the lenses. ‘And there’s a salty tarnish round the lens, that
tells us that this person lived latterly by the sea.’ You click the case shut, and smile.

‘At other times, though, the clues are not nearly so subtle - but we observe them, all
the same.’ You laugh at a memory. ‘I was once reading a lady’s palm, when I casually
said, “That doesn’t surprise me, Margaret, what with you being a Pisces and all.”’
Your mouth drops open in pantomimed amazement - you look not unlike a
bewildered cod. ‘Margaret gasped, and, a little awe-struck, whispered, “How did you
know I was a Pisces?” Well, I smiled enigmatically and dismissed it as a trifle, and we
carried on. But she was impressed.’

Your smile becomes bright and mischievous - like an upturned tack on the teacher’s
chair.
‘Now, was it psychic power? Maybe. But then again, maybe it had something to do
with the Piscean pendant that she’d forgotten was round her neck!’ You chuckle
fondly.

‘But, be that as it may, I believe that sometimes we do perceive things from outside of
the frame - feelings, hunches, voices in the head. All those other little things that we
shouldn’t know, but yet, just do.’

You ask a young woman, Debbie, if she would like to help you. Happily, she would.
So you sit her on a small stool, away from the audience, a little way in front of the
screen. Then you click your fingers playfully, and a bright spotlight shines instantly
down on her. This little whimsy amuses you, and, grinning, you hand her the
glasses-case. Then you move back to be with the rest of the audience, leaving Debbie
alone in a pool of light.

‘Debbie, we’re going to play a game, you and I. A delightful little game. Please open
the case, look inside. You see the glasses?’ Debbie nods.
‘Now, here’s the game. Using intuition, using guile, using just plain common sense, I
want you to tell me all about their owner.’ You start to write ‘OLD’ on a large pad.
The rest of the audience can see this word, and all those that follow, but Debbie
cannot.
‘Tell me, for instance, was this person old, or young?’
‘Old,’ says Debbie.
You write another word. ‘Male or female?’
‘Female,’ says Debbie. Once more, another word is written.
‘And is this lady still living, or has she passed away?’
‘Erm, passed away, I think.’
‘Yes, sadly so,’ you reply, and you show her the pad. It reads “OLD LADY PASSED
AWAY”. Then you tear off the top sheet, and begin writing on a new page.
‘Now, Debbie, if you study the glasses, you can see that they’re rather narrow - which
tells us that this lady was quite a small person. But, fast as you can, what was the
colour of her hair?’
‘White, I think,’ says Debbie, right again.
You smile warmly and tell her, ‘You play the game very well. Now... was she,’ you
start writing, ‘... left handed, or right?’
‘Left.’ Just as you have written.
‘And where was she from?’ The audience has seen you scribble EDINBURGH, but
Debbie says, ‘I don’t know.’ This doesn’t phase you.
‘Okay, you haven’t got that one,’ you say. ‘Never mind. We can come back to it later.
It doesn’t matter. Let’s try a different approach. Her second name. Can you make a
guess?’
‘Erm, I’m not sure.’
‘Take a guess Debbie. Use your intuition.’
‘Okay. It could be something like Jones or Jackson.’
The audience gasp. You have written “JOHNSON”.
‘That’s fantastic, Debbie! You were very close. Actually it was...’ (you show her).
‘Very close. Well done. And her first name?’
‘Oh that was Annie,’ says Debbie. More amazement. Another perfect match.
‘Excellent,’ you tell her. ‘Shall we play on?’
Debbie nods.
You put down the pad (you will not use it again in this routine). Then you command,
‘Then let the pictures come!’
And as you click your fingers, the lights above the audience fade, and somewhere
behind them, in the darkness, there comes the whirring, burring sound of an old
projector, dusty and nostalgic. Suddenly, the screen shines, as what appears to be an
old-fashioned ‘leader’ flashes past, and then the film begins. Tonight it’s a one-picture
feature - a delightful home-movie of Annie’s long life. There she is now, look, a
pirouette of light, dancing and laughing on the screen - yes, there, look, a little
younger perhaps, at another’s wedding. And there, even younger, her hair dark again,
sitting by a promenade-wall, shaking sand from out of her food.
‘Debbie,’ you say, ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to look away. Please, turn to me.’
Debbie reluctantly complies, and so she does not see the other silvered memories
flitting on the screen. Those points of contact with the manoeuvring past, those
light-footed prints foxtrotting in the dark. The rest of the audience see people come
and go on the screen - some of these characters are stiff and awkward, in that
charming home-movie way, and others are made jerky by the speed of the film. But
always amongst them is Annie, sometimes older sometimes younger, smiling and
laughing in the many scratched much-treasured clips, and in the fading dog-eared
stills.

‘Now, Annie’s house,’ you say to Debbie. ‘You’re in her house. You look out of the
front window, and see two things. Quickly, what do you see?’
‘A tree and a car,’ Debbie answers.
‘Right - well done.’ And on the screen come several pictures of Annie’s house. The
front garden with its tree, and the blue car on the drive.
‘And curled on the rug by the fire, is a pet, Debbie. What could it be? What do you
see?’
‘A small white dog’.
More pictures fill the screen, matching Debbie’s guess. A small diamond-snouted
mutt of a dog, a blur of white and muscle chasing a stick. Then we see it more closely
- writhing belly-upwards, as Annie tickles it on her lap.

‘Very good. Let’s take this a little further. Lift the case to your head, like so. Relax.
That’s it. Take a deep breath. Release your senses, and let those perceptions come.
Don’t think or feel or speak - just be. Observe and be, and let those perceptions
come.’ Debbie grows still, as the images of Annie’s life waltz giddily on behind her.

There is a brief pause, and then you say, ‘Good. Now Debbie, yes or no, did Annie
have any children?’
‘Yes.’ On the screen is projected a photograph, a little creased now, of a young and
pregnant Annie.
‘How many?’
‘One, I believe.’ Another snap - this time of Annie dandling a laughing baby on her
knee.
‘Girl or boy?’ you ask.
‘A little girl’. Lots of different shots of Annie with her daughter.
‘Yes. Elizabeth,’ you say, nodding at the pictures on the screen. ‘She’s 60 now. Okay,
let’s go back to the one we missed. Where did Annie come from? What did you
sense?’
‘Scotland,’ says Debbie.
‘Close enough,’ you say, and the audience sees, on screen, a delightful little girl
gambolling in her Sunday Bests down the Royal Mile. This lovely child is
boundlessly happy - red-ribbons and pig-tails flashing in the sun. Then this scene
judders through the gate and is gone, and we see again the later Annie, old, and kind,
and smiling. And it is as if every laugh that we’ve seen, every tear, every smile, is
now written in the delicate calligraphy of her face. Every wrinkle is a story - every
crow’s-foot a departed scene.
‘There she is,’ you say to Debbie. ‘Annie Johnson.’

You pause, and your smile becomes a little sad. Then you say, ‘Now Debbie, this will
be difficult. Take my hand, and let us go back to Annie’s final day. To the final frame
on the reel.’ The lovely photograph of Annie is large on the screen behind you as you
say:

‘She is propped up on pillows, at home, with her family all around her. There are five
daisies, picked by little hands, in a jam-jar by her bed. I hear the clock tick, and I see,
through the window, the sun, the late May sun, hosanna on the sea, and then gild her
gentle face with loveliness. For a moment, she glows - she... shines. Then... she folds
her hands, and... leaves us. But as she steps into the garden of death, she looks back at
us, and whispers last words beautiful and strange.’
Your voice cracks. You take a deep, shuddering breath, and continue:
‘Oh that sweet-butter shortbread voice, for the last time heard, as she says..?’
You look very deeply into Debbie’s eyes, and she understands.
A little tearfully, she whispers, ‘Annie said, “And with a rush, I play the film
backwards.”’
You sigh and nod. Then looking up at the screen, you brighten, and, with something
like joy, you proclaim, ‘And with a rush I play the film backwards...’

On the screen Annie’s face fades, and in its place we see her last exhilarating glimpse
of life: the dizzying rush of pictures in her mind as she died. Before us, hurtling past,
rush the million scenes of a life well lived - a blur of faces, and places, and special
days. And all this glittery while, time is running backwards, and Annie is getting
younger and younger. Look, a man steps on the moon, and her hair turns black. A
queen is crowned, and her flesh grows smooth as clay. Back and back she goes, the
blossoms returning to the tree. And now she is younger still, skipping down the road
pink and shiny like a ball. And then further back - to an infant crawling on the grass.
And then yet beyond - the petals closing, closing. Till she is, at last, once more, a little
bud of a thing in her mother’s womb.

And for a long moment, the film pauses, and she floats there in the silted darkness, a
moon-wise foetus, with Buddha eyes closed. Then comes the final dash, and the
gentle wrapping of her into mystery. Look, a clump of tiny cells stirring into one. And
the one cell blinking, blinking. And then...

WHITENESS! Dazzling whiteness. And the sound of the film slapping on the reel.

Details:

Play the film backwards is yet another piece of ambitious magical theatre. To those of
you now thinking, ‘Yes that’s all very well, but when are we going to get to some
material I can do down the pub on a Thursday night?’ let me apologise. You will be
glad to hear that a more modestly-scaled (and performance-tested) version of this
routine will appear shortly. To all the rest of my readers, let me say this. Of course I
recognise that this warehouse set-up is expensive, perhaps prohibitively so. However,
I firmly believe that in these days of RGB projectors and laptops, there are ways and
means for all of us, who so desire, to realise our grander visions. Magician George
Méliès was realising his theatrical visions a hundred years ago, on the silver screen.
His 1902 film Voyage to the Moon, is a stunning and prophetic blend of the magical
and cinematic arts. Good old George has seen the future, my friends, and it is
multimedia.
The staging of the routine, as ever, is the key to its success. Everything that happens
on the stage should happen with purpose. There is no room for the superfluous in our
art. Every light, every gesture, every picture on the screen should be another cog in
the engine that will get us to where we want to go. For instance, in this routine,
something that at first glance might seem incidental, such as the position of Debbie’s
stool, has actually been carefully planned and thought through.

Let me show you what I mean. By positioning Debbie away from the rest of the
audience, we isolate her, and thus create a dramatic situation. Also, of course, this
isolation implies magical fairness - test conditions, if you will. But there’s a lot more
to it than this. For instance, as Debbie sits so close to the screen, then so the film is
‘accidentally’ projected over her. Not only is this visually very interesting, but it also
implies that the film is somehow connected to Debbie. After all, do we not see her
shadow standing tall there on the screen? And does not Annie’s passing life shimmer
over Debbie’s face?

Now, with this film/Annie/Debbie association made, when Debbie’s guesses

subsequently match the images on film, it seems that this connection is continuing,
somehow. That what appears on screen is not so much a confirmation of Debbie
intuitions, but rather is a projection of them. It is as if we are seeing into Debbie’s
internal experience, and sharing in the psychometric process.

Furthermore, we can use the film to enhance Debbie’s visions, and make them seem
more detailed than they actually are. For example, when Debbie says that she sees a
tree and a car, she is not being specific. However, the film is specific, showing a
gnarly cherry-tree, with pink blossoms fluttering down onto the bonnet of a blue
Morris Minor. Of course Debbie doesn’t psychometrically ‘see’ these things. But the
staging and the film suggest that she does. And, importantly, because she doesn’t
actually see these images physically (she is turned away from the screen), then she is
unable to correct us and say, ‘No, that’s not the car I meant - it was more like a green
Mini’.

And all this because of where we placed the stool.

Of course, none of these theatrical details works in isolation. The language of the
routine, its themes, its imagery, its very substance, all are used to serve our dramatic
and deceptive ends. I’ve talked before about striving to establish a sense of wholeness
in our work. For not only is this, generally, a good idea artistically, but it lends our
work a sense of coherence and direction. Moreover, I believe that such completeness
is vital if we are to immerse our audience fully in the magical experience. Our drama
must be a containing whole - a place with its own rules and logic, where disbelief can
be easily and willingly suspended, and where our guests can become completely and
thrillingly lost.

Much of the charm of this routine lies in its use of home-movie clips and black and
white snaps. So choose these images well. There should be a tenderness and a
humanity flowing though this film. It is, after all, another person’s life expressed in
pictures. As for the final life-flashing-before-her-eyes sequence, well your aim here is
to give the spectators a vivid glimpse of Annie’s last moments. Through your
theatrical virtuosity, you give the spectators a vicarious taste of that proverbial instant,
when one’s life flashes entirely by. Done well, this experience will seem
extraordinary. It will also be very moving, so behave with according sensitivity. Do
not, for instance, say, ‘For those of you who didn’t pick this up, this bit is supposed to
be Annie’s life flashing before her eyes, oh, and, see how it matches Debbie’s final
guess.’ Let your guests arrive at their own understandings.

Mechanically, the routine is reasonably straightforward, though you must employ a

range of techniques to cultivate Debbie’s psychometric skills.

Firstly, Debbie uses common sense. Nothing as complicated and Sherlockian as your
example (tarnish on the lens=lived by the sea). But, you do expect her to be sharp
enough to realise that old glasses in a woman’s style, probably means ‘old lady passed
away’.

Secondly, Debbie has to use her intuition - or so it seems to her. Actually she is
responding to disguised psychological forces (e.g. two things seen out of front
window=car and tree), but she doesn’t know this. To her it feels a lot like intuition. If
you are unfamiliar with this branch of magic, then Banachek’s excellent
Psychological Subtleties will give you all the help you need. In the mean time, let me
give you a couple of examples of how to make this stuff work. To force Annie’s left
handedness, not only do you use verbal and physical emphasis (raise your voice, and
wave your left-hand as you say ‘Left’), but you also get Debbie to do a bit of
unconscious sound-reading. To do this, you interrupt your question by noisily and
distinctly writing the FOUR letters of your answer on the pad. ‘Four letters - it must
be left’, thinks Debbie, if the gods are smiling on you. As for Annie’s hair colour, well
this is an informed guess on Debbie’s part (old lady=white hair), but it doesn’t hurt to
whistle the ‘What’ in your question, so that it sounds a little like ‘White was
Annie’s hair colour’. Sneaky, I know, and not 100% reliable, but if Debbie misses, no
matter. She will ‘hit’ plenty enough in the rest of the routine. Besides, by having her
go back and correct one of her earlier misses (Annie comes from Scotland), you are
subtly suggesting that if Debbie wanted, she could go back and correct all of her other
misses, too.

Finally, Debbie uses what you refer to as guile - i.e. she is slyly coached to use the
odd bit of trickery so as to help her psychometry along. Your ‘confession’ about the
absent-minded Piscean has legitimised such behaviour. You have told her, in effect,
that such sneakiness is a pragmatic part of the psychometric process - an integral part
of the ‘game’. And because you treat this lightly, so does she. In fact, your only
concern here is that you avoid choosing an earnest ‘believer’ as your volunteer. Such
a person might well be offended at this cheery deception, and that is not what you
want, for all sorts of reasons. Of course, one of the advantages of encouraging your
guests to talk throughout the evening, is that you can get a good idea of who will
make a good volunteer.

Now, as it happens, tonight you’ve chosen well - Debbie has no such psychic
scruples. Therefore, when she finds a black and white photograph of a young girl with
a dog, pinned inside the glasses-case, she might be slyly amused, but she is certainly
not scandalised. No, she’s not breaking any rules, she feels, by studying this secret
photograph, so as to use the information later. She’s just playing the ‘game’, as per
your instructions. Of course, the rest of the audience is not aware of this photograph.
Similarly, when Debbie sees the name ‘Annie J.’ written on the lining of the case, she
views it as another play in the game. You could, of course, transmit Annie’s whole
biography using this glasses-case method, but I think that it is best if Debbie only
occasionally uses such ‘guile’. The rest of the time, make her use her common sense
and intuition. This triple-pronged approach will feel a lot less like cheating to her,
especially as she has to fill in the gaps when using some of this secret information.
For example, although she learns that Annie’s second name begins with a J, Debbie
still must use her common sense and intuition to guess what this letter might stand
for. (Actually, chances are she’ll be pretty close to Johnson, choosing Jones or
Jackson etc.; but she doesn’t realise this. If she gets close, she’s even impressed
herself; and if she misses badly, then she still did ‘very well’ as far as the rest of
audience is concerned. She got the first letter right, after all.) Therefore, Debbie is
psychometrising exactly as instructed - namely, using her common sense, intuition,
and occasional guile to see into another’s past. Indeed, one could argue that this is
what psychometrists generally do, and that Debbie is working authentically. And,
happily, this makes her performance not only convincing to the others, but also to
herself.

One technical point to add is that it is best if the glasses are secured in the case, so that
they cannot be removed. This reduces the risk of Debbie accidentally flashing the
secret information to the rest of the audience.

What we are doing is teaching Debbie to accept that information can, and does, come
from anywhere. Even, as you suggest, as a voice in the head. Therefore, Debbie is not
overwhelmingly surprised when just such a voice comes. For as she lifts the
glasses-case to her head, she very clearly hears a clock ticking and an elderly Scottish
lady saying, ‘And with a rush I play the film backwards,’ over and over. Now,
because Debbie is already unsure of the provenance of many of her other messages
(how did she see that car and the tree, for instance, and how did she get so close to
Johnson?), and because she is clearly the only person present who can hear these
sounds, then she concludes that this voice is yet another type of message. At worst, if
she suspects trickery, she will accept it as another part of the game, and play along -
but, most times she will be convinced that something strange and very special is
occurring.

But how to? Well, to put this Scottish voice in Debbie’s head, you have several
options. If you’ve still got a largish chunk of money left over after splurging your
millions on the warehouse, then you might want to invest in a pair of ultrasonic
speakers. These will allow you to direct a beam of sound into a very specific location,
i.e. Debbie’s seat. Everybody else, even those quite close to Debbie, will hear
nothing. Incidentally, she will not be able to see these speakers, for they are directly
above her head, and lost in the glare of the spotlight. Also, by sitting Debbie on the
stool, you ensure that she remains in the path of the sound-beam. (Oh that little stool!
Will its wonders never cease?!!) If you don’t want to take out a second mortgage to
buy these fancy speakers, then you classic palm a miniature MP3 player, which has
been set to play the phrase over and over. Then, when you demonstrate how you want
Debbie to lift the glasses-case, you move your hand (and the MP3 player) behind her
head. A routine like Banachek’s Psychokinetic Touches will help you to choreograph
this effectively. Alternatively, you can use a speaker hidden in Debbie’s chair to
transmit Annie’s last words - a wing-backed chair would be ideal for this, as you
could hide the speaker close to Debbie’s head.

A life in pictures

As promised, here is the low-fat version of Play the film backwards.

You are seated at a table with your guests, and you bring out a large stack of
dog-eared photographs. You fan the top few photographs of this ‘album’ towards
yourself, leafing fondly through them. Then you say, ‘A life lived in pictures... from
cradle to grave.’

You smile. You have stopped at an early image, and you say, ‘I see a first shy glance
across a crowded room...’

(As you will have gathered, this routine is to be scripted almost identically to its
full-fat sibling - only a small amount of tinkering will be required, which is why I
haven’t written it up in full.)

Things continue, much as before. Debbie is seated a little way from her friends, and
you write on your pad. As before, she demonstrates her remarkable psychometric
abilities. Then, when you get to ‘Then let the pictures come’, you put down the pad,
and start to place the ‘album’ photographs face-down onto the table - these images,
therefore, are used to illustrate Annie’s life, instead of the film. And, as with the
earlier routine, Debbie’s guesses seem to anticipate the images you display. For
example, you show photographs of Elizabeth when Debbie mentions the daughter -
and of the mongrel mutt when she mentions the dog.

Now, when you get to ‘Let’s take this a little further’, you walk over to Debbie, and
stand behind her. You place your hand (which still retains the undealt portion of the
‘album’) on the back of the chair, near Debbie’s head. (Yes, you’ve guessed it - a
miniature MP3 player is palmed in your hand, completely hidden behind the pack of
photographs. When the MP3 player has done its job, it shoots up your sleeve on a
pull, leaving you ‘clean’.) In this less expensive manner so the same ‘perceptions’
come to Debbie.

Then you continue as before, with the images being dealt down thick and fast - until
the last of the first twenty or so photographs appears, namely the ‘crow’s-foot’ image
of Annie. This now stays on view. (Another fifty snaps, or so, remain in your hand.)
You call Debbie to the table, and say, ‘There she is.’

Then you relive Annie’s last moments, and Debbie divines this lady’s enigmatic last
words. Then, you spray the remaining photographs, one by one, onto the table, in a
controlled spring-flourish. Because of the way the pack is set-up (more on this in a
moment) the photographs shoot down already face-up. Obviously, these images are
meant to represent Annie’s dying vision. We see her life hurtling backwards. She gets
younger and younger, until she is, once more, a little bud of a thing in her mother’s
womb. Then you spring-flourish down the last images, which show the cells
coalescing, then the one cell. And in your hands is left one last photograph, face
down. Representing, perhaps, the thing beyond life. But what could it be? You look at
this picture privately, wondering whether or not to turn it over. And then you smile
mysteriously, and say, with gentle affectionate teasing, ‘Now... that would be telling.’
And you put this final image away in your pocket. Then you spread the dealt stack of
photographs more widely over the table, and your spectators examine them, and think
about Annie, and her life in pictures.

To assemble your ‘album’ you must first stack about twenty photographs, from the
top, as follows:
Face-down, a picture of Annie in later life. Then a variety of photographs, all
face-down, which should match Debbie’s guesses. In performance, you turn each of
these pictures over at the appropriate time, and place it down onto the table, thus
matching Debbie’s answers. At the bottom of this stack, face-down, is the final
crow’s-foot image, and beneath that, a final indifferent photograph, face-down. This
is the unseen image that you wave tantalisingly at the end of the routine.

Then, you prepare a second set of photographs, about fifty, as follows:

Working from the top, and all face-down, Annie old; then getting younger; then
becoming a child; then a foetus; then cells; and then the last image, of a single cell.
Choose these images carefully. Also, you have the option here of using the occasional
sequence of cards, rather like those flick-book animations we made as children - i.e.
four or five related photographs that will blur together to become a little movie.
Please do not over do this, however. Three or four of these sequences will be plenty.

To complete your ‘album’, you turn the larger stack over (face-up), so that the image
now facing you is of the single cell, and then you place this stack under the face-down
first pile of twenty photographs.

In the routine, you deal off the first twenty photographs, as described, turning them
face-up. You stop at the crow’s-foot image. This leaves you with fifty-one
photographs in your hand, namely the face-down ‘meaning of life’ image, and
beneath that, a stack of fifty life-flashing-before-the-eyes pictures all face up. You
spring flourish through this sequence, stopping as the final single-cell appears. This
leaves you with the final ‘meaning of life’ photograph - this you keep to yourself and
pocket, tantalising devil that you are.

Then you can talk with your spectators about life, and learn many things...

Or you can hold out your hat for a tip. It’s up to you.

Final thoughts:

Once again, we’ve talked about striving for coherence and completeness in our work,
so that everything we say or do has purpose and meaning. If you re-read this routine,
you will note that its first words define and anticipate everything that follows. In the
beginning can be found the end.

Play the film backwards explores, and, I hope, evokes part of the wonderful mystery
of life. But there are no answers in my magic - only questions. The dazzling whiteness
to which Annie returns, is simply the end of the film - the mystery remains.

As I write these words, my partner is carrying our second child in her womb. And I
think of these things often. Step by patient step, a new life is making that secret
journey - motes of dust are assembling there at the twilight transept of the womb. And
what astounds me most about all of this, is that in that bud, that tiny tiny child, there
can be found, even now, the shape of its every kiss, the sound of its every sigh. Every
song the bird sings is to be found in the egg.

But, please indulge me a little longer, my friends. For I want to play the film
backwards even further - to see all life hurtling back to its source. Look, there it goes,
rushing through the ‘Eve’ of Darwin or Creation, to yet further beyond. Quicker now,
yet quicker, the myriad worlds are unknitting. The stars are undoing. And all the
scattered seeds are leaping back into the hand.

All things... all suns, all moons, all worlds - all life that has existed, or may exist, on
this, or any other globe - all these teeming wondrous things have stepped out of a
singular point. And however we choose to view this, be that religiously or
scientifically, this common origin makes all of us sisters and brothers.

Magic is a part of that scattered wholeness, my gentle friends. And, at its best, it
should point to the vast similitude that interlocks us all.

The Vanishing
In short:

Your show ends in a truly extraordinary manner.

Presentation:

The cold light of a gibbous moon lies flat on the land like a sleeping ghost, as your
guests arrive for the show. And as they hurry inside, some of them are compelled to
look back at the glistening night, to see the vagrant canopy of stars and craters and
glooms, dizzying above them. It is a rare, witching night, perfect for magic and the
bright coining of the strange.

And so to inside, where you greet them, their evening’s host, charming and beguiling
- strewing in their hearts gently the many treasures and wonders that are, like petals,
to be found in the Garden of the Strange.

And as each of these roses unfolds as a story, and the evening passes, you also share
with them the salient details of your life - the influences and incidents that have made
you what you are today. From those first nursery tales of princes and demons and
djinn, where even the names seemed cardamom-spiced with magic - Nineveh,
Babylon, Gilgamesh - abracadabras all, that opened up for you this door into the
strange. To then your teenage years, when you followed, in your imagination, those
lumbering caravans and gliding quinquiremes, loaded with their cargoes from
Bokhara and Ind; and stepped through a gate, to where the sky sings blue as lapis
lazuli, and the shadows hum deep as myrrh. To then, finally, your adult years, spent in
the long hard funk of study - the countless seminars, the libraries, the sad seeing of the
seasons passing in the trees outside. Till at last you became a scholar. A teacher of
Assyriology at the University, sifting through the plundered tablet-houses of the past -
the vanished past, where even the gods have drifted back into the desert, like sand.

And thus, the various moments of your life have been laid out in scenes, like a
bas-relief that spans the show. Yet behind this detailed telling, there has lurked the
uneasy sense of an important thing unsaid. A sense, for your guests, that there is still
something about you that is, as yet, undisclosed. A vital awful secret, that will send
them out shivering into the night, when it is finally revealed. For they, like you, have
been led to this final point. This last routine. The Vanishing.

And so it is then, that the lights are dimmed, until there is on stage only moonlight,
slanting in through a window from outside. You click on a torch, and step into your
audience like a ghost, as all about you begin the low sounds of a Middle Eastern
night. Quietly you say:

‘Three years ago I was in Basra for three months, on the trail of the vanished
moon-god Utuq-Alal-Sîn. Now Utuq-Alal-Sîn, which means, roughly, ‘Desert moon
destroyer’, is of great interest to Assyriologists, and Sumerologists, and other
scholars, precisely because his name has been deliberately expunged from the
historical record - literally chipped away, for some reason, and removed. We’ve only
got a few tiny references to him, and no one knows a damned thing about him.’

You have been moving darkly through your audience, picking your way with the
torch.

‘Anyway, a local merchant, I shall call him Hamud Rassan, found out about my
interest in Utuq-Alal-Sîn, and invited me to his house one night, after curfew, to learn
more. And so it was that I, the bookish doctor, found myself creeping through the
ink-black narrow streets and empty bazaars of Iraq, absolutely terrified of arrest. But
finally, thank God, I arrived safely at Rassan’s house, and stood before a huge,
bronze-studded door.

‘Now, I was just wondering, “Do I dare knock, and risk rousing the neighbourhood
dogs?” when, with heart-stopping suddenness, the door loomed open with barely a
creak, and a shadowy arm pulled me quickly inside.

‘I caught a glimpse of columns faced with gold and coloured tiles, and beneath my
feet the most exquisite Persian carpet. Then a voice said, “Ahlan wa sahlan.” It was
Rassan, the merchant.
“Shukran,” I replied, bowing my head. Then he led me into the house.

‘We sat down on cushions, in the courtyard at its centre. Above us sprawled a
star-bewildered sky. And for a long time we rested there peacefully, listening to the
agreeable bubbling of the fountain, and drinking cup after cup of milkless tea. Until,
finally, the main subject of the evening could be broached.’

To the soft sounds of the night there has been added the pleasing mutter of a fountain.
‘“Utuq-Alal-Sîn, what do you know of him?” asked Rassan.
“Very little,” I admitted. “Just the three lines about him on the List of Kings.”
Rassan nodded thoughtfully, and led me over to the fountain.’

You move a little way from your audience, stepping back into the moonlight, to stand
by a small low table that is covered by a cloak. You remove a small silver coin from
your pocket, and you say:

‘Hamud Rassan pulled a coin from his pocket, and began turning it in the moonlight.’

You start to roll the coin slowly through your fingers, watching it flash and turn. It
waxes and wanes, much like the phases of the moon.

‘“Utuq-Alal-Sîn,” he said reflectively, “was the moon-god of the ancient city of Ur.”
“Near here,” I said. He nodded.
“Near here. From where he trawled a terrible net of darkness over the land. And those
that he caught...” He made a dry-throated insect sound to signify death.
“All this I already know,” I complained. Hamud Rassan looked at me without
emotion.
“And,” he continued, “it is said that, before they died, the last thing that his victims
saw was the moon vanishing away. Blotted out piece by white piece, like halva under
flies.”’
The coin in your hand has disappeared. In the character of Rassan you continue:
‘“Till then there was left only darkness, sickening, glistening darkness, and the
rustling of things in their blood. And in the morning, when they were found, their
bodies would be dry as husks, that would split open at the lightest touch. And from
them would teem, blackly, unmentionable things, wingèd and foul, spilling out fatly,
like figs from a sack.”
“Remarkable!” I said. “A god of eclipses.”
“No no!” said Rassan firmly. “Not an eclipse - not an eclipse. The Sumerians knew of
these things, and called them by other names. This was no progressive reddening of
the moon, as it passed into shadow. You don’t understand. The moon was blotted out
to blackness, like halva under flies.”
He shook his head, and looked down into the water. “No no, my friend,” he said, “I
think it would be best if you left these things alone. Let them be.”
“But we have a duty to human knowledge.”
“Pah!” spat Rassan, and we fell quiet.’

The tinkling of the fountain has become louder.

‘I stood there, for a long time, staring sullenly into the water, watching the gold fins
winking in the dark. And then my eyes caught sight of something else... there, at the
bottom of the pool, a shape, a definite shape, a dim grey spectre at the very edge of
black. I plunged my hand in, and I found...’

You whip off the cloak from the table to reveal a dazzling silver plate, beautifully
made, and intricately marked. And running around the edge of this plate, like the
footprints of little birds, are the cuneiform secrets of Utuq-Alal-Sîn. You pick up the
plate and study it, turning it this way and that in the moonlight.
‘Rassan looked at me blankly.
“This plate,” I said breathlessly, “is from the ziggurat at Ur. It was used to summon
the moon-god Utuq-Alal-Sîn himself. It says...”
Hamud Rassan interrupted me. “Cursed is the man who finds the thing he seeks. For
he is lost to the world, and to himself. Even to God he is lost, and he vanishes from
this life without hope.”
I shivered, and watched the merchant turn from me and leave.’

You place the silver plate back onto the table, and begin tracing your fingers over it as
you read the ancient script.

‘“Utuq-Alal-Sîn liqe unninni, Utuq-Alal-Sîn liqe unninni,” I read, over and over.
“Moon-god, O moon-god, accept my prayer.” Then suddenly, without warning...’

You torch dies, and only the moon now lights the room.

‘“Damn,” I said, groping in the darkness for the plate. And then I grew cold. For I saw
it, the final thing - the silent, tracking familiar we call “Death”. It was shining in the
water beneath me, a beautiful reflected thing.

‘I looked up to face it, and I saw the moon disappearing piece by sickening piece, like
halva under flies.’

As you say this, the silver plate seems to be vanishing inch by shining inch. And,
though the audience hardly notices it, the moonlight too is wasting away and
becoming leprous. Particles of darkness are descending. You start to shake.

‘And then I remembered, from a book I’d read, a too-clever thing, that yet now
seemed true. That, although people may vanish, and cities too, and even, in time,
entire civilisations, the gods themselves are immortal, and though they haunt us now
only at the twilit fringes of our world, they yet there all remain. And we cross them at
our peril.’

The plate has vanished, and it is very dark. You pick up the cloak, and wrap it round
you, trying to keep warm. Your arm is twitching, and you look at it disgustedly.

‘And I felt the rustling of things in my blood, and I knew then that I was beyond all
hope. That, surely, in the morning, they would find me, a desiccated husk, splitting
open at the lightest touch. And from the black and reeking cavern of my chest there
would teem out horrible wingèd things, spilling out fatly, like figs from a sack.’

You make to leave, and someone says, ‘But, tell us, how did you escape?’
And you look around the room, and quietly say, ‘Escape? What makes you think I
escaped?’

And suddenly a swarm of terrible noise flaps into the room, and a screeching insect
sound tears dryly from your throat. And as the moonlight fades utterly away, you rip
yourself open, and a flapping foulness wings blackly towards your guests.
For a few seconds, in the pitch-blackness, there is considerable commotion. But
eventually, the lights return, to reveal the stage now empty, and you, of course, gone.
It is the end of the show. Your guests are exhilarated by this final, spectacular twist,
and they step out excitedly into the night, chattering about the many wonders they
have seen.. Then one of them thinks to look up at the sky, and stops amazed. ‘My
God!’ he cries. ‘The moon... It’s gone!’

And the others, too, look up, and, as one, they see the wind-scoured sky empty, save
for a few rags of cloud and some cold and lonely stars. But the moon, the all too solid
mood, has vanished. And hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, your several
guests leave the Garden of the Strange. And silent and wise, they wend their various
ways home.

Details:

The Vanishing is a complex piece of magical theatre, whose several effects weave
together to make the whole. I’ve placed it here at the end of the book, because it sums
up much of my magical thinking. Many of the techniques that we have previously
explored are here employed to helps us vanish the moon. There are also one or two
new principles, which can be applied to other effects.

As you’ve seen, I believe that wholeness is important in magical theatre. It establishes

connections, which can have magical as well as aesthetic functions. For instance, in
this routine, our vanishing is closely associated with the moon’s vanishing. Both these
disappearances occur through entomological consumption - you are eaten from within
by scuttering insect things, and the moon disappears like halva under flies. In
addition, The Vanishing extends the concept of wholeness to include the rest of the
show. Our different routines come together to make a whole. If you like, the show
tells a single story, through the telling of many. Snippet by snippet, our character and
his/her biography have been revealed. And, all the time, there has been the very real
sense that the show has been leading to something - to a moment when we will finally
say the thing about ourselves that is, as yet, unsaid.

And of course, that secret unspoken thing is that we are, in fact, dead. Now, this is an
ancient story-telling device - the twist par excellence. And it turns our entire show
into a kind of dual-reality. The best way I can think of explaining this is to refer you
to the film The Sixth Sense. Note how, in that movie, the events and words of the
drama can be subjected to subsequent re-interpretation. Of course, the clues do not
flash like neon signs saying, ‘Twist coming’. They work rather more subtly than that.
The twist, when it comes, is generally a surprise. But when people spill out of the
cinema they think ‘Of course - how did I miss that?’ and they excitedly replay and
reinterpret the film in their heads. It is almost as if they see the film twice - once on
screen, and then once again in their imaginations. Now I believe that we magicians
can aim for, and perhaps achieve, similar duality in our work. Magic is, after all, the
art of shifting paradigms.

But if our twist is to have impact, then it must come as a surprise. Therefore, any
ambiguity must be sly and subtle. I have tried to convey a sense of this in the
‘Presentation’ (you step into the audience ‘like a ghost’ - events have ‘made you what
you are today’ et cetera). But as well as these linguistic clues, previous effects have
also hinted at this secret. For example, let us imagine that earlier in the show we did a
routine about shadows. Using suggestion, and one or two psycho-visual subtleties that
we needn’t go into here, a spectator looked at your shadow and saw it fade away, as if
light were passing through you. Now, at the time, no explanation of this event was
given. You presented it simply as a demonstration of the power of suggestion.
However, after the twist, this insubstantiality takes on a more disturbing meaning.

Now, why would we want to weave this ambiguity into our show? Isn’t there enough
work involved in creating one theatrical reality, let alone two? What do we gain by
ending on a twist? Well, I believe that by structuring our show in this manner, we
provide it with an aiming point, and this gives the show coherence and direction.
Simply put, it goes somewhere. So I don’t see the twist so much as a restriction, but
more as a creative spur. For example, the insubstantial shadow effect outlined above
was created specifically to express a subsequent sense of ambiguity. A fairly neat
effect was born quickly and painlessly, precisely because I knew what I wanted it to
say. In addition, I believe that the twist device can lead to excellent word of mouth
publicity. Your guests will talk and think about your magical theatre long after it has
finished. And, as they now feel a little smug about being ‘in the know’, not only will
they protect your secret, but they will also recommend your show to family and
friends. Journalists and reviewers also respond well to such an ending. If nothing else,
it gives them something to write about. Therefore, all this extra work is great for
box-office.

However, what I like most about this routine is that it allows our magic to spill out
beyond the confines of the show. This is deeply and powerfully symbolic - our guests
take the magic home. Like Lance Burton’s charming Penny under the Pillow routine,
our final gift to the audience is an effect that happens when we’re not even there. And
this suggests that our magic is not restricted by time and place, nor is it motivated by a
pathological craving for applause. Oh, how selfless it is of us to vanish the moon, and
then not be around to enjoy the resultant wonder.

Now, how to make this all work. First, some theory...

Theatre is a programming of the audience. By that I mean that the events on stage
condition us, and manipulate us to respond in certain ways. Now, we’ve looked before
at using visual suggestions to enhance a subsequent effect (Hunting mammoths in the
rain etc.); but The Vanishing takes this idea further. The whole show becomes the
program by which we condition our audience. For example, earlier in the show we do
an effect such as Stepping as through a waterfall, where a circular object, in this case
a coin, is visibly distorted then vanished. This helps to establish a pattern, a way of
expected seeing, which is then reinforced by the coin and plate vanish in the final
routine. What we are doing then, is teaching the audience that round things vanish,
and providing them with a visual template to which they can refer when the moonlight
fades. So, although the audience does not actually see the moon vanish, they will use
the previously established pattern to fill in the gaps. Therefore, there is a lot more
going on in this routine than the moon being absent when our guests go outside. The
Vanishing is, I believe, a persistence of vision effect, and what lingers (in the mind’s
eye) is the pattern. Some of the spectators will be convinced that they actually saw the
moon vanish.
Now, as well as establishing patterns visually, we can also do it linguistically. In this
routine, part of the programming is done through the use of what I call resonant
echoing phrases. What do I mean by that? Well, poetry is, amongst other things, a
way of seeing. It not only describes the world, but it affects how we perceive it. All of
which means that when we use poetic phrases, then we too can affect, and to some
extent control how our audiences see the world. Let me give you a couple of
examples. ‘The moon was blotted out to blackness, like halva under flies’ is a
resonant echoing phrase because it lingers in the mind, and creates a picture there. It
is supportive of the visual suggestions we looked at earlier, but it also works strongly
by itself. Because the phrase is so striking and evocative, it makes each of our guests
visualise what we might mean. In effect, they are rehearsing, in their imaginations,
seeing the moon disappear. Similarly, the phrase ‘Spilling out fatly, like figs from a
sack’ creates another distinctive visual impression, and leads to another rehearsal in
the imagination: this time people picture a peculiar and grisly death. Now, both these
rehearsals will affect how each guest views the subsequent reality. Therefore,
although our body does not actually rip open like an infested husk - our actions only
approximate to that - in the dimness, and with the resonant phrase still echoing in each
and every head, that is how it will appear. And, more importantly, that is how it will
be remembered after the show. Reality is as much about how we see, as it is about
what we see. And the resonant echoing phrase changes the how.

Now let us look at the mechanics of the effect. The insects are hidden inside a couple
of dark plastic bags, which are secured to the lining of the cloak. You rip these bags
open at the end of the show, as you pretend to prise open your chest. You can buy
bags full of various insects from a good pet-shop - they are used to feed other pets.
Please try to use locally indigenous bugs that will not cause millions of pounds worth
of crop damage. Also, please please take care of these little critters - they are fellow
performers after all.

Roll and vanish the coin using a favourite move. As for the plate, it can vanish
theatrically, with black petals falling from the ceiling, that blot it out piece by piece;
or you can vanish it magically using Black Art. To do this cover the table top in
scrupulously clean black velvet. Then make a circle out of card, a little larger than the
plate, and cover it in the same dark material. Place this circle on the table. Now, to
vanish the plate you secretly move the circle over it, using either an attached thread,
or, if the circle is shimmed, a magnet. Both these methods work well, even at the
close-up table, so long as the lights are low.

As for vanishing the moon, well, as we’ve seen, prior suggestion and audience
programming both help. The other important psychological factor, not as yet
discussed, is that the moon vanish is unexpected. It takes people by surprise. Your
show has finished after all. And importantly, the twist ending has left your guests in a
speculative, highly suggestible state. They are not wondering how you did this trick or
that. They are in a state of wonder. And, because of this, they are able to swallow this
final fruit, that you have plucked for them from the Garden of the Strange.

Okay, having taken all that on board, here’s what you do. Firstly, you need to find out
the exact times of moon-rise and moonset for your location. The internet can provide
you with this information, e.g.: http://aa.usno.navy.mil/data/docs/RS_OneYear.html
Next, obtain a list of dates for the phases of the moon. Now, if you look at the rise/set
list closely, you will observe that there are several nights in the year when the moon is
up as your guests arrive for the show, but will have set by the time that they leave.
These are the ‘perfect’ nights for performing The Vanishing. I counted 65 such nights
for this year, 2003. Generally you get about four consecutive ‘perfect’ nights per
month. In addition, you will notice that there are a couple of times per year when this
run of nights is considerably longer. In my location these runs occur at the end of
July, and then at the end of August. So if you want to make this routine a regular
feature in your show, then you will need to bear this lunar information in mind when
you plan your dates.

In addition to these ‘perfect’ evenings, there are about 140 nights per year when no
moon is visible, both before and after the show. This happens when the moon has
already set for the day, or, less commonly, when there is a new moon. (There are 12
or so new moons a year, plus we count the nights either side, when the moon is all but
invisible - check the phases list.) Now, these 140 nights, when no moon is visible at
all, are less than ‘perfect’, but there are still things we can do to make the routine
work. The final permutation, when the moon is visible at the end of the show,
obviously prevents us from vanishing it. However, there is a solution to be found in
Changing the face of the moon, which follows shortly.

Right, okay, your guests are arriving. It is very important that at least some of them
see the moon. If there is a visible moon, then you, or another member of the cast can
point it out, saying, ‘Ah, the moon, stamped bright like silver and shining - silently on
the rise. What a perfect night for magic and the strange!’ If there is not a visible
moon, then you wait until your guests are inside, and then you (or an assistant) say,
‘Did you see the moon? Silver and climbing. A beautiful night for magic and the
strange’. This seems bold, but people rarely notice the sky, and will take your word
for it.

Step two, as your guests enjoy the show, moonlight slants down through a window,
and shines eerily onto the stage. This confirms for them that the moon is still up. Now
actually, this moonlight is artificial, created by a lamp shining outside the window.
But it looks realistic, moving a little through the evening, and, occasionally, going
‘in’. Of course, it is very important that this moonlight looks like moonlight, and not
like stage-lighting. So nothing too dramatic or theatrical, please. Let its presence sink
in subconsciously.

Step three, a short time before you begin The Vanishing, you want two of your guests
to ‘see’ the moon high in the sky. So you say, ‘We’re not always as observant as we
might be. For instance, some of you saw the moon earlier when you came in. Who
can tell me what it’s doing? Is it waxing or waning, quarter or full?’ Now, this does
two things. Firstly it explains why the moon was pointed out to people at the
beginning of the show. (‘Oh so that’s why they mentioned it - it was an observation
test.’) Secondly, it suggests to the spectators that some of them did actually see the
moon, when, in fact, there might have been no moon to see.

Now, when no one can tell you what the moon is doing, you ask for a volunteer to go
see. She is led away by an assistant who tells her, in private, that the moon is
unfortunately obscured by clouds at that moment. (The artificial moonlight has also
gone ‘in’ at this point.) However, not to worry, your assistant reassures the volunteer,
as he has an astronomy book for just such an eventuality. It contains all the moon’s
rise and set times, and also its phases. So the volunteer can look it up in that. Now this
book, though realistic-looking, is bogus. Its specially-created information tells the
spectator that the moon is still there high in the sky, when it’s not. But importantly,
none of the other spectators know of this book. They think that the volunteer has gone
outside, and actually seen the moon.

Also, you have a hidden performer in the audience (Derek) who grandly says (once
the first volunteer has departed), ‘Actually, I can tell you what the moon is “doing”,’
making those annoying quotation marks with his fingers. ‘I’m an amateur astronomer,
and I have to know these things. It’s a waxing gibbous, four days from full - it’ll be
reaching its zenith in...’ a precise look at the watch, ‘about twenty minutes time. I
didn’t say anything before because I wanted to see if anybody else here was
observant.’ Now, we’ve deliberately made this amateur Galileo disagreeable and
supercilious, precisely to draw attention to him. Generally, in magic, we like to make
stooges as unobtrusive as possible. But in this instance, by making the audience
dislike Derek as a person, then they are less likely to think of him as a ‘plant’.
Everything else about your show is charming and gracious, so why on earth would
you be using Captain Geek? Put more bluntly, your guests are thinking other things
about Derek than ‘I wonder if he’s a stooge?’

Anyway, when the volunteer returns, you say, ‘Derek here says the moon is waxing,
not quite full, and...’ you look at your watch in gentle parody of Derek, ‘...high in the
sky. Is he right?’ The volunteer confirms this, and Derek snorts and nods in a geeky
fidgety way, as if to say ‘I told you so’. Thus, two people ‘see’ the moon high in the
sky, close to when it vanishes, ruling out any later speculation that the moon has
simply set. And importantly, your guests remember this afterwards, because Derek is
such an annoying prat.

So, having done all this, you are ready to perform The Vanishing. As the silver plate
vanishes, so the ‘moonlight’ from the window fades imperceptibly. The audience
senses this darkening, rather than sees it. Then, at the very moment that you rip
yourself open, the moonlight fades quickly and completely. And while the room is in
total darkness, you walk off stage unobserved, and thus disappear. Please note, that as
you need pitch-blackness to do this effectively, there must be no uncontrolled light
sources in the room. That means that the window through which the ‘moon’ shines
should not actually face onto the outside - you must box your moon lamp in, behind
the window.

Now the final step. When your guests go outside, chances are that one of them will
notice that the moon has vanished, and freak out most agreeably. If no one does this,
then astronomer Derek has to step in, and point it out. His panicky, bewildered
manner, in both these situations, helps to further convince your guests that something
very strange has happened. ‘No, you don’t understand, it should be there,’ a stunned
Derek says. ‘It should be right there, where we saw it. My God, it’s gone!’ Derek can
also correct those people who say, ‘Perhaps it’s an eclipse?’ ‘No no, there’s no lunar
eclipse due for nine months,’ he says in desperation. ‘And they look nothing like that
anyway. The moon doesn’t vanish when it eclipses, it just turns shadowy-red.’

So, to sum up, the sequence of events is:

1) Try to perform the routine on a night when no moon is visible at the end of the
show.
2) Show your guests the moon as they arrive, whether it is visible or not.
3) Show your guests the moon throughout the show, through your use of lighting.
4) Have two guests ‘see’ the moon high in the sky just a few minutes before it
vanishes.
5) Have your ‘moonlight’ fade on stage at the final moment of the show.
6) Make sure that your guests notice that the moon has vanished as they leave the
show.

And that, with a lot of suggestion and staging, is how we vanish the moon.

But what do we do on those nights when the moon is unignorably up, shining brightly
at the end of the show? Well, if we can’t avoid this situation through careful
scheduling, then we have a couple of options. We can either ignore the
moon-vanishing effect: let the lights fade to black, disappear, and then leave it at that.
It’s still a strong ending. (Incidentally, this is also what must happen on those
unfortunate nights when, although the rise and set times are ‘perfect’, the blasted sky
clouds over at the wrong moment.) Or, we can get Derek to perform the following
effect:

Changing the face of the moon

As your guests leave, one of them (Derek) looks up, and says, ‘My God, I see the
moon moving. I really can see it move.’ And the others look up, and indeed the moon
does seem to writhe and distort, like halva under flies.

Of course, this is done through suggestion - we’ve looked at this type of effect before.
But I should add that several things work here in its favour. Firstly, the audience is
already deeply conditioned to view the moon in a particular way, ‘like halva under
flies’. Secondly, they are in a highly suggestible state. Thirdly, Derek’s manner is,
itself, suggestive. He is clearly upset and disturbed by what he sees, and he, of all
people, should know what the moon looks like. Fourthly, there is the auto-kinetic
effect at work here. When we stare at a bright light long enough, then we will
eventually see it move, even if it remains stationary, because of the tiny involuntary
twitches of our tiring eyes and necks. (This, incidentally, is how you can turn the
planet Venus into a manoeuvring mother-ship from Zeta Reticuli, if you ever feel so
inclined.) Finally, just as the stars twinkle, so the atmosphere also distorts the
appearance of the moon, making it bulge and throb. Now both these psycho-visual
effects combine to help convince the spectators that something weird is happening.
These odd experiences are then extended and intensified through Derek’s quiet use of
suggestion.

Changing the face of the moon is, like Wishing Star, a variation on the cloud-busting
theme, and it can be performed by itself, or with other effects. If you’re still not sold
on the idea of al fresco magic, then I invite you to consider this final, amazing
routine. Who wants to vanish sponge-balls when we can do marvels like this?

One by one the stars will cease

A guest writes:

‘Anyway, nine years ago, a friend took me to see this magician fellow - and he was
very good. He told stories, made me laugh - did all sorts of amazing things. But
towards the end of the evening he said, “Follow me.” And can you believe it? He led
us all up this hill.

‘Bear in mind, now, that it’s dark - practically the middle of the night. And he has us
all shivering on top of this hill, in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, he starts talking
about the end of the world. And he’s dead serious. No one’s laughing. Then he makes
us look out over the city, twinkling below us, and he says, “Imagine... the world is
ending - and each one of those lights is being extinguished... one by one.” And he
points down at the city, and sure enough, lights start popping off all over the place.
Then he says, “That one there, for instance.” And he points at this light on the other
side of the valley, and we all look at it, and, blow me, if the darn thing doesn’t switch
off!

‘Well, he smiles, and we all laugh, out of relief more than anything. But then, all too
quickly, he becomes quiet and serious again. And he says, in a sad kind of whisper,
“One by one the stars will cease.” And he points at this bright star, up high in the sky,
and his arm starts shaking, and we all look. One minute, two minutes. Then suddenly
he groans. And the star disappears! I’m telling you, it disappeared!!!

‘And we all look where the star had been, but it’s not there. It’s gone. And he says
simply, “You know, some people say that when the world ends, it will end a star at a
time.”

‘Then he turns around, and he walks away. And we are left there alone, on top of that
hill, to shiver and wonder.’

Briefly, here’s how. The first effect is pure bluff, helped no end by the evocative
nature of the location. On any given night, lights city-wide will switch off and on of
their own accord, without the need for you to intervene. Pause long enough to allow
people to see this is happening. If nothing does happen, then no matter. You’ve still
got that light across the valley to come. This, of course, belongs to a friend who is
listening in via a cel-phone, fingers poised, ready to switch the light off on cue. As for
the star, well it is eclipsed, or, more accurately, occulted by another celestial object
that passes, unseen, in front of it. Stars can be, and are (albeit infrequently), occulted
by large asteroids, other planets, and other moons. Also, at twilight, bright planets
(Venus etc.) are very occasionally occulted by the invisible new moon. Please refer to
the website of The International Occultation Timing Association for further details.
You will find it at:
http://lunar-occultations.com/iota/iotandx.htm

There are, believe it or not, other ways to vanish stars. For instance, for that
up-coming television special you’re working on, you may want to use a spotlight
mounted on a distant hovering helicopter. Arrange things so that this light looks
exactly like another star (similar magnitude, remains stationary relative to other stars,
scintillates etc.). Then switch it off on cue. Another method, especially useful for
city-based performers, is to imperceptibly (i.e. very slowly) increase the level of
ambient lighting in the performance space. Choose a faint star in an otherwise bright
group, and, as the level of lighting increases and eye-pupils contract, the faint star will
appear to fade slowly away whilst its more brilliant neighbours remain. This,
incidentally, is how you can make the Andromeda Galaxy disappear...

Final thoughts:

Routines such as these raise issues of credibility. Can we seriously expect our
audiences to believe that we vanished the moon, or switched off a star? Well, if we’re
honest, probably not. But, then again, does any sane person believe that you really
restored that rope, or really turned the coin from silver to gold? Clearly not.

But just because our magic works by illusion, that does not mean to say that our work
cannot be real in another sense. To get hung up on the scientific authenticity of our
wonders is, I believe, to miss out on their potential for wider truth. Actuality and
reality are often very different things. Sometimes, the apparent is the bridge to the
real.

Of course, one of the problems we face in visiting the Garden of the Strange is that,
occasionally, some guests will concentrate unduly on the supernatural elements in the
work. If this happens then I gently tell them, sceptic and believer alike, that I think
that they’re kind of missing the point. My magic, I claim, does have elements of the
real and the true, but not necessarily in the directions they might think. I remind them
that the container is not the same as its contents. If they want to discuss this further,
then I tell them the story of Nasrudin the Smuggler. It goes something like this:

Everyday, Mulla Nasrudin carried great baskets filled with straw over the border, on
his donkey. The guards knew that he was a smuggler, but they could never catch him
out. They stripped out the straw, stem by stem. They soaked it in water. Sometimes
they even burnt it. Yet each evening, Nasrudin would return home with empty
baskets, and he got wealthier and wealthier.

Many years later, in a land far away, one of the guards, now retired, met Nasrudin,
and said, ‘Mulla, surely now you can tell me, what was it that you were smuggling,
for all those many years, when we could never catch you?’

And Nasrudin smiled, and said, ‘Donkeys.’

I have run out of donkeys, my gentle friends, and so the journey, for now, is over.
Thank you for sharing it with me.

How the book began

‘Books are like people - they begin and end - but the stories they describe do not...’

Caleb Strange - one of the king’s minions.

And so it was that the lost king saw a thousand marvels, and the seeds of wonder were
scattered freshly in his heart.

Day by day, as the magician tended to him, the king opened gently, like a hothouse
flower. Till at last, he was well again, and sitting back on his emerald throne.

Then one day the king said, ‘You know, my cunning friend, this Garden of the
Strange - it’s not so much a place, I think, as more of a way - a way of seeing, and
doing, and being.’

And as soon as he had heard these words, the magician curled back into himself slyly,
like a secret smile, and then vanished. And all that was left of him was a swirl of
several papers, that settled to the floor.

There was a long pause.

Then the good king blinked and chuckled, like fruit on a dancing bough.

So that is it, then. Our story is ended. And there is little more for me to add, save to
say that, in time, the king examined these papers; and realising that they described, in
part, his journey through the Garden of the Strange, his majesty collected them, and
turned them fondly into a book. A book that he called ‘The Garden of the Strange’.

In fact, the very book, my gentle friends, that you have just read.