“Who Do You Think You Are?”
Thrumps supposed it was a reasonable question but did not approve of the snide tone in which it was asked.
“Professor Edward Urvaine Thrumpus,” he said as if that would be explanation enough.
It wasn’t.
“Mr Mills is expecting me,” Thrumps offered.
“Round the back,” the bouncer snarled. “He’ll be in his trailer.”
Struggling through the torrent of youngsters, he eventually sidled around the throng into what could only be described as the working logistics of the whole operation.
The circle of carriages, closed in so tightly that it was almost impossible to penetrate created a sanctuary for the animals and performers, keeping all else out. Thrumps knew the trick though and with his back to the main area he slid under the lion’s cage. Brushing off the dust he was immediately greeted warmly by all who passed, after all if you knew how to get in then it was assumed that you were a welcomed guest.
Standing in the centre was a beautifully ornate hand-built wagon. Traditionally crafted it looked as if had been made just yesterday, Thrumps shuddered to think of just how old it really was. Bertram Mills sat on the polished oak steps puffing on a long thin cigar.
“Those things not killed you off yet, I see.”
They both laughed.
“Take more than the likes of this,” Bertram said waving it in the air. A column of smoke rose in a spiral, suddenly transforming into a hissing snake before wafting away.
“A touch of extra magic practice before set-up,” he said.
Thrumps nodded, he remembered it well.
They shook hands and then embraced.
“It’s good to see you,” they both said together and laughed.
“It’s been too long,” Thrumps said.
“You’ve been busy.” Mills replied.
Thrumps smiled. It was so typical of him to already know what had been going on.
“How is the dear old Emporium?”
“Same as ever I suppose,” Thrumps said. “But then you’d know more about that than I.”
“Indeed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear things from your angle, but my friend there is no time for that now.” He stood, snuffed out the cigar under his huge boots, grabbed his red tail-coat from the hook and doffing his top-hat strode off tapping his cane on the ground as he went. Thrumps followed. There was no way he was going to miss this performance.
Picking their way through the various members of the troupe’s ensemble they paused before the final curtain. Clutching a microphone, Mills whispered.
“Ring-side seats to the right.”
He indicated that Thrumps should hurry as the show was about to begin.
It was many years ago that Thrumps had taken pride of place in the VIP box. No one even noticed as he slipped in, the music had already started, the lights were dimmed apart from the spotlight trained on the closed curtain.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls …” said Mills voice from backstage. There was a dramatic pause. “Please welcome the man himself, the owner of all you will survey, the master of illusion … I give to you, your ringmaster!!”
The applause was deafening as Mills strut out to the centre as other spotlights scanned across the audience.
The show was exactly as Thrumps remembered it, full of excitement, laughter, thrills, and astonishment. The children of the poor were as ever, enthralled and once the lucky ones had been favoured with pony rides, they all filed out with full tummies for once.
Mills pointed to a lad that was lingering on the side of the ring.
“Remember doing that?” He asked.
Thrumps looked carefully and gasped at the image of himself, aged about eight.
“You said you would grant me a wish.”
Mills nodded.
“Do you remember what you asked for?”
“I wanted to be able to make the world a happier place.”
Mills smiled.
“Quite astute for one so young.”
“You’d said you would make it happen, but I had to be patient. And I was.”
“I bet you thought I’d let you down.”
Thrumps nodded. He had spent his entire life in poverty and as far as he was concerned making absolutely no difference.
“Are you making a difference now?” Mills asked as if reading his thoughts.
“The Emporium is.” Thrumps said.
“Let me tell you a story,” Mills took a seat.
“The Emporium has always existed. Long before it found you it was in the custody of many people who, for one reason or another felt that they had been put on this earth to accomplish more than they actually did. Truth be known they had done exactly as was mapped out for them, in life. The magic came after that ended. No one can become the true custodian of The Emporium if they have ties to the mortal world.”
“But if they are already dead, how does it change hands?”
“That my friend is the fun bit,” Mills laughed. “You see there will come a time when one of the places visited has such a pull that they never want to leave. Naturally, after many decades of service The Council of the Enchanted are only too pleased to make their dream come true, then the new custodian, which has already been sourced is well, how can I say this nicely … umm … bumped off in the real world.”
“Murdered?” Thrumps shouted. The shock of his so-called appointment hitting hard.
“What else were you doing that was so good that you didn’t long for it all to change?”
“Well if you put it that way,” he sighed. “So this is all down to you then?”
Mills shook his head. “You give me far too much credit.”
“My role is simply to identify a list of possible candidates. Poor kids that have the vision to want more, not for themselves but for others.”
“And that was me.”
Mills nodded.
Thrumps awoke slumped at his desk to the sound of his pen tapping the side of the steaming coffee mug. The Book of Un-Reality lay open to the first page.
There now at the bottom of a long line of names crafted in ornated gold lettering, was his own.