Chapter 1: Kuklon

                                                            “KUKLON”

 

 

 

            Standing at the door was an average-sized man with a square jaw, clean-cut and athletic, his dark brown eyes burning beneath his freshly shaved head. His piercing, suspicious gaze was making James Zaruari, a circus illusionist, feel ill.

“Cop,” determined Zaruari and, remembering that attack is the best form of defense, spoke first.

            “Jesus Christ! What do you want from me now!?” he blurted out shrilly. “I’ve already been questioned a dozen times! When is this outrage going to end!?”

The visitor, however, seemed unmoved by the attack. In a calm and measured tone, pointing a finger at him like an emotional prosecution lawyer, he asked:

            “Unless I am mistaken, you are Monsieur James Zaruari, the illusionist? Magition?”

            “Is it a crime to be an illusionist?” asked Zaruari loudly, almost shouting, in place of an answer. “Are you from the police?” he added a second later in a noticeably less shrill voice, seeing the futility of his outcries. “If so then I’ll contact my lawyer! I don’t intend to answer any more of your idiotic questions!”

The visitor pursed his lips, as if grinding the question down with his powerful jaw, then answered:

            “I’m not from the police, Monsieur Zaruari.”

            “Then who are you?” demanded Zaruari.

            “A private detective – Michel Akuev. Here’s my ID.”

Zaruari’s face began to turn red with rage.

            “Get lost, Monsieur Whatever-your-name-is!” he cried out with a hiss and started to shut the door.

But Akuev, unexpectedly shoving his boot into the doorway, brought the door to a stop.

            “Move your foot!” shouted Zaruari, enraged, switching back to his shrill voice in an attempt to get rid of both the boot and Akuev.

But his efforts were of no use.

            “I’m not taking it out,” replied Akuev darkly and, pushing the illusionist out of the way with a shove, he walked into the house.

            “If you don’t go away this instant, I’ll – I’ll call the police!” said Zaruari, now in a much less confident voice.

            Akuev slammed the door and unceremoniously walked into the living room, looking around at the furniture inside with interest.

            “Go ahead, I dare you,” he said, continuing to search the room with his eyes. “I think they would also be interested in taking a look at the chest!”

            Zaruari hurried behind him into the living room.

            “Don’t try to intimidate me,” he said as he entered, wrapping his dressing gown around him as though suddenly cold.

            Akuev turned his burning gaze towards him.

            “No-o-o? Then why aren’t you calling the police? Are you afraid of something?”

            They looked at each other for several seconds. Zaruari, unable to bear the intensity of his stare, backed down. Looking away, he spoke in a fairly low voice:

            “You’re bluffing, Monsieur Detective. You’re trying to intimidate me so I spill the beans about something, but it won’t work. That’s a mug’s game!”

            “No-o-o?” Akuev drawled once again, resuming his interrupted inspection of the room. “Are you so sure about that, Mr. Chestmaker? Which reminds me. Where is it?”

            “What chest? You’re not going to fool me,” snapped Zaruari, his voice finally seeming to lose its nerve in front of the pushy detective.

            “Stop the farce,” said Akuev, cutting him short. “The chest, the prop you use in your act. Zaruari’s renowned Disappearance Chest!”

            The illusionist said nothing, and Akuev continued:

            “Nothing to say? OK. I’ll start by telling you a story to refresh a few details in your memory, then we’ll carry on.

            “So – several weeks ago, a lad by the name of Alex Remen set off for the circus with his mother. It was a beautiful evening, and Alex Remen had recently taken part in a fencing championship in Marseilles, where he had come second. He and his mother were in fine spirits. They watched the dancing horses, jumping tigers, dogs with bows, and other bits and pieces that are performed at the circus with delight. Everything was generally hunky-dory until the famous illusionist began his part of the show. He – The Alabama Magician – James Zaruari – was performing his famous disappearing act. During the act, Monsieur Zaruari calls for a volunteer from the audience and puts him in a chest. Then the person in the chest disappears. Alex jumped at the chance to volunteer. His mother was a little bit worried for her only son; perhaps if she had read the article about you in World of Illusions magazine or the small piece about you in Time, she would have been unlikely to let her son get into the ring. But unfortunately, she hadn’t heard anything about you and did not interfere with her son’s desire to take part in the famous illusionist’s act. And so, once Alex had climbed into the chest, it was locked with a key and lowered into a special glass tank full of water. Then the chest was taken out and – ta-dah! – the boy had disappeared! This was greeted with rapturous applause. Usually, in such cases, illusionists perform a reverse process; they close the chest again and the volunteer mysteriously reappears. Monsieur Zaruari, however, had been neglecting this part of the act, sometimes, and nothing he did after bring Alex Remen back. He was suddenly taken ill and was driven away from the circus in an ambulance. Since then, Alex Remen has not been seen by a living soul! He has disappeared without a trace as if he’s hiding at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Alex’s mother has run herself ragged looking for her son. She roused the entire Marseilles police department, which is where it all happened, by the way. But there is no point in finding fault with them. Monsieur Zaruari swore that he had released the boy along a special tunnel under the ring, which the volunteer had reached by falling through a trapdoor at the bottom of the glass tank. There was no reason to disbelieve him unless you believe in magic. And usually, judges do not believe in magic as well as Marseilles police don’t believe in magic. And from a legal point of view, if there’s no someone's body, then there’s no case! As for the boy, meanwhile, it’s as if he’s vanished into thin air, disappeared without a single trace! Fortunately, Alex’s mother was no fool. She kicked up a real scandal in the media, and tabloid journalists love mystery stories like these. She took you to court, which came to nothing, of course, except providing some sort of amusement to the readers of the gutter press following the case. And, eventually, it found its way to me. I took on the strange case, which drew me in with its mass of details overlooked by the police. I dug into your biography and found that there were at least half a dozen other cases of this kind. Several other people have disappeared from your chest. It is one of the reasons why you move from country to country so often. You have to involuntarily start to believe in miracles! To wrap things up: that is where I’m going to finish, and you’re now going to carry on!”

            Zaruari, who had been silently and almost unflinchingly listening to Akuev, suddenly burst out laughing.

            “You’re wrong, Monsieur Akuev. My act has deceived you, which is not surprising. Hundreds of professionals who have seen it performed have attempted to solve it!”

            Akuev, however, was not buying the illusionist’s cheerful tone and forced laughter.

            “I am never deceived by anything, Monsieur Zaruari! Show me how the trick is performed and I’ll leave you alone. Otherwise...”

            Zaruari lifted his chin proudly.

            “A magician never reveals his secrets! You should know that!”

            “Sure! I know that,” said Akuev in the soulless tone of a serial killer, his voice as cold as the Antarctic.

            Then he quickly took a step towards Zaruari, seized him by the collar of his dressing gown, and lifted him, pinning him against the wall.

            “I see you don’t quite understand,” Akuev continued. “Monsieur Zaruari. The mother of the boy who disappeared in your chest is my sister. And Alex Remen is my nephew. A beloved nephew!”

            With the last word, Akuev loosened his grip and Zaruari was able to breathe a little air. Out of fear, he began to hiccup, and the detective let go of him contemptuously. Zaruari flopped to the floor.

            “Show me the trick and I’ll leave,” said Akuev.

Somewhat strangely, Zaruari quickly recovered himself.

            “OK,” he agreed. “I’ll show you the trick, Monsieur! In fact, I’ll show you with pleasure!”

            And quickly getting to his feet, he went into the next room, where he kept his circus prop.

            In the middle of the room stood what looked like an ordinary chest. Nothing remarkable, just a chest bound with iron plates, old and darkened with age. The chest was big enough to hold a person, although it would have been somewhat tight for a big guy like Akuev.

            With a look of determination, Zaruari approached the chest and threw back the lid.

            “Climb in,” he told the detective.

            For a brief moment, Akuev was taken aback. The chest was empty and completely ordinary. But to climb into it after everything?

            “Whoa, Chestmaker,” said Akuev, reining the illusionist in a little. “Not so quickly! First the secret.”

            Zaruari spread his hands apologetically.

            “Forgive me, but how am I supposed to show you the secret of the trick without doing it?!”

            Akuev paused to think for a moment: “What, after all, can happen to me in the chest?” he thought.

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            But before he climbed in, he warned Zaruari:

            “Remember, if you’re thinking about doing something funny...”

            Zaruari’s lips twisted into a caustic smile:

            “This is just a circus trick.”

            “The dirty circus trick,” Akuev corrected Zaruari. “I have a 45 caliber gun with me. I’ll shoot the lock off of this thing – easily! And then your head, as a next move!”

            Zaruari nodded impatiently.

            “Ye, ye, whatever you like. So climb in now. There is a great deal for me to do once you leave me alone. I will prove my innocence to you, even at the cost of giving away the secret of the most famous trick in my arsenal.”

            “Don’t worry, I couldn’t care less about your trick,” Akuev replied, and climbed into the chest.

            Zaruari slammed the lid shut, smiling to himself about something.

            “What should I do?” asked Akuev, whose voice sounded muffled and not quite audible.

            “Nothing,” replied Zaruari. “I am now going to turn the key, and you will see everything for yourself.”

            Hurriedly, the illusionist inserted the key and turned it. And then, feeling a sudden wave of tiredness, he sat down exhausted on the lid of the chest.

            “Done,” he thought to himself. “Finally, I won’t be bothered by this guy anymore.”

            Meanwhile, not a single sound was heard from the chest. But then James Zaruari had not expected to hear anything. He knew that there was already nobody there. For form’s sake, however, he still checked. But first, he fetched a bottle of beer from the fridge, and then, holding it in one hand, he unlocked the chest. After taking a big greedy gulp, he threw back the lid.

The chest was empty.

            Examining its empty bottom, Zaruari once again pondered: what the hell does this damn chest do with people? And why does it happen when you turn the key in the lock, for God’s sake? What it has to do with the key? Why was the chest, at first, used to bring the people back? I just had to put the key back in the lock and turn it, and the person would reappear! He had used it for a long time, even confounding by that many renowned professional illusionists. His trick was unbeatable. Because it was real magic! One hundred percent real magic! They just didn't know that. But lately, however, there had been something with this accursed item. It flatly refused to bring the people back, even when you turned the key again and again, a hundred times if you wish! And started to swallow people on regular bases! Every time!

            For a whole hour, Zaruari sat in the room with the chest, thinking it over and quietly getting drunk. Outside it had started to get dark, and twilight was sneaking its way inside through the barred windows of the house...

            A ring at the door found the illusionist already half gone. He got up slowly, staggering a little, and headed for the front door.

“Who the hell can that be now? Whatever, I don’t give a damn! I’ll send them all off in the chest!” he repeated to himself, feeling drunk as he walked.

            But Zaruari didn’t have time to open the door. The newcomers turned out to be too impatient to wait and simply kicked the door in.

            Their powerful blow had the door jumping off its hinges and plaster raining down from the ceiling, then two madmen burst into the room!

            The first one, older than the other, had long dark hair, a grey beard, and a black eyepatch over one eye like a pirate cliche from movies; the second was still really just a lad, but with a weather-beaten, severe face.

            Zaruari, confused, look from one to another, eyeing their outlandish clothes: long black coats, leather jerkins, and odd swords, sharp and ominous as death itself, flecked with dried blood. He had only just opened his mouth to demand an explanation when the one-eyed madman grabbed him by the collar of his dressing gown, exactly as the private detective had done an hour before, and pinned him up against the wall. This time, however, he could feel the faintly shimmering blade of a sword against his throat.

Losing the ability to speak, the illusionist could only squeal.

            “Do you know me?” said the one-eyed man through clenched teeth, in a disturbingly familiar voice.

            Astonished, Zaruari stopped shrieking.

            “It’s you!!!”

            He was now completely sober. The one-eyed man grinned ominously.

            “That’s right, it’s me! Michel Akuev, the private detective that you sent God knows where three years ago! You can’t imagine how long I’ve waited for this moment! You’re even...”

            And Akuev found himself overcome with emotion. Without finishing, he turned around and asked his young companion:

            “Well Alex, what shall we do with him?”

            The fair-haired boy, the detective had spoken to, moved closer.

            “I don’t like it, Uncle Michel,” he said. “He certainly did us wrong, especially to you, but maybe it’s not worth killing him. He’s just a fool.”

            “No, we definitely have to do something with him!” said Akuev, shaking his head. “I was a galley slave to Andir slave traders! He owes me something. A big one! Oh, how he owes me!”

            “Then, maybe, we can do the same thing to him as he has done to us?” suggested Alex, tentatively.

            “Excellent idea!” said Akuev, with a malevolent smile. “This addled egg wouldn’t last more than a couple of days there! And we wouldn’t even need to get our hands dirty! You’re smart, Alex. I’ll give you a job at my agency, first mate.”

            Zaruari, who had worked out what they were planning to do with him, was shrieking worse than before. But this time Akuev stopped the noise, pressing his hand over the illusionist’s mouth. In a matter of minutes, he had dragged the struggling magician to the chest in the next room and, flinging back the lid, had thrust the hapless Zaruari into it, kicking and screaming. He slammed the lid shut and sat on top, preventing his victim from opening the lid of the chest from the inside.

            “Where’s the key?” he asked and then, catching sight of it in the keyhole, cried out something unintelligible:

            “Ah! Kuklon! Kuklon! Vasata mi kari! Oh-h-h! Vasata mi kariii!”

Screaming out these incomprehensible words, he was ready to turn the key when Alex suddenly stopped him.

            “Wait, Uncle Michel. I want to give him a bit of advice for the road. He still has the right to at least some kind of chance.”

            Reluctantly, Akuev agreed.

            “OK, Alex, it’s your lookout. But if you ask me, the bastard...”

            “Listen to me carefully, Monsieur Zaruari,” began Alex, but was unable to finish as a new series of shrieks erupted from the chest.

            “Knock it off!” roared Akuev, and slammed his fist down onto the lid of the chest.

            To his surprise, Zaruari went silent.

            “Listen to me carefully,” began Alex again. “I don’t have any particular desire to do this to you, but my uncle is pretty furious with you. And nearly everyone you sent there, they... they died, some in a very unpleased way...”

            “Six months I was a galley slave!” interrupted Akuev, and slammed his fist down onto the lid a second time. “Do you know what that means – to be a galley slave to Andir slave traders? You’re a bastard! You don’t know anything except for your vile tricks with the chest!”

            “OK, Uncle Michel,” said Alex, placing his hand on the detective’s shoulder, and continued with his "briefing". “Listen. When you get there, don’t torture yourself about whether it’s real or not. Save yourself a lot of valuable time and nerves. Just adapt, only so you’ll survive. And remember the most important word: KUKLON! It’s the only way to get back! If it works, then not only will you get back, but you’ll get back on the same day, no matter how much time has passed in that world. Understand?”

            “What’s Kuklon?! Where’s ‘there’?!” came Zaruari’s voice, which because of the walls of the chest sounded nasally and whiny, “Let me out, I don’t want to go anywhere!”

            “And you think I did?!” asked Akuev, with undisguised malice in his voice. “Seven months I was a galley slave! Do you have any idea what is that? To be a galley slave of the Andirian slave traders?! Do you have the slightest idea what is that?

            “Six months,” corrected Alex, calmly.

            “What’s the difference, Alex? We’re still being too easy on him. Giving him advice for the road! Who gave us any? Are you finished?”

            Alex nodded. But Akuev, unable to pass up one last chance to torment his victim, said in farewell:

            “Enjoy your flight to the magical land of Oz, Dorothy!”

            And turned the key.

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