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Excerpt from Gentle Author
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The fellow appeared to be
unsure what to say. He stood there glowering from the depth of his being with
a snare on his lips, yet fear in his eyes. Undoubtedly, the youngster
possessed a resemblance with someone he could not place. His bearing bespoke
disquieting news. It implied malfunction of his upper storey to begin with,
but worst of all, he appeared to be enjoined to do something which he
deplored. Odd to say, his mien, aggrieved and mischievous, was brightened by
eyes that wanted to smile; but not presently, far from it. “My father sent me,” he
hissed. “Our father, who is he?” “You should know, Randolph
Gruber.” “There, no wonder the youngster looked familiar. “Have you got a message?” “Yes.” “Well, what is it?” “This.” Saying so he produced a
sturdy rope with a noose at one end. Pfister’s head bound up, he had the
answer in a flash. The fellow is either a lunatic or an amateurish prankster.
He knew Randolph Gruber like a brother, they spent many years together on the
road, criss-crosssing Canada from Halifax to Victoria. They were known as the
‘Dreadnaughts’, magicians and jugglers whom no one could excel in speed and
accuracy. Their extraordinary skills were gained in the school of hard
knocks. Indeed, he and Gruber were a team that outperformed anyone in the
trade. They abruptly parted over twenty years ago, under a cloud of hostility
and nagging fear of each other. Their acts required utmost concentration, but
most of all a sure hand guided by a sympathetic heart and peace of mind. The apple of discord was
Sylvia Steiner, a woman no longer young, but still girded with the girdle of
Aphrodite. The short of it was this: Although courted avidly by both friends,
Pfister won her hand. They married, and divorced before the end of the year.
That happened about twenty years ago. The friends, who became bitter rivals
and enemies, lost track of each other. After the divorce Pfister wandered
eastward and finally put up stakes at Lac Archambeau, near St. Donat, Quebec. The youngster’s behaviour
baffled him thoroughly, even more so when he spoke again: “I have come to settle a
score.” With one eye scanning the
lake, the other trying to take the young fellow’s measure, Pfister burst out: “You what?” “You heard me,” he was told
with a pained grimace that elicited the older man’s pity rather than dread. Yet these sentiments
dissipated quickly upon sensing an undertone of villainy in his unwelcome
visitor. Another disconcerting realisation gripped him: The fellow was but an
automaton, programmed to do mischief. Humour him, an inner voice cautioned,
stall this overgrown oddity till Toby arrives. Appeasement appeared to be the
only option, placation and delay, since this errant son obviously laboured
under serious delusions. He seemed set to do harm, thus prudence must be
exercised. For he, Pfister, could never pit his weak physique against this
almost elephantine hulk, in the blush of youth to boot. “What is your name?” “Viktor.” “Viktor Gruber?” “Yes.” “You want to get even, I
don’t understand,” Pfister chortled uneasily. He soon did. He felt
compelled to clutch his throat and neck when he observed Viktor’s eyes wander
from tree to tree outside. As he fingered the running knot of the noose, an
eerie glint lit up his face. Pfister’s consternation grew by the second,
questions arose for which answers were wanting. Was this queer stranger
really Randolph’s son? Did he indeed commission him to take revenge for a
trifling matter that took place twenty years ago? Or was the youngster
mentally challenged, no doubt prone to buffoonery? But how did he find him
who lived the life of a recluse?” “Viktor, what do you actually
want?” Instead of a reply the
youngster called out: “Aha, that’s the one.” “What are you talking about?” “The branch from where you
shall hang.” Pfister was about to make a
snap remark and order him to be gone, or else, but something held him back.
As he sized up the interloper icy shivers ran up his spine; he realised that
Viktor was dead serious. No doubt he intended to string him up. Where the
deuce was Toby? Thoughts raced through his mind that created a jumble in his
head. |
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Sleight of Hands |