And the human variety.
Human magic is the strangest of all the arcane arts, the most complex. At times, obvious as palming a coin behind your hand as you wow the locals with your prestidigitation. At others, murkier and more unpredictable than the weather in this ancient city that looks like it's the bastard child of J.K. Rowling and William Shakespeare. I would say minus that sadder aspects of that comparison, the uglier sides of both of those writers world views. But I'd be lying. There is both wonder and sorrow here. Same as everywhere.
Yesterday, we were getting ready to debut at the Edinburgh Fringe. To say the cast and crew were exhilarated would be a great understatement. We started the day with a little press interview with Fringe Biscuit. Always exciting to discuss your show with the press. We went, pitched out show as charmingly as humanly possible, and ventured off.
We had things to do. A run through of the play at one of our postage stamp sized flats. A mad search for some stools for the show. The usual madness that comes before a show opens, cramming a week into a day, a day into an hour, and hour into a moment.
And then it was time to get ready and head to the Royal Mile, where our theatre is.
Cooper, one of my dearest friends and also one of the leads in the show, and I decided to get some coffee, headed over, had some lattes made "take away", which is how they say to go here in Scotland. On the way back to our flats to meet the cast and walk, there was a commotion across the street. A couple of people were gathered around a woman sitting on the sidewalk, back against the ancient wall, not moving. Most of the people seemed either drunk or high or some combination. The emotions shot out from them in all directions like a volley of damaged arrows.
I wanted to walk on. I had a show to do.
I couldn't.
I walk over to them, and one of the men tells me the woman is dead. The woman kneeling next to the body screams "she's breathing!" Another man asks me to help. Another man holds his dog back, who is barking to wake the devil. The devil may have woken, but the lady slept on. I ask the group what number to call for an ambulance, as I'm an American. Some of them throw up their arms in despair at this. An American? Now we are fucked for sure. But I get the number. 999. An upside Mark of the Beast. By now, another Fringe goer, a man named James, joins the fray. The 999 operator picks up, and I can barely hear her as things are spiraling quickly into a mad whirl. At every second, at least three people are yelling things at me about the state of the body.
I should mention. The Lady of the Wall, the Sleeper Who Will Not Awake, She Who Had No Name, does indeed look dead to me. Her skin has turned grey. Her mouth hangs open. Her legs are stiff.
I am frightened and falling through time and space but unable to be anywhere but right there.
The operator somehow hears me. I give our location. She asks me if the Lady is dead. I say no. She asks me if I am sure. I am not, but I say yes, she's still alive because I think it will get the ambulance there quicker.
James puts his hand over her jaw open mouth, says he can feel a breath.
The operator asks me is the Lady is conscious.
No.
She tells us to lay her out flat on the ground, head on the sidewalk, and for me to say "now" for every breath the Lady Takes, and I do.
Now.
Now.
Now.
There are strange intervals of time between the breathes. The span between each breath a chasm of despair. The Lady's grey face seems a mystic death mask of a tragic queen.
And the ambulance arrives, and people who know far better than I take over.
And in a miracle, The Lady Wakes.
One of the Howling Men turns to me, says thank you, tells me how most people don't stop.
I know that. Like most of us, I have been The Person Who Doesn't Stop in other chapters of my life.
And then he says:
My names Michael, but they call me Magic. I'm a Magician, you see.
Then he leans in close, with the saddest face in the history of this moment, confesses to me:
I've been on smack for twenty years now.
I walk away, join Cooper, who has been there the whole time. Coop tells me he stayed to make sure I was okay, gives me a hug, and we journey on.
I suddenly feel like crying. I tell the cast to meet me at the theatre, head out.
And as I walk the lovely, lonely streets of this town, I think about what's important. What if anything has any meaning. Why do we do theatre, create stories and songs, dance with each other.
And the world opens up to me. Each step fills my soul with an intense love of this world. Each stranger seems a saint.
A kid handing out flyers for her show asks me if I want a strawberry. She says she's saving them for the cast, but that I can have one.
I take it like communion, bless myself with a bit of kindness of strangers.
At the theatre, more madness. Running to and fro. No one sure what is going on.
And in the sweet darkness of the first blackout, we make our own magic.
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