This is a multi-part story, composed by me and my famous author brother, Peter M. Last. For the odd-numbered parts of the story (apropos because Peter is, in fact, odd), see his website, http://www.peterlast.com/blog
Wyatt turned around to see the oldest, most grizzled looking man he had ever met. Leaning heavily on a thick oaken staff, the man’s body was bent with age. A long white beard, caught up in a plethora of tiny braids half-falling out of their bindings, straggled down to his belt. Only a few wisps of white hair clung to the man’s scalp, and his face was seamed with many wrinkles. The man’s eyes, however, were sharp, peering at Wyatt from beneath tangled, wiry brows.
“Um…are
you Gypsy Jim?” Wyatt asked hesitantly. Though this man looked like a stiff
wind would blow him over, there was something about that eagle-eyed gaze that
made him stand up straighter.
The
old man scratched his chin with one hand, the fingernails long and yellow. “Well,
boy, what’s that sign above the door say?”
Wyatt
looked over his shoulder at the door, but there was no sign. “Nothing.”
The
old man rolled his eyes. “I meant the sign outside, you halfwit.”
Wyatt
thought this was uncalled for, but he swallowed his pride. “It says Gypsy Jim’s
Games and Magic.”
“Well,
then,” the old man said, raising his wiry brows.
“If
you’re Gypsy Jim,” he began, but then broke off. “Hey, you can see me?”
He
rolled his eyes again. “No, I just like talking to myself.” He shook his head,
muttering under his breath. Wyatt doubted it was complimentary.
“I’ve
been having a problem,” Wyatt began again, but was interrupted by a
harassed-looking young man who came out of a back room.
“Granddad,
what are you doing out here? You know I don’t want you talking to the
customers,” the young man said, beginning to shoo the older man toward the
back.
“I’ll
do as I please,” the old man returned with spirit. Moving with surprising speed,
he cracked the end of his staff against his grandson’s shoulder. “Don’t you be
ordering me around, Jim.”
“Ow!”
Jim exclaimed, dodging another blow from the staff. “See, this is why I don’t
want you out here. What if there were customers? You think it’s good for business
to see me abused? Ow!” The old man had landed another cracking blow.
“You
do have a customer,” Wyatt
interjected.
“Don’t talk to
me about what’s good for the shop,” the old man sniffed. “You’re the one who ran down a perfectly good business to sell cheap
magic tricks.”
“Excuse me,”
Wyatt said loudly, stepping between the two bickering men and the back room.
The old man flicked a glance at him, but Jim completely ignored him.
“Fine, have it
your way,” Jim said huffily, evidently giving up on persuading the ornery old
man to do anything. “And when we all starve because I can’t sell anything after
you scare all the customers, on your own head be it.”
“Yeah, all the
customers,” the old man scoffed, waving one gnarled hand around the shop. “You’re
up to your ears in customers. How do you manage it all?”
“Hello!” Wyatt
hollered, waving both hands in Jim’s face.
“I’m not
talking to you anymore,” Jim grumbled, stalking toward the back room.
He walked right
through Wyatt.
Wyatt gasped
and clutched his chest, staring down at his body. He could only make out the
faint outline of his body, translucent against the dark wood of the
floorboards. Frantically, he patted his chest, but he felt solid enough.
Reaching out, he snatched at the old man’s staff.
His hand went
through the staff like vapor.
“What are you
doing, trying to grab my staff?” the old man demanded. “Were you raised by
wolves?”
“You can see
me!” Wyatt said, shocked.
“We’ve already
been over this,” the man said disgustedly. “Were you dropped on your head as a
baby, or something?”
“But, but, but,”
Wyatt sputtered. “But Jim walked right through me!”
“Of course he
did,” the old man said. He shook his head, making the braids in his beard
wobble. “You’re insubstantial.”
“I’m what?”
Wyatt demanded.
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