The Tapestry

"...magicians perform tricks, but whisperers commune with those who live behind the veil—the veil between here, the living world, and there, the great beyond.”

“I would love nothing more than to tell you how I became acquainted with the extraordinary Mr. Trulé, but in truth, I’m having a difficult time remembering.” 

Mrs. Caldwell looked up in thought, putting her finger to her chin. The festoons beneath her eyes revealed a woman who had endured many sleepless nights. Mr. Brice studied her face, observing the recent age it had taken on. 

Men and women rushed about, trays filled with food and champagne, weaving in and out of the guests with such ethereal grace as to make Markova jealous. 

The room was tended with the utmost care, Mrs. Caldwell sparing no detail in her preparation for her party. Many of the guests had gasped at the abundance of colorful spring flowers, but while the real flowers were worthy of awe, the tapestry portraying her own garden, resplendent with jewels and rich textiles, left her guests reeling and speechless, as if they could smell the lavender. 

“Was it not you, Mr. Brice, who introduced us?”

Mr. Brice furrowed his brow in thought, pulling the lapels of his tuxedo taught, then brushing his sleeves, first the right, then the left, to remove dust that was not there. 

“No, it wasn’t me. I’m quite sure I would remember introducing you to a man claiming to know magic. Where were you when you met this man?” 

Mrs. Caldwell put forth a large, hospitable smile as her guests filed in—a dazzling parade of shimmering gowns reflecting the pinks and purples of the perennials and hollyhocks. 

“Ah, yes, now I remember. I was calling on Mrs. Bebumble and had just stepped out of the carriage—Is it hot in here?” Mrs. Caldwell waved her hand in front of her face and smiled at her guests. “Where was I? Oh yes, I dropped my glove. At first I thought that someone had snatched it from my hand, but there I stood, alone on the stoop. I suppose I hadn’t realized just how windy it had become, and there went my glove, sailing down the street.” 

The loudness of the party began to intensify as swaths of jubilant guests entered the room. Mrs. Caldwell beamed contently.  

 “Even Mr. Davenport, who happened to be on his way out to the library, saw a lady in distress and tried with all his might to catch my glove, but his health, as you know, has been poor of late. As luck would have it, there at the corner appeared Trulé. My spectral hero is what I called him. He appeared as if from nowhere, handing me my glove, and we became fast friends. We have many of the same acquaintances—This noise is making it difficult to remember who those acquaintances are.” 

Mr. Brice nodded in agreement. “Indeed, it’s very difficult to think with all the merriment, so let us not try too hard.” Mrs. Caldwell found this to be very droll and squeezed Mr. Brice’s hand in delight. 

A man of many vices, Trulé loved parties. It had been some time since he had been to one, and certainly he had never before been to one so lavish. Delicately snatching a glass from a tray that was headed toward a cluster of partygoers, he told himself, for the second time, that this would be his final taste of champagne. He blew graying black hair from his pale face in one big puff and cheered the mingling guests indiscriminately.

“To the one who got away,” said Trulé under his breath. “May you rot in hell.” 

One of the major problems with parties, Trulé thought, was that one could not remain hidden for long. Eventually, some terrible, good soul would force him to socialize, tearing him away from a delightful inward dialogue or glass of champagne. 

“Mr. Trulé! Over here!” Mrs. Caldwell motioned with the excitement befitting a child on Christmas morning. Mr. Brice leaned over to Mrs. Caldwell. 

“He does look the part, doesn’t he? Replete with gaunt cheeks and dated attire.” Mrs. Caldwell shot him a playful glance. 

“Come, come, let us be kind to our entertainment.” 

Like all of the greatest entertainers throughout history, Trulé enjoyed his solitude between performances immensely, but he knew the hour when he must transform from who he was to who he must be had come.  

“Mrs. Caldwell, Persephone herself must be hiding here this evening amongst this splendid garden. And your guests, as charming as camellias,” said Trulé. Mrs. Caldwell blushed. 

“Mr. Trulé, it’s a pleasure to meet such an established and revered magician,” said Mr. Brice, attempting to sound earnest, but it was hard for one to sound genuine when one was not so. If Mr. Brice’s lack of sincerity had been detected, Mr. Trulé did not let it show. 

“Please, just call me Trulé. Yes, it is not easy to make a name for yourself in a profession like mine, but I assure you by the end of our festivities there will be no name better known, Mr. Brice, is it?” 

“I believe I’m at a disadvantage. Have we met before?” asked Mr. Brice. Trulé smiled, and it seemed to Mr. Brice that the magician had too many teeth for the size of his mouth. 

“No, I don’t believe that we have,” said Trulé, searching Brice’s face for evidence of the contrary, “but I know you all the same. I shall give you, my close friends, a little pre-show magic to wet your whistle. I will make a simple prophecy, if you’d find this to be interesting?” 

Mr. Brice was opening his mouth to say that he most certainly would not like to hear Trulé’s prophecy, but Mrs. Caldwell’s voice took to the air. “How delightful!” 

“Very well, let’s begin. As you may know, I am what is called a magician, but when I am not entertaining guests at parties, I call myself a whisperer.” A buzzing crowd began to form. “For you see, magicians perform tricks, but whisperers commune with those who live behind the veil—the veil between here, the living world, and there, the great beyond.”

 All of the candles in the room seemed to flicker at once; Mrs. Caldwell looked to the entryway to see if more guests had arrived, but no one had come. 

The piano trilled a petite melody to the rhythm of the ambient clinking crystal and champagne glasses. 

“My friends behind the veil are constantly whispering into my ear, telling me what I wish to know. They even tell me that which I care not to know.” Trulé winked at a lady standing near the piano. The crowd laughed. “While out on my morning constitutional, these kind spirits whispered something to me. They told me that Mrs. Caldwell,” Trulé said with a subtle bow to his hostess, “would be in some need of assistance. They were vague in what sort of assistance—but should that matter? I consider myself to be somewhat of a gentleman, perhaps not to the same standing as Mr. Brice here, but nonetheless I made haste to her.” 

Trulé nodded respectfully in Mr. Brice’s direction. 

“So here we are!” 

Trulé extended his arms toward Brice, arching backward in what seemed like an unnatural motion to Mrs. Caldwell. 

“Interesting story, Trulé, but what is the prophecy?” asked Mrs. Caldwell, raising her voice above the sound of the piano, thinking, Had it become much louder in here? 

“Yes, to the point,” said Trulé. “Something should be said about these friends of mine, the Whisperers. They don’t always play fair. Often, they will tell one it will rain but not say when. So for weeks, one will need to carry an umbrella for fear of getting wet. Ah, but to remain dry during that unexpected downpour!

“I’ve brought my umbrella tonight, and now we wait for the storm….yes, but we must be patient.” 

A wild trill erupted from the piano, snapping Trulé from his reverie. He glared at the pianist with mild disdain. Unaware of his offense, the pianist played on, his red mop of hair swaying back and forth as if it were a metronome set ablaze. 

“Pardon me, where was I? Yes, yes! The Whisperers are here tonight; I can feel them. They are anxious to be heard!” said the magician, adding through his teeth, “Like the rest of you, they keep me in suspense.” 

Much to the relief of the magician, the pianist ceased playing. 

“Mr. Brice, have you ever been to Liverpool?” asked Trulé. 

Mr. Brice raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes, I was stationed there during my years in the service. Why do you ask?” 

Trulé moved within inches of Brice’s face and, without blinking, asked, “Did you ever know a Charlotte Trulé?” 

Mr. Brice, sensing some hostility, stood tall and replied, “I’ve not heard that name until this very moment. Now if you would be so kind as to please step back, sir.” 

The magician retreated slowly, like a serpent preparing to strike, then laughed heartily. 

“Let’s have a round of applause for Mr. Brice! What a good sport!”   

The partygoers, uncertain of what had just occurred, and many with drinks in their hands, did not clap. Mr. Trulé continued.  

“Last night the Whisperers gave me three names, and one of those names was yours, Mr. Brice. Another of the names given to me—which I’m sure you’ll find quite amusing Mrs. Caldwell—was that of Robert Caldwell, your husband.”

“I can’t imagine what they would want from me,” said Mr. Brice. “I dare say I don’t live a very interesting existence, not since my military days. Am I to think that ends tonight?” 

The crowd laughed. Mrs. Caldwell placed her hand on Mr. Brice’s arm. 

“I’m afraid Mr. Caldwell is not as fond of parlor tricks as I, Mr. Trulé. If I were you, I’d tread lightly.” 

Mrs. Caldwell gave him a stern look, followed by a congenial grin. 

Trulé, feeling exposed, gave a deep nod of understanding. “I can promise you, Mrs. Caldwell, that these are no parlor tricks, and by the end of the evening you and your lovely guests will have an appreciation for the arcane.” Trulé took a glass of champagne from a passing tray with one hand and with the other, he pushed his hair back. “The third name that my friends on the other side gave to me was, Kent Darning. Do you know him?” 

Mrs. Caldwell shook her head. 

“There are no guests at my party who go by that name. Perhaps your Whisperers have been getting their information from the tabloids.” Mrs. Caldwell looked around distractedly. “I hate to interrupt, but does anyone have the time?”

“Indeed,”  said Mr. Brice, pulling his pocket watch from his coat and opening it with one seamless flip of the wrist.

Trulé’s eyes widened, and he moved forward a step.

“That’s a beautiful watch, Mr. Brice,” said Trulé. 

“Isn’t it? It was a gift from an old chum. He knows I have a taste for ivory, and truth be told, I think he was becoming annoyed with me being late to the club.” 

The magician gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. “Inlaid with ivory, very nice indeed. I’ve taken the long road, have I not?” said Trulé, opening his eyes. “My prophecy is this: Mrs. Caldwell, by the end of this evening, your name shall be on the lips of the world, and your party…let’s just say there will never be another like it.” 

Mrs. Caldwell beamed with joy. 

“Oh, but this is a wonderful prophecy! In truth, I was concerned that you might say something dreadful, like an ill omen.” 

As the night progressed and the crowd became more inebriated, the speculation of what type of magic would be performed verged into the obscene. 

“Do you imagine he’ll invoke Lucifer for an earthly delight? Perhaps a sip of champagne?” said Lady Galdy to a collection of suitors vying for her attention. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised at all if he were to have us close our eyes then rob the ladies of their bracelets and brooches and the men of their watches and wives,” said General Thomas to nobody in particular. 

Finally, it came time for the entertainment. Mrs. Caldwell was nervous, realizing she had no idea who this man was and couldn’t recall why she had ever invited him to perform at her party. Did he have any references? If so, she certainly could not remember who. She looked over at her fast friend, the stranger who only moments before seemed so familiar and trustworthy. He was lurking behind the piano, drinking her champagne. Mrs. Caldwell felt trepidation, but there was no turning back now. 

She rang a small brass bell until the noise from the crowd had died down. Like all parties, a few voices remained the same volume as before, so wrapped up in the conversation and alcohol as to not notice even the most drastic sensory change. 

“Attention! Attention! As you might have deduced, we have a special guest with us tonight. His name is Trulé, and I am not sure if he prefers the moniker of magician or…what was it again? Oh yes, whisperer, but I will let him tell you himself. Trulé, if you please?” 

His smile seemed darkened in some way to Mrs. Caldwell, and she thought to herself, What have I done? 

 A portion of the candles had been snuffed at Trulé’s request. The fire-headed pianist, who had been gingerly plucking at the keys on the piano, trailed off then crossed his legs and watched the show alongside the guests. The smell of the flowers was so intense that several of the staff complained, amongst themselves, of having headaches. 

“Thank you, my most gracious hostess.” Trulé bowed low. “What a magnificent evening you have given us. We shall think back on this night for the remainder of our days. Mrs. Caldwell, if you would please hand me the note?”

 Mrs. Caldwell’s eyes showed panic, but her smile never wavered. Trulé laughed then put his hand up to his mouth and whispered, loudly enough for the entire room to hear him, “Try your glove.” 

The hostess’s smile brightened, but upon searching her left glove and finding nothing but her pale wrist her smile diminished and was on the verge of being extinguished altogether. Trulé mocked a frown then nodded toward his patron’s other hand. Mrs. Caldwell, feeling rather foolish for ever having agreed to search her glove, which had been on her hand the entire evening, and even more ridiculous for having invited this charlatan into her home, reluctantly slid her finger around the opening of her right glove. 

Nervous, pitiful laughter emanated through the crowd. 

Mrs. Caldwell’s eyes grew large. She held the folded piece of paper up for all to behold, her dress flaring as she turned to show the room the prize. Her guests cheered, laughed, and hooted. Mrs. Caldwell beamed. Mr. Trulé licked his lips and motioned for one very last glass of champagne. 

After the crowd had settled down, Trulé continued. “Now, Mrs. Caldwell, I’m the one who is supposed to have something up my sleeve—not you!” The crowd roared with laughter. “Shall I read the note?” The partygoers agreed that, yes, he should read it posthaste. Trulé began to unfold the square of paper, panel upon panel; there seemed no end. The crowd’s laughter increased with every flip of Trulé’s wrist until the paper was finally revealed, the end of the note brushing the tops of Trulé’s shoes. The magician put his finger up to quiet the crowd. Mr. Brice lifted his arms in support of Trulé, motioning the raucous guests to lower their volume. 

“Thank you, Mr. Brice!” said Trulé. “I’ve always longed for an assistant.” Trulé read the note, “Don’t drink the punch!” 

He then turned the paper backward and forward, showing the room the single line scribbled across the top. The crowd adored him. 

Mrs. Caldwell looked around at her guests, who laughed gaily. She had done it and imagined the buzz that would come in the following days. They will wring their hands in anguish trying to throw a party as spectacular as mine! she thought. All thanks to her fast friend and of course herself for being so keen as to hire him.  

“Look at these beautiful flowers. And this tapestry above us, stunning! You know, my sister was a flower—Charlotte would have fit in quite well amongst these arrangements. She was a rose, and like all lovely flowers she attracted aphids.” The man of magic grimaced. “It was December of 1828 when I was to last see her. She was on her way to fetch a flower from the garden, wanting to keep it in a vase at her bedside, but she never returned.

 “Yes, there was an investigation, but after several days of searching without finding a single clue, let’s just say that my sister was no longer an urgent priority for anyone—well, anyone but our family. Oh, but I see I have brought the party down a peg, haven’t I? Do not fret. I will make it lively once again! This tragic event is what led me down the path of what you might call magic. For you see, I saw no other course of action. It was chiefly survival that I began to commune with the other side. For how is one to live with an open question that can never be answered?” 

Trulé paused for some time. He saw in their faces a mix of emotions. Mrs. Caldwell looked rather nervous, Mr. Brice looked as if he were waiting in a queue to be administered the latest vaccine, the fire-headed pianist smiled blankly as if he were watching a play, and many of the other guests looked on in silent anticipation. 

“So, shall we get on with the show? Ah, but it has already begun! My sister is here with us tonight! Look above you!” 

There on the jeweled tapestry, sitting beneath a willow tree in the garden of dreams, where previously there had only been flowers, sat a young woman staring back at Mrs. Caldwell and her guests. There was a loud gasp followed by applause. 

“Thank you. You are most generous! I present to you the stage for our show. Can you smell the flowers of this garden?” 

A young man, who had been enjoying the drink, shouted out, “I believe we smell this and a thousand more!” The room erupted with laughter. 

“Indeed, indeed, sir! Is it not the best smell in the world to some? But for me, it is the stench of death.” 

The room fell silent once more, and it seemed as if the candles now struggled to fill the room with light. “Let’s see here. We have our lady, and we have our stage.” Mr. Trulé’s smile was filled with joy and menace. The staff had stopped serving and were dumbstruck by the entertainment. “Ah, I know just what we need. We need the villain, do we not?” 

The guests began to sense that something wasn’t quite right, and several of them would have left straightaway had their curiosity not gotten the better of them.

Trulé closed his eyes and began to mumble incoherently. A cascading rattle of glasses and plates came from all sides of the room. Mrs. Caldwell smiled nervously at her guests. The doors slammed shut. The head valet, unsuccessfully attempting to open them, shrugged at Mrs. Caldwell in bewilderment. Seeing this as an opportunity to showcase their virility, several men ran to assist the valet, but the door would not budge. Then there was silence, followed by a voice that seemed to whisper directly into the ear of each man and woman at the party. 

Brice. 

Trulé opened his eyes wide. 

“Oh, yes, wonderful, now we see it, do we not? The scene is set. I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with our hostess. You see, I came here under false pretense. My dark whisperers had informed me that my sister’s killer would be at your party, Mrs. Caldwell, and I had a sinister thought—why not make a spectacle of it?”

“This is absurd,” said Mr. Brice, unnerved. “Is this part of your act? If so, I am not amused.” 

Mr. Caldwell, who had been enjoying cigars for most of the evening with his brother, shuffled to the podium, looking quite irritated. 

“Now see here. I will not have you—” But before Mr. Caldwell could say anything more, the candles went out yet again, and when they had been relit there emerged within the tapestry the image of Trulé standing over Mr. Brice, red rubies spilling out from the gentleman’s neck.

 From his podium, Trulé looked at the audience and saw faces filled with terror. 

“One can never fully trust the Whisperers,” said Trulé through gritted teeth, “but I see now they have not failed me. Last night, after much coaxing, they whispered to me of a man with nimble fingers and a penchant for ivory. Your watch has betrayed you, Mr. Brice. Now you will feel the thorn’s sting and the tusk’s brunt.” 

Trulé withdrew a short dagger that had been hidden discreetly in his waistband and let out a deranged cackle.

He lunged at Mr. Brice, driving the dagger into the neck of his sister’s killer. 

Mr. Brice looked at Trulé in horror as he slid from the magician’s grasp to the floor. A woman in the crowd screamed, and several men jumped on Trulé, holding him down. The restraints were unnecessary, for the man of magic was no threat to them; he had fulfilled his night’s ambition. Trulé felt a wave of relief. It is done, he thought, dear sister, may you now rest, knowing that your killer has been dealt with.  

“Up there, the tapestry, look!” shouted the valet. 

There above them on the tapestry, behind the tree where the image of his sister sat, where the image of Mr. Brice’s body slumped, red rubies spilling from his neck, was yet another image, that of a man with fire-red hair and a grotesque smile. 

“Who is that there behind the willow tree?” said Trulé to himself, bewildered, as he was carried away.   

The doors relaxed, and the head valet wasted no time calling for the police. Mrs. Caldwell, attempting to restore some semblance of normalcy and safety for her guests, motioned to the pianist to resume playing. 

The pianist glided over the ivory with sure hands, plucking each note with the precision of an adder striking its unsuspecting prey. 

---

Oh, poor Trulé! What ever shall become of our friend? Maybe I’ll write another story later so that we can all find out! I’d like to think that the pianist doesn’t get away with it, but should he never pay for his crimes in this life, something tells me he’ll be breaking rocks in the next.

Also - What a year! So many stories written - 37 stories with one or more drafts finished. 29 explorations. 20+ poems. And I’ve started writing a novel - Pray for Mojo.

Thanks for reading - Shony

The Tapestry was edited by Jason Letts. This was my first experience using a professional editor and it was terrific. I learned a lot!