Debt of Time

A small crowd gathered around the street performer. Tourists strained to get a glimpse, hoping to see a juggler or perhaps one of those statue people that painted themselves and stood frozen for hours.

All watched as the old magician did his thing. He was truly amazing, performing simple tricks that defied the eye. How did he do that? floated through the crowd as he turned a ball point pen into a banana. Next, his gnarly old hands deftly produced a ball from behind a young boy’s ear.

Alan enjoyed the crowd, but that was not why he chose this particular trade. No, his choice of vocation had nothing to do with performing, people clapping, accolades or temporary flirtations with fame.

He did it for the magic.

Alan saw his first show as a small boy. The age of twenty found him traveling abroad in search of a specific and elusive master of the black arts. Eventually arriving in Bucharest, Alan scoured the city, following one lead after another. One day, he walked into a small shop selling ancient healing potions, an old Romanian flag hung behind the counter. Fifty Russian Rubles gained him entrance to the back room. That was where he met Him. The one that would teach him not tricks, but true magic.

For six years, he was the understudy. He emerged a master himself.

Alan exploded onto the world stage dazzling audiences with his abilities. Fame and fortune were his for the taking.

Alan did a card trick for the street crowd, drawing more cheers. He tried not to notice the conditions of his own hands. It was hard to believe he was only thirty-two. Any observer would have put him closer to seventy.

This was his debt owed. This was the price of real magic.

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