The Magic Season

Every year, in the village hall, they put on a Christmas play. Not a pantomime, a christmas play. Henry - the headmaster of the local school usually directed it. Antibus Pill always wrote it. Antibus Pill who lived right in the middle of Hardmans Wood and made charcoal. To be perfectly honest, this wasn’t really a job that anyone needed doing, but he liked it. Lengths of cord wood were placed in a large dome shape with a chimney in the centre. Antibus covered it with turf, leaving little vent holes all the way round it. Then he dropped some glowing embers in through the top, so the whole thing fired, and he placed an iron lid over the hole and then pulled up a chair for four days as it quietly burned, and watched the sweet smelling white smoke pour out of the vent holes. As he sat and watched the charcoal burn he would read. Then, when the burning was done - you could tell it was ready because the smoke turned from white to blue - this is just one of the ways in which making charcoal is similar to choosing a pope - he would allow the charcoal to cool for two more days. And during all of this time - he would also read. His cabin, built in the middle of the woods was filled from floor to ceiling with books. A good proportion of the books were collections of theatrical anecdotes, so don’t start thinking he’s some kind of intellectual. And if he wasn’t reading he was writing. Mostly poetry, but from Hallowe’en onwards he was writing the Christmas play.

How Antibus got the job of writing the Christmas play was a mystery. A mystery almost as great as who the hell was buying all this charcoal. But he had been doing it for a very long time. And every year he came up with a brand new twist on something. One year, he wrote a modern version of the nativity. It was set in a brothel.

Aggie Pendragon, head of the WI nearly pulled the whole venture after she saw the dress rehearsal. Antibus and Henry both objected (though Henry’s heart really wasn’t in the project that year - he’d never been the same since his cat had been killed by that boy). Antibus told Aggie that he’d told her two months ago that the thing was going to be set in a brothel. Aggie - rather a simple soul, had to admit that she had been labouring under the misapprehension that a Brothel was where soup was made. Which makes Joseph Campbell the world’s most successful pimp. Anyway - the show went on and it was a massive success.

To be honest - the show was always a massive success, and to the whole town, it signalled the start of Christmas. Everyone turned up to see the shows. Mr Hockle, Mr Trice and Mr Chandler, who owned neighbouring shops on Perrigrew Street often took leading roles. The fact that everyone thought that Antibus Pill was an oddball, and they never invited him to their summer barbecues was pushed under the carpet and a wonderful night was always had by all.

You can picture the scene - christmas tree in the entrance hall, and a trestle table with plastic cups filled with orange squash. Aggie, and the lower orders of the WI selling raffle tickets. The raffle prizes were nearly always supplied by Peter Binkleman of Binkleman’s toys. Heaped high under the Christmas tree, wrapped in shiny paper with tags dangling off them saying things like ‘I’m Yours’, and ‘Shake Me, I Love it’. Neat rows of children would sit in front of them cross-legged and mesmerised. It’s worth mentioning that Peter Binkleman always made sure that every child won a present in the raffle.

He’d always arrive late, just before the show started, wearing a christmas cracker hat, holding a tray of mince pies that he would hand out in the aisle. PB basically wore a christmas cracker hat through the whole of December, and was definitely of the opinion that Thursday the 24th of November wasn’t too early to start being Christmassy. The fact that he was late annoyed Antibus Pill. He was doing it to attract attention. Just like Laurence Olivier did later on in his career. When arriving at the theatre to watch a play, he would wait until the house was full, then make a conspicuous entrance into a box, garnering a round of applause from the audience. Antibus knew this because he had read several books full of theatrical anecdotes.

Anyhow - this year Antibus Pill was writing a version of ‘A Christmas Carol’ set in Hamlet’s castle, but in modern dress. This was a complicated undertaking, and one that would definitely go over the head of 90% of the audience. But this wasn’t a consideration for Antibus. He pored over his books of theatrical anecdotes, and the various versions of ‘A Christmas Carol’ that had been produced over the years. Many of them drew attention to the wonderful Victorian special effects - and in particular reference made to Pepper’s Ghost.

If you haven’t heard of Pepper’s Ghost, then here is a quick description of how it works. The effect is a ghost appearing on stage. The way it works is that a sheet of glass, or a half silvered mirror is on the stage at a precise angle - that the audience cannot see. Hidden away somewhere in the wings is an actor dressed as a ghost. When the effect is needed, the ghost actor is lit, or steps into the light. And he is positioned in such a way that he is reflected on the glass which is on stage, and a ghost seems to appear, who disappears when the ghost actor is no longer lit. It is essentially a very simple effect, but one that is incredibly effective.

So - Antibus was reading about this, and became slightly obsessed with creating the Pepper’s Ghost effect in his production. He had cast himself as the Ghost of Hamlet’s Father slash Jacob Marley figure, and this, he decided would be the perfect appearance with which to attempt the Pepper’s Ghost illusion. It also hadn’t passed him by that theatrical legend would have it that Shakespeare himself played the Ghost. This kind of thing was right up his alley. Antibus feared technology. He didn’t own a car, nor was his house connected to the mains. But he knew he could create magic nonetheless, and he set to work building his illusion.

Six weeks into rehearsals, and things were going as well as could be expected. The two lead characters - named Scramlet and Ophelabelle were really rather good, and it seemed that perhaps Antibus’ idea wasn’t such a bad one. They couldn’t help feeling however that they would get more done if Antibus didn’t insist on practising the Pepper’s Ghost illusion for basically most of the time. He had rigged up a glass sheet with a wooden frame that was indeed invisible to the audience. And the cast. Henry kept walking into it, and had insisted that they put stickers on it or something. Antibus didn’t. He has also created a tiny dark booth, hidden right in the corner of the wings, tucked away behind the Safety Curtain crank. No one could see him, and he was perfectly happy. He could control his own light source, and it had been decided that he would record his lines, and they would be played out over the sound system, while he acted away as the ghost, while the illusion mesmerised the audience.

There was only one problem. It didn’t work. Not once. Whether it was the angles. Or the light source. But it just didn’t work. Sometimes his legs would appear on stage. Sometimes his head. Sometimes nothing appeared at all. On one occasion, and no one knew quite how this had happened, Mr Chandler appeared on the glass whilst he was having a pee in the Gents.

This upset Antibus in such a terrible way. He had such a passion for the old ways. For the old things. Mr Trice said he had a multi media projector that could probably do the same job, and they could record the footage on his phone.

This was enough for Antibus to nearly break down. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know why he had placed so much importance on this thing. He was so tired. Tired of the modern world. Tired of living outside of a community that barely tolerated him. Tired of making charcoal that no one wanted. He realised that he desperately wanted to impress them. Make them gasp. Make them squeal. Make them point, and wonder if, for one brief moment, magic was real, and reason banished.

But Henry, in an uncharacteristic show of force made the decision. Mr Trice’s projector would be used, and the effect would be just as good, and far more reliable. He asked that the pane of glass be removed forthwith from the stage. He rubbed his reddened nose as he did so, and even glowered in Antibus’ direction.

Rehearsals continued, and though progress quickened, Antibus’ heart was no longer in it. He had filmed his piece on Mr Trice’s phone in ten minutes. It’ll be fine, said Henry. But Antibus knew it wasn’t magic. This wasn’t what he wanted.

And he glumly went back to his cabin in the woods. For an hour or two he lay on the turf dome of the last batch of charcoal of the year. It was warm on his back. Natural warmth. The white smoke puttered out of the vents. And Antibus closed his eyes.

The night of the show arrived, and true to form Peter Binkleman arrived late, and handed out mince pies. Everyone was excited about the show. ‘The Melancholy and the Ivy Dane or To Be or Not To Be Christmassy’ was quite the talk of the town.

But backstage there was panic. Yesterday, Mr Trice had dropped his projector. The bulb had broken, and whole thing was out of commission. They were going to have to resort to plan A. Or Plan bloody awful as Henry had called it. Antibus, and Pepper’s Ghost were back on. Without rehearsal. And it had never gone right.

But Joe Public didn’t know a thing. And the show started beautifully. People laughed, people clapped. People wondered who Horatio Cratchet was, but went along with it anyway.

Then came the point in Scramlet’s chambers where Jacob Marley was set to appear.. Darkness fell across the set. Silence in the audience and in the wings. Would it work? No one had even spoken to Antibus, and by now he would be tucked away in his little darkened booth.

Suddenly, a sharp intake of breath rippled across the hall, as the flickering figure of Antibus appeared, twirling and dancing, bathed in smoke and glistering light. His voice boomed across the sound system in the hall.

“I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard. I girded it of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.”

And as image of Antibus danced impossibly on the stage, wreathed in smoke and unearthly light, the gathered crowds gasped. They squealed. They pointed, and wondered for one brief moment, if magic was real, and reason had been banished.

Mr Trice watched from the back of the hall. His hands clasped to his mouth, pleased that he had made up some cock and bull story about his projector.

The rest of show was a triumph.

The audience got to their feet and roared their applause, their tummies full of mince pies and Christmas cheer, and their heads dizzy with awe.

No one noticed that Antibus didn’t come on to take his bow with the others.

A few hours later they went to his cabin. Or what was left of it. A few charred remains of Antibus’ life. A stray ember from the charcoal dome had flown down the chimney, into the cabin and set it alight.

Antibus was trapped inside, and burned alive, dancing impossibly through the flames wreathed in smoke and unearthly light.

He had never made to the village hall that night.

But his Pepper’s ghost had.