I like to think that my Substack resembles those legendary Parisian cafés where (they once said) you see absolutely everything if you just wait long enough.
Find a seat and watch. A couple flirts and falls in love. Two dudes get into a fight, while a pickpocket makes a heist. Hemingway arrives and heads to the bar—and leaves just as Sartre and Beauvoir show up.
The whole world is there, offered for your personal entertainment. In those settings, unpredictability adds to the excitement.
I aspire to the same here. So I am not offended when people say that I write about pretty much everything.
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Yes, I frequently write about music—it’s my passion and also how I got my start as an author. But on another day you might find me opining on comic books or Plato or sports or even romance. I offer advice columns, on everything from parenting to making a speech. I will happily tell you how to dress or how to take notes or how to destroy an organization.
I will even publish my strange rejected writings from my eccentric early days—like my essay on Gumby and existentialism. Or I’ll share a parable. Or tell an embarrassing story from my past.
But today I am doing something different from all of that.
Below I share a story for children. This is the opening chapter of a tale I read aloud to my sons when they were little. I never published it—I didn’t even send it to any editors.
I do that a lot. I write things for my own enjoyment. I recommend that approach to other writers.
Sometimes that’s the most fun way of writing. I certainly had fun writing this, and maybe you will have some fun reading it.
So here it is. This is the opening to an unpublished book entitled One Hundred Magicians.
ONE HUNDRED MAGICIANS
by Ted Gioia
CHAPTER ONE: A MYSTERIOUS INVITATION
Almost a century had passed since the last gathering of the great magicians, and when invitations went out, many could hardly believe they were real. Putting even two magicians together in the same room is risky. But bringing the one hundred greatest living wizards under one roof— well, that is grand foolishness.
Everyone knows that when magicians meet, they get irritable or angry. Or sometimes they just want to show off. Invite a group of wizards to dinner and something will always go wrong.
After a few glasses of wine, some tipsy conjurer will make the dishes do a dance across the table, spilling the porridge and knocking over the lighted candles. Or someone will play a practical joke, turning the apple cobbler into a mouse pie, squeaking and wreaking havoc the moment you slice it open. Or the cigars will give off a foul smell, a combination of garlic, car exhaust, and old gym socks—leaving everyone coughing and wheezing and running outside for fresh air.
Explosion spells will blow holes in your walls and dissolving charms will turn your floors and walls to mush. If your house is still standing in the morning, you will count yourself lucky, and promise in the future to dine with plumbers or accountants, gravediggers, or taxi drivers—anybody except magicians.
The last major meeting of magicians had taken place ninety-three years ago, and the results had been spectacular and frightening. At the opening assembly of that now famous event, two powerful wizards, Old Man Spinoza and Nostradamus Jones, got into a heated argument over who would sit at head table. Angry words were exchanged, and the two magicians began dueling right there in the midst of the proceedings.
Spinoza fired a reptile transformation spell at his opponent, trying to turn Nostradamus into a lizard. But the spell had gone badly wrong. The word ‘lizard sounds very much like the word ‘wizard,’ especially if you’re in a hurry, and don’t take the time to speak clearly. But even worse, instead of saying the word “curses,” Spinoza had got his tongue tied and muttered “ursus” by mistake—and ursus, as you may know, is the Latin word for bear. So Spinoza found, to his surprise, that he had changed his opponent into an angry grizzly bear with the powers of a dark wizard.
He got badly clawed and mauled, and feared even worse to come, before his friends came to his defense and joined the fray. But so did the allies of Nostradamus. Within a few minutes, an all out war-of-the-wizards was underway, many of them soon changed into zebras or warthogs or baboons or snails. (Animal transformation spells were quite popular back then.)
The battle spilled over into the town and eventually into the countryside. Several weeks passed before tempers calmed down, and several more months were required to clean up the mess and change all the magicians back into their original forms. A few, alas, could never be recovered, and spent the rest of their days braying or crawling or hanging from trees.
After that, no one dared call together a large number of magicians under a single roof. But now another convention of magicians was being held in Regal City, and was scheduled to start in one month’s time. The hundred most famous magicians in the kingdom were invited. Exactly one hundred—no more, no less.
Some needed to travel considerable distances for the convocation. The Regal City newspaper, The Daily Drivel, put banner stories on its front page almost every day, reporting on the coming event, and a ripple of excitement, mixed with a bit of fear, could be felt when people gathered to talk about it.
Yet here was the strange part. Nobody knew who had issued the invitations.
If you were one of the fortunate ones—or unlucky, perhaps, depending on the outcome—you simply found an invitation. And not in the mailbox, or even slipped under the door. But always in a strange, surprising location. Under your pillow when you went to bed. In your pocket when you reached to grab your keys. Wrapped around your magic wand, or sitting in the refrigerator between the yogurt and mustard.
A lady magician in Covington set out a mousetrap one evening before going to bed, and heard it go off in the middle of the night. When she checked in the morning, she found her invitation where the pesky rodent should have been. Another wizard, in Castletown, ordered a pepperoni pizza from the local parlor only to find an invitation in the box, with one slice missing.
The invitations were all identical, and read as follows:
A grand gathering of the one hundred greatest magicians in the realm will be held at dawn on the seventeenth day of next month in the town hall of Regal City.
You are invited to participate, but do not bring any guests. And do not give this invitation to any other wizard. Only you can use it—no one can take your place.
In the interest of safety, all wands, charms, and magical items of whatever sort will be checked in at the door. The purpose and agenda for the meeting will be explained during the opening assembly.
Formal wizard wear is not required.
And that was all. No return address was on the letter. No name was given of the individual or group that was holding the meeting. And no one even knew why the meeting was being held in the first place.
Most of the recipients were beset with intense curiosity. They studied the invitations, and some even used the tools of science to try to learn more. (Since most magicians do not get along with scientists, this partnership between the two professions was quite unusual in its own right.) Invitations were dusted for fingerprints, subjected to chemical analysis, x-rayed, shot through with subatomic particles, and tested in various other ways.
Finally, when one wizard managed to examine an invitation with the electron microscope at Regal City University, a surprising discovery was made. A second message was written in very, very small print on the back side—tinier than a caterpillar’s leg. But the text itself was something of a disappointment.
It read simply:
Void where prohibited. Conditions apply. No guarantees, warranties or representations of any kind, expressed or implied. Not refundable. Not transferable. Legal liability not accepted. Results may vary. Participation constitutes full and unconditional acceptance of terms….
And so on and so forth, for ten more boring paragraphs. This second message gave no real information. (Although some people insisted that it proved that the invitation came from a very experienced lawyer.)
Rumors spread, of course, and every wizard soon had a theory on why the assembly had been organized. Some thought that King Cassius was hosting the event and was planning to give out awards to the cleverest wizards. The King was a well known fan of the magical arts, and even knew a few spells himself, so the idea that he was behind the invitations was not far-fetched.
Others agreed that Cassius might be the organizer, but believed that the gathering was planned as a competition among the participants. An Olympics of magic would be held, with each specialty and sub-specialty of conjuring put on display. Still others believed that the a publishing house was organizing the event in hopes of starting work on a great magic encyclopedia—a project that had often been discussed in the past, but never got off the ground because of the well known unwillingness of magicians to share their favorite spells and secret learning.
And a few even feared that the grandchildren of Spinoza or Nostradamus were behind the meeting, hoping to reignite the ancient feud and get revenge for old grievances.
A few of the wiser wizards were reluctant to say so, but they suspected that the convention had been called to address the great magical crisis of the modern times. Yes, there was trouble in the wizarding world, although few magicians liked to talk about it.
Magic, it seems, was growing weaker with every passing year.
In the old days, magicians were able to do great things—lift large buildings into the air, conjure up huge thunderstorms, summon ghosts and helping spirits from the dark void, make the stars spin the sky. But the magicians of recent times had mostly lost these powers, and many of them now settled for simple tricks with cups and balls, coins and playing cards.
Magic had once been a grand affair, but now it was becoming a boring collection of idle parlor tricks. True, a few magicians, especially the older ones, knew some stronger spells, transformations and such. But the powerful magic was in the process of disappearing, perhaps never to return.
If things continued as they were, all magic might be gone in another generation or so.
The coming magicians’ convention, some hoped, would challenge the greatest practitioners of the day with the task of discovering the reasons for this sad state of affairs, and finding a solution before it was too late.
But though the magicians argued and debated their views on the reason for the assembly, no one really knew what—or who—was behind the event. Everybody was just guessing, and no one had any certain knowledge. Even King Cassius claimed to be in the dark. He told his royal advisers that he absolutely did not send out the invitations, and he had no clue who had done so.
Even more surprising, the King said that he had received an invitation himself. He had found it at a formal state dinner, when he cut open the grand turkey presented for the feast, and found amidst the stuffing and succulent bird, an envelope with his name on it. Many doubted the King’s story. He was a clever fellow, and it would be just like him to pretend ignorance, while being the very person behind the meeting.
The magician’s assembly was, in short, a grand mystery. Yet, every magician who had received an invitation planned on attending. No one dared miss the event, even if the reason for the gathering was far from clear.
And those who did not get invitations complained bitterly, or wept privately, over their exclusion. Magicians are proud and envious, as we well know. There were hardly one hundred top notch magicians left in the realm, yet even the worst of the trade thought they deserved a seat in the hall at this prestigious assembly.
One desperate magician, Malcolm Loudbloom of Hazeltown, even tried to purchase an invitation from one of the participants—although this was in clear violation of the rules set out for the event. Of course, few wizards would consider selling their place in the gathering to Loudbloom, who was not a very skilled magician and hardly deserved to attend such an important affair. Finally he had to offer three wands, a cauldron, a cabinet full of magical herbs, and two season tickets to the Regal City opera before he could convince Melissa Pumpkinpatch to hand over her prized letter.
Loudbloom returned home with his expensive purchase. He opened the envelope and pulled out the invitation, only to find that the letter turned into a crow the moment he touched it. The crow nipped at his nose, and pulled out a big tuft of his hair. Loudbloom shrieked in pain and watched the crow fly out the window.
He later discovered that the crow had flown all the way back to Melissa Pumpkinpatch’s house, glided into the kitchen window, landed on the table, and then changed back into a letter of invitation. Pumpkinpatch decided that she better keep the invitation for herself. She agreed to give back the season tickets to the opera, but kept all of the other items. Loudbloom, for his part, left town on a long vacation.
As the opening day of the meeting approached, the excitement throughout the realm increased. Walking through Regal City one could feel the rising energy, the sense of expectation—and maybe even a touch of fear.
And everywhere one looked were wizards, the most famous of the day, more and more arriving with each passing hour. Even those without invitations were coming into the city, just to catch a glimpse of the participants, to gossip about the impending event, and to join in the festivities and celebrations surrounding the great convention.
They argued endlessly about what was about to happen. But they all agreed on one thing—it would certainly be exciting
You must admit that is quite a change from the usual offerings at The Honest Broker. But don’t worry—I’ll have music reviews and other more familiar fare for you soon
This is wonderful, I hope we'll have a chance to read the rest!
I don't care about the other stuff. Please publish the next chapter of this book!