The Garden of Galilei

This is pure fantasy centred around the performance of a famous and ancient illusion. Damon Wolfe, author of THUNDRHED!

The Garden of Galilei

On a spacious wooden platform built of timbers three feet wide and ten inches thick, the whole area enclosed with tall gauze screens, a feast was set over two-score tables for the company gathered. Billowing sheets of silk were suspended over all and fastened to the screens, and hanging everywhere to provide abundant light were colourful lanterns. Lords and ladies of the Sylvan court sat all around, present to celebrate the engagement of the youngest of the Sylvan princes, and servants bearing trays of goblets and foods circulated in pairs. Alone upon a dais stood the high table, at which were seated the royal family, the prince's betrothed and her guardian and select dignitaries, among whom was Oshibi, the famed illusionist.

The illusionist, who had been promised that he would not be pressed for a contribution, rose from the king's table to give an impromptu performance. The man was affected by the mood of the evening. Invitations to various courts were not new to him, but the engagement of a Sylvan prince was an occasion, and to a tall, beautiful outlander! It was unheard of. And her guardian added another alien facet to the strangeness of things. A fierce outland soldier who had the ear of a Sylvan court? He felt inspired.

Oshibi strode across the polished floor intently focused on something the others could not see, and abruptly cast a shower of glittering diamond dust from his empty hand. The shimmering motes, as they fell, became the golden leaves of a northern forest in autumn, and as they fell they sprouted twigs which grew into branches and then trees, which drifted into being from their crowns to their roots as the dust settled to the floor of that model forest. Trees much like the eminent redwoods of the Jade Sea surrounding that open hall stood two feet high, growing from an uneven bed of leaves atop the wooden floor. The diorama closed to a detailed view of a single tree, and the assembled guests beheld a perching dove, which tipped forward to sweep down amongst the trees, coming to rest again on a branch above a procession of elves. The guests stared minutely. They were elves; tall, lithe and noble, with curiously slanted eyes and curving, pointed ears, the women dressed in pastel silks, the men in polished armour. The illusion portrayed the wedding of an elfin warrior, a mythical hero whose life of great virtue had led him to marry a goddess. At the high table the bride-to-be stared enrapt, absently squeezing the hand of her fiancé. It seemed she was on the brink of tears at the vision's breathless romance, her majesty and the ladies-in-waiting similarly moved. The king watched mutely. Ceremony bored him, especially this kind of moist-eyed syrup, but the illusion was as good as any he'd seen, sublime in detail. And then it was gone.

Another scene followed, Oshibi wearing the distant expression common to illusionists as he summoned a brutish, misshapen demon through a wide circle of witch-fire on the floor. It had not fingers but clawed bones in their stead, and groped with stark menace for Oshibi, its stench stupefying. He lashed it with bolts of lightning and commanded it to go forth and fetch him the head of a dragon, which it did. The demon returned through the hole in the floor, the malice of its humour evident on its face as it hauled a dragon's head through the floor by its tongue, having neglected to sever the creature's head from its body or kill it. The dragon, its wicked head two yards across the brow, recovered from its shock and yanked back its tongue to bite the demon almost in half, swallowing the fiend and its shrieks in one gulp. The dragon swung its gaze to Oshibi and torched him with a jet of furnace breath, scorching all the wood around him. Oshibi's face was soot-blackened and very angry. His clothes smouldered. He answered the fiery assault with an icy blast from his hands, freezing the dragon solid. Then, from his embroidered sleeve he took a tiny, ornamental pin-hammer and tapped the snout of the frozen dragon once, at which it shivered and fell like a cascade of jewels. Where the shards thawed, a myriad flowers sprouted in the melt and grew with otherworldly vigour, blue edged, velvety red dragon's tongue orchids, growing directly from the floor.

Oshibi clapped his hands and at once the whole of it vanished. The charred wood, the flowers, the soot on his face and the demon blood were all gone in a blink. When the applause subsided, a guest asked Oshibi if he knew of an illusion once performed for the king of Marsalm, called the Garden of Galilei. Oshibi bowed and admitted that he had learned that ancient and revered illusion. He began with its history, weaving the illusion into the telling of the tale, as had the unknown author of the piece.

Galilei had been a mage in the court of Arechon IV, known almost as well for his dry, pointed wit as for the vividness of his illusions. One of his jests, it was said, had been a little too dry and pointed for his Majesty's liking, and Galilei had found himself in the damp embrace of a cell in the nethermost level of the keep, there to ponder wit in all its guises for a year and a day. Gossamer outlines of the dungeon walls took form and solidified around Oshibi as he spoke, the stones slimy with moss, an echoing drip falling into a stagnant puddle in one corner, and a faint scurrying of rats more audible by the moment. The musty fetor of the place could be smelled only too well.

'Galilei' Oshibi intoned, 'Without the arcane bric-a-brac he needed for his magic, was as helpless in his plight as any mundane prisoner, having only his illusions and dry sense of humour to comfort him. To entertain himself he conjured a garden, a tiny thing to fit in the palm of his hand. To amuse himself further, in the absence of preferred alternatives, he made an island of his garden, floating it in a sea between his fingers and thumb.' Oshibi held his palm upwards and the onlookers peered silently as sand welled up at its centre, surrounded by blue shallows.

'He covered the island with vines and blooms of every hue, with palms, and fruits never tasted by mortal kind.' These things appeared as Oshibi spoke, plants writhing energetically from the sand. 'The trees he filled with parrots to provide colour, and with apes to howl at the parrots. Wild boar roamed the tangled growth, with hare and pheasant and plump, suspicious turkeys. But, alas, it was no more than the size of his hand, and if he grew it to its proper breadth, his cell surely would not contain it.'

Oshibi looked crestfallen at his palm for a moment, then brightened. 'But Galilei had an idea. In the back wall of his cell was a crevice through which a breeze blew, suggesting the existence of an opening beyond. He put his eye to the crevice, and with the aid of imagined light beheld a cavern, a huge pocket in the mountainside that the Gods had neglected to fill. Galilei was elated. He raised his tiny island to the crevice and with a mighty breath blew it into the cavern.'

Oshibi mimicked Galilei's every move, lifting his hand and blowing the illusion on his palm through a crack in the illusory dungeon wall.

'And in a heartbeat of sheer need, Galilei willed his creation to its full size, so that it filled the entire cavern and its sea lapped at his cell.' Oshibi gestured dramatically and sunlight flared through the cracks in the wall. 'Galilei fixed his mind on the wall and created a door with no handle, which he opened by will.' As Oshibi spoke a rectangle of stone swung inwards to reveal a hundred yards of cobalt water leading to a tropical paradise, a summer idyll of rainforest green edged with beaches of white sand under a clear, wide sky.

Murmurs rippled among the royal family and their guests. From his robe the illusionist pulled a long fishing pole which could never have been concealed within his clothing.

'The very first thing Galilei did was catch himself a big, fat fish, for he despaired of prison food.' So saying, Oshibi cast his line into the sea and immediately hauled in the big, fat fish in question. He carelessly tossed it aside, where it landed in the coals of a fire which sprang from the cell floor to meet it. It grilled there as Oshibi spoke, the smell of it mouthwatering.

'While the fish was cooking, Galilei conjured a boat. It had neither oars nor sails and had no need of them, for it was made only to speed before the wish of its master.' Oshibi flipped the fish onto an improbably large platter he took from under his robe and passed it among the onlookers for sampling. It was succulent and beautifully flavoured, so that the guests tried piping hot morsels and were amazed. Some had seen the Garden of Galilei before, but had never smelled, touched and tasted it. Oshibi continued, stepping through the new stone door and into the boat.

'When he'd eaten his fill, Galilei set out in the boat to his garden island, closing the door behind him.' The door in the wall swung shut to block Oshibi from view as he began to sail away. He instantly reappeared in the cell.

'And when king Arechon sent soldiers to learn if his mage had recanted, the guards sent to question him found no sign of the man, no island, no door and no mage. All they found in that cell, to their confusion, were the bones of a big, fat fish lying in the ashes of a cold fire on the floor.' Saying this, Oshibi gave the fish bones a little kick and bowed as the dungeon faded around him. 'Such were the illusions of Galilei.'