The Nick Of Time (and other abrasions)
A Heart Full Of Dust
by
Al Bruno III
(Thirty Six)
Backstage.
The scent of dust and rose petals hangs heavy in the air, like funeral incense.
The Hanged Man sits at the makeup mirror, studying his own reflection. He is wearing a Zosimus type mechanical heart on a string around his neck.
The Magician paces behind him, “Now you understand?”
“That this was not my last adventure but my first? That all the things I was told I did, I haven't actually done yet?” The Hanged Man labors over his makeup.
The Magician nods, “Only you can save the world because only you understand the mistakes that will be made.”
“But in doing so I've made sure that fresh new mistakes are made.”
“Well...” the Magician shrugs.
“How many times have we been through this?”
“Dress rehearsal?”
“No,” the Hanged Man takes a tube of green paint and paints runes on his palms and sigils on his eyelids “How many times have we gone from start to finish and back again? How many times have I saved the world only to destroy it?”
An irritated look crosses the Magician' features, “You may as well ask me how many letters were in the books in the library, how many glass beads are buried in the sand out there.”
The sound of booing and hissing fills the air. They turn to see the Hermit being pelted with vegetables. The Magician frowns, “He should know better than to rely on just smoke and mirrors.”
The Hanged Man paints his eyes something wide and colorful, “Why me?”
“Hm?”
“I'm not you first attempt to create a savior am I?”
“No.”
“What happened to the others?”
The Magician watches as other Hermits step out of the other mirrors and set to dismembering their master. “Work-related injuries.”
“Why me?” satisfied, the Hanged Man stood and began to pull on a pair of baggy trousers and a shoddy coat.
“Why you what?” the curtain lowers, the faceless stagehands hurry to clean up the mess.
“Why have you given me so many chances?” Stagehands bear him up hanging him from a scaffold by one leg. They tie one arm behind his back and leave the other to dangle free.
The Magician looks him over, he brushes away some lint, “Maybe I like you. Maybe its because every time you do this it’s different than the last.”
Before the Hanged Man can reply the curtain goes up.
The spotlight that envelops him is harsh and unforgiving.
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