Content warning: this story is based on the fantasy that stage magicians with real powers are - without most of the audience realising - actually sawing, slicing or transforming their assistants and volunteers for real, but with the aid of magic that prevents them suffering any lasting harm and which transforms their experience into one they can even enjoy. And of course they’re all restored at the end (eventually, anyway!)


The party had  taken on a life of its own, aided as much by the cheerful and open nature of the Jensen’s Stage Supplies staff as by the free bar. Mistress Finella reckoned it was time for another piece of magic.

She lifted a wineglass and tapped it. A couple of rings was all it took to silence the chattering and get everyone looking at her.

“I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves?” she called out.

A chorus of yeses echoed round the venue.

“Great! So how about another trick, one that everyone has a chance to star in?”

More cheers greeted that suggestion, along with a few very enthusiastic whoops.

Finella grinned widely. “Wonderful!” She paused. “Now one of my favourite movies at Halloween is The Wicker Man. An oldie, but a classic. Who can resist the whole pagan vibe - quaint rituals that turn creepy - Britt Ekland trying to seduce the policeman who’s come over to the island to investigate the disappearances - hints of human sacrifice...”

She drew breath, checking she was carrying the audience with her. They were rapt.

“And one of my favourite scenes is where the people in the May Day parade dance in a long chain towards six men with swords held in a star pattern, each dancer in turn placing his or her neck between the blades, to be beheaded if the master of ceremonies decides they’re the one. I’ve long wanted to re-enact that with the right audience joining in. Of course, in the movie no-one loses their head, but don’t expect me to be so lenient. Are you in?”

A resounding yes erupted from several dozen throats. Only a small handful of people snuck away from the back of the crowd and Finella was happy to see them go. No reluctant volunteers for this particular trick, thank you.

“OK. Let’s do this!”

That was the cue for the small band to start playing a tune that melded pagan new age and rock music elements; a lilting, thumping tune invoking hippies and druids, peace and love, blood and death. Finella beckoned to a suited man at the front of the crowd and whispered in his ear. He promptly made his way to where Finella had her props, and returned with what appeared to be a set of six obviously fake swords fixed solidly together into six-sided hoop, the point of each sword crossing the blade of the next sword close to its hilt, the whole arrangement leaving a hexagonal hole - about a foot and a half across – open in the centre. From the way the man was carrying it, it was clear it was solid but not too heavy for one person to heft without too much effort.

Finella had the man place the arrangement of swords on the floor in front of her. She gestured for Dominique - who had appeared at just the right moment on the edge of the crowd - to stand on the opposite side. Her fellow magician still had the ashen complexion resulting from her transformation into a vampire during Finella’s previous trick, and the wooden stake was still jammed through her ribs, projecting right through her and out her back. Finella bent at the knees and took hold of the apparatus by two of the sword hilts, Dominique doing the same on the opposite side. The two women then stood, lifting the device to just above head height, something metallic glinted along the inside of one of the fake swords - something sharp looking, and very very real.

Finella waited a moment for the crowd to take everything in, then continued her explanation.

“All you need to do is link hands and dance in a line between Dominique and myself. When the music stops, you stop. Dominique and I will lower the swords around the neck of whichever one of you is left standing between us.” As she talked, she lowered the apparatus, exactly as described, then reached for a button on one of the sword hilts.

“I will press this button just once. Whether it triggers the device or not is completely random. Three times out of four, nothing will happen and we’ll lift the swords back up, the music will start again, and you all carry on dancing.”

“But there’s always that one chance in four that this will happen.” She jabbed the button several times, and after maybe the fourth or fifth time there was a sudden swish and the light caught a narrow blade swinging like a high speed switchblade across the centre of the arrangement before disappearing into the fake sword opposite it with a clunk.

“And if you are the one with your head in the middle, then... well... instant beheading. You get to be tonight’s sacrifice to the old gods. And the joy is that it’s so quick you won’t know you’re the chosen one until the blade is almost through your neck. Won’t that be something to ponder as the swords are lowered over your head?”

She paused. “Now this is your last chance to back out,” she told the assembled crowd, which by now seemed to include almost everyone at the party. Only one person left. The rest shuffled into a rough line and joined hands.

Finella grinned. “Then let’s begin!”

The music ramped up. Finella beckoned the person at the head of the line to pass through between her and the other magician, followed by the next, then the next. The first few people faltered somewhat, but the dancers quickly got the rhythm and were soon skipping between the magicians, the ladies’ hair flying as the men tugged them along enthusiastically.

Over two dozen people got through before the music stopped dead and so did the dancers. Stuck between Finella and Dominique was a short blonde in a sparkly blue top. She froze in place, her eyes wide and staring at Finella like a deer caught in headlights. She shook slightly as the two magicians lowered the arrangement of swords down over her head to settle just above her shoulders.

“Don’t worry,” Finella said. “Chances are, you’ll get out of this with your pretty little neck intact.” She winked, then gave a somewhat predatory smile. “Though I’m kinda hoping you don’t.”

The woman swallowed nervously as Finella reached for the trigger button.

“And even if you are the one to lose your head, I’m told it doesn’t hurt... much.”

The blonde looked like she was about to panic. Finella decided she’d stretched the moment out as far as she dared. She pressed the button.

Click!

The blonde flinched, but nothing happened. No swoosh of blade. No rip of steel through flesh or crunch of vertebrae. No squeal of shock or cry of pain. Instead she just stood there frozen, unable to believe her luck.

Finella gave her a moment to recover then slowly raised the device back above the woman’s head. That was the cue for the music to begin again, though several bars passed before the woman collected her thoughts and stumbled out from between the magicians, dragging the next potential victim behind her.

And so it continued. A tall man in a kilt was the second to be trapped when the music stopped, but he too got away scot free. So too did a Chinese-looking woman who seemed disappointed not to be the one to feel the blade.

Soon everyone had danced between the two magicians a first time. The music continued and the head of the line came back round for a second go. Finella noticed that the blonde in blue was a lot less nervous about passing between her potential executioners a second time. But it wasn’t her who was caught when the music stopped. It was the young man right behind her.

He looked to be about twenty-one, Finella thought, and of a very slender, wiry build. His brown hair was pulled back into a short ponytail and his chin bore a couple of nicks from careless shaving.

Not a stranger to a sharp nip from a blade, then, Finella thought to herself.

His adam’s apple bobbed as the swords came down over his head. A wince from the blonde as he tightened his grip on her hand was further evidence of his fear. Finella decided not to draw this one out.

Click!

Nothing.

His expression was just easing into one of relief when whoosh! Thwiiiip! Thunk! Light flickered off the edge of a blade that had otherwise moved too fast to see.

His eyes opened wide with shock. A thin red line now ran right round his neck.

“Don’t move,” Finella warned him. Slowly she and Dominique lifted the swords back over his head and set them down on the floor. Then Finella carefully put her hands on either side of his head and lifted upwards.

Or tried to, at least.

She tried harder, almost tugging.

“Ow,” the young man exclaimed.

Finella let go at stepped back, adopting a thoughtful pose. Those close enough could see the line around his neck fade slowly to nothing.
Finella looked at Dominique and raised an eyebrow.
“Sympathetic magic?” she asked.

“Maybe,” the other magician replied.

Finella thought for a moment more, then addressed the man. “What’s your name, if I might ask?”

“Um,” he replied. “Joe. I’m Joe.”

“Joe. Hmmm. And do you have a brother here, Joe, a twin maybe?”

“No,” he replied. “I’m an only child.”

“OK.” Finella thought some more. Then she looked around, addressing the rest of the audience, who by now had brocken out of the dance chain and were clustering around. “Anyone else here called Joe?”

Heads shook and a dozen voices muttered no.

“Anyone else in the room?” she asked, raising her voice still louder to encompass those who hadn’t taken part in the dance. “Any other Joes here?”

Silence. Then from behind the bar a twenty-something redhead raised her hand. “Well, I’m a Jo. Without the e. Short for Joanna.”

She must be a close friend or relative of one of the Jensen’s Stage Supplies staff, Finella knew. To avoid alarming anyone not already in the know about real stage magic, the MD had decreed that the bar and the buffet should be manned only by people who were already in on the secret and could be trusted. This Jo must know Finella had the power to sever someone’s head without causing real harm, and restore them completely at the end of it all, but her nervous expression suggested she’d never seen it up close before.

Well she would now, because there was a thin red line all the way around her neck.

“Ah, that explains it,” Finella said. Sympathetic magic indeed. “Now, Jo, please come out from behind the bar. But do it slowly and don’t tilt your head.”

Jo stepped around the side of the bar and approached the group. She was wearing a black waistcoat over a white shirt, a tight black skirt that ended six inches above her knees, sheer black stockings, and low-heeled black court shoes.

Finella met her half way. “Well, on the upside,” she began, as she took Jo’s hands in hers, “looks like you’ve got yourself out of bar work for the rest of the evening.” She squeezed the girl’s hands in hers, then let go and carefully placed her hands on either side of Jo’s head.

“And the downside?” Jo asked.

“On the downside, you might experience a little vertigo when I do... this.” And at that moment she raised her arms, lifting Jo’s head right off her shoulders!

A range of emotions washed over Jo’s face in that one instant. There was pain there - though only for the briefest of moments - then shock, disbelief (followed immediately by astonished acceptance), and a hint of dizziness, all quickly replaced by something intense that caused her to bite her lower lip.

Finella held Jo’s separated head up in the air to rapturous applause, then held it out for Jo’s body to hold. “How do you feel, Jo? OK?” she asked her unwitting assistant/victim.

“Yeah,” Jo replied. “That was pretty... well... wow! But yeah, I’m fine.”

Finella clicked her fingers, and Jo’s bar staff uniform was immediately replaced with a Tudor-style gown in gold-threaded satin, a jewel in the shape of a B with pearls dangling from it hanging around her truncated neck.

“Anne Boleyn,” she told the woman. “The perfect costume for a headless lady.”

“But what about my clothes?” Jo asked.

Finella gestured to the young man who had been last in the beheading frame, and who was now looking down in astonishment at his stocking-clad legs projecting out from under a short skirt. Thankfully his build was skinny enough that he’d not ripped anything.

“Someone has to do your job for the rest of the night,” Finella said. “Guess it’s him. So he might as well have your uniform too.”

Jo laughed. Finella patted her on the shoulder then turned to the audience, already planning her next trick. The last she saw of Jo was the redhead winding her way through the crowd, softly humming the tune of ‘With her head tucked underneath her arm’.


THE END


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