CHAPTER 17
This time the lights in the high chandeliers and wall sconces flickered and stayed out. They were in darkness for about thirty seconds then a man’s voice pierced the stillness.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our show. We hope that it will add enjoyment to your evening and to your stay on our island if you are visiting. First we have some local culture in the form of our Hawaiian dance troupe. After that we will be entertained by David the Illusionist. He assures me that we have a very special treat in store from him tonight. And now, on with the show.”
The lights on the stage brightened revealing eight beautiful young women dressed in brilliantly colored Hawaiian sarongs. Their graceful dancing and hand movements told the story of Haoula, the “Dew of Life” place of sanctuary and reconciliation outside of Brother Francis’ room. By the end of their performance everything and everyone was reconciled. Would that it were so in real life.
The small orchestra was made up of men and women in such bright floral attire that the Abbot couldn’t help but wonder if they were given free batteries with their outfits. These days they were probably rechargeable. A drum roll sounded along with applause and the hidden announcer proclaimed in a velvet-throated voice: “Mahalo (thank you) lovely ladies. And now, performing for the first time his most recently re-created act, we give you David the Illusionist.”
The audience thundered applause. David was very popular here, as had been Madam Wu. The lanky man in a navy blue tuxedo strode on to the stage with a confident air bordering on defiance. Brother Francis thought so at least, but tried not to rash judge the man.
“Mahalo my friends. It is my pleasure to be with you this evening. I would like to clarify one thing. Our announcer just referred to what I will be doing shortly as an “act.” I will be transitioning to a more psychic type of program from this point on in my career, thus the things I do will become less and less illusions and more and more spiritual manifestations.”
The audience became a little confused by his verbiage but pretty much ignored it, waiting for his “act” to begin in earnest.
“From now on I will no longer be called “David the Illusionist” but rather “David the Psychic.”
More confusion and a little discomfort.
David moved through a variety of illusions which involved cards, pigeons, rabbits, young ladies, hoops, and fire. He was an accomplished showman and the audience responded with awe and gratitude to his entertaining illusions.
He became even more defiant, cocky, or whatever one might call it. More people were beginning to sense the change in the attitude of the performer whom they had seen year after year for about a decade now.
The Illusionist asked for the lights to be dimmed. There was now just a spotlight on David. A round table with a flickering candle in a hurricane glass was bought out stage right by the two stage hands / technicians who had helped him prepare the lighting and scrim earlier in the day. They added a large Chinese vase overflowing with wild flowers to setting and then departed.
Lying on top of the white table cloth was a silk purple cape. David put it on with a flourish.
Brother Francis thought about Milton Erikson, the famous master of clinical hypnosis. Now deceased, the best clinicians in the world have tried to capture and impart his skills to others. The monk had studied with such people. He remembered that Doctor Erikson had been color blind and that the only color he could truly see was purple. A voice bought him back from his reverie.
“I am going to attempt to contact the departed. This is where my illusions become reality. Please be very quiet and very still. My inner guide tells me that I may be able to communicate with the late Madam Wu. I am sorry if this is upsetting for anyone in the audience and suggest you leave now if it is.”
About a dozen people left the auditorium. Brother Francis turned to Mister Wu who spoke:
“It’s alright. David is an illusionist. He does not have the gift my wife has. While it is painful to hear her talked about I would rather stay and see what he’s up to.”
The monk patted the older man’s arm in a gesture of support.
The orchestra began to play some nondescript music, mostly on stringed instruments. David faced the center of the stage, extended his open arms to the heavens, and asked that the spirit of Madam Wu manifest herself. There was no supplication or courtesy in his voice, rather, it was commanding.
Nothing happened.
He waved his arms violently. The people in the audience were now becoming extremely uncomfortable. Some people whispered to one another, questioning if the man was having some sort of breakdown.
Then it happened.
A Western woman in her mid-fifties dressed in a lovely sky blue silk dress slowly appeared. She wore a delicate silver chain around her neck with a small cross attached to it.
Members of the audience rubbed their eyes. Were they seeing things? Was this an illusion or was this truly an apparition from beyond the grave? Sacred sites abound on the island, and tales of spirits were very much a part of the local culture. It could be true.
Brother Francis was a scientist. He was particularly good at research design and controlling for extraneous factors which would contaminate outcome data. More simply put, he could ferret out what was really going on. This was especially helpful in reading research studies on natural medicine, the results of which seemed to change weekly. One week butter and vitamin E, for example, were okay and the next week they were not. The monk could sort out the good research from the bad and guided his patients accordingly.
He squinted as he looked at the stage and figured out that there was a scrim at the back of stage and that when it was illuminated in a certain way, whatever was behind it was revealed. In this case it was the lady in blue.
The monk doctor was torn. He wanted to check out Mister Wu’s reaction but his eyes were riveted on the persona of David the Illusionist. David was clearly confused, perhaps frightened.
The performer stumbled over his words as he explained to the audience that he would now attempt to converse with Madam Wu. He asked the woman her name.
“You know me very well David. I’m Effie Wu, the woman whom you alternated shows with for many years right here on this very stage.”
David began to sweat profusely.
“No, no, no you’re not. You can’t be.”
The people in the audience didn’t know what to think. Some whispered that the woman was a dead ringer, so to speak, for Madam Wu. Why would he deny that it was Madam Wu’s spirit when he had just tried so hard to convince the several hundred people in the room that he was going to conjure up Madam Wu?
The illusionist walked closer to the back of the stage—toward the scrim. She moved closer to him. He backed away from her with a lurch, knocking over the table with the burning candle on it. He put both palms over his face and moaned from the bottom of his soul: “No, no, no.” Then he ran.