Silvia Spellbinder
The sinking feeling when a rug pull occurs. Investing more than you can lose; trusting the wrong person.
Silvia, a struggling magician known as "Silvia Spellbinder," attends a disastrous dinner party where her skills fail to impress the guests. Feeling embarrassed and defeated, she impulsively buys a load of rugs from a shady trader, hoping to sell them for profit.
However, when she tries to sell the rugs at the market, she realizes they are worthless and ends up in debt to her friend. Frustrated and desperate, she clings to one rug that seems salvageable, only for it to unravel before her eyes, symbolizing her failed hopes. In a moment of frustration, Silvia attempts a simple magic trick, only to find it successful, reigniting her confidence and determination.
A Trick, a Gamble, and a Mountain of Rugs
Empty plates and half-filled chalices of wine lay sprawled along the dining table. Meat and candle wax amalgamated in a slightly off-putting scent throughout the room. Bits of chicken flesh and softened vegetables garnished the white linen tablecloth. Oil lamps mounted the walls of the dining room, casting a warm glow on Silvia’s brown skin. Her deep brown locks swayed behind her shoulders as she readjusted her top hat.
‘Is that all you’ve got?” one of the merchants chuckled at Silvia as his wife playfully hit him in the arm. The man was skinny with a bushy moustache and a scar above his left eye. Next to him, his wife’s bright red hair stood out against her pale skin. She pinched her thin lips together to hide the grin forming on her face. They were predictable. He hid behind insolent remarks to maintain his self-grandiosity, while she hid behind a false decorum. If you appear polite and let those around you say the things you wish to say, you get to tell yourself you’re different. You’re not as crass as them.
Silvia saw right through her.
You need money, and you need endorsement. Deal with it.
Six amused faces peered up at her from the dining table waiting for Silvia’s response. But the words were trapped in the confines of her embarrassingly agape mouth. She absent-mindedly toyed with the emerald pendant around her neck and a pit settled in her stomach.
“Silvia Spellbinder, was it? Since we’ve already paid for your services, perhaps doing more than just basic alchemy tricks would be a better way to spend our time,” he paused before adding, “we all already know what gold looks like.
God, she hated merchants.
“Did you see that awful ship docked at the port? Apparently, no one will buy the things and now it’s just taking up space,” one of the women started talking to the group as if Silvia wasn’t there.
‘I saw that, too! I have half a mind to go and buy whatever they’re selling myself just to get rid of it,’the merchant with the moustache replied.
No surprise there. Even with no clue what the trader was selling, their reproving stance was anchored like the very boat they judged. No matter how much she wanted them to disappear into a cloud of black smoke, her job was not done. And their money would be the catalyst to her success.
It was time for a show, and she had one fool-proof trick up her sleeve.
‘Well,’ she croaked out,interrupting their discussion, ‘if you want to be amazed, I have just the trick.’
A few eyebrows raised as the attention returned to Silvia.
‘Go on,’ the moustache man said.
You can do this in your sleep. Come on. Her fingers grasped her necklace for good luck.
Heart hammering against her chest, she steadily drew closer to the seated guests. Jaw tightened and chest high, she approached the table with the bravado of a seasoned magician.
Movements played out like a performance in her mind; the rapid tug of the tablecloth, the swift motion moving the cloth parallel to the table. She had this in the bag.
Right?
Sweaty fingers gripped the rough linen tablecloth. She stilled the slight shake in her hand, breathed out, and in a swift movement ripped the tablecloth towards her.
Time slowed. Beady eyes watched intently, their gaze burning through her. Curiosity overwhelmed her and she turned her head to the guests. As she did, her muscles tensed, fabric crumpled in her hands with the slight shift in her body. Something was wrong.With the tablecloth in hand, her wrist had flicked towards the ceiling.
Chalices were flying. Chicken bones were strewn across the floor along with the leftover vegetables. Ceramic met tile in an ear-splitting crash. Metal knives and forks clanked against each other and rang out in a dissonant screech. Silvia’s hands inadvertently shielded her face, the tablecloth still hanging in her hands, concealing her face from the eyes of the merchants.
Silence fell over the room, a pause before laughter erupted. Their howling bled through her skin, travelling deep into her stomach. There was that familiar pit once more; the uninvited companion she couldn't shake.
A simple table cloth pull. She knew how to do this. Yet, she failed.
Heat blossomed on her cheeks as she lowered her hands, revealing the manifestation of embarrassment over herface to the gloating guests. Cackles ongoing in a cruel display, pompous snickers judging her right to her face.
You try it, then, she wanted to scream at them.
Instead, she croaked, ‘thankyou for your time.’
She forced a tight-lipped smile before swiftly exiting the building, the echoes of their laughter trailing after her. Her one shot blown, her closing act a career-ending performance. Who would hire her now?
Silvia Spellbinder. What a joke.
She couldn’t keep doing this,making a fool of herself. Something needed to change. She would have to pull off the trick of the century.
How about making a ship disappear?
The rising sun welcomed Silvia as she arrived at the ports, the docks emptier than she’d ever seen them. The wind was so soft the sea stilled under its touch; it was like looking through glass at the variegated rocks on the ocean floor. The familiar aroma of salt mixed with fresh fish led her along the dock’s edge. The sun floated over the horizon forging fleeting artwork in the sky. The pink and orange swirls aided her in understanding why the Indolce folk loved painting the sunrise.
Before long her gaze fell upon the ship. There was no mistaking it. Anchored against the stone wall, the wooden frame was covered in dings and dents, but was moderately sized, which was reassuring. The sails were mismatched in color, like losing a sock and making do with what you’ve got left. Less reassuring.
A timber plank bridged the ship to the port, the rotting smell of the wood immediately distinguishable among the salted air.
‘Hello?’ she called out from the safety of the port, ‘I hear you have something to sell.’
A man poked his head over the ship’s wooden frame, his weathered hands gripping the edges. His eyes widened and he scurried to the hatch where the plank lay. Clutched in his hands was a ceramic doll. Her eyelids and jaw were missing revealing the cogs churning in the back of her throat. Vibrant orange and red hair had been painted on like a child given an art project. The blue dress was also painted, though much of the paint had faded or been scratched off, exposing beige patches.
“Brilliant! I’ve been waiting for someone to come along, and it looks like the saints sent me you!” He exclaimed so loudly you’d think they were in the middle of the marketplace. If it wasn’t the morning, she would have assumed he’d indulged in a few glasses of wine. And not the watered-down kind.
‘I guess they did,’ Silvia replied.
Behind him, his crew were scurrying around frantically. The tops of their heads floated back and forth,and bopped up and down as they gathered the cargo. The first crew member, a short stocky man, made his way down with an embellished emerald green and yellow rug.
Guess I’m in the rug business now.
The kaleidoscopic designs were reminiscent of an abstract flower. They were beautiful.
‘Here, give me that scrip,’ he reached out to snatch the paper from her hand but she quickly moved it back.
‘Before you agree, this is all I have,’ she said as she held out the last of her scrip, her payment fromthe disastrous dinner party. It certainly wasn’t enough to cover the plethora of rugs that were being run up and down the plank by his crew.
‘Don’t worry about it, that’splenty, sign this,’ he took the scrip from her hand and replaced them with a lead stylus and paper. He turned around so she could place the paper on hisback and sign. The distinct smell of seaweed and fish wafted off the crew behind them as rug after rug was carried down in a whirl wind of movement and colour.
‘Very good, very good,’ he said before placing two pieces of paper into the doll’s mouth. The man’s accentwas in determinable, like he’d collected different voices from each place he’d travelled and fused them together in a unique sing-songy rhythm.
A mechanical whir creaked from the doll’s insides. For a second, Silvia thought the doll would either break down in front of them or explode. Instead, out of the gaping hole in herface, the doll rendered two new pieces of paper. With the tip of his imaginary hat, he handed Silvia a copy of the transaction.
‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he exclaimed before hurriedly picking up the doll and rushing back onto the ship,not before one last crew member dumped an old, plain red rug into her arms.Dust billowed from the fabric forcing an outburst of coughs from Silvia.
‘Farewell!’ The trader wavedas the ship sailed out of the docks and into the sea just as the last of the pink and orange hues of the sunrise were disappearing. As the blue sky emerged,so did the reality of the transaction that occurred.
Her eyebrows furrowed at the large pile of rugs on top of one another. Upon closer inspection, it dawned onher why they were docked for days. The rugs were riddled with loose threads,holes, and faded dye from sun exposure. Some were covered in fur, some in mould. A slight old, wet smell encircled the mound. She thought she even saw a critter weaving among the textile. They were useless.
Who would buy these? Where would she sell them? How would she get them home? She had no cart, no money, noskills…
All she had to do was get them to the market and… wait, no. All she had to do was borrow money, rent amarket stall, sell the rugs and she was ready to go.
Simple…
Two trips from the docks after borrowing her neighbour’s cart to transport the rugs.
One IOU slip from her friend to rent the market stall.
Three rugs sold for cheap at the market this morning (and she was certain they were bought solely out of pity).
Six trips to get all the rugs from the cart inside her home.
Twenty-three rugs piled in the corner of her very cosy tenement house.
And one rug sitting on the dining table in her kitchen after she burned her tablecloth to a pile of as hesin the fireplace.
Turns out, not so simple.
Sharp steps foiled the quiet ass he paced around her small tenement house. No feat could halt the flood of reflection infiltrating her brain. How did she think that she would just beable to sell all these rugs, or sell anything at all?
Cluey played with the wallpaper that peeled away from the timber walls. The baby chupacabra had wondered in her home a few months back and deemed itself a suitable companion for a struggling magician. Silvia agreed.
Cluey mewled, running at Silvia’s feet, nudging her toward her cabinet in the back corner.
‘I can’t stop pacing,’ Silvia entertained her.
Cluey nudged her once more.
‘I know, but I made a fool of myself at the dinner party pretty much ensuring no one would ever hire meagain, couldn’t pull of the simplest illusion of all time, gave that whacky merchant the last of my money, I owe my friend scrip and now, I’m stuck in a small house with twenty-four rugs!’
Cluey barked and ran toward the cabinet, his claws digging into the timber floor with each small gallop.Silvia realised Cluey was leading her to something. Upon reaching the cabinet,a glimmer of hope bloomed within her. In all its perfect glory was an intact,purple and yellow rug with gold threads braided along the outside of the soft fabric.
‘Cluey you genius!’ she pat the chupacabra on the head before dragging the rug along the ground and picking up against her face.
Cluey barked again, nipping at her feet.
‘Hey, stop that! I found the rug!’ she playfully scolded her companion, only for Cluey to bark once more.Ignoring her four-legged friend, she danced around the room, the fluffy rugheld tight against her.
It hadn’t all been for nothing, if she sold this rug to an elite merchant for a pretia coin, her problems would be solved.
A slight tug gazed against her face as the rug was pulled backward. Forehead creased, she swivelled herbody behind her to find Cluey chewing on a taut, purple thread.
‘Cluey, what are you… Clueystop!’
A rusted nail had caught theend of the rug, unravelling the only semblance of a chance she had of fixingher mistake from right under her fingertips. Cluey was trying to chew throughthe string, to stop it from unravelling. But it was too late.
Released from her tight grip,the rug sunk to the floor, the soft material barely making a sound. Half therug had unravelled to pool of loose thread, damaged beyond repair.
In a moment, it was too much.Her jaw clenched while her heart raged relentlessly against her ribcage,pumping hot blood through her veins. Heat rose through her cheeks and she marched up to the dining table, seized her fingers around the rug’s edge and yanked it towards herself in unbridled rage.
Eyes closed, chest rising andfalling, she stood with the rug still clutched in her grasp, waiting for the imminent clatter of ceramic and metal on the floor. But it never came. She peeled her eyes open. Her goblets, plates, and even the candelabra stood perfectly still and tall on the table, exactly where they were supposed to be.
Searing heat boiled over her bones once more.
‘Are you kidding me?’
In her time of need the most basic of tricks had failed her. She’d failed herself. And now with no witnesses, bar her four-legged transient companion, her muscle memory kicked in performing a flawlessly executed tablecloth pull. Well, rug pull.
Silvia may not know trade or merchants or market, but she did know magic tricks.
Silvia Spellbinder was back in business, and with a twist in the trick upher sleeve.
And may I present to you, the rug pull…
