What do you do when you belong to not one but TWO fandoms that consist of six people and a shoelace? Write a crossover for them, of course!
For my good friend, Anne, as her birthday request. I'm enjoying writing this, even if the projected audience is about four people. We'll see if we can get the shoelace interested. :)
Hello again, Eric, and might I say? Stupendous hat.
The voice of Mr. Magorium, as it has been for the past eight years, is entirely in Eric's head, but thinking the words makes Eric smile as he lowers himself onto the ground in front of the tombstone. The grass in the cemetery needs to be cut; it scratches and pokes at his wrists and his ankles as he sits cross-legged and wishes he'd brought a blanket.
It's a hot day, and a humid one, but not unpleasantly so, not with the breeze blowing gently past his face, adding the rustling of the grass to the buzz of flies and the drone of cicadas. Other than that, the air in the cemetery is quiet and still. Eric is the only one here, Eric and whatever lingers of the people in the graves. They're friendly company, though, and Eric doesn't mind spending time with him.
That thought, when it crosses his mind, makes him laugh. It's thoughts like that, he thinks wryly, that earn you strange looks at school.
With an amused sigh, he reaches up and pulls today's hat off his head. It's just a baseball cap (Just? he can hear Mahoney ask archly inside his head), but it is every color of the neon rainbow, and it looks like it should have one of those plastic propellers on the top, even though it doesn't (he has one of those caps, but he didn't wear it today).
He doesn't want to admit to Mr. Magorium that these visits to the cemetery are the only times he really wears any of his hats anymore. Crazy hats aren't an accepted part of the dress code at his school, and he noticed a while ago that it was easier to get kids to talk to him if he wasn't wearing a giant sombrero when he introduced himself.
He sighs again, heavier this time and less amused. Troubled.
"Thanks for the birthday present, sir," he finally says, speaking aloud for the first time. "Mahoney gave it to me last week, and I, uh, I read it. Finished it last night."
It refers to the Volumes of Magorium written by Bellinni, chronicling Mr. Magorium's long and extensive life. Eric had known of their existence for years, but he'd never had the chance to actually read all of them all the way through. But Mahoney had given him the key to the basement on his birthday and told him that Mr. Magorium had said in his will that Eric should read the books on his 18th birthday.
Searching for the right thing to say next, Eric lay back on the grass in front of the grave, long grass scratching at the back of his neck now. He ignored the minor discomfort.
"I suppose I should be grateful," he says after a long pause. "I mean, when Mahoney was . . . stuck, she got a block of wood. I at least got books with words in them. It seems like more of an answer, but . . . honestly, I still feel as stuck."
He made a noise of frustration deep in his throat, and threw his hat over his face, welcoming the darkness, even if the fabric made breathing that much harder. "You're the worst person to try and talk to about this," he says into the hat, his words unnaturally loud in his ears, thrown back at him by the hat. With another sigh, he snatches the hat off his face, staring up at the heavy August sky, clear blue but thick with clouds.
"Two volumes of that book are dedicated to your childhood, to you up to my age, and you just - you always knew. The magic was always there for you, you always had it, you always knew what you were supposed to do. And I just, I don't. I thought maybe those books would recount some kind of struggle, but - you just knew.
"So why not talk to Mahoney, you might ask, someone who I know struggled with these questions? Well, sir . . ." Against the grass, he shakes his head. "Mahoney got her answer. She got the Emporium. And she's brilliant as it's caretaker, and I - I want that. I want what she has. But she's not going to pass it to me, she's had it eight years, and I - I mean, that's not what I want, not exactly. I just, I want the magic. I don't want to give it up. The Emporium is the only way I get it."
He's rambling, so he forces himself to stop. He scrubs his hands over his face and stays silent for a long time, eyes closed, trying not to dwell on this. He has a whole year left of school, after all, before he graduates, before he has to have actual answers or a way to convince his mother that working as the manager of a toy store instead of going to college isn't throwing away his life.
After several moments of silence, he frowns, opening his eyes, and says, "Of course, you being dead also makes you not the best person to talk to about this." He gives a harsh laugh. "But hey, look. Eric didn't think thoughts in the normal order. What else is new?"
"You know, there's no shame in speaking to your lost loved ones."
Heart pounding, Eric sits straight up. A few paces away, leaning on a nearby gravestone, is a young man only a few years older than Eric himself, with a shock of red hair, munching on an apple.
"I'm sorry," the young man says. "It was not my intention to startle you."
Eric shakes his head. "You, uh, you didn't. I'm just not used to anyone else being here." The young man nods as if he accepts this explanation without question, but his gray eyes twinkle with amusement. "Is there, uh, something I can help you find?" Eric asks then.
"Think I found it, actually." The young man nods at the gravestone behind him, Mr. Magorium's stone. "1764 to 2007, eh?" he asks with a smile, and Eric can place him now. He must be a tourist (his accent gives that much away, but his presence at this grave makes it more obvious).
"Oh," Eric says, returning the smile hesitantly. "Yeah. The locals call it the Misengraved Tombstone."
More twinkling from those gray eyes, as if they are sharing some deep secret. "Misengraved?" he repeats. "Yes, I'm sure they do call it that. May I? Do you mind?" He indicates the ground next to Eric with the apple, and belatedly, Eric realizes he's asking if he can sit. Bewildered, Eric scoots over to make room, even though the gesture is entirely unnecessary, as there is nothing but room in the almost-deserted cemetery. "I'm Widge," the young man says, sticking out a hand in Eric's direction (the one not holding the apple) once he's folded himself gracefully to the grass.
Eric's eyebrow goes up. "Widge?" he repeats, certain he hasn't heard the young man correctly. But Widge nods.
"Short for Widget," he says, then with a laugh, saying, "Doesn't make it any better, does it?" speaking the thought in Eric's head before Eric can. "Widget is a nickname, assigned to me so long ago that I barely remember what my given name actually is. Winston, I think. But I doubt very much that I'd respond to that if you used it, so Widge it is, or Widget, if you don't mind."
"I, uh, sure, yeah," Eric says, taking Widget's hand and shaking it. "I'm Eric."
"Yes, I heard," Widget says with another easy smile, taking another bite of his apple.
"So," Eric says quickly, rather than relive whatever it was Widget heard him saying, "what brings you to Mr. Magorium's grave?"
"Well, the story of course," Widget says, his focus on the stone now, and he's not so much looking at it as looking through it, like he's seeing much more than just the stone and it's unusual dates and inscription. Then he blinks, and the look is gone, and Eric isn't certain he saw it in the first place. "I'm . . . something of a collector of stories," Widget says then, focus back on Eric, along with that private joke smile. "And this one is particularly strong."
"Strong?" Eric asks, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
Widget's focus remains on the stone. "He lived a very . . . full life. One that impacted a lot of people. And he meant a lot to a lot of people. Including you."
"Ah," Eric says, nodding. "You've been asking around." Widget smiles that private joke smile again.
"Something like that," is all he says. "Will you tell me about him?" Widget asks then, taking Eric aback.
"You want to hear about a stranger's life?"
"I want to hear how you'll tell it," is the cryptic response. Which doesn't make much more sense to Eric - Eric himself is a stranger. Why should Widget care how he tells the story of another stranger? "I told you," Widget says then, as if in response to Eric's undoubtedly puzzled expression, "I collect stories."
So Eric tells him.
He's told people about Mr. Magorium before, but usually children, those who wouldn't blink at a tale of magic because they're surrounded by it every day in the Emporium. He told a different tale to adults, stories about an eccentric but lovable old toymaker whose store provided a way for children to believe in wonder and the impossible. Eric doesn't lie, but he paints Mr. Magorium in colors adults will accept.
But Widget? With Widget, Eric falters, stumbles, struggles to find his stride and the right thread of the story. Widget isn't a child, and yet Eric can't shake the feeling that if he started talking about magic in concrete terms, Widget would accept it without question.
And yet - he's been burned before, talking about magic, thinking it was safe, learning harshly that it wasn't. So he tempers the story. He tells Widget a version halfway between the two he is used to telling. He lets the magic slip in, but doesn't call attention to it.
And Widget listens. He watches Eric with interest, fully engaged in the story as if he's reliving it with all his senses, not just hearing someone tell it after the fact. Eric has never had someone's attention so entirely, and it throws him, but he keeps going, pushes through, and eventually, Widget's presence brings out more of the story than Eric has ever been able to tell before (Don't be silly, he scolds himself. It's that you know more of it now. It's the books, not Widget pulling it out of you somehow. What an idea).
When he finishes, ending the story as Bellini did, as Mahoney always told him Mr. Magorium wanted, with a simple, "He died," Widget keeps watching him. The young man's gray eyes are full of something Eric can't identify or place, but it seems to weigh, measure, consider not just Eric's story, but Eric himself.
It should unsettle him, the intensity of that something, laying him bare and exposed in a way he hasn't been in eight years, since he was nine years old, in a board room with the Mutant, trying to buy a toy store. But he isn't unsettled. And when Widget smiles with one corner of his mouth and says, "He sounds magical," Eric replies without hesitation, "He was."
Over the next heartbeat, Widget's one-corner smile grows to a full grin. He looks delighted, for reasons that are not clear to Eric. "Thank you, Eric," he says, and with one last bite of his apple, he begins patting his pockets, a frown on his face as he chews. "Mmm," he says as he locates whatever he is looking for. "There's a circus in town," he says then, handing out a black and white card to Eric. "You should go."
Eric frowns as he takes the card and turns it over. Les Cirque des Rêves, it reads on one side. Eric's never taken French, but he's familiar enough with Cirque du Soleil to know that the phrase translates to The Circus of . . . something.
Eric looks back up at Widget, still eyeing him intently. "A circus?" he asks. "Like Barnum and Bailey?" The question brings Widget's private joke smile back again.
"Similarity of name only," he says, but before Eric can ask any more questions, he stands, saying, "Come tonight. You'll see."
Eric scrambles to his feet, sensing that he isn't going to get any more answers out of the strange young man. "Is this how you advertise your circus?" he asks. "Find random people in cemeteries and strike up odd conversations?"
Widget's eyes are bright with laughter. "How effective do you imagine that method of advertisement would be?"
"That was going to be my next point."
At that, Widget laughs out loud, and though there is no real reason for it, Eric feels a sense of accomplishment. "Truth be told, Eric, I don't typically advertise the circus at all. No one does. It comes without warning." He says the words like they've been said many times before, and though they shouldn't carry weight and importance, somehow they do. They make Eric shiver a touch, just for a moment.
"Why the exception?" he is just able to ask, and with the words, the measuring returns to Widget's gaze.
"Come tonight," he repeats after a long moment. "You'll see."
Eric looks down at the card in his hand, flipping it to the back to find a time, a location. But there's nothing, just a name that isn't Widget's and an email address. "Where and when-?" he starts to ask, looking up, but Widget is gone. Gone, along with any sign that he was ever there in the first place.
"Huh," is all Eric says, staring for a long moment at the place where Widget had been, not even bothering to search the surrounding visible cemetery grounds for his retreating figure. "So," he says, directing the word toward Mr. Magorium's grave. "If you were going to bring what I can only assume is a magical circus to the city, where would you put it?"
The grave, as always, is silent.
But as Eric makes his way home from the cemetery, cutting across Central Park on a whim, he finds the question answered for him, for there, tucked away in one of the park's often overlooked back corners, is a massive, sprawling expanse of black and white circus tents, enclosed with a wrought iron gate. When Eric made this walk yesterday, this space had been open and empty.
Refusing to stare and gape as so many others are doing, Eric approaches the entrance quietly, slipping close enough to read the sign hung on the iron gates. Opens at dusk, closes at dawn. He has no evidence that this is Widget's circus, and yet, somehow, doubting that it is never even crosses his mind.
Rather than stand and stare at the gates, Eric suppresses a grin and turns and hurries back through the crowd, heading swift as he can for home. If he takes a nap now, he should be up by dusk and ready to handle what he can only imagine will be a late night.
When he pays his admission for the circus that night, he considers dropping Widget's name, just to see what might happen