The Jeremiad Boy

Ha! Yes that was a most… Interesting affair. Beggars belief, in fact, and I’ll hold no grudge if you laugh.

You see, I was taking my evening constitutional through Hampstead Heath. The air in London varies by area, but the air by the heath is fine in Summer. I was taking my usual route when I saw a very odd building. Never seen it before, as though constructed overnight. Not that the workmanship was poor, no, the construction was solid and it looked like an old-fashioned town hall. There were no markings on it and there was nobody outside. The front door being ajar, I assumed the public welcome, so I ventured in to investigate.

Inside, I found that the whole lower floor was a large hall. All wood-panelled and of Victorian design, I thought that maybe it was a reconstruction, perhaps to commemorate some historic event. There were people inside this hall, all milling around as though for some sort of workshop or fete. Being dressed for most occasions, I didn’t feel out of place and had a wander through.

It seemed as though everybody was gathered in groups. The first one I passed was crowding around an ostentatiously dressed child. He wore rather too much gold, I thought, and especially so for a youngster. Gold bracelets, gold spectacles, gold rings, a gold tie-pin. It was all a bit much. In any case, these people were watching him intently, so I did the same, hoping to solve the mystery of this gathering. It seemed no more than a magic act, to me. The boy had a table before him, upon which were arrayed a number of inanimate objects – a torch, a pen, a leather satchel. Each item he picked up turned instantly to gold.

It was a fantastic trick, and I for one couldn’t conceive its mechanism. I waited until he finished, and approached to ask his name and let him know how well he’d done. I even had a sweet ready, as I’d earlier stocked surplus in my pocket for my grandchildren. When I spoke to him, his response was unexpected. He said his name was Midas and that everything he touched really did turn to gold; that it wasn’t a trick. I laughed. The boy seemed chided, but what else could I do? It was an amusing explanation.

“Well, I suppose that must make you the richest person in the world!”
“I am.”

I gave him a sweet regardless (which, lo and behold, turned into gold – he wept the most convincing tears at this) and moved onto the next group.

In the midst of these people was another young boy, dressed in – quite embarrassingly – nothing save a small loincloth. What looked like ash had been rubbed into his body, barely disguising his nakedness. People were talking nearby. They whispered his name – “Chronos”. Every item he touched on his table turned to dust. When his strangely similar act was over, I approached him.

“Your trick seems similar to Midas’.”
“We all have similar tricks, sir. We all transmogrify the things we touch.”
“You’re awfully young to know a word like transmogrify, aren’t you?”
“I’m not so young. I am the eternity.”
“The eternity, you say? Well, how about a sweet?”
“It will turn to dust in my hands.”
“Hmm. Suit yourself. Compliments on your trick, though.”
“Your compliments are small in comparison to my ailment, but thank you nonetheless.”

Such a strange boy. I continued through the room and met similar children, all performing – as Chronos had stated – similar tricks.

Another lad was lighting candles by touching their wick. They called him Mars.

A girl and boy sat at another table, which bore the placard “Horus and Ah Puch”. The boy was touching butterflies which lay down and seemed to die. The girl was touching the lifeless butterflies, waking them up to take flight. They seemed annoyed at each other’s antics.

A toddler, who wore the nametag Bifrost, was crawling around. Wherever he went, anything he touched would disappear, fading into a shimmering and momentary rainbow. People gave him a wide berth.

There was even a girl they called Christ, turning stale food and stagnant water into a sumptuous feast at her table. I gave her a sweet and it turned into a steak.

But these surely had to be tricks? I’m not one to believe in the supernatural. There was one boy, distanced from the crowds, seeming to turn objects into pieces of paper. Nobody was surrounding him, so I thought I’d go to ask a few frank questions. As I approached, I saw him turn a flower into a piece of parchment, and on it were staves and notes and dynamic markings. A sheet of music. Around him, other papers he’d conjured were marked similarly, though some bore drawings and others bore writing.

“What are these?”
“My feelings.”

I picked up a piece of paper. It was an intricate and pretty drawing. I felt something of his life and thoughts in it. It moved me.

“They are very good. How are you doing it?”
“I don’t mean to.”
“Well, how’s it happening? How did you turn that flower into..?”
“Into music? The usual way. I met a girl, we fell in love. But we cannot be together.”
“That’s hardly an explanation.”
“Everything I touch turns into the things I want to say to her, the ways I want her to understand, the ways I want to feel with her, or simply my interpretation of things now instead of then.”

He was the most esoteric child yet.

“You want her to see these papers?”
“She doesn’t have to see them.”
“And everything you touch turns into these things?”
“I can’t help it.”

I didn’t quite understand, and I’d had enough of the place as it was. Impressive magic but I had to be getting home.

“Well, keep up the good work. Some of these are beautiful.”
“Thank you.”

The sweet I gave him turned into this story.

You know how I feel and a thousand of these can’t convey it.