the illusionist

“Dingo! Dingo!!”, the boy shouted.

“Master.”

“I want a baby dingo this year!”

“We shall see, Master”.

“But I really do! Got to have it this year”.

“I promise I shall try my best to obtain such a pup for young Sir”.

“Not just any puppy! A dingo puppy!!”.

“Of nothing but the purest extraction, Sir!”, Woegogo emphatically declared in an obeisant bow.

Thus, the beleaguered servant left in search of the damned dingo. Damned it was, for even though he didn't really know it, the creature was almost extinct.

"Where did the little brat learn about dingoes anyway? This is not the Land of Oz! What if I just brought an odd-looking pup and passed it off as a dingo? How could the kid possibly tell?"

That's when he remembered the thick volume replete with colored pictures of dogs page after page from months ago (a "canineclopedia" or "caninopedia" or whatever it was being called). He had overheard the little one tutoring the other kids in what he claimed were specimens of various sorts (even though his eyes couldn't tell one from the other from a distance).

"A scam may not swim very far", he thought, "The kid could very well have his facts figured out".

At last he decided wasn't going to take any chances – the youngling was a veritable naturalist, or at least a very convincing one, at the age of 7 - whose untiring surveys of the garden's flora and fauna, armed with measuring tape and magnifying lens while the other children played their innocent little games, lent him airs of preternaturally patient scholarliness on such occasions. Most of the time, however, he behaved like any other normal, petulant 7-year old ( just as he had a few moments ago).

So he stood there for a few minutes, scratching his frizzy pate.

“Bingo!!!”.

In an instant, Woegogo's woes seemingly imploded as The Idea popped its way into his skull with the force of a sledgehammer. Striking as it was, it was as crooked as a clawhammer.

Later that evening, in a somewhat flurried state of mind, the door of Mr. Waigaga, local magician or an artiste des illusions (as he preferred to be addressed) was knocked upon.

Wai opened the door slowly. He was a wiry, balding man and wore a frayed green night-gown and tight polka-dotted pyjamas, even though the sun had set only minutes ago. He had a slightly confused look about him, as if he didn't recognize his visitor.

"Its Woegogo, Lord Wugigi's chief attendant. Remember, we met through Vaihoha. Your pretty cousin? Last year's Cirque? La Nuit Magique?"

Woe could only recollect moments of florid exuberance after witnessing each of his flawless performances from yesteryear.

"Ah.... well, what then of it? Anyway, come inside - you're letting in the draft."

" Would you like to see a new trick?", as he closed the door behind him.

"Why on earth not, Mr. Waigaga?", he put on his best show of eagerness.

Then Woe followed him through a dark, smelly labyrinth - stooping through each passage to save his head. At the end of the maze lay a small brightly-lit chamber.

For the next three hours, the visitor witnessed the Waigaga conjure up appearances, disappearances, re-appearances and outright transmogrifications. His latest repertoire of sleights and contraptions, in various stages of finesse, gradually bore down upon his audience's brittle nerves with all the bluster of an annoying toy-train.

"Holy Turtle! Truly accomplished! Truly astonishing!", he burst into applause in a rather unsought conclusion to the performance, which Waigaga had secretly hoped to be completely immersively spellbinding. (He liked to string adjectives together. Also, "unputdownable" and "encore" were two of his favorite words).

Unnoticed (or so he may have hoped) amidst all the blither and blather that goes on with any such performance, Waigaga had been exhaustively exploring his entire medley, never repeating the same act but improvising in variations on a theme. Not surprisingly, he would often refer to himself as "The Jazzician".

But inadvertently exposed to this excruciating process of creative winnowing for so long as Woe had been, his head had started to ache in saturation.

Only his bladder was fuller.

"Very well then, are you going to tell me the real purpose of your visit or not?", Waigaga demanded as his clownish grin collapsed into a scowl the moment he stepped down from the stage.

"I come to ask for a mighty favour, Sir".

The next morning, young Tijomo woke up to a staccato of unfamiliar woofings. He knew what it was the second he convinced himself he wasn't dreaming anymore. He jumped out of his bed and scampered down the stairs.

The sunlight came pouring down a thick swath from the opening in the front door and hit his eyes directly. In between between the beam's blinding flashes, the boy could discern the auroral figures of a tall dark man in white robes with a little yellow dog.

"Be watchful, Master. Its quite wild!", Woegogo whispered as he relaxed the leash, its black leather shredded from overuse, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

Tijomo smiled and jauntily stepped forward to claim his gift. The pup whimpered and swerved its head to duck as the boy tried to pat it.

"I shall call it Ding-o-Ling".