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Wayne was intrigued. He used several kinds of patterns in his work — etching, clip art, stained glass. He'd even used an embroidery pattern once. This book was old, but it might have something he could use in it. He pushed the door open.

It was deathly quiet inside, and Wayne's voice seemed terribly loud, as he asked the shopkeeper if he could look at the book. The man gave him a curt nod, and turned away.

With his back to the others, he didn't see the shopkeeper watching him, nor the anxiety written on his face. When Wayne picked up the book, a strange, warm feeling filled his chest.

The cover art showed several famous paintings which had been turned into patterns. Wayne recognized the Mona Lisa, Whistler's Mother, a painting by Van Gogh and one by Picasso.

In the corner, barely visible, was a portrait of a man, with what might have been a dragon behind him. Opening the book, he flipped through the pages to get a better look.

The painting was called "The Magi," and Wayne could see that it was indeed a dragon behind the man. There was a tiger, too, and a full moon peered over the man's shoulder.

The Magi wore a hooded cloak over trousers and knee-high boots. He held a staff in one hand and a book in the other. Wayne was most intrigued by his expression, though. It wasn't quite haughty, but there was an amused twinkle to the eyes, as if he was guarding a secret. The tilt of his head was almost inviting, daring Wayne to learn it.

Wayne took the dare.

With only $20 in his pocket, and payday still a week away, he asked about the price.

"T'is an auld book," the shopkeeper said, his accent fitting in with the atmosphere of the store. "Ah'll let ye have it for $10."

Wayne had hoped it would sell for less, and looked down, disappointedly. His eyes were drawn to the small picture of the Magi on the cover. Something told him, if he put the book back now, he'd suffer a great loss.

With a sigh, Wayne dug into the pocket of his jeans and produced the twenty. The man didn't offer Wayne a bag. Just handed him the change, and turned his back again.

"Thank you," Wayne called, as he left the store.

"Poor bloke," the shopkeeper said, under his breath.


When Wayne arrived home, he had little memory of the trip itself, because his nose was stuck in the pattern book most of the way, studying The Magi, already deciding just how he would sandblast it.

Somewhere, he'd stopped to get a six-pack, but now, he couldn't recall the transaction. No matter, he thought. With a cold brew in one hand, and the book in the other, he sunk into his recliner to continue to study the picture.

Unfolding the pattern, he was delighted to see it was life size. I won't reduce this, he decided. I'm going to do it as is.

Once the work began, eating was forgotten, as was sleep. Slowly, the figure of the Magi took shape. By the time it was complete, Wayne had carved it so deeply that it had a 3-D effect. One would almost swear the man could walk right out of the glass! And, the eyes seemed to follow Wayne's every move.

It took most of one day to set the lighting rope in the frame just right, so that it would appear to light the glass from within.

Wayne had one heart-stopping moment when his hammer slipped, but it missed the glass, and soon the Magi was properly framed, and ready to show the public.

He stood back and contemplated his finished work. It was a masterpiece!

Pointing to the Magi, he said, "You, my friend, are going to be the turning point in my career! I can feel it!"


Anxiously, Wayne awaited the arrival of the art museum's curator, who was said to be the final authority on glass engravings.

The fussy little man who appeared at the door was not quite what Wayne expected. He wore a full beard, which was in direct contrast to his balding head. A few strands of hair had grown long, and were carefully combed over his skull, in a last-ditch attempt at vanity. One of them had fallen out of place, and was hanging almost to the man's collar. Try as he might, Wayne couldn't keep from glancing at it.

"Mr. Keveran, I presume?" he inquired. "I am Robert Stevenson Haversham, Ph.D."

"Come in, please," Wayne said. "I'm honored that you could come."

"Yes," the curator said, looking around Wayne's studio with distaste. His eyes found the glass. "Is this the piece?"

"It is," Wayne said. "The pattern came from a painting called 'The Magi.' As you can see. . . ."

"Tut!" Mr. Haversham said, holding up his hand. "I shall make my own observations."

"Of course," Wayne said, backing away.

He watched nervously as Mr. Haversham studied it from this angle and that, sometimes using a piece of cardboard to shade the glass from the light. He hmm'd and ahh'd and tsk'd until Wayne thought he'd go mad. Finally, he turned from the glass.

"A beautiful job of framing," the curator said. "Who did the work?"

"I did it myself, sir."

"Beautiful," Mr. Haversham said, again. "You could have quite a career as a carpenter.

"As for the artwork, however, let me say this," he continued. "You do good work . . . for an amateur. I can see much promise here. Keep working at it, son. Someday, your work may even hang in our museum. That is, as soon as you put this science fiction stage behind you, in favor of more serious artwork."

He turned towards the door.

"Thank you for allowing me to see it. I am always proud to have been let in on the beginnings of a budding artist! Good day to you."

Closing the door, Wayne felt numb.

'Budding artist.' 'Amateur.' The words stung his ears. Disappointment washed over him, like a wave of mud, crushing him.

Which was worse, he wondered . . . to break a piece of art-in-progress? Or, to finish a masterpiece, only to have it denounced?

"I'm sorry," he said to the glass. "I tried."

He threw his tie and good shoes across the studio, in a lame attempt at working out his frustrations. Grabbing his jacket, he slid into his sneaks and headed out the door.

As he passed the picture, he could almost swear the Magi's smile had slipped into a frown. But when he looked again, the crooked grin was back.

 
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