“Where’s the magic?” Simm Doyle asked, studying the small object from all sides.  “Just looks like a box to me.”

     “But it’s got them symbols painted on it,” Conor McGee said.  “There’s a sliver o’ moon.”  He pointed to one side of the box.  “And just around the corner, that’s a star, I’m thinkin’.  Them other things, I don’t know what they are.”

     “Perhaps they’re runes, the magic letters the druids used to make.”

     “Could be.”  Conor shrugged.

     The door of the pub opened.  A tall man rushed in bringing the wind and rain with him.  He took off his cap and looked around.

     As he’d done with every man who’d entered the pub that night, Conor compared him to the description he’d been given three days before.  Too young.

     “Over here, Liam,” Simm called to the man, “if ya want to see some magic.”  Every head in the pub turned.

     Liam looked toward the table.  “Mind if I wet my whistle first?”

     Simm turned back to Conor. “Liam’s got a good job at the dairy.”

     “God bless ‘im,” Conor said.  In the famine of 1848 few Irishmen had decent jobs.

     Liam arrived with three glasses cradled in his huge hands.  “I just got paid, and no friend o’ mine will die o’ thirst.”  He sat and slid glasses in front of the other men.

     “Liam, this is Conor McGee, just come from County Kilkenny,” Simm said.  “Conor, meet Liam Wilson.”

     “Pleased to meet ya,” Liam said.

     “The same to you,” Conor replied, “and I thank ya for the drink.”

     “Where’s the magic, then?” the tall man asked.

     “Here.”  Simm set the box on the table.

     “What’s it do?”

     “Well, as ya can see, it’s divided in two.”  Conor opened the lid on one side revealing an empty compartment.  “If you place an object in this side and close the top -- ” he flicked open the other lid, “ -- an identical object appears on this side.”

     A few customers now stood around the table watching.

     “And what happens to the first?” Liam asked.

     “Why, nothin’.  It’s still there.”

     “So, after the box does its magic, you have two of the thing you put inside?”

     “Exactly.”

     Liam shook his head in amazement.  “You must be a rich man, Conor McGee.”

     “No, poor as any Irishman.”

     “There’s a story that goes with the box,” Simm explained, then turned to Conor.  “Tell ‘im.”

     “ ‘Twas many years ago on the coast of Spain,” Conor said.  “I was playin’ cards late one night, and I’d won most of the money on the table.  In the last hand an old sailor offered this box to see my raise. I refused, but then he demonstrated its magical powers, and I accepted his bet.  Though he held good cards, I won the hand and the box.  Only later did I learn the thing was not all he claimed it to be.”

     “You mean it doesn’t work?” Liam asked.

     “It works perfectly, but not for its owner.  I can put your coin inside and give you two when it works its magic.  But, though I’ve tried every scheme I could think of, the box won’t work if I’m to make a penny from it.”

     “My God, that’s a mean trick!” Liam exclaimed.

     The door burst open and a man walked in.  He stood as tall as Liam, but broader.  Dark, unkempt hair surrounded his craggy features.  He greeted no one as he walked to the bar, and no one greeted him.  Without asking, the bartender set a glass before the man and filled it with whisky.

     Conor watched as the newcomer tossed down the drink and slammed the glass down.  Surely, this was the man he’d been waiting for.

     “And what of the box’s other shortcomings?” Liam asked.

     “Little else,” Conor answered.  “Just that it works but once each day, and then only at midnight.”

     The room grew quiet as all eyes turned to the clock hanging on the far wall.  Its pendulum thumped rhythmically, and the hands read 11:35.

     “Will it work tonight, then?” someone asked.

     “O’ course it will,” Conor answered, “if someone places another stout before me.  The box don’t mind if I raise a free glass on its behalf.  ‘Tis its only asset, far as I’m concerned.”

     Excitement grew as the clock ticked toward the witching hour.  No one spoke of anything but the magic box.  Finally, Conor called so all could hear, “All right, then, who wants to double their money!”  A commotion arose as everyone dipped into their pockets.  “Pick out somethin’ big and shiny, so everyone can see it.”

     A dozen hands stretched toward him, each offering a coin.  Conor found none to his liking.  Then he looked toward Liam Wilson, who’d just gotten paid.  He held a newly minted half-crown.

     “There’s a coin everyone can keep their eye on,” Conor said.  He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket, found the coin that rested there and gripped it between his second and third finger so it could be seen only from the inside of his cupped palm.  He frowned as if not finding what he wanted; then, pulling out the hand that concealed the coin, he used it to hold open the opposite lapel.  He put his other hand into a pocket there and smiled.  Taking out a pair of eyeglasses, he fixed them over his ears.

     “Now we’re ready,” Conor said.  He took the half-crown from Liam and dropped it into one of the box’s compartments, then closed both lids.  Throwing his head back, he began to chant.  “Priam’s pride reduced to rubble.”  Conor shook his arms and spun the box in a magical frenzy.  When it was upside down, he nudged open the lid of the empty compartment and slid the coin he held between his fingers inside.

     “Take this coin and make it double!” Conor shouted.

     “Is that it, then?” Liam asked.

     Conor opened one lid so everyone could see the original coin.  After a dramatic pause he flicked up the other lid.  An identical coin rested in the second compartment.

     Gasps and wide-eyed stares greeted this revelation.  Someone began to applaud.

     Conor held up his hand.  “ ‘Tis not my doin’, just the work o’ this ornery little box.”  He upended it, spilling the coins onto the table.  “Take your money, Liam, and God bless ya.”  Liam scooped the coins from the table and stared at them, too stunned to say thank you.  Conor stuffed the box into his jacket.  “A good night to all,” he said and turned to leave.

     “Will ya be back tomorrow night?”  The voice was deep and gruff, as if used only on rare occasions.

     Conor turned back to see the big man with craggy features, his eyes afire.

     “I don’t know, friend.  If my business keeps me, I’ll be back.”  Conor opened the door and walked into the storm.

     The ancient church bell struck the eleventh hour as Conor opened the door to the pub. Every barstool supported a man with a drink in hand.  Among the tables he saw a dozen women, where the night before there had been none.  The town had turned out to see the magic.

     “Over here,” Simm Doyle called from the table they’d occupied the night before.

     Conor sat among his new friends.  Liam occupied the chair across the table, a pretty black-haired girl by his side.

     “I forgot to thank ya, last night,” he said.

     “No need to thank me,” Conor said, setting the magic box on the table.  “You can thank the perverse magician who built this infuriatin’ device.”

     The bartender appeared and set a bottle of Guinness in front of Conor.

     “The first one’s on Liam,” he said, “and there’s more to come.”

     “Well, perhaps the magician wasn’t so perverse after all.”  Conor held up the bottle to the crowd and drank.  He turned to Simm.  “Who’s that big, sharp-featured man at the bar, the one who asked me, last night, if I was comin’ back?”

     “Ah, that was a queer thing, wasn’t it,” Simm said.  “Jim Barnes is his name.”

     “Does he live here?” Conor asked.  “He don’t seem too friendly.”

     “That he ain’t, but he was born here.  Worked at the dairy and made his way up to foreman.  Then some ten years ago somethin’ happened.  Money turned up missin’, but nothin’ could be proved.  He left town.  Some say he went to London.  He came back just six months ago, rented a cottage by the lake, and don’t talk to no one.  Plenty o’ money though, so they say.”

     More drinks came for Conor, and he passed them around the table.  The hands of the old clock jerked toward midnight.

     “All right then,” Conor called.  “Who wants the magic box to do their bidding?  It don’t have to be a coin, any object that fits inside will work just as well.”

     Everyone surged toward the table, hands extended, each showing some valuable.

     At the bar, the big man lurched to his feet and muscled his way through the crowd.  He leaned over the table, his bloodshot eyes meeting Conor’s.

     “Copy this if yer magic be true,” he said, slamming his fist down on the table.  When he pulled his hand away a large diamond lay on the scarred wood.

     Silence fell over the room.  Even in the dim light of the oil lamps the gem glittered like a star plucked from the heavens.  No one spoke for many seconds until the girl sitting next to Liam exclaimed, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

     The spell broken, Conor said, “Very well.”  Again he searched through the inner pockets of his jacket and brought out his glasses.  He put them on, then opened the lids of the box.  Both compartments were empty.  Picking up the diamond, he dropped it into one side of the box and closed the lids.

     “The Alph flows north in Xanadu,” he shouted at the ceiling.  The box spun between his fingers.  “Take this stone and make it two!”  He set the box back on the table.

     “That’s it, then?” Jim Barnes asked.  He was breathing hard.

     Conor flipped up one lid revealing the stone within, then with a flourish, uncovered the second compartment.  It was empty.  He blinked and stared into the box with dismay.

     A collective, “oohh” came from the crowd.

     “Nothin’ but a cheap fraud!” Barnes exclaimed.  “I shoulda known.”  He upended the box and scooped the gem from the table.  Looking it over quickly, he shoved it in a pocket and turned to leave.

     “There’s but one reason the box fails to work,” Conor called after him.

     The big, angry man turned back.  “What’s that?”

     “It won’t copy somethin’ that’s stolen.”

     “Why, you little wretch!” Barnes shouted.  He charged back to the table, lifted Conor by the lapels and slammed him against the wall.

     Conor looked up, meeting the big man’s eyes and spoke in a low voice only Barnes could hear.  “Stolen from the widow Morrison last year in Thomastown.”

     Awareness showed then in those bloodshot eyes, and the big man’s face grew ugly.  “I’ll kill you!” he bellowed and pulled back his fist.

     But the blow never fell.  Liam’s hand closed around Barnes’ wrist.  Barnes, red-faced, struggled to free himself.

     “That’s enough,” Liam said.  “We all know the box is magical.  We seen it work last night.  Take your stolen diamond and get out.”

     Barnes tried again to pull his arm free and Liam loosened his grip.  The big man turned and stormed from the pub.

     “Jim Barnes is no longer welcome here, and that’s a fact,” the barman said.

     “Are you all right?” Liam asked.

     “O’ course,” Conor said.  “I coulda handled him myself, but I thank ya for your help anyway.”  Everyone laughed.

     “Well, maybe not.”  He picked up the magic box and shoved it into a pocket.  “Sorry you were all cheated out o’ the night’s magic.”

     “Think no more about it,” Simm said.  “We seen it last night and won’t soon forget.  What happened tonight, the town will be talkin’ about for years.”

     “Well, I must be off,” Conor said.  “I’ve a long walk before me.”

     “Come again, I owe ya at least one more drink,” Liam called.