Free Battlesaurus by Brian Falkner

survive a ball fired from a pistol.”
    Now he has their attention, although Monsieur Lejeune is frowning at him. Willem gives him a surreptitious nod to let him know everything will be all right.
    Monsieur Lejeune reaches the stage and draws his pistol from a leather holster at his side.
    â€œWe will need a pistol ball,” Willem says, and a little reluctantly, Monsieur Lejeune produces a paper cartridge from his leather pouch. He tears open an end and removes the lead ball. Willem takes it using two fingers and hands it to Monsieur Claude.
    â€œMonsieur le Maire, please scratch a symbol onto this ball,” Willem says. “Something that I would not know, nor could have predicted.”
    He hands Monsieur Claude a horseshoe nail.
    After a moment’s thought, Monsieur Claude scratches something into the side of the ball and hands it back.
    â€œMonsieur Lejeune, now please load the pistol,” Willem says.
    The audience shifts and ripples like a windswept lake as people strain for a better view.
    Monsieur Lejeune expertly primes the pistol, then pours the rest of the powder into the barrel.
    â€œThe wadding please,” Willem says.
    Monsieur Lejeune hands him the paper, and after showing the pistol ball to the audience one more time, making sure they can see the mayor’s symbol, Willem drops it into the small paper cartridge and twists the end shut before handing it back to Monsieur Lejeune, who inserts it into the barrel and rams it home.
    â€œMonsieur, please step to the right of the stage,” Willem says, “and take aim at this sack of dirt.”
    Monsieur Lejeune does as requested. The audience goes completely silent.
    â€œI will place myself in between the pistol and the sack of dirt,” Willem announces, and proceeds to do so, standing just in front of the table. “When the pistol is fired, the pistol ball will pass right through my body, doing no harm. It will hit the sack, and when we dig out the ball, it will bear the very marking that our beloved mayor scratched into it not a moment or two ago.”
    The mayor bows his head graciously at the small flattery, and waves to the crowd as though he, not Willem, is the center of attention.
    Monsieur Lejeune has remained in position, aiming his pistol at the sack, even though Willem now stands in the way.
    He seems uncertain, and as Willem spreads his arms wide and closes his eyes, a voice comes from the crowd.
    â€œDo not do this.” It is Father Ambroise. “The boy does not know what he is doing.”
    â€œI know exactly what I am doing,” Willem says, his eyes still tightly shut.
    If Monsieur Lejeune does not pull the trigger, then there will be no final trick. No grand illusion to finish his act. The best he can hope for will be polite applause and quiet sympathy.
    He opens his eyes and catches his mother’s face, near the front of the crowd. Unlike the others, which vary between wonder and apprehension, her face radiates anger.
    â€œPull the trigger, Monsieur,” Willem says, closing his eyes again.
    Nothing happens, and he risks a quick look. The barrel of the pistol has lowered a little as Monsieur Lejeune wavers. It is now pointed between Willem’s legs.
    â€œYou aim at the wrong sack,” Willem calls out.
    The audience roars with laughter.
    Monsieur Lejeune laughs also and raises the pistol back to Willem’s chest.
    â€œDo it!” a voice shouts out of the crowd.
    â€œI command you not to do this,” Father Ambroise says. “In the name of—”
    That, more than anything, seems to make up Monsieur Lejeune’s mind.
    â€œNo!” Father Ambroise shouts, but he is too late.
    Willem imagines, rather than sees, the flash of the pistol and the spurt of white smoke, but he feels the impact on his chest and that is quickly followed by the rotten-egg smell of gunpowder wafting across the stage. From somewhere nearby, Pieter screams.
    The crash of the pistol dies