The Wishmonger, New Fiction for Steemit, Part Six, links to other episodes.

Several inflatables were being installed noisily on the back lawn of the library. The town hall was all but invisible under a flurry of banners and pennants. The largest banner read, “Welcome to Wishful’s 75th Festival of Wishes”.

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Roger bought a snow cone and slurped as he strolled down the sidewalk between tables of wishing wells and postcards of the town hall that read , “Wishfully Thinking of you.”

It was weird, in a town where the rest of the year, wishing was a reason to be kidnapped that they had this one time of year, where they actually celebrated it. It didn’t make a lot of sense to Roger. He thought about it as he walked.

He stopped outside the pool hall and peered through the window. He noticed his shoelace was untied. Roger set his snow cone on the window ledge and carefully knelt down to retie it. As he stood back up his heart skipped a beat. There, on a stool in broad daylight was the little old man who had winked at him in his dream! He sat in front of a crowd in the storyteller’s tent spinning a yarn.

Having things pop out at him from his dreams was a new thing for Roger and it was seriously starting to freak him out. It was the only thing keeping him from disregarding the whole idea that any of this meant anything. It had to, right? If you dreamed things you’d never seen, then found out they existed in the real world, it had to mean something.

There was something odd about the old man’s clothing. It wasn’t the antique styling. Dozens of vendors and towns people dressed to their Victorian nines for the festival every year. He’d seen more tailcoats, top hats and hoop skirts today than he’d seen in whole life up to now. It was the way the man wore it. Somehow, it didn’t look like a costume on him. He looked like he belonged in it.

As Roger stared, the man turned, caught his eye, and winked! Or maybe his dreams were getting the better of him, either way Roger got the feeling that this old man knew something that Roger desperately wanted to know!

He scooped up his snowcone and hurried across the street. He found a seat near the back of the tent. The old man was just finishing his tale, The Legend of Jeremiah Wish.

“Knowing that it was his only chance Jeremiah Wish took his last five-dollar gold piece out of his pocket. He walked to the edge of the pool and watched the Spring bubbling up to fill it. He closed his eyes tight and flipped the coin up into the air carrying his wish with it down through the cool clear water.”

“As we all know his wish came to pass and the town of Wishful sprang up from the prairie. One day, nothing but tall prairie grasses as far as the eye could see. The next, a bustling Victorian village, with Jeremiah Wish, its founding father, unanimously elected as the town’s first mayor. And right on that very spot they erected a fountain. The Fountain of Wishes. People say that anyone with a sincere wish only needed to toss a coin into the bubbling water and it was as good as done. ”

The story teller bowed to the smattering of polite applause and passed his hat. Roger dropped his change in and waited. The man folded up his seat and started out of the tent. Roger hurried to catch up.

The storyteller stopped and looked down at Roger, “Something I can help you with, young man?”

Roger swallowed, “Uh, yeah…I was wondering …why aren’t wishes allowed now? If your story is true?”

“Well now, ‘course the story’s true. Things change, that’s all.” The storyteller turned to go.

Roger didn’t know when he might get a chance like this again and he wasn’t about to let it slip away so easily. “I don’t understand. Aren’t wishes a good thing?”

“Some people think so.” The man said.

“But why do you celebrate the festival of wishes, when you’re not allowed to make any of our own?” Roger asked the man.

The man smiled quietly, “You can make all the wishes you want for the next three days. The fountain’s right over there. Pitch in your penny and wish away.”

Roger gathered his nerve. He had the feeling this man might be the only one that could answer his question. “Where’s the real fountain? A friend of mine told me it was never destroyed. I have a feeling you know. Was it destroyed, and if not where is it?”

“Now hold on there, young man, those kind of questions will get you nothing but trouble. Maybe you’d best go on home and ask your Dad about that.”

“That’s just it. I can’t ask my Dad. He hasn’t even lived here since he was a kid. He says wishes are nothing but a foolish waste of breath. I need to know, are wishes real?”

Roger gasped as the man grabbed his arm and began to drag him along.

They turned off the busy street away from the carnival like atmosphere of the festival. The old man stopped and looked around cautiously. He bent down and whispered hoarsely into the boy’s ear. “Who put you up to this?”

“No one, I don’t know. What do you mean?” Roger was scared by the old man’s serious expression.

“I’m an old man, I don’t have time for games, who was it? Who told you to ask me that, was it Mayor Wish?” the old man’s gaze pierced Roger like a knife.

“Mayor Wish? Why would he?” Roger was very confused.

The old man looked around again. “It’d be just like them to use a kid. You tell them I told you nothing. Nothing, do you understand?”

“Tell who? I just got here, I don’t know anybody to tell.” Roger winced. The old man’s bony fingers were starting to dig into his skin.

The storyteller shook Roger, “You tell them I said nothing!”

“Okay, okay, nothing, I got it.” Roger pulled away.

The old man scurried out into the street. By the time Roger recovered enough to follow him, he was gone. He stopped a couple on the sidewalk.

“Excuse me, did you see a little old man come out of there?” He indicated the alley he’d just exited.

“No, sorry, sure didn’t.” They walked by Roger peering back at him over their shoulders.

Roger wondered where the little man had gone to so fast. He was beginning to regret pushing for an answer. Maybe the old man didn’t know anything. Maybe. Roger turned to go. His disappointment was getting the better of him. If only he had taken more time. He wondered why the old man wasn’t more nervous.

He had seemed more angry than afraid.

Roger looked up, and coming right toward him was a very nervous looking man decked out in full Victorian splendor. A shopkeeper sweeping the walk greeted him with, ‘good morning mayor’. So this was mayor Wish!

From his black top hat to his white spats he looked every inch the Victorian gentleman. Roger stepped aside and turned to watch him pass, wondering why the mayor was in such a hurry. As he started to turn for home Roger stopped. Something had caught his eye. Peering out from behind a tree watching Mayor Wish’s march down Main Street, right where he was sure the young couple must have seen him, was an old man, the storyteller!