su-SPEC-t Small World Anthology

"If Wishes Were..." by @eldorado16

In the middle of the neighbourhood the tower hunkers: twenty-five feet of crumbling, black-edged grey stone punctuated by shuttered windows - each aperture a different size or shape - rising to a rounded, pointed slate roof with an iron weathervane in the form of a horse, or a crow, depending on which way the wind blows.

In a neglected corner of the park, on a horse-path which ends at a one-way street, the tower stands. The rose bushes at its base don't even begin to bloom until late autumn, so all summer long tinder and thorns guard the splintery, iron-bound oak doors.

This is the abode of the Wish-giver.

The residential streets around the park, lined with orange brick townhomes and ancient trees overhanging the hydro lines, are on their way up in the world. Built a century ago for families of Victorian factory workers, the properties have now been acquired by double-income professionals who blast the coal scum off the facades and plug in double-glazed windows that don't open.

Then they settle down to produce one or two little ones who will be kept busy, as soon as they can walk, with gymnastics and computers and equine discipline.

The advent of a Magical Being into their neighbourhood had been greeted with mixed emotions by the small yuppie families: they'd held their collective breath, as summer turned to autumn, waiting to see if there would be a drop in property values or an increase in wild parties and disruptions of cable service.

When there wasn't, fear was replaced by curiosity. The neighbourhood association sent a four-person welcoming committee to investigate.

Bearing fresh-baked muffins and a list of useful addresses - dry cleaner, auto mechanic, maid service, riding club - the two couples approached the tower through the freely falling snow.

"Look at the roses!" one of them gasped. "How can they be blooming in this weather?"

"I guess if you're a Magical Being, anything's possible," another answered. "What's a Wish-giver do, anyway?"

At that moment the oaken doors had swung open and a misty voice reached the visitors: "What I do is, I give wishes. Oooh - blueberry muffins! My favourite."

The welcoming committee was ushered in to a nicely furnished sitting room; later, they couldn't have said exactly who did the ushering. They never saw their new neighbour.

From behind the blue door beside the piano, a door one assumed would lead to the kitchen, the whispery voice encouraged them to make themselves at home. The four visitors obeyed, settling onto a tweedy sofa and chairs grouped around a braided rug.

They tried not to notice the dreamy quality of the seats, which seemed to suggest that if you stopped believing in upholstery your butt would hit the floor.

"I'd offer you coffee," said the disembodied voice, "but I don't think we have time. Did you have something to ask of me?"

"How do you make a living?" the boldest one, a wiry blonde woman, spoke up.

"Mmm. It's not much of a wish," sighed the Wish-giver, "but you could try this."

An earth-filled terra cotta pot and a crinkly packet of seeds materialized above the piano and drifted over to the one who'd asked the question. A worm poked its pale-pink head out of the dirt, clearly enjoying the ride.

"What?" the blonde woman squeaked, catching the objects as they hovered above her lap.

After a moment's reflection, she addressed the blue door again. "I see your point - I asked you 'how do you make a living', and if I planted the seeds, it would make something living - but that wasn't what I meant..."