Roses and Dreams: A Collection of Short Fantasy Stories

The Egocentric's Journey for Happiness

Connel swaggered down the middle of the street, people parting ways for him. Whispers followed, but Connel didn't bat an eyelid. There was certainly a lot of jealous people complaining a young man with little credentials like him shouldn't be assistant to the mayor. Now that he had earned his credentials and turned the port of McCaig into a flourishing seaside town, he was on a straight path to being promoted to mayor.

There was a chill in the air. Mist draped across the mountain summits in the distance. People bowed their heads, hurrying on their mundane daily jobs. Nobody dared to confront him.

Fishmongers shouted about their catches of the day, fresh salmon and trout lying on trays of ice. Behind them, the loch stretched across to the town on the other side. Ships bobbed along with the waves with the incoming tide.

There was a palpable tension in the air: King James was dying.

"Cockles! Fresh cockles!" yelled a child, swinging a bucket. Connel continued to head for the castle. Sure enough, the child tripped, and his bucket of cockles swung up and emptied all over the floor. Saltwater splashed onto Connel's boots. He wrinkled his nose.

"Disgusting rat," he spat. The thin child trembled, his face pale and hands grazed from the fall. The blossoming of markets had gotten many street rats into work, but they seemed as filthy as ever. "Get out of my way."

He scrambled away, snivelling. Connel marched on, wary of the time.

"Oban!" he called. His servant had knelt beside the child and helped him with the cockles. "What are you doing, man? We have to see the mayor and you're dirtying your hands with some stinking orphan?"

Oban leapt to his feet, gripping Connel's bags. He sprinted after him. When he caught up, he was emitting that irritating dry cough he'd had for the past few months. Connel sighed. If he were late due to his servant's incompetence he would have him whipped on the spot.

Before Connel could snap another word at him, Oban bowed his head and apologised. Huffing, Connel decided to let the issue drop. There were more important things at hand.

It was fortunate that the street rat's stumble and Oban's little mercy-showing didn't make Connel late – heads would have rolled. He ensured every hair on his head was pristine and his cloak fell in neat folds before entering the master study. The mayor stood there looking concerned.

Mayor Aspen was long past his peak, at least seventy years old now. There had been talk about his imminent retirement and speculation about his successor. If Connel fulfilled whatever request Aspen had for him today, he would be the frontrunner.

"Mayor Aspen," said Connel stiffly, ensuring his back was straight and his shoulders relaxed: the epitome of class and confidence.

"Ah, Connel. It is good of you to come." Aspen spoke in a slow, hoarse voice, as if reflecting an ageing mind. His hands shook as he stroked his beard. "I'm sure you've heard about King James's recent declining health. He has asked me for a favour that might change his life."

"Oh?"

"King James heard about the Moon Lake. He wishes for a sample of the lake's elixir during the cycle of Birch."

"For the alleged rebirth properties?" Connel's eyebrow rose. The cycle of Birch began in two days' time, if the old witches' tales were to be believed. "Does his highness realise most of it is hearsay with no proof?"

"Many have sworn by the lake's effectiveness," said Aspen. Connel fought not to sigh and roll his eyes. "The King is most adamant of he wishes and it is my greatest desire to grant it. I am too old for this. My joints and legs betray me. The climb up to Moon Lake up McCaig mountain is treacherous and I need a strong, reliable man, someone like—"