Twelve Days of Fruk

Day Eight: Make a Wish

At festivals like these, it's never any sort of surprise to see "magic men" along the rows of vendors, with their navy blue tents and handwritten signs. Most people passed these sorts of things by, because all of them carried the very high risk of being complete rip offs. Future predictions and wish granting and speaking to spirits were almost always lies soaked in glitter and fancy words. So naturally, Francis got dragged inside. Gilbert had grabbed his hand to pull him into the tent, protesting that they'd been there all day and he had wanted to check it out. The sword fighting competition had just ended and everyone at the Renaissance Festival was beginning to gather in the middle for drinks as the sun began to set. Women and men dressed in mid-eval clothing and armor passed them by as they entered the navy tent toward the end of the row, near the end of the lot's boundary.

Inside, everything seemed bigger, likely a trick of the eye. Strategic lighting and fabric folds, maybe. The inside was more purple and black than the navy outside, but even so, it didn't seem scary. Trying too hard, on the other hand, yes. Certainly trying too hard. All sorts of knick-knacks covered the walls, jars of glowing nothingness were strung from the poles making the ceiling, while the fabric folds swayed, making a sort of glitter fall.

"Shit, this place is nice," Gilbert commented, trying to see if he could get a good picture without using the flash. He got about five decent ones. They were mostly of the phosphorescent jars dangling on clear string. They looked to be free-floating, and if Francis and Gil didn't know better, they'd be convinced.

"Ah!" A voice cried out from the back of the tent, and despite the tone if absolute delight, both Francis and Gilbert nearly wet themselves. Sudden noises in relative quiet are never wanted. "Sorry, I just settled down for a nap!" The blond man laughed.

"That's alright, man, we were just checking out the place," Gilbert said, nodding his head and looking around in gesture. "Nice setup you've got here."

"Thank you, thank you! All made by hand!" The man, who seemed to be "Kirkland," if the sign on the outside was anything to go by. Kirkland continued on. "It took a while, but I guess it worked, after all I did get two customers today!" Kirkland seemed to get almost high off of the praise, his chin tilting more upward and his posture straightening, with a happy smile adorning his face. Both Francis and Gilbert, however, felt a but bad for Kirkland. Two customers in a whole day was pretty bad.

"Well, since it wasn't too clear on your sign," Francis said with a small chuckle, "would you mind telling us exactly what you do in here?"

"Yeah, that was a bit of a marketing strategy! Don't tell 'em what's inside so they come in to ask for themselves!" Kirkland was pretty animated for someone who had just laid down for a nap. "Anyway, I do things like wishes, tarot cards, fortunes, spirits- both talking to and expelling- and I sell things like potions, dusts of creatures- harm free, of course!- herbs, household creatures, and little charmed items!" He looked down at his hands and laughed. "I keep my practices to a limit of ten for easy remembering!"

Okay, that was cute. Francis mentally slapped himself for calling a man cute. But damn, was he something. A strange little something.

"Ooh, what are these wishes you speak of?" Gilbert wad thoroughly enjoying this little "shop" of Kirkland's.

"They're small things, usually lucky spells or things like finding something you've been searching for- that can be either an item or a person or other things, too. So," he said, "sound interesting?"

Francis shrugged, his lips pulled up to one side. "Why not? What's the harm in a little wish?" Gilbert was excited by this, bouncing on his feet.

"How much?" Gil asked, pulling out his wallet, which was made of old leather and falling apart at the seams. His little brother had made it in Boy Scouts when he was five as a birthday present, and he hasn't let go of it in about 20 years. He was the sentimental type, even if he denied it.