While the crowd gasped at the wondrous display of conjuration, the girl watching from the back saw through the trick. The young performer on the road appeared to conjure a flower out of thin air, but the girl saw the distinct blue and white colors tucked under his sleeve, clear to her as day. He waved his hands, producing the flower for all to see. The boy tried to distract everyone’s eyes with that hand flourish, but she was not fooled.
The girl wavered as the baby goat she was holding bucked its head. She adjusted her grip and stroked its back, calmingly shushing it. She should have continued on her way, but she had a strong prediction that she would be needed here shortly.
The dozen brown-clothed peasants in the market square that formed a half-circle around the boy clapped, believing he truly had magical powers.
That was his fatal miscalculation.
The people in the small crowd lived a simple life in the village of Bramble, trading, farming, and eating. They were eager for a sorcerer to arrive in their humble lives, but such magical individuals were increasingly rare. Nevertheless, the village people prayed day and night for one to bless them, for they desperately needed a miracle.
A middle-aged woman grabbed the man by the arm. “Please, undo the curse on our village. The dirt and dust are unbearable!”
The magical boy was caught off guard by the request. He stammered as other members of the crowd closed in on him.
“We don’t have much, but we will pay you greatly to weave a spell!” plead another woman. She shook her dirt-stained dress and dust rolled off.
A young cobbler pointed down the dirt road. “You can’t miss it! The dust cloud on Kerfuffle Road.”
The crowd swarmed the boy, pulling him by the arms.
“I-I-I’m sorry, but I-I-I’m just a performer,” he shuddered, looking for an escape, but seeing none.
“Our village is suffocating. Your magic is our only hope!”
The girl in the back had seen enough. She stepped forward, firmly held the goat, planted her feet, and yelled, “He’s a charlatan!”
The crowd fell silent and turned to her.
“Begone, Smallhead,” the young cobbler said, his face now red with emotion. “We need his magic now more than ever.”
“He’s no sorcerer,” the girl called Smallhead insisted. “He’s a deceiver and a trickster! Search his coat sleeve and you’ll find more flowers stashed away.”
The cobbler reached down the performer’s sleeve and felt around. He ripped out a bouquet of flowers. Disgusted, he crushed the blue and white petals in his meaty hand. The crowd sighed in disappointment and dispersed, resuming their morning errands, leaving the boy standing in the market square, trembling.
Smallhead, no older than twelve, raised her eyebrow. She had brown curly hair tied back in a ponytail and the tan skin of a field worker.
“Heh-eh-eh!” cried the goat that she was holding.
“I apologize for my rudeness,” she said. “But they would have torn you to pieces if they believed for another second you were something that you weren’t.”
“I didn’t mean anything malicious, I swear!” the boy insisted. He was a handsome fifteen-year-old who could pass as a young man, growing a full ginger head of hair.
A magnificent cloak covered his boxy shoulders, latched by a swirling bronze brooch above his heart. The rest of his brightly colored garments seemed new, like that of a prince. There were no rips or stains, aside from some fresh dirt along the bottom of his trousers; this was the cost of walking along Bramble’s market square. The fact that his clothes weren’t stained black and brown like everyone else, revealed him as a newcomer.
Smallhead wondered where he could be from. There were a few other scattered villages in the kingdom of Munster. Surely, he could not be from the town of Solasmore! The people there had it so good, they had no reason to ever leave. Her dusty village of Bramble made travelers a rare occurrence.
“It’s just, well, this place seemed so gloomy ... and dusty,” the boy continued, adding punctuation with his hands. “I thought I could bring the common folk some joy with an old trick my father taught me.”
“A noble intent, but clearly you’re a traveler or you would have known better than to bring fake magic to the people of Bramble.”
The boy chuckled. “That’s right. I’m just passing through, seeing each village as I go.”
“Getting mobbed at each village as you go?” Smallhead asked, her freckled face squishing into a soft smile.
“No, this was the first time I’ve ever been - mobbed - as you say,” the boy said, as he collected the blue and white flowers, tucking them back into his sleeves.
“So then, the previous villages recognized you as a crummy illusionist?” Smallhead teased.
“What? No. Maybe?” the boy stammered.
“Yes?”
“My illusions are great!”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” Smallhead grinned, enjoying the verbal joust.
“Okay, girl, what do you know about magic?” he snapped.
“I know absolutely nothing,” she replied with a straight face. “And a lesser person than I would say, ‘Neither do you.’”
The boy threw up his hands. “Okay, I surrender! Enough already. You’ve had your fun. Now, I must take my leave, for I have a long journey ahead. An evil witch to slay and an ancient relic to reclaim. The standard heroic quest.”
The girl giggled and even the goat joined in. She bowed her head low to the ground playfully, “I accept your surrender noble knight, and I wish you fair weather on your journey.”
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