The Wishmonger, NEW Fiction for Steemit, Part Seven, with links to other episodes.

Roger ducked behind the nearest building and peered around the corner. The storyteller checked both ways, seemed to hesitate a moment when he didn’t find Roger where he’d expected him and then set out in the same direction as the mayor.

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Roger wondered if the man had seen him. Finally he decided it didn’t matter. He followed the storyteller down the street, ducking behind trolley stops, and waste bins whenever the man looked back. He followed him through down town and up Mulberry street.

They were now in one of the oldest parts of Wishful. Two and three story Victorians rose on either side. Some restored with brightly painted facades and neatly trimmed hedges, some in disrepair with overgrown jungles for gardens.

After pausing to look behind, the man turned up a narrow track. The boy waited until the old man had rounded a bend and then followed him onto what turned out to be a paved drive.

The trees overhead formed an arched canopy and what autumn light filtered down through the tangled branches painted speckled patterns of light and shadow on the cobblestone path. Roger forgot himself in the adventure of trespassing onto unknown territory and quickened his pace.

He rounded the bend and stopped. The old man should be in plain sight, the drive ran on straight for quite a distance, Roger hesitated uncertainly.

“I wonder where he’s gone” he said to himself, turning to look behind as a gnarled hand grabbed his shoulder and another snaked around and clamped itself over his mouth.

“Promise you won’t scream?” hissed a voice. Roger nodded and the hand over his mouth relaxed slightly. “Why are you following me?” the old man asked, stepping around in front of Roger.

“I don’t know. You acted strangely, I guess I was curious.” Roger replied.

“Curious? That’s dangerous you know. You know what they say about the cat.” The old man chuckled. Here in this more sinister surrounding he seemed less threatening somehow. Roger began to relax.

“What am I going to do with you, you just won’t take no for an answer, will you?” the old man was smiling broadly now.

“My mother says I’m stubborn,” the boy smiled.

“Oh she does, does she? What is your name boy?”

“My name?”

“Yes the thing they use to call you for supper.” The old man seemed amused by the boy’s confusion.

“Oh, that. My name is Roger, what’s yours?”

“My name doesn’t matter, but you can call me whatever you like.”

Roger peered at the old man. “Matthias, I think.”

“Matthias, what kind of name is that?” the old man smiled.

“You said whatever I like, I like Matthias.” Roger countered, confidently.

“Well, so I did, so I did, well played. Come on.” And without another word the old man took off down the drive at a quick pace.

“Wait, where are we going?” Roger huffed to keep up.

“To see it of course,” the old man answered as if it were the silliest question he’d heard all day.

“To see what?” Roger had caught his breath and was now matching Matthias stride for stride.

“I hardly see the point in telling you when I can show you in a matter of minutes,” Matthias grinned.

Roger gave up his questions and focused on keeping up. After what felt like a mile the two rounded a bend and walked up to a tall iron fence.

A double gate blocked their path with a hulking, ancient padlock and chain bundled around its center. Roger pulled up expecting Matthias to pull out a key and unlock the heavy chain. Matthias had no such intention and walked clean through the gate and continued down the drive on the other side.

“Hey, wait,” yelled Roger.

Matthias paused and turned back, “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’d like to, but I’m not sure I know that trick.” Roger looked at Matthias quizzically.

“Trick?”

“Walking through solid iron gates,” the boy quipped.

Matthias walked back toward the gate and reaching down he lifted a section of the bars. They swung easily from hinges at the top. The door was hidden completely, unless, you knew where to look, “Coming, or gawking?” Matthias asked.

Roger clamped his open mouth shut. “Sorry, thought you might be a ghost there for a second.” He stepped through the gate and the two companions continued on their way.

Roger noticed a low stone sign off the right side of the drive, right inside the gate. He walked over to it and pulled away the ivy that had long hidden its inscription. In bold script it read, “Fountain Park”. The boy stumbled back in surprise.

“Fountain Park? So it wasn’t destroyed, I knew it! But, everyone says it used to be where the courthouse is now.” Roger choked.

“It wouldn’t be the first time everyone was wrong, would it?” asked Matthias wryly.