‘One will rarely find themselves alone at ‘The Balesford Witching Well’ and the company helps the impoverished traveler to remember their morals as they spy the rather large pile of money that spills from the mouth of the congested stones. These represent wishes, after all. Shoving aside some of the coins (no doubt stoking the ire of the crowd) one can find the reason for all this trouble. Unlike most wishing wells, which are regularly dredged for charity or upkeep, a plaque at the base of ‘The Balesford’ declares that wishes made in good faith there will come true, but only so long as the money remains.
A vagabond may grab a handful of the well’s change and quash the luck of a few dozen people scattered across the globe. A crow could steal a shining dime and sow discontent into the marriage of soulmates. A careless wisher might toss a coin to the top of the pile, only to have it roll into the bushes during a storm. Those who live about ‘The Balesford Witching Well’ will say they’ve seen all of this occur.
The people camping near the well are there to protect it, or, to protect their wishes. They watch visitors with clear disdain, their eyes storm clouds- gray and volatile. They will gasp when you approach and shriek if you so much as reposition a penny that looks as though it might slide from the pile. They are happy to recite the rules of the place, but only after you have broken them.’
Strangers have surrounded ‘The Balesford Wishing Well’ when I arrive. I recognize them in time to hang back in the forest and watch from behind a tree. The group, all buzz-cuts and jeans, are heaving fistfuls of coins into the bushes and sky while a group of dirty looking people, presumably the well’s keepers, scream.
“You’re free now!” one of the strangers shouts, “Your wish might be in here, your wish might be out there! No point in sticking around!”
The keepers don’t appear particularly calmed by the stranger’s take on the well. Some are collecting the coins and trying to throw them back to the well, presumably for the benefit of those not there. Others seem to be trying to remake their own wishes on the discarded coins. None are willing to confront the strangers.
I don’t blame them. One of the men has a long hunting knife at his side. Another carries an axe. The last holds a half bottle of cheap whiskey.
Change clatters against my tree and I thin myself until the strangers have circled around again, their backs to me. One of the keepers crawls over to dig through the grass for coins. He must see me standing there but says nothing. There wouldn’t be much benefit to calling attention to either of us. The strangers continue to shout from behind.
When the keeper scurries back to the well I straighten to leave and spy a nickel under my shoe. The strangers are still facing away when I retrieve it and, in the chaos, I lob it back toward ‘The Balesford Witching Well,’ silently wishing for a swift end to this nonsense. It clears the rim and becomes lost among the coins there.
A voice behind me calls to the strangers, then. It says:
“Hey! Isn’t this that guy!”
They stop what they’re doing and, before I can run, I feel something strike my head.
The world goes dark.
-traveler