FELLSCORPE AND THE WISHING WELL

FELLSCORPE AND THE WISHING WELL, by Katherine Quevedo, art by Simon Walpole

They’d make fun of me, they would.  For this stupid shiny coin I roll between my fingers, glinting against my dark leather gloves as it flips across my knuckles.  And for the bright, polished stones arranged in a neat circle in front of me like a giant grin.  Why couldn’t the coin be one of those cursed ones I’d stolen long ago and lost soon after, something with clout?  And why couldn’t these stones crumble and ooze with moss?  Why must the sun beat down onto a picturesque wooden roof, rot-free, capping the wishing well so daintily?  I spit onto the dirt, refusing to wipe the droplets of saliva clinging to the black curls of my beard.

But I could’ve chosen to spit into the well.  I’m close enough.  Why didn’t I?  My armor strains against my shoulders as I sigh.  Because I, Fellscorpe the Feared, am a bloody fool who still believes in wishes.  And you only get one at the wishing well, say the superstitious folks who believe in it.  Like me.

I’ll use my last coin to wish for many more coins, a mountain of them, for I dare not become Fellscorpe the Penniless.  To lose a cursed treasure is one thing, but to lose all regular ones too, after ravaging my realm and neighboring ones?  If word of my ill luck gets out, tarnishes my hard-earned name…

Suddenly, the coin flies from my knuckles before I mean it to.  My hands shoot out to catch it, but it slips away and plinks off the edge, clattering down before coming to a rest at the bottom with an infuriating plop.  I grip the well’s edge and stare down into it for a moment.

Do I still get to make my wish?

It’s a quiet thought, the kind I’m not used to.  I must be destined to lose my fortune, whether a cursed trove or a single coin.  In my futile quest all these years to recover what I’d stolen then lost, I’ve battled army hordes made up of little more than bones marching of their own accord; I’ve faced rivals including sorcerers on a rampage and armored beasts as thick as ten knights.  But I don’t recall my heart racing quite like this—the kind of pulse that gets your stomach caught up with it too, twisting like a serpent with woe and regret.  And embarrassment.

I suck in a breath to compose myself.  Maybe, just maybe, you can speak your wish after tossing your coin in and it’ll still come true.  My guts squirm now with another rare feeling.  Hope.  It’s sunken deep, a long clatter and plop away, like my coin.  The hope weakens and fades as I relive my clumsy moment over and over in my mind.  The only thing more foolish than coming to the wishing well for a wish is acting like you’re too good for it while doing so.  If that’s not a guarantee for your wish to fail, then my name’s not Fellscorpe the Feared.

I bark a laugh.  “Sure wish I could redo that moment.”

The words are barely out of my mouth before I realize my two grave errors:  I used the word “wish,” and I failed to specify which moment.  The world whirs around me.  My stomach lurches as the moss-less stones, the wooden roof, the patch of dirt where my spit has dried up, all blend together.  My beard sneaks up toward my chin and stops at a shorter length.  My armor morphs into a tunic drowning the lankier frame of my youth.

My skinny outstretched arm hovers over wood and metal.  I recognize the treasure chest immediately in the flickering torchlight of this catacomb.  I know the cursed coins lie inside the chest, each like a bloodshot eye.  This is the moment I’ll become Fellscorpe the Feared.

“I wish you’d reconsider, Sir Fellscorpe.”

I turn toward the speaker.  The young man is at first desperate as he strains against the rope binding him to a pillar, then resigned as he leans his head back and pants from the fruitless effort.  He drips with sweat as he watches me, dread clear in his eyes even in the dim, crackling light.  Such a terrible look, fear where used to dwell respect.  I can’t recall his name, but his use of mine jogs something in me, particularly my title.  I pull my arm back, treasure untouched—granting his wish in a way.

He flinches as I approach, then stares in disbelief as I cut him loose.  His purity should disgust me, yet it reminds me of something I knew well a moment ago—quite well—but it’s hazy now.  Something about a wooden roof?  Peh.  It’s forgotten.

The young man leads me out of the room, casting me stunned glances now and again.  My mind’s too full to pay him any mind.  We need better protection to keep intruders from the cursed treasure, clearly, since I had so little trouble locating it and getting so close.  So close to stealing it.  I’ll have to get more guards added.  I may volunteer for the post myself, now that I’ve faced and resisted the temptation of theft.  Yes, I do believe I’ve found my calling.  I will guard the treasure and keep it from the wrong hands—the skeleton soldiers of the north I’ve heard so much about, the wicked sorcerers whose possible existence used to keep me up at night, and their like.  Somehow the thought of any threat to our glorious realm doesn’t faze me like it used to.

 

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Katherine Quevedo was born and raised just outside of Portland, Oregon, where she works as an analysis manager and lives with her husband and two sons. Her fiction has appeared in Factor Four Magazine, Apparition Literary Magazine, Nothing’s Sacred Vol. 4, Myriad Lands Vol. 2: Beyond the Edge, and Triangulation: Appetites. She holds an MBA and degrees in English and Business Economics.  When she isn’t writing, she enjoys watching movies, singing, playing old-school video games, belly dancing, and making spreadsheets. 

Simon Walpole has been drawing for as long as he can remember and is fortunate to spend his freetime working as an illustrator. He primarily use pencils, pens and markers and use a bit of digital for tweaking. As well as doing interior illustrations for various publishing formats he has also drawn a lot of maps for novels. his work can be found at his website HandDrawnHeroes.