So here’s the concluding part of “A Hatful of Wishes”. The story was written by myself and my friend Javier Javier also produced two of the illustrations. The writing process involved passing the tale back and forth with each of us alternately adding to it. It might be argued that this has produced a story without structure or purpose, but I’d say that this is pretty much true to life. I add a little to your story, and you add a little to mine.


A HATFUL OF WISHES
Part two

“Heavens above” I thought “Not five minutes ago I had a perfectly respectable road under my feet, OK it wasn’t to everybody’s tastes but it would have done the job. I had in mind a good clean end to this rather odd story, I was going to create a pogo stick, put the pumpkin person on it and dispatch him off down that road; send him back to Mexico; with a friendly wave of course. Then I would have wished for everything to have been returned to the way it was in the good old days, my old caravan rolling along under beautiful blue skies, the sun on my face, and the soporific sound of a jingling harness; all in all Vie reasonably under control. But this is what you get for letting other folks into your narrative! People are trouble, make no mistake about it, and people with pumpkins for heads are ten times worse because they appear to be possessed of a dangerous degree of imagination. Ah, if only it were possible to have other people act out the roles we assign them, life would be so much simpler.”

I turned to the pumpkin person:

” I’m not Jack of Jack and the beanstalk fame” I said, “And the fact that I wear a hat doesn’t make me Indiana Jones, really I’ve got no head for heights and no taste for adventure. Also I happen to be 60 years old; I do hope I’m not supposed to climb that damn thing.”

“Just because we are presented with a tree we need not suppose that we are bound to climb it,” said Jane, coming over all Confucius, “It may be that many of the impressive things in our story are purely incidental and have no real meaning, while other apparently trivial occurrences may lead to momentous changes.”

Well, I could see that Jane was beginning to freak herself out a bit with these utterances, so I did a bit of wishing to change the subject and move us on to something a little less metaphysical. I had just remembered something I had often fantasized about.

“Ayup” I said, “I wish I was the proprietor of an antiquarian bookshop. And there, under the shade of the giant tree, a beautiful old fashioned bookshop popped into being. It was all swirling glass windows and higgledy-piggledy roof tiles and the shop sign read:

MONSIEUR FANTASY’S ANTIQUARIAN BOOKS

I opened the door, and the tinkle of the doorbell sounded to me as good as Gabriel blowing his trumpet as I stepped into heaven. This was the bookshop of my dreams. From floor to ceiling it was lined with leather bound volumes, rare editions, and undiscovered treasures and the dusty air were heady with the smell of them. I went to a shelf and began to read the spines, every one of them beautifully decorated and emblazoned with gilt. I could give you a list of the amazing titles I saw but I’ll spare you that. The one that really excited me was Bram Stokers Dracula, illustrated by Harry Clark! As far as I knew Clark had never illustrated Dracula and yet……. I plucked the book from the shelf, and began looking through it. The illustrations were Clark at his sinister best. I was so deeply engrossed in the book that I failed to hear the tinkle of the doorbell; it was the sudden drop in temperature and the cold tingle up my spine which caused me to turn around.

Yep it was the man himself, standing in my fantasy bookshop large as life and twice as scary; Count Dracula!

“Does anybody fancy a cup of tea?” asked Jane.

Such invitation had come as if on cue, the Count graciously set aside his long, black cape and sat down in the nearest chair. I hadn’t noticed it, but there were many in the library, all seemed quite comfortable, just perfect for reading all day long in them.

“Vy yes, zank yoo”, said the Count, “vithout zugar pleez”.

I was astounded that a person such as the dreaded and feared Count Dracula would act so calmly, much less drink tea. I would have expected he drank the occasional herb infusion mixed with A+, but never the common beverage we folks drank every day.
Also, I was curious about how he had managed to get in the shop without our invitation. If I remembered correctly, vampires were not allowed in any building unless the owner expressively invited them in. While I was pondering this, Jane had come back with a tray of delicious smelling mint tea. Its freshness filled the room. Neither I nor Mr. Dracula could refrain ourselves of enthusiastically inhaling the smell. Strangely enough, I thought I heard the books breathe in the wonderful aroma. Just as if these inanimate beings could… but these thoughts were set aside, for at that precise moment, I recalled the pumpkin creature.

“Jane, have you seen the pumpkin fellow?” I asked, imagining he was around there somewhere.

Jane was still serving tea and placing the sugar and creams in a convenient little table near us. “I think I saw him in the folklore section.”

My curiosity satisfied, I then proceeded to take my cup of tea. Dracula did the same, all of course in such a fine fashion that would put most gents to shame. I wasn’t sure how to approach our peculiar guest, so, taking a good drink of my cup to build up the courage needed (you may not know this, but one of mint’s properties is exactly that: it gives courage, but mostly cool to the person using it, that is why the Britons drank it before war). After having two more cups (such quantities were required to address the lord of vampires himself), I was able muster my question:

“Count Dracula, if I may be so bold as to ask you, how come you were able to enter my shop without needing any invitation?”

The vampire calmly lowered the cup and smiled. It wouldn’t have been so terrible if it weren’t for his enormous teeth.

“Vat yoo did invait me. Ven yoo opend the bok, yoo vere colling me. It happenz vit ev’ry bok one openz” said Count Dracula candidly, making him seem more frightening due to such expression one is not accustomed to imagine in one like him. Fortunately the mint was of a strong type, so I didn’t sweat nor trembled, even though I was shaking like jelly in my mind.

“I see. Then if I were to open, let’s say Crime and punishment: would Raskolnikov come knocking at my door?”

“Dun’t ve zilly, it is not neccezarry. It oll dependz if ze reeder can zummoan us.”

I nodded at this. I was aware it was a half truth: the more one gets absorbed in the books, the more real they become. But I was also thinking that the ability to wish for anything had something to do with the Count’s visit.

“Alright, so it is all about the imagination of the reader, but if you don’t mind me asking, why are you drinking tea instead of going for our necks?” I knew I was touching a delicate subject, but both the mint and the ability to whisk him away at any given time were pretty reassuring.

Upon hearing my question, he laughed quite hard. I didn’t like it at all. It sounded like a somewhat dead laughter, or perhaps like something dead laughing. A chill ran through my spine and I was quite sure the rest of the books cringed with the same reaction.

“Zat is ze problem I find maiself most of ze time. Peppl think I onle drink belood, but it is becoz of ze writer dat such thing is belived. Yes I okaysionally drink it, but very rare. Writers exaggerate things so much. I dun’t nou if it is for selling more boks or because they are that vay to beggin vith. Maybe they do it to maik it more interesting. “

Just as Dracula was saying this, the pumpkin head came striding with Jane behind him.

“27+65/4x*34-47! 542-193*12+572 > 324y+12x*541! a+421t-32=77x?” said the pumpkin man.

Both Dracula and I looked at them inquisitively.

“Don’t mind us” said Jane, “he was shuffling the rest of the library and an algebra book got into his head by accident, now all he does is talk like that. I’m trying to get it out, but he doesn’t stay still.”
Jane managed to make him sit down and remove the aforementioned book.

“Thanks, Miss Jane” said the grateful pumpkin head. “hew! I thought for a moment that 32 was blue during Wednesdays, what a relief!”

We eyed each other, not knowing what to say.

“Well, anyways I must be off now, it is getting rather late and I would like to return home before it gets too dark.”

None of us had noticed it, but just as he had mentioned, outside it was getting darker. Although there was neither sun nor moon, the white that had been during the last ours, had now turned into a deep blue.

None of us had noticed it, but just as he had mentioned, it was getting darker outside. Although there was neither sun nor moon, the white that had been during the last hours had now turned into a deep blue.
“So you had better wish our friend the Pumpkin man away,” said Jane.
“Well I don’t want to just wish him away,” I replied. “I think he deserves rather better than that, don’t you?”
“Well, yes I suppose so,” said Jane, “but what did you have in mind?”
“You’ll see,” I said. I began to look through the books under authors with the initial C. I found what I was looking for soon enough. “erhaps you would like to read this,” I suggested, handing the book to the Pumpkin man. Our friend took the book and began to read aloud.
“CAPITULO 1
QUE TRATA DE LA CONDICION Y EJERCICO DEL FAMOSO HIDALGO DON QUIJOTE DE LA MANCHA
En un lugar de la Mancha, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme,………”

I think maybe one or two of the little hats and twiddles on the letters have gone astray there, but you probably get the picture. In any event the Pumpkin man read on and if the burning eyes of a pumpkin head can be said to grow vague and misty then that is just what they appeared to do; I was in no doubt that the words he read were conjuring wonderful visions for him. The words had no meaning for Jane and I and still less for Sula. What Count D made of them I have no idea. But must say we were all rapt by the musicality of the foreign voice.
It was Sula who heard it first, pricking up her ears and cocking her head from side to side in that quizzical canine manner; the sound of hooves clattering across mosaic tiles. The Pumpkin man immediately stopped reading and hurried outside closely followed by the rest of us. Riding towards us under the moonless starless midnight blue sky, came the at once familiar figure of the famous Don Quijote. On either sides of him were two donkeys; one of the beasts was rider less while on the other rode the ever-faithful Sancho Panza. Having reached the door of the bookshop, the riders dismounted and greeted the Pumpkin man like one of their own, which is to say like a mythical personage who is indisputably more real than most people you are ever likely to meet.
The conversation the three of them had was extremely animated and I am sure very entertaining, accompanied as it was by much laughter and back slapping, but not being Spanish speakers the rest of us could only stand by and watch in bemusement. Eventually, however, the Pumpkin man turned to Jane and myself and said, “My friends I must go now. I am riding with Don Quijote and Sancho. They assure me we will be in Mexico before you can say Jack of the Robinson.”
Well, I have never liked arrivals and departures, they tend to make me feel like something is expected of me, something that I never get quite right. So it’s enough to say that I shook the Pumpkin man by the hand while Jane gave him a hug and said all the right things on behalf of both of us. And that was that. The three comrades rode off together into the darkness, homeward bound.

“Ayup,” said Dracula, turning to face Jane and myself. “What’s ont agenda now then?” We both looked at him in amazement; the Count had just spoken to us with a broad Yorkshire accent! “What’s going on?” I exclaimed, “What happened to your sinister Transylvanian thing?”
“Oh that’s nowt fer thee ta worry abart,” replied Dracula, “That daft way a’ takin is just fer ’t films. Hollywood folk reckoned me proper way a takin wouldn’t go down reet well. I were born in Whitby tha knows, not a lot of folk know that. Any road up, things are lookin’ a bit ont quiet side round ‘ere, lets be ‘avin a party, what does tha say ta that?” It appeared that the Count’s question was entirely rhetorical because having asked it he threw his arms in the air. (They did stay attached at the shoulders) and called out..
“By blood and gore, by the creaking door,
By fangs in the neck, by thump by ‘eck,
I SUMMON THE FORCES OF DARKNESS.”

And needless to say the forces of darkness materialized. Ghouls and ghosts, werewolves and mummies, devils and demons, and many’s and many’s a nameless, slimy abomination; gatecrashers like you’ve never seen. “No no no!” insisted Jane, looking at me very severely indeed, “I can’t be doing with all of this. I want this story brought to an end satisfactorily or otherwise, and I want it done forthwith, like now. I mean immediately.” Well you really don’t want to argue with Jane when she is in that kind of mood, so I had no alternative but to close the book on the entire escapade. SNAP I shut it just like that and the whole thing - Drac, antiquarian bookshop and the lot - just disappeared, gone, like it never was.
Now you may think that is no way to end a story, that stories shouldn’t end anything like so abruptly, but I assure you it can be done, try it yourself. You can close the book on a chapter of your life anytime it takes your fancy, you can even pick up an entirely different book and pretend to be someone completely different. Of course, there are always consequences; for instance you may open a book and find yourself in a completely foreign land; oh yes this can happen, be prepared for anything.
Well that was a hatful of wishes, it was for sure; and what are wishes worth? Well not very much I’m sorry to say; buy them two-a-penny from the seller of stars, and they’re expensive even at that price. Better surrender to the raggle-taggle road. Time mends most things and he’s done a pretty good job on the wheel of my beloved caravan. So away we go again, Jane and I, rolling along together, on most days quite merrily, with Sula the dog running alongside barking and laughing...



Please note: Javier and I intend to produce a limited edition of “A Hatful of Wishes”. We envisage that this will be a most sumptuous production, hand written in genuine gryphon’s blood, on fine handmade paper, and bound in magnificent scarlet dragon hide. If you have more money than sense then this could be the very thing you have been waiting for.
Price on application.