The Kite.

He was definitely what you would call a weird man. No doubt about it. Bartholomew Wizzle lived in a charming little town that was like something out of a story book. The streets and alleyways were all narrow and twisty, with interesting nooks and surprising squares. The buildings all ancient and astonishingly close together. There was a Main Street, but it was mostly a market place and although the Main Street was paved with large stone slabs, the rest of the streets and alleyways were cobbled with the local blue-grey cobble stones from the silvery river that ran through the town. The town was surrounded by whispering forests and rolling hills. It was delightfully old fashioned and quaint.

You wouldn't call Mr. Wizzle a regular guy. Nope. Not in a month of Sundays. What he was though, was a master of the esoteric arts, a dealer in anomalies, and a merchant of wonders. Hidden along a winding cobblestone alley, his little shop held an assortment of oddities, many of which would amaze you, some that would send shivers down your spine, and just a few that would fire a thrill through your heart.

 Timothy Tumbleweed, a small boy, pleasant enough - for a small boy that is - carrot haired and freckled, was a sensible and sensitive young boy. He did well at school, was generally polite and was of an even disposition - very little upset him for too long. However, he’d chasing a kite that’d got away one breezy autumn morning. But try as he might, the kite was gone. Lost over the waving tops of the forest trees where it would eventually be caught in a treetop and shredded to witches knickers by strong autumn winds through tearing twigs. Timothy was downcast, it was his favourite kite and he’d spent weeks making it and now it was gone for good. He turned, reluctantly, for home. On the way, he passed by Wizzle's Emporium Of Esoteric Delight. For some strange reason, he’d not come this way before, but Timothy was instantly and irretrievably captivated by the jingling decorations and blinking lights outside the window. Unable to do anything else, he pulled open the squeaky door and entered a bizarre universe.

 Timothy marvelled as he gaped around in awe. The air was heavy with the aroma of old books and simmering potions. Exotic machines buzzed and whirred in the corners, while shelves adorned with bottles of glistening elixirs and jars of exotic artefacts from faraway places were stacked and filled every available corner.

 "Welcome, young traveller," a voice beckoned from behind a tall stack of pale volumes that looked for all the world as if they were bound in dried skin. Through the gloomy darkness of a back room, Timothy saw an elderly man with sparkling eyes and a lengthy, silver beard. “You have, fortuitously, happened upon the most wonderful place on earth and I, Bartholomew Wizzle, am a magician and a master of secrecy. With what may I assist you?

 Timothy was at first a little reserved and nervous but very quickly found, to his surprise, that he was excitedly recounting the story of how his kite had got away and how he had unexpectedly found Mr. Wizzle's shop, his eyes widened as he finished his story: “So, to be absolutely honest, I don’t really know why I’m here, but it didn’t feel like I could just pass by,” he continued, his voice mixed with optimism.

 A knowing grin spread across Mr. Wizzle's face as he motioned for Timothy to follow him to a shadowy nook at the back of the shop. A worn-out chest, adorned with glowing runes and strange glyphs, rested against the wall. It seemed to pulse and throb. The glyphs seemed to glow slightly, exuding tiny sparkles of light. “This, young Timothy, may well be your lucky day and this, young Timothy, is no ordinary chest," Mr. Wizzle stated with a serious tone. A treasure trove of magical and fantastical artefacts, it is a container for dreams. Before we proceed, though, I am duty-bound, by my oath to the Guild of Esoteric, to warn you that there is a cost associated with magic. Is the price acceptable to you?

 Without thinking, and certainly without making proper and reasoned enquiries about what the cost might be, which was mostly quite unlike him, Timothy responded with a vigorous nod. His father, an accountant, would have been horrified. But, there you go. That’s the young for you.

 Timothy felt that he was being drawn closer by a whirling vortex of colours and murmurs as Mr. Wizzle unlocked the chest with a flick of his wrist and a whispered incantation. “Explore, young Timothy,” he said. A rush of adrenaline coursed through Timothy’s veins as he fearlessly extended his hand and dove into the depths, and pulled out the most splendid kite he had ever seen.

 Mr. Wizzle grinned and put a hand on Timothy's shoulder as he came out of the chest, his eyes beaming with joy. “This kite will never be lost. Even if it is snatched by a gale, it will always return to you if you call. On the other hand, you will find that others will always want your kite and will offer you many things. You will be sorely tempted, but you must never give in. The kite is bound to you and giving it to another will curse you and yours for all eternity. Are you able to accept this young Timothy?”

 “Rather!” said a happy, if thoughtless Timothy. He really was hopeless at thinking things through, and anyway Mr Wizzle seemed so encouraging.

 “Never forget, young Timothy, that sometimes the biggest rewards in life are only attainable after you give your all for them. However, if you can maintain your enchantment, the possibilities are boundless. If not, then disaster awaits.”

 Timothy eventually grew up to be an accountant like his father, which was lucky really, because although he grew to be as dull as any accountant in history, he never lost his joy of kiting.  Also, he grew to realise that the asset value of his kite could not be re-couped by any sale at whatever price due to the tax implications of such a large capital gain and so avoided the dread curse that may have otherwise descended upon him. On the day Timothy died, a very, very old Mr. Wizzle was much gratified to welcome the return of the kite to his chest of esoterica.