Barnaby rubbed his eyes and stepped up onto the stoop to peer in again. He must have bumped the handle, for the polished brass unlatched and the door creaked open. A fragrance of rum, orange, cinnamon, and bergamot wafted over him and Barnaby smelled a Christmas of deepest dreams and long ago.
“Come in! It is rude to linger before my door and let uninvited Winter to play in my shop!” bellowed a jovial voice.
The wind arose and gusted in a particular place around Barnaby’s collar, managing to duck under the scarf again. Before he could shiver, he was in the shop and shutting the door behind. Chastened, his collar turned warm once again with the inviting interior, and he straightened to better see his surroundings.
Tins sat next to packages of dried fruit. Cloth satchels towered, stacked over pairs of boots, no pair alike. A flock of round wooden cages swung gently overhead, mostly empty but for the one with a bobbing violet-eyed cockatiel of ivory. It cocked an eye at Barnaby and bobbed all the more, content to bump its home against the row of the rest and set them to swinging with increased vigor. To Barnaby’s gradual understanding, nothing appeared set in any order. The two battered brown violin cases did not belong next to the crates of what appeared to be strange nuts hung with self-service bags and a dull tin scoop. Books with leather bindings or cloth managed to have a few shelves to themselves but for the oddment of an orb of crystal, bedraggled hat or glove, or even a dusty pillow upon which rested a set of pearly ancient dentures. And yes, just as he had seen through the window, the ceiling reached far larger than the exterior’s roof.
From behind a dusty black curtain half-concealing a back room, a tall figure emerged. Barnaby stepped backward, bumping into a rickety shelf. Something slid from the top and aimed for the floor but his hand reached out automatically and caught it before it could shatter.
The shop owner was easily as tall as Barnaby and bigger. A deep forest green vest over carefully starched white shirt, a gleaming silver watch chain, and smart ebony-colored trousers would easily place him as one who stepped out of Dickens or some other Victorian-era drama. But for the fact he was a rat.
Indeed, glossy black fur, silver whiskers on an aged and grey muzzle, ears which popped through the brim of top hat through specially cut slits – there could be no mistake and yet Barnaby could scarcely believe it as the rat rested its paws on the display case counter and leaned forward. “A very Merry Christmas to you, Mr…?”
“Barnaby. Barnaby Harris,” Barnaby blinked and shook his head. He swallowed hard.
“Mr. Harris!” the booming voice he heard a moment ago rolled again from the rat’s lips and now accompanied a toothy grin. “By any chance related to Anatoly Harris of the Harrises of Lancaster?” His voice trailed off as he nodded at Barnaby’s expression. “No, I think not. Then you might have been here earlier. Well, never mind!” He rubbed his paws together in a brisk manner, “Mr. Harris, how may I assist you this fine day? You are out shopping for Christmas, yes?”
Floundering for something normal to say, Barnaby half-laughed, half-gasped. “Yes, that’s correct. A gift. Many gifts.”
“One for your daughter, if I am not mistaken.” The rat stroked his whiskers. “Well, allow me to introduce myself,” the grin brightened his pensive expression into a magnanimous one. “I am Mr. Mince, proprietor of Some Things Magic, the emporium of the enigmatic and wondrous from everywhere and nowhere else.”
“Wait, daughter?” Barnaby tilted his head and fumbled with the thing in his hand. He looked down at it at last and gulped. He had seen a Fabregé egg once before in a catalog, accompanied by a lot of zeros before the decimal point in the price. This one had a pricetag with no numbers but a strange script instead. “How did you know?”
“One would hardly come here, gloveless and shiny in the ring finger where no ring abides, for a boy.” Mr. Mince sniffed. “I rarely see men of your age here, more of the younger men, older men, and boys.” A sneer curled his gummy lip, a glint of red in one bulbous eye. “Excellent customers, the boys.” He frowned. “That egg might bedazzle your daughter but ultimately, she is, I would wager, about eight years too young to know what it means. Besides, the surprise is in the museum and cannot be given up for love or money.”
“But-“
“Although, if you did have a blue Qur’an, I would be more inclined et nunc vivit mos est and strike a deal,” Mr. Mince went on. The red gleam entered his eye once again. “I seriously doubt it, but you wouldn’t happen to know of one, would you?”
“No, I-“
“I thought not. I thought not. No, I have just the thing for your little lass, step this way.” Mr. Mince waddled around the end of the counter and beckoned Barnaby towards the far end of the shop. The shelves grew more and more cluttered, the oddments upon them often glowing or casting strange light from within.
A crimson lantern with a strange aperture around its glass window winked out as Barnaby passed and he stopped suddenly. Before he could reach toward it, a slap to his hand brought him back to himself. “Tut!” scolded Mr. Mince. “Look with your eyes, not with your hands. Now, come,” he placed a firm paw on Barnaby’s shoulder and drew him to the back wall.
A large portion of a built-in shelf was taken up by an enormous fish tank. A fine, hot mist hovered over the top, sending sweltering heat over them. Within the tank, coils and strands of blue glass tubes wound and circled through the softly bubbling deeps, exuding a pale light from a frothing liquid within. The sway of underwater plants, the play of shadow from rock formation, and the dart and dip of fish turned the tank into a spectral scene. As Barnaby gaped in awe, a flitting silver fish ducked and wove around and through a school of inky guppies which were almost indistinguishable from the shadows they sought. A twisty coil of green and white wound around one section of lighting, flat-nosed heads flaring tiny nostrils at either end and blinking through filmy gold eyes. What he thought was a patch of sickly emerald and ichorine choral lashed out one spiny protrusion and speared through a passing fat fish of iridescent hue. The fish exploded into gelatinous gibbets with a flurry of bubbles and reformed into two shimmering fish. The two flitted and dived around the coral patch creature, nibbling here and there, dodging the frantic strikes of its spiky mandibles for the most part and disassembling into more and smaller members when they could not.
“There at the bottom, do you see?” Mr. Mince tapped the glass. The rocks and detritus at the bottom of the aquarium were black and brown and mottled. Starfish inched along and froze with each passage of low-swimming fish. A few anemones waved tendrils from hollows, and dozens of limpets and barnacles clung to the bottom. Barnaby strained his eyes and made out a faint glint nestled on the sand between four boulders. “Your little girl will love it! Why, it is what every young lady dreams of!”
“For those of us,” Barnaby managed, tearing his gaze away. “Who aren’t young ladies and have other dreams, what do they dream of?”
“Trust me,” Mr. Mince rested a companionable paw on his shoulder and waved his other in an expansive gesture. “If she doesn’t believe you are the best father in the entire realm of Midgard, you can return it for a full refund. Naturally,” the rat merchant nodded with a gracious smile, “I would be happy to offer mercator fidem.”
“Mercator…” Barnaby struggled to maintain comprehension. To the rescue rose the Latin lessons of college days when he yearned to be an archaeologist. “’Merchant credit?’”
“A man of learning!” Mr. Mince’s eyes widened. “Surely one as educated as yourself would take this rare opportunity!”
“But what is it?” asked Barnaby.
Drawing him closer, the rat whispered, “A wishing ring.”
<—Chapter One: Some Things Magic
Chapter Three: Depths Plumbed—>
Author’s Note: Chapter two of the first short story! Thanks for reading and please feel free to drop a comment, feedback, review, question. I shall be posting the chapters weekly. I just decided that fifteen minutes ago. Cheers, all!
Photo by Jason King on Unsplash
Elk Writer 