The Wishfire

For New Year's Eve: a tale of wishes and the strange magic that appears once a year when hope and desperation meet.

In the center of the village square, a fire burns year-round. Hot vermilion, coral, and scarlet flames glow constant and bright every day and every night. Except for tonight. The night when the world turns over to a new age. When hope renews and failures are forgotten. On this night, the flame blazes a brilliant emerald. A promise for new beginnings and dreams fulfilled.

Some have lost, some have gained. Some have lingered in between what was and what could be.

But all come tonight in search of something else, something other. Something more.

The Wishfire, they called it. The color shifted at sundown, radiating an enchanting glow into the streets. Signaling the promise of the flame. When it turned green, the festival began.

Stories of the tradition predated the villagers and their ancestors. Each chose their own belief. Some said a witch enchanted the pyre centuries ago to grant wishes for those who were good. Others said the flame had been carried in a jar from the depths of an ancient cavern, to bring prosperity and luck. Another rumored it was a trick by the church to instill faith, a timed chemical that produced a spectral green.

Communal tables that were usually peppered with playing children, wanderers, or pigeons turned into plentiful buffets. Savory pies and sweet crumbles packed the tables end to end. The warm, earthy scent of potatoes and cream steamed up from hot dishware. Hearty grained breads were ripped and passed, the yeasty aroma tempting hands to another and another. Baked apples, skewered and drizzled in the local honey, emitted a sticky sweet scent, drawing watering mouths and greedy bites.

An aged woman with knotted knuckles stood on the periphery selling lanterns from her cart. No villager could remember a time without her, yet none could remember seeing her throughout the year.

She’s been here one hundred years... One thousand years... Since the beginning of time... the town whispered. But all clamored for her lanterns sold only on this night.

Viridian stained-glass panels were speckled with pops of reds, blues, and pinks, emanating a mystical glow. The woman crafted a specialty oil that would burn for the duration of the year, until the next festival. Or until deliberately snuffed out.

The wish-casters would leave a lantern on their porch, lit throughout the year. Those who could not afford a lantern hung an evergreen branch on their front door, collected from the woods, replacing it diligently when it withered. Sigils, to preserve the magic of the wish.

More fires materialized around the perimeter of the square, shielding the villagers against the cold. A light snow fell and dusted the rooftops. It dissolved before it could touch the tables.

The Wishfire grew larger as more people were drawn to the gathering. Food passed from hand to hand. A man with a barrel ladled warm cider into mugs, eagerly collected by mittened-hands.

The night drew on. Bellies grew full. Whispers slithered through the gathering.

Did you cast your wish yet?

Did your wish come true this year?

What did you wish for?

Bad luck followed those who would share their wish, lest it conflict with someone else’s. One was not allowed to wish evil on another, that was a rule. But one could not control how their wish might ripple.

One year, a blacksmith wished for his business to grow two-fold. He watched the flame consume his wish, then hoped and prayed for six months. Mid-summer, his wish was answered and his customers doubled. The blacksmith shop in the neighboring town had burned down.

A woman desired a child. She had cast the same wish four years in a row with no luck. On her fifth year, conceding this would be the last, she cast the same wish. A child, please, she had written and watched the flame eat the paper, spitting out ashes that floated into the sky. The next month, her sister and her husband were involved in a carriage accident. Both died. They left behind five children, all inherited by the childless woman.

All knew for certain: the flame promised fulfilment and desires answered.

And even more certainly: the timing was never guaranteed.

Take care in your wishes, they cautioned one another.

The lanterns burned until the wish was fulfilled, or until the holder lost faith. Murmurs floated through the town anytime a lantern was extinguished.

Did their wish come true?

Did they give up?

On the first of the year, nearly every front step bore lanterns or evergreens. Decked with fresh hope and promise. By summer, nearly half the lanterns had been put out. All wondered, though none dared to ask. By the dark months, the green that had lined the streets, whether lantern or pine, became scarce.

Some approached the Wishfire hesitantly, some with confidence as they fed their requests to the flame. Wishes were written on corners of parchment, the backs of recipe cards, and old newspapers. They were whittled into wood figures, embroidered into spare cloth. All were burned. The ashes carried the wishes skyward. Villagers watched, willing the wishes to reach the one with the power to grant them.

A bell gonged, three hours until midnight.

A bearded war veteran approached the flame. The sound of strings reached his ears as a small group strummed a popular love song. Returning from journeys wrought by war, he was new to the village, to the tradition. Far from home, he wasn’t sure he believed in the lore. But he wanted change.

Love, he thought, Love would be pleasant. He held a blank piece of paper in his hand with a lead piece sharpened to a tip. He closed his eyes. Shields clanked against metal swords, the smell of iron met his nose. What was love after all he had seen? After all he had done? His eyes shone bright behind a time-beaten mask and his hands moved tenderly as he inscribed on the parchment. A woman to love, he wrote.

Folding the parchment, he tossed it into the flame, focusing as it sparked against the wood. The edges curled and crumpled. It disappeared in a small flare. Ashes twisted into the air carrying the scent of lavender and honeysuckle. The fragrance jostled his thoughts. It was welcome, familiar, soothing. A tingling spread through his chest and then faded. Nearby onlookers lifted their noses to the air and stole a whiff of the sweetness. A smile forced itself across his weathered lips.

Gong, two hours until midnight.

A young girl watched the flame from a distance. The eldest of six siblings, she had assumed the role of caregiver since her mother had passed. Her father worked long days in the fields, home only for a single meal and sleep. The children needed her. But she yearned for travel, for freedom. She dreamed of her own life. I wish to leave, she had scribbled onto the back of a picture of her family.

Sinking to her knees, Please let me leave, she prayed silently as she dropped the picture gently into the flame. A knot looped in her stomach and her hand twitched at the edge of the fire with regret. The photo turned black and sizzled in the heat, releasing a hiss of woody spices and frankincense that made her dizzy. The ashes, dark, spiraled upward and away as her heart dashed against her chest. She sighed unevenly as she stood up to find her seat.

Gong, one hour left until midnight.

A gambler lost the last of his money in a game of dice. His opponent chuckled, scooping up the winnings, chiding that maybe the gambler should wish for more coin. He had nothing left in his pockets. No paper to write on and no utensil to write with. A half-burned taper candle, light snuffed, forgotten, lay at the edge of a table. Twirling it in his fingers, it was soft enough to carve into.

Every year the man wished for money. Every year the man lost all that he made. Basking in the warmth of the Wishfire, This was the year, he told himself, The year to get rich. He inscribed onto the side of the discarded candle, Money, wealth, riches, with his fingernail. If he just had more money, he would stop gambling. He would keep it safe. Placing the half-spent candle gingerly at the base of the flame, he dragged his hand through his matted hair in anticipation. The wax oozed, melting into a small lump, absorbing into the flame. There were no ashes. He stared in a wordless plea.

The hands on the clock tower moved silently in the distance. Every few minutes, a villager would point up, indicating they were closer to midnight. Green flames twisted higher and higher into the stars. Those who had been dispersed among the tables and square steadily contracted towards the center. Forming a circular swarm around the flame, eyes flicked from the clock to the Wishfire.

The second hand passed halfway in the final minute and the countdown began out loud.

Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven...

Some joined into the counting. Some sprinted towards the fire to toss in their last-minute wish. Ashes rose up from all sides.

Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen...

Some chanted their wishes feverishly under their breath.

Nine, eight, seven...

Some covered their faces, hiding desperate tears.

Three, two, one...

Gong.

A stark wind stilled the villagers as they studied the flame. The emerald Wishfire curled into the air. It hung suspended for a moment and the earth grew colder. Foggy breaths froze in puffs. It paused, vibrating jade then evergreen. With a flash it began its recoil slowly, shrinking back to a vivid red-orange. Silence lay like a veil over the crowd. None dared move.

A crack echoed from the ground where the fire returned, snapping them back to attention.

Some stood and waited looking deeper into the flame, to the sky, for a sign. Some worked to put out the bordering fires. Some gathered the remaining food and handed out portions to those drifting home. Within an hour the square was empty except for the wanderers. And the woman selling lanterns.

She wheeled her cart to the vermilion flame, holding her hands over its warmth. From the door on the back of her cart, she produced a small metal bucket and hand spade. The bucket screeched as she pried the lid off. Around the base of the fire, she scooped the ashes from the edges with her spade, depositing them into the metal bucket. Once full to the brim, she hoisted it into the cart and closed the door. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cold.

“For next year,” she said. Patting the side of her cart, she heaved up the handles and wheeled it out of the square.

The wanderers sleeping in the square did not wake at the creak of her wheels. Those in their beds were too adrift in slumber to hear her passage. Down a walkway on the edge of the town, her footsteps left no prints in the snow. She departed, unnoticed, into the black night. The Wishfire cackled a deep scarlet into the new year.

Author’s note: This story began with this world-building prompt about festival traditions by Angeline Trevena that I participated in back in October. The Wishfire and its village evolved from those early seeds.