“Then Beggars Would Ride” • by Fred Waiss

Irwin talked to himself incessantly; no one else ever listened except the mule, and Irwin wasn’t too sure about that.

He was seldom satisfied. On this day he didn’t care for the old mule that was his mount, the rough and rutty dirt path he had chosen to follow, the gloom of the sky-high trees that grew only yards away from the path and shut out the sun, or especially the hostile foliage that thrived along the roadside. On both sides, unbroken lines of bushes. Every branch of every bush was covered with tiny thorns. He could hear them muttering and chuckling at his discomfort.

“Mule, can’t you walk more smoothly? I swear you look for every hole and every bump in the road. I’d think one of your legs was longer than the others…or shorter, but it would be a different leg every step.

“Am I going to get my turn at wishes? I took this lousy so-called road because lots of folks claimed to get their wishes along here. Seems like everyone in the county has had their chance at wishes except me.

“And every single person wastes them. Nobody has wished themselves rich or healthy or for true love.

“Mule, now, I ain’t one to complain, but it seems to me that the wish-granting powers could do a better job for us. No one ever knows when they’re gonna get a wish granted, so the first one is almost always wasted. And then they don’t know if they’ll have one or two more or if that one was all they had.

“Unless, of course, that’s the whole—”

At that moment the mule found a hole with his right front foot and a bump with his left front foot, staggered, and Irwin tumbled off and into a pair of bushes that had been waiting patiently for just such an occurrence. He heard the mocking giggles of the foliage.

They snagged his jacket and socks and especially his pants. When he put his hands down to push himself up the thorns willfully attacked his hands, piercing the skin in his palms and the backs, leaving no finger unviolated.

Irwin was not a man of deep emotions. Neither rage nor joy colored his life. So, when he finally extricated himself from the bush, which was still giggling its delight, he gave voice to his feelings according to his nature.

“Dang it, Mule, I wish you hadn’t done that.”

In less than an eye-blink he was seated atop the mule. There was no sign of his fall. His clothes and the skin on his hands and fingers were completely whole—untouched by the hundreds of tiny thorns.

Even the memory of his fall was fading fast, but not fast enough to keep Irwin from realizing that he’d just used his first wish.

In less than a minute he no longer remembered something that had never happened, but he did know that he’d used a wish.

He slid off the mule and took the reins. He walked forward, leading the white mount and talking to himself.

“Dang it, I just used a wish. I don’t know what I used it for but it must have been wasted. How many have I got left? One? Two? None?

“What should I wish for? Money? The love of Gayla Cornfeld? A long and healthy life? All three? If I had a lot of money I could probably get Gayla, too. And the rich always live long happy lives. But if I had Gayla, I wouldn’t care how much money I had. But she would. And what good what it do if I didn’t live long enough to enjoy it?

“Come to think of it, though, Dillman Starks was rich and he died at fifty from a bad liver.

“There’s so many men courtin’ Gayla, one of ‘em, or maybe all of ‘em might do me rotten if Gayla was to choose me.

“An’ money might not be that good anyway. Some people around here would slit my throat for fifty dollars. I can’t think of one that wouldn’t for a million. Even Gayla might, and she’s the sweetest person in the county.

“Long life would be good, I s’pose, but not if I was poor all the time, or lonely. I wonder if I could jam all those good things into one wish.”

He sighed and stopped walking, halting his monologue at the same time. He played with the idea of somehow getting all those wishes into one wish. Maybe if he just talked fast? But then he might mess it up and waste the wish. He knew he wasn’t the sharpest thorn on the bush, and messing up the wishes was something he was sure to do if he didn’t think it all out.

And maybe all this thinking was wasted. Maybe he only the one wish.

He sighed. He fell into his same old habit.

“Dang it, Mule, I wish I knew how many wishes I had.”

A voice in his ear spoke quietly.

“You had two.”

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Fred Waiss was born and raised in Colorado. Once he learned the world-expanding skill of reading he became permanently addicted.

At age ten his father introduced him to science fiction and Robert Heinlein in particular, which led to his reading science fiction for pleasure almost exclusively for the next ten years. The “almost” means he also read Tolkien, Howard, De Camp, and others in the fantasy genre. Like so many sf fans, he started writing the stuff as well as reading it.

He graduated from college with a degree in Education with majors in English and physical education, but teaching high school had more stress than reward so he chose another career path. He still misses the coaching aspect, but not the classroom. Somewhere in there he got married, which produced kids. They are now all grown, good and productive citizens, and living over a thousand miles away.

He is now widowed, living in Wisconsin along with a peculiar adult dog. He still works part time, and writes mostly (but not exclusively) speculative fiction both in short stories and novels. He also writes a blog and other miscellaneous on his website, www.fgwaiss.com. He says the best things about technology are the internet for research, email for communication, and submitting writing paperlessly.