The Secret to Apple Bobbing

     And waits.

     And waits.

     Bart fishes a pocket watch out of his pants pocket and squints at the clock’s hands through the broken glass cover. Bobbing was always a bit slower in the mornings, but there were always a few visitors lined up, usually locals getting their turns in before tourists started pouring into the town. Not once in the years since he had permanently moved his operations into Neovia had he not had a single patron show up during opening.

     Fifteen minutes pass. Bart tosses an apple up and down in his hand as he stares bored at the cobblestone roads. There were people out and about, he notices, but they all seem to be headed towards some unknown destination at the opposite edge of town. Perhaps some tragic accident had occurred—something that was unfortunately not unusual for this particular part of the woods.

     A small brown Wocky wearing a scarf rushes past.

     “Excuse me! If I can have a moment of your time,” he calls, and the Wocky stops short—both figuratively and literally, as he’s small enough that the top of his ears barely reach the Gnorbu’s chest. “What’s all the commotion about? Did someone die?”

     “No.” The Wocky pulls his scarf down as he speaks and ponders this. “Well, at least, not as far as I know. Anyway, there’s some kind of announcement being made at the Soapbox. Didn’t you get a flyer on your doorstep this morning?”

     He did not, but he doesn’t let his disgruntlement show. “Ah, I’m afraid not! Must have missed me. Did it say what kind of announcement?”

     The Wocky shrugs. “Not really. It sounded pretty important, though.” With that, he leaves at a brisk pace, leaving Bart to chew on this new information. On the other hand, he could miss customers if he left. But on the other hand, there wouldn’t be any customers if everyone was gathering elsewhere, and at any rate, he would hate to be the only one left out of the loop.

     Curiosity gets the better of him. He wipes the chalkboard sign clean with his sleeve and writes “OUT—BACK 10 MINUTES” across it, then tosses his apple aside as he heads for the Soapbox.

     The Soapbox’s actual name was the Neovian Fine Arts Theater, though it was less of an actual theater and more just a large outdoor stage. Its true purpose was to host plays and dramas, but it was more commonly used for drama of a different kind. Local gossip, attempts at stopping riots, and attempts at starting riots were all commonplace occurrences there, and because there’s nothing Neovians love more than a good bit of gossip, such events were attended in large numbers.

     Such is the case today, as Bart discovers a huge crowd of Neopets already gathered around the Soapbox when he arrives, blocking his view of the stage. He forces his way through the masses, uttering a few insincere “pardon me”s as he gets close enough to see the speaker.

     Marion, dressed in his finest. Of course it is.

     The Hissi has his wings folded behind his back, his posture straight, but his body coiled as if he’s about to strike at something. Gone was his sickly, quiet demeanor, replaced with the confidence one only gets when they were used to speaking in front of huge crowds. He holds up a wing, and the chatter amongst the townspeople quiets.

     “My fellow Neovians, thank you for taking the time out of your busy lives to listen to what I have to say. Trust me, it will be well worth your while.” He bows his head to the crowd. “My name is Marion Hillsbury, and I am here today to warn you about a two-hundred year old threat lurking in this very town.”

     Bart gripes about something under his breath as chatter ripples through the gathered Neopets. A Korbat to his left gives him a confused look; he shrugs his shoulders in return and does the universal “this-guy-is-crazy” gesture.

     “Many years ago, I served as the coroner of this town. Late into my career, I began to experience an…let’s say an unusual increase in business, which, while something that most professions would appreciate, I understandably found disconcerting.”

     “It didn’t take me long to find the culprit, given the green fur I found during my inspections. Once I eliminated those in the town with feathers, bare skin, or scales, I simply had to narrow down the suspects to those who were painted green and had no alibi. There was only one match. The individual in question worked as a costermonger selling fresh fruits on the street. He was the same as he was today—friendly, fun-loving, and well-loved by the townspeople. No questions, please,” he adds as someone in the front row raises their hand.

     “This guy is a real piece of work, isn’t he?” Bart whispers sardonically to the Vandegyre in front of him, jabbing a thumb as the stage. The Vandagyre eyes his mane suspiciously.

     “Bart, don’t you have green fur?”

     He wants to point out what a stupid question that is. Instead, he settles for a more polite response. “Of course I do; got it from my mum, I did. That doesn’t mean I’m some kind of crazed undead criminal or whatever nonsense he’s peddling.”

     “Quiet! Let me continue,” Marion interjects, and slowly the background noise tapers off. “Now, this individual was bold. He had done little to hide his tracks, and clearly had no fear of being caught or even suspected. After all…” Marion pauses slowly, deliberately, allowing the tension to rise to a breaking point.

     “...Who would suspect dear old Vandebart Biggsby of such a crime?”

     The crowd explodes.

     “Rotten little Meepit,” Bart growls at the stage as everyone turns to look at him. He shoves the Vandagyre in front of him with enough force to nearly knock her to the ground. “Move!”

     “Naturally, I had to confront him about the situation to confirm my suspicions were correct,” Marion monologues, speaking loud enough to just barely be heard over the noise. “When I cornered him, he offered up a bribe of almost two hundred thousand Neopoints in exchange for my cooperation.”

     The Hissi pauses and closes his eyes briefly, a pained look on his face, though it’s anyone’s guess as to how much of it is real and how much is an exaggeration for the crowd. “I am not at all proud to admit it, but I took the money and the vow of silence. I was young and foolish at the time, and ever since then I’ve been haunted by my choices. Regardless, we carried on in that way for quite some time.”

     “Let it be known, however, that I do have a conscience. Eventually the guilt got the better of me, and I came clean to the authorities. Vandebart was none too happy about this, as you can imagine, but eventually he was caught and found to be guilty. The punishment,” he states, drawing a wing across his throat to make his meaning clear, “came less than a week later.”

     “That should have been the end of this story. But while Vandebart did not fear being caught, he did fear death more than anything, and thus he had already prepared for that inevitably in advance.”

     Bart is getting close to the stage now. Marion locks eyes with him, and, with a motion so fast it could easily be missed, grins smugly in triumph.

     “My fellow Neovians, there is black magic in this town; the very black magic that our founders once used! It is strong enough that even non-magic users like Vandebart could take advantage of it. All he needed to ensure life after death was an object—something nondescript that he could be sure would be kept on him after his demise. And what proper Neovian, I ask you, would ever deny a man’s last wish…to be buried dressed in his finest hat?”

     “MARION!”

     The Hissi gracefully slithers aside as Bart heaves himself up over the front of the stage. “Ah, the man of the hour! Have anything to say for yourself?”

     “Have anything to—YES, of course I have something to say!” Bart turns his attention to the crowd. “You folks have known me for years now! Do you genuinely think I, Vandebart Biggsby, your beloved and—may I add—very handsome apple vendor, would do such horrible things? And hat magic? Really? Come on, now!”

     To Bart’s surprise, Marion nods. “Vandebart has a point.”

     “I do—? I mean, of course I do!”

     Marion ignores him. “After all, it would not be fair for me to show up out of nowhere and expect you to turn against one of your own just based on my own word. Surely there’s nothing suspicious about good old Apple Bobbing Bart, is there? I’m sure none of you have been able to sense the dark magic he uses, and I’m also sure none of you have had any strange experiences while visiting his stand…say, unusual reflections in the water that left you unsettled for days, or a sickening feeling creeping up your spine at the sight of his hat.”

     A Korbat raises his wing. He’s one of Bart’s regulars, an easy mark that lost more items than he ever gained. “I saw a weird glow coming from his barrel one time!”

     “I once saw his hat being reflected—and only his hat,” a Tonu muses. “I thought I just imagined it, but now…”

     “I heard some eerie music during my bob. I tried to hunt it down, but couldn’t find the source.”

     “Wait, is black magic the reason he looks so shabby all the time? Or is that just poor hygiene?”

     “People, people!” Bart barks, silencing the chatter. “Listen to yourselves! Look, the Haunted Woods is full of strange things, I won’t deny that. But getting all worked up about simple coincidences and baseless superstition is nothing short of mass hysteria, I’ll tell you what.”

     “Don’t listen to him,” Marion interjects. “Trust your intuition! You know what I’m saying is true.”

     Bart snorts. “Marion, if we’re going entirely off of gut feelings, then I have to say that I find you pretty suspicious right now. How about some real proof for these fine people, hm? Or you can save face and admit you’re lying right now, if you prefer.”

     Marion studies him with his one good eye. “Very well. Vandebart, the magic surrounding your hat is the only thing keeping you alive right now, correct?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “That means that if you ever remove it, even for a moment, your life—and your head—goes with it. Therefore, I have one simple request for you. Vandebart Biggsby…would you mind taking off your hat for a moment?”

     “I don’t—I mean, of course! Not a problem, not a problem at all.” He chuckles and, with a flourish, pulls his hat over his ears and off his head. “I have a bit of a bald spot, which as you can imagine is very embarrassing for a Gnorbu, but I’m willing to do anything if it helps convince these fine people.”

     “Wonderful.” Marion holds out his wing. “Now hand it to me.”

     Bart’s grip on the hat’s brim tightens. He narrows his eyes, heartbeat increasing, mouth going dry. Just what kind of game is being played here? “Hold on just a moment. Why should I? I’m not just handing my hat over to any nit who asks for it.”

     Marion hisses impatiently. “Because you are still touching it, so the magic is still in effect. If you are truly innocent, then prove it by dropping the hat on the stage—or give it to me.”

     Marion lunges.

     Bart’s instincts react before he does. He dives to the side and falls clean off the stage, bystanders scattering as he slams into the ground below. The Gnorbu rolls back onto his feet, wheezing, shielding his hat underneath himself as if it were a life preserver. He takes one look at the increasingly angry crowd—and Marion, still on stage—and bolts, shoving people out of the way as he flees.

     “Go on, leave!” he hears Marion call behind him. “And take your cursed hat with you!”

     To be continued…