The Glowing Eyes

A man full of wonders and flash tries his act on Redstone

In the dusty town square of Redstone, where tumbleweeds rolled lazily under a scorching sun, a stranger arrived at dusk. He wore a tattered cloak, hood low, but his eyes—glowing gold like twin lanterns—drew every gaze. The townsfolk, gathered for the annual harvest fair, whispered as he stepped onto the creaky stage, his boots echoing with purpose.


“I am Zorath, weaver of miracles,” he declared, voice smooth as riverstone. His golden eyes pulsed, and with a flourish, he raised a hand. A nearby barrel of apples shuddered, then rose, floating above the crowd. Gasps rippled through the onlookers. He flicked his wrist, and the apples swirled into a perfect spiral, their red skins glinting in the torchlight. A child squealed as one apple drifted to her, landing gently in her hands.


“Magic!” cried Old Man Harrow, clutching his cane. Widow Clare, skeptical but wide-eyed, muttered, “No man’s eyes glow like that.”


Zorath’s performance escalated. He summoned sparks that danced like fireflies, conjured a gust that lifted skirts and hats, and made a stray dog bark in harmony with his hummed tune. His golden eyes seemed to pulse brighter with each trick, as if powered by starlight. The crowd was entranced, some kneeling, others tossing coins at his feet.


But young Tilda, a tinkerer with a knack for gears and wires, squinted from the back. She’d seen city gadgets before—trinkets that mimicked wonders. As Zorath levitated a pitchfork, she noticed a faint hum, like a motor, and a shadow darting behind the stage. Slipping through the crowd, she crept to the side, peering into the gloom.


There, crouched behind a curtain, were three figures. One fiddled with a control box wired to the stage, another adjusted a drone hauling the pitchfork via near-invisible threads, and a third monitored a flickering screen. Tilda’s eyes widened as she spotted a tiny camera feed showing Zorath’s face—his “glowing” eyes were contact lens displays, projecting golden light and streaming data to his crew.


She stifled a laugh, then bolted back to the crowd, grabbing her friend Jem. “It’s a scam! He’s no mage!” she hissed. Jem, bold and loud, cupped his hands and shouted, “Hey, Zorath! Nice lenses! Where’s your puppet crew?”


The crowd stirred, confused. Zorath faltered, his floating barrel wobbling. Tilda darted to the stage, yanked the curtain aside, and exposed the crew—red-faced, fumbling with their gear. The drone crashed, apples tumbled, and the pitchfork clattered to the ground. A technician swore as his screen sparked and died.


“Contact lenses?” Widow Clare cackled, pointing at Zorath’s eyes, now flickering like a bad lantern. Someone threw a tomato, splattering his cloak. The crowd roared with laughter, coins replaced by jeers. “Fake mage! Get out!” they chanted.


Zorath, flustered, tried to salvage his act, but his lenses glitched, one eye dimming to reveal a plain brown iris. His crew scrambled to pack their gizmos, tripping over wires. The townsfolk, now a gleeful mob, pelted them with rotten fruit and insults. “Weaver of miracles? Weaver of lies!” Old Man Harrow bellowed, waving his cane.


By moonrise, Zorath and his crew fled Redstone in a rickety cart, the crowd’s laughter chasing them into the desert. Tilda, grinning, pocketed a stray wire from their abandoned gear. “Magic’s nice,” she told Jem, “but a good trick’s better.”


And Redstone, still chuckling, returned to its harvest fair, wiser and merrier under the stars.