Page 4 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

Also, autumn is an excellent time to release stagnant energy, and my candles smell wonderful.

That sounds like me. I attach photographs from my last woodland market, enter my payment information, and press SUBMIT before common sense can interfere with spiritual direction.

Nothing happens. Then a small circle rotates in the center of the screen.

“Don’t reject me,” I whisper.

A confirmation appears.

APPLICATION RECEIVED.

That is not acceptance. Still, energy moves through me in a quick, bright current that raises the fine hairs along my arms.

From the kitchen, Ava says, “Did you do it?”

“I applied.”

“Good.”

The bakery opens. Morning customers arrive in familiar waves, bringing cold air, jangling keys, and opinions about muffins. I make coffees, package pastries, and tell Mrs. Archer that carrying citrine may support confidence but will not compensate for refusing to prepare for her licensing exam.

At eight fourteen, my phone vibrates beside the register. I expect an order notification. Instead, the subject line reads:

CADY SPRINGS AUTUMN FESTIVAL — APPLICATION APPROVED

Instantly, I feel a rush of air move past me, or maybe that was the bakery door opening again. The message explains that the canceled booth is located near the center of the artisan market, adjacent to the wellness garden and within easy access of the main pedestrian path. Electricity is available. Vendor check-in begins Wednesday afternoon.

At the bottom is a note from the coordinator.

“Your work sounds like exactly what our festival has been missing. We look forward to you joining us.”

Ava reads over my shoulder. “That was fast.”

“They were waiting for me.”

She looks at the photograph at the top of the email. Behind the festival tents, the mountains rise dark and jagged beneath an amber sky. Red leaves frame the edges of the image. The same mountains from my dream. A strange sensation stirs beneath my breastbone, directly over my solar plexus.

Ava feels it. “What?”

“I’ve seen this place.”

“Online?”

“No. At your birthday party, and again in a dream.”

Her gaze moves from the screen to my face. Unlike many people, Ava does not laugh when I tell her something impossible. She may dispute it, organize it, or ask whether I have eaten enough protein, but she does not laugh.

Three customers enter, followed by a construction crew that has apparently decided baked goods are essential to structural restoration. Ava turns toward the register. I look down at the acceptance email once more. For the first time, a name catches my attention beneath the vendor instructions.

On-site security and vendor check-in will be coordinated by Blackridge Protective Services. All vendors must comply with access-lane, fire-safety, and closing procedures.

The language is severe enough to drain the romance from nearly any autumn festival. I scroll past it and find the link to the vendor portal.

By noon, I have reserved a small cabin in Cady Springs, ordered two additional folding display walls, and announced the festival to my followers. Twelve people respond within the first hour. Three ask whether I am offering distance readings. One wants to know if the flower essences are safe for cats. Another writes that she lives forty minutes from Cady Springs and has already booked a Saturday appointment.

I limit myself to four private sessions each day. Experience has taught me that enthusiasm does not create energy where none remains. Giving until I am empty helps no one, although I learned that lesson much later than I should have.

By Wednesday afternoon, my vehicle contains several boxes of candles, four padded cases of crystals, three folding tables, one portable massage table, two garment bags of fabric, and enough rosemary to protect a small nation.