Scene: A warm, clear, bright summer night in an oak forest outside of Novato, at a stage within a secluded Renaissance Faire. Mark Lewis is standing on the Ben Johnson stage, lit by flashlight held within the audience, telling the story of a girl who goes exploring in her grandmothers attic, where she finds a chest or footlocker. She pulls out many things, the last of which is a mouseskin jerkin. She puts it down and turns, looking at other curiosities, when she realizes that she is not alone. A small mannish creature, wearing that same jerkin, is now there in the attic with her. As Mark states the title characters' name, and proclaims "I am the man in the mouseskin jerkin!", a stunning shooting star trails red and gold in the sky directly behind his head, arcing like a fiery crown. The crowd, all two hundred or so of us, simultaneously "ooh" and "ah" in genuine amazement. Mark is hit with the audiences' response like he'd been hit with two hundred twilziewop pillows. His jaw drops silently at the sheer force of his audiences' reaction to the celestial contribution to the introduction of his mystical character. He is Pure. Magic. I will never forget. Thank you, Mark.