Purposefully crushing the yellow charlock and purple bell heather under the heels of her boots in frustration and agitation, Selina tromped through the Highlands meadow grass. Her vexatious sister Rosalie had run away overnight, and Selina had been blamed for instigating it. She had been sent out to find her attention-seeking sibling as punishment.
Why do I have to go look for her? I was only kidding when I told the girls at school that Rosalie was a changeling and not my real sister. Rosalie's so enchanting and bonny, and her voice is so silvery—she could be a fairy, Selina grumbled as she shooed away a cloud of midges. She certainly didn’t need to go home and cause such a stink about it or create all this drama. She just wants the spotlight and is acting like such a baby. She’ll probably come flitting back home tomorrow.
Selina was taken aback, and snapped out of her pity-party, when she crested the next ridge and saw scores of yellow and orange pointed, open-air tents. Patchworked together within the confines of the plush green dale were canopy colors ranging from daffodil and lemon to tiger and carrot. Encircled by the grass and accentuated by the midmorning light, the billowing fabric elicited memories of Gram’s dahlias in the summer.
Tilting her head, she stared down at the garden of tents in wonder. Huh, that looks like one of those elusive Roma Bazaars that that crazy old timer rambled on about. I just thought he was a loon, but Rosalie loved listening to him. Hey, maybe Rosalie ran away to join the Romas? mused Selina.
With a hand resting on her jutted-out hip, she continued to watch the pavilion with interest before sighing and slowly shaking her head. I should probably take time to do a thorough search of that Bazaar. No matter her reason—shopping or escaping—Rosalie may be in there. This will probably be my only chance—if the rest of the old man’s tale is true—because the Romas will vanish after a few days with no indication of where or when they may return. I guess I wouldn’t mind seeing it either.
Selina started down the hillside, following the dull thrum pulsating in her ears to the market. The sound increased in intensity and volume, finally morphing into the rich, smooth tune of dueling violins. The jovial, hypnotic melody led her to the bustling pavilions. Standing at the entrance—wonderstruck by the conglomeration of stalls and eclectic array of people—she attempted to absorb all the splendor. Barrels of fresh spices and produce were squeezed between tables of exquisite handicrafts and tempting edible morsels. Weaving between the rows of vendors—men with pomade-slicked back hair and women wearing colorful headscarves and multiple gold necklaces and bangles—in an organized, chaotic dance were a myriad of patrons and looky-loos.
Wafting through the air, she could smell aromatic, woody and peppery, clove and cinnamon spices and severely pungent patchouli oil. However, the scent of warm, fresh bread overshadowed these, making her mouth water. This delectable aroma sparked burbling and gurgling sounds, reminding Selina that she had skipped breakfast. I might as well go get a snack while I’m looking for Rosalie.
She began strolling aimlessly down the rows, like a migrant looking for work, scouring each for her sister. Along the way, she noticed a slight breeze sneaking through. That definitely helps with this heat. So do the canopies, blocking that afternoon sun—while giving everything a pretty tinge of yellow and orange.
Following a tantalizing aroma, Selina encountered a young girl—not a day over ten but working like a pro twice her age and size—frying potato patties in a heavy black, cast iron skillet. Seasoned with sage and onions, they were deliciously crispy brown on the outside, yet still soft and fluffy white in the middle.
These remind me of Rosalie’s scrumptious potato scones, Selina thought, wiping her hand on her skirt. She only makes those for me, because she knows they’re my favorite.
Selina was starting to acknowledge that the aches in her chest were pains of remorse and concern for her missing sister. Maybe I did go too far—she still didn’t need to run away—but I guess I should get her a nice apology gift. Rosalie would love some of the jewelry the ladies are wearing, especially the necklaces.
Nearby, Selina saw a vendor selling a beautifully crafted, silver birch jewelry box shaped like a ladybug. Mother-of-pearl accentuated the spots on the wings which opened to reveal a carving of the triple spiral. These are lovely, and maybe I’ll come back to get one, but for now I need to keep looking for Rosalie and a present for her.
Around the corner, she was captivated by an array of exotic fabrics embellished with embroidery, beading, and mirrors. Having seen only lackluster, heavier wool blends with criss-crossed patterns her entire life, these foreign cloths were airy and vibrant. One was an ornate floral pattern constructed from lustrous pink, yellow, and turquoise threads, delicately woven together and outlined in glimmering gold strands.
This will make a lovely headscarf or a new skirt for me or Rosalie. She would love this elegant material. Running the silky fabric through her fingers, Selina imagined what it would look like on her angelic sister. Alas, reality stepped in and burst her bubble, sending her plummeting back to earth. Don’t be foolish. We can’t wear this. Ma will say it’s too bold and flashy; she’ll worry people will talk and think we’re showing off. Besides, this fine fabric wouldn’t survive a day.
Like she did whenever her sister came home, Selina meekly walked away. She continued the search for Rosalie and her apology gift. First, however, she discovered baked gold. Approaching a booth with a line of people in front, she caught a familiar scent and was in time to see a middle-aged woman pull a Dutch oven from a pile of amber-hot coals. She got one of the last slices of the crusty brown loaf with a pat of fresh, home-churned butter. The warm, nutty, soft bread was worth the wait.
After a few hours, despite her best efforts, Selina was satiated but frustrated. She had seen and tasted impressive things, but hadn't found Rosalie or any jewelry for her. About that time, Selina spotted an unusual, lone tent—fully enclosed by the main canopy—tucked into a corner at the back of the bazaar. Unlike the yellows and oranges overhead, this canopy was a deep royal purple with gold tassels holding the entry flaps back. Intrigued, but worried about time, she glanced outside. The shadows were growing longer and darkness was quickly approaching.
Ugh, I need to start home, but I haven’t found Rosalie or a present for her yet. The Roma Bazaar might be gone tomorrow, so I feel obligated to check it all just in case she’s there. I have to go look at that tent.
Her mind settled, she continued towards the isolated camp. Ducking inside, Selina stalled, her eyes adjusting to the dim surroundings. A single bronze oil lantern hung in the center, providing light for the entire cramped space. Dilapidated wooden crates—probably the cause of the musty, mildew smell—were stacked against the inner walls, displaying different jewelry on each side: earrings on the left, bracelets on the right, and necklaces along the back.
Selina didn't spot Rosalie, but still liked what she saw. I should be able to find Rosalie an appealing, original piece of jewelry in here. Careful to avoid the lamp, Selina transversed the narrow middle aisle to the assortment of bracelets.
Clusters of colored and adorned glass bangles, a polished-gold band with chips of amethyst detailing the edges, and a burnished-gold cuff connected to a ring by a petite link chain were showcased. Nonetheless, it was a bewitching piece of three twisted and interlocked bangles–one copper, one bronze, and one silver–that called to her. How did they learn to do that? It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Rosalie will love this.
She reached for the band, however, the instant her fingertips grazed the cool metal, Selina heard a raspy Tsk,tsk and spun around. Squinting into the darkness, she spotted an elderly woman watching her intently from a shadowy corner by the entry.
“Oh…I didn’t see you, Auntie. My sincere apologies. I was just admiring your work. These are magnificent.”
The shopkeeper shuffled into the light, gripping a gnarled wood walking stick. Taking a step back, Selina cringed when she saw the hunchbacked old crone. With scraggly, snarled hair—akin to Da’s unwashed sheep dog—she was wearing a torn, stained shift and the crevices in her worn face still contained last month's dirt. Selina saw only one milky, bloodshot eye looking at her. The other rolled to the side, showing the extent of the blown vessels.
Pointing a bony, contorted finger at the bracelet, “You no touch,” she croaked, spittle bubbles forming at the sides of her mouth. “Not for you.”
Selina was receiving signals, from the hairs on the back of her neck to the goosebumps on her arms, to run. Sadly, when her eyes shifted to the exit, the disconcerting hag stepped sideways and strategically blocked the way, “No go. Something in back, just right.” Lurching forward, she used her crook to herd Selina towards the necklace crates.
Too scared to turn her back on the woman, Selina hesitantly stepped backwards, slamming her head painfully against the dangling light. The swaying and shifting lamplight alternated between illuminating shadows and cloaking them in darkness. Shivers ran up her spine while beads of sweat ran down her neck. I never should’ve come here. Why’d I have to be so picky? Why couldn’t I have been satisfied with the fancy cloth?
Reaching into a crate, the crone pulled out a dusty, red velvet necklace box and handed it to Selina, “This you.”
Clenching and unclenching her fist, Selina tried to steady her quivering fingers before cautiously reaching for the bom…box. Astonishingly, the tarnished-bronze clasp easily opened, and she gasped in astonishment and awe at the contents.
The case held a round brushed-gold locket—about the size of a plump blueberry—on a thick braided chain. An intricate gold tree of life was embossed on a dark-red background, and three dainty hinges were spaced around the edge. Gently taking the locket out, she clicked open the spring-loaded catch and two hinged panels popped out, revealing four photo slots–one empty and the other three filled with tiny black-and-white pictures of wide-eyed girls.
“You like?” the hag implored, wafting her putrid breath into Selina’s face. Wasn’t the left eye looking at me before? She had stepped so uncomfortably close, Selina could count the yellow crusted teeth in her noxious smile—there were five.
“Y...es. It’s perfect; exactly what I've been looking for. Who’s in the pictures?”
“Look close. Maybe know.”
When Selina concentrated solely on the small pictures for the first time, one promptly stood out and her heart stopped—she was ashamed she had missed it before.
Snapping her head up, “Hey, that’s my sist….” So focused on the locket, Selina had failed to see the witch's lips moving and fingers dancing until it was too late. She remembered a flash of light, before looking up and seeing the WHOLE witch—stained shift, with nothing underneath, up to the hairs inside her nose. Why am I down here? Did I pass out? Why can’t I move?
Unexpectedly, the witch’s face started growing, eventually becoming so large, Selina only saw one small circular space at a time. She felt a sudden whoosh of breeze followed by the weirdest sensation of floating in the air. Abruptly stopping, Selina was again staring at the witch’s face, only this time it was straight into her eyeball and she was speaking.
“Been waiting for you, Selina. You as pretty as your sister.”
How did you know my…
click
“Collection complete.” The witch gently put the necklace back in the box. “Goodnight, Dearies.”
Author: Katie Yusuf
Comments