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Prologue

The water had come to meet me. I can feel myself sinking, the light that reaches me from above the waves slowly becoming dimmer. I can feel the frantic beat of my heart and see my hands clawing madly, trying to reach the surface. My feet paddle restlessly, trying to turn me around so the water will stop filling my lungs. After some time, my movements stop. I can barely see the bubbles going up anymore. My limbs still, and I quietly slip into the cold darkness.

Chapter 1- The Test

Sarah and I were getting our magic tested.

The “experiment”, as the organizers called it, was being conducted in The Waterfall Mall. It had an official name, but the people in town called it “The Waterfall Mall”, as if there were many malls here and we needed to differentiate between all of them. 

I didn’t exactly know all the intricacies of the experiment, but they drew people in by offering to test our magic. As far as I knew, the subjects could ask for more information on what the conclusions obtained would be used for, but the 2000 golden compensation was more enticing to me. Most magic-testing was not widely available, and very expensive to boot. These people, whoever they were, brought it to this little town and offered to pay us. I was glad I signed us up as soon as I did. The available spots filled with incredible speed.

All this taken into account, I was glad Sarah and I were walking over there with time to spare. I was still marveling at the accomplishment: waking Sarah up, managing for her not to loathe me for waking her up, waiting for her to get ready with the leisure and care she normally took in the task, and even scarfing down some breakfast before getting out of the house. I should’ve gotten a prize or something.

—I wouldn’t have bothered with this thing if they weren’t paying.—She declared, clearly fighting the urge to rub her sleepy eyes and ruin her perfect mascara.
I snorted.—Why’s that?—

—Because I already know I’m getting negative.—She answered lightly, which I couldn’t help but admire.—No one in my family’s been a magician for Lord knows how long.—

—Really?—I asked, more out of a need for something to answer than because I didn’t believe her. I could count in one hand the number of magicians in town.
—Really. What are you hoping for?—She asked, eyeing me curiously.

I turned to take a look around the street we were walking along, hoping she’d think I was interested in some aspect of the town I hadn’t yet noticed in the three years I had lived here.—I’m just hoping they’ll really give us the money they promised.—I jested. Sarah laughed but didn’t press the issue further.

As we walked in front of the market, the late summer breeze brought the smell of Lilies my way. The field was just behind the market, which was, maybe, one of the reasons I liked it so much. The mall was some ten minutes away. This way took us through the suburb, in which all the houses were made in my favorite style: ample, tall ceilings, and the best part: the roof, sides, and back were covered in green, bright, healthy-looking grass. The style made it easy to imagine the houses as little mountains in which kids played all day, pretending to be magicians, adventurers, conquerors. Maybe just playing hide-and-seek. Those houses just smelled of happy childhoods to me. They gave me the impression that life there was warm, loving, homey. 

As I kept looking, I loved to see how the mounds of grass made by the houses contrasted with the expanses of flat terrain that surrounded the town. Everywhere you looked around here, any and all lawns were a shiny shade of green and were studded randomly with flowers of many colors that grew independent of anything: in the middle of yards, in between rows of strawberry fields, on the roofs of the grass-covered houses. Red roses with petals like velvet, fuzzy dandelions, white lilies that almost shone.

—Ew!—Sarah’s expression of disgust startled me. She had stopped walking and was rubbing her shoe in a clean part of the sidewalk, apparently having stepped on mud. 

She glanced at the nearest suburban house with spite, as if it had offended her.—I hate these houses.—She mumbled loud enough for me to hear.
—Really?—I glanced at one, wondering if we were looking at the same dwelling.

—Really.—She replied.—The kids who live around are always leaving mud prints for me to step on.—

—Well…—I tried reasoning.—Then it’s not the houses you hate. It’s the kids who leave the mud prints.—

She glared at me as if I was completely missing the point. In all fairness, I probably was.

—Have you always hated them?—I wondered, trying to change the direction of the subject, and also because I had a hard time picturing a kid with a reason to hate these houses.
—Pretty much.—She answered.—I had friends in school who lived here. When they invited us, we came and played capture the flag, we’d roll down into the backyard, play hide and seek. Whatever we did, we’d always end up muddy.—She reminisced.—In the end, I just kinda stopped coming.—

I guessed her reason was good. We had a different taste in architecture, it was all. Me, for example, hated the houses in our neighborhood. They were weirdly flat and uniform-looking, squarish in design, no interesting roofs or details to them. They were supposed to be a modern style, but the combination of the low ceilings, the lack of ample windows, and the fancy, dark wooden panels covering everything from the front porch to the bathroom cabinets gave me the impression that the places always smelled musty, and that dust was lingering on every corner. I swore, most of the time, I felt like we were living inside somebody’s attic: the lack of light and low ceilings made everything feel cramped, despite my mother telling anybody who would listen how much she liked her house. I guessed it was the perfect size, what with dad gone and Wes having already left for Westwood.

I looked around the neighborhood, past the different-sized houses that were all in the same grassy-roofed style. Children ran as they played with their siblings, friends, and pets, grandmothers sat on porches drinking lemonade with friends, daughters or grandchildren, women walked around in sundresses, everybody making use of the last of the summer weeks.

We arrived at the mall with a whole 20 minutes to spare. The place was nice. It was as big as a building in the center of town could be, the floor a polished concrete painted pale yellow, one single story high, two rows of little stores, one on each side. A shop here or there boasted an enchanted earth mat, which grew plants despite the soil being a shallow, thin layer, another one, signs made out of sunlight, noticeable because they didn’t boast any wiring, but that was the end of it. 

I knew malls in bigger towns and cities: huge buildings made out of enchanted glass, sunlight, metals, and concrete; floors upon floors of stores selling clothing made of enchanted threads that served purposes unknown to me, stores of magical items used for Lord-knows-what, enchanted glass displaying publicity for stores in the mall you were already inside of: the kind of place where a woman like Sarah could spend the rest of her days. Instead, she had The Waterfall Mall, which was nicknamed after one of its only magical characteristics. A sorcerer-made waterfall at the very back.

Full disclosure, the glass ceiling was also enchanted, with sunlight trapped inside two layers of glass to keep the place lit and nicely warm, but the waterfall was beautiful, there was no denying it. As far as I knew, this was the town’s only big magical feature, an imitation of nature that needed not a single machine to pump water, keep it clean, or light it. Everything was done by magic: the way the water cycled up, the spells keeping it clean, even the light placed at the bottom enabling us to spot the colorful fish that had been put inside. I had heard the story about the guy who had designed the thing, how someone somewhere had heard about the project and come to offer him a big-shot job someplace better. Such was the fate of most of the few magicians that sprouted in town.

I liked staring at the waterfall, wondering about the spells that made it work, sometimes even wondering where its creator was and what he was doing right now, but today I was excited because Sarah was coming with me to the Libramagy store, or, as everyone called it, “The Magyst Game” store. 

Magyst games were books enchanted by a magician, but, as far as I knew, the marketing used to sell them was so intricate and got around so well in people’s minds that books and magyst games became a different product altogether. When you opened the pages of a magyst game, an illusion projected on top, and, most of the time, you could interact with it. After the hype for the first games had died out, a lot of adults had not given them the time of day anymore, considering them to be children’s entertainment, but throughout the years, they had really become a unique form of experiencing a story.

The best magyst games, I had only ever heard of. The characters in the stories reacted to movements you made with your body, and moved, ran, and even attacked or performed magic to defeat enemies or accomplish tasks, but those games were high-end, expensive, and only available for purchase in big cities. In this little town, we got a step or two above the first games created: something called “interactive novels”. The characters in these novels talked, and what they could say next was displayed in the illusion so you could choose the next line. Sometimes, the game let you interact with objects in the environment, if needed for the story. Many of these games were sappy, romantic scenarios in which a girl pined over two boys and had to make a choice, or maybe dated a lot of different boys and got into lots of relationship stages for each, but the ones I liked better were the thrillers, the horror stories, and the mystery kind. 

I liked the Libramagy store. From the outside, it looked just like any old shop: a door, a window displaying products and a cash register, but when you crossed the threshold and looked to the left, you were greeted with a stairway that let down into the rest of the shop, which sunk into the ground. The ceiling was lined in big, wooden beams that were raw and unrefined, as if somebody had just used the trunk of a tree for support, the walls were red brick and more logs as wooden pillars, but my very favorite thing was two huge windows. They projected so much sunlight on the inside of the place, it was as if the store were in the middle of a flat field on a summer day, and not surrounded by earth and whatever was below ground in the mall. These windows were very obviously enchanted, but the sunlight was trapped inside the glass pane of the window and the concrete of the walls of the shop. I didn’t mind that the sunlight wasn’t natural. I liked it better this way.

The clerk was nowhere to be found, so we took a look around the shop. These games were a fairly recent creation, but it looked like any magician capable of making them seized the opportunity, which meant that the quality of one single great one made by a talented magician could be easily outmatched by the sheer number of garbage produced by a not-so-talented other. It was good that each magician had to put the same name or pseudonym and logo in all their games, so you knew whether or not to buy from them the next time. For example, I had experienced two terrible ones from someone using a rainbow logo and had learned to never get anything from them again. 

Sarah wasn’t informed about this at all. All she had told me was that she was looking for “The retro ones”, but I couldn’t be sure of exactly what that meant. I had surely seen a game or two of the kind that was created when the games were invented, where you bounced a ball between two people or between the game and yourself, threw darts at a fuzzy bullseye, or shot unspecified monsters that were too blurry to make out properly, but I was sure there could be hundreds of those early titles. Sarah hadn’t even bothered to ask what games her new boyfriend meant when he talked about them, she just pretended they were, all of a sudden, very interesting to her, no matter the number of times I had tried to get her to play one with me.

We spent what little time we had left before the experiment looking at the books and their titles, but we had to leave to make sure that my efforts of getting us there in time weren’t wasted. When we showed up, some people were already gathered there, sitting on chairs that had obviously been lined up for the experiment. I spotted a woman with a clipboard and figured she would be in charge, so we approached her.

—Do you have your sign-up sheets?—She asked us as soon as we were nearby. I took my wallet out and handed her the folded up sheet I had so carefully put away in my wallet, so as not to lose it after we had registered. Sarah rummaged around the contents of her handbag for a long enough time that it became awkward just standing there without saying anything to the lady, who was waiting patiently. I looked at her and tried to think up something clever to pass the time, but came up empty-handed.

Instead of talking to her, I merely observed. She was pretty, but her look was unusual, definitely not from around. Her dirty blond hair was so straight it appeared to be wet, and it was perfectly parted and combed, not a hair out of place. I imagined the line cut at the back was perfectly straight, too, but I couldn’t peek to make sure. Her eyes were a vibrant green, and her skin had a faint yellow tinge to it. Her elongated, monolid eyes gave her a very patient look about her, exacerbated because Sarah had not managed to find her sheet just yet, and she had not gotten bored or irritated. I noticed her ears protruded out from her hair just the slightest bit.

After Sarah had finally handed the nice lady her wrinkled sign-up sheet, the woman gestured us to the chairs, which also had clipboards on them, and handed us another sheet with questions to fill out. To our annoyance, there was a lot of information that we had to fill out in these sheets: Normal facts like our names and ages were understandable, but other things such as our hobbies and job descriptions weren’t so much so. Aside from those, we had to disclose if we had awakened, if any of our close family members had awakened, or any of our not-so-close family members had. All in all, I was no scientist, but the information as a whole did not make cohesive sense to me. 

After we had finished filling in our life stories in excruciating detail, we were directed to close booths were a person took a sample of hair, a fingernail, a swab of the inside of our cheek, and even a blood sample, which I was glad I hadn’t known about beforehand, because I wouldn’t have had the courage to show up. 

While we waited to receive our results, I looked around at the people who were sitting around us, wriggling their hands nervously in their laps, wondering if they had the capacity in them to be magicians. 

While I didn’t know if I had it in me or not, we had all learned in school just how little the magician population really was. Very few people in the world were born with the ability to use magic, and even then, being born with the ability did not mean that a baby would pop out of the womb breathing fire and making objects levitate. Before that could be possible, came the awakening: the moment of a person’s life when they cast magic for the first time. The gist of it was that nobody knew how to trigger it. As far as I knew, it happened differently to every single magician, and it could happen at any time in a person’s life. It was the subject of many investigations, books, and even scams. People wrote about their own awakening and other magician’s to see if somebody could draw a conclusion to figure it out, or the author drew their own, but they never yielded good results for the readers, scientists researched in many ways, like this one, and they still hadn’t pinpointed the reason for it. 

The scams were the most blatant, charging people to make them do Lord-knows-what, promising they’d awaken afterward, accepting anybody, not even suggesting a magic test would be in order first, or bothering to tell people that there was a big chance that they weren’t able to wield any magic at all. It was shameless on their part. The chance of someone not being a magician was 98 percent, but still, there were people who hoped.

After the unsavory procedures, we waited for thirty minutes in the chairs and got our results in sealed envelopes, plus the promised reward: a card containing 2000 goldens in it, which was where I put my hopes at. I was looking at my card. It just a red card with numbers on it.c Suddenly, the noise of ripping paper brought me to my senses. Sarah was tearing her envelope open with a speed and urgency that told me she was trying to get it over with as soon as possible. It made me uneasy. I took my own envelope and tucked it away in my pocket.

—Negative.—Sarah declared with a smug grin on her face. I was astonished to see her not looking disappointed at all, instead, focusing her pride on the fact that she had been right in her hypothesis. She kept on reading with a serious expression on her face.—It says my children could be magic, though.—
—How’d they work that out?—I wondered, as the idea did not match what little I knew about genetics.

—Beats me.—Sarah answered, shrugging. I couldn’t picture Sarah as a mom anyway, but I made a mental note to ask around to see if anybody knew more.

We made our way back into the Libramagy store and found that the clerk had finally shown up. He was a young man, but I only noticed it after we were at a speaking distance with him. He was wearing a sort of robe, brown, made of linen, ample and comfy-looking. In the middle of his thin, short, gingery hair, there was a circular bald patch, so perfect it was distinguishable at once as having been shaved off. This had the effect of making him look as if he was trying to pass as old, but the twinkle in his honey-colored eyes, the five or six random hairs growing on his cheeks and the smooth skin of his face betrayed him as a twenty-something year old. A monk, perhaps a monk apprentice.

—Good day.—Sarah greeted him as we entered the shop.
—Hello.—He answered, absent-mindedly.

We waited for him to say something else, a “What can I help you with?” or a “What are you looking for”, as would have any normal store clerk, but he just smiled and stared on into nothing.

—I’m looking for retro-games.—Sarah told him, an annoyed edge in her voice.

—We have them!—Answered the guy, with some more enthusiasm, but once again, failing to say anything else, instead just letting the silence hang on.

It was a testament of how little Sarah actually cared for these games that, instead of just entering the store and looking her own damn self for them, she just walked out, rolling her eyes. I trotted after her.

—I can’t stand people like that.—She told me when I caught up.
—What, monks?—I wondered, confused.
—No, you idiot. People who can’t be bothered to do their jobs right.—She clarified, irritated. I was hoping she wouldn’t start asking around for a manager, so I tried to derail the conversation.
—Have you never met a monk before?—I asked, feigning surprise. I knew not all monks were aloof like that guy had been, but I needed to get Sarah distracted before she set her mind up in making a big deal about this.

—I mean, sure, in weddings and services and all, but never working at the mall.—She answered, indignant. 

—It’s just how they are, y’know?—I lied.—Wes told me they have to give up some things in order to get ordained.—

—Yeah, I get that.—She replied dismissively.—But why work at a shop? Doesn’t he have a monastery to live in or something?—

—I think some of them have to do a social service—I began—to teach them humility or some other monk-thing.—

—They should’ve put him in charge of dogs or babies.—Sarah continued her rant. The idea of a guy like that dealing with babies made me chortle, which caused Sarah to drop her complaining and smile. Crisis averted. I thought.

After the first store fiasco, Sarah decided to spend her goldens on clothes. I wasn’t too partial to shopping, as there wasn’t anything I needed right now, so we treaded store upon store while I recalled what I knew about monks.

To become a monk, people had to undergo some sort of process as part of their ordination. To myself, I called it “Libido-removing”. My mother went berserk if I said it in her presence. I didn’t know exactly how it was done, all I knew was at the end of it, people had given up completely on their desire to impress others, as well as, yes, their sex drive. Many people believed this was done just so monks would behave while inside their monasteries, others than it did nothing more than transforming people into asexual hermits, but the ones who had worked with monks knew better. 

Monks were among the best artists in the world. They claimed they owed part of their incredible talents to having their libido removed, and the other part, to the Lord, of course. They were, after all, a religious order, which had turned out stupendous painters, sculptors, architects, metal-workers, crystal-workers, magicians, musicians. The reason why not many people knew it, was because monks were forbidden to work for renown, nor were they capable of feeling the inclination to do so after being ordained. They didn’t even sign their works, nor did they offer any extra information about them after they had been completed, unless it was somehow necessary. To “hire” a monk, the person wishing to receive their services was required to make a donation to their monastery that covered the cost of educating an apprentice for a full year; that said, only experienced, ordained monks were allowed to work outside of their guilds, and only if their superiors deemed it appropriate.

While a person lived inside a monastery without having been ordained, they were called “apprentices”: someone who was considering or being considered for ordination. They lived in the same monastery as the ordained monks did, and passed the time by taking a variety of classes that the monasteries offered, as well as keeping the place fit for habitation. While living there, they could choose to learn all sorts of things. Music, pottery, glass-blowing, cooking, even magic if they were awakened. The rest of the time, they practiced their crafts, taught each other the trades they might have known before entering the monastery, and just enjoying whatever else there was to be enjoyed in such places. I wouldn’t know what that was, since I had never visited one. 

The by-products of these classes: vases, crystal glasses, paintings, magic artifacts, everything that apprentices made was sold in bulk. As monk tradition dictates, the apprentices were not allowed to sign their works, and just had to learn that almost everything they made would have to be parted with.

As Sarah tried her way onto every single dress inside the stores she liked, I waited outside, thinking about monks and her test results, but mostly just being bored out of my wits. I figured a visit to the bakery was in order.

The mall’s bakery was always worth a visit. I could live off of that melted butter smell. The front window was decorated with transparent boxes filled with cookie sandwiches composed of two smooth, roundish, brightly colored cookies, and a chocolate filling in the center. I loved those but imagined there must be some special coloring in them. Long ago, my brother Wes and I had tried to make them, but the results had always been pastel-colored, regardless of how much coloring we put in them.

—Morning!—I greeted the cashier.—Do you have any cream puffs?—
—They’ll be out in about ten minutes, if you care to wait, ma’am.—The cashier told me.
—I don’t mind.—
She nodded and went to the back.

I took my time admiring the different cakes. I had only the most basic understanding of baking when it came to the procedures, so I couldn’t yet recreate the confections on display. That, however, did not stop me from trying to figure out how they were made. 

I got two cream puffs and a parfait and went outside the store where Sarah was still trying on clothes. The waiting was made infinitely easier with the company of a strawberry parfait.

To my annoyance, Sarah was not done yet sorting through clothing stores when I finished my parfait and cream puff, neither was there anything I needed to buy for the time being, so I spent the rest of my time waiting for Sarah at a Home Decor shop. I looked through lamps, scented candles, picture frames, and clay pots for plants I wasn’t planning on buying since I didn’t need my house to feel any more cluttered than it already did, but, as always, the magical products drew my attention more than any others.

Simple, yet incredibly more useful than their non-magical counterparts: lamps filled with sunlight meant that you’d never have to plug them, just touching the bulb would make them go on and off; ice cubes that wouldn’t melt but chilled drinks perfectly fine, so they were completely reusable; glass balls full of electric currents that really didn’t serve a practical purpose at all, but were cool to look at, nonetheless. As far as I knew, all of them were basic spells of elemental magic, but they still went for five, six, even ten times the cost of the non-magical versions. Even so, there was always someone who would pay the price.

—How come you’re interested in magyst games all of a sudden?—I asked Sarah as we finally walked out of the mall.
—I don’t know what you’re talking about.—She answered, failing to suppress a giggle as she feigned ignorance.
—So you’re telling me all the times I’ve invited you over to play one, you haven’t accepted because of mysterious circumstances or something?—

—Pretty much.—She answered, visibly straining with the effort to keep a straight face.

—Right.—I conceded, but I wasn’t willing to let it go so easily.—So what would happen if I asked you to come to my house at your earliest convenience to play one game? Would you promise to come?—I asked in a fake formal manner.
—Sure.—She answered, rolling her eyes.

—I said “promise”.
—Fine! I promise.—
I looked down at my feet. No good. We were standing on pavement, not soil.—Field of Lilies or it doesn’t count.—I decided.
—Oh, come on! I already promised!—
—Field-of-lilies!—I reiterated hastily.
—Fine, fine. Field of Lilies.—

We passed the front of the market and turned to walk the alley beside it. At the end of it, crossing the street, was a simple plot of flat land, barred by a metallic fence with a gate that was almost always open. Most of the surface of the place was covered in two things: grass, and beautiful, knee-length, white flowers: Lilies. 

These were, however, not the regular variety of white lilies. They had a shimmering quality to them, their snowy petals soft and almost velvety-looking. At night, it was almost as if they glowed like moonlight. Some of the flowers were wilted, their petals between white and brown, sagging under their own weight. Others were dead, their dry remains crumbling back into the soil, but most of them were alive and healthy, a sight that always lifted my spirits.

Sarah and I walked in and searched for a spot that boasted no lilies on it. When we had found it, we stood there, and I waited.

—I promise to go play a game with you the next time you ask me to.—Sarah said in a clear voice. I twisted my foot to make a groove on the soil. A place I would know to look for.
—Thank you.—I told her in a proud voice. She punched me lightly in the arm and we exited the field, finally heading home.

---

Later that evening, I was sorting out the mess I had left behind in my room this morning. I picked up clothes, put shoes in their place, and began making my bed. When I lifted the pillow, a brown envelope greeted me. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten about it! I had found Wes’ letter in the kitchen, where my mother had left it, knowing it was the one place I was guaranteed to see it, so I ran to stuff it hastily under my pillow before she changed her mind and decided to shred the thing to pieces.

I smiled widely as I opened the envelope. A letter from Wes was a treat any day, not just because I was so happy to hear from him, but the paper on which he wrote was beautiful. It was brown, with a rugged texture to it, and studded with dry flowers and leaves. I noticed it was written in a curly script, slightly crooked, so different from his normal scrawl.

Dear Liah

How have you been? I’m really excited because my schedule finally lined up with two of the last classes I was hoping to take: guitar and calligraphy. Do the calligraphy lessons show? I really liked that one, I think I’ll keep taking it. Guitar was more of a hassle, but also so worth it. I think I’m making progress. You should hear the way this new guy can play. He says he doesn’t even remember how old he was when he started learning. I wish I had started that young.

On another happy note, my roommate was ordained yesterday, so I’ll have some free space, at least until someone new comes along. 

The folks at the kitchens asked me to thank you for the vinegar tip. Souring the milk did make a better cake. I never would’ve guessed.

We made a big stock of paper if you want to come and get some for yourself. I’m afraid I cannot send it to you. 

When are you gonna come visit? The Harvest Festival is happening soon, right? Make sure to write me everything about the food. Also, how is mom doing? Have you told her about your liqueur idea? I hope you’ll do it soon, I think it’s great.

Love, Werner.

I took out a pen and paper and set to writing my reply. The contents of my letters were always so menial, what with things being the same here all the time. I mostly wrote about the new dish I had tried making, or the new magyst game I had bought, the complaints I received at the old folks home, or a funny thing Sarah had said or done the other day. Still, perhaps that’s how it would’ve been with my brother here, although, thinking about it, maybe his not being here in town was the whole reason for us having come. 

When my letter was finished and sealed, I straightened the last of my things. My water ball was out in the open, so I took it to put it in a drawer before my mother could spot it. I looked at the little toy with awe, something I could never help to do whenever I picked it up. The rubber from which it was made was transparent, and the inside was half full of water that whirred and spun of its own accord, oblivious to the movement outside of it, making waves, whirlpools and little cascades. It never ceased to claim my attention. As I stared through its waters, my vision focused on the nightstand in front of me, where I had placed the closed envelope containing the results of my magic test. 

Slowly, not taking my eyes off the envelope, I opened the first drawer and put away my water ball. Then, I kept staring at the envelope. I looked at it long and hard. Nevermind it, I thought, and opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand to shove it in, when I was stopped by the sight of an ornate wooden box. I looked at the box and then looked back at the envelope, then back at the box again. I sighed deeply. 

How long had it been, now? Six years. Almost seven. I hated the way the sadness still managed to make its way through my head, washing through my entire body, settling in my chest, my throat. I took the box and opened it. Inside, a framed picture rested. I took it out and blinked a few times. A light from below shone weakly, but it always managed to blind me, somehow. 

The picture in the frame showed a family: a man and a woman, both clutching toddlers in their arms. The woman, dark-haired and fair-skinned, held a boy, his light tressels only just beginning to obstruct his vision. The man, his wavy hair the same as his children’s, held a girl, who smiled happily as she hugged her father’s arm. 

The light that dazzled me came from a small window-like frame that was stored under the framed picture. I took it out, listening intently for the sound of my mother entering the house. I couldn’t hear the door opening or her footsteps in the wood, so I figured it was okay.

I lifted the window frame and looked at it. It was about the size of a notebook, made out of wood and crystal, a circle top shape, with a wooden t-shape, and sunlight trapped in the middle as if to imitate the light of a sunny day. Even after all these years, there was still a subtle warmth coming from it. I felt my eyes sting and begin to water. I rubbed them, hoping to get a hold of myself. Maybe I should have just taken a tip from my mother and left all of those things behind. 

I put the window frame and the picture back in the box, put the box back in the drawer, and made my way out. For some reason, tonight I couldn’t take being in that room anymore. Sarah was out with her boyfriend, and I hadn’t made any sort of plans, but it wasn’t as though I couldn’t find something to do on my own. 

The cold lights of the neighborhood illuminated the front porches of the houses. All of them looked about the same: squat, windowless, shapeless masses of wood and concrete. The ambiance was just as barren: no voices young nor old, no lights behind the doors, the smells in the air just those of the cool night breeze. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard a soft meow. 

I opened the neighborhood gate to let myself out and began walking. I wondered if enough time had passed for it to be reasonable to check the Field of Lilies. Perhaps I’d wander around for an hour more or so. Give it a better chance. 

The soft late summer breeze blew towards me as I walked. It felt pleasant against my warm face, carrying with it the faint smell of rain. I breathed it in deeply while I walked, but suddenly, the coolness was gone, the breeze mingling with a savory, mouthwatering smell and hot steam. I felt a smile touching my lips and pressed on, guided by a dim light that barely reached me. 

The light, smell, and steam got stronger as I pressed on until I could make out the source: a wooden, wheeled cart being pushed toward me, a paper lamp hanging from it, the person pushing it heading towards the opposite direction I was. 

The sight of the cart always lightened my mood. It was a beautiful thing, a wooden box with four wheels and four poles that stuck upwards at the corners, supporting a sloping wooden roof, from where the paper lamp and wooden signs hung. The man pushing it, one of my favorite people in town, his name Edward, but I had always called him Mr. Ed. Lord knew how old he was. His face was wrinkled profusely, especially on the sides of his eyes, his caramel-colored hands spotted indiscriminately, the few hairs left sprouting from his head white as snow, but his strength had been, as long as I had known him, that of a young man. 

—Ready for the night, Mr. Ed?—
—Of course, miss. Can’t let a night like this go to waste.—
I chuckled at his vitality.—Maybe I’ll catch up with you at the District later, then.—
—I’ll be waiting, miss.—He told me, bowing his head towards me with a toothy grin on his face.

The road took me just in front of the market, next to which, the Field of Lilies waited. I had already made up my mind not to go check immediately, so I walked straight ahead. After a few minute’s walking, I was greeted by the opened gates of the suburban neighborhood. 

Next to me, a young man arrived, briefcase in hand, and crossed the gates. A high-pitched voice greeted him.—Daddy!—

The voice belonged to a small boy who had been playing in front of one of the first houses. The kid stood up and ran towards his father, who caught him, lifted him up, and spun him around once. The kid giggled in that shrill way only ecstatic children can manage. The young man carried the boy in his free arm and walked to the door of a house, where a smiling pregnant woman and a little girl waited for him. The couple kissed and went inside while their little boy talked.

I kept walking through the neighborhood. While all the houses were built in the same style, that is, they all shared the grass-covered roof, all of them were different from one another. Some of them were one story and wide. Others were two or three stories, and narrow. Some were big, I imagined several people living in them, others minuscule, where I could only envision a room, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom. Some of them had guard-rails on their grassy rooftops, probably so the kids in the houses could play safely, others boasted only flowers. Some houses had wide front lawns, others had ample backyards, a couple of them had both things. Most of them had potted plants in their porches. The neighborhood was alive with the sounds of kids playing, relatives talking, friends laughing, dogs barking happily. Behind the ample windows, light shone through inside all of the houses. The air was saturated with the smells of buttery bread, garlic, meat cooking.

I walked in front of the houses I loved so well, taking in the friends gathering, the parents getting home from a day’s work, the children, eager to tell their parents about whatever their days had held in store for them. I wished I could simply walk into one of those warm houses, sit down at a table and talk over dinner about my day. Sadly, I had just a couple of friends in the suburbs, and I didn’t know them well enough to justify walking into their houses uninvited. 

The suburbs were also the only place in town where I ever saw cars. I had been shocked to see that people here still used them, and there was not a single one of the much more practical capsules used in almost all of the places I had visited before. 

One of the houses I stopped to admire was tiny. I imagined it would have one, two rooms at best, except what it lacked in space for rooms, it more than made up in its ample, luscious backyard. All over the back lawn, there were rows of cabbages, broccoli, tomatoes. The sides were lined with trees so tiny they barely reached up to my chest, most of them laden with the weight of lemons, limes, apples, pears, and oranges. 

Wading through the plants was one of the smallest women I had ever seen. I couldn’t see her back, but seeing the slouching way she walked and the shine of her white hair, I imagined she would be very old. Trailing behind her were two boys, maybe teenagers, one shorter than the other, both of them with jet-black hair, carrying baskets in which the woman deposited the fruits and vegetables she picked. I had never been much into gardening, but I wouldn’t mind it if my garden looked like that one did.

I felt the last rays of sunshine getting dimmer, losing track of time as I walked around the neighborhood, seeing different scenes of concurrence unfold before my eyes. Wondering how much time had passed, I headed out, but something stopped me right on my tracks when I walked in front of one of the houses nearest to the gates.

Just on top of the grass roof of the house, hovered a small sphere of light. I walked closer, trying to spy the thing from different angles. It was subtle, not strong enough to illuminate much of anything surrounding it, but it was clearly there, noticeable now that the sun had gone down. I wondered who had made the sphere and smiled despite myself. Someone’s looking at a bright future. I thought and giggled at my own joke.

The gate of the Field of Lilies was open, as always, I breathed in their floral smell walking among them. Now that the moonlight shone, I could see how similar a glow they shared with it. I wondered if a flower would illuminate a room if I took it for myself and put it in a pot in my dark house, but abandoned the idea. I wouldn’t dare to pluck any of these. 

I headed to the spot where Sarah and I had made our promise and quickly found the groove I had made with my foot. Next to it, was a stalk, topped with a green bulb that had just started to open up, the white petals inside almost glowing, just like any of the others that had already bloomed. Along all the grown flowers, this one, too, moved with the wind, as if they were all one and the same. I didn’t know why I had come to check. The flower would’ve sprouted, there was no stopping it. I guessed it was always reassuring to come and make sure it had. 

I breathed a sigh of relief and made my way back home. I could see the closed gates of my neighborhood right ahead, but the subtle warm light that reached me from elsewhere made me remember. I did say I would catch up to him, and he did say he would be waiting, but I had forgotten, what with how much time I spent looking around the suburban houses. I never imagined he would actually wait for me. 

Mr. Ed’s cart was just a few buildings away from the gates of my neighborhood, which was so weird to me. Were it to be any regular old man, I wouldn’t have imagined he could push the heavy-looking cart around with much speed, but Mr. Ed was known for trotting back and forth the length of the District of Lights from dusk ‘till dawn when he went out to work. I wondered if he hadn’t made his way there yet just to wait for me. I sure hoped not, I had taken my sweet time.

—How come you’re not at the District of Lights yet?—I asked Mr. Ed when I caught up with him.
—I decided to take it slow tonight. What are you having, miss?—
I had asked Mr. Ed time and time again to just call me by my name, but to no avail.
—Do you have anything new?—
—Soy and pork broth. My family thinks it’s the best thing since sunlight in a glass.—He jested.
—I’ll have to judge it for myself, then. Should we get going?—I asked, pointing towards the direction of the District of Lights, knowing as I knew that it wouldn’t be great for business if Mr. Ed set his whole stand in this deserted street.
—No matter.—Mr. Ed stopped me and began the unfolding of his cart. 

With a dexterity and speed that was impressive to watch, Mr. Ed began pulling four lapels at each side of his cart. They clicked in place on a 90-degree angle just at the perfect height for a table. Then, he pulled on more lapels, these ones connecting the previous ones to each other, so that the gaps in between them were gone and formed an oval-shaped table. He opened a little door on the cart and ducked under the table to go inside, then tugged on two of the poles that supported the roof over his head, and two walls connected at the other two poles, I assumed, to keep the wind at bay from both sides of him. Finally, he leaned forward and stretched to lengthen the sloping roof. 

—You didn’t have to unfold the whole thing.—I said, ashamed.—I could’ve just eaten at the front table.—
Mr. Ed shrugged and sent a kind smile my way as he passed me a folding chair. He probably knew I found the whole thing fascinating. No wonder the cart always looked so heavy to me. Despite its little size, it held a fine-sized table inside of it.

Mr. Ed began preparing my soup. I could read all the flavors and kinds of toppings there were on the wooden signs hanging from the little roof, but Mr. Ed never asked what I wanted. I had only needed to ask for all the toppings the first few times for him to know that I would never deny him any of them. 

He placed a big bowl in front of me, with a rich-looking brown broth, so warm it steamed my face when I went in to smell it. There was a good serving of thick, cream-colored noodles, on top of which rested slices of marinated beef, pickled bamboo shoots, a stir-fry consisting of onions, spinach, soybean sprouts, ginger roots, and a touch of spicy red peppers. Crowning the whole thing was a big heap of chives, sliced so thin that they looked like green string rings. 

The soup warmed me from the inside as I ate. The noodles were chewy and tasted of egg yolks. The broth’s flavors were so complex that I couldn’t discern half of what must’ve been in it. I had asked Mr. Ed, and he had disclosed that each time he went out to work, his broths had been simmered for at least five hours, eight when it was possible. 

Mr. Ed liked to talk to his customers, first asking them questions about the food, and then about their lives. While we chewed, he made comments about his daily life. Mostly, he talked about the gossip his wife provided him with, and his grandchildren, who I had yet to meet. Unlike most of the old people I knew, he didn’t talk much about his long life. I had never asked him how old he was, but I could assume he had been a few times around the District. This made him one of the best people I could think of for asking a question that had been in the back of my mind for the whole day, but I wanted to ease into it.

—Are there magicians in your family, Mr. Ed?—
—Why do you ask, miss?—

—Well, Sarah and I went to this experiment in the waterfall mall, and they tested our magic. Her test came out negative, but it said that maybe she could have a kid who could be a magician.—

—My grandkids wanted to get those tests.—He mumbled.—I told them to hurry before the spots filled up, but of course they didn’t. And of course, the spots filled up.—He went on, and then was silent for a moment, as if considering to add more.—My uncle and great-grandfather were magicians.—He confessed.

—Your great-grandfather and your uncle?—I wondered, trying to draw a family tree in my mind.—Not your great grandfather and one of his children?—
—No, not one of his children. My mother said her father used to complain that the magic skipped his generation.—
—So it goes down skipping one generation?—I wondered, confused.
Mr. Ed chuckled.—I don’t think so, miss. My neighbors went a long line up without any magicians, and their boy just awakened.—
—He did?—

—He did.—Mr. Ed nodded as he chopped more chives.—

—I was just wondering if having magical parents increased the odds or something, y’know?—

—Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s all a gamble with magic.—

I sighed and kept eating in silence. I must’ve been really deep in thought, because the extra spoonful of chives that landed on my broth when I had eaten all of my noodles startled me, despite Mr. Ed always providing me with extra chives when I only had broth left.

—Thank you.—I said, blinking.
—You’re awfully quiet tonight, miss.—
—I, uhh. I just.—I stuttered.—I was just thinking about what your neighbors would do with that boy of theirs.—I lied.
—Well, they’re not sure if they want to send him to a boarding school. They’re also thinking of uprooting the whole family to be near an academy. The boy already has sponsors lined up.—

—You don’t say.—

Children awakening was not uncommon, as far as I knew. Magical education was expensive, but schools had come up with a way to get as many students as possible: sponsors.

Sponsors were rich people who offered to pay for the education of a magician. Of course, there was a catch to this generosity. In order to get a sponsor, or more, to pay their way through the magical academies, parents had to sign a contract promising to pay the debt later, which normally took the form of the now educated magician’s labor. Supposedly, since magic was so expensive, those debts could be paid in just a few short years. Whether to educate a kid or not was rarely a money issue.

People tended to accept these conditions because of the supposed danger an untrained young magician posed. Children, especially, were said to be a blessing and a curse. Children were fast learners who could get their basics out of the way soon. They were also very creative when inventing ways to practice, however, it was this creativity that rendered them dangerous. A child meddling with fire magic they knew little about could cause a bad accident, but if they learned their basics, then it was harder for them to cause harm to themselves or others. 

I thanked Mr. Ed, paid for my meal, and walked the short way back home. As I prepared for sleep, I replayed what we had talked about. 

Throughout the three years I had spent living here, Mr. Ed and I had talked dozens of times. Never had I even thought of doubting the things he told me. Perhaps it was because I myself had lied to him tonight, but I wondered if what he had said about the magicians in his family had been true.

Chapter 2- The Market of Plenty

Miss Nelson had asked for less salt in her lentils.

I worked at the only old folks home in town, making breakfast and lunch. It was a bit of a hassle, but the perks were alright. I arrived to work five days a week at 6 am and left at 2 pm. I washed dishes, organized the pantry, planned the meals, learned about nutrition, talked to relatives about the food forbidden to each person (try as they might to beg for more dessert), swept and mopped the kitchen, and even talked to some of the residents when I had the time. But mostly I cooked. I used less salt, not too much fat, little or no sugar, lean meats, and came up with pretty boring results most of the time.

On top of that, Miss Nelson, who was one of our newest residents, insisted on changes to all of her food. She was an old woman whose spotless skin and shiny cheekbones revealed she had cared deeply for her beauty all her life. I wondered if her skincare had been impeccable since her youth or if she was very talented with makeup. Every single day she wore lipstick, rouge, and Lord knows how much else. She complained about every meal, every other resident, every nurse, and insisted to be called “Miss”, even though it had been her sons who put her in the home. I had been told she also complained about her health and tried to avoid almost everything she considered hazardous to it (except, of course, makeup). Not even boiled turkey breast without salt was good enough for this woman. I had spoken to one of her sons not two days ago, and he told me her physio tests showed she didn’t have any condition that prevented her from eating a bit of salt. Indeed, she didn’t have any condition that would preclude her from eating anything or doing anything. A lot of the residents had special dietary needs and needed to be watched constantly. Miss Nelson didn’t, and yet, she adhered to the rules of all of the other residents combined. I had given up on tasting her food for flavor before serving it, seeing as flavor clearly didn’t matter to her. 

All in all, even though working here did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm for food, it wasn’t an easy task to go through five days a week. Making bland food was a grueling task anywhere, but here, in this town, with all of the amazing options, it made me feel inadequate. I guessed my mother couldn’t have known that when she got the job for me. Still, there were things I liked about it. It was not far away from home, I got to take some of the produce if they’d had it for a while, and the hours were good, making use of my spare time in the morning (the fact that my eyes were wide open at five am had always astonished my mom and brother, or they would have, had my dad not been the same way). And, from two pm on, I had the whole day for myself. I could get ice cream with Sarah when she had her days off, go to the mall, take all the walks I liked, play videogames, and still have time to make dinner, the timing of which didn’t normally matter, as I, more often than not, was left to eat by myself. 

Today I decided to plan a nice dinner. I never knew when my mom would show up early, so I liked to make something elaborate every once in a while. So far, we hadn’t coincided once. Still, I resolved to manage it someday, so I headed towards the market. 

There were a couple of ways to go from the Old Folks Home to the market. Today, the weather was nice and clear, and not too hot, so I chose the long, scenic route. This particular way took me through the front of the church, the neighborhoods in front of the fields, and even the local university. All in all, it was a nice activity for an afternoon. 

In this town, there weren’t many big buildings, but the people were, more often than not, rather religious, so it wasn’t weird that the church cracked the top five of the big structures here. The town’s inhabitants weren’t shy or particularly prudish, but they did atribute many of their land’s better qualities to Mother Earth, a deity depicted wearing a dress that reached just below her knees, her hands over her heart, and a wreath of flowers atop her head. Her statue was the one crowning the top of the dome that composed the roof of the church, which was made out of grey bricks, in the shape of a polygonal prism, with huge arches for entrances, adorned with colored glass in the windows and murals in the domed ceiling. 

My father used to take the family to church with a certain regularity, but now that it was just my mother and me, church had become a thing of the past. Even if back then my mother attended church willingly with my father at her side, she hadn’t suggested for us to go in years, so much so that I wondered if she just did it to humor my father.

I moved along and made my way through a couple of neighborhoods filled with nice farmhouses. Behind them, you could make out the starting of the fields. Some of them had vegetables planted, other vineyards, others, still, fruit trees. 

Although all of the houses had those distinctive triangular tops and ample porches, each house had a different flair to it. For starters, no two of them were painted the same color. The people who opted for white walls painted their doors, windows, beams, ceilings, and front steps on bright tones of red, blue, yellow, pink (someone had painted all the details of their white house a different color, making for a pretty sight), but others decided to throw simplicity out the window (the lime green window sill on the bright purple house, to be exact). There was a house that was painted yellow with black details (was it a beekeeper’s house?), another one was painted bubblegum pink with hot pink details (I could picture some sort of crazy cat lady living there). 

Even though these people seemed to want to make their houses look as distinct from one another, their gardens weren’t separated by fences, or at all. The neighbors simply knew where their garden ended and the next person’s began. You could tell by the fact that some people had vibrant flower beds, others collections of porcelain lawn gnomes, hobbits, elves, frogs, flamingoes, and other decor; others still, just impeccably kept lawns, all those details coming to an abrupt end at an invisible (but clearly noticeable) straight line. The only unifying trait in the gardens I could see, were lone random flowers scattered in everyone’s lawns: Mostly, there were bright red roses with big, velvety looking petals, little daisies, their white petals surrounding a fuzzy yellow center, and white lilies that seemed to glow. On a lawn or two, I could see a mauve carnation, a yellow rose, azaleas, some dandelions. 

Right at the edge of the neighborhood, there was a house whose yellowed walls and chipped made it look like it had been cared for last a long time ago. In the front yellowish lawn, a large green willow stood, its trunk crooked, leaning to one side, its hanging clumps of leaves casting a dark shadow that made the air beneath it feel cold and the ground look barren. The rest of the lawn was covered by dozens of black dahlias, and in the center of all of them, looking out of place and ominous, a lonely yellow rose. I always evaded looking at this house for long. It gave me a sad feeling, as if I were being drained of hope. 

I took a right turn out of the neighborhood and walked by the university. The building wasn’t big, because not too many of the people in this town pursued higher education. Teenagers graduated highschool (sometimes), and proceeded to start work at their family’s farm. If they had a flair for business, they sold the produce at the market or even studied external commerce. If they were good with numbers, they kept the finances or studied to be accountants. 

There was even a little art division, which I knew was where people learned to make all kinds of agriculture-related art. The town’s square boasted a statue of Mother Earth, as a woman wearing a toga decorated with flowers, a basket of fruit in her arms, and vegetables growing in the ground at her feet; The sidewalks were lined with berry bushes; The tables at weddings decorated with floral arrangements that were more fruit than flowers: boasting random oranges, apples, pears, peaches, strawberries, and grapes, or even cut in elaborate ways or forming shapes of swans, turtles, deer, and other animals. That was art here. I liked it, but it was definitely peculiar. 

Sometimes, a really bright farm boy would enroll at the university and learn about the properties of this land’s wealthy soil. I knew that some of my favorite produce stands at the market were so well stocked thanks to the work of a couple of earth magicians who had enriched their family’s land even further and then left for something grander elsewhere. 

Everyone knew the university had one or two professors whose knowledge of earth and water magic (or alchemy, as it was called in the advanced stages, along with sorcery) was responsible for teaching the young minds of the community to enhance the already “eager” soil. 

However, if said young minds were any good at some other thing, they sought a shop around town who’d have them as low-paid help while they learned the craft, which was what Sarah had done with one of the local seamstresses. A lot of the time, though, people left for a city, or a bigger town. This had been the case of some of the friends I had made here. 

I walked slowly in front of the university’s lawn. It was bright green with its share of random flowers, mostly dandelions, divided by a brick path right in the middle. At the center of each half of the lawn stood a little fountain crowned with a statue of a tree that grew every fruit imaginable. At the far ends, stood a row of different fruit trees, I could see yellow lemons, red apples, green apples, cherries, pears, oranges, and tangerines, none of the trees taller than waist-height. 

As I approached the end of the building, I spotted a sign. My attention got immediately drawn in, because the biggest word in the sign was “Free”.

FREE LECTURE

Is your neighbor’s grass always greener?

Are you tired of not reaping what you sow?

Do you wish to bring your family’s farm some renown?

Why not consider attending a free lesson in Earth Alchemy?

Taught by the world—renowned Alchemist Bayard Fischer…

I stopped reading at this point. I’d heard of Professor Fischer. He was born and raised in this town, except for the time he went up to Lahsek to get his Alchemy degree. I’d seen him in the market a couple of times.  If he really was world-renowned, then the world must be a pretty boring place. 

Still… Ever since I got here, my plan was to continue working at the old folk’s home and use the rest of my time to start learning about flower liqueur, which was this town’s second-biggest business. I figured after I started learning, all kinds of ideas for liqueurs would come to me, but I had never been particularly bookish. 

I was 22 years old, so not precisely fresh out of high school, which meant I was completely out of practice when it came to sitting in a classroom. School had always been a bit challenging, as I needed to be on my feet or doing something to focus. Even listening to somebody while sitting down was a challenge sometimes. When I talked to the residents of the home, I liked to help old ladies with their knitting and cross-stitch, played chess and other games with the old men. There was this one lady who always wanted to bet money, and I had never once managed to keep her from taking my goldens. 

Anyway, maybe a lecture of this kind could teach me something I didn’t know for my future plans. Maybe I could come up with a crazy flower-hybrid that made booze twice as potent or something. I didn’t know anything about soil. I didn’t know anything about growing plants or flowers. I didn’t even know what I didn’t know. Maybe I’d ask Sarah to come with me. With something on my mind, I kept walking.

In this town, subtlety seemed to go right over people’s heads where names were concerned. For starters, the place was called “Everlasting Bounty”, which seemed pretty on-the-nose to me. It was a mouthful, too. Although, the farms here did produce things year-round. So maybe it wasn’t much of a stretch. 

The market was like a maze: corridors and narrow halls, all packed with stands whose produce stood stacked tall right up to the ceiling. It was called the Market of Plenty, and I was in love with the place. No matter what the vendors sold, they sold a lot of it. The fruit stands were mounds and mounds of fat, juicy, bright green pears, plump peaches that were yellow like the sun, shiny apples that were crisp and sweet, blood oranges so rich that you could quench your thirst with the juice of only one, its bright color almost pearly, its tart flavor syruppy and intense, and that wasn’t even the best part.

Mom and I moved to this town after my brother left for Westwood, and I was so miserable some days I felt like throwing myself out the window (had I had one). There were tiny stores scattered around our neighborhood: little places that sold big but ordinary fruit (that is to say, the fruit I knew before coming here). I liked that the fruit here was nicer, bigger, juicier, and sweeter, but that had not helped to liven me up after the move. 

I met Sarah outside one of the bars on The District of Lights. I had gone there for a look because I couldn’t get a wink of sleep, and thought maybe the ambiance would serve as the pick-me-up I needed. After we found out we were neighbors, she had come around my house a couple times to say hello and talk for awhile, but maybe I wasn’t in the best friend-making mood. After finding out our shared enthusiasm for food, Sarah decided I needed to meet the Market of Plenty in person. 

The difference between the tiny produce stands scattered here and there around town, and the literal piles of food displayed at the market was uncanny. You could laugh all you want about how cheesy the name sounded (I certainly did not miss the chance), but they hit the nail right on the head. There was something about the abundance of the place that made me want to live forever. Perhaps it was just my unrelenting desire to eat everything in my line of sight.

The food there was so unlike any other that I couldn’t help but cheer up more and more each time I visited the market. I knew I would have found it eventually, but I never really felt like I repaid Sarah for the favor of bringing me here when I needed it most. Needless to say, the place was where we truly bonded. After we got to the market, I took one look at the exotic fruits on display (a lot of which I had never seen before) and ran straight at them. We spent that day walking around the stands, buying single fruits so I could taste them for the first time and eat them as we walked, talking about the kind of fancy dishes we wanted to try someday, flirting with the young vendors so we could get free samples (it always worked) and trying to haggle with ladies for price reductions on the liqueurs (it never worked, nor did flirting). At the end of that day, I felt like Sarah was the closest friend I had ever had. 

I liked to walk around town when I needed to think something over, and, as I happened to spend an extraordinary amount of time thinking, I knew a lot of places and routes by now, and had some I liked better than others. In truth, despite all the walking and thinking, I never got to any ground-breaking conclusions of my own about anything, but when I had to make decisions, I found it easier to do on a clear head.

I arrived at the market. I had never asked, but I imagined the place had been instituted inside a good-looking, once fancy house. The building was two stories tall, the first one square, the second topped by a ceiling in a triangular shape, similar to the farmhouses in town. What would’ve been the front porch was completely open, it didn’t have doors, precisely, it simply had no walls at the front. The only things to obstruct the entrance being four concrete pillars that supported the wide balcony on the second floor. 

The inside was curious. The building, although looking like a house, didn’t have any rooms, but was just a flat expanse of space, the floors covered with white mosaic dotted with blue flowers. What really made it maze-like were the stands and stores. Every single shop owner had done something to outline their space. The shops that were positioned next to a wall stacked their produce against it in crates until they reached the ceiling; I knew from some of the vendors that a furious bidding war broke out the few times the shop owners that occupied one of the two corners in the back of the house left. Everybody seemed to think it was more practical than agreeing with their neighbor to erect a makeshift wall they could both take advantage of. 

The shops in the center varied even more. Some used four poles that stood straight joined by a square shape at the top to make a structure in which they hung drapes. Others made a square counter and displayed as much produce as they could on its top, restocking from crates put away below the counter. Others seemed to utilize ingenious combinations of two or more tactics, like putting a counter at the front, a wall at the back and drapes at the sides. The variety gave the place a sort of chaotic uniformity, and the stark difference between each place made it easier to traverse and learn.

Before coming to Everlasting Bounty, I lived in a bigger town. There were two or three tiny markets there, and a supermarket that had been all the rage for a couple of years after its inauguration. The shopkeepers in the market would greet you sometimes, if you knew them, and didn’t mingle much with each other. The supermarket would’ve been ghostly quiet had it not been for the soft music playing in the back. 

Here in the Market of Plenty, music would’ve made this place a haywire auditory nightmare. It had been a bit of a shock the first time I came. Vendors screamed at you as you passed, taking fruits in their hands and showing them to you, trying to get your attention as they yelled about the produce in season, the prices they offered, and the sales. Written competition was also pretty common. Handwritten signs were everywhere, displayed in the way best suited for the structure of each shop. Either hanged, mounted on floor stands, or made into a picket-sign and skewered in a mound of fruit, made to stand by the spaces and weight generously provided by a mound of, say, velvet cherries. They were pretty fun to read, too. “Cheaper and better than the guy next door” and “Best deal in town” being the mildest I had found, but a lot of them used a ripe choice of swear words and slander. If the vendors weren’t trying to catch your attention, they were normally yelling at their neighbor or at their help. Honestly, the first time Sarah brought me, I thought there was a riot. It took a couple minutes to understand that people just talked that way to each other here. The competition seemed fierce, but apparently, it was good—natured.

As I entered the market, the first thing I spotted were the mounds of blushing peaches on display in one of the fruit stands next to the wall. Different from most peaches I had tried before, these were bigger, a size that caused bit of a strain on my hand to hold one, uniform in color on the outside: a pale pink, the flesh inside a more vivid shade of pink that darkened as it neared the stone inside, which was tiny and smooth. It tasted just as a normal peach did, if that peach in question had been preserved in syrup, like the ones on the Street of Silver were. Their texture was smooth but firm, the feeling in your teeth and jaw very satisfactory as you bit into them. 

Next thing I saw were the coral apples. These were about half the size of a regular apple, but their skin was a pale orange color, they were almost completely white on the inside, had no seeds, and lacked a bit of the tartness of a regular apple. The first time I had one, I remember thinking that it must’ve been made out of cotton. As you chewed it, you could almost feel it melt in your mouth. Seeing them, I felt a smile creeping up on my face. Coral apple season appeared to have started a bit early, I remembered they usually came in early fall, instead of late summer. I kept looking, while the boy who manned the stand wasn’t calling clients out, as he was busy with some crates at the back. 

The dwarf watermelons were still in, which surprised me, I imagined the season would have ended by now. These watermelons could fit easily in the palm of your hand, and you could bite right through the skin, which was paper-thin and marbled in two tones of green, instead of striped. The seeds differed as well: Tiny enough that you could chew them (they provided a very nice crunch as you did), and the flesh of the fruit was never sandy in texture like some regular watermelons tended to have. It was just as juicy and a bit more tart, which made it nicer to my taste, because it balanced out the sweetness.

These eccentric fruits were the only things the land around this town couldn’t produce year-round. I could have a regular yellow peach any old time, and it would be just as good in spring or winter, but if I wanted a blushing peach, I had to wait until summer. 

This town produced all kinds of fruit. The farmers boasted that they could reap any fruit in the world from their land, and in any weather, too, but these curious delicacies that almost seemed perversions of nature were picky about their times. Sometimes the season started early or ended a little late, the trees fruiting at times that surprised the farmers, but when they started, they didn’t stop, and when they finished, that was that, until the next year. 

Most of the time, I didn’t mind it. In spring, I busied myself making salads and snacks with the peas of the enormous green beans called “snail beans”, which featured three peas the size of a strawberry on each pod, and the “plum greens”, which were lettuces, were ironically either purple, wine, or black, and had a faint taste of spirits and a silky mouthfeel

In fall, when the chill started, I liked to use the “syrup pumpkins” and “syrup potatoes” to make pies, as the flesh of these beauties got a treacly flavor when cooked and mashed, and held together beautifully as it baked, no need for sugar, but went a bit smokey when roasted, great for the contents of a bread casserole, and the cocktails made from the purple juice of the “royal cranberry” were exquisite. 

In winter, the most eccentric fruit options were out (if you didn’t like citrus, that is), but I could make some heartwarming stews with “pixie cabbages”, which were small enough to fit in your hand, but had pudgy, almost fleshy-thick leaves that tasted mild and savory, and the “arrow carrots” which came in in a variety of colors matching that of a rainbow were a bit bigger than my middle finger, and had a uniform, ample thickness all throughout (I didn’t get the name either). They were tender to cut and slightly sweet in taste. I juiced the red and purple ones to make broths and soups, which got tinged to an almost burgundy color, the yellow and orange ones I chopped and put in casseroles, soup or stew, I grated the green and black ones raw to put in potato or pasta salads, and the white ones I just ate as they were, when I was craving a snack. Even though I tried to distract myself from craving these things when they were not in season, most of these tasty treats were so good I couldn’t help but crave them all year long. I guess that’s why there were so many preserves for sale in the Street of Silver.

—Hey Alv!—I called in my loveliest tone to the boy at the back of the stand.
—Liah!—He responded as the empty crate he had been trying to pile came crashing down along with a couple of others. I pretended not to notice and smiled at him as he rushed over, looking embarrassed. Alvaro was a thin boy of around my age. 22 or 23. He was a bit taller than I was, with long arms, a short nose, long face, and the brown skin of someone who spent a lot of his time out on the fruit plantations.
—W—What brings you here today?—He stuttered.
—Oh, you know, just hunting down a couple of things for a nice dinner.—I purred without taking my eyes off him while I ran my fingers through one of the peaches.
—Well—He answered quickly.—The coral apple season just started, the peaches have been in for a while, but maybe you want something different?—He finished, tripping over all of his words, as if his courage would fail him if he didn’t speak fast enough.
—I’m thinking a blood orange and a blushing peach—I whispered as I placed a hand on my cheek and looked at him as if he were the coral apple of my eye. He blushed.
—Just the one orange and the one peach?—He asked, surprised.
—The one orange, yes—I began—and the one peach… or two. —I suggested with a little wink.
—Oh, Liah… —He mumbled while scratching at the back of his neck, abashed—You know ma won’t like that…—
—She doesn’t have to know.—I whispered again, at the same time as I tapped his nose lightly with my index finger.
—She counts all the fruit!—He exclaimed, apologetically.
—Oh, well.—I feigned resignation.—Just the one peach and the one orange, then.
—You want a bag?—He asked.
—Uh—huh—I nodded.
—Th—That’ll be six goldens—He stammered as if he were afraid of charging me. I tossed him the coin, he caught it and handed me my bag.—So… would you wanna go out sometime?
—Sure, Alv.—I giggled.—Some other time.—I punctuated with another wink, turned around, and walked away. I could hear him telling me to call him. I made a gesture with my hand so he knew I had heard. When I was out of his line of sight, I opened the bag he’d given me. Inside was a blood orange and two blushing peaches. I laughed to myself. Like shooting fish in a still-water barrel. I thought.

I liked to take my time in the market, so I nibbled on my peach as I walked around the stands, slowly. The flavor was so good I didn’t care that the juice was getting my hand all sticky.  

I made my way in between the yelling and the friendly calls, some of my friends offering me chunks of fruits on toothpicks. When I made my way over to Aislinn’s shop, I was content and had a handful of toothpicks.

Aislinn sold a variety of drinks: Powdered flowers and fruits for punch, teas of a many varieties, infusions made with dried chunks of fruits and herbs, a couple of flower liqueurs whose recipes her family guarded most jealously, and oils infused with flowers, herbs, alliums or spices. The variety of mixes so wide they were sought after for cooking, massages, putting in bathtubs, skincare or as perfumes. Most of these were packed in nice looking crystal bottles, one or two of the more expensive items in bottles that sparkled different colours, floral designs etched in the crystal.  

Aislinn was a fetching woman of around thirty, her heart-shaped face and pale ivory skin put me in mind of the people in the wealthier part of town. I could totally picture her growing up in a house with a ceiling made out of grass, fussing about the mud just like Sarah did. Her straight hair was the color of chocolate and was cut a bit short for my liking, the line always perfect, not a hair out of place, the hair on the sides reaching her jaw but growing shorter at the back. I always thought a different haircut would give her a less stern look about her, and compliment the natural rosy tinge on her cheeks, but that was probably not what she was going for. 

I rolled back my shoulders and put on my most winning smile, I slid my arm on top of her counter, right in front of a bunch of jars filled to the brim with tea mixes, and leaned my face on my fist. 

—Hello there, Aisly! — I called in a silky voice. — Is there any tea?
—Hello, Thalia.— She said, intertwining her hands in front of her, her eyes narrow as she turned to look at her overflowing tea-jars, clearly not amused at my little joke.
—I am in need of some tea today, do any of these have a discount for me?—I asked in a business-like tone.
—Any of these—she answered, raising her eyebrows.—have their prices listed on the jars.
—Oh, I was maybe thinking about getting something different—I tried.
—Something different?—She punctuated, amused.—Like paying full price upfront?

—Uhhh… No.—I replied while pointing my index finger at her—Like, how abouuut, you giving me a discount and me taking you out somewhere for coffee. Huh?—I wiggled my eyebrows.
—Oh, like I’m falling for that.—She retorted. The fruit boy hasn’t stopped giving you free stuff since you took him “out for coffee”.
—That was a party!—I blurted out, but stopped. I’m not winning this one today.—Give me a hundred grams of the clover black, please.
—That’ll be 60 goldens.—She said, while scooping the tea into a little cloth bag. I paid and grabbed it.
—Oh, uhm, let me know when the cherry blossom liqueur is in.—I mumbled, feeling defeated.
—I’ll let you know, along with the price.—She warned.

Shot down like a fish in a still—water barrel, I thought.

I was thinking about doing away with the rest of the turkey breast Miss Nelson was too good to eat, when a sign at my favorite butcher shop caught my eye: “Steak on sale, hurry up or I might eat it”. I approached, leaned over to see inside the display and looked at the steaks. They were a vivid red color, and the marbling was intricate: The fat generous, but dispersed in thin layers in a pattern that reminded me of roots.

The butcher, Harvey, made his way to me. He was a big man who towered over almost anyone in this town. I had never asked, but I thought him to be around 35 or 40. He was powerfully built, with strong arms and a broad back that made me think he carried the animals to the slaughterhouse himself, one by one on his own shoulders. His hair was a bit long, tied in a ponytail behind his head, with a grey hair here or there. I suspected him unable to tan, as he was always either tomato-red, faintly red, or somewhere in between. He had himself a pudgy belly that protruded from behind his grease-stained (and sometimes bloodstained) white apron.

—Liah, Liah, Liah—He reprimanded, shaking his head.—Does old Harv have to have a steak sale so that you’ll visit his store?—He finished. I laughed.
—Sorry, Harvey—I started.
—Call me Harv!—He interrupted, for what was probably the millionth time. It made me chuckle again. He had a little-boy-in-a-big-body kind of charm, but I always forgot to use his preferred nickname.
—Sorry, Harv—I started again.—The home asked me to take a bunch of turkey breast, and it has taken us a while to finish it all.
—Agh!—He exclaimed, feigning disgust—I hate what they do to the people in that place. No beef, no pork, no fat, no salt—he stopped and put a hand on his chest, pretending to be shocked—No bacon!—We both chuckled.
—So why are these steaks on sale?—I questioned.
—Well, most of my customers like it here because the pieces are big!—He explained.—But look at these! The calf was small, and he hurt his leg, on top of everything. We had to butcher him before his time.—He sighed.—If I don’t manage to sell them soon, I’ll cut them and toss them with the rest of the cubed meat. 

I looked down at the steaks once more. It was true. Two of them could’ve fitted in the palm of my hand. My mom and I didn’t eat much beef anymore. Maybe it would make for a nice surprise to leave her one in the fridge.

—Whatdya say, huh?—Asked Harv—If you take two, I’ll throw the third one for free!
—I think you got yourself a deal! — I agreed, excited.

A wheel of soft yellow cheese, a little clay pot of cultured butter (my mom called it “The expensive butter”), and some freshly baked bread later, I waddled my way across yet more free samples (it would’ve taken less time had I not accepted every single one), and was walking down the front steps to leave when I thought that, what with the steaks and all, a salad could be in order. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to go back inside. So I decided to pay a visit to the Vegetable and Nuts stand.

One of the coveted stands at the back belonged to a squat lady called Arabella, who had caramel skin, a broad frame, a round face with puffy bags under her eyes, white, even teeth, and long, black hair she liked to tie up in all sorts of buns. Today’s hairdo seemed to be a cross between a braid and a bun. I always tried to make a mental note to budget before visiting her.

—Hello, Liah, honey—She greeted me sweetly when I approached.—Have you tried the honey walnuts yet?
—N—Not today, Mrs. Bella—I said, feeling myself go rigid.
—Frank!!—She bellowed at her husband, who was at the back—Bring me the crate!!

Here we go… I thought, resigned. The crate was a wooden box with samples of what I imagined was every nut that had ever existed, divided neatly in rows and columns. I thought it would’ve made for a fantastic Tea-Box, but having filled it with nut samples made it this lady’s pride and joy.

—Here, honey, try the walnuts. And the cloud cashews.—She told me as she opened the crate and kept going after I tried each.
—Urr—I tried to say it between a mouthful.
—No, no—She replied.—Have some of everything before you decide. The habanero peanuts sell out in a flash, you wouldn’t wanna miss them!

I swallowed and laughed. This lady knew how to make you spend your goldens.—I’ll take two hundred grams of cashews, then.
—Two hundred grams of cashews and two hundred grams of walnuts?—She asked, slyly.

I tried to glare at her, but I’m guessing the effect was muddled by the giggling.

I spent a good ten minutes trying to haggle my way out of buying every nut this woman had in her crate. I’m guessing that was where she made the gold and silver, because no matter how much she insisted, it was kind of hard to make a person buy ten stalks of butter broccoli, especially if they didn’t need them. Nuts were easier. And pricier.

The way vegetables were displayed in this stand was incredible. Mrs Arabella had her produce arranged in a very peculiar way that made it look abundant and very attractive, but tidier than it did in other shops. She had made a slope out of wood and had nice-looking open-top boxes leaning against it. Inside, the vegetables were arranged like puzzles: the pieces looking up, down, right, left, diagonal, what have you. She always made sure to leave no blank spaces. That way, she didn’t limit herself to displaying only the biggest pieces. It was very convenient for occasions like this one, when I wanted to make a nice dinner for one, maybe two. 

When I had gotten everything I needed for my salad, plus a little extra I couldn’t worm my way out of, I paid and got ready to leave, but Mrs. Bella stopped me.

—Hey hon, why haven’t I seen you here with a boy before?—She asked. Because I wouldn’t meet with one here. I thought.
—I don’t know, I think I’ve got no time to be thinking about dating, y’know?—I answered.
—Oh, well, you know, my boy Jared seems to have a little crush on you, and we always welcome help at the shop…

I didn’t really know what to answer to this. Jared wasn’t really my type. We had talked at parties and at Harvest festivals, but he really hadn’t made much of an impression on me.—I’ll keep it in mind—I told her, trying to sound grateful.

With that,I had finished my shopping for the day.

---

It wasn’t dinner time yet, but my iced tea was cooling down, my salad ingredients were all cut and awaiting the dressing, the bread was in the turned-off oven, ready for when I might be, and the steaks were in the fridge being steaks. I always liked to do those last, as they were the easiest and fastest. I looked at the time, realized it was early for dinner, and went up to my room.

I sat on my bed and was about to fire up a videogame to pass the time when a cold feeling crept up my spine. I had almost managed to forget about it. I turned around and looked at my bedside table. On top of it, was the envelope containing my Magic Test results. I stood there and stared at it, blankly. It stared back. I sighed and grabbed the top of my head with both hands, exasperated. I paced the room. It was alright. I was ready to know. The result didn’t really matter because I had a perfectly good plan for my life. I did. After having visited the market and the Street of Silver a couple of times, I had seen and tasted the flower liqueurs whose exportation my mother had been hired to oversee. I thought I liked them, and perhaps, in the future, we could export my own together. It was a good plan. 

My mother had found the job at the old folks home for me before I got around to telling her I wanted one at the liqueur shops. To this day, I still hadn’t told her, but the idea kept brewing in my head. Pun intended. So it didn’t really matter whether I had magic or not. I wouldn’t become a sorceress or an alchemist even if I did have magic. I would have to move or travel to learn, mom would probably not come, and she would be left all alone. What would she do then? Anyway, it was way too much work. This way was better. With that conclusion out of the way, I took the envelope, opened the drawer at the bottom of the bedside table, and shoved it in there. I sighed and laid down on my bed.

I tried to think about something else. About my dinner, or work, or the market. I even thought I could call up Alv. But I just ended up laying there, looking at the little sunlit window I had hanged on the wall. The light inside it was very soft. It hardly illuminated stuff an arm’s length away. The thought made my eyes feel itchy and wet. 

I sat down, reached for the wooden box in the open drawer and took out the picture. I stared at the little family for a while. I thought about the times my father and I had spent together. When I was little, he taught me to always go to him when I woke up early in the mornings (which was almost every day), instead of going to my mother, who was normal, and so, asleep at 6 am. 

He would take me out for walks or to ride my bike, or sometimes down into his workshop, and I would look at him as he worked. He made all kinds of things. Little toy soldiers with lanterns that never went out, glass frames filled with moving water and sand in the bottom and a tiny toy boat floating, sailing the currents, sculptures of hands made of earth that would later sprout grass and flowers, he’d call them the hands of mother earth, globes of colorful light that would go on and off when touched and didn’t have to be plugged. 

Sometimes, when he was finishing something pretty, he would sit me on his lap so I could see exactly how he made things. One morning, he took some scraps of wood and nailed them together, in a circle top shape, with a cross in the middle. He sanded the edges and glued glass to the back. He cut another piece of glass in the same shape and framed that with a wooden structure too, no cross in the middle. He glued them both together, one on top of the other. I remember thinking it looked like a cross between a fish tank and a window. When he had finished that, he went to the door, opened it and stood outside for a little while. It was sunny already by then. He came back inside and sat me on his lap so I could see. All these years later, I could hear him in my head as he touched the window with his handful of light and pushed it inside the space he had created in the window, exhaling as he told it: “Still”. He then held it up so I could see the finished thing. It was so bright it dazzled me, but laughed and clapped nonetheless with my tiny hands. 

It had been a couple of years since I had spilled tears by thinking about my dad. Most of the time I tried to live my life as best I could. And, the thing is, most of the time, I succeeded. I got up early, showered, made my bed, ate breakfast, went to work, bought groceries, did my chores, met with friends, went to parties, played games. I was fine. Perfectly fine. But that hole in my heart had never filled back up again. When I was still and took a look at what was inside, I felt it. I felt a lump on my throat that I couldn’t get rid of. I felt empty and powerless. I felt like I had lost him all over again, the wish of hugging him and talking to him and hearing his voice and his laughter was all I could think about for a brief second. Then, I would compose myself. I would do as I always did: wipe off the tears, take a deep breath, wash my face, and powder the redness down if necessary, because it was fine, I was fine.

This time, though, I couldn’t. I looked at that little window with difficulty through very wet eyes, its light diminishing more and more with each passing year. It was about to go out for good. Just like he had. And the fact that I probably couldn’t do anything about it, was eating me alive. I didn’t need to learn those bad news.

Perhaps a good cry was exactly what I needed to pass the time, because, suddenly, I heard my mom walking inside the house.

—Thalia, honey! You home?—I heard her call.
—I—I’m here!—I stammered as I tried to wipe off the tears. I looked at the clock in my room. 7 pm. She’s home early. I went to the kitchen to greet her.
—You’re early!—I exclaimed, trying to sound better than I felt.
—Yeah!—She said, as she looked in the pantry for something. Today, she wore one of her many dress suits with stripes. Her pants tight on her slim legs, her charcoal-brown hair down. She had probably undone her work knot when she entered.—I was thinking that maybe I could make something nice for dinner if you were home.—She informed me.
—You don’t say…—I mumbled as she approached with a can of tomatoes in her hand. She took a glance and my face and searched me with her eyes.
—Did you cry, baby?—She asked, her eyebrows knitting together in a concerned expression.
—Yeah, a bit…—I answered without trying to hide my sadness anymore. I had a lot of things I didn’t tell my mother, but this was something we could both understand. I had caught her doing some crying of her own lots of times. We rarely talked about why we cried. Lately, I felt like she cried about my brother, more than she did about my father. She hugged me. We had an unspoken agreement. If I didn’t tell her what I had cried about, it had been about my dad. Or at least that’s what I thought she thought, because she never asked.

—Oh, Liah, baby.—She called in a sweet voice that made me feel she was doing her best to comfort me as she approached and hugged me.—What if we have something nice to eat tonight?
—I made something nice.—I replied, feeling a bit more enthusiasm run through me.—I have cheese-bread, and iced-tea, and salad, and there was a stake sale at the market…
—Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have!—My mom exclaimed, although I could see she liked the menu.—I don’t like you spending your money like that, baby. there’s food at home!—She finished, sounding seriously concerned for my finances. I laughed.
—Mom, I’m doing fine!—I said, chuckling. My work was, after all, full-time. Early as I clocked out, I did work eight hours, I didn’t even get much of a lunch break. And my mother knew that, too. Still, she liked to cover the costs of the food, the cleaning supplies, the water, the gas, the phone… I was lucky if she ever let me take her out for ice-cream. I sometimes tried to buy things and put them in the pantry without her noticing, but she always did, and would sneak money into my wallet when I slept. While this did leave me with a good amount of pocket money and savings, it made me feel a bit odd. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.

—Well, I’ll warm up some pasta.—She announced, when she felt me sufficiently comforted.
—Mom! Don’t!—I protested—I made enough food!
—I know, baby, but I wanna finish the pasta in the fridge before it goes bad.—She explained herself. I knew better than to argue. Try as we might, neither Wes, nor me, nor the two of us combined, could do enough before dinner time so that mom just arrived at the table and sat down. She always had to do something. Chop up fruit, make something to drink, reheat leftovers, whip up a quick dessert. She always found an excuse to keep herself occupied. When she was off work she would sweep, vacuum and mop the whole house. She dusted shelves, re-arranged the pantry, cleaned out the fridge, did laundry, straightened her closet… She was always fretting about something that apparently needed to get done. She also relentlessly complained about being tired and her shoulders aching and her head hurting, but would act borderline disgusted at the idea of spending a whole day resting. I had tried to help around more than I thought necessary, but figured it was no use.

We sat looking at a very nice dinner table. There was warm bread baked with cheese butter and fresh chives, a salad made of chopped spinach with some nuts, raspberries, mango, goat cheese, and honey-mustard dressing; iced black tea sweetened with blood orange syrup and chunks of blushing peach, the tomato pasta mom had made the night before, and the steaks, which I cooked in garlic butter and seasoned with a good sprinkle of pepper. 

I couldn’t help but think that my dad would’ve loved it. He was just like this town. He never did anything halfway. He laughed heartily at jokes he found funny, he worked like a mule when he did and rested comfortably when he didn’t, his workshop was full to burst with experiments, his fridge was stocked as if for the apocalypse, his pantry full of things we might someday perhaps need, and, most notably of all, he liked a banquet each time we sat at the table. 

He would chop pounds of fruit for breakfast while my mother made eggs, he would butter bread until it was more butter than bread, he’d juice so many oranges we had orange juice for breakfast, orangeade for lunch and orange tea for dinner. On weekends, when I would pace restlessly all over the house at six am, he’d take me with him to a diner he used as a breakfast place, where the employees already knew him as “The guy who has dinner for breakfast”. He would order a menu very similar to this one: steaks, boiled potatoes (or baked, or mashed), steamed vegetables with cream cheese dressing, garlic bread, lemonade with chopped strawberries… I’d always be shy about it, but he knew I always wanted dessert, so instead of asking “Do you want dessert, Liah?”, he would say “What dessert are we getting today, babygirl?” Sometimes we would eat so much we’d skip lunch and dinner, instead opting for a light snack before sleep.

—You got mail.—My mother told me, interrupting my train of thought. Without looking up from her food, she handed me an envelope made out of thick brown parchment studded here or there with pressed flowers or leaves: Monastery paper. It was another letter for Wes.

Wes and I had corresponded ever since he arrived at the Monastery in Westwood. He had spent more than three years there, and I guessed he was ready to be ordained. People were welcome to spend time living there and learning the ways of the Monks. How long they were allowed to be there without being ordained varied. A lot of people without homes visited monasteries to have a warm bed and enough food for a while, but they eventually were asked to leave if they didn’t join as apprentices. I don’t know if there was a time limit for an apprentice to choose to be ordained, but Wes told me one of the Monks he knew had been an apprentice for ten years before he took the leap. Moreover, Wes’ three years didn’t really count as such. He had arrived at 19, but the youngest a person could be ordained was 21. Younger people were permitted to live as apprentices and learn about life in a Monastery, but they weren’t considered sensible enough to make the big decision until they were 21 or older.

—Mom—I called suddenly while looking at the envelope—When are we gonna go see Wes? Mom tensed up.
—If your brother wants to see us, he knows where we are.
—But… mom.—I tried to sound soothing.—There’s not even a room here for him to stay in.
—We can get him a room in town.—She said coldly—Or he can stay with one of the neighbors.
—That sounds harsh, mom.—I retorted, feeling my throat tighten.—I just wished we could make him feel supported.
—Well, I don’t support it.—She said, raising her voice—I don’t support your brother going to the mountains, abandoning his family when we needed him, to live like-like a brainwashed slave!

Frankly, I hadn’t expected anything different. Mom and I had had this conversation before. She was, at the same time, convinced that my brother couldn’t have possibly left of his own free will, and furious with him for having done so. The trip wasn’t a long one either. The Monastery was about an hour’s detour from the nearest city, which was two hours away by high speed train. Yet, my mother had never agreed to go.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to get up and raise my voice just like she had, to tell her that just because she had birthed him, Werner didn’t owe her his whole life, but I didn’t. I was sure absolutely nothing good would come of it. So I sighed.—Okay, mom—I said under my breath, and took my plates to the sink.

Chapter 3- Sarah’s Request

The Harvest Festival was approaching, and the people in town knew it.

Usually, the people at the market were busy, restless, and above all, noisy. When a Harvest Festival approached, they were even more so.

Over the next few days, I heard the vendors talking about the dishes they would prepare as I walked around the shops. A couple of them could make do exclusively with what products they sold in their own shop, but most of the stores preferred to exchange products, recipes, and sometimes enlist the help of other shop’s manpower.

The shops that sold teas exchanged spices for fruits they used to make interesting drinks, the vegetable stands allied with the butcher shops to trade meat and recipes for roasts and stews, the bakeries traded stale bread for casseroles and in turn got nuts to cut into little chunks and bake inside their breads. The creameries were sought after by almost everybody, so the charcuterie platters they sold were a feast all on their own. 

This was also a sort of popularity contest: the richest dishes were always served by the shop owners liked best by other shop owners. Harvey’s charismatic personality always meant he had no problems getting everything he needed from anyone, and, as he was generous with his wife’s ample catalogue of recipes, nobody had a problem with being sought after by him. Aislinn, on the other hand, wasn’t known for her charm and had a lot of problems making nice with anyone. This would be a serious problem for her, but there was always a male owner of a store or two who was eager to help the damsel in distress. It also helped that her father was always offering her hand in marriage in return for help in the festivals, but, seeing as she was still single, I’m guessing it was a local joke. I couldn’t help but think that there was always a young lad willing to buy into it, though.

The Street of Silver was not nearly as noisy as the Market of Plenty was, but you could see the same exchanges going on in a quieter sort of buzzing. I walked down the street watching the employees of the stores run many more errands than they usually did. Young girls in pretty colored aprons from the tea-houses, boys in neat white button-ups from the wine shops, women in ruffled blouses from the flower liqueur stores, all of them with some urgent message to deliver, asking, perhaps, what it would take for the store across town to divulge how they made their royal cranberry-jam dressing last year.

Our money wasn’t silver, but the place was called The Street of Silver for a reason. An old guy in the home had told me the story in detail over a game of chess one morning. Simply put, even if our currency was called goldens, the bills and coins weren’t made of real gold, but were just gold-colored. The name “goldens” stuck because it was the priciest coin people used in the old days, made out of real gold, along with the other ones, which were silver and copper. 

During those times, with gold coins, you could buy horses, jewelry, fancy clothes or even houses. With Silver, you could buy nice produce, alcohol, good cheeses, bakery bread, or eat at a restaurant, among other nice, but not so costly things; So this street, which was famous for boasting stores that sold items such as a bottles of honeysuckle liqueur, lavender basil goat cheese or dried midnight tomato bread got named The Street of Silver.

The store owners here did not have to utilize every ounce of ingenuity they possessed to outline their properties. Each store was a building of its own. Most of them looked like little houses. They stood wall-to-wall, one right next to the other, and just like the farmhouses in front of the plantations, were all built in the same style but tried their darnest to look different from one another. 

All of them were narrow and rectangular, most of them boasted big windows in the front, behind which the employees would display the best products available. Some of them were made of brick or wood, but most were made of concrete and painted in different colors, normally the walls being a single solid color and the details another, but a few were marbled, striped, dotted, patterned or even had decorative paint splashes. Most of them were two stories high, and the owners would use the second floor for different purposes. Some of them lived there, others used it as a warehouse. Some of the stores had a staircase that led directly from the street into the second floor, so the space was rented by a different store owner. The ones with balconies were decorated with intricate ironwork, some of it, thematically appropriate for the store (A wine shop’s decorated with grape shapes, for example), the balconies themselves usually served as places where you could sit to have a cup of liqueur, tea, or even a charcuterie board sold in those shops. It had a beautiful charm to it. The front of the shops and the rail guards on the balconies were decorated with flowers of all colors, the front doors displaying little fountains, vines around the door frame, and baskets filled with pretty plastic fruit. It was the perfect place for a date or a shopping trip where you could get a nice birthday present. 

I wondered what I wanted to bring to the Harvest Festival. The shops in town always made amazing dishes to sell. You bought whatever you wanted and took it to the banquet tables. If you preferred to spend a little less, you could bring something homemade. Anything was welcome. The young people usually took booze or fruit baskets, but the old ladies impressed everybody with casseroles and stews whose recipes they weren’t willing to divulge to anybody. 

I’d been taking stuff ever since my first Festival, and no matter what, it was generally well received. The Harvest Festivals were held in town every time the season changed. I knew there were comercial reasons for it, but to me it served as a chance to eat a lot, be with my friends and get excited about the new things I’d get to buy in the market for the next several weeks. I’d been craving potatoes lately, so maybe I would make something potato-related. Sarah and I always got together the day of the festival and made a dish each. At this point in time, I had tried my hand at roasts, casseroles, stir-fries, fried food, dips, salads, desserts, cakes, bread and Lord knows how many drinks; but I only ever took my best tried and tasted dishes to the Harvest Festivals. However, that never stopped me from buying one or two extra dishes at the stands and eating anything and everything I was offered.

The employees in the mall did not seem as preoccupied with the Harvest Festival. The only thing that bothered them was putting up sale signs in the clothing stores to entice the people who were looking for something nice to wear for the event. I could lie and tell you I thought the scheme was dumb… Had it not worked on me. I completely fell for it when I walked around the shops after visiting the post office to send Wes my letter. It made me start feeling that maybe I could use a little something new.

I wondered what I was gonna wear to the festival. It was normal for people to wear nice clothes for the banquet (in the case of some farm boys, this meant their one clean shirt). Next to Sarah, it was kinda hard for me to feel particularly girly. She spent the gold and silver in make-up, blouses, dresses, shorts, purses, shoes, you name it. Not only that, but after she was done buying, she started enhancing. The cuffs in her pants had ruffles, her shoes had ribbons instead of shoelaces, her purses had pretty flowers that she made herself out of fabric. She could take the most unremarkable blouse and embroider beautiful designs on it until it was something unique and striking. She could pull off any kind of look and make it memorable. She made a point to always look her best for the situation at hand, and her clothes were always incredibly well kept.

More than just having a nice fashion sense, Sarah was cultivating a business of her own. She was gaining a bit of a reputation among the women in the suburbs, who loved to give her the clothes they bought at the mall and let her come up with the best way to make the piece stand out. Some women asked for specific things they had come up with themselves, but, in my opinion, Sarah’s judgement was always better. 

As these orders were done in her free time instead of at the tailor shop (Sarah could make a better profit if she worked on them without the knowledge of the owner of the shop; and her customers were assured that it was gonna be Sarah herself making the improvements), she already had a cue for three weeks, she had so much extra work piled up. It was always bonkers when the Festivals came close. She would stop taking orders two days before, though, so she could work on her own outfit, of course. She had even gifted me some things. When my birthday approached, we would go to the mall and look at clothes. She would then come back on her own, get me something she had seen me looking at, modify it, and wrap it up. So far I had a kitchen apron embroidered with designs of birds and blushing peaches, and a long sleeved white shirt with pink ruffles on the cuffs and a modification on the neckline that made it scrunge in a pretty way (I, for the life of me, couldn’t tell you what that was called). All that said, even if I felt out-girled by Sarah’s promising career in fashion, I did like to look nice when I wasn’t working. So I waded my way through clothing stores on my own now that I wanted something new (it always took forever when I went with Sarah, and some days I just didn’t have that kind of time).

I knew Sarah would’ve asked to come with me to the mall, as she had her day off today, but I knew it would take a while with her here, and I was sure she was busy with her side business. If I managed to get her away from all the extra work she had, I knew I wouldn’t hear the end of her complaining later. Besides, she was coming over later. I had gotten one of those videogames she was so interested in, now, and we were gonna play it. If she didn’t care to work while I was busy, though, perhaps she’d spend some time with that new boyfriend of hers.

I had met several of Sarah’s boyfriends. Almost all of them had never graduated from the “New Boyfriend” phase. I chuckled thinking that she seemed to be working her way through half the town. According to her, she wasn’t the problem, it was every single boy that had ever set foot in front of her. Nobody was good enough for her. She was very impatient with men. She didn’t forgive them for mistakes easily, sometimes at all, and she was fiercely intolerant of inefficiency. No boy she had met could keep up with her. I had never thought of this as a particularly bad thing. Sarah wasn’t easily entertained, but she could be thoughtful, sweet, funny, and had a knack for understanding people. At least that’s how I felt.

I thought about these things while shopping. When I shopped, I’d look and look through all the places I liked and then come back to try on the one or two things I had liked best. If they didn’t fit or looked as nice as I had thought they would, I tried on something else. Thankfully, my guesses were fine most of the time, so I didn’t take too long to get myself something nice when I thought I could use it.

Today, I was checking out dresses, but I was unsure. The nights were still somewhat warm, but lately a chilly wind would make an appearance to remind us that the end of Summer was imminent. I thought about this and went to look for a nice sweater. 

After wading my way through rows and rows of sundresses on sale, their flower patterns displayed front and center as if the store itself was begging me to buy them, I found a small stock of sweaters in a corner. A black one caught my attention right away. It was pretty, knitted in stretchy yarn, but short (it would probably only cover above my belly button), and fitted, instead of loose and long, like most knitted sweaters I had seen before. I took it to the dressing rooms and tried it on. I looked in the mirror and examined my appearance. 

I was on the taller side of the people in this town. Sarah was 1.55 m, around the same height as the rest of the women in her family. I was maybe 1.71 m, I had long, slim legs that felt a bit too slim in skinny jeans, narrow hips, small waist and was uh… a big-ish cup size. I liked my figure, and it wasn’t much of a problem to find clothes that fitted me. My skin was a rosy-beige tone that would tan unevenly when I stood under the sun for too long, and my hair color was called “golden-blond”, which sounded dumb to me because it neither looked golden nor blond. It was sort of a light brown that would look lighter if the light hit it right, wavy and cut a little above my elbows. The sweater seemed to be a good match for me. This taken into consideration, I went out, paid for it, and looked for a skirt. I found an interesting one two shops later. It was pleated, shorter than I was used to, and patterned grey tartan. I had never liked tartan much, but the combination could work. Maybe. After confirming so in the dressing room, I bought the thing and finally allowed myself to go home.

On my way back, I decided to visit the Field of Lilies again. I hadn’t gone there since I came to check on our Lily (meaning Sarah’s and mine). I figured by now it would be fully grown and indistinguishable from the rest, but if I really cared to identify it, perhaps I could look for the mark I had made with my shoe that time. Maybe it was still there.

I was exiting the alley next to the market and nearing the fence when something made me stop in my tracks completely. Sarah’s boyfriend Jacob (or was it James? It was hard to keep track sometimes, but I definitely knew him by sight). He was there, in the Field of Lilies, alone.

He was one of the better-looking guys our age in town. He was taller than me, his skin was a caramel color that looked like it didn’t resent the sun as much as mine did, and tanned evenly, giving him what I could only describe as a healthy glow. His arms weren’t big and muscly, like some of the men in the farms had, they were slim, but the muscles in them were starting to acquire definition. His hair was thin, a nice sandy color that he wore medium-long. Not cropped close to his skull, but it didn’t go below his ears, either. His back was beginning to broaden. He was wearing a shirt that was ripped in the lower half, and faded jeans that were overlong, worn-down and muddy. I’d seen the guy around before, bringing produce with his father to one of the stands in the market. His father, on the other hand, looked just like whatshisface, but having been strengthened by years of working the fields. His arms were muscular and big, and his back wide, given him a powerful, intimidating look.

I could’ve gone and said hi, but people only went to the Field of Lilies for two reasons: to make promises and to check on the lilies. So I took a couple steps back and hid behind a trashcan in the alley. He couldn’t see me, but I could see him.

He was standing in the middle of the place, looking at the ground around him. He bent down and took something from the ground. When he stood up, he had a wilted, brown, unmistakably dead lily in his hand. He took it in both hands and proceeded to crumble the remains. Whatever was left of the flower took to the breeze. The dust of a promise that had been broken. 

Two-timing son of a bitch. Sarah was gonna hear about this. Jacob/James looked around to make sure he hadn’t  been spotted, and jumped the fence from the back. He went in the direction of the Street of Silver. Good. After a few minutes had passed and I was sure he wasn’t coming back, I went inside the field myself. I found the groove I had made next to the spot where Sarah and I had made our promise. Our lily was there, and, as I suspected, had grown enough to look just the same as every other one around it. I looked around for clues, but gave up pretty quickly. It wasn’t like I could tell which promise the jackass had broken just by looking at the lilies that still stood there, so I decided to go.

As soon as I arrived at my house, I decided to go check if Sarah was home. I walked in front of the two houses that separated her home and mine, walked up the front steps and stood at the door. When I was wiping my shoes on the rug at the entrance, I glanced down and saw something that caught my attention: Mud. The rug had a couple mud stains that had begun to dry already. I glanced down and saw traces of mud all over the sidewalk leading to Sarah’s house. Ohhhh boy…I thought.

I rang the doorbell and waited. No response. I rang again. Nothing. I knocked on the door and yelled.—Sarah! You home —Nope. She didn’t seem to be. Well, we did have a date later. I’ll just wait ‘till then.

Just as I was opening my own front door, I heard my name being called in an imperative tone.

—Liah!—Sarah called as she approached from the gate of the neighborhood. She was carrying a paper bag in her hands. 

—Hey you!—I greeted her, feeling relieved.

She approached to hug me, put her arms around me, and held me tight. I heard her exhaling in an exasperated way. I could feel myself going into calming—mode. I patted her back. There, there. Then, she let go and took a bottle out of the brown bag she was carrying.—We’re drinking.—She stated firmly.—Don’t you dare say no.

I laughed.
—Like I had a choice, anyway.—I retorted, rolling my eyes.

We went inside my house. As soon as I closed the door, Sarah went off like a firecracker.

—Guess what Jeremy did!—She asked. Oh, snap! His name was Jeremy! Right. How did I even get to James? That wasn’t even close. I opened my mouth to try and guess, but I needn’t —He comes to my house after days of not having seen me, and he brings a videogame!
—He didn’t—I said, trying my best to sound very sympathetic.
—He did!— She exclaimed, irritated.—He brings the thing in, talking about this game he’s gonna show me, doesn’t even listen when I try to tell him I don’t feel like it today and then!—She paused to draw breath.—He leaves mud all over my living room!
—Ohhh—Was all I could say as comprehension dawned on me.

—I spent all of yesterday trying to clean the damn floor and this asshole can’t even wipe his shoes at the door!

As we walked to my bedroom, opened the bottle and sat at my bed, I was treated to a lecture about all the ways Jeremy was such an unsatisfactory human. Meanwhile, I busied myself drinking the blushing peach liqueur straight from the bottle.
—So we go up to my room, we go to my TV to plug the stupid game in, he takes a look at my closet and goes “Do you really need that much clothes?”—She imitated, using a tone that made Jeremy sound only half as stupid as he actually was.—Agh! I hate these people! I’m done with farm boys! I’m done!
—Plus—I added, just for the pleasure of fanning the flames.—He broke your promise!

Sarah stopped suddenly and looked at me.—What promise?—She wondered, completely disconcerted.

—Oh, I saw him plucking a dead Lily from the field. I thought maybe you guys had made a promise or something.
—We hadn’t. Good riddance.—She stated proudly.

—You know what they say. “Plucking flowers, always liar”—I chanted in an old lady voice. The old ladies on the home had those sayings out the wazoo.
—So—Sarah finished her rant.—I broke up with him and told him to shove his games and his mud up his—
—I got it!—I interrupted, laughing. My laughter seemed to break her wrath, because suddenly, we were both laughing.
—Man, I don’t wanna think about videogames ever again.—She said, sounding tired, when we had stopped laughing.—I’m so done with farmboys. I’m so done with this place.
—Yeah—I answered in a sarcastic tone—I do believe you’ve finished off all the farmboys here.
—Oh my God, shut up.—She smiled as she playfully hit my arm.—What about you? Are you finding your type someday soon?

—I… uhmm.—I stammered. The question had caught me off guard.—I don’t know. Maybe Aslinn at the market?—I joked. Sarah snorted
—That was fun the first few times, but give it up already! You’ve got a better chance of getting with me, dude.—I giggled at this. I knew that she could tell I was just evading the question. Luckily, she didn’t press on it. Unluckily, she went on through a different route.

—You know, I don’t think you’re gonna find “your type” here.—She continued, her tone different now. Softer. Like she was trying not to offend me.—I don’t think you’re finding anything here.

—What do you mean?—I asked—I wanna start the liqueur thing!
—Dude, if you really wanted to start, you would have already. I considered this for a while.
—I mean. Yeah. But the people at the old folks home need my help and all.— I uttered, finally.

Sarah rubbed her temple and inhaled deeply, clearly thinking of how to make me understand her point.—Look—She started in a patient voice I could have sworn she didn’t have in her.—When I first met you, I thought you were kind of a snob, you know?

—What? How did I come off as snobbish?—I asked, astounded.
—That’s the thing! You didn’t.—She told me as she ran one of her hands through my hair—But I thought you must be. Moving to this little town, daughter of a sorcerer, hot-shot mom and all… I thought you thought that this town was too small for you.
—Pshh, right.— I mumbled, ashamed.

—That’s just it, though.—She kept going—I’ve been thinking that this place really is too small for you. Whatever you want to do with your life, you shouldn’t. Not here.
—I, uh—I tried, and paused.—I wanted to take an agriculture class tomorrow…—Sarah didn’t answer. She just looked at me with her eyebrows slightly raised, her mouth to one side. I guess that was all the answer I needed.

—Look. I’ve been thinking about something for some time now. I’ve been saving some money—I chortled at this, amazed 

—Saved? When? You’re always buying shit!—I retorted. Sarah laughed.
—I don’t spend all of my money!—Now it was my turn to look at her without answering.—Okay, fine. My salary I spend on clothes.—She said in an apologetic tone—But. The money I get on the side, I’ve been keeping. And I was thinking. I have some savings. So do you. So I thought maybe we could go somewhere.
—Like a vacation?—I answered, perplexed.
—No, you idiot!—She replied with a smirk as she punched my arm again.—I mean move somewhere. Somewhere out of here. I’m doing it soon. Perhaps as soon as two weeks from now. And I’d like you to come with me.

This left me speechless. I had made friends in the course of these three years here. Most of them had left for the surrounding cities. I always knew that Sarah was gonna leave, but I tried not to think about it much. Well, I was thinking about it now. I thought about Wes. 

I remembered what it had been like after my brother left. After he fled, would be a better way to describe it. He left a simple letter explaining that he was leaving for a monastery. My mother had been furious. She had gone out to the street to search for him, she called on every single one of his friends. She went to the places where he used to spend his free time. She spent a lot more time than she should have trying to find him in places he clearly wasn’t in. After that, she had sat by the front window. Waiting for him to come back. But he didn’t. And I could feel, I could see that everyday she got angrier about it. 

After a couple of weeks, she searched for a new job elsewhere. She packed all our stuff and moved us to Everlasting Bounty. Werner’s stuff she left behind. I had no idea what had happened to it. She found me packing some of his things to take with me, but she flat-out refused to let me. By that point, he had already sent the first letter, written on that plant-studded parchment. She acted as if it didn’t exist. At least she didn’t destroy it, so I took it for myself. I answered it, telling him about what mom had done. Asking him to address the next letters to me, instead of to us. I told him we were moving. I couldn’t even tell him where we were going. I had had no say in the matter. My mother had refused to visit Wes. She hadn’t listened to my pleas to stay where we were, nor had she let me take any of Werner’s stuff or get a say in the house we were moving into. The only thing I did manage to do was to find Wes’ rubber ball. I remembered him, looking at it when we were children. Trying to predict how the water inside it would move next. I managed to sneak it in my pocket, and had managed to keep it hidden from my mother all this time. Like so much else.

Sarah was staring at me. She had remained quiet, not pushing me, letting me mull things over, but her gaze now prompted me to speak up.—I don’t know, man. My mom needs me here.—

—What for?—She questioned, irked at me.—Does she need the extra income? Isn’t she working most of the time?—

—What would she do without me?—I asked, feeling tears flood my eyes.

—Pfff, I don’t know! Go to the movies, have dinner, go to bars, get a boyfriend.—She pointed.—She would move on, Thalia.

I exhaled, feeling the hole inside my chest growing larger.—I don’t know if she can do that.

—Why?

—Because she hasn’t moved on from Wes! She never forgave him.—I finished as my voice broke. Sarah paused for a second, then pressed on 

—Isn’t that her problem? Neither Wes nor you are responsible for how she feels.

—I just don’t want her to hate me!—I stammered, almost screaming.

—Staying here just for her sake is gonna make you hate her.—She pointed out.—So, you won’t come?— She asked after a while, giving the question a strange air of finality. I could see she felt sadder than she was irritated. I stayed silent for a long time. 

—I’ll… think about it.—

With that, Sarah stood up from my bed, stretched, said goodbye, and went home, and I was left to make dinner by myself.

Chapter 4- Lessons

Earth Alchemy might have been magic, but it was boring. 

I arrived at the lecture the next day, still feeling a little bummed out about my talk with Sarah. Perhaps the incident didn’t help much, but I imagined I wouldn’t have found the class enjoyable even if I had been in the jolliest of moods.

The classroom wasn’t big. There were, at most, 20 chairs, and the walls were painted a pale yellow color. The most interesting thing about it were the tiny fruits painted on the tops. The blackboard occupied all of the wall’s width, and I imagined professor Fischer filled it with unintelligible lingo in a normal class. 

He was a man in his late 50s. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short and combed back, and he had a full salt and pepper beard to match it, also cropped short and groomed well. He wore thick-framed square glasses, and the only motion he used while going on and on about the minerals on the town’s earth and how some spells could be used to enhance it, was to push them back to the right place. The rest of the time, he talked with his hands in his pockets, laid-back, without reading off of any notes or books.

I knew this had been a mistake after the first line of the lecture. “What is soil?” He had asked us, and the perplexed audience (who seemed to be mostly comprised of men his age, a few women, inexplicably, a small boy), had stayed silent. “Well”—He went on—“Soil is the topmost layer of the earth, and typically consists of organic remains…” As the lecture went on, I stole glances every now and again at the other people there. 

The couple of other young people who had attended were sound asleep, some of the men took notes and the rest of them tried their hardest to remain awake, the only one who seemed to be truly interested was the kid. A woman in her sixties knitted a blanket as she listened. I should’ve thought about that. It doesn’t seem very respectful, though…I thought. That’s why I only brought my rubber ball with the whirlpools inside. I had taken to carrying it around with me. I knew the magic in it was fading. If it was gonna stop completely, I wanted to look at it as much as I could before it did.

I had always thought of alchemy as the boring one of the advanced magics. It worked, not with water, but with the elements composing it. Not with wind, but with whatever floated around making the air, not with earth, but with minerals. I was sure it was all so-very fascinating for some people, but I had struggled against even learning the periodic table in highschool, so I doubted the theory of earth alchemy, or any other theory taught in this class, would enter my thick skull willingly.

I thought of leaving the class before it ended, but no one else did. I was hoping someone would. After two hours of hearing about the composition of rocks, the types of spells used in agriculture, what nutrients were good for fruits and Mother Nature knows what else, everyone started to head out. I felt so dazed I didn’t really notice the lecture was over until the person next to me bumped my chair on his way out. I tried not to look like I was surprised, but I failed. I could tell because professor Fischer chuckled a bit when he saw the way I was blinking. By that point, we were the only ones left in the room.

—Did you like the class, young lady?—He asked me, a grin on his face. I realized I had never seen him smile before. It didn’t change him much, but the gesture was welcome nonetheless.

—Uhh, yeah, I…—I tried to lie—I, uh…

—Don’t worry. The theory of Alchemy is not for everybody, not even most magicians.—He explained, sympathetic.—Are you interested in agriculture?

The question surprised me. Even though I had just sat through two hours of an agriculture lesson, he had felt the need to ask. I thought about telling him all my aspirations to some day invent a new flower liqueur, and how much I liked the produce here, but something stopped me. 

—No. I don’t think I am, professor.—

—That’s ok. Thank you for staying through the whole thing.—He smiled.—The board thought a free class would help get more people to enroll.—
—Will it?—I asked in my best-mannered tone. 

—I don’t think so. Alchemy is not easy to wrap your head around, and earth alchemy is especially tedious.—

—So why did you choose it?—I blurted out, before I could stop myself.

To my surprise, he laughed an honest laugh. It was a nice sound, it made him feel younger, somehow. Like he wasn’t this dull and composed all the time. So I felt safe enough to elaborate.—You had already awakened, why not become a sorcerer or a different kind of alchemist?

—I’m not well suited for Sorcery. It requires a different mind.—

—You mean you don’t feel smart enough?—I questioned, throwing manners out the window.

—No, it means it requires a different way of thinking.—He cleared.—It’s not easy to explain to non-magicians.—I felt snubbed by this.

—How do you know I’m not a magician?
—Magicians can tell, young lady.
—Oh…—Was the only thing I managed to answer, disappointed.

—Hey.— He exclaimed as he put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly fashion.—Magic isn’t the only path in life. 

—I know.—I sighed.—It’s just… I have no idea what to do with my life—I confessed.—Like, I think I have a decent plan, but I haven’t done anything to make it happen for a long time.—I didn’t know why I was telling him these things. I had never spoken those fears out loud. Professor Fischer looked at me with sad eyes, but a smile on his face: An endearing expression that made me think he understood what I was going through.

—Let me tell you a story.—He began.—You asked why I chose Earth Alchemy instead of another kind of magic. The truth is, I did choose other kinds of magic. I tried just about everything people told me were good options. I got burned a lot before learning the basic fire spells, I never got the hang of holding light in place, much less manipulating it, wind is invisible, so that was even more difficult. Still, people told me those things were what I should be learning. Everyone seemed to think they knew better than me. And the general wisdom is that Earth is boring and Alchemy is even more so. But Earth was the one I kept going back to. It was what I took best to, what came easiest, so I leaned into it. And when I had mastered the basic spells, and the intermediate ones, and learned enough to start the Sorcerer-level spells, I didn’t. By that point I already knew what I was good at. So I went to Lahsek to get a degree in Alchemy, and I haven’t looked back. What I mean is, some of the time, you won’t know what you want. But most of the time, you know what you don’t, and that’s already a big step.

I reflected on this. I remembered all the things my dad had made. He used to work with all kinds of things, but the ones he did the most, and the ones that sold best were always the ones that were made with Light. I recalled that my mother, his friends, his clients, everybody used to tell him he could easily make bigger projects, works of art that would be known all over the world, become an architect, or a sculptor, but that wasn’t like him. He was not some sort of tortured-soul artist, or a genius with big-scale ideas, or a person who seeked fame at all. He was generous, sweet, and playful, prone to joking around, almost childlike. I even remember he used to scare Wes and me with his light tricks. When we were someplace dark, he’d let light out of his eyes and mouth, and pull faces. At first it was scary, but after a while it would make us giggle.

Suddenly, I thought of something.

—Professor!—I blurted out much louder than I needed to.

—Yes?—He asked, surprised. 

—Could you do something with this?—I asked, as I took out my rubber ball and showed it to him. He took it in his hand and gave it a good look.
—This is elaborate for a toy.—He noted.—But yes, I think I can keep up with a Water Spell of this level. I’m not much of a Sorcerer of any material. I’ll have to pierce it, though.
—I can close it later.—I answered quickly, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind.

He took a pen from his pocket and made a hole in the rubber with it. Then he squeezed it until a drop of the water came out. He touched the water with his finger and stopped squeezing the ball. The drop of water got sucked back inside. He then closed his eyes, inhaled, and exhaled as he said “turn”. The whirlpools, currents and splashing inside the ball accelerated, looking like an abundant waterfall lived inside it, just like it used to look like when it was first made. I couldn’t help it, then. I started clapping like I did when I was a little girl. I laughed and felt my face redden.

—Sorry.—I mumbled.—Sorry. I thought it was gonna go out forever.—Professor Fischer smiled tenderly this time. 

—You like Water-Magic?—He asked.

—I like all magic. Everyone likes magic.

—You’d be surprised.—He replied in a somber tone. I couldn’t think what to answer, so I just let the silence stretch on so he’d go on with whatever he was about to say. He turned to his desk, where a half-empty water bottle was. He lifted it.—I said I wasn’t much of a sorcerer, but I did manage to understand the basics of this one Spell.—

Again he closed his eyes while inhaling. This time, when he exhaled, he didn’t say anything, but as he opened his eyes, I saw what was going on. Inside of the water, foggy, but clear enough, I could see something green appearing at the bottom. A stem. It grew taller. Then it grew a white bulb on top. The bulb started to open its petals as the stem kept growing. A couple of leaves appeared on it, too. It was a White Lily. Like the kind in the field I liked so much. I was transfixed. Then I managed to look at professor Fischer’s face. He seemed proud. 

—I—Is that a real flower?—I stammered.

—No, it isn’t.—He said with a little chortle.—It’s an illusion. A Water Illusion. One of the most basic Sorcerer-level water spells. 

—It’s beautiful.

—I’m glad you like it, young lady.—I felt my eyes watering. My cup is full to the brim these days.

I thanked professor Fischer for the lesson, the advice, the help and the demonstration, and exited the classroom.

---

On the days that followed, Sarah and I seemed to be completely out of tune with each other. When I called, she wasn’t home, when she wanted to hang out, they had asked me to come in on one of my days off, if I went to look for her, she was out. I tried to shake the feeling that she was avoiding me, or that we were somehow avoiding each other, but it was hard to manage with all the evidence in favor of that somber prospect. Which is why, taking matters into my own hands, I went to the Tailor Shop at the time I knew she normally went out, and waited outside for an hour until she was done with some extra time she had apparently asked for. 

Knowing that she was asking for extra hours even though she was leaving soon made me think that she was avoiding me on purpose, but I had some time to think things through as I waited for her. She was going to a city. I hadn’t even asked where she planned to go, where she intended to live, if she had a job waiting for her when she arrived or not. She probably didn’t. It was probably best for her to be safe. With this in mind, I felt calmer as I waited. If Sarah was gonna leave, I didn’t wanna lose her friendship even before she went away. I wanted her to at least feel that she had my support.

—You can’t avoid me forever, darling.—I called in a silky tone when she finally walked out the shop at about 10 pm. She rolled her eyes and smiled, which confirmed to me that she wasn’t trying to avoid me, but she caught my meaning and liked the joke anyway.
—You know what? I think you owe me a girl’s night out.—She decided with a smirk.

The District of Lights was aptly named. Not the “District” part, because it was only a couple blocks wide, but Lights it had. The street housed the bulk of this town’s restaurants, coffee shops, bars, and even a few little nightclubs, and the one movie theater where you had the chance of choosing between a whole three movies. All of them, decorated with light of some kind. The more expensive places had decorations made from real sunlight, distinguishable because they didn’t have any wires, the rest of them made do with strings of little bulbs that lined their ceilings and balconies, big bulbs that illuminated the restaurants, and colored signs spelling words that had little or nothing to do with the places. 

Everything here had to be lit up in some capacity. Even the dim, dark places like the bars and clubs had color lights that didn’t really illuminate anything, but they drove the point home. Normally, Sarah and I hit the night clubs, but when the time came to choose, we reached the unspoken decision of attending a bar.

We walked the length of the street. It was a nice place. The road was wide, and it wasn’t paved with regular asphalt, but lined with a modern.looking stone mosaic alternating between dark and light grey. On both sides of it were the establishments that occupied their own space, plus the space of the sidewalk. To manage that, they erected  a plastic curtain between one another that served the dual purpose of separating each of the businesses and granting more sitting space to their patrons at the expense of the walking space of pedestrians, but the look was nice. It gave off an air of privacy while keeping out the late summer breeze. 

We walked through some restaurants packed with happy families out for dinner, noisy bars with loud music and louder customers doing shots or drinking way more than they should, nightclubs filled with that fake smog used for purposes unknown to me, but we were searching for a quieter place. At the end of the street, we spotted an almost empty bar. As we entered through the plastic curtains, I saw a table at the place next door (which was a little fuller). Four boys were sitting on it, I recognized Jeremy, Sarah’s newest ex, and Jared, one of the sons of Mrs. Arabella in the market, the one who, supposedly, had a crush on me. 

I could see Jeremy looking at us as we entered the place next door and walked towards the bar. Thankfully, Sarah hadn’t noticed. Her eyes seemed to be fixed on a couple, who were the only other customers of the place. We were far enough, the bar being at the very back, and the boy’s table being at the very front of the place next door, but I could’ve sworn I heard a single word, spoken with venom: “Cunt”.

We sat at the bar, near the lonely couple, who were making out shamelessly in the far end of the place, sitting at a table right next to the bar. They each had a glass full of some blue cocktail with fruit chunks.—I think I’ll pass on whatever those two are having.—Sarah joked, and we laughed.—I’m going to the bathroom, you’re buying the first round.
—Sure—I feigned resignation. I ordered a couple of Dwarf Watermelon Martinis and looked at the bathroom door Sarah was walking towards. As soon as it closed behind her, I walked to the wall of the bar, the one next to the place where Jeremy and co. were sitting. I inched my way along it, until I could hear what they were saying. They sounded like they had been drinking for a fair bit. Their words dragged and one of them kept burping faintly.

—… is a fucking cunt.—This was Jeremy.
—Dude, chill, they’re gonna kick us out.—Chided a voice I couldn’t quite place. I had seen all of these boys in town. From my brief glimpse, I recognized one who lived in the suburbs. He was rosy skinned, blond, and judging by the uneven patch of hair on his cheeks and chin, he clearly couldn’t grow a beard. That didn’t stop him from trying, though.
—Sorry, man, I’m just mad.—Answered Jeremy.
—I don’t get it, I thought things with her weren’t that serious.—Pondered a third voice, one I placed on a guy who’s back had been towards me. Somehow, I pictured him failing to grow a mustache.
—They weren’t!—Retorted peach fuzz.—He already had a side girl!
— She wasn’t a side girl.—Jeremy began.—More like a back up girl, which was obviously a good idea!—I bet it was, jackass.
—Didn’t you promise her you were gonna break up with Sarah anyway?—Asked Jared. He was a skinny dude, his skin the same caramel color of his mother’s, and he was shorter than me by about 10 centimeters.
—I did, in the field.—Answered Jeremy—And guess what? The fucking lily withered. Like, what the fuck? Why would the stupid flower wilt?—So you were getting rid of some evidence.
—Because you didn’t break up with her.—Pointed Jared.—She broke up with you, man.
—Fuck off and fuck your flowers.—Jeremy retorted brilliantly.

—Yeah , that’s what you wanna tell women.—Mustache agreed, sarcastically.—They like to hear that.
—I’m not about to be schooled by a virgin.—Retorted Jeremy. This one has comebacks for days, I thought while feeling my eyes roll. Apparently he did, because the remark was followed by rockus laughter.
—See, that’s what I don’t get.—Questioned Mustache.—You got with one girl, bang! Another one, bang! I’d be on top of the world.—I heard Jeremy chuckle a bit. I could picture him shrugging and smiling a cocky smile.
—I wouldn’t count Sarah, bro. Too easy.—Spoke Peach Fuzz.  
—Yeah, she’s been with half the town.—proclaimed the alleged virgin—I bet even I could take a crack at that.—You wish, ass.

—Agh, don’t bother, dude. It’s too much trouble.—Counseled Jeremy.—Still feeling possessive, idiot?
—Come on dude, losing your virginity to a slut will stick with you.—Peach Fuzz graced them with his wisdom.
—Maybe.—Started mustache.—But I rather have It too easy than too hard. Right, Jared?

—What’s that supposed to mean?—Answered Jared, sounding offended.
—Your crush on Thalia?—Asked Mustache.—Everyone in the market knows about that one.—Maybe I should have been more worried about Mrs. Arabella’s insight. 

—It’s not a crush, man.—Answered Jared. I hope that’s true, for your sake.—I just think she looks good, and she kisses pretty good.—We have never even been close to kissing, you fucking dick. I could feel the heat of anger making my face grow hot.
—Fuck off, you haven’t.—Peach Fuzz had trouble believing this.
—Sure man.—Jared said, arrogantly.—I haven’t.—You haven’t, idiot. You should be so lucky.
—Even if you had.—Peachy went on.—that’s as far as you’re getting. Believe me, she’s a tease.—A what?!
—Yeah, she’ll just have you spending silvers on her, but she won’t give it up.—Pointed mustache. Why is this suddenly about me?!

—Or giving her fruit if your name is Alv.—Said peach fuzz. Alv has a way better chance than you do, Peachy McPeach-face.

—Hey, he’s a pretty okay dude.—Jared defended him.
—Doesn’t mean he’s not a sucker.—I was losing track at this point.
—Can we stop talking about girls? Let’s get some more shots.
—Yeah, let’s celebrate our boy’s freedom.—This had to be mustache, it was so lame.
—Yeah!—Cheered Jeremy.—Let’s celebrate my freedom.—So lame.
—Don’t you have a date tomorrow?—Asked Jared.

I had heard enough at this point. Our martinis were already at the bar, and I could see the bartender, a young woman, looking at me with mild interest. I walked over carefully, sat at the bar and paid for the drinks. Sarah was taking a long time in there.

I thought about what I had heard. Sarah dating every boy under the sun was one of those things that were only funny when I said them. And it wasn’t like I didn’t know about my reputation in the market for having a tendency to score free stuff. It was just that I had never heard it spoken that way: despective, venomous, demeaning. I had never heard a false rumour about me, either. Was this a regular thing? Did my friends, my coworkers, the people at the Market talk that way behind my back all the time? Had these rumors reached my mother’s ears? Were more boys saying these kinds of things about me? Were they inventing things about Sarah, too? Was I overreacting to this drunken gossip? I honestly didn’t know what to make of it. Did I really care that much about it? Should I care that much about it? I mean, perhaps it wasn’t a big deal. These were just drunk idiots, at the end of the day.

When Sarah finally came out of the bathroom and sat on the chair beside me, she took me by surprise, I was so deep in thought.

—What ‘s wrong —She asked after having taken a look at my face. I didn’t say anything, but I put my arms around her and held her tight. As tradition dictated, she didn’t say anything. She just held me.
—I’m… I’m sorry.—I managed. I was sorry Sarah was going away. I was sorry I was planning on staying. I was sorry that she had chosen such a shitty guy for a boyfriend. I was sorry boys talked that way about her. About us. I was sorry about many things, but I preferred not to say. She kept hugging me in silence, so I think she understood some of them nonetheless. 

---

Waking up the next day was harder than it usually was, having stayed up later than I normally did and having had a “more than necessary” amount of cocktails, but I managed. I knew they’d probably have a hard time getting someone to cover my shift if I suddenly called in sick, so I dragged myself out of bed and after making myself as presentable as I could in my current state, I went, unshowered and hungover, to work.

I arrived and started the usual breakfast preparations when a girl I had never seen before came in. She seemed to be two or three years older than me, she had ivory skin that looked like she rarely saw sunlight, and black hair tied in a knot at the back of her head. I realized she resembled my boss, Mrs Caron Frances, who was the woman who ran the Old Folks Home. As the girl entered, we stared at each other for a second, not saying anything. Then, Mrs Frances came through the kitchen door. —Thalia, thank the Lord, there you are. We tried to reach you last night, but you weren’t picking up!—She exclaimed.
—Sorry, I was out.—I apologized.—Everything ok?
—Why don’t we talk in my office?—Said Mrs Frances, looking uncomfortable. She turned without waiting for my answer and walked towards her office, which was at the back. We entered the little place after wading around some of the residents who rose early. Then, Mrs Frances closed the door and gestured me towards a chair in front of her tiny desk. She sat behind it and sighed.

—Listen, Thalia.—She started, sounding remorseful.—We’re gonna have to suspend you for a while.
—What?—I exclaimed. This had come completely out of nowhere.—What did I do?
—You see… Miss Nelson complained about you. She says she thinks you’ve been stealing from her.
—What? Why does she think that? Do you believe her?—I looked at Mrs Frances, pleading. This had to be a bad joke.
—No, Thalia, we don’t believe her.—She answered, looking ashamed.—But the policy here is to care for the comfort of the residents. It needs to look like we’re doing something.
—But who’s gonna cover my shift?—I asked. 

—You already met my daughter at the kitchen.—She answered. She can do it. She was the one who cooked before you arrived.—I was struck dumb by this, so I didn’t answer, and Mrs Frances took it as her cue to keep going.—Look, Liah, it’ll only be for a week, two weeks, tops. Paid leave, just while Miss Nelson forgets about it.—I could only gasp, exasperated. That wretched woman complained about everyone and everything all the time. I was irritating myself further by thinking about the satisfied expression she would wear on her plastered face when she found out I was not working here anymore. “For a while”.

And so, they paid me the next week in advance and I was asked to go home. It wasn’t even 7 am and I was already out, standing on the sidewalk, watching the sunrise. 

I wondered what I’d do with the rest of my week. The Harvest Festival was tomorrow, so maybe I could use this time to make something elaborate in advance. Something Miss Nelson would hate. I didn’t really feel like cooking anything, though. I did feel like stuffing my face. I asked myself what stores in the Street of Silver were open at this hour. Probably a grand total of none. I felt like walking around. I weighed my options. Both the suburbs and the Farmhouses would be swarmed with families taking their kids to school. Some were already walking by me, staring curiously at the girl standing still in the street, or simply ignoring me, the kids blabbering away about whatever kids talked about, the parents listening patiently.

I started walking and cut across alleys in the District of Lights, soon enough I had arrived at town’s square. The preparations for the Harvest Festival had already started. The construction of the stands that the food vendors would occupy was already in motion. People hung rows of little light bulbs similar to the decorations in the District of Lights over telephone poles, paper in fall colors with fruit and vegetable shapes artistically cut in it, glued and hanged to ropes above everyone’s heads, and somebody was polishing the statue on the center of the square.

I walked across town square and arrived at the Market. The produce stands were only beginning to open, and, although I thought it possible to go in and have a chat with someone, the conversation I had heard yesterday still weighed heavy on my mind, so I avoided the Market altogether and walked through the alley on the side of it instead.

The Field of Lilies’ gate was always open unless some event was going on there. It wasn’t much of a hassle to get permission from the town’s administration to have a ceremony there, it was commonplace. In this land’s soil, flowers like the White Lilies grew and bloomed quickly for all kinds of reasons, but people liked to come to this field specifically to make promises. Any kind of promise in this town was best made while standing on soil, otherwise, it was considered meaningless. The most official kind of promises were made on the Field of Lilies: Proposals, weddings, business deals, you name it. If hands were shaken, rings interchanged or even pinkies intertwined, people thought it best to do so here.

That said, when I saw a group of young women whose appearance, demeanor and Sarah-modified clothes placed them firmly as belonging to the suburbs, here, I assumed one of them was gonna get married soon. They were combing the length of the field, occasionally bending down and plucking a dead lily or two. I imagined the bride-to-be didn’t want broken promises to show in her pictures. I remembered the position of the spot where Sarah and I had made our promise, and I remembered no dead Lilies around, which was why, when one of the women bent down and pucked a dead flower from around the area, I had to double-check. I pretended I was just walking by, but I looked hard for the flower I knew was ours. I spotted the remains of the groove I marked to find the flower, but I couldn’t. Huh.

Just so it wouldn’t appear like I was spying on these women, I kept walking and arrived at the Street of Silver, which had exactly the amount of open shops as I suspected: zero. I found a bench in front of one of the shops and sat.

I thought for a while and remembered something: When I first arrived here, I was astounded to learn that promises in this soil turned into flowers as fast as they did. Everywhere else I had been before, they could take anywhere from days to weeks. But if you made a promise here in the morning, come the evening the flower had sprouted already. That revelation turned this place into something different from what I was used to. It made it look like it was more difficult to lie here, and for a while, I was happy to believe so. Maybe a lot of women would clean the dead flowers from the field on their wedding days. Maybe people from outside town would think it was no big deal, but there was a reason those women were up and doing it so early. In Everlasting Bounty, that’s one thing that made people believe you untrustworthy. Those women were helping more than one person get away with breaking their promises, inadvertently maybe, but they were. They probably thought they had a good reason, or that it was no big deal, or maybe that’s what they told themselves. The fact remained: they were doing it in secret, and having witnessed it made me feel odd. A  part of me thought it was just a superficial thing, hardly worth my brain power. The other part was almost offended by it. I also wondered about that dead flower I imagined to be Sarah’s promise. Why was it dead? What had the promise even been? It felt like we had made it forever ago. I imagined the promise wasn’t even that important if I couldn’t remember what it was, but the fact that it had been broken hurt nonetheless.

I had patched things with Sarah yesterday, so the broken promise shouldn’t affect me this much, still, I found myself grabbing my face, groaning, wiggling my feet madly, all at the same time, in an effort to keep calm.

—Old vulture! That’s why not even your children like you!—I screamed, unable to keep it in. I had arrived at the thing that was really bothering me. I wasn’t mad at Sarah. Thinking carefully about it, I didn’t think I was mad at Miss Nelson, either. If anything, I wasn’t mad. I was frustrated. Miss Nelson had accused me of something, and the higher-ups at the place I had worked for these past three years had just dispatched me, without even telling me about it first. I didn’t answer their calls, but they had a replacement for me, just lined up like that. I had thought my work there mattered. I had given it my all. I had deluded myself into thinking I was important in this place, for these people, but apparently I wasn’t. Whiny Miss Nelson had been more important to them that I was. I wasn’t really needed here. My standing wasn’t what I had thought. When I arrived at that conclusion, I could already feel the tears running down my cheeks.

Chapter 5 – The Harvest Festival

The Day of the Harvest Festival had finally arrived. 

Lots of shops in town closed early so people could prepare for it, so here we were, at my house, with our dishes prepared, both of us dressed, ready to go. We were just waiting for Sarah to finish getting ready.

I sat on my bed while she looked in the mirror and re-did her makeup for the third time. This was very much like her. She was picky about how she did things: she was very detail oriented. Not only that, but she was practically made of strong will and determination to get what she wanted. This had always astounded me. No matter the problem at hand, she found a way to circumvent it. She could jump to the front of lines at clubs, get discounts that were no longer available at stores, acquire tickets for sold-out movies, anything I thought impossible, she managed to turn around. Which is why I hadn’t told her about being laid off temporarily. I knew she would walk onto the home and do her best to turn Miss Nelson into a reasonable person and rub everything I’d done these past years for Mrs Frances. Or worse, yet, she would tell me how to do so and then expect me to manage, just like she would. That was the thing about Sarah. She expected everyone to be as efficient as she was. This was a noble cause, perhaps, but I thought it perfectly impossible. It had been made clear to me on a number of occasions that that kind of achievement required a very specific character. And, while I could be perfectly charming when I wanted to, I couldn’t be as convincing or head-strong as Sarah was when she needed something.

I kept on looking at her as she examined various angles of her face, body, and outfit. Sarah had some of the curves I lacked. Her tiny waist went well with her ample hips, and her legs were thick and well-toned. Her skin was a caramel tone that was abundant in town: The tone of the people whose skin didn’t resent the sun, instead it would shine golden with light and suffer fewer sunburns. Her hair was full, straight and dark brown, just above her waist. Tonight she was gonna be wearing a moss-green jumpsuit she had gotten at the mall. When she had gotten it, it was plain, the sleeves were jewel-cut, and the pant legs reached down to her ankles. Now, the legs reached her mid-thigh, the sleeves were off-shoulder, and it had a belt made out of the fabric that had been cut away. The neckline had been embroidered with flourishes in gold thread, and to finish the design off, Sarah had bought herself a pair of brown mid-calf boots that she re-laced in gold shoelaces, and a gold-colored handbag that hung from one of her shoulders in a fine chain.

In my opinion, everything was perfectly fine, but Sarah insisted on getting her makeup just right. The thing was, Sarah’s eye color was tricky. In normal circumstances, her eyes looked brown. However, if you looked at her up close, it became clear that her eyes weren’t brown at all. They were a tone called “forest-green”. Sarah didn’t mind that nobody noticed the green color on a daily basis, but she liked to bring that color out for special occasions, which she did by wearing tones of green, grey, yellow, and gold. The choice of color for the jumpsuit had been spot-on in my opinion, it brought out the green amazingly, but Sarah was having second thoughts about her gold eye makeup. She couldn’t choose between gold eyeshadow and black eyeliner or a more discrete eye shadow and gold eyeliner. 

I knew my input wouldn’t have any weight on the making of this important decision, so I just waited while I thought about my own presentation. I was wearing my new black, tight, short knitted sweater, the new tartan grey skirt, black tights, and ankle black boots with short, square heels. The boots had been a gift from my mom. She said the heels were flattering for me. I didn’t really get it, but I went with it. The heels in these boots were almost nonexistent. I knew I would look quite tall if I wore tall heels, so I didn’t own a single pair, but sometimes, when I was bored during those long stretches of time while I waited for Sarah at the mall, I looked at high heel shoes. Some of them were really pretty. I could’ve sworn no pair of flat shoes was as pretty as the plainest high heels. 

I looked at the door of my room, which was open. In it, my mother had hung a dress for me: grey, down to my mid-calf, with buttons on the front and short sleeves. I guessed it was nice, but I liked my choice of outfit better, even if I knew she’d probably fret about the length of my skirt.

Finally, Sarah opted for the gold eyeliner, and I took one last look at the mirror myself. I thought my choice of outfit was really cute, and Sarah looked as amazing and well put-together as always. We grabbed our dishes and headed for Town’s Square. 

When we arrived, people had already begun to gather at the tables placed in the center of the square, around the statue of the woman with her fruit basket. These tables were rectangular, wooden, and long, they could easily seat twenty people. Lined around the perimeter of the square were the stands where the vendors sold the dishes they had been so obsessed with getting right these past few days. I spotted Harvey and her wife from one of the butcher’s shop at a stand, a collection of girls I knew worked at a Tea House in the Street of Silver at another, Mrs Arabella at yet another stand, and a lot more of the people I had been acquainted with in my tenure here. 

The stands were metallic and wide. Each of them was a different size but made the same way: four walls and a roof made out of aluminum, with an opening at the front that worked as a table to sell dishes to customers. Each of the stores that occupied one decorated it with pictures according to what they sold. The liquor store stands that sold bottles and prepared drinks by the glass or the pitcher had decorated with images of grapes and vineyards (a great shorthand for “we sell wine here”), plus images of other fruits, lots of flowers, and colorful pictures of pretty glasses of layered drinks decorated with cherries and other tiny fruits; The butcher shops displayed pictures of roast chickens, ham, turkey legs or stews; The shops that sold pickles and other preserves showed pictures of salad dressings, dips, sandwiches, and little snacks skewered on toothpicks; the bakeries exhibited in their pictures huge loaves of bread studded with fruits, vegetables, preserves or cheese, plus pretty charcuterie boards that held everything from cheese, ham, bacon, olives, fruit chunks, jam, and dips to more unusual things like cubed pound cake, chocolate—covered strawberries, honey—filled lemon grapes, and candied blushing peaches. Aside from the pictures used to decorate the stands, each one of them displayed their menu and prices. Most places sold three or four well—prepared dishes that had been tried and tested or at least vouched for, but some adventurous shop owners would make huge menus in order to compete with the better concoctions of their neighbors. This decision would normally come back later to bite them because the logistics would be terribly disorganized as the event went on. This would all be sold in either individual portions or group portions. For the start of the event, when everyone gathered at the tables, people would buy for a group, so that nobody opposed them when they sat at a table, but later, if they felt like trying something or other, people would go around the stands and buy for one.

We adopted our usual strategy: split up and walk around some tables to see who we’d like to sit with (sometimes because they invited us over, sometimes because they’d brought or bought nice dishes), and then we’d walk all over the stands, reading the menus and making mental notes about the food we wanted to try. At the end we’d reconvene, exchange notes, and decide on a table.

As I walked, I couldn’t help but notice the usual way the people sat. The people that worked at the market sat with their employees and their families, sometimes with other store owners; the people from the suburbs sat together, too, although it was not odd to see someone from the market sitting together with a suburban family, or some Street of Silver store owner’s daughter sitting with her friends from school: a mish—mash between guys and girls whose parents work at the mall, the Street of Silver, the District of Lights, the suburban area, the Market and the farms. Sometimes, young people sat with young people, but sometimes you’d see a collective of old ladies together and learned that the town’s book club decided to attend the festival as a group. What was always a staple were some tables where the people in charge of the external commerce of the town sat with the city—dwellers that had come to the festival to learn about the kind of products they could start selling in their supermarkets, restaurants, and hotels.

I spotted my mother at such a table, wearing one of her dress suits, and figured she must have come here straight from work. She found my eyes and her expression soured immediately. I knew what it meant: there was something about the way I was dressed that she disapproved of. I turned and pretended I wasn’t looking at her, but I knew I’d heard about it later. She was sitting right next to a man I’ve seen at every Harvest Festival I’ve attended, whose name I remembered to be Hiroshi something. I had trouble remembering his last name, it was uncommon around here, I had never heard it before meeting him. He was a wide man, whose ample belly was putting his coat and dress shirt’s buttons under considerable strain. His fawn—skinned face was starting to bead with sweat, but his narrow eyes were happy, he was laughing rambunctiously, a tankard in his hand, marveling at the banquet already laid before him.

I took a while to stare at the food. The salespeople always went above and beyond to impress their buyers. I noticed they didn’t mind feeding their potential customers fruit that was gonna go out of season, perhaps because seasons were nice enough to come once a year, so the investors had more than one thing to look forward to. The table was full of plates of food that featured the summer’s best crops: There were big pieces of beef roasted in garlic butter accompanied by big chunks of king peppers, plates of fire—roasted and buttered cayenne corn, bowls of salads filled with slices of squash cucumber that swam in a watery dressing studded with bits of black pepper, a different salad, this one made out of fruits: blushing peaches, sliced alongside the whole family of “Regal berries”, which were bigger, juicier, slightly tarter versions of normal strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries, all together served with honey and cherry lime juice. For the fall dishes, I saw a bowl of an orange—colored puree that must have been syrup potato or carrot puree, plates of chicken sauteed with smoke mushrooms and lavender basil, ice radishes roasted with pork chops, more salads still, composed of toy—spinach and toy—arugula and a creamy dressing of some kind, everything intertwined with pitchers of Sunset—mango liqueur based drinks and different fruit wines to wash it all down.

While most of the investors and potential customers that came to the Festival were normally serious and had a business—first attitude, there were others like jolly Mr. Hiroshi who would invite you over and happily share a portion of the banquet that had been served to impress him. Everyone in town had something to do with men like him, he was happy to come every three months and spend a few days in town before and after the Festival. He would visit a variety of shops and buy an abundance of products, which he claimed to be gifts for his family, friends, customers, or simply proclaim them “charming”, “impressive”, “eccentric”, or whatever word he cared to choose to let you know he was satisfied with his purchase. Sometimes, he even brought his family: wife and three kids who were just as enthusiastic as he was about their little getaways into this town. I always made a point to try to sit at the table where he was at some point in the night.

I passed more tables, none yet as impressive as the ones laid out by the salespeople, but I knew that, as more people arrived, bought food and gathered, soon every table would be crunching under the weight of this town’s abundance. When I was finished looking around the tables, I went over to the stand closest to me. Delighted, I noticed the bakery at the mall had gotten a stand this season. It was a tiny one, offering only three desserts, but all of them looked mouthwatering: Their menu read “Syrup Pumpkin—Dark Chocolate pie”, which looked like a normal pumpkin pie except that it was swirled with streaks of dark chocolate, I imagined it would balance out the sweetness of the pumpkin. Next up, there were Royal Cranberry Parfaits, a royal cranberry version of the strawberry parfaits I liked so much, served in even prettier glasses. I came to the conclusion that I needed one of those. Last up were pitchers of Sun Pomegranate and Cherry Lime Punch, whose intense red color intermixed with orange made it look like the pitches were filled with flames.

I passed a Market Bakery’s stand, which sold its usual stunning charcuterie boards. I could see mounds of balls made of soft cheeses mixed with nuts, spicy cocktail—sausages, and pickled vegetables, along with slices of crusty breads, and spreads of sundried midnight tomato and olive oil. The stands that sold drinks had found very interesting ways of layering the red and yellow juices of the sunset mangoes with the intense purple of the royal cranberries, and gave them nice touches of green using herbs like mint, rosemary and either regular basil or lavender basil, which had huge leaves that were green at the bottom and lilac at the top, twice as aromatic as everyday basil, and with the faint taste of, well, lavender. These shops had also prepared bottles and pitchers of different wines: Blushing Peach, Royal Cranberry, Regal Berries, and Velvet Cherry. This last one was a beautiful thing. The liquid was a deep red color that exhibited various shades and a pearly sheen when turned or churned. It was almost too pretty to drink. Almost.

For the side dishes, I found plates of potatoes baked in stock, which were creamy on the inside but had a crunchy exterior; skewers of roasted vegetables like peppers, mushrooms and squash; salads with cucumbers, blue cheese and walnuts, even syrup potatoes roasted plainly with olive oil and sea salt. The main dishes were impressive as always. Most of them were classics: Big roasts of beef and vegetables, roast chickens or turkeys with caramelized onions, and plates of various colors of pasta in creamy cheese sauces, but there were always a couple of oddballs. I saw Harvey advertising his savory pies enthusiastically, which, far from being made with the traditional fillings of ground meats, vegetables, nuts or raisins, were nonplussing pastries filled with already prepared dishes. The slices featured peppers stuffed with cheese, roasted potatoes, whole chicken parts, sauced pastas, and Lord knows what else. I could see that Harvey’s wife, Myriam, was sporting a perpetually red face as she reluctantly supported her husband in this endeavor. To my surprise, these strange creations seemed to be selling well among the young men in the village. Perhaps it took longer for men to develop good taste… or perhaps the wretched—looking things were good. I decided I didn’t wanna find out.

The stands that specialized in flower liqueurs never failed to disappoint. Aislinn’s stand was beautifully decorated with real climbing plants that had purple and pink flowers shaped like bells. She had prepared bottles of all shapes and sizes for the occasion. There were tiny bottles of hibiscus vodka, which was a bright pink in color and had aided in the making of Sarah’s reputation more than once. The tall bottles of pink carnation liqueur had real flowers preserved inside, looking as if they were alive and fine in a field somewhere, sunken peaceful at the bottom of the sweet drink. The lavender gin was an adorable lilac tone, that clued you in completely in the wrong direction to where it’s potency was concerned, and the little purple petals that swam harmoniously around the alcohol didn’t help either. My favorites were the pretty round bottles of honeysuckle liqueur that were hand painted with pictures of honeysuckle, hummingbirds and bees. On top of the beautiful bottles of flower—studded bottles, each one of these stands also sold pitchers of iced teas and cocktails by the glass. The cherry lemondrops with blushing peach vodka were calling me. Perhaps I would do better to wait until I was no longer on an empty stomach.

Sarah and I reunited and started weighing our options.

— I’m not sitting anywhere near Jeremy. — Declared Sarah.

— Agreed. Maybe let’s not hang out with people from the Market this time. — I said.

— I guess we could go with my friends from the Tailor Shop. — Sarah said, sounding unconvinced.

— We could, I mean, if you wanna hang with them for the last time. — I answered. We stood in silence for a couple of seconds. — Nah. — We said in unison.
— I saw one of those tables full of randos, what about that? — Asked Sarah.
— You know what, I think that’s just what I want. — I declared. — But we need to go with Mr. Hiroshi later.

— Oh, obviously. — She said, smirking. We knew the guy was nice enough to young women without being a creep.

We arrived at the table Sarah had mentioned and spoke to it at large.

— Do you have space for a plate of salt potatoes?—I asked, holding my tray up. Everyone smiled but no one answered. The dishes everyone had brought were still wrapped or covered. That confirmed to me that these people didn’t know each other. An old lady who was sitting nearest to where we stood turned around and answered, smiling.—The more, the merrier girls.—So we sat down beside her.

I looked at this collection of people. Across the table from us there was another pair of women, one of them in her thirties, the other one was difficult to say, owing to the fact that her eyes were almost to the ground. The view this position offered was the roots of her ginger hair, and the abundant freckles on the skin of her forehead. The woman beside her had dark, short hair, a hoop piercing in her nose, and a bunch of earrings in one of her ears. She smiled in a friendly way, though she seemed quiet. 

Next to her, a couple in their fifties or so. The woman was skinny, and the hollows in her cheeks contrasted with the healthy look of her skin. Her blond hair was straight, and cut just below her shoulders. She was accompanied by a stout man whose pink scalp I could see showing through his thin hair. Sarah had taught me just enough about clothes to know that theirs were made out of materials that were uncommon here. Those two were tourists without a doubt. 

As for the rest of the people at the table, the old lady was a wisp of a woman, shorter than Sarah by about ten centimeters, her beautiful head of abundant hair completely white, most of it loose, but two thin braids intertwined at the back of her head, making it look as if she wore a tiara of spun silver. She was accompanied by two boys, probably her grandsons. They seemed to be in their tweens, both had jet black hair to contrast with their grandma’s, and aside from their different heights and an obvious age difference of about two or three years, both of them looked almost identical, down to the red spots on their cheeks. I could see we were an unlikely collection of people, but I knew that, when everybody started eating or bringing in more dishes, conversation would flow naturally.

Sarah and I unwravelled our trays of food. I wasn’t feeling much in the mood for something elaborate, so I went for something safe instead: Salt potatoes. These were the tiny version of regular potatoes, and the trick that made them so good was boiling them whole in water that had a ridiculous amount of salt in it. When they were drained and dried, their skins took a white dusty white texture. They were buttery-soft on the inside, but only the outside was salty. I brought them along a mix of melted butter, garlic, pepper and chives, and a bunch of toothpicks.

—My name is Thalia, but you can call me Liah. I brought salt potatoes.—I said as I laid my tray in the center of the table.  As soon as I put them there, and led the way in eating one of them after dipping it in butter, everybody else followed, and conversation started as everyone uncovered the food they had brought.

—I’m Sarah. I brought glazed syrup pupkin.—She said as she uncovered the plate filled with chunks of cooked pumpkin covered in a glossy dark sauce.
—I’m Alex—exclaimed the woman across from us, the one with the short black hair. — This is a savory pie my nana used to make.—And Leslie bought this loaf of bread and some tomato spread.
The red headed woman, whose name was apparently Leslie, barely looked up as she took out a beautiful loaf of bread that was cut in even, slim slices, and was only holding its loaf shape because of the basket it came in.
—We brought sliced fruit and cheese.—Said the older of the two boys. They revealed two platters filled with cherries, apples, pears and peaches, plus different kinds of cheese and crackers.
— They’re from granny’s garden! — said the younger of the boys.
— Even the cheese? — Said the burly man, good naturedly. Everybody laughed, even Leslie.
— These are my grandsons, Eric and Ethan. — Said the old woman. — And my name is Ethel. — What was it with the alliteration in this family? — I brought a cherry pie, from the cherries in my garden. — She smiled and showed us a beautiful laced pie filled with a bright red puree.
— I’m Mark, nice to meet you all. — Said the guy. — This is my wife, Olivia.
— Pleasure. — Said Olivia, smiling awkwardly. — So, tell me something, were we supposed to bring something home made? — She went on, looking nervous. — We’re on vacation here, so…
— Oh, don’t worry about it. — Said Alex. — Just as long as you bring something, you’ll be welcome at any table!
— Oly was worried — Began Mark. — That we came here unprepared, and all. I say to her, I say: “dear, why do you think they sell all that food? For the poor chaps like me who can’t cook! — He finished and laughed.
— We bought these lovely wines! — Said Olivia in a louder voice as she took two bottles of Velvet Cherry wine from her purse. — And one of these, just in case. — She gestured to a pitcher of sunset mango juice. Ethan and Eric seemed happy. Their grandma probably didn’t let them drink wine just yet.
— She’s probably worried that old Mark here’s gonna overdo it on the wine. — Mark said, chuckling. — But I’m more worried about all the food, look at these! — He gestured at the stands. — There’s so many things! They’ll have to roll me out of here!

Conversation after that was easy. Olivia and Mark told us about their life in the far—away city they lived in, Mark kept going to nearby stands to bring more food. I even got to have a closer look at a slice of Harvey’s everything pie. Leslie was quiet, but Alex seemed to talk enough for both of them, telling us stories and turning to Leslie every now and again, perhaps to see if she was having fun. I couldn’t tell. Ethan, who was the youngest of the boys, was very talkative too, happy to tell Olivia and Mark about all the nice food in other Harvest Festivals and all about his daily life. Olivia and Alex seemed interested in hearing about Sarah’s work, and Mrs. Ethel kept asking me about the perks of living at the Old Folks Home.

Everything was going smoothly, at least for me, until we spotted a guy walking near our table. He was holding a glass of some sort of sangria in his hand, looking around. He looked no older than 25, his skin was a similar color to mine, but was peeling in various places, unevenly tanned, like he insisted on being out in the sun in spite of the damage. His hair was long, braided in dreadlocks that looked badly cared for and stuck out every which way. His clothes seemed to fit him poorly. His pants were very loose and held by a belt made out of a braided thin rope, and he was wearing an open button up shirt, and a soiled undershirt beneath it. He was carrying a big, heavy-looking, frayed backpack.

—Young man — Called Mrs. Ethel. — Why don’t you come sit with us for a while?

Mrs. Ethel and her grandsons looked at the guy with excitement on their faces, Alex, with mild interest. I was probably the only one who noticed Sarah’s dislike of this ungroomed stranger. Not even his sharp features and high cheekbones were winning any favors with her. I could see her nose twitching, like she could smell him from afar.
— Me? — He asked, gesturing at himself with his free hand. — Ok! Thanks, Nan. My name is Drake. I bought this flower—liquor thingy. — He said as he sat between Mrs Ethel’s grandson and Olivia, and took a half—empty bottle out of his pack. — Sorry it’s half drunk. I was kinda thirsty.
— That doesn’t look like more than enough for you. — Said Sarah, not bothering to hide her contempt for this guy. The local custom was to bring at least enough food or drink for yourself and someone else. Not doing so was considered rude.
— Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. — Said Mrs Ethel. — Young man, are you an adventurer?
— Guilty as charged, Nan! — Drake answered, smiling. — Cool, huh?

Everyone’s attention suddenly turned to him. It was no wonder, though. In this day and age, you didn’t see real adventurers very often. In the old days, before magic schools were wide—spread, Magic—wielders who couldn’t afford education would travel the roads visiting cities, towns, taverns, monasteries, anywhere where they could meet more Magic—wielders and exchange knowledge to deepen their understanding and expand their power. This practice was still done to this day, but “Adventurer” had become more of an umbrella—term people used for travellers, either Magicians or normal backpackers. If this guy claimed to be an adventurer, I could see why they were letting him sit at the table without any fuzz.

— Does that mean you can do magic? — Asked Ethan.
— Sure do, bucko! — Next thing, he blew, but instead of the little trickle of wind a normal person triggered when they blew, we felt a light breeze that hit everybody’s faces at the table and roused the paper napkins a bit. The table started applauding, fascinated by the sudden display of magic. The loudest among us being Ethan and Eric. In contrast, Sarah and I limited ourselves to clapping politely. I could see that we were thinking the same thing. His breath stinks. After the clapping died down, he made a little bow.
— You haven’t seen the half of it. — He began. — But I’m saving the best for the vendors. I already got a half—price on this here bottle! — I noticed the ruffled looking pink carnations on the bottom of the container, it was one of Aislinn’s liqueurs. Aislinn, why him?
— So how is it? — Sarah asked.

— Meh, I’ve had better. — He said as he scratched his head.
— Better flower liqueur? — Asked Alex, looking perplexed. This particular liqueur was a local specialty. It only came from this town.

— Nah, better booze. I’ve had almost half of this thing and I still can’t catch a buzz. — He retorted, sounding seriously annoyed.

— Well… — I started, doing my best to hide my irritation. — You’re not supposed to chug them down in one gulp to get drunk, you’re supposed to taste them.

— Psh, I’ve already tasted it. It tastes sweet. 

— I know what you mean. — Agreed Mark. — Sweet alcohol isn’t meant for men. — I noticed his wife elbowing him gently, a stern expression on her face.

Things muted down after that. Conversation continued like normal, with Drake talking to the kids about his adventures, but little by little, he became louder and more boisterous, I could see him slowly finishing the bottle he had brought for the whole table. When he had glugged down the last of the liqueur, he called everybody’s attention, drunk on Carnation Liqueur and the sort of adoration only a pair of children could provide.

— Listen, here everybody. — Drake bellowed, his words slushed. — Imma do another trick! — The kids hooted, Olivia and Mark stopped arguing, Sarah and Alex paused their conversation. Even I stopped trading pie recipes with Mrs. Ethel.

Drake reached for one of the glasses where Alex had poured herself some sunset mango juice and velvet cherry wine.

Drake put down the glass in front of him and showed us his hands, maybe in an attempt to bring up some more attention to himself or to silence the table. He then grabbed it with one hand and tipped its contents in the other. The mango juice stayed inside his hand, as if he was holding an invisible glass, but I could see the wine running through his fingers. 

While everybody clapped and he smirked while looking at them and soaked up the praise, I saw the color leaching out of what remained from the drink. The mango pulp dribbled out and plopped on the floor, until finally, his hand was holding just a little bit of water. I guess he hadn’t exactly mastered that one. My dad could keep everything in. Even the alcohol. I noticed everyone was looking at Drake quizzically as they clapped, perhaps noticing his ineptitude at the spell. He turned and looked at his hand, and became aware of the contents that had poured onto the floor. I noticed he did a quick glance back at everybody in the table, who had stopped clapping. The quick silence that followed was awkward, and seeing the slightly nervous expression on Drake’s face, as he tried to think up something to blurt out so he could save face, I couldn’t help but snort.

— Oh, you want to make fun of me? — Drake asked, his eyes narrow as he let go of the water that remained in his hand. It splashed on the floor beside the rest of the drink, but he didn’t seem to care. — Let’s see you do it. Oh, that’s right! — He exclaimed in a mocking tone. — You’re not a magician!

—To be frank — I retorted, still smiling — You’re not much of a magician yourself. — He blushed. I could feel everybody’s eyes darting from me to Drake and back.

— Shows what you know. I’m probably the first magician you’ve seen. 

— No, you’re not. — I scoffed. — But you are easily the worst one.

— Yeah? Then, tell me, have you ever been to a monastery? — He asked, narrowing his eyes.

— No. — I answered nonchalantly. — What does that have to do— 

— What about the capital? — He interrupted me. This time, I didn’t answer. I just glared at him. He went on. — The Forests of Rebirth? Any other country? — He finished and looked at me, with a morbid expectancy in his eyes. — No, right? 

— I don’t have to have been anywhere to see that you suck at magic. — I retorted, angry. 

— Well, I’ve been to those places, I’ve seen magic there, I’ve learned my magic in those places, so I’m not gonna have it questioned by a little girl who’s never even left Hobbit Town. — 

Everyone’s reaction was immediate. Lesli and Ethan gasped. Eric punched the table with his fists in his effort to stand up quickly. — Take it back. — I heard him say. For a boy that young, the threat sounded serious. Alex looked seriously offended. — Watch your mouth! — She chided. Sarah had not found the comment entertaining in the slightest, either. — Excuse me? — I heard her ask in a dangerous tone. Olivia seemed shaken, she had her hand on his husband’s shoulder, as if she was trying to prevent him from rising, too. Mark was glaring at Drake. Ethel, on the other hand, seemed disappointed, as she shook her head slightly while turning away from Drake. I imagined she had heard the expression enough times during her life. It was a very despective way to call this place. I hardly ever heard it, but I knew it was never said kindly.

Drake seemed uncomfortable, starting to regret his rash comment. He got up. — I’m… gonna. I’m gonna get some more… Yeah. — He mumbled, before taking off.

The air that hung around was awkward and tense. Sarah elbowed me gently. I looked her way and she motioned to one of her sides with her eyes. — We’re gonna look around. — I announced while I got up from the table. Sarah followed me as I tried to put as much distance between us and Drake. 

I tried to pretend Drake’s comments hadn’t affected me at all, but I guess Sarah wasn’t fooled, especially since I refused point blank to sit at any other table and rather went to each and every single one of the stands I had made a note to visit earlier and started stuffing my face. Sarah kept making worried remarks. “Liah, don’t”, and “Please, you’re gonna catch a stomach bug or something”, but I ignored her pleas completely. I ate two pieces of syrup pumpkin—chocolate pie, a glass of velvet cherry wine, a sunset mango cocktail, a cayenne corn on a stick, a roasted chicken drumstick, a shot of Lavender Vodka, and even braved a piece of that abomination of a confection that was Harvey’s “Everything Pie”. It was fine. I hated myself for it, but it was. Finally, Sarah put her foot down. She grabbed my arm as I walked towards yet another stand, half drunk and full to burst, to get myself something else to bury my anger with.

— Dude stop it. — She cautioned, her voice ice—cold now. — That dude was an asshole, but he’s not worth you barfing for three days straight.

— But— I pouted.

— Absolutely no buts. —She grabbed my arm hard enough to keep me from walking away. — You had your tantrum, you ate enough to feed a family, and drank more than you know you should. Now we’re going to sit like civilized people and talk with whoever and tomorrow you’re gonna forget about everything that made you angry or work on it in a way that doesn’t make you have to throw out half your wardrobe. Okay? —She finished, pointedly, as she gave my arm an extra hard squeeze.

I sighed. —Okay.

Perhaps Sarah thought we’d had enough of random people, so she toted me toward Mr. Hiroshi’s table. In my mind, the outcome was counter-productive, because he would probably offer me all the food at his disposal and send for more if needed, but he wouldn’t be too offended if I told him about everything I had already eaten.

He was where I had seen him last, which didn’t surprise me. He rarely got up from his own table, since he prefered to give some money to the people in his table and have them fetch him stuff, which they always claimed to be more than happy to do. 

—Hey Mr. Hiroshi!—Sarah greeted him cheerfully as we approached him, spying the couple empty seats at his sides that probably belonged to sales-people that had gone to fetch him something or other.—Anyone sitting here?

—Hello ladies!—He greeted us with his usual joyfulness.—I’ve been saving you this spot! Come sit down, eat!—He told us. I knew he would’ve said the same thing to anybody that had asked to sit at his table, but the gesture was appreciated at the moment. We sat down.

—Have you had any of this puree?—He asked as he pointed to a bowl of Syrup-Potato puree close to him.

Sarah dutifully accepted her portion, but I refused mine, limiting myself to drinking some velvet cherry juice, which was tart and sweet. I could already picture my tongue starting to get tinged red.

—Did you try the berry salad?—Mr. Hiroshi asked a minute later. Sarah had some, but again, I declined and sipped my juice.

—Had any dessert already?—He wondered while sliding a couple of parfaits over. Sarah sampled hers, and I took mine with a smile and a Thank You, but just played with the crumbles on top with my spoon.

—What’s wrong, girl?—He asked.—Your appetite is always bigger than this.—He stated. I was surprised he remembered, taking into account the fact that he did not remember my name.

—I’ve just eaten so much, already sir.—I apologized.

—And you didn’t leave room for dessert?—He wondered, surprised.—In my country, they say people have two stomachs, one for savory food, and one for dessert!—He chuckled.—Though, in my case, I probably have three or four.—He kept chuckling while patting his ample belly. I managed a smile.

—I think I already filled both, Sir.—I confessed. He looked surprised at his watch.

—So early? I thought a lass like you would space her meals so she could get many more.

—She eats when she’s upset.—She whispered loudly. I threw her a dirty look.

—And what has made you upset, girl?—He wondered.

I proceeded to tell him the story of Drake, not bothering to omit the details of how bad his magic was or how much his breath stank. When I got to the end, when he called it “The Hobbit Town”, Mr. Hiroshi looked angry and disappointed.

—I shall send for someone to have a word with the lad later.—He expressed, calmly. It sounded more sinister than he probably had intended. I looked at Sarah to see what she thought about the comment, and saw her looking down to her lap, examining her nails, and breathing slowly, which was what she did so nobody would notice her trying not to cry. I put my arm on her shoulder. It was starting to daunt on me that I had lashed out without worrying how she had felt about the insult.

—You ok?—I asked her.

—It’s just… It’s not nice to be called a Hobbit to your face. There’s always some tourist who calls you that.—She said. Mr. Hiroshi sighed.

—Ignorant people always use that word as a slur. 

—I knew that people here don’t like to be called that, but why do people still use that word?—I directed my question at Mr. Hiroshi.—I thought that hobbits went extinct thousands of years ago.

—That’s true, yes.—He agreed. I had asked the question, but while he explained, he looked more at Sarah.—But this area was controlled by hobbits.

—But what does that have to do with the people who live here now?

—Well you see,—He explained.— this was the last pure Hobbit village that existed in the world. Like most ancient creatures, their population was dwarfed in comparison to the amount of humans that were around, and while this village did it’s best to remain pure, soon enough, they noticed their population was declining, and so, they resolved to invite humans to inhabit their lands. 

—There were humans here already?—I wondered. I had always thought ancient creatures like Hobbits had lived before the humans even existed.

—Well, of course. While we didn’t live alongside them as long as we have lived without them, ancient creatures and humans did share time together.

—Wow.—Sarah exclaimed in a low voice.

—Honestly, what do they teach you in school here?—Mr. Hiroshi asked, perplexed and a little annoyed.

—I’d call it just “Human History”.—Sarah responded.

—If the teaching of ancient history is so scarce, it’s no wonder those insults are so prevalent, still.—He lamented.

—What do you mean?—I asked.

—Well, if they knew the facts, perhaps people wouldn’t go insulting one another like that. Although, there’s some people who blame it on a cultural stigma that prevails.—

—A what?—I wondered.

—A cultural stigma, girl. You see, back during those times, some people saw the mixing with ancient creatures as something beneath their status. So we believe they used to call hobbit-and-human mixes just Hobbits, to show their contempt. That, however, didn’t stop everybody from intermixing.

—Are you saying that we’re a sort of mixed species?—Sarah asked, her face screwed up in a way that showed she was thinking of the possibilities.

—Most of humans, definitely.—Mr. Hiroshi stated.

Sarah stared ahead with a sour look on her face. I retraced my steps somewhat and realized that I had lashed out at that Drake guy and made a big tantrum, when it was not even me who he’d been offending, in truth. I didn’t hail from this town, originally. Sarah did, and it was probably her who had been hurt most, but I had neglected to think about her. If I was honest with myself, the “hobbit” thing was not even the real reason I had gotten angry. Lord, I had been stupid.

I put my arms around Sarah and held her tight.—I’m sorry he said that to you.—I whispered. I was sure Sarah knew I was not talking about Mr. Hiroshi. She held onto my arm for a bit, and sighed.

Mr. Hiroshi looked around and seemed to make a desition.—Girl.—He called out to me.—I don’t think there’s enough fruit at this table.—One of the salespeople made to stand up, but Mr Hiroshi put his hand up to stop him. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a bill, which he handed me.—How about you go get us some more while I talk to your friend, huh?—

—Uhh, sure, sir.—I answered, looking at Sarah. She smiled at me and gestured with her head for me to go on. I took the money and walked in search of the best fruit I could think of.

A couple of minutes later, I spotted Alv working at her mother’s stand, only the Lord knew where that woman was. I was glad to see him alone, I wasn’t the biggest fan of his mother, neither was she the biggest fan of me. This season, they were selling fruit salad at the stand. The cubes of dwarf watermelon and pear must have surely gone great with the orange wedges, and honey, but I was so full that I didn’t want to look at the plates too closely. 

—Hey Alv.—I greeted him, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I felt. 

—Hey, Liah.—He answered.—What can I get you? We have three salads tonight—

I put my hand up so he wouldn’t go on unnecessarily. I’d just end up taking whatever.—Uhm, I just came here to pass some time.—I interrupted.

—Oh, why’s that?—He asked, confused.

—Oh, y’know. Sarah needs some alone time right now.—I answered, offering no more explanation.

—Well…—He began.—Thanks for coming here, then.—

Alv made these kinds of awkward comments from time to time, but tonight I found them somewhat endearing.—Sure thing. How’s business going?—

—It’s good. It’s a nice time for fruits, we’ve been getting more tourists than normal.—

—Yeah, I may have met a couple tourists already.—

—It’s busy, yeah.—He went on.—I’m glad it’s almost time for my brother to come take my place at the stand.—He mumbled, looking at his watch.

—You take turns or something?—

—We’re kinda collaborating with many people this time around, it’s been fun.—

—It’s a nice festival.—I agreed, looking at the paper decorations.—It’s very pretty.—

—Just like you.—He mumbled.

—What’s that?—I leaned over a bit closer, the better to hear him as he mumbled.

—Oh, I just…—He trailed off.—I just said you’re very pretty.—

—Oh…—I exclaimed.—Uhm, thanks, Alv. You’re very sweet.—Very not that great at flirting.

He smiled and then caught a glimpse of someone behind me: one of his brothers, an older one, whom I knew by sight. They waved at each other, as the older guy walked to the stand, and Alv lifted a flap at the front and walked out, then left it open to let his brother walk in.

—Wanna come for a walk?—He asked.

I wondered if enough time had passed for Mr. Hiroshi’s and Sarah’s conversation to be over. Probably not.—Sure. Let’s go.—

Alv didn’t precisely steer me anywhere, so maybe it was me who led us away from the festival, into the alleys of the District of Lights, which were very subdued tonight. Maybe it was this way at every Harvest Festival. I didn’t know, it was the first time I was here when there was a festival going on. We leaned against one of the walls of a bar and talked some more. 

While Alv talked, I remembered all the nasty things the other guys had said about Sarah and me in this very street, just a few businesses away from here. They had even talked about Alv, calling him a sucker, saying he was just “spending silvers” on me, or whatever. I looked at Alv as he spoke. He looked at me in a different way. There was something in his eyes I had never really seen before. I was sure that glint had been there all that time, that little smile. I just had never stopped to look at it, but he looked as if he’d never get tired of staring at my face. Suddenly, he was getting closer, slowly, smiling. I couldn’t have said what exactly we had been speaking about a moment before, but his smile was sweet. He approached closer and planted a kiss on my cheek. I didn’t move toward him, but I didn’t move away, either. He kissed my lips, and he felt warm, and soft. 

It was… alright. I guess. I realized I hadn’t looked forward to this moment, but I hadn’t exactly dreaded it, either. We had come to a lonely place to talk, I had not stopped him as he complimented me, and I hadn’t prevented him from kissing me either, but I realized it wasn’t because I really wanted him to do those things, it was just because I didn’t care much either way. Poor guy, he looked so happy, so on top of the world, but I really didn’t feel anything.

—I’m sorry, Alv.—I apologized, and his face fell.—I just… I just don’t think I feel that way about you.—I whispered, and walked away. He didn’t try to follow me, or to say anything. I figured he must’ve not been feeling too great about it, either.

I arrived at the table expecting to find Sarah, but what I found was my mother, who was back at the table, which was now much emptier than I had left it. She grabbed my arm and steered me towards the table, her nails digging into my skin a little, but I figured she meant no harm. I sat down with her so she didn’t have to pull on my arm.

—Where’s Sarah?—I asked, looking around.

—Mr Hiroshi went with her and some others to get some drinks.—She explained.—There’s a happy hour promotion in one of the stands.—

—That’s nice.—I replied, smiling.

—Don’t change the subject, Thalia.—She hissed in a harsh voice.

—What subject?—I asked, letting go of my fake smile.—We weren’t talking about anything.—

—We haven’t?—She asked.—Haven’t you noticed that I’ve been wanting to talk to you all night long?—

—Uhm, no, I haven’t.—I lied.

—Well, we do need to talk.—

—Can’t this wait—

—No, it cannot.—She interrupted.—My biggest client finally came to the festival tonight, and I’m expecting to get a good sale out. I lay out a perfectly professional looking dress for you, and you come here dressed like that.—

I couldn’t help but scoff at this.—Mom, it’s a festival. It’s none of your business if I wanted to come looking completely “unprofessional”.—I punctuated the word with air quotes.

—Of course it is.—She debated.—I cannot introduce you to my clients if you’re looking like that.—

—Why do you even want to introduce me?—I asked, my voice rising.—I don’t even work with you.—I exclaimed, wondering why it was that I hadn’t brought up my plan to enter her business.

—Don’t raise your voice like that, Thalia.—She scolded me.—We’ll talk about this at home, then.—

—How convenient.—I answered, unable to keep resentment away from my voice. How very convenient for her to get to speak her mind to me and then not listen to what I had to say.

My mother looked at me frowning, intently, as if trying to discern what kind of person I was. It was hard to believe that, after 22 years, she wanted to act like she didn’t know already. I got off the table and smoothed out my new skirt, fighting back the tears and the urge to lift the skirt even higher.—Tell Sarah I’ll see her tomorrow.—I asked my mother, and left for home.

Sleep that night did not come easy. I tossed and turned for hours before finally settling and managing to doze off into an uneasy slumber filled with nightmares. In one of them, there had been a massive earthquake. I had run out of my house as fast as I could to escape the rubble falling down on me. In another one, a fire. The smoke suffocated me and made my eyes sting. I had to crawl my way out. I vaguely remembered floods, plagues, and people who had come into my house to hurt me. Most of all, I remembered running and anguish.

When I managed to wake up, with my heart pounding and feeling cold sweat all over my body, it was already past noon. I couldn’t remember ever having woken up that late. I rubbed my temples as I woke up and noticed I was also suffering from a pounding headache. It was good that I didn’t have to work today, because I was not feeling up for anything. On top of everything else, my mood was terrible. I felt like I would snap at any person who spoke to me, which was maybe the final straw that helped me decide to stay in my room all day, eating leftovers from the fridge and trying to get some better quality sleep. In spite of having slept for so long, I didn’t feel rested at all. 

On one of my trips to the kitchen, in the afternoon, I glanced at the front door and noticed that we had some mail. There were a couple of white envelopes that were probably bills, and a letter from Wes, which was a relief. I needed something to help me smile. I opened the envelope and sat down next to the only fair—sized window in the house: one in the living room, right next to a couch. I hadn’t gone outside all day, and the feeling of sunlight on my skin lifted my mood much more effectively than sitting in my dark room all day. Who would’ve thought?

Dear Liah:

I have some important news. Yesterday, the Priests in charge of ordination summoned me and asked me if I had any desire of joining the Monastery permanently. Today, I said yes. I’m really excited. They’re ready to conduct the ceremony any day, and they told me I’m free to invite whoever I consider important in my life. I’d be really glad if you and mom could make it. I’ll wait for the answer in your next letter. If you can come, I’ll ask to be ordained when you get here. If you can’t, I guess I’ll be ordained after I get your answer. 

There’s something else. I really want you to come in person because ordained monks are required to cut contact with the outside world for six months after they’re accepted in, and the only way for us to see each other is if you’re here in person. Guests that attend the ordinations are allowed to stay for a few days afterward, if they wish. 

I know this must be hard to accept, but over these three years I’ve come to realize that this life is what I truly want. I hope you can support it, and I hope mom can understand, too. I’d love to show you around, and I really don’t want to have to cut contact without having seen you in person before. I’ve missed you both so much during all the time I’ve been here. Please come visit. 

I’ll wait anxiously for your next letter.

Love, Wes.

I read and re—read the letter three times, however, it was still having trouble entering my thick skull. Wes was gonna become a Monk. It’s not like I didn’t know that was what he wanted. It’s not like he didn’t write home every week telling me how nice life at the Monastery was. And, unlike mom, I wasn’t trying to delude myself into thinking that someday, he would regret having run away and come back, begging for forgiveness. If I’m being honest, I admired Wes. He left all alone, with some money in his pockets and nothing but the clothes on his back. He probably knew that mom wasn’t gonna be happy about it, but he left behind everything he knew to pursue a dream, like he had known there was something out there in the world waiting for him. Something that was so invaluable that he ran up and left one day, just like that. On top of all that, now he was ready to give up even more of himself to achieve what he wanted. I was stunned. Stunned at his determination. Nothing would keep him from living the life he wanted to live. In other words, I was jealous, because he had two things I desperately wanted: A Dream and the Will to pursue it. 

I sighed and closed my eyes for a while. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. The sunlight tickling my skin soothed me. It felt warm and sweet against my arms and my back. I realized, in spite of everything the letter made me feel, I was happy for Wes, and felt proud of him. I remembered all we had gone through together. We were 16 when we learned that dad had died. We had all grieved differently. I had cried my eyes out: when I found out, at the funeral, the days that followed, the months that followed. Wes simply seemed stunned. My mother had cried as well for the first few days, but suddenly, one day, she woke up and told us that our future was uncertain without my dad. Even though he had left us a fair amount of money and the house we lived in, she took Wes out one day and left me in charge there. Everyday, she left a list of chores for me to get done while she went out with Wes all over town trying to sell every object that remained in my father’s workshop. We knew his Spells would stop working at some point, now that he was no longer alive, but my mother refused to contact another magician to re—apply them, and insisted on selling everything that remained in his workshop while the magic hadn’t begun to fade. She also said Wes needed to learn how to be a good salesman, which was a skill that, according to her, they didn’t teach you in school, not even in business school.

Some days, both of them went out at the crack of dawn and came back home late at night. After a while, they started going out of town for days at a time, and I was left to look after everything and teach myself how to clean and cook. I scrubbed floors and cried. I cleaned toilets and cried. I swept the floor and cried. After a while, though, I stopped crying for long enough to cook. Sometimes, I made enough breakfast to have enough leftovers for lunch, so I would eat the same thing twice in a row and save the money. When I had enough, I went out and bought cookbooks. On those days, my only joys were the new dishes I learned to make. The drudgery of keeping an empty house clean and cooking for people who weren’t there was lessened somewhat by the simple act of coming up with something nice to have for dinner. It didn’t make me feel less alone, but it helped me keep distracted. I slowly forgot to be sad. I slowly found out the things I could do to make myself happier. I didn’t know how Wes was managing. My mother got livid with us if she saw we had taken any of our father’s inventions or toys without permission, but she never gave us permission when we asked, not once. She said those things were our livelihood and we couldn’t afford to keep them. It was like she wanted to forget my dad had been there at all. Then, one day, they realized they had sold everything, and we made an effort to go back to our normal lives. My mother went back to working at her office and Wes and I went to finish highschool. But nothing went back to normal. I knew Wes felt resentful and angry about being made to sell everything that remained to him from his late father. I knew I felt abandoned and sad. I knew, or at least I wanted to think that my mother felt some regret about having acted so rashly.

When we were 19, just a few days after having finished highschool in fact, Wes left. My mother threw her tantrum for a few days, then packed everything but his stuff, and took me to a place I didn’t know and I had never visited, where I didn’t have any friends or knew any people, to live in a house I hated inside of a neighborhood I hated, and she wouldn’t hear a word about it. What was the difference between Wes and me, then? Was it my lack of a dream? Did Wes get fed up quicker than I did? We never talked much about all that time he spent with my mother learning how to be a salesman. I felt terrible thinking about it, I couldn’t even begin to think what it must have been living through it. 

I was sitting on the couch thinking all of this when I heard the door open. The sun was still up. My mom had never been home so early.

— Liah, honey. — She said, in a soothing kind of tone I knew well. It meant I was about to get a lecture, and I wondered if it had anything to do with our argument at the Harvest Festival.— I wanna tell you something.
— What is it? — I asked, feeling apprehensive.

— I talked to Caron this morning. She says you’ll definitely have your job back.
I ran my hands through my hair, exasperated. — Mom. I don’t even know if I want that job back. — I complained.

— What do you mean you don’t want it back?— She asked, looking puzzled. — I got that job for you myself.
— I know, mom, I know. I just. — I began, trying to talk slowly so I could get what I wanted to say exactly how I needed to say it, for it was the very first time I’d explained this idea to her.— I’ve just been thinking and I don’t think I wanna keep working on that.

— Then what do you want to work on? — My mother wondered, looking nonplussed.

— I’ve been thinking. You’re in the exporting business and all. I really like the exports here. Maybe I can begin learning about the flower liqueurs and make my own, and you could help me export them.—I told her, maybe hoping she remembered that she wanted to introduce me to her clients. That must’ve had a reason.

— Thalia, that business is flooded in this town. There is lots of competition. — She answered, speaking as if to a toddler. I gawked at her.—Now, the business in the Old Folks Home is safe. With enough time you can learn and gain positions in there—

— Mom, there is nothing safe about that job! — I interrupted her. — One old bat complained and they kicked me out like a dog!

— Don’t exaggerate, Thalia, you’re on paid leave, just for this week.—

— Well, I don’t want to work in a place where they can get rid of me that easy!

— Then — she began, putting her hands together as if she was presenting a new product. — you work there just long enough to learn and then you leave and set up your own home. It’s something you know and there’s only one of them in town, so it’s much safer.

— Mom, I don’t want to do that. Just yesterday you were trying to introduce me to your clients!— I snapped, feeling my temper rise.
—Yes, I was. I never said you’d never enter the business.—
—Oh, so I’ll just have to enter whenever you think I should.—
—I know what’s best in this market, Thalia.—She sighed, rubbing her temple. If you don’t want to go back to the home, you’re gonna have to be doing something.—She conceded, finally.
— I thought — I sighed, and started replying slowly — that we could visit Wes for a couple days and then come back and find out what I want to do. He’s gonna join the order, mom.

My mother was at a complete loss for words. She stood there, motionless, a dazed look on her face for a few seconds. I was going to repeat myself when she finally spoke. — Absolutely not. 

— What? Mom! Do you realize how important this is for Wes?
— Do you realize? — She replied, narrowing her eyes. — Your brother is about to throw away his life and you’re suggesting to go and watch? I’m not encouraging this! If he wants to turn his back on his family forever, he can do it alone!

— Mom! — I objected, my tone rising. — Just because you don’t like it, it doesn’t mean he’s throwing his life away.

— You can think whatever you want, but I. Said. No. — She said, emphasizing her every word. Then, she turned away and went into her room.

I stayed there, looking at the closed door, too stunned to cry. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. My mother was practically disowning Wes because she didn’t approve of what he was doing. He wasn’t committing a crime. He wasn’t hurting anybody. He wasn’t even entering one of those orders that made monks go away to Monasteries in the middle of nowhere and forbade them from talking to people in the outside world. But I guess he wasn’t doing what she wanted. What she had planned for him. I went back to the couch, grabbed his letter and sat down. The rays of the last of the day’s sunshine still felt warm and tingling on my skin, but that didn’t help me feel any less defeated. I had never gone a week without contact with my brother, ever. I couldn’t believe I was gonna be forced to go without hearing from him for six months because my mother refused to go see his ordination Ceremony. 

I felt it all at once. My sadness about not being able to support my brother in the pursuit of his dream, about being unable to show him how very proud of him I was, my frustration with this unsatisfying job where I was made to cook bland food for a bunch of people who could apparently get me suspended on a whim, my uneasiness about my standing with people I thought had liked me well, my mother’s lack of faith in the career I wanted to pursue. My anger at being dragged like a ragdoll through situations and places I couldn’t even get a say in.

I put my feet up on the couch and my head between my knees, and then wrapped my arms around me. Out of nowhere, I remembered the words that Professor Fischer had told me a few days before: “some of the time, you won’t know what you want. But most of the time, you know what you don’t, and that’s already a big step”. 

I took my brother’s letter and I read it once again. As I was reading it, I thought to myself: I don’t know what I want to do with my life. But I know I don’t want it to be like this a second longer.

I finished reading the letter, bathed by the flickering quality of the sunlight. I looked out the window and what I saw outside didn’t make any sense to me. The sun had gone down. All I saw was darkness and, reflected in the window, a dozen dots that looked like floating light bulbs, their shapes slowly moving up and down as if they were breathing. I turned around and gasped. The room was filled with spheres of sunlight that hovered all around me. They were all different sizes. Some were the size of my fist, others so small they looked like fireflies. I stood there, looking at them, my breath caught in my throat. Then, I dashed to my room and threw open the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I took the envelope out and tore it open. I scanned down through the results of my Magic Test: “Positive. Unawakened”.
I stopped thinking any further. I grabbed a backpack, packed three changes of clothes, all my savings, the results of the test and closed it. I was almost out my bedroom door when I realized something. I could probably fix it myself. I came back, grabbed the light window my dad made, and stuffed it in the pack. I passed the living room, stopped, and looked at the light spheres. I didn’t think I had it in me. If more time had passed, I would probably have thrown out the envelope, unopened. But here we were. I breathed in as hard as I could, my heart hammering in my chest, took one last look at this house I had hated so much, and my mother’s closed bedroom door and then stopped. I grabbed the envelope where Wes had sent his last letter and took a pen. I was about to write the single phrase “I’m sorry”, but I stopped myself. I was sorry about how my mom was going to react, but I wasn’t sorry I was leaving. So I wrote my message and left it on the kitchen table, where I hoped mom would see it eventually. “I love you. Take care.”

Untitled 2

Prologue

The water had come to meet me. I could feel myself sinking, all I saw was the light from the sky that reached me through the waves. Above me, my hands seemed to be trying to reach the surface, my own two feet paddled restlessly: maybe trying to still me, maybe trying to turn me around so the water would stop filling my lungs. After a little while, the movement stopped. I could only see the air bubbles going up towards the light, and my limbs quietly slipping into the cold, along with the rest of me.

Chapter 1

Sarah and I were getting our magic tested.

We were supposed to be at the mall at eleven o’clock that morning for the “experiment”, as the people who organized the event were calling it. As far as I knew, they were gonna test the magic of the subjects and draw their own conclusions later, though I didn’t care much to learn what those would be. The only thing I cared about right now was getting there on time, and the fact that I managed to get Sarah up in time to have breakfast, get ready with all the care and time she liked to put into her appearance, and leave early enough to walk placidly to the mall, marvelled me. When I went anywhere with Sarah, we were almost always running late.

—What do you think you’ll get?—I asked her.
—Negative, for sure.—She answered dismissively.—No one in my family has been magic for, like, generations. You?—
—I don’t know.—I shrugged.—I don’t care, either way, y’know?. I kinda only wanted the money.—I finished, trying to sound carefree. I knew Sarah wasn’t buying it, but she was nice enough to pretend she believed me.

As we passed through the market, a light breeze brought the smell of lilies to my nose. The Field of Lilies was just behind the place. We walked in front of the market, and I smelled the sweet scent as I eyed some of my favorite vendors, and walked straight ahead. The Waterfall Mall was just about ten minutes away. It had another name, but everyone just called it “The Waterfall Mall” because of the giant waterfall that was installed at the very back of the place.

While on our way, we passed the suburbs, an area filled with houses of my favorite kind: Ample, with high ceilings and grass covering the roof and back walls of both house and garage. It made for a kind of little mountain range that kids loved to play on. To me, those houses always had a warm, healthy, homey feeling to it. The hills and valleys made by these mounds of grass contrasted with the open, flat expanse of fields that surrounded the town. The bright lawns on these houses were an almost shiny green and were studded with random colorful flowers I didn’t know the names of, and a bunch of fuzzy dandelions.

—Ew!—Sarah surprised me with her disgusted expression. She had stopped to scrape off some mud off her shoe. She turned towards the house right next to us and looked at it in disgust.—I hate these houses!
—Really?—I asked, astonished.
—Yeah!—She responded as she rubbed her shoe back and forth on a cleaner part of the sidewalk.—The kids who live on them are always living their mud prints everywhere! Ugh!—
—Oh, come on.—I started, in a conciliatory tone.—Then it’s not the house’s fault, it’s the kids’.—

Sarah just glared at me, like I was missing the point entirely. To be fair, I probably was.—Have you always been like that?—I asked, trying to change the direction of the conversation.
—Pretty much.—She explained.—I used to have a friend who lived in one of these. We climbed the hills and rolled down, played capture the flag, hide and seek, you name it. We’d always end up muddy. That’s why I preferred to play alone after a while, and I always went home as fast as I could without looking rude.—

I pondered on this. Sarah and I became friends when mom and I moved to the same neighborhood she lived in with her mother. The houses there were weirdly flat and uniform, squarish in design, with low ceilings and a stuffy, musty, dusty feeling to them. Even the ones with two stories had low ceilings. The windows were small and scarce, as if the whole house was the attic or the basement. It didn’t matter to me that the houses were all made out of fancy wood floors and wooden ceilings and wooden walls and wooden everything that my mother loved so much, to me it just felt cramped. I guess mom felt we didn’t need all the extra space of our old house, what with dad gone and my brother having already left for Westwood.

We passed tiny houses with ample gardens, big three-story high ones with pretty guardrails on their grass ceilings so the kids wouldn’t fall off when they played, ample single-story houses with colorful flags on top. All around the place, children enjoyed the weekend as they ran on their own, played with their friends or walked their dogs. Mothers walked with their babies in strollers, old ladies had lemonade on their front porches with their friends, young couples walked hand in hand, the women sporting the last flower-patterned sundresses of the late summer weeks.

We arrived at the mall with a whole 20 minutes to spare. I looked around the place. Now, I knew about the malls in big cities: immense expanses full of floors, on top of floors of fancy stores selling expensive clothes of enchanted threads that did Lord-knows-what, and unaffordable magical items which couldn’t yet be surpassed by technology, the place made top to bottom out of enchanted glass that displayed illusions or sometimes advertising for the bigger stores, polished stone that was smooth as silk and shiny enchanted metals for structure. Meanwhile, this town’s only mall was an ample place, not huge (even if it was the biggest building around), only one floor containing a row of stores on each side, a local here or there decorated with shrubbery planted on a raised bed of shallow, enchanted earth. 

The only notable characteristics of this mall were the fact that the ceiling was made out of two layers of glass, with sunlight simply trapped in the middle to keep the place warmly lit, even when it was not sunny outside (I heard someone once call that a “skylight”), and, of course, the giant waterfall at the back. To my knowledge, that was the town’s one “big” magical project, an imitation of nature that didn’t rely on a single hydraulic pump, water filter, or even lighting. The water cycled up on its own accord, gravity doing the rest of the work, the enchantments keeping it clean enough for colorful fish to inhabit it, and even light at the bottom having been altered so it wouldn’t be white, but sparkled in a variety of pretty colors on close inspection. I always heard how the guy who designed it and put it together used its success as a stepping stone to go onto bigger and better things, in bigger and better places. Or at least that’s how I was told the story. 

As much as I liked staring at the waterfall and wondering about all the spells that made it work, I was also excited to see the videogame store, so I took Sarah. Man, I liked that place, too. From the outside, it looked very unremarkable. It was a wide, rectangular shape. The entrance at the very right and the desk, where the cashier ought to be, made it look like a tiny, regular shop; but when you turned to the left, you saw a stairway going down to the rest of the shop, which sunk into the ground. The ceilings were beautiful wooden beams, the walls were stone, brick, and wood, interrupted only by a pair of huge windows that glowed bright, just like the skylight in the mall, but this time, the sunlight was trapped between the glass of the fake windows and the concrete of the walls. Whoever designed the interior of this shop must have had a library in mind, but it ended up being a videogame store. I sometimes wondered how they felt about that.

The clerk wasn’t there, so we took a look around. Videogames were a fairly new commodity around here, and I only had a few of the ones I brought with me from the town I lived in before moving. Still, people had been excited about the new era of this form of entertainment, and already a lot of games were being made, but they took way less space than books, so this, which would’ve made a pretty cramped library, was a huge videogame warehouse. I swear, if I could think of a game, they usually had it in stock here. It made me feel like I wasn’t living in that little of a town.

I tried to help Sarah search for the games she wanted, but she only said she wanted “retro games”, which was not helpful at all. I didn’t know much about the games that were considered retro. I knew about the one where you bounced a ball back and forth, or one where you shot darts at a black and white board. The ones I played nowadays focused more on adventures, where you played as sorcerers shooting enemies down with pixelated balls of fire or shards of ice, or combat titles where magicians of many elements tried defeating each other by hurling rocks at their opponents, or blinding them with light bombs and punching them while they tried to recover. I had been trying to get Sarah into games ever since I met her, but she’d never been interested. But now that her new boyfriend was a bit of a “retro game” freak, she cared, and here we were.

We looked around and tried calling the clerk for help, but nobody showed up, so we went to the meeting place for the experiment, just outside the food court. Some people were already gathered there, sitting in chairs that had been lined up. A woman with a clipboard came up to us and asked us if we had our sign-up sheet. I got my wallet and took out the folded paper they had given me three days ago when I came to ask for details. They had made me fill up a sheet with a lot of personal information, and then gave me a sheet with a number on it and told me not to lose it. I didn’t, and neither had Sarah, but the time it took her to take the crumpled piece of paper out of her purse was making me uncomfortable.

I turned to the woman and thought about telling her some clever comment to pass the time, but I came up empty-handed. Instead, I took a quick look at her and turned away to pretend I wasn’t staring at her face. She was very pretty, but unusual looking. She definitely wasn’t from around town. She had vibrant green eyes. Her white skin looked almost yellowish, and her dirty blond hair was so straight it could’ve been soaking wet, clipped just below her shoulders in, what I pictured, was a perfectly straight line. Her monolid eyes were elongated, giving her a wise, patient look about her. I noticed her ears protruded a bit from her hair.

After we had both handed her our sign-up sheets, the woman gestured towards some chairs that had a clipboard on top of each, with yet another form. We sat and started filling them. To our annoyance, this one had all the info we had already filled a couple days ago, plus much more. We sat there for while, writing down about our families, if we had already awakened, if our family members had awakened, what we did for a living, what our family did for a living, what we did on our free time, and all sorts of stuff I couldn’t even imagine had anything to do with magic.

Thing is, not everyone in this world has magic. Furthermore, apparently just having it is not enough to wield it. First, you need to confirm that you do have magic. To do so, you have two options: “Awakening” or having your magic tested. (Ironically, one of the ways to find out if you can wield magic is to actually wield magic). For a few people, simply taking a magic test and reading a positive result is enough to rouse the magic in them, which is what the term “awakening” means: displaying magic power for the first time. The rest of the people who could use magic, but couldn’t afford a test, waited for the fabled moment when they would awaken, if they ever did. Magicians were rare. Every now and again, I heard of scams that claimed to make people awaken, but that was all they were: scams. Or at least that’s what people say. I have never heard of anyone, outside of a certain set of people, who have managed to awaken on purpose. It’s different from person to person, and there are very few reliable methods. I actually had only heard of one. 

In school, they taught us that over half of the world population has some magic genes, but only about 2 per cent can use that magic. Some lucky souls awaken when they’re children. Those people spend all their lives learning magic, and they’re normally the ones who built the houses that look like grassy hills; or the underground videogame stores that look like sunlit libraries; or the giant waterfalls inside of malls. It had always been funny for me seeing that folks who could use magic were always doing so to the delight of us who can’t, as if they were forced to blend their amazing talents in with the average talents of normal people.

After filling in our life stories, they directed us each to a little booth where a nurse took a sample of our hair, a piece of a fingernail, a swab of the inside of our mouths and even a bit of blood (I was glad I found about this part of the procedure at the last minute, or else I wouldn’t have had the courage to show up). Afterwards, we waited thirty minutes and got our results inside an envelope, plus a card each with 2,000 goldens on them. That was a pretty sweet deal, since most magic testing was very expensive and not widely available. As I thought about this, the noise of paper being ripped brought me back to the present. I watched Sarah tear her envelope open and take out the paper inside it. It made me feel a little anxious. I looked at mine and put it inside my backpack, along with my card. Sarah seemed too interested in her results to notice. She read fast, which gave me the impression that she wanted to get it over with quickly.

—Not a slip of magic.—She said, with a knowing smile, which surprised me. I would’ve been disappointed.—But it says here that maybe I could “bring forth” a child with magic.
—How’d they work that out?—I wondered, as it didn’t really match with what I knew of genetics (not that I knew all that much, mind you).
—Beats me. But it’s good to know.  —Sarah shrugged. I made a mental note to try and ask around.

We made our way back to the videogame store, hoping the clerk would have shown up by now. He had. He was sitting placidly behind the desk, just by the cash register.

—Good day! – I greeted him.
—Hello.—He said with a faint smile.

He was a young guy, but you wouldn’t have known it if you didn’t look at him up close. He was wearing some sort of robe, made from soft, brown linen. It looked comfy. His head had a circle shaven on the crown area, and the hair that remained around looked thin, ginger, and cut short. He looked as if he was trying to look old, but his smooth face and the twinkle in his honey-colored eyes made it impossible, as did the wispy blond beard on his chin, and the five or six random hairs growing on his cheeks. Very clearly a Monk or Monk apprentice.

We waited for him to say something else, like the “What can I help you with?” or the “What are you looking for?” that a normal clerk would have, but he just sat there, faintly smiling to himself, his eyes open, but as calm as if he were sleeping. The silence just hung in the air. I could see Sarah starting to get annoyed.

—I’m looking for retro games.—Sarah told him with a slight edge on her voice.
—We have them! – He said with just a hint of excitement.

Again, we waited for him to get up and lead us, perhaps to point us in the right direction (vague as the request was) or maybe even gesture the way with his face, but he just sat on, as if nothing troubled him.

—Good day.—Sarah exclaimed dryly, rolling her eyes, visibly irritated; and walked out before I could react. I trotted after her.
—I can’t stand people who can’t be bothered to do their jobs right.—She complained, annoyed.
—Have you never met a Monk before?—I asked, feigning surprise. To be fair, I knew most monks weren’t precisely like that, but I was trying to calm Sarah down. I was sure she was just a couple minutes away from trying to find a manager or somebody who could put the clerk in his place.
—I’ve seen a couple, but never as store clerks.—She answered, her curiosity winning over her anger.
—That’s just how Monks are.—I lied.—My brother told me they have to give some things up to become Monks.—I went on. This last thing was true, though.—Maybe this guy was a bit aloof way before that. I don’t think the combination turned out all that well.—
—Yeah!—She agreed—Why put a guy like that to work in a store?—
—Maybe his superiors thought he needed to work a bit before he started learning. —I reasoned.—I’ve heard some of them do, like a sort of social service, to learn humility or something like that.—
—Ugh, they should’ve put him to work with dogs, or babies, or books.—Sarah retorted, now trying to sound more annoyed than she still was. She had quite the fiery temper to rival her petite physique.

I wondered. To become a Monk, people had to undergo some sort of process so they lost some kinds of desire (I called it “Libido-removing” to myself: My mother went berserk when I said it out loud). Not much was said about it. The only things I knew was that they lost the desire to impress people, as well as, yes, their sex drive, completely. 

Supposedly, the process helped them develop new talents or improve their existing ones. It was the one surefire way to awaken magic if the individual had it in him, at least the only effective one I had heard of. A lot of people didn’t think the process did anything but transform people into asexual hermits, but the ones who were learned in the subject knew better. Monks were among the best painters, architects, sculptors, crystal-workers, metal-workers, sorcerers, alchemists, musicians, and all-around artists there were in the world. Not a lot of people knew so because no Monk ever worked for renown, in fact, they shied away from it. When they did work publicly, it was to bring back resources to their guild (to “hire” a Monk you were required to make a donation to their monastery that covered the cost of educating at least one apprentice for a year), and only the most experienced Monks were allowed to work for money personally. 

The apprentices, however, could choose to work to gain practice, experience, and feedback, or to help a friend or someone in need, but goldens never exchanged hands, when they weren’t spending time outside of their guilds, or “monasteries”, they learned all sorts of stuff in there. Most of the products that resulted from the classes apprentices took were sold in bulk to merchants, who re-sold the pieces at higher values. This gave the guilds money, and also made certain artworks very valuable, seeing as how people couldn’t track the creator, thus were unable to purchase another piece by them. 

The rest of the time spent inside the monasteries, apprentices did much else: they practiced the crafts they liked, they taught each other trades they may have known from before, and kept the place fit for living. In the case of our friend back at the store, some of them had to work a normal, mundane job before entering the guild formally, even if they had already spent time as an apprentice and even had their libido removed. Perhaps they put these newly appointed monks to work at any place that would have them. I wasn’t very clear on the details.

Sarah decided to spend her goldens in clothes, but I held on to mine. We treaded store after store, wading our way around pants, blouses, dresses and shoes. Sometimes, when Sarah was trying some random dress on for the umpteenth time, I took a stroll through the surrounding stores. A visit to the bakery was always worth it. Normally, cute little boxes were displayed at the front, filled with cookies that looked like tiny sandwiches made from colored buns, filled with chocolate. Each half of them was swirled in two or three bright tones. They must have had a bunch of food coloring in them. I still remembered when Wes and I tried to make those as kids. Not only was it a difficult recipe, but as much coloring as we put in, ours still came out in pastel tones.

—Do you have any cream puffs? — I asked the cashier as I entered the store.

—They’ll be out in just a minute if you want to wait, miss. — She said in an apologetic tone.

—I‘ll wait — I answered happily, as it gave me time to take a look at the cakes and pastries on display. 

The cakes in the mall’s bakery were beautiful. I could spend a long time looking at them, trying to guess what they were made out of and how they were made. A particular one caught my eye. It was not frosted on the sides, so you could clearly tell how a tall cake had been cut in half and filled with a thick layer of a rich, yellow-colored cream that was lemon-flavored (if the lemon slice-shaped candies decorating the meringue top were any indication). To the right of that cake were five or six parfaits served on pretty glasses, similar to the ones used to serve milkshake on, but smaller, and decorated with pretty swirls etched in the crystal towards the middle of the cup. I had tried that parfait a couple of times before. The layers of strawberry puree were intertwined with a sweet cream that tasted of vanilla and had a touch of some spirit (was it rum? some liqueur?), and a crunchy something that must’ve been cookies or cake crumbs baked dry. When you bought the parfait, you paid for the pretty glass, too, so you could choose to keep it. So far, I had two of them. I could do with another pretty glass, though, so I paid for my cream puff and got the parfait to share with Sarah on the way back.

At the next store we visited, Sarah chose to try on four different dresses, so I passed the time in a home decoration store. We didn’t have many magical things in this town, but even here, some people were prepared to pay good money for them. I looked at desk lamps made from real sunlight that turned on and off when you touched them, without having to plug them in, packs of ice cubes that never melted, glass balls that showcased live electric currents inside of them and didn’t need batteries to work. All of them were basic-level spells of Elemental Magic, and even then, the articles were still five, six, even ten times the price of their non-magic counterparts. Magicians were rare. Normal, everyday folk in this town hardly owned any magic items at all, so when any of them showed up anywhere here, the prices were outrageous. Still, you could always find somebody willing to pay them.

After Sarah tried on what felt like half of the clothes at the mall, we finally went home.

—So how come all of a sudden you want “retro games”? – I asked her, as we neared the Market on our way back.
—What do you mean “all of a sudden”? – She retorted, feigning ignorance.
—I mean we’ve been friends for three years and every time I ask you to play a game with me, you have plans that night. Or day. Or afternoon. – I answered, unable to hide a sly smile to show her I was onto her.
—That’s not true!—she barely managed to get out through her giggling. I could see she understood my point without me spelling it out. I wasn’t trying to guilt her or anything. I just wanted to let her know the facts had not gone over my head.
—Oh yeah? Prove it!—I exclaimed, feeling the excitement rush through me.— Promise me next time I ask you to play a game with me, you will.
—Fine.—She answered in an unenthusiastic voice. I looked down at my feet. No luck. We were standing on pavement.
—Na-uh.—I retorted, shaking my head.—Field of lilies or I won’t believe you.
—Oh, come on.—She complained.—We don’t have to—
—Won’t believe you!!—I yapped, laughing.
—Fine.—She conceded with a sigh and a smile.

We reached the market and walked through the alley on the left side, which led to the field of Lilies. It was a flat expanse of terrain, surrounded by a simple metallic fence and a plain gate at the entrance, which was open, just like it was almost every time.

We walked to the gate and I stood still, to take it in. The field of lilies was one of my favorite places. All over the terrain, beautiful flowers whose petals seemed to shine a soft glow had sprouted, many lilies, all of them a similar size, just up to my knees, most of them white. Here or there you could spot a blue one, a red one, or a yellow one, but most of the ones that still lived were white. Some of the flowers were wilting, and some of them were dead, their shrivelled stems and petals brown and fragile as they lay on the ground. When I wanted to cheer up, sometimes I came here to confirm that most of the flowers were still alive, and still white. We stood on a spot that had yet to grow any. I twisted my foot a bit so that it made an indent in the ground. Sarah didn’t seem to notice.

—I promise to play games with you next time you ask me.—She exclaimed. I couldn’t help but giggle and hug her. The promise was not a very important one, but it meant a lot to me. As we walked away, I turned around and made sure to take another look at the spot I had marked.

With that, we walked out of the field and headed home.

Later that evening, I was laying down on my bed, looking at the wooden beams on my ceiling. My room was an unremarkable place: squarish as the rest of the house, humid feeling, always dusty, try as I might to keep the dust at bay. It didn’t have a single window, and the cool light of the three electric bulbs installed on the ceiling didn’t do much to liven up the place. I had tried decorating it and redecorating it, but adding stuff to the walls gave the room a cluttered feel. I liked to think it was due to the low ceiling. My mom liked to think I was exaggerating.

I remembered a letter I had gotten in the morning but had been too busy (getting Sarah to hurry up) to read. I remembered putting it under my pillow and promising myself that I would read it as soon as I got home. …Whoops. Oh, well, I was reading it now. The envelope was made out of brown parchment I recognized as soon as I saw it. It was from Westwood: a letter from Wes.

Dear Liah:

Hello! How is everything going with you? Here it’s the same as normal. I’ve kept it up with the guitar lessons, and I feel like I’m making pretty good progress, but you should hear the way this new guy plays. He doesn’t even remember how old he was when he started practicing. I wish I had started that early.

I went to a calligraphy lesson yesterday, does it show? It was not as hard as I thought it would be, I think I’ll keep going to those. One of my roommates was inducted yesterday, so they moved him out into permanent residence. I guess that means I’ll get some extra space for a while! At least until someone new comes along. The Harvest Festival is happening soon, right? Remember to write me about the food.

To answer your questions: Yes, we did manage to get the stain off the wall. I thought I was gonna get into trouble, but the vinegar trick worked. Thanks!

Also, yes, this paper is up for sale. I think it’s 20 goldens for 50 sheets, but you’d have to come get them yourself or send someone.

How have you been? Anything new at work? When are you telling mom about your liqueur idea? I think you’d be great at it. How is mom, by the way? I miss her. I miss you both. I hope you can come visit soon.

-Werner

I thought about the contents of the letter. Mom and I rarely talked about Wes. I sat down to write my reply. When I had finished, I folded the letter and put it in an envelope. I would’ve liked to have written it in the morning to send it faster, the post office was just outside the mall, but I hadn’t had time at all, what with trying to get Sarah to hurry up. It was fine. I’d walk over there again one of these days. Maybe I’d even get another parfait. Having written my reply, I went back to staring at the ceiling.

As I lay there, pondering over something or other, I threw my water-ball upwards and caught it, over and over. It was a sphere made from transparent rubber. The water inside it seemed to have a mind of its own. It spun and whirred, it made little swirls and slow whirlpools on its own accord, unconcerned about the movement of the rubber outside it. I stopped tossing the ball and looked at it. It was a beautiful thing. I had never seen any others like it, although the movement of the water within it used to have more vigor. Looking past it, I saw the envelope containing the results of my magic testing. It sat on my nightstand, unopened. I looked at it for a long while. Finally, I lifted it, gave it a last look, and opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand to shove it inside, but something stopped me. A wooden box had caught my attention. I sighed, feeling the nostalgia wash over me and hating myself for it. What had it been, now, six years? 

I put the box on my lap and opened it. Inside was a picture of a family. A man and a woman, shoulder to shoulder, smiling wide, each clutching a toddler in their arms. The woman was holding a smiling, brown-haired boy. Her husband hugged a girl, her flyaway hair seemed to be purposely brushed off her face, but some had strayed out. She hugged her father’s arm where he lifted her, and smiled.

I lifted the picture and blinked, dazzled. Below it was a little wooden frame, a circle top window shape, with a wooden cross in the middle. The glass inside it shone with warm, soft light, and as I took it out with my free hand, I felt a soft warmth on my fingers. I blinked back some more, hoping not to tear up. After some consideration, I put the picture back in the box, got up, looked for a nail and a hammer, and hung the light window in a bare space on the wall.

I knew that Sarah was out with her boyfriend tonight, and I didn’t have any plans of my own with any other friends, so I pondered how I was gonna spend my night. I thought about trying to treat my mom to dinner with the goldens I had gotten from the experiment, but soon gave up on the idea. I had been trying to convince her to take a trip with me to visit Wes, but she flat out refused to talk about my brother’s new life. Furthermore, I normally had dinner at around seven. She normally had dinner whenever she arrived, which could be seven, eight, nine, ten… It wasn’t unusual for me to fall asleep without her at home. I resolved to try another day.

I tried distracting myself with a videogame, but something kept nagging at me. I decided to deal with it, so I got up, put my coat on, and headed outside.

While making my way through the neighborhood, I looked at the houses. They were all uniformly painted in browns and greys . I marveled at their somber-colored, sometimes windowless front porches. They didn’t have lawns, and very few people had potted plants outside. I had a single pot that hosted some chives to use in my cooking. No children lived in this neighborhood.  Perhaps one of our neighbors owned a dog? Maybe it was a cat. Not many lights were on, and the street lighting was bluish and cold, at least to me. I had asked around. Nobody else agreed. I tried sniffing the air for signs of anyone cooking dinner, but no luck. I quickened my pace, wanting more than ever to get out of there. As I turned the corner outside the gates, I saw something that put a whole spin on my mood: An old man pushing a little cart, slowly making his way down the same road I was on. Well ahead, I could see what was clearly a magic lantern, hanging from the top of the cart, its warm light reaching much farther than a normal lightbulb or firelight would. As I walked closer, I took notice of the details I loved most. The wooden rooftop of the cart, full of tiny hanging signs with the flavors of the broths written on them, the mouthwatering savory smells, the tinkling bell that signaled that the cart was passing through. I caught up with the old man, and the soup’s steam moistened my face and delighted my nose.

—Are you gonna be around for long, Mister Ed? – I asked without greeting him.
—I’m gonna pull an all-nighter, young lady! – He answered me with a white smile that showed the few dazzlingly white teeth he had left.—I chuckled at this, and so did he.
—Then I’ll join you in a bit! – I told him while I waved my hand goodbye and made my way ahead.

I neared the market, walked through the alley, but then wavered. What if the promise hadn’t…—No way. It always works. I thought. Still, I decided to take a walk through the suburbs first. I never needed an excuse to take a look at the grass houses. Just to give it some more time. 

The suburbs were the only place where I ever saw cars in this town. At the market, what brought the produce to the stands and stores were donkey-drawn carts (sometimes horse-drawn, if the owners were wealthier). A lot of the time, though, things were moved around in pulling carts or bicycles. Only the wealthier people could afford cars, and it seemed to me only they cared much for them, too.

The neighborhood’s gate was open, and I spied a young man entering on foot, briefcase in hand, looking tired.

—Daddy!—Called a little boy who had been playing in front of a house. As soon as he saw the man, he got up and ran to his father’s arms. The man lifted his son and spun him around as a way of greeting. When he stopped, he turned to look at the front porch of one of the houses, where a pregnant woman waited at the door, a toddler holding her hand. The man walked to his wife, they kissed and went inside. I could hear the little boy jabbering away about something I couldn’t quite understand, his voice trailing off as they entered their house. 

As I walked around the neighborhood, I saw vibrant flower beds in the front porches, spied fruit trees on some backyards, the windows of all the houses alight. Dogs barked from the backyards, a cat or two meowed at me as I passed. I smelled the buttery scent of freshly baked bread, along with some savory dish I couldn’t quite identify by scent alone.

I passed a tiny house styled the same as the rest, except what this one didn’t have in rooms, it had in backyard space. The back lawn was big for a garden. While I admired it, I spied a little old lady tending to a vegetable patch, perhaps set on using the last warm nights of the summer on something useful. Two teenagers carried baskets and followed her as she picked tomatoes, beans, squash, and peppers off her vines, reached for apples, pears, peaches, and cherries off fruit trees that were no taller than she was. I realized I must’ve been staring for a long time. No one seemed to be paying me any mind, though. Not that I could see, anyway. 

As I was leaving, something caught my eye. A spot on top of one of the grass rooftops was lit up, but there was no lamp, lightbulbs or fire anywhere near it. I turned around to see if it was the work of a kid with a flashlight. Nope. The light was just… there. Completely unmoving, illuminating a patch of grass. I thought about it for a little. Huh. Well, I’ll be damned. Someone here’s looking at a bright future. I thought. I turned back and headed to the Field of Lilies.

As I hopped on top of the lower rocks that made up the fence of the field, it struck me how much more beautiful the lilies shone under the moonlight. They seemed to move as one with the wind, their petals shimmering, dancing. As I admired them, a petal fell right off the lily I had my eyes on. I shuddered, but tried to shake the image off my mind’s eye. I looked for the spot Sarah made her promise on. I spotted the little hole I had marked on the ground and approached it. Sure enough, next to it stood a stem, not as tall yet as the other flowers, topped with a little bud, its unopened petals as white as any of the others, shinier, to me, than any of the rest.

I walked back home feeling relieved. The promises here always took hold, no matter how insignificant. I shouldn’t have been worried, I thought. I neared my neighborhood, but as soon as I crossed the gates, I smelled something. He did say he planned to pull an all-nighter. I walked up to the cart. I saw Mr. Ed just standing there, which stood out to me. By this hour, he was normally at the District of Lights. 

He had a physique that showed he had been fit for his entire life. When he was still, he slouched slightly, but when he walked, worked, or pushed his cart, his back stood straight as an arrow. I think that was what compelled me to approach the first time I saw him. It looked to me as if he had some stories to tell. His name was Edward, but I called him “Mister Ed”. He stood close to where I had last left him, so he must’ve not walked very much at all. For a fellow his age, that shouldn’t be strange, but it was for him. On weekends, he could walk all along the District of Lights from 10 pm to 5 am, waiting for people to come out of the bars and nightclubs, hoping to help them sober up before heading home, or perhaps to have an early breakfast before heading straight to work after a night of drinking.

—Good night!—I greeted him.
—Good night to you, young lady.—He answered enthusiastically, as the corners of his mouth twisted in a smile.— What are you having tonight?
—Uhm, I don’t know yet.—I confessed, feeling a bit ashamed, for I could’ve pondered on this while I walked back.—Recommend me something.
—My family likes the Soy Broth.—He said at once.—Children get it all the time, too.
—I haven’t tried that one.—I considered.—I’ll have a bowl.—I asked. No matter what I got here, it was always good.

Mr. Ed pulled a lever on the back of his cart that locked the wheels in place, and started unfolding wooden flaps on the inside of the contraption: four of them from the bottom up, four of them from the top out. The ones on the bottom stood forming a 90-degree angle, at the perfect height for one to sit down and place a bowl. Then, he pulled the side flaps, so all of the “tables” would connect, forming an oval shape, instead of being four separate rectangles. The top flaps were folded slightly downwards, making a little canopy roof over the top of our heads. 

—You didn’t have to unfold the whole thing, Mister Ed.—I mumbled as I felt my face growing warm.
—You like to see it, don’t you?—He asked, paying no mind to my embarrassment, while he opened drawers inside the cart and pulled the lid off one of his pots.

As a matter of fact, I did like to see it. It never ceased to amaze me the way this guy unfolded his cart. He pulled flaps open, pulled down levers, clicked things in place. In the end, he was left with a table that surrounded him so he could serve customers all around, and they could sit with enough space between them. It amazed me to think this tiny cart could morph into that big of a food stand. When it was cold, he pulled some more flaps hiding inside the four beams connecting the bottom and the roof of the cart, and made himself little walls. He once told me the cold wind cooled down his broth, but I imagined his joints also thanked him for this gesture. On the other hand, his joints must’ve been strong. I guessed the cart wasn’t precisely light.

Before pouring my broth on a plate, the man handed me a fold-up chair. I sat at the table and waited. He didn’t ask what I wanted on my broth, I always had every topping, as I knew he would’ve been borderline insulted if I didn’t. He didn’t say anything to other customers, but I could tell he liked it best when people got every topping.

He put my plate before me. The broth was a rich brown color, so clean you could see right through it. The soup consisted of thick, shiny noodles that were a pretty shade of pale yellow, slices of marinated beef, pickled bamboo shoots, lots of chives sliced so thinly they looked like rings of green hair, and a stir-fry made out of spinach, onions, soybean sprouts, ginger root, and a touch of spicy red peppers. To crown the dish, Mr. Ed crushed a garlic clove whole and raw with a metallic press on top of everything.

I thanked him and began eating with a pair of chopsticks and a spoon. I tasted the broth, it was savory and filled with a bunch of flavors I could taste but not see. I knew it took hours and hours of boiling the ingredients to get it to taste this intense. The noodles were chewy and buttery, and I tasted egg yolks as I worked the texture. I could feel myself growing warm from the inside.

Mr. Ed talked away about his life. When he had other customers, he asked them questions, first about their opinion on his food and then about their lives. Some of them, he left alone, but tonight it was just me and him, and I had told him just about everything I knew about myself, so I had started asking him questions. He liked to repeat things he had already told me a bunch of times, but I didn’t mind. I was used to that sort of thing. I liked to listen about his wife, his immediate family, his grandchildren, his house, how he spent his days. I had never asked about his youth or his past, and he had never told me anything about it either, like most old people did.

—Mr. Ed, is anyone in your family a magician?—I asked him out of nowhere.

He glanced up and looked at me, his eyes opened more than usual, in mild surprise, then turned back to his business.—Why do you ask, miss?—He wondered as he chopped chives with a very sharp knife.
—Well, Sarah and I went to that magic-testing thing down at the Waterfall Mall, y’know?—I began, knotting my fingers in my lap.—And they told Sarah she didn’t have any magic, but they thought she could have a magical kid.
—My grandkids wanted to go to that—He mumbled.—I told them to register quickly, but they didn’t, and they missed the spots…—He went on. I was used to him doing this. When he wanted to ponder his answer, he didn’t go quiet, instead he talked as he did his thinking. At last, he responded: —Yes, my uncle and great grandfather were magicians.
—Oh.—I managed.—I thought maybe a magician would have a magical child easier than someone non-magical.—I pondered aloud.
—Funny, how that is, huh?—He said.—My neighbors are a couple as magical as that bowl you’re eating out of, but their child awakened a while ago. They’re not sure what to do now. Of course, he has sponsors lined up already. They could probably pay for him to go learn upstate, but they’re not sure yet.

I felt a bit uneasy thinking about this. I knew what he meant. Magical children were said to be a blessing and a curse. When a person had the chance to learn magic since childhood, they usually grew up to be upstanding magicians later in life. Supposedly, children could learn three or four spells a day, they absorbed the knowledge like sponges, and their curiosity made it easier for them to come up with new ways in which to practice. Of course, that curiosity was the exact reason people wanted to get them trained as soon as possible. A child meddling with fire magic they know little about can cause a really bad accident, so parents want them to learn the basics fast. It was rarely a money issue. Magical children were not rare among magic-wielders in general, and so, magical schools came up with a plan to educate kids who didn’t have the means: Sponsors. A rich person can lay claim to a magician’s labor for a time if they pay for their education. The school made the kid’s  parents sign a contract promising that the child would pay in labor either when they were finished studying, during their tenure at the school, or a combination. 

When I first heard about the system, I thought it sounded sinister. I was later told it’s not too difficult to pay the sponsors back once you’re finished learning. Magic is expensive anywhere. It’s also very easy to get kids on the right track. If they learn the basics of controlling their powers, they’re not dangerous, and most can learn the rest well enough off books, without much instruction or supervision. Most of the time. I imagined the only issue for this family would be deciding if they wanted to move upstate with the child or opt for a boarding school and stay where they were.

I thought about that while I ate. I must have been deep in thought, because the extra spoonful of chopped chives that dropped onto my broth caught me completely by surprise. I composed myself as best as I could and thanked Mister Ed. I always asked for extra chives when I finished all of my toppings, so lately he just waited for me to finish and dropped them in my plate without asking. I loved the flavor extra chives gave the broth. Sometimes, if I had already eaten dinner but found Mr. Ed outside, I’d ask only for broth and chives. Those were the only times he’d let me off the hook for not wanting all the toppings.

I finished eating, paid for my meal, and thanked Mister Ed. As I was heading home, I replayed on my mind what he had told me about his family. We’d known each other for three years. I made a point to always eat something at his stand when I saw him out. He’d told me all sorts of things about him, his family, and his day-to-day life. I never doubted any story he told me. 

But as I walked the darkened sidewalk that headed to my house, I wondered if what he told me tonight had been true.

Chapter 2

Miss Nelson had asked for less salt in her lentils.

I worked at the only old folks home in town, making breakfast and lunch. It was a bit of a hassle, but the perks were alright. I arrived to work five days a week at 6 am and left at 2 pm. I washed dishes, organized the pantry, planned the meals, learned about nutrition, talked to relatives about the food forbidden to each person (try as they might to beg for more dessert), swept and mopped the kitchen, and even talked to some of the residents when I had the time. But mostly I cooked. I used less salt, not too much fat, little or no sugar, lean meats, and came up with pretty boring results most of the time.

On top of that, Miss Nelson, who was one of our newest residents, insisted on changes to all of her food. She was an old woman whose spotless skin and shiny cheekbones revealed she had cared deeply for her beauty all her life. I wondered if her skincare had been impeccable since her youth or if she was very talented with makeup. Every single day she wore lipstick, rouge, and Lord knows how much else. She complained about every meal, every other resident, every nurse, and insisted to be called “Miss”, even though it had been her sons who put her in the home. I had been told she also complained about her health and tried to avoid almost everything she considered hazardous to it (except, of course, makeup). Not even boiled turkey breast without salt was good enough for this woman. I had spoken to one of her sons not two days ago, and he told me her physio tests showed she didn’t have any condition that prevented her from eating a bit of salt. Indeed, she didn’t have any condition that would preclude her from eating anything or doing anything. A lot of the residents had special dietary needs and needed to be watched constantly. Miss Nelson didn’t, and yet, she adhered to the rules of all of the other residents combined. I had given up on tasting her food for flavor before serving it, seeing as flavor clearly didn’t matter to her. 

All in all, even though working here did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm for food, it wasn’t an easy task to go through five days a week. Making bland food was a grueling task anywhere, but here, in this town, with all of the amazing options, it made me feel inadequate. I guessed my mother couldn’t have known that when she got the job for me. Still, there were things I liked about it. It was not far away from home, I got to take some of the produce if they’d had it for a while, and the hours were good, making use of my spare time in the morning (the fact that my eyes were wide open at five am had always astonished my mom and brother, or they would have, had my dad not been the same way). And, from two pm on, I had the whole day for myself. I could get ice cream with Sarah when she had her days off, go to the mall, take all the walks I liked, play videogames, and still have time to make dinner, the timing of which didn’t normally matter, as I, more often than not, was left to eat by myself. 

Today I decided to plan a nice dinner. I never knew when my mom would show up early, so I liked to make something elaborate every once in a while. So far, we hadn’t coincided once. Still, I resolved to manage it someday, so I headed towards the market. 

There were a couple of ways to go from the Old Folks Home to the market. Today, the weather was nice and clear, and not too hot, so I chose the long, scenic route. This particular way took me through the front of the church, the neighborhoods in front of the fields, and even the local university. All in all, it was a nice activity for an afternoon. 

In this town, there weren’t many big buildings, but the people were, more often than not, rather religious, so it wasn’t weird that the church cracked the top five of the big structures here. The town’s inhabitants weren’t shy or particularly prudish, but they did atribute many of their land’s better qualities to Mother Earth, a deity depicted wearing a dress that reached just below her knees, her hands over her heart, and a wreath of flowers atop her head. Her statue was the one crowning the top of the dome that composed the roof of the church, which was made out of grey bricks, in the shape of a polygonal prism, with huge arches for entrances, adorned with colored glass in the windows and murals in the domed ceiling. 

My father used to take the family to church with a certain regularity, but now that it was just my mother and me, church had become a thing of the past. Even if back then my mother attended church willingly with my father at her side, she hadn’t suggested for us to go in years, so much so that I wondered if she just did it to humor my father.

I moved along and made my way through a couple of neighborhoods filled with nice farmhouses. Behind them, you could make out the starting of the fields. Some of them had vegetables planted, other vineyards, others, still, fruit trees. 

Although all of the houses had those distinctive triangular tops and ample porches, each house had a different flair to it. For starters, no two of them were painted the same color. The people who opted for white walls painted their doors, windows, beams, ceilings, and front steps on bright tones of red, blue, yellow, pink (someone had painted all the details of their white house a different color, making for a pretty sight), but others decided to throw simplicity out the window (the lime green window sill on the bright purple house, to be exact). There was a house that was painted yellow with black details (was it a beekeeper’s house?), another one was painted bubblegum pink with hot pink details (I could picture some sort of crazy cat lady living there). 

Even though these people seemed to want to make their houses look as distinct from one another, their gardens weren’t separated by fences, or at all. The neighbors simply knew where their garden ended and the next person’s began. You could tell by the fact that some people had vibrant flower beds, others collections of porcelain lawn gnomes, hobbits, elves, frogs, flamingoes, and other decor; others still, just impeccably kept lawns, all those details coming to an abrupt end at an invisible (but clearly noticeable) straight line. The only unifying trait in the gardens I could see, were lone random flowers scattered in everyone’s lawns: Mostly, there were bright red roses with big, velvety looking petals, little daisies, their white petals surrounding a fuzzy yellow center, and white lilies that seemed to glow. On a lawn or two, I could see a mauve carnation, a yellow rose, azaleas, some dandelions. 

Right at the edge of the neighborhood, there was a house whose yellowed walls and chipped made it look like it had been cared for last a long time ago. In the front yellowish lawn, a large green willow stood, its trunk crooked, leaning to one side, its hanging clumps of leaves casting a dark shadow that made the air beneath it feel cold and the ground look barren. The rest of the lawn was covered by dozens of black dahlias, and in the center of all of them, looking out of place and ominous, a lonely yellow rose. I always evaded looking at this house for long. It gave me a sad feeling, as if I were being drained of hope. 

I took a right turn out of the neighborhood and walked by the university. The building wasn’t big, because not too many of the people in this town pursued higher education. Teenagers graduated highschool (sometimes), and proceeded to start work at their family’s farm. If they had a flair for business, they sold the produce at the market or even studied external commerce. If they were good with numbers, they kept the finances or studied to be accountants. 

There was even a little art division, which I knew was where people learned to make all kinds of agriculture-related art. The town’s square boasted a statue of Mother Earth, as a woman wearing a toga decorated with flowers, a basket of fruit in her arms, and vegetables growing in the ground at her feet; The sidewalks were lined with berry bushes; The tables at weddings decorated with floral arrangements that were more fruit than flowers: boasting random oranges, apples, pears, peaches, strawberries, and grapes, or even cut in elaborate ways or forming shapes of swans, turtles, deer, and other animals. That was art here. I liked it, but it was definitely peculiar. 

Sometimes, a really bright farm boy would enroll at the university and learn about the properties of this land’s wealthy soil. I knew that some of my favorite produce stands at the market were so well stocked thanks to the work of a couple of earth magicians who had enriched their family’s land even further and then left for something grander elsewhere. 

Everyone knew the university had one or two professors whose knowledge of earth and water magic (or alchemy, as it was called in the advanced stages, along with sorcery) was responsible for teaching the young minds of the community to enhance the already “eager” soil. 

However, if said young minds were any good at some other thing, they sought a shop around town who’d have them as low-paid help while they learned the craft, which was what Sarah had done with one of the local seamstresses. A lot of the time, though, people left for a city, or a bigger town. This had been the case of some of the friends I had made here. 

I walked slowly in front of the university’s lawn. It was bright green with its share of random flowers, mostly dandelions, divided by a brick path right in the middle. At the center of each half of the lawn stood a little fountain crowned with a statue of a tree that grew every fruit imaginable. At the far ends, stood a row of different fruit trees, I could see yellow lemons, red apples, green apples, cherries, pears, oranges, and tangerines, none of the trees taller than waist-height. 

As I approached the end of the building, I spotted a sign. My attention got immediately drawn in, because the biggest word in the sign was “Free”.

FREE LECTURE

Is your neighbor’s grass always greener?

Are you tired of not reaping what you sow?

Do you wish to bring your family’s farm some renown?

Why not consider attending a free lesson in Earth Alchemy?

Taught by the world—renowned Alchemist Bayard Fischer…

I stopped reading at this point. I’d heard of Professor Fischer. He was born and raised in this town, except for the time he went up to Lahsek to get his Alchemy degree. I’d seen him in the market a couple of times.  If he really was world-renowned, then the world must be a pretty boring place. 

Still… Ever since I got here, my plan was to continue working at the old folk’s home and use the rest of my time to start learning about flower liqueur, which was this town’s second-biggest business. I figured after I started learning, all kinds of ideas for liqueurs would come to me, but I had never been particularly bookish. 

I was 22 years old, so not precisely fresh out of high school, which meant I was completely out of practice when it came to sitting in a classroom. School had always been a bit challenging, as I needed to be on my feet or doing something to focus. Even listening to somebody while sitting down was a challenge sometimes. When I talked to the residents of the home, I liked to help old ladies with their knitting and cross-stitch, played chess and other games with the old men. There was this one lady who always wanted to bet money, and I had never once managed to keep her from taking my goldens. 

Anyway, maybe a lecture of this kind could teach me something I didn’t know for my future plans. Maybe I could come up with a crazy flower-hybrid that made booze twice as potent or something. I didn’t know anything about soil. I didn’t know anything about growing plants or flowers. I didn’t even know what I didn’t know. Maybe I’d ask Sarah to come with me. With something on my mind, I kept walking.

In this town, subtlety seemed to go right over people’s heads where names were concerned. For starters, the place was called “Everlasting Bounty”, which seemed pretty on-the-nose to me. It was a mouthful, too. Although, the farms here did produce things year-round. So maybe it wasn’t much of a stretch. 

The market was like a maze: corridors and narrow halls, all packed with stands whose produce stood stacked tall right up to the ceiling. It was called the Market of Plenty, and I was in love with the place. No matter what the vendors sold, they sold a lot of it. The fruit stands were mounds and mounds of fat, juicy, bright green pears, plump peaches that were yellow like the sun, shiny apples that were crisp and sweet, blood oranges so rich that you could quench your thirst with the juice of only one, its bright color almost pearly, its tart flavor syruppy and intense, and that wasn’t even the best part.

Mom and I moved to this town after my brother left for Westwood, and I was so miserable some days I felt like throwing myself out the window (had I had one). There were tiny stores scattered around our neighborhood: little places that sold big but ordinary fruit (that is to say, the fruit I knew before coming here). I liked that the fruit here was nicer, bigger, juicier, and sweeter, but that had not helped to liven me up after the move. 

I met Sarah outside one of the bars on The District of Lights. I had gone there for a look because I couldn’t get a wink of sleep, and thought maybe the ambiance would serve as the pick-me-up I needed. After we found out we were neighbors, she had come around my house a couple times to say hello and talk for awhile, but maybe I wasn’t in the best friend-making mood. After finding out our shared enthusiasm for food, Sarah decided I needed to meet the Market of Plenty in person. 

The difference between the tiny produce stands scattered here and there around town, and the literal piles of food displayed at the market was uncanny. You could laugh all you want about how cheesy the name sounded (I certainly did not miss the chance), but they hit the nail right on the head. There was something about the abundance of the place that made me want to live forever. Perhaps it was just my unrelenting desire to eat everything in my line of sight.

The food there was so unlike any other that I couldn’t help but cheer up more and more each time I visited the market. I knew I would have found it eventually, but I never really felt like I repaid Sarah for the favor of bringing me here when I needed it most. Needless to say, the place was where we truly bonded. After we got to the market, I took one look at the exotic fruits on display (a lot of which I had never seen before) and ran straight at them. We spent that day walking around the stands, buying single fruits so I could taste them for the first time and eat them as we walked, talking about the kind of fancy dishes we wanted to try someday, flirting with the young vendors so we could get free samples (it always worked) and trying to haggle with ladies for price reductions on the liqueurs (it never worked, nor did flirting). At the end of that day, I felt like Sarah was the closest friend I had ever had. 

I liked to walk around town when I needed to think something over, and, as I happened to spend an extraordinary amount of time thinking, I knew a lot of places and routes by now, and had some I liked better than others. In truth, despite all the walking and thinking, I never got to any ground-breaking conclusions of my own about anything, but when I had to make decisions, I found it easier to do on a clear head.

I arrived at the market. I had never asked, but I imagined the place had been instituted inside a good-looking, once fancy house. The building was two stories tall, the first one square, the second topped by a ceiling in a triangular shape, similar to the farmhouses in town. What would’ve been the front porch was completely open, it didn’t have doors, precisely, it simply had no walls at the front. The only things to obstruct the entrance being four concrete pillars that supported the wide balcony on the second floor. 

The inside was curious. The building, although looking like a house, didn’t have any rooms, but was just a flat expanse of space, the floors covered with white mosaic dotted with blue flowers. What really made it maze-like were the stands and stores. Every single shop owner had done something to outline their space. The shops that were positioned next to a wall stacked their produce against it in crates until they reached the ceiling; I knew from some of the vendors that a furious bidding war broke out the few times the shop owners that occupied one of the two corners in the back of the house left. Everybody seemed to think it was more practical than agreeing with their neighbor to erect a makeshift wall they could both take advantage of. 

The shops in the center varied even more. Some used four poles that stood straight joined by a square shape at the top to make a structure in which they hung drapes. Others made a square counter and displayed as much produce as they could on its top, restocking from crates put away below the counter. Others seemed to utilize ingenious combinations of two or more tactics, like putting a counter at the front, a wall at the back and drapes at the sides. The variety gave the place a sort of chaotic uniformity, and the stark difference between each place made it easier to traverse and learn.

Before coming to Everlasting Bounty, I lived in a bigger town. There were two or three tiny markets there, and a supermarket that had been all the rage for a couple of years after its inauguration. The shopkeepers in the market would greet you sometimes, if you knew them, and didn’t mingle much with each other. The supermarket would’ve been ghostly quiet had it not been for the soft music playing in the back. 

Here in the Market of Plenty, music would’ve made this place a haywire auditory nightmare. It had been a bit of a shock the first time I came. Vendors screamed at you as you passed, taking fruits in their hands and showing them to you, trying to get your attention as they yelled about the produce in season, the prices they offered, and the sales. Written competition was also pretty common. Handwritten signs were everywhere, displayed in the way best suited for the structure of each shop. Either hanged, mounted on floor stands, or made into a picket-sign and skewered in a mound of fruit, made to stand by the spaces and weight generously provided by a mound of, say, velvet cherries. They were pretty fun to read, too. “Cheaper and better than the guy next door” and “Best deal in town” being the mildest I had found, but a lot of them used a ripe choice of swear words and slander. If the vendors weren’t trying to catch your attention, they were normally yelling at their neighbor or at their help. Honestly, the first time Sarah brought me, I thought there was a riot. It took a couple minutes to understand that people just talked that way to each other here. The competition seemed fierce, but apparently, it was good—natured.

As I entered the market, the first thing I spotted were the mounds of blushing peaches on display in one of the fruit stands next to the wall. Different from most peaches I had tried before, these were bigger, a size that caused bit of a strain on my hand to hold one, uniform in color on the outside: a pale pink, the flesh inside a more vivid shade of pink that darkened as it neared the stone inside, which was tiny and smooth. It tasted just as a normal peach did, if that peach in question had been preserved in syrup, like the ones on the Street of Silver were. Their texture was smooth but firm, the feeling in your teeth and jaw very satisfactory as you bit into them. 

Next thing I saw were the coral apples. These were about half the size of a regular apple, but their skin was a pale orange color, they were almost completely white on the inside, had no seeds, and lacked a bit of the tartness of a regular apple. The first time I had one, I remember thinking that it must’ve been made out of cotton. As you chewed it, you could almost feel it melt in your mouth. Seeing them, I felt a smile creeping up on my face. Coral apple season appeared to have started a bit early, I remembered they usually came in early fall, instead of late summer. I kept looking, while the boy who manned the stand wasn’t calling clients out, as he was busy with some crates at the back. 

The dwarf watermelons were still in, which surprised me, I imagined the season would have ended by now. These watermelons could fit easily in the palm of your hand, and you could bite right through the skin, which was paper-thin and marbled in two tones of green, instead of striped. The seeds differed as well: Tiny enough that you could chew them (they provided a very nice crunch as you did), and the flesh of the fruit was never sandy in texture like some regular watermelons tended to have. It was just as juicy and a bit more tart, which made it nicer to my taste, because it balanced out the sweetness.

These eccentric fruits were the only things the land around this town couldn’t produce year-round. I could have a regular yellow peach any old time, and it would be just as good in spring or winter, but if I wanted a blushing peach, I had to wait until summer. 

This town produced all kinds of fruit. The farmers boasted that they could reap any fruit in the world from their land, and in any weather, too, but these curious delicacies that almost seemed perversions of nature were picky about their times. Sometimes the season started early or ended a little late, the trees fruiting at times that surprised the farmers, but when they started, they didn’t stop, and when they finished, that was that, until the next year. 

Most of the time, I didn’t mind it. In spring, I busied myself making salads and snacks with the peas of the enormous green beans called “snail beans”, which featured three peas the size of a strawberry on each pod, and the “plum greens”, which were lettuces, were ironically either purple, wine, or black, and had a faint taste of spirits and a silky mouthfeel

In fall, when the chill started, I liked to use the “syrup pumpkins” and “syrup potatoes” to make pies, as the flesh of these beauties got a treacly flavor when cooked and mashed, and held together beautifully as it baked, no need for sugar, but went a bit smokey when roasted, great for the contents of a bread casserole, and the cocktails made from the purple juice of the “royal cranberry” were exquisite. 

In winter, the most eccentric fruit options were out (if you didn’t like citrus, that is), but I could make some heartwarming stews with “pixie cabbages”, which were small enough to fit in your hand, but had pudgy, almost fleshy-thick leaves that tasted mild and savory, and the “arrow carrots” which came in in a variety of colors matching that of a rainbow were a bit bigger than my middle finger, and had a uniform, ample thickness all throughout (I didn’t get the name either). They were tender to cut and slightly sweet in taste. I juiced the red and purple ones to make broths and soups, which got tinged to an almost burgundy color, the yellow and orange ones I chopped and put in casseroles, soup or stew, I grated the green and black ones raw to put in potato or pasta salads, and the white ones I just ate as they were, when I was craving a snack. Even though I tried to distract myself from craving these things when they were not in season, most of these tasty treats were so good I couldn’t help but crave them all year long. I guess that’s why there were so many preserves for sale in the Street of Silver.

—Hey Alv!—I called in my loveliest tone to the boy at the back of the stand.
—Liah!—He responded as the empty crate he had been trying to pile came crashing down along with a couple of others. I pretended not to notice and smiled at him as he rushed over, looking embarrassed. Alvaro was a thin boy of around my age. 22 or 23. He was a bit taller than I was, with long arms, a short nose, long face, and the brown skin of someone who spent a lot of his time out on the fruit plantations.
—W—What brings you here today?—He stuttered.
—Oh, you know, just hunting down a couple of things for a nice dinner.—I purred without taking my eyes off him while I ran my fingers through one of the peaches.
—Well—He answered quickly.—The coral apple season just started, the peaches have been in for a while, but maybe you want something different?—He finished, tripping over all of his words, as if his courage would fail him if he didn’t speak fast enough.
—I’m thinking a blood orange and a blushing peach—I whispered as I placed a hand on my cheek and looked at him as if he were the coral apple of my eye. He blushed.
—Just the one orange and the one peach?—He asked, surprised.
—The one orange, yes—I began—and the one peach… or two. —I suggested with a little wink.
—Oh, Liah… —He mumbled while scratching at the back of his neck, abashed—You know ma won’t like that…—
—She doesn’t have to know.—I whispered again, at the same time as I tapped his nose lightly with my index finger.
—She counts all the fruit!—He exclaimed, apologetically.
—Oh, well.—I feigned resignation.—Just the one peach and the one orange, then.
—You want a bag?—He asked.
—Uh—huh—I nodded.
—Th—That’ll be six goldens—He stammered as if he were afraid of charging me. I tossed him the coin, he caught it and handed me my bag.—So… would you wanna go out sometime?
—Sure, Alv.—I giggled.—Some other time.—I punctuated with another wink, turned around, and walked away. I could hear him telling me to call him. I made a gesture with my hand so he knew I had heard. When I was out of his line of sight, I opened the bag he’d given me. Inside was a blood orange and two blushing peaches. I laughed to myself. Like shooting fish in a still-water barrel. I thought.

I liked to take my time in the market, so I nibbled on my peach as I walked around the stands, slowly. The flavor was so good I didn’t care that the juice was getting my hand all sticky.  

I made my way in between the yelling and the friendly calls, some of my friends offering me chunks of fruits on toothpicks. When I made my way over to Aislinn’s shop, I was content and had a handful of toothpicks.

Aislinn sold a variety of drinks: Powdered flowers and fruits for punch, teas of a many varieties, infusions made with dried chunks of fruits and herbs, a couple of flower liqueurs whose recipes her family guarded most jealously, and oils infused with flowers, herbs, alliums or spices. The variety of mixes so wide they were sought after for cooking, massages, putting in bathtubs, skincare or as perfumes. Most of these were packed in nice looking crystal bottles, one or two of the more expensive items in bottles that sparkled different colours, floral designs etched in the crystal.  

Aislinn was a fetching woman of around thirty, her heart-shaped face and pale ivory skin put me in mind of the people in the wealthier part of town. I could totally picture her growing up in a house with a ceiling made out of grass, fussing about the mud just like Sarah did. Her straight hair was the color of chocolate and was cut a bit short for my liking, the line always perfect, not a hair out of place, the hair on the sides reaching her jaw but growing shorter at the back. I always thought a different haircut would give her a less stern look about her, and compliment the natural rosy tinge on her cheeks, but that was probably not what she was going for. 

I rolled back my shoulders and put on my most winning smile, I slid my arm on top of her counter, right in front of a bunch of jars filled to the brim with tea mixes, and leaned my face on my fist. 

—Hello there, Aisly! — I called in a silky voice. — Is there any tea?
—Hello, Thalia.— She said, intertwining her hands in front of her, her eyes narrow as she turned to look at her overflowing tea-jars, clearly not amused at my little joke.
—I am in need of some tea today, do any of these have a discount for me?—I asked in a business-like tone.
—Any of these—she answered, raising her eyebrows.—have their prices listed on the jars.
—Oh, I was maybe thinking about getting something different—I tried.
—Something different?—She punctuated, amused.—Like paying full price upfront?

—Uhhh… No.—I replied while pointing my index finger at her—Like, how abouuut, you giving me a discount and me taking you out somewhere for coffee. Huh?—I wiggled my eyebrows.
—Oh, like I’m falling for that.—She retorted. The fruit boy hasn’t stopped giving you free stuff since you took him “out for coffee”.
—That was a party!—I blurted out, but stopped. I’m not winning this one today.—Give me a hundred grams of the clover black, please.
—That’ll be 60 goldens.—She said, while scooping the tea into a little cloth bag. I paid and grabbed it.
—Oh, uhm, let me know when the cherry blossom liqueur is in.—I mumbled, feeling defeated.
—I’ll let you know, along with the price.—She warned.

Shot down like a fish in a still—water barrel, I thought.

I was thinking about doing away with the rest of the turkey breast Miss Nelson was too good to eat, when a sign at my favorite butcher shop caught my eye: “Steak on sale, hurry up or I might eat it”. I approached, leaned over to see inside the display and looked at the steaks. They were a vivid red color, and the marbling was intricate: The fat generous, but dispersed in thin layers in a pattern that reminded me of roots.

The butcher, Harvey, made his way to me. He was a big man who towered over almost anyone in this town. I had never asked, but I thought him to be around 35 or 40. He was powerfully built, with strong arms and a broad back that made me think he carried the animals to the slaughterhouse himself, one by one on his own shoulders. His hair was a bit long, tied in a ponytail behind his head, with a grey hair here or there. I suspected him unable to tan, as he was always either tomato-red, faintly red, or somewhere in between. He had himself a pudgy belly that protruded from behind his grease-stained (and sometimes bloodstained) white apron.

—Liah, Liah, Liah—He reprimanded, shaking his head.—Does old Harv have to have a steak sale so that you’ll visit his store?—He finished. I laughed.
—Sorry, Harvey—I started.
—Call me Harv!—He interrupted, for what was probably the millionth time. It made me chuckle again. He had a little-boy-in-a-big-body kind of charm, but I always forgot to use his preferred nickname.
—Sorry, Harv—I started again.—The home asked me to take a bunch of turkey breast, and it has taken us a while to finish it all.
—Agh!—He exclaimed, feigning disgust—I hate what they do to the people in that place. No beef, no pork, no fat, no salt—he stopped and put a hand on his chest, pretending to be shocked—No bacon!—We both chuckled.
—So why are these steaks on sale?—I questioned.
—Well, most of my customers like it here because the pieces are big!—He explained.—But look at these! The calf was small, and he hurt his leg, on top of everything. We had to butcher him before his time.—He sighed.—If I don’t manage to sell them soon, I’ll cut them and toss them with the rest of the cubed meat. 

I looked down at the steaks once more. It was true. Two of them could’ve fitted in the palm of my hand. My mom and I didn’t eat much beef anymore. Maybe it would make for a nice surprise to leave her one in the fridge.

—Whatdya say, huh?—Asked Harv—If you take two, I’ll throw the third one for free!
—I think you got yourself a deal! — I agreed, excited.

A wheel of soft yellow cheese, a little clay pot of cultured butter (my mom called it “The expensive butter”), and some freshly baked bread later, I waddled my way across yet more free samples (it would’ve taken less time had I not accepted every single one), and was walking down the front steps to leave when I thought that, what with the steaks and all, a salad could be in order. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to go back inside. So I decided to pay a visit to the Vegetable and Nuts stand.

One of the coveted stands at the back belonged to a squat lady called Arabella, who had caramel skin, a broad frame, a round face with puffy bags under her eyes, white, even teeth, and long, black hair she liked to tie up in all sorts of buns. Today’s hairdo seemed to be a cross between a braid and a bun. I always tried to make a mental note to budget before visiting her.

—Hello, Liah, honey—She greeted me sweetly when I approached.—Have you tried the honey walnuts yet?
—N—Not today, Mrs. Bella—I said, feeling myself go rigid.
—Frank!!—She bellowed at her husband, who was at the back—Bring me the crate!!

Here we go… I thought, resigned. The crate was a wooden box with samples of what I imagined was every nut that had ever existed, divided neatly in rows and columns. I thought it would’ve made for a fantastic Tea-Box, but having filled it with nut samples made it this lady’s pride and joy.

—Here, honey, try the walnuts. And the cloud cashews.—She told me as she opened the crate and kept going after I tried each.
—Urr—I tried to say it between a mouthful.
—No, no—She replied.—Have some of everything before you decide. The habanero peanuts sell out in a flash, you wouldn’t wanna miss them!

I swallowed and laughed. This lady knew how to make you spend your goldens.—I’ll take two hundred grams of cashews, then.
—Two hundred grams of cashews and two hundred grams of walnuts?—She asked, slyly.

I tried to glare at her, but I’m guessing the effect was muddled by the giggling.

I spent a good ten minutes trying to haggle my way out of buying every nut this woman had in her crate. I’m guessing that was where she made the gold and silver, because no matter how much she insisted, it was kind of hard to make a person buy ten stalks of butter broccoli, especially if they didn’t need them. Nuts were easier. And pricier.

The way vegetables were displayed in this stand was incredible. Mrs Arabella had her produce arranged in a very peculiar way that made it look abundant and very attractive, but tidier than it did in other shops. She had made a slope out of wood and had nice-looking open-top boxes leaning against it. Inside, the vegetables were arranged like puzzles: the pieces looking up, down, right, left, diagonal, what have you. She always made sure to leave no blank spaces. That way, she didn’t limit herself to displaying only the biggest pieces. It was very convenient for occasions like this one, when I wanted to make a nice dinner for one, maybe two. 

When I had gotten everything I needed for my salad, plus a little extra I couldn’t worm my way out of, I paid and got ready to leave, but Mrs. Bella stopped me.

—Hey hon, why haven’t I seen you here with a boy before?—She asked. Because I wouldn’t meet with one here. I thought.
—I don’t know, I think I’ve got no time to be thinking about dating, y’know?—I answered.
—Oh, well, you know, my boy Jared seems to have a little crush on you, and we always welcome help at the shop…

I didn’t really know what to answer to this. Jared wasn’t really my type. We had talked at parties and at Harvest festivals, but he really hadn’t made much of an impression on me.—I’ll keep it in mind—I told her, trying to sound grateful.

With that,I had finished my shopping for the day.

---

It wasn’t dinner time yet, but my iced tea was cooling down, my salad ingredients were all cut and awaiting the dressing, the bread was in the turned-off oven, ready for when I might be, and the steaks were in the fridge being steaks. I always liked to do those last, as they were the easiest and fastest. I looked at the time, realized it was early for dinner, and went up to my room.

I sat on my bed and was about to fire up a videogame to pass the time when a cold feeling crept up my spine. I had almost managed to forget about it. I turned around and looked at my bedside table. On top of it, was the envelope containing my Magic Test results. I stood there and stared at it, blankly. It stared back. I sighed and grabbed the top of my head with both hands, exasperated. I paced the room. It was alright. I was ready to know. The result didn’t really matter because I had a perfectly good plan for my life. I did. After having visited the market and the Street of Silver a couple of times, I had seen and tasted the flower liqueurs whose exportation my mother had been hired to oversee. I thought I liked them, and perhaps, in the future, we could export my own together. It was a good plan. 

My mother had found the job at the old folks home for me before I got around to telling her I wanted one at the liqueur shops. To this day, I still hadn’t told her, but the idea kept brewing in my head. Pun intended. So it didn’t really matter whether I had magic or not. I wouldn’t become a sorceress or an alchemist even if I did have magic. I would have to move or travel to learn, mom would probably not come, and she would be left all alone. What would she do then? Anyway, it was way too much work. This way was better. With that conclusion out of the way, I took the envelope, opened the drawer at the bottom of the bedside table, and shoved it in there. I sighed and laid down on my bed.

I tried to think about something else. About my dinner, or work, or the market. I even thought I could call up Alv. But I just ended up laying there, looking at the little sunlit window I had hanged on the wall. The light inside it was very soft. It hardly illuminated stuff an arm’s length away. The thought made my eyes feel itchy and wet. 

I sat down, reached for the wooden box in the open drawer and took out the picture. I stared at the little family for a while. I thought about the times my father and I had spent together. When I was little, he taught me to always go to him when I woke up early in the mornings (which was almost every day), instead of going to my mother, who was normal, and so, asleep at 6 am. 

He would take me out for walks or to ride my bike, or sometimes down into his workshop, and I would look at him as he worked. He made all kinds of things. Little toy soldiers with lanterns that never went out, glass frames filled with moving water and sand in the bottom and a tiny toy boat floating, sailing the currents, sculptures of hands made of earth that would later sprout grass and flowers, he’d call them the hands of mother earth, globes of colorful light that would go on and off when touched and didn’t have to be plugged. 

Sometimes, when he was finishing something pretty, he would sit me on his lap so I could see exactly how he made things. One morning, he took some scraps of wood and nailed them together, in a circle top shape, with a cross in the middle. He sanded the edges and glued glass to the back. He cut another piece of glass in the same shape and framed that with a wooden structure too, no cross in the middle. He glued them both together, one on top of the other. I remember thinking it looked like a cross between a fish tank and a window. When he had finished that, he went to the door, opened it and stood outside for a little while. It was sunny already by then. He came back inside and sat me on his lap so I could see. All these years later, I could hear him in my head as he touched the window with his handful of light and pushed it inside the space he had created in the window, exhaling as he told it: “Still”. He then held it up so I could see the finished thing. It was so bright it dazzled me, but laughed and clapped nonetheless with my tiny hands. 

It had been a couple of years since I had spilled tears by thinking about my dad. Most of the time I tried to live my life as best I could. And, the thing is, most of the time, I succeeded. I got up early, showered, made my bed, ate breakfast, went to work, bought groceries, did my chores, met with friends, went to parties, played games. I was fine. Perfectly fine. But that hole in my heart had never filled back up again. When I was still and took a look at what was inside, I felt it. I felt a lump on my throat that I couldn’t get rid of. I felt empty and powerless. I felt like I had lost him all over again, the wish of hugging him and talking to him and hearing his voice and his laughter was all I could think about for a brief second. Then, I would compose myself. I would do as I always did: wipe off the tears, take a deep breath, wash my face, and powder the redness down if necessary, because it was fine, I was fine.

This time, though, I couldn’t. I looked at that little window with difficulty through very wet eyes, its light diminishing more and more with each passing year. It was about to go out for good. Just like he had. And the fact that I probably couldn’t do anything about it, was eating me alive. I didn’t need to learn those bad news.

Perhaps a good cry was exactly what I needed to pass the time, because, suddenly, I heard my mom walking inside the house.

—Thalia, honey! You home?—I heard her call.
—I—I’m here!—I stammered as I tried to wipe off the tears. I looked at the clock in my room. 7 pm. She’s home early. I went to the kitchen to greet her.
—You’re early!—I exclaimed, trying to sound better than I felt.
—Yeah!—She said, as she looked in the pantry for something. Today, she wore one of her many dress suits with stripes. Her pants tight on her slim legs, her charcoal-brown hair down. She had probably undone her work knot when she entered.—I was thinking that maybe I could make something nice for dinner if you were home.—She informed me.
—You don’t say…—I mumbled as she approached with a can of tomatoes in her hand. She took a glance and my face and searched me with her eyes.
—Did you cry, baby?—She asked, her eyebrows knitting together in a concerned expression.
—Yeah, a bit…—I answered without trying to hide my sadness anymore. I had a lot of things I didn’t tell my mother, but this was something we could both understand. I had caught her doing some crying of her own lots of times. We rarely talked about why we cried. Lately, I felt like she cried about my brother, more than she did about my father. She hugged me. We had an unspoken agreement. If I didn’t tell her what I had cried about, it had been about my dad. Or at least that’s what I thought she thought, because she never asked.

—Oh, Liah, baby.—She called in a sweet voice that made me feel she was doing her best to comfort me as she approached and hugged me.—What if we have something nice to eat tonight?
—I made something nice.—I replied, feeling a bit more enthusiasm run through me.—I have cheese-bread, and iced-tea, and salad, and there was a stake sale at the market…
—Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have!—My mom exclaimed, although I could see she liked the menu.—I don’t like you spending your money like that, baby. there’s food at home!—She finished, sounding seriously concerned for my finances. I laughed.
—Mom, I’m doing fine!—I said, chuckling. My work was, after all, full-time. Early as I clocked out, I did work eight hours, I didn’t even get much of a lunch break. And my mother knew that, too. Still, she liked to cover the costs of the food, the cleaning supplies, the water, the gas, the phone… I was lucky if she ever let me take her out for ice-cream. I sometimes tried to buy things and put them in the pantry without her noticing, but she always did, and would sneak money into my wallet when I slept. While this did leave me with a good amount of pocket money and savings, it made me feel a bit odd. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.

—Well, I’ll warm up some pasta.—She announced, when she felt me sufficiently comforted.
—Mom! Don’t!—I protested—I made enough food!
—I know, baby, but I wanna finish the pasta in the fridge before it goes bad.—She explained herself. I knew better than to argue. Try as we might, neither Wes, nor me, nor the two of us combined, could do enough before dinner time so that mom just arrived at the table and sat down. She always had to do something. Chop up fruit, make something to drink, reheat leftovers, whip up a quick dessert. She always found an excuse to keep herself occupied. When she was off work she would sweep, vacuum and mop the whole house. She dusted shelves, re-arranged the pantry, cleaned out the fridge, did laundry, straightened her closet… She was always fretting about something that apparently needed to get done. She also relentlessly complained about being tired and her shoulders aching and her head hurting, but would act borderline disgusted at the idea of spending a whole day resting. I had tried to help around more than I thought necessary, but figured it was no use.

We sat looking at a very nice dinner table. There was warm bread baked with cheese butter and fresh chives, a salad made of chopped spinach with some nuts, raspberries, mango, goat cheese, and honey-mustard dressing; iced black tea sweetened with blood orange syrup and chunks of blushing peach, the tomato pasta mom had made the night before, and the steaks, which I cooked in garlic butter and seasoned with a good sprinkle of pepper. 

I couldn’t help but think that my dad would’ve loved it. He was just like this town. He never did anything halfway. He laughed heartily at jokes he found funny, he worked like a mule when he did and rested comfortably when he didn’t, his workshop was full to burst with experiments, his fridge was stocked as if for the apocalypse, his pantry full of things we might someday perhaps need, and, most notably of all, he liked a banquet each time we sat at the table. 

He would chop pounds of fruit for breakfast while my mother made eggs, he would butter bread until it was more butter than bread, he’d juice so many oranges we had orange juice for breakfast, orangeade for lunch and orange tea for dinner. On Sundays, when I would pace restlessly all over the house at six am, he’d take me with him to a diner he used as a breakfast place, where the employees already knew him as “The guy who has dinner for breakfast”. He would order a menu very similar to this one: steaks, boiled potatoes (or baked, or mashed), steamed vegetables with cream cheese dressing, garlic bread, lemonade with chopped strawberries… I’d always be shy about it, but he knew I always wanted dessert, so instead of asking “Do you want dessert, Liah?”, he would say “What dessert are we getting today, babygirl?” Sometimes we would eat so much we’d skip Sunday’s lunch and dinner, instead opting for a light snack before sleep.

—You got mail.—My mother told me, interrupting my train of thought. Without looking up from her food, she handed me an envelope made out of thick brown parchment studded here or there with pressed flowers or leaves: Monastery paper. It was another letter for Wes.

Wes and I had corresponded ever since he arrived at the Monastery in Westwood. He had spent more than three years there, and I guessed he was ready to be ordained. People were welcome to spend time living there and learning the ways of the Monks. How long they were allowed to be there without being ordained varied. A lot of people without homes visited monasteries to have a warm bed and enough food for a while, but they eventually were asked to leave if they didn’t join as apprentices. I don’t know if there was a time limit for an apprentice to choose to be ordained, but Wes told me one of the Monks he knew had been an apprentice for ten years before he took the leap. Moreover, Wes’ three years didn’t really count as such. He had arrived at 19, but the youngest a person could be ordained was 21. Younger people were permitted to live as apprentices and learn about life in a Monastery, but they weren’t considered sensible enough to make the big decision until they were 21 or older.

—Mom—I called suddenly while looking at the envelope—When are we gonna go see Wes? Mom tensed up.
—If your brother wants to see us, he knows where we are.
—But… mom.—I tried to sound soothing.—There’s not even a room here for him to stay in.
—We can get him a room in town.—She said coldly—Or he can stay with one of the neighbors.
—That sounds harsh, mom.—I retorted, feeling my throat tighten.—I just wished we could make him feel supported.
—Well, I don’t support it.—She said, raising her voice—I don’t support your brother going to the mountains, abandoning his family when we needed him, to live like-like a brainwashed slave!

Frankly, I hadn’t expected anything different. Mom and I had had this conversation before. She was, at the same time, convinced that my brother couldn’t have possibly left of his own free will, and furious with him for having done so. The trip wasn’t a long one either. The Monastery was about an hour’s detour from the nearest city, which was two hours away by high speed train. Yet, my mother had never agreed to go.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to get up and raise my voice just like she had, to tell her that just because she had birthed him, Werner didn’t owe her his whole life, but I didn’t. I was sure absolutely nothing good would come of it. So I sighed.—Okay, mom—I said under my breath, and took my plates to the sink.

Chapter 3

The Harvest Festival was approaching, and the people in town knew it.

Usually, the people at the market were busy, restless, and above all, noisy. When a Harvest Festival approached, they were even more so.

Over the next few days, I heard the vendors talking about the dishes they would prepare as I walked around the shops. A couple of them could make do exclusively with what products they sold in their own shop, but most of the stores preferred to exchange products, recipes, and sometimes enlist the help of other shop’s manpower.

The shops that sold teas exchanged spices for fruits they used to make interesting drinks, the vegetable stands allied with the butcher shops to trade meat and recipes for roasts and stews, the bakeries traded stale bread for casseroles and in turn got nuts to cut into little chunks and bake inside their breads. The creameries were sought after by almost everybody, so the charcuterie platters they sold were a feast all on their own. 

This was also a sort of popularity contest: the richest dishes were always served by the shop owners liked best by other shop owners. Harvey’s charismatic personality always meant he had no problems getting everything he needed from anyone, and, as he was generous with his wife’s ample catalogue of recipes, nobody had a problem with being sought after by him. Aislinn, on the other hand, wasn’t known for her charm and had a lot of problems making nice with anyone. This would be a serious problem for her, but there was always a male owner of a store or two who was eager to help the damsel in distress. It also helped that her father was always offering her hand in marriage in return for help in the festivals, but, seeing as she was still single, I’m guessing it was a local joke. I couldn’t help but think that there was always a young lad willing to buy into it, though.

The Street of Silver was not nearly as noisy as the Market of Plenty was, but you could see the same exchanges going on in a quieter sort of buzzing. I walked down the street watching the employees of the stores run many more errands than they usually did. Young girls in pretty colored aprons from the tea-houses, boys in neat white button-ups from the wine shops, women in ruffled blouses from the flower liqueur stores, all of them with some urgent message to deliver, asking, perhaps, what it would take for the store across town to divulge how they made their royal cranberry-jam dressing last year.

Our money wasn’t silver, but the place was called The Street of Silver for a reason. An old guy in the home had told me the story in detail over a game of chess one morning. Simply put, even if our currency was called goldens, the bills and coins weren’t made of real gold, but were just gold-colored. The name “goldens” stuck because it was the priciest coin people used in the old days, made out of real gold, along with the other ones, which were silver and copper. 

During those times, with gold coins, you could buy horses, jewelry, fancy clothes or even houses. With Silver, you could buy nice produce, alcohol, good cheeses, bakery bread, or eat at a restaurant, among other nice, but not so costly things; So this street, which was famous for boasting stores that sold items such as a bottles of honeysuckle liqueur, lavender basil goat cheese or dried midnight tomato bread got named The Street of Silver.

The store owners here did not have to utilize every ounce of ingenuity they possessed to outline their properties. Each store was a building of its own. Most of them looked like little houses. They stood wall-to-wall, one right next to the other, and just like the farmhouses in front of the plantations, were all built in the same style but tried their darnest to look different from one another. 

All of them were narrow and rectangular, most of them boasted big windows in the front, behind which the employees would display the best products available. Some of them were made of brick or wood, but most were made of concrete and painted in different colors, normally the walls being a single solid color and the details another, but a few were marbled, striped, dotted, patterned or even had decorative paint splashes. Most of them were two stories high, and the owners would use the second floor for different purposes. Some of them lived there, others used it as a warehouse. Some of the stores had a staircase that led directly from the street into the second floor, so the space was rented by a different store owner. The ones with balconies were decorated with intricate ironwork, some of it, thematically appropriate for the store (A wine shop’s decorated with grape shapes, for example), the balconies themselves usually served as places where you could sit to have a cup of liqueur, tea, or even a charcuterie board sold in those shops. It had a beautiful charm to it. The front of the shops and the rail guards on the balconies were decorated with flowers of all colors, the front doors displaying little fountains, vines around the door frame, and baskets filled with pretty plastic fruit. It was the perfect place for a date or a shopping trip where you could get a nice birthday present. 

I wondered what I wanted to bring to the Harvest Festival. The shops in town always made amazing dishes to sell. You bought whatever you wanted and took it to the banquet tables. If you preferred to spend a little less, you could bring something homemade. Anything was welcome. The young people usually took booze or fruit baskets, but the old ladies impressed everybody with casseroles and stews whose recipes they weren’t willing to divulge to anybody. 

I’d been taking stuff ever since my first Festival, and no matter what, it was generally well received. The Harvest Festivals were held in town every time the season changed. I knew there were comercial reasons for it, but to me it served as a chance to eat a lot, be with my friends and get excited about the new things I’d get to buy in the market for the next several weeks. I’d been craving potatoes lately, so maybe I would make something potato-related. Sarah and I always got together the day of the festival and made a dish each. At this point in time, I had tried my hand at roasts, casseroles, stir-fries, fried food, dips, salads, desserts, cakes, bread and Lord knows how many drinks; but I only ever took my best tried and tasted dishes to the Harvest Festivals. However, that never stopped me from buying one or two extra dishes at the stands and eating anything and everything I was offered.

The employees in the mall did not seem as preoccupied with the Harvest Festival. The only thing that bothered them was putting up sale signs in the clothing stores to entice the people who were looking for something nice to wear for the event. I could lie and tell you I thought the scheme was dumb… Had it not worked on me. I completely fell for it when I walked around the shops after visiting the post office to send Wes my letter. It made me start feeling that maybe I could use a little something new.

I wondered what I was gonna wear to the festival. It was normal for people to wear nice clothes for the banquet (in the case of some farm boys, this meant their one clean shirt). Next to Sarah, it was kinda hard for me to feel particularly girly. She spent the gold and silver in make-up, blouses, dresses, shorts, purses, shoes, you name it. Not only that, but after she was done buying, she started enhancing. The cuffs in her pants had ruffles, her shoes had ribbons instead of shoelaces, her purses had pretty flowers that she made herself out of fabric. She could take the most unremarkable blouse and embroider beautiful designs on it until it was something unique and striking. She could pull off any kind of look and make it memorable. She made a point to always look her best for the situation at hand, and her clothes were always incredibly well kept.

More than just having a nice fashion sense, Sarah was cultivating a business of her own. She was gaining a bit of a reputation among the women in the suburbs, who loved to give her the clothes they bought at the mall and let her come up with the best way to make the piece stand out. Some women asked for specific things they had come up with themselves, but, in my opinion, Sarah’s judgement was always better. 

As these orders were done in her free time instead of at the tailor shop (Sarah could make a better profit if she worked on them without the knowledge of the owner of the shop; and her customers were assured that it was gonna be Sarah herself making the improvements), she already had a cue for three weeks, she had so much extra work piled up. It was always bonkers when the Festivals came close. She would stop taking orders two days before, though, so she could work on her own outfit, of course. She had even gifted me some things. When my birthday approached, we would go to the mall and look at clothes. She would then come back on her own, get me something she had seen me looking at, modify it, and wrap it up. So far I had a kitchen apron embroidered with designs of birds and blushing peaches, and a long sleeved white shirt with pink ruffles on the cuffs and a modification on the neckline that made it scrunge in a pretty way (I, for the life of me, couldn’t tell you what that was called). All that said, even if I felt out-girled by Sarah’s promising career in fashion, I did like to look nice when I wasn’t working. So I waded my way through clothing stores on my own now that I wanted something new (it always took forever when I went with Sarah, and some days I just didn’t have that kind of time).

I knew Sarah would’ve asked to come with me to the mall, as she had her day off today, but I knew it would take a while with her here, and I was sure she was busy with her side business. If I managed to get her away from all the extra work she had, I knew I wouldn’t hear the end of her complaining later. Besides, she was coming over later. I had gotten one of those videogames she was so interested in, now, and we were gonna play it. If she didn’t care to work while I was busy, though, perhaps she’d spend some time with that new boyfriend of hers.

I had met several of Sarah’s boyfriends. Almost all of them had never graduated from the “New Boyfriend” phase. I chuckled thinking that she seemed to be working her way through half the town. According to her, she wasn’t the problem, it was every single boy that had ever set foot in front of her. Nobody was good enough for her. She was very impatient with men. She didn’t forgive them for mistakes easily, sometimes at all, and she was fiercely intolerant of inefficiency. No boy she had met could keep up with her. I had never thought of this as a particularly bad thing. Sarah wasn’t easily entertained, but she could be thoughtful, sweet, funny, and had a knack for understanding people. At least that’s how I felt.

I thought about these things while shopping. When I shopped, I’d look and look through all the places I liked and then come back to try on the one or two things I had liked best. If they didn’t fit or looked as nice as I had thought they would, I tried on something else. Thankfully, my guesses were fine most of the time, so I didn’t take too long to get myself something nice when I thought I could use it.

Today, I was checking out dresses, but I was unsure. The nights were still somewhat warm, but lately a chilly wind would make an appearance to remind us that the end of Summer was imminent. I thought about this and went to look for a nice sweater. 

After wading my way through rows and rows of sundresses on sale, their flower patterns displayed front and center as if the store itself was begging me to buy them, I found a small stock of sweaters in a corner. A black one caught my attention right away. It was pretty, knitted in stretchy yarn, but short (it would probably only cover above my belly button), and fitted, instead of loose and long, like most knitted sweaters I had seen before. I took it to the dressing rooms and tried it on. I looked in the mirror and examined my appearance. 

I was on the taller side of the people in this town. Sarah was 1.55 m, around the same height as the rest of the women in her family. I was maybe 1.71 m, I had long, slim legs that felt a bit too slim in skinny jeans, narrow hips, small waist and was uh… a big-ish cup size. I liked my figure, and it wasn’t much of a problem to find clothes that fitted me. My skin was a rosy-beige tone that would tan unevenly when I stood under the sun for too long, and my hair color was called “golden-blond”, which sounded dumb to me because it neither looked golden nor blond. It was sort of a light brown that would look lighter if the light hit it right, wavy and cut a little above my elbows. The sweater seemed to be a good match for me. This taken into consideration, I went out, paid for it, and looked for a skirt. I found an interesting one two shops later. It was pleated, shorter than I was used to, and patterned grey tartan. I had never liked tartan much, but the combination could work. Maybe. After confirming so in the dressing room, I bought the thing and finally allowed myself to go home.

On my way back, I decided to visit the Field of Lilies again. I hadn’t gone there since I came to check on our Lily (meaning Sarah’s and mine). I figured by now it would be fully grown and indistinguishable from the rest, but if I really cared to identify it, perhaps I could look for the mark I had made with my shoe that time. Maybe it was still there.

I was exiting the alley next to the market and nearing the fence when something made me stop in my tracks completely. Sarah’s boyfriend Jacob (or was it James? It was hard to keep track sometimes, but I definitely knew him by sight). He was there, in the Field of Lilies, alone.

He was one of the better-looking guys our age in town. He was taller than me, his skin was a caramel color that looked like it didn’t resent the sun as much as mine did, and tanned evenly, giving him what I could only describe as a healthy glow. His arms weren’t big and muscly, like some of the men in the farms had, they were slim, but the muscles in them were starting to acquire definition. His hair was thin, a nice sandy color that he wore medium-long. Not cropped close to his skull, but it didn’t go below his ears, either. His back was beginning to broaden. He was wearing a shirt that was ripped in the lower half, and faded jeans that were overlong, worn-down and muddy. I’d seen the guy around before, bringing produce with his father to one of the stands in the market. His father, on the other hand, looked just like whatshisface, but having been strengthened by years of working the fields. His arms were muscular and big, and his back wide, given him a powerful, intimidating look.

I could’ve gone and said hi, but people only went to the Field of Lilies for two reasons: to make promises and to check on the lilies. So I took a couple steps back and hid behind a trashcan in the alley. He couldn’t see me, but I could see him.

He was standing in the middle of the place, looking at the ground around him. He bent down and took something from the ground. When he stood up, he had a wilted, brown, unmistakably dead lily in his hand. He took it in both hands and proceeded to crumble the remains. Whatever was left of the flower took to the breeze. The dust of a promise that had been broken. 

Two-timing son of a bitch. Sarah was gonna hear about this. Jacob/James looked around to make sure he hadn’t  been spotted, and jumped the fence from the back. He went in the direction of the Street of Silver. Good. After a few minutes had passed and I was sure he wasn’t coming back, I went inside the field myself. I found the groove I had made next to the spot where Sarah and I had made our promise. Our lily was there, and, as I suspected, had grown enough to look just the same as every other one around it. I looked around for clues, but gave up pretty quickly. It wasn’t like I could tell which promise the jackass had broken just by looking at the lilies that still stood there, so I decided to go.

As soon as I arrived at my house, I decided to go check if Sarah was home. I walked in front of the two houses that separated her home and mine, walked up the front steps and stood at the door. When I was wiping my shoes on the rug at the entrance, I glanced down and saw something that caught my attention: Mud. The rug had a couple mud stains that had begun to dry already. I glanced down and saw traces of mud all over the sidewalk leading to Sarah’s house. Ohhhh boy…I thought.

I rang the doorbell and waited. No response. I rang again. Nothing. I knocked on the door and yelled.—Sarah! You home —Nope. She didn’t seem to be. Well, we did have a date later. I’ll just wait ‘till then.

Just as I was opening my own front door, I heard my name being called in an imperative tone.

—Liah!—Sarah called as she approached from the gate of the neighborhood. She was carrying a paper bag in her hands. 

—Hey you!—I greeted her, feeling relieved.

She approached to hug me, put her arms around me, and held me tight. I heard her exhaling in an exasperated way. I could feel myself going into calming—mode. I patted her back. There, there. Then, she let go and took a bottle out of the brown bag she was carrying.—We’re drinking.—She stated firmly.—Don’t you dare say no.

I laughed.
—Like I had a choice, anyway.—I retorted, rolling my eyes.

We went inside my house. As soon as I closed the door, Sarah went off like a firecracker.

—Guess what Jeremy did!—She asked. Oh, snap! His name was Jeremy! Right. How did I even get to James? That wasn’t even close. I opened my mouth to try and guess, but I needn’t —He comes to my house after days of not having seen me, and he brings a videogame!
—He didn’t—I said, trying my best to sound very sympathetic.
—He did!— She exclaimed, irritated.—He brings the thing in, talking about this game he’s gonna show me, doesn’t even listen when I try to tell him I don’t feel like it today and then!—She paused to draw breath.—He leaves mud all over my living room!
—Ohhh—Was all I could say as comprehension dawned on me.

—I spent all of yesterday trying to clean the damn floor and this asshole can’t even wipe his shoes at the door!

As we walked to my bedroom, opened the bottle and sat at my bed, I was treated to a lecture about all the ways Jeremy was such an unsatisfactory human. Meanwhile, I busied myself drinking the blushing peach liqueur straight from the bottle.
—So we go up to my room, we go to my TV to plug the stupid game in, he takes a look at my closet and goes “Do you really need that much clothes?”—She imitated, using a tone that made Jeremy sound only half as stupid as he actually was.—Agh! I hate these people! I’m done with farm boys! I’m done!
—Plus—I added, just for the pleasure of fanning the flames.—He broke your promise!

Sarah stopped suddenly and looked at me.—What promise?—She wondered, completely disconcerted.

—Oh, I saw him plucking a dead Lily from the field. I thought maybe you guys had made a promise or something.
—We hadn’t. Good riddance.—She stated proudly.

—You know what they say. “Plucking flowers, always liar”—I chanted in an old lady voice. The old ladies on the home had those sayings out the wazoo.
—So—Sarah finished her rant.—I broke up with him and told him to shove his games and his mud up his—
—I got it!—I interrupted, laughing. My laughter seemed to break her wrath, because suddenly, we were both laughing.
—Man, I don’t wanna think about videogames ever again.—She said, sounding tired, when we had stopped laughing.—I’m so done with farmboys. I’m so done with this place.
—Yeah—I answered in a sarcastic tone—I do believe you’ve finished off all the farmboys here.
—Oh my God, shut up.—She smiled as she playfully hit my arm.—What about you? Are you finding your type someday soon?

—I… uhmm.—I stammered. The question had caught me off guard.—I don’t know. Maybe Aslinn at the market?—I joked. Sarah snorted
—That was fun the first few times, but give it up already! You’ve got a better chance of getting with me, dude.—I giggled at this. I knew that she could tell I was just evading the question. Luckily, she didn’t press on it. Unluckily, she went on through a different route.

—You know, I don’t think you’re gonna find “your type” here.—She continued, her tone different now. Softer. Like she was trying not to offend me.—I don’t think you’re finding anything here.

—What do you mean?—I asked—I wanna start the liqueur thing!
—Dude, if you really wanted to start, you would have already. I considered this for a while.
—I mean. Yeah. But the people at the old folks home need my help and all.— I uttered, finally.

Sarah rubbed her temple and inhaled deeply, clearly thinking of how to make me understand her point.—Look—She started in a patient voice I could have sworn she didn’t have in her.—When I first met you, I thought you were kind of a snob, you know?

—What? How did I come off as snobbish?—I asked, astounded.
—That’s the thing! You didn’t.—She told me as she ran one of her hands through my hair—But I thought you must be. Moving to this little town, daughter of a sorcerer, hot-shot mom and all… I thought you thought that this town was too small for you.
—Pshh, right.— I mumbled, ashamed.

—That’s just it, though.—She kept going—I’ve been thinking that this place really is too small for you. Whatever you want to do with your life, you shouldn’t. Not here.
—I, uh—I tried, and paused.—I wanted to take an agriculture class tomorrow…—Sarah didn’t answer. She just looked at me with her eyebrows slightly raised, her mouth to one side. I guess that was all the answer I needed.

—Look. I’ve been thinking about something for some time now. I’ve been saving some money—I chortled at this, amazed 

—Saved? When? You’re always buying shit!—I retorted. Sarah laughed.
—I don’t spend all of my money!—Now it was my turn to look at her without answering.—Okay, fine. My salary I spend on clothes.—She said in an apologetic tone—But. The money I get on the side, I’ve been keeping. And I was thinking. I have some savings. So do you. So I thought maybe we could go somewhere.
—Like a vacation?—I answered, perplexed.
—No, you idiot!—She replied with a smirk as she punched my arm again.—I mean move somewhere. Somewhere out of here. I’m doing it soon. Perhaps as soon as two weeks from now. And I’d like you to come with me.

This left me speechless. I had made friends in the course of these three years here. Most of them had left for the surrounding cities. I always knew that Sarah was gonna leave, but I tried not to think about it much. Well, I was thinking about it now. I thought about Wes. 

I remembered what it had been like after my brother left. After he fled, would be a better way to describe it. He left a simple letter explaining that he was leaving for a monastery. My mother had been furious. She had gone out to the street to search for him, she called on every single one of his friends. She went to the places where he used to spend his free time. She spent a lot more time than she should have trying to find him in places he clearly wasn’t in. After that, she had sat by the front window. Waiting for him to come back. But he didn’t. And I could feel, I could see that everyday she got angrier about it. 

After a couple of weeks, she searched for a new job elsewhere. She packed all our stuff and moved us to Everlasting Bounty. Werner’s stuff she left behind. I had no idea what had happened to it. She found me packing some of his things to take with me, but she flat-out refused to let me. By that point, he had already sent the first letter, written on that plant-studded parchment. She acted as if it didn’t exist. At least she didn’t destroy it, so I took it for myself. I answered it, telling him about what mom had done. Asking him to address the next letters to me, instead of to us. I told him we were moving. I couldn’t even tell him where we were going. I had had no say in the matter. My mother had refused to visit Wes. She hadn’t listened to my pleas to stay where we were, nor had she let me take any of Werner’s stuff or get a say in the house we were moving into. The only thing I did manage to do was to find Wes’ rubber ball. I remembered him, looking at it when we were children. Trying to predict how the water inside it would move next. I managed to sneak it in my pocket, and had managed to keep it hidden from my mother all this time. Like so much else.

Sarah was staring at me. She had remained quiet, not pushing me, letting me mull things over, but her gaze now prompted me to speak up.—I don’t know, man. My mom needs me here.—

—What for?—She questioned, irked at me.—Does she need the extra income? Isn’t she working most of the time?—

—What would she do without me?—I asked, feeling tears flood my eyes.

—Pfff, I don’t know! Go to the movies, have dinner, go to bars, get a boyfriend.—She pointed.—She would move on, Thalia.

I exhaled, feeling the hole inside my chest growing larger.—I don’t know if she can do that.

—Why?

—Because she hasn’t moved on from Wes! She never forgave him.—I finished as my voice broke. Sarah paused for a second, then pressed on 

—Isn’t that her problem? Neither Wes nor you are responsible for how she feels.

—I just don’t want her to hate me!—I stammered, almost screaming.

—Staying here just for her sake is gonna make you hate her.—She pointed out.—So, you won’t come? — She asked after a while, giving the question a strange air of finality. I could see she felt sadder than she was irritated. I stayed silent for a long time. 

—I’ll… think about it. 

With that, Sarah stood up from my bed, stretched, said goodbye, and went home, and I was left to make dinner by myself.

Chapter 4

Earth Alchemy might have been magic, but it was boring. 

I arrived at the lecture the next day, still feeling a little bummed out about my talk with Sarah. Perhaps the incident didn’t help much, but I imagined I wouldn’t have found the class enjoyable even if I had been in the jolliest of moods.

The classroom wasn’t big. There were, at most, 20 chairs, and the walls were painted a pale yellow color. The most interesting thing about it were the tiny fruits painted on the tops. The blackboard occupied all of the wall’s width, and I imagined professor Fischer filled it with unintelligible lingo in a normal class. 

He was a man in his late 50s. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short and combed back, and he had a full salt and pepper beard to match it, also cropped short and groomed well. He wore thick-framed square glasses, and the only motion he used while going on and on about the minerals on the town’s earth and how some spells could be used to enhance it, was to push them back to the right place. The rest of the time, he talked with his hands in his pockets, laid-back, without reading off of any notes or books.

I knew this had been a mistake after the first line of the lecture. “What is soil?” He had asked us, and the perplexed audience (who seemed to be mostly comprised of men his age, a few women, inexplicably, a small boy), had stayed silent. “Well”—He went on—“Soil is the topmost layer of the earth, and typically consists of organic remains…” As the lecture went on, I stole glances every now and again at the other people there. 

The couple of other young people who had attended were sound asleep, some of the men took notes and the rest of them tried their hardest to remain awake, the only one who seemed to be truly interested was the kid. A woman in her sixties knitted a blanket as she listened. I should’ve thought about that. It doesn’t seem very respectful, though…I thought. That’s why I only brought my rubber ball with the whirlpools inside. I had taken to carrying it around with me. I knew the magic in it was fading. If it was gonna stop completely, I wanted to look at it as much as I could before it did.

I had always thought of alchemy as the boring one of the advanced magics. It worked, not with water, but with the elements composing it. Not with wind, but with whatever floated around making the air, not with earth, but with minerals. I was sure it was all so-very fascinating for some people, but I had struggled against even learning the periodic table in highschool, so I doubted the theory of earth alchemy, or any other theory taught in this class, would enter my thick skull willingly.

I thought of leaving the class before it ended, but no one else did. I was hoping someone would. After two hours of hearing about the composition of rocks, the types of spells used in agriculture, what nutrients were good for fruits and Mother Nature knows what else, everyone started to head out. I felt so dazed I didn’t really notice the lecture was over until the person next to me bumped my chair on his way out. I tried not to look like I was surprised, but I failed. I could tell because professor Fischer chuckled a bit when he saw the way I was blinking. By that point, we were the only ones left in the room.

—Did you like the class, young lady?—He asked me, a grin on his face. I realized I had never seen him smile before. It didn’t change him much, but the gesture was welcome nonetheless.

—Uhh, yeah, I…—I tried to lie—I, uh…

—Don’t worry. The theory of Alchemy is not for everybody, not even most magicians.—He explained, sympathetic.—Are you interested in agriculture?

The question surprised me. Even though I had just sat through two hours of an agriculture lesson, he had felt the need to ask. I thought about telling him all my aspirations to some day invent a new flower liqueur, and how much I liked the produce here, but something stopped me. 

—No. I don’t think I am, professor.—

—That’s ok. Thank you for staying through the whole thing.—He smiled.—The board thought a free class would help get more people to enroll.—
—Will it?—I asked in my best-mannered tone. 

—I don’t think so. Alchemy is not easy to wrap your head around, and earth alchemy is especially tedious.—

—So why did you choose it?—I blurted out, before I could stop myself.

To my surprise, he laughed an honest laugh. It was a nice sound, it made him feel younger, somehow. Like he wasn’t this dull and composed all the time. So I felt safe enough to elaborate.—You had already awakened, why not become a sorcerer or a different kind of alchemist?

—I’m not well suited for Sorcery. It requires a different mind.—

—You mean you don’t feel smart enough?—I questioned, throwing manners out the window.

—No, it means it requires a different way of thinking.—He cleared.—It’s not easy to explain to non-magicians.—I felt snubbed by this.

—How do you know I’m not a magician?
—Magicians can tell, young lady.
—Oh…—Was the only thing I managed to answer, disappointed.

—Hey.— He exclaimed as he put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly fashion.—Magic isn’t the only path in life. 

—I know.—I sighed.—It’s just… I have no idea what to do with my life—I confessed.—Like, I think I have a decent plan, but I haven’t done anything to make it happen for a long time.—I didn’t know why I was telling him these things. I had never spoken those fears out loud. Professor Fischer looked at me with sad eyes, but a smile on his face: An endearing expression that made me think he understood what I was going through.

—Let me tell you a story.—He began.—You asked why I chose Earth Alchemy instead of another kind of magic. The truth is, I did choose other kinds of magic. I tried just about everything people told me were good options. I got burned a lot before learning the basic fire spells, I never got the hang of holding light in place, much less manipulating it, wind is invisible, so that was even more difficult. Still, people told me those things were what I should be learning. Everyone seemed to think they knew better than me. And the general wisdom is that Earth is boring and Alchemy is even more so. But Earth was the one I kept going back to. It was what I took best to, what came easiest, so I leaned into it. And when I learned enough to start the Sorcerer-level spells, I didn’t. By that point I already knew what I was good at. So I went to Lahsek to get a degree in Alchemy, and I haven’t looked back. What I mean is, some of the time, you won’t know what you want. But most of the time, you know what you don’t, and that’s already a big step.

I reflected on this. I remembered all the things my dad had made. He used to work with all kinds of things, but the ones he did the most, and the ones that sold best were always the ones that were made with Light. I recalled that my mother, his friends, his clients, everybody used to tell him he could easily make bigger projects, works of art that would be known all over the world, become an architect, or a sculptor, but that wasn’t like him. He was not some sort of tortured-soul artist, or a genius with big-scale ideas, or a person who seeked fame at all. He was generous, sweet, and playful, prone to joking around, almost childlike. I even remember he used to scare Wes and me with his light tricks. When we were someplace dark, he’d let light out of his eyes and mouth, and pull faces. At first it was scary, but after a while it would make us giggle.

Suddenly, I thought of something.

—Professor!—I blurted out much louder than I needed to.

—Yes?—He asked, surprised. 

—Could you do something with this?—I asked, as I took out my rubber ball and showed it to him. He took it in his hand and gave it a good look.
—This is elaborate for a toy.—He noted.—But yes, I think I can keep up with a Water Spell of this level. I’m not much of a Sorcerer of any material. I’ll have to pierce it, though.
—I can close it later.—I answered quickly, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind.

He took a pen from his pocket and made a hole in the rubber with it. Then he squeezed it until a drop of the water came out. He touched the water with his finger and stopped squeezing the ball. The drop of water got sucked back inside. He then closed his eyes, inhaled, and exhaled as he said “turn”. The whirlpools, currents and splashing inside the ball accelerated, looking like an abundant waterfall lived inside it, just like it used to look like when it was first made. I couldn’t help it, then. I started clapping like I did when I was a little girl. I laughed and felt my face redden.

—Sorry.—I mumbled.—Sorry. I thought it was gonna go out forever.—Professor Fischer smiled tenderly this time. 

—You like Water-Magic?—He asked.

—I like all magic. Everyone likes magic.

—You’d be surprised.—He replied in a somber tone. I couldn’t think what to answer, so I just let the silence stretch on so he’d go on with whatever he was about to say. He turned to his desk, where a half-empty water bottle was. He lifted it.—I said I wasn’t much of a sorcerer, but I did manage to understand the basics of this one Spell.—

Again he closed his eyes while inhaling. This time, when he exhaled, he didn’t say anything, but as he opened his eyes, I saw what was going on. Inside of the water, foggy, but clear enough, I could see something green appearing at the bottom. A stem. It grew taller. Then it grew a white bulb on top. The bulb started to open its petals as the stem kept growing. A couple of leaves appeared on it, too. It was a White Lily. Like the kind in the field I liked so much. I was transfixed. Then I managed to look at professor Fischer’s face. He seemed proud. 

—I—Is that a real flower?—I stammered.

—No, it isn’t.—He said with a little chortle.—It’s an illusion. A Water Illusion. One of the most basic Sorcerer-level water spells. 

—It’s beautiful.

—I’m glad you like it, young lady.—I felt my eyes watering. My cup is full to the brim these days.

I thanked professor Fischer for the lesson, the advice, the help and the demonstration, and exited the classroom.

---

On the days that followed, Sarah and I seemed to be completely out of tune with each other. When I called, she wasn’t home, when she wanted to hang out, they had asked me to come in on one of my days off, if I went to look for her, she was out. I tried to shake the feeling that she was avoiding me, or that we were somehow avoiding each other, but it was hard to manage with all the evidence in favor of that somber prospect. Which is why, taking matters into my own hands, I went to the Tailor Shop at the time I knew she normally went out, and waited outside for an hour until she was done with some extra time she had apparently asked for. 

Knowing that she was asking for extra hours even though she was leaving soon made me think that she was avoiding me on purpose, but I had some time to think things through as I waited for her. She was going to a city. I hadn’t even asked where she planned to go, where she intended to live, if she had a job waiting for her when she arrived or not. She probably didn’t. It was probably best for her to be safe. With this in mind, I felt calmer as I waited. If Sarah was gonna leave, I didn’t wanna lose her friendship even before she went away. I wanted her to at least feel that she had my support.

—You can’t avoid me forever, darling.—I called in a silky tone when she finally walked out the shop at about 10 pm. She rolled her eyes and smiled, which confirmed to me that she wasn’t trying to avoid me, but she caught my meaning and liked the joke anyway.
—You know what? I think you owe me a girl’s night out.—She decided with a smirk.

The District of Lights was aptly named. Not the “District” part, because it was only a couple blocks wide, but Lights it had. The street housed the bulk of this town’s restaurants, coffee shops, bars, and even a few little nightclubs, and the one movie theater where you had the chance of choosing between a whole three movies. All of them, decorated with light of some kind. The more expensive places had decorations made from real sunlight, distinguishable because they didn’t have any wires, the rest of them made do with strings of little bulbs that lined their ceilings and balconies, big bulbs that illuminated the restaurants, and colored signs spelling words that had little or nothing to do with the places. 

Everything here had to be lit up in some capacity. Even the dim, dark places like the bars and clubs had color lights that didn’t really illuminate anything, but they drove the point home. Normally, Sarah and I hit the night clubs, but when the time came to choose, we reached the unspoken decision of attending a bar.

We walked the length of the street. It was a nice place. The road was wide, and it wasn’t paved with regular asphalt, but lined with a modern.looking stone mosaic alternating between dark and light grey. On both sides of it were the establishments that occupied their own space, plus the space of the sidewalk. To manage that, they erected  a plastic curtain between one another that served the dual purpose of separating each of the businesses and granting more sitting space to their patrons at the expense of the walking space of pedestrians, but the look was nice. It gave off an air of privacy while keeping out the late summer breeze. 

We walked through some restaurants packed with happy families out for dinner, noisy bars with loud music and louder customers doing shots or drinking way more than they should, nightclubs filled with that fake smog used for purposes unknown to me, but we were searching for a quieter place. At the end of the street, we spotted an almost empty bar. As we entered through the plastic curtains, I saw a table at the place next door (which was a little fuller). Four boys were sitting on it, I recognized Jeremy, Sarah’s newest ex, and Jared, one of the sons of Mrs. Arabella in the market, the one who, supposedly, had a crush on me. 

I could see Jeremy looking at us as we entered the place next door and walked towards the bar. Thankfully, Sarah hadn’t noticed. Her eyes seemed to be fixed on a couple, who were the only other customers of the place. We were far enough, the bar being at the very back, and the boy’s table being at the very front of the place next door, but I could’ve sworn I heard a single word, spoken with venom: “Cunt”.

We sat at the bar, near the lonely couple, who were making out shamelessly in the far end of the place, sitting at a table right next to the bar. They each had a glass full of some blue cocktail with fruit chunks.—I think I’ll pass on whatever those two are having.—Sarah joked, and we laughed.—I’m going to the bathroom, you’re buying the first round.
—Sure—I feigned resignation. I ordered a couple of Dwarf Watermelon Martinis and looked at the bathroom door Sarah was walking towards. As soon as it closed behind her, I walked to the wall of the bar, the one next to the place where Jeremy and co. were sitting. I inched my way along it, until I could hear what they were saying. They sounded like they had been drinking for a fair bit. Their words dragged and one of them kept burping faintly.

—… is a fucking cunt.—This was Jeremy.
—Dude, chill, they’re gonna kick us out.—Chided a voice I couldn’t quite place. I had seen all of these boys in town. From my brief glimpse, I recognized one who lived in the suburbs. He was rosy skinned, blond, and judging by the uneven patch of hair on his cheeks and chin, he clearly couldn’t grow a beard. That didn’t stop him from trying, though.
—Sorry, man, I’m just mad.—Answered Jeremy.
—I don’t get it, I thought things with her weren’t that serious.—Pondered a third voice, one I placed on a guy who’s back had been towards me. Somehow, I pictured him failing to grow a mustache.
 —They weren’t!—Retorted peach fuzz.—He already had a side girl!
— She wasn’t a side girl.—Jeremy began.—More like a back up girl, which was obviously a good idea!—I bet it was, jackass.
 —Didn’t you promise her you were gonna break up with Sarah anyway?—Asked Jared. He was a skinny dude, his skin the same caramel color of his mother’s, and he was shorter than me by about 10 centimeters.
—I did, in the field.—Answered Jeremy—And guess what? The fucking lily withered. Like, what the fuck? Why would the stupid flower wilt?—So you were getting rid of some evidence.
—Because you didn’t break up with her.—Pointed Jared.—She broke up with you, man.
—Fuck off and fuck your flowers.—Jeremy retorted brilliantly.

—Yeah , that’s what you wanna tell women.—Mustache agreed, sarcastically.—They like to hear that.
—I’m not about to be schooled by a virgin.—Retorted Jeremy. This one has comebacks for days, I thought while feeling my eyes roll. Apparently he did, because the remark was followed by rockus laughter.
—See, that’s what I don’t get.—Questioned Mustache.—You got with one girl, bang! Another one, bang! I’d be on top of the world.—I heard Jeremy chuckle a bit. I could picture him shrugging and smiling a cocky smile.
—I wouldn’t count Sarah, bro. Too easy.—Spoke Peach Fuzz.  
—Yeah, she’s been with half the town.—proclaimed the alleged virgin—I bet even I could take a crack at that.—You wish, ass.

—Agh, don’t bother, dude. It’s too much trouble.—Counseled Jeremy.—Still feeling possessive, idiot?
—Come on dude, losing your virginity to a slut will stick with you.—Peach Fuzz graced them with his wisdom.
—Maybe.—Started mustache.—But I rather have It too easy than too hard. Right, Jared?

—What’s that supposed to mean?—Answered Jared, sounding offended.
—Your crush on Thalia?—Asked Mustache.—Everyone in the market knows about that one.—Maybe I should have been more worried about Mrs. Arabella’s insight. 

—It’s not a crush, man.—Answered Jared. I hope that’s true, for your sake.—I just think she looks good, and she kisses pretty good.—We have never even been close to kissing, you fucking dick. I could feel the heat of anger making my face grow hot.
—Fuck off, you haven’t.—Peach Fuzz had trouble believing this.
—Sure man.—Jared said, arrogantly.—I haven’t.—You haven’t, idiot. You should be so lucky.
—Even if you had.—Peachy went on.—that’s as far as you’re getting. Believe me, she’s a tease.—A what?!
—Yeah, she’ll just have you spending silvers on her, but she won’t give it up.—Pointed mustache. Why is this suddenly about me?!

—Or giving her fruit if your name is Alv.—Said peach fuzz. Alv has a way better chance than you do, Peachy McPeach-face.

—Hey, he’s a pretty okay dude.—Jared defended him.
—Doesn’t mean he’s not a sucker.—I was losing track at this point.
—Can we stop talking about girls? Let’s get some more shots.
—Yeah, let’s celebrate our boy’s freedom.—This had to be mustache, it was so lame.
—Yeah!—Cheered Jeremy.—Let’s celebrate my freedom.—So lame.
—Don’t you have a date tomorrow?—Asked Jared.

I had heard enough at this point. Our martinis were already at the bar, and I could see the bartender, a young woman, looking at me with mild interest. I walked over carefully, sat at the bar and paid for the drinks. Sarah was taking a long time in there.

I thought about what I had heard. Sarah dating every boy under the sun was one of those things that were only funny when I said them. And it wasn’t like I didn’t know about my reputation in the market for having a tendency to score free stuff. It was just that I had never heard it spoken that way: despective, venomous, demeaning. I had never heard a false rumour about me, either. Was this a regular thing? Did my friends, my coworkers, the people at the Market talk that way behind my back all the time? Had these rumors reached my mother’s ears? Were more boys saying these kinds of things about me? Were they inventing things about Sarah, too? Was I overreacting to this drunken gossip? I honestly didn’t know what to make of it. Did I really care that much about it? Should I care that much about it? I mean, perhaps it wasn’t a big deal. These were just drunk idiots, at the end of the day.

When Sarah finally came out of the bathroom and sat on the chair beside me, she took me by surprise, I was so deep in thought.

—What ‘s wrong —She asked after having taken a look at my face. I didn’t say anything, but I put my arms around her and held her tight. As tradition dictated, she didn’t say anything. She just held me.
—I’m… I’m sorry.—I managed. I was sorry Sarah was going away. I was sorry I was planning on staying. I was sorry that she had chosen such a shitty guy for a boyfriend. I was sorry boys talked that way about her. About us. I was sorry about many things, but I preferred not to say. She kept hugging me in silence, so I think she understood some of them nonetheless. 

---

Waking up the next day was harder than it usually was, having stayed up later than I normally did and having had a “more than necessary” amount of cocktails, but I managed. I knew they’d probably have a hard time getting someone to cover my shift if I suddenly called in sick, so I dragged myself out of bed and after making myself as presentable as I could in my current state, I went, unshowered and hungover, to work.

I arrived and started the usual breakfast preparations when a girl I had never seen before came in. She seemed to be two or three years older than me, she had ivory skin that looked like she rarely saw sunlight, and black hair tied in a knot at the back of her head. I realized she resembled my boss, Mrs Caron Frances, who was the woman who ran the Old Folks Home. As the girl entered, we stared at each other for a second, not saying anything. Then, Mrs Frances came through the kitchen door. —Thalia, thank the Lord, there you are. We tried to reach you last night, but you weren’t picking up!—She exclaimed.
—Sorry, I was out.—I apologized.—Everything ok?
—Why don’t we talk in my office?—Said Mrs Frances, looking uncomfortable. She turned without waiting for my answer and walked towards her office, which was at the back. We entered the little place after wading around some of the residents who rose early. Then, Mrs Frances closed the door and gestured me towards a chair in front of her tiny desk. She sat behind it and sighed.

—Listen, Thalia.—She started, sounding remorseful.—We’re gonna have to suspend you for a while.
—What?—I exclaimed. This had come completely out of nowhere.—What did I do?
—You see… Miss Nelson complained about you. She says she thinks you’ve been stealing from her.
—What? Why does she think that? Do you believe her?—I looked at Mrs Frances, pleading. This had to be a bad joke.
—No, Thalia, we don’t believe her.—She answered, looking ashamed.—But the policy here is to care for the comfort of the residents. It needs to look like we’re doing something.
—But who’s gonna cover my shift?—I asked. 

—You already met my daughter at the kitchen.—She answered. She can do it. She was the one who cooked before you arrived.—I was struck dumb by this, so I didn’t answer, and Mrs Frances took it as her cue to keep going.—Look, Liah, it’ll only be for a week, two weeks, tops. Paid leave, just while Miss Nelson forgets about it.—I could only gasp, exasperated. That wretched woman complained about everyone and everything all the time. I was irritating myself further by thinking about the satisfied expression she would wear on her plastered face when she found out I was not working here anymore. “For a while”.

And so, they paid me the next week in advance and I was asked to go home. It wasn’t even 7 am and I was already out, standing on the sidewalk, watching the sunrise. 

I wondered what I’d do with the rest of my week. The Harvest Festival was tomorrow, so maybe I could use this time to make something elaborate in advance. Something Miss Nelson would hate. I didn’t really feel like cooking anything, though. I did feel like stuffing my face. I asked myself what stores in the Street of Silver were open at this hour. Probably a grand total of none. I felt like walking around. I weighed my options. Both the suburbs and the Farmhouses would be swarmed with families taking their kids to school. Some were already walking by me, staring curiously at the girl standing still in the street, or simply ignoring me, the kids blabbering away about whatever kids talked about, the parents listening patiently.

I started walking and cut across alleys in the District of Lights, soon enough I had arrived at town’s square. The preparations for the Harvest Festival had already started. The construction of the stands that the food vendors would occupy was already in motion. People hung rows of little light bulbs similar to the decorations in the District of Lights over telephone poles, paper in fall colors with fruit and vegetable shapes artistically cut in it, glued and hanged to ropes above everyone’s heads, and somebody was polishing the statue on the center of the square.

I walked across town square and arrived at the Market. The produce stands were only beginning to open, and, although I thought it possible to go in and have a chat with someone, the conversation I had heard yesterday still weighed heavy on my mind, so I avoided the Market altogether and walked through the alley on the side of it instead.

The Field of Lilies’ gate was always open unless some event was going on there. It wasn’t much of a hassle to get permission from the town’s administration to have a ceremony there, it was commonplace. In this land’s soil, flowers like the White Lilies grew and bloomed quickly for all kinds of reasons, but people liked to come to this field specifically to make promises. Any kind of promise in this town was best made while standing on soil, otherwise, it was considered meaningless. The most official kind of promises were made on the Field of Lilies: Proposals, weddings, business deals, you name it. If hands were shaken, rings interchanged or even pinkies intertwined, people thought it best to do so here.

That said, when I saw a group of young women whose appearance, demeanor and Sarah-modified clothes placed them firmly as belonging to the suburbs, here, I assumed one of them was gonna get married soon. They were combing the length of the field, occasionally bending down and plucking a dead lily or two. I imagined the bride-to-be didn’t want broken promises to show in her pictures. I remembered the position of the spot where Sarah and I had made our promise, and I remembered no dead Lilies around, which was why, when one of the women bent down and pucked a dead flower from around the area, I had to double-check. I pretended I was just walking by, but I looked hard for the flower I knew was ours. I spotted the remains of the groove I marked to find the flower, but I couldn’t. Huh.

Just so it wouldn’t appear like I was spying on these women, I kept walking and arrived at the Street of Silver, which had exactly the amount of open shops as I suspected: zero. I found a bench in front of one of the shops and sat.

I thought for a while and remembered something: When I first arrived here, I was astounded to learn that promises in this soil turned into flowers as fast as they did. Everywhere else I had been before, they could take anywhere from days to weeks. But if you made a promise here in the morning, come the evening the flower had sprouted already. That revelation turned this place into something different from what I was used to. It made it look like it was more difficult to lie here, and for a while, I was happy to believe so. Maybe a lot of women would clean the dead flowers from the field on their wedding days. Maybe people from outside town would think it was no big deal, but there was a reason those women were up and doing it so early. In Everlasting Bounty, that’s one thing that made people believe you untrustworthy. Those women were helping more than one person get away with breaking their promises, inadvertently maybe, but they were. They probably thought they had a good reason, or that it was no big deal, or maybe that’s what they told themselves. The fact remained: they were doing it in secret, and having witnessed it made me feel odd. A  part of me thought it was just a superficial thing, hardly worth my brain power. The other part was almost offended by it. I also wondered about that dead flower I imagined to be Sarah’s promise. Why was it dead? What had the promise even been? It felt like we had made it forever ago. I imagined the promise wasn’t even that important if I couldn’t remember what it was, but the fact that it had been broken hurt nonetheless.

I had patched things with Sarah yesterday, so the broken promise shouldn’t affect me this much, still, I found myself grabbing my face, groaning, wiggling my feet madly, all at the same time, in an effort to keep calm.

—Old vulture! That’s why not even your children like you!—I screamed, unable to keep it in. I had arrived at the thing that was really bothering me. I wasn’t mad at Sarah. Thinking carefully about it, I didn’t think I was mad at Miss Nelson, either. If anything, I wasn’t mad. I was frustrated. Miss Nelson had accused me of something, and the higher-ups at the place I had worked for these past three years had just dispatched me, without even telling me about it first. I didn’t answer their calls, but they had a replacement for me, just lined up like that. I had thought my work there mattered. I had given it my all. I had deluded myself into thinking I was important in this place, for these people, but apparently I wasn’t. Whiny Miss Nelson had been more important to them that I was. I wasn’t really needed here. My standing wasn’t what I had thought. When I arrived at that conclusion, I could already feel the tears running down my cheeks.

Chapter 5

The Day of the Harvest Festival had finally arrived. 

Lots of shops in town closed early so people could prepare for it, so here we were, at my house, with our dishes prepared, both of us dressed, ready to go. We were just waiting for Sarah to finish getting ready.

I sat on my bed while she looked in the mirror and re-did her makeup for the third time. This was very much like her. She was picky about how she did things: she was very detail oriented. Not only that, but she was practically made of strong will and determination to get what she wanted. This had always astounded me. No matter the problem at hand, she found a way to circumvent it. She could jump to the front of lines at clubs, get discounts that were no longer available at stores, acquire tickets for sold-out movies, anything I thought impossible, she managed to turn around. Which is why I hadn’t told her about being laid off temporarily. I knew she would walk onto the home and do her best to turn Miss Nelson into a reasonable person and rub everything I’d done these past years for Mrs Frances. Or worse, yet, she would tell me how to do so and then expect me to manage, just like she would. That was the thing about Sarah. She expected everyone to be as efficient as she was. This was a noble cause, perhaps, but I thought it perfectly impossible. It had been made clear to me on a number of occasions that that kind of achievement required a very specific character. And, while I could be perfectly charming when I wanted to, I couldn’t be as convincing or head-strong as Sarah was when she needed something.

I kept on looking at her as she examined various angles of her face, body, and outfit. Sarah had some of the curves I lacked. Her tiny waist went well with her ample hips, and her legs were thick and well-toned. Her skin was a caramel tone that was abundant in town: The tone of the people whose skin didn’t resent the sun, instead it would shine golden with light and suffer fewer sunburns. Her hair was full, straight and dark brown, just above her waist. Tonight she was gonna be wearing a moss-green jumpsuit she had gotten at the mall. When she had gotten it, it was plain, the sleeves were jewel-cut, and the pant legs reached down to her ankles. Now, the legs reached her mid-thigh, the sleeves were off-shoulder, and it had a belt made out of the fabric that had been cut away. The neckline had been embroidered with flourishes in gold thread, and to finish the design off, Sarah had bought herself a pair of brown mid-calf boots that she re-laced in gold shoelaces, and a gold-colored handbag that hung from one of her shoulders in a fine chain.

In my opinion, everything was perfectly fine, but Sarah insisted on getting her makeup just right. The thing was, Sarah’s eye color was tricky. In normal circumstances, her eyes looked brown. However, if you looked at her up close, it became clear that her eyes weren’t brown at all. They were a tone called “forest-green”. Sarah didn’t mind that nobody noticed the green color on a daily basis, but she liked to bring that color out for special occasions, which she did by wearing tones of green, grey, yellow, and gold. The choice of color for the jumpsuit had been spot-on in my opinion, it brought out the green amazingly, but Sarah was having second thoughts about her gold eye makeup. She couldn’t choose between gold eyeshadow and black eyeliner or a more discrete eye shadow and gold eyeliner. 

I knew my input wouldn’t have any weight on the making of this important decision, so I just waited while I thought about my own presentation. I was wearing my new black, tight, short knitted sweater, the new tartan grey skirt, black tights, and ankle black boots with short, square heels. The boots had been a gift from my mom. She said the heels were flattering for me. I didn’t really get it, but I went with it. The heels in these boots were almost nonexistent. I knew I would look quite tall if I wore tall heels, so I didn’t own a single pair, but sometimes, when I was bored during those long stretches of time while I waited for Sarah at the mall, I looked at high heel shoes. Some of them were really pretty. I could’ve sworn no pair of flat shoes was as pretty as the plainest high heels. 

I looked at the door of my room, which was open. In it, my mother had hung a dress for me: grey, down to my mid-calf, with buttons on the front and short sleeves. I guessed it was nice, but I liked my choice of outfit better, even if I knew she’d probably fret about the length of my skirt.

Finally, Sarah opted for the gold eyeliner, and I took one last look at the mirror myself. I thought my choice of outfit was really cute, and Sarah looked as amazing and well put-together as always. We grabbed our dishes and headed for Town’s Square. 

When we arrived, people had already begun to gather at the tables placed in the center of the square, around the statue of the woman with her fruit basket. These tables were rectangular, wooden, and long, they could easily seat twenty people. Lined around the perimeter of the square were the stands where the vendors sold the dishes they had been so obsessed with getting right these past few days. I spotted Harvey and her wife from one of the butcher’s shop at a stand, a collection of girls I knew worked at a Tea House in the Street of Silver at another, Mrs Arabella at yet another stand, and a lot more of the people I had been acquainted with in my tenure here. 

The stands were metallic and wide. Each of them was a different size but made the same way: four walls and a roof made out of aluminum, with an opening at the front that worked as a table to sell dishes to customers. Each of the stores that occupied one decorated it with pictures according to what they sold. The liquor store stands that sold bottles and prepared drinks by the glass or the pitcher had decorated with images of grapes and vineyards (a great shorthand for “we sell wine here”), plus images of other fruits, lots of flowers, and colorful pictures of pretty glasses of layered drinks decorated with cherries and other tiny fruits; The butcher shops displayed pictures of roast chickens, ham, turkey legs or stews; The shops that sold pickles and other preserves showed pictures of salad dressings, dips, sandwiches, and little snacks skewered on toothpicks; the bakeries exhibited in their pictures huge loaves of bread studded with fruits, vegetables, preserves or cheese, plus pretty charcuterie boards that held everything from cheese, ham, bacon, olives, fruit chunks, jam, and dips to more unusual things like cubed pound cake, chocolate—covered strawberries, honey—filled lemon grapes, and candied blushing peaches. Aside from the pictures used to decorate the stands, each one of them displayed their menu and prices. Most places sold three or four well—prepared dishes that had been tried and tested or at least vouched for, but some adventurous shop owners would make huge menus in order to compete with the better concoctions of their neighbors. This decision would normally come back later to bite them because the logistics would be terribly disorganized as the event went on. This would all be sold in either individual portions or group portions. For the start of the event, when everyone gathered at the tables, people would buy for a group, so that nobody opposed them when they sat at a table, but later, if they felt like trying something or other, people would go around the stands and buy for one.

We adopted our usual strategy: split up and walk around some tables to see who we’d like to sit with (sometimes because they invited us over, sometimes because they’d brought or bought nice dishes), and then we’d walk all over the stands, reading the menus and making mental notes about the food we wanted to try. At the end we’d reconvene, exchange notes, and decide on a table.

As I walked, I couldn’t help but notice the usual way the people sat. The people that worked at the market sat with their employees and their families, sometimes with other store owners; the people from the suburbs sat together, too, although it was not odd to see someone from the market sitting together with a suburban family, or some Street of Silver store owner’s daughter sitting with her friends from school: a mish—mash between guys and girls whose parents work at the mall, the Street of Silver, the District of Lights, the suburban area, the Market and the farms. Sometimes, young people sat with young people, but sometimes you’d see a collective of old ladies together and learned that the town’s book club decided to attend the festival as a group. What was always a staple were some tables where the people in charge of the external commerce of the town sat with the city—dwellers that had come to the festival to learn about the kind of products they could start selling in their supermarkets, restaurants, and hotels.

I spotted my mother at such a table, wearing one of her dress suits, and figured she must have come here straight from work. She found my eyes and her expression soured immediately. I knew what it meant: there was something about the way I was dressed that she disapproved of. I turned and pretended I wasn’t looking at her, but I knew I’d heard about it later. She was sitting right next to a man I’ve seen at every Harvest Festival I’ve attended, whose name I remembered to be Hiroshi something. I had trouble remembering his last name, it was uncommon around here, I had never heard it before meeting him. He was a wide man, whose ample belly was putting his coat and dress shirt’s buttons under considerable strain. His fawn—skinned face was starting to bead with sweat, but his narrow eyes were happy, he was laughing rambunctiously, a tankard in his hand, marveling at the banquet already laid before him.

I took a while to stare at the food. The salespeople always went above and beyond to impress their buyers. I noticed they didn’t mind feeding their potential customers fruit that was gonna go out of season, perhaps because seasons were nice enough to come once a year, so the investors had more than one thing to look forward to. The table was full of plates of food that featured the summer’s best crops: There were big pieces of beef roasted in garlic butter accompanied by big chunks of king peppers, plates of fire—roasted and buttered cayenne corn, bowls of salads filled with slices of squash cucumber that swam in a watery dressing studded with bits of black pepper, a different salad, this one made out of fruits: blushing peaches, sliced alongside the whole family of “Regal berries”, which were bigger, juicier, slightly tarter versions of normal strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries, all together served with honey and cherry lime juice. For the fall dishes, I saw a bowl of an orange—colored puree that must have been syrup potato or carrot puree, plates of chicken sauteed with smoke mushrooms and lavender basil, ice radishes roasted with pork chops, more salads still, composed of toy—spinach and toy—arugula and a creamy dressing of some kind, everything intertwined with pitchers of Sunset—mango liqueur based drinks and different fruit wines to wash it all down.

While most of the investors and potential customers that came to the Festival were normally serious and had a business—first attitude, there were others like jolly Mr. Hiroshi who would invite you over and happily share a portion of the banquet that had been served to impress him. Everyone in town had something to do with men like him, he was happy to come every three months and spend a few days in town before and after the Festival. He would visit a variety of shops and buy an abundance of products, which he claimed to be gifts for his family, friends, customers, or simply proclaim them “charming”, “impressive”, “eccentric”, or whatever word he cared to choose to let you know he was satisfied with his purchase. Sometimes, he even brought his family: wife and three kids who were just as enthusiastic as he was about their little getaways into this town. I always made a point to try to sit at the table where he was at some point in the night.

I passed more tables, none yet as impressive as the ones laid out by the salespeople, but I knew that, as more people arrived, bought food and gathered, soon every table would be crunching under the weight of this town’s abundance. When I was finished looking around the tables, I went over to the stand closest to me. Delighted, I noticed the bakery at the mall had gotten a stand this season. It was a tiny one, offering only three desserts, but all of them looked mouthwatering: Their menu read “Syrup Pumpkin—Dark Chocolate pie”, which looked like a normal pumpkin pie except that it was swirled with streaks of dark chocolate, I imagined it would balance out the sweetness of the pumpkin. Next up, there were Royal Cranberry Parfaits, a royal cranberry version of the strawberry parfaits I liked so much, served in even prettier glasses. I came to the conclusion that I needed one of those. Last up were pitchers of Sun Pomegranate and Cherry Lime Punch, whose intense red color intermixed with orange made it look like the pitches were filled with flames.

I passed a Market Bakery’s stand, which sold its usual stunning charcuterie boards. I could see mounds of balls made of soft cheeses mixed with nuts, spicy cocktail—sausages, and pickled vegetables, along with slices of crusty breads, and spreads of sundried midnight tomato and olive oil. The stands that sold drinks had found very interesting ways of layering the red and yellow juices of the sunset mangoes with the intense purple of the royal cranberries, and gave them nice touches of green using herbs like mint, rosemary and either regular basil or lavender basil, which had huge leaves that were green at the bottom and lilac at the top, twice as aromatic as everyday basil, and with the faint taste of, well, lavender. These shops had also prepared bottles and pitchers of different wines: Blushing Peach, Royal Cranberry, Regal Berries, and Velvet Cherry. This last one was a beautiful thing. The liquid was a deep red color that exhibited various shades and a pearly sheen when turned or churned. It was almost too pretty to drink. Almost.

For the side dishes, I found plates of potatoes baked in stock, which were creamy on the inside but had a crunchy exterior; skewers of roasted vegetables like peppers, mushrooms and squash; salads with cucumbers, blue cheese and walnuts, even syrup potatoes roasted plainly with olive oil and sea salt. The main dishes were impressive as always. Most of them were classics: Big roasts of beef and vegetables, roast chickens or turkeys with caramelized onions, and plates of various colors of pasta in creamy cheese sauces, but there were always a couple of oddballs. I saw Harvey advertising his savory pies enthusiastically, which, far from being made with the traditional fillings of ground meats, vegetables, nuts or raisins, were nonplussing pastries filled with already prepared dishes. The slices featured peppers stuffed with cheese, roasted potatoes, whole chicken parts, sauced pastas, and Lord knows what else. I could see that Harvey’s wife, Myriam, was sporting a perpetually red face as she reluctantly supported her husband in this endeavor. To my surprise, these strange creations seemed to be selling well among the young men in the village. Perhaps it took longer for men to develop good taste… or perhaps the wretched—looking things were good. I decided I didn’t wanna find out.

The stands that specialized in flower liqueurs never failed to disappoint. Aislinn’s stand was beautifully decorated with real climbing plants that had purple and pink flowers shaped like bells. She had prepared bottles of all shapes and sizes for the occasion. There were tiny bottles of hibiscus vodka, which was a bright pink in color and had aided in the making of Sarah’s reputation more than once. The tall bottles of pink carnation liqueur had real flowers preserved inside, looking as if they were alive and fine in a field somewhere, sunken peaceful at the bottom of the sweet drink. The lavender gin was an adorable lilac tone, that clued you in completely in the wrong direction to where it’s potency was concerned, and the little purple petals that swam harmoniously around the alcohol didn’t help either. My favorites were the pretty round bottles of honeysuckle liqueur that were hand painted with pictures of honeysuckle, hummingbirds and bees. On top of the beautiful bottles of flower—studded bottles, each one of these stands also sold pitchers of iced teas and cocktails by the glass. The cherry lemondrops with blushing peach vodka were calling me. Perhaps I would do better to wait until I was no longer on an empty stomach.

Sarah and I reunited and started weighing our options.

— I’m not sitting anywhere near Jeremy. — Declared Sarah.

— Agreed. Maybe let’s not hang out with people from the Market this time. — I said.

— I guess we could go with my friends from the Tailor Shop. — Sarah said, sounding unconvinced.

— We could, I mean, if you wanna hang with them for the last time. — I answered. We stood in silence for a couple of seconds. — Nah. — We said in unison.
— I saw one of those tables full of randos, what about that? — Asked Sarah.
— You know what, I think that’s just what I want. — I declared. — But we need to go with Mr. Hiroshi later.

— Oh, obviously. — She said, smirking. We knew the guy was nice enough to young women without being a creep.

We arrived at the table Sarah had mentioned and spoke to it at large.

— Do you have space for a plate of salt potatoes?—I asked, holding my tray up. Everyone smiled but no one answered. The dishes everyone had brought were still wrapped or covered. That confirmed to me that these people didn’t know each other. An old lady who was sitting nearest to where we stood turned around and answered, smiling.—The more, the merrier girls.—So we sat down beside her.

I looked at this collection of people. Across the table from us there was another pair of women, one of them in her thirties, the other one was difficult to say, owing to the fact that her eyes were almost to the ground. The view this position offered was the roots of her ginger hair, and the abundant freckles on the skin of her forehead. The woman beside her had dark, short hair, a hoop piercing in her nose, and a bunch of earrings in one of her ears. She smiled in a friendly way, though she seemed quiet. 

Next to her, a couple in their fifties or so. The woman was skinny, and the hollows in her cheeks contrasted with the healthy look of her skin. Her blond hair was straight, and cut just below her shoulders. She was accompanied by a stout man whose pink scalp I could see showing through his thin hair. Sarah had taught me just enough about clothes to know that theirs were made out of materials that were uncommon here. Those two were tourists without a doubt. 

As for the rest of the people at the table, the old lady was a wisp of a woman, shorter than Sarah by about ten centimeters, her beautiful head of abundant hair completely white, most of it loose, but two thin braids intertwined at the back of her head, making it look as if she wore a tiara of spun silver. She was accompanied by two boys, probably her grandsons. They seemed to be in their tweens, both had jet black hair to contrast with their grandma’s, and aside from their different heights and an obvious age difference of about two or three years, both of them looked almost identical, down to the red spots on their cheeks. I could see we were an unlikely collection of people, but I knew that, when everybody started eating or bringing in more dishes, conversation would flow naturally.

Sarah and I unwravelled our trays of food. I wasn’t feeling much in the mood for something elaborate, so I went for something safe instead: Salt potatoes. These were the tiny version of regular potatoes, and the trick that made them so good was boiling them whole in water that had a ridiculous amount of salt in it. When they were drained and dried, their skins took a white dusty white texture. They were buttery-soft on the inside, but only the outside was salty. I brought them along a mix of melted butter, garlic, pepper and chives, and a bunch of toothpicks.

—My name is Thalia, but you can call me Liah. I brought salt potatoes.—I said as I laid my tray in the center of the table.  As soon as I put them there, and led the way in eating one of them after dipping it in butter, everybody else followed, and conversation started as everyone uncovered the food they had brought.

—I’m Sarah. I brought glazed syrup pupkin.—She said as she uncovered the plate filled with chunks of cooked pumpkin covered in a glossy dark sauce.
—I’m Alex—exclaimed the woman across from us, the one with the short black hair. — This is a savory pie my nana used to make.—And Leslie bought this loaf of bread and some tomato spread.
The red headed woman, whose name was apparently Leslie, barely looked up as she took out a beautiful loaf of bread that was cut in even, slim slices, and was only holding its loaf shape because of the basket it came in.
—We brought sliced fruit and cheese.—Said the older of the two boys. They revealed two platters filled with cherries, apples, pears and peaches, plus different kinds of cheese and crackers.
— They’re from granny’s garden! — said the younger of the boys.
— Even the cheese? — Said the burly man, good naturedly. Everybody laughed, even Leslie.
— These are my grandsons, Eric and Ethan. — Said the old woman. — And my name is Ethel. — What was it with the alliteration in this family? — I brought a cherry pie, from the cherries in my garden. — She smiled and showed us a beautiful laced pie filled with a bright red puree.
— I’m Mark, nice to meet you all. — Said the guy. — This is my wife, Olivia.
— Pleasure. — Said Olivia, smiling awkwardly. — So, tell me something, were we supposed to bring something home made? — She went on, looking nervous. — We’re on vacation here, so…
— Oh, don’t worry about it. — Said Alex. — Just as long as you bring something, you’ll be welcome at any table!
— Oly was worried — Began Mark. — That we came here unprepared, and all. I say to her, I say: “dear, why do you think they sell all that food? For the poor chaps like me who can’t cook! — He finished and laughed.
— We bought these lovely wines! — Said Olivia in a louder voice as she took two bottles of Velvet Cherry wine from her purse. — And one of these, just in case. — She gestured to a pitcher of sunset mango juice. Ethan and Eric seemed happy. Their grandma probably didn’t let them drink wine just yet.
— She’s probably worried that old Mark here’s gonna overdo it on the wine. — Mark said, chuckling. — But I’m more worried about all the food, look at these! — He gestured at the stands. — There’s so many things! They’ll have to roll me out of here!

Conversation after that was easy. Olivia and Mark told us about their life in the far—away city they lived in, Mark kept going to nearby stands to bring more food. I even got to have a closer look at a slice of Harvey’s everything pie. Leslie was quiet, but Alex seemed to talk enough for both of them, telling us stories and turning to Leslie every now and again, perhaps to see if she was having fun. I couldn’t tell. Ethan, who was the youngest of the boys, was very talkative too, happy to tell Olivia and Mark about all the nice food in other Harvest Festivals and all about hisdaily life. Olivia and Alex seemed interested in hearing about Sarah’s work, and Mrs. Ethel kept asking me about the perks of living at the Old Folks Home.

Everything was going smoothly, at least for me, until we spotted a guy walking near our table. He was holding a glass of some sort of sangria in his hand, looking around. He looked no older than 25, his skin was a similar color to mine, but was peeling in various places, unevenly tanned, like he insisted on being out in the sun in spite of the damage. His hair was long, braided in dreadlocks that looked badly cared for and stuck out every which way. His clothes seemed to fit him poorly. His pants were very loose and held by a belt made out of a braided thin rope, and he was wearing an open button up shirt, and a soiled undershirt beneath it. He was carrying a big, heavy-looking, frayed backpack.

—Young man — Called Mrs. Ethel. — Why don’t you come sit with us for a while?

Mrs. Ethel and her grandsons looked at the guy with excitement on their faces, Alex, with mild interest. I was probably the only one who noticed Sarah’s dislike of this ungroomed stranger. Not even his sharp features and high cheekbones were winning any favors with her. I could see her nose twitching, like she could smell him from afar.
— Me? — He asked, gesturing at himself with his free hand. — Ok! Thanks, Nan. My name is Drake. I bought this flower—liquor thingy. — He said as he sat between Mrs Ethel’s grandson and Olivia, and took a half—empty bottle out of his pack. — Sorry it’s half drunk. I was kinda thirsty.
— That doesn’t look like more than enough for you. — Said Sarah, not bothering to hide her contempt for this guy. The local custom was to bring at least enough food or drink for yourself and someone else. Not doing so was considered rude.
— Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. — Said Mrs Ethel. — Young man, are you an adventurer?
— Guilty as charged, Nan! — Drake answered, smiling. — Cool, huh?

Everyone’s attention suddenly turned to him. It was no wonder, though. In this day and age, you didn’t see real adventurers very often. In the old days, before magic schools were wide—spread, Magic—wielders who couldn’t afford education would travel the roads visiting cities, towns, taverns, monasteries, anywhere where they could meet more Magic—wielders and exchange knowledge to deepen their understanding and expand their power. This practice was still done to this day, but “Adventurer” had become more of an umbrella—term people used for travellers, either Magicians or normal backpackers. If this guy claimed to be an adventurer, I could see why they were letting him sit at the table without any fuzz.

— Does that mean you can do magic? — Asked Ethan.
— Sure do, bucko! — Next thing, he blew, but instead of the little trickle of wind a normal person triggered when they blew, we felt a light breeze that hit everybody’s faces at the table and roused the paper napkins a bit. The table started applauding, fascinated by the sudden display of magic. The loudest among us being Ethan and Eric. In contrast, Sarah and I limited ourselves to clapping politely. I could see that we were thinking the same thing. His breath stinks. After the clapping died down, he made a little bow.
— You haven’t seen the half of it. — He began. — But I’m saving the best for the vendors. I already got a half—price on this here bottle! — I noticed the ruffled looking pink carnations on the bottom of the container, it was one of Aislinn’s liqueurs. Aislinn, why him?
— So how is it? — Sarah asked.

— Meh, I’ve had better. — He said as he scratched his head.
— Better flower liqueur? — Asked Alex, looking perplexed. This particular liqueur was a local specialty. It only came from this town.

— Nah, better booze. I’ve had almost half of this thing and I still can’t catch a buzz. — He retorted, sounding seriously annoyed.

— Well… — I started, doing my best to hide my irritation. — You’re not supposed to chug them down in one gulp to get drunk, you’re supposed to taste them.

— Psh, I’ve already tasted it. It tastes sweet. 

— I know what you mean. — Agreed Mark. — Sweet alcohol isn’t meant for men. — I noticed his wife elbowing him gently, a stern expression on her face.

Things muted down after that. Conversation continued like normal, with Drake talking to the kids about his adventures, but little by little, he became louder and more boisterous, I could see him slowly finishing the bottle he had brought for the whole table. When he had glugged down the last of the liqueur, he called everybody’s attention, drunk on Carnation Liqueur and the sort of adoration only a pair of children could provide.

— Listen, here everybody. — Drake bellowed, his words slushed. — Imma do another trick! — The kids hooted, Olivia and Mark stopped arguing, Sarah and Alex paused their conversation. Even I stopped trading pie recipes with Mrs. Ethel.

Drake reached for one of the glasses where Alex had poured herself some sunset mango juice and velvet cherry wine.

Drake put down the glass in front of him and showed us his hands, maybe in an attempt to bring up some more attention to himself or to silence the table. He then grabbed it with one hand and tipped its contents in the other. The mango juice stayed inside his hand, as if he was holding an invisible glass, but I could see the wine running through his fingers. 

While everybody clapped and he smirked while looking at them and soaked up the praise, I saw the color leaching out of what remained from the drink. The mango pulp dribbled out and plopped on the floor, until finally, his hand was holding just a little bit of water. I guess he hadn’t exactly mastered that one. My dad could keep everything in. Even the alcohol. I noticed everyone was looking at Drake quizzically as they clapped, perhaps noticing his ineptitude at the spell. He turned and looked at his hand, and became aware of the contents that had poured onto the floor. I noticed he did a quick glance back at everybody in the table, who had stopped clapping. The quick silence that followed was awkward, and seeing the slightly nervous expression on Drake’s face, as he tried to think up something to blurt out so he could save face, I couldn’t help but snort.

— Oh, you want to make fun of me? — Drake asked, his eyes narrow as he let go of the water that remained in his hand. It splashed on the floor beside the rest of the drink, but he didn’t seem to care. — Let’s see you do it. Oh, that’s right! — He exclaimed in a mocking tone. — You’re not a magician!

—To be frank — I retorted, still smiling — You’re not much of a magician yourself. — He blushed. I could feel everybody’s eyes darting from me to Drake and back.

— Shows what you know. I’m probably the first magician you’ve seen. 

— No, you’re not. — I scoffed. — But you are easily the worst one.

— Yeah? Then, tell me, have you ever been to a monastery? — He asked, narrowing his eyes.

— No. — I answered nonchalantly. — What does that have to do— 

— What about the capital? — He interrupted me. This time, I didn’t answer. I just glared at him. He went on. — The Forests of Rebirth? Any other country? — He finished and looked at me, with a morbid expectancy in his eyes. — No, right? 

— I don’t have to have been anywhere to see that you suck at magic. — I retorted, angry. 

— Well, I’ve been to those places, I’ve seen magic there, I’ve learned my magic in those places, so I’m not gonna have it questioned by a little girl who’s never even left Hobbit Town. — 

Everyone’s reaction was immediate. Lesli and Ethan gasped. Eric punched the table with his fists in his effort to stand up quickly. — Take it back. — I heard him say. For a boy that young, the threat sounded serious. Alex looked seriously offended. — Watch your mouth! — She chided. Sarah had not found the comment entertaining in the slightest, either. — Excuse me? — I heard her ask in a dangerous tone. Olivia seemed shaken, she had her hand on his husband’s shoulder, as if she was trying to prevent him from rising, too. Mark was glaring at Drake. Ethel, on the other hand, seemed disappointed, as she shook her head slightly while turning away from Drake. I imagined she had heard the expression enough times during her life. It was a very despective way to call this place. I hardly ever heard it, but I knew it was never said kindly.

Drake seemed uncomfortable, starting to regret his rash comment. He got up. — I’m… gonna. I’m gonna get some more… Yeah. — He mumbled, before taking off.

The air that hung around was awkward and tense. Sarah elbowed me gently. I looked her way and she motioned to one of her sides with her eyes. — We’re gonna look around. — I announced while I got up from the table. Sarah followed me as I tried to put as much distance between us and Drake. 

I tried to pretend Drake’s comments hadn’t affected me at all, but I guess Sarah wasn’t fooled, especially since I refused point blank to sit at any other table and rather went to each and every single one of the stands I had made a note to visit earlier and started stuffing my face. Sarah kept making worried remarks. “Liah, don’t”, and “Please, you’re gonna catch a stomach bug or something”, but I ignored her pleas completely. I ate two pieces of syrup pumpkin—chocolate pie, a glass of velvet cherry wine, a sunset mango cocktail, a cayenne corn on a stick, a roasted chicken drumstick, a shot of Lavender Vodka, and even braved a piece of that abomination of a confection that was Harvey’s “Everything Pie”. It was fine. I hated myself for it, but it was. Finally, Sarah put her foot down. She grabbed my arm as I walked towards yet another stand, half drunk and full to burst, to get myself something else to bury my anger with.

— Dude stop it. — She cautioned, her voice ice—cold now. — That dude was an asshole, but he’s not worth you barfing for three days straight.

— But— I pouted.

— Absolutely no buts. —She grabbed my arm hard enough to keep me from walking away. — You had your tantrum, you ate enough to feed a family, and drank more than you know you should. Now we’re going to sit like civilized people and talk with whoever and tomorrow you’re gonna forget about everything that made you angry or work on it in a way that doesn’t make you have to throw out half your wardrobe. Okay? —She finished, pointedly, as she gave my arm an extra hard squeeze.

I sighed. —Okay.

Perhaps Sarah thought we’d had enough of random people, so she toted me toward Mr. Hiroshi’s table. In my mind, the outcome was counter-productive, because he would probably offer me all the food at his disposal and send for more if needed, but he wouldn’t be too offended if I told him about everything I had already eaten.

He was where I had seen him last, which didn’t surprise me. He rarely got up from his own table, since he prefered to give some money to the people in his table and have them fetch him stuff, which they always claimed to be more than happy to do. 

—Hey Mr. Hiroshi!—Sarah greeted him cheerfully as we approached him, spying the couple empty seats at his sides that probably belonged to sales-people that had gone to fetch him something or other.—Anyone sitting here?

—Hello ladies!—He greeted us with his usual joyfulness.—I’ve been saving you this spot! Come sit down, eat!—He told us. I knew he would’ve said the same thing to anybody that had asked to sit at his table, but the gesture was appreciated at the moment. We sat down.

—Have you had any of this puree?—He asked as he pointed to a bowl of Syrup-Potato puree close to him.

Sarah dutifully accepted her portion, but I refused mine, limiting myself to drinking some velvet cherry juice, which was tart and sweet. I could already picture my tongue starting to get tinged red.

—Did you try the berry salad?—Mr. Hiroshi asked a minute later. Sarah had some, but again, I declined and sipped my juice.

—Had any dessert already?—He wondered while sliding a couple of parfaits over. Sarah sampled hers, and I took mine with a smile and a Thank You, but just played with the crumbles on top with my spoon.

—What’s wrong, girl?—He asked.—Your appetite is always bigger than this.—He stated. I was surprised he remembered, taking into account the fact that he did not remember my name.

—I’ve just eaten so much, already sir.—I apologized.

—And you didn’t leave room for dessert?—He wondered, surprised.—In my country, they say people have two stomachs, one for savory food, and one for dessert!—He chuckled.—Though, in my case, I probably have three or four.—He kept chuckling while patting his ample belly. I managed a smile.

—I think I already filled both, Sir.—I confessed. He looked surprised at his watch.

—So early? I thought a lass like you would space her meals so she could get many more.

—She eats when she’s upset.—She whispered loudly. I threw her a dirty look.

—And what has made you upset, girl?—He wondered.

I proceeded to tell him the story of Drake, not bothering to omit the details of how bad his magic was or how much his breath stank. When I got to the end, when he called it “The Hobbit Town”, Mr. Hiroshi looked angry and disappointed.

—I shall send for someone to have a word with the lad later.—He expressed, calmly. It sounded more sinister than he probably had intended. I looked at Sarah to see what she thought about the comment, and saw her looking down to her lap, examining her nails, and breathing slowly, which was what she did so nobody would notice her trying not to cry. I put my arm on her shoulder. It was starting to daunt on me that I had lashed out without worrying how she had felt about the insult.

—You ok?—I asked her.

—It’s just… It’s not nice to be called a Hobbit to your face. There’s always some tourist who calls you that.—She said. Mr. Hiroshi sighed.

—Ignorant people always use that word as a slur. 

—I knew that people here don’t like to be called that, but why do people still use that word?—I directed my question at Mr. Hiroshi.—I thought that hobbits went extinct thousands of years ago.

—That’s true, yes.—He agreed. I had asked the question, but while he explained, he looked more at Sarah.—But this area was controlled by hobbits.

—But what does that have to do with the people who live here now?

—Well you see,—He explained.— this was the last pure Hobbit village that existed in the world. Like most ancient creatures, their population was dwarfed in comparison to the amount of humans that were around, and while this village did it’s best to remain pure, soon enough, they noticed their population was declining, and so, they resolved to invite humans to inhabit their lands. 

—There were humans here already?—I wondered. I had always thought ancient creatures like Hobbits had lived before the humans even existed.

—Well, of course. While we didn’t live alongside them as long as we have lived without them, ancient creatures and humans did share time together.

—Wow.—Sarah exclaimed in a low voice.

—Honestly, what do they teach you in school here?—Mr. Hiroshi asked, perplexed and a little annoyed.

—I’d call it just “Human History”.—Sarah responded.

—If the teaching of ancient history is so scarce, it’s no wonder those insults are so prevalent, still.—He lamented.

—What do you mean?—I asked.

—Well, if they knew the facts, perhaps people wouldn’t go insulting one another like that. Although, there’s some people who blame it on a cultural stigma that prevails.—

—A what?—I wondered.

—A cultural stigma, girl. You see, back during those times, some people saw the mixing with ancient creatures as something beneath their status. So we believe they used to call hobbit-and-human mixes just Hobbits, to show their contempt. That, however, didn’t stop everybody from intermixing.

—Are you saying that we’re a sort of mixed species?—Sarah asked, her face screwed up in a way that showed she was thinking of the possibilities.

—Most of humans, definitely.—Mr. Hiroshi stated.

Sarah stared ahead with a sour look on her face. I retraced my steps somewhat and realized that I had lashed out at that Drake guy and made a big tantrum, when it was not even me who he’d been offending, in truth. I didn’t hail from this town, originally. Sarah did, and it was probably her who had been hurt most, but I had neglected to think about her. If I was honest with myself, the “hobbit” thing was not even the real reason I had gotten angry. Lord, I had been stupid.

I put my arms around Sarah and held her tight.—I’m sorry he said that to you.—I whispered. I was sure Sarah knew I was not talking about Mr. Hiroshi. She held onto my arm for a bit, and sighed.

Mr. Hiroshi looked around and seemed to make a desition.—Girl.—He called out to me.—I don’t think there’s enough fruit at this table.—One of the salespeople made to stand up, but Mr Hiroshi put his hand up to stop him. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a bill, which he handed me.—How about you go get us some more while I talk to your friend, huh?—

—Uhh, sure, sir.—I answered, looking at Sarah. She smiled at me and gestured with her head for me to go on. I took the money and walked in search of the best fruit I could think of.

A couple of minutes later, I spotted Alv working at her mother’s stand, only the Lord knew where that woman was. I was glad to see him alone, I wasn’t the biggest fan of his mother, neither was she the biggest fan of me. This season, they were selling fruit salad at the stand. The cubes of dwarf watermelon and pear must have surely gone great with the orange wedges, and honey, but I was so full that I didn’t want to look at the plates too closely. 

—Hey Alv.—I greeted him, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I felt. 

—Hey, Liah.—He answered.—What can I get you? We have three salads tonight—

I put my hand up so he wouldn’t go on unnecessarily. I’d just end up taking whatever.—Uhm, I just came here to pass some time.—I interrupted.

—Oh, why’s that?—He asked, confused.

—Oh, y’know. Sarah needs some alone time right now.—I answered, offering no more explanation.

—Well…—He began.—Thanks for coming here, then.—

Alv made these kinds of awkward comments from time to time, but tonight I found them somewhat endearing.—Sure thing. How’s business going?—

—It’s good. It’s a nice time for fruits, we’ve been getting more tourists than normal.—

—Yeah, I may have met a couple tourists already.—

—It’s busy, yeah.—He went on.—I’m glad it’s almost time for my brother to come take my place at the stand.—He mumbled, looking at his watch.

—You take turns or something?—

—We’re kinda collaborating with many people this time around, it’s been fun.—

—It’s a nice festival.—I agreed, looking at the paper decorations.—It’s very pretty.—

—Just like you.—He mumbled.

—What’s that?—I leaned over a bit closer, the better to hear him as he mumbled.

—Oh, I just…—He trailed off.—I just said you’re very pretty.—

—Oh…—I exclaimed.—Uhm, thanks, Alv. You’re very sweet.—Very not that great at flirting.

He smiled and then caught a glimpse of someone behind me: one of his brothers, an older one, whom I knew by sight. They waved at each other, as the older guy walked to the stand, and Alv lifted a flap at the front and walked out, then left it open to let his brother walk in.

—Wanna come for a walk?—He asked.

I wondered if enough time had passed for Mr. Hiroshi’s and Sarah’s conversation to be over. Probably not.—Sure. Let’s go.—

Alv didn’t precisely steer me anywhere, so maybe it was me who led us away from the festival, into the alleys of the District of Lights, which were very subdued tonight. Maybe it was this way at every Harvest Festival. I didn’t know, it was the first time I was here when there was a festival going on. We leaned against one of the walls of a bar and talked some more. 

While Alv talked, I remembered all the nasty things the other guys had said about Sarah and me in this very street, just a few businesses away from here. They had even talked about Alv, calling him a sucker, saying he was just “spending silvers” on me, or whatever. I looked at Alv as he spoke. He looked at me in a different way. There was something in his eyes I had never really seen before. I was sure that glint had been there all that time, that little smile. I just had never stopped to look at it, but he looked as if he’d never get tired of staring at my face. Suddenly, he was getting closer, slowly, smiling. I couldn’t have said what exactly we had been speaking about a moment before, but his smile was sweet. He approached closer and planted a kiss on my cheek. I didn’t move toward him, but I didn’t move away, either. He kissed my lips, and he felt warm, and soft. 

It was… alright. I guess. I realized I hadn’t looked forward to this moment, but I hadn’t exactly dreaded it, either. We had come to a lonely place to talk, I had not stopped him as he complimented me, and I hadn’t prevented him from kissing me either, but I realized it wasn’t because I really wanted him to do those things, it was just because I didn’t care much either way. Poor guy, he looked so happy, so on top of the world, but I really didn’t feel anything.

—I’m sorry, Alv.—I apologized, and his face fell.—I just… I just don’t think I feel that way about you.—I whispered, and walked away. He didn’t try to follow me, or to say anything. I figured he must’ve not been feeling too great about it, either.

I arrived at the table expecting to find Sarah, but what I found was my mother, who was back at the table, which was now much emptier than I had left it. She grabbed my arm and steered me towards the table, her nails digging into my skin a little, but I figured she meant no harm. I sat down with her so she didn’t have to pull on my arm.

—Where’s Sarah?—I asked, looking around.

—Mr Hiroshi went with her and some others to get some drinks.—She explained.—There’s a happy hour promotion in one of the stands.—

—That’s nice.—I replied, smiling.

—Don’t change the subject, Thalia.—She hissed in a harsh voice.

—What subject?—I asked, letting go of my fake smile.—We weren’t talking about anything.—

—We haven’t?—She asked.—Haven’t you noticed that I’ve been wanting to talk to you all night long?—

—Uhm, no, I haven’t.—I lied.

—Well, we do need to talk.—

—Can’t this wait—

—No, it cannot.—She interrupted.—My biggest client finally came to the festival tonight, and I’m expecting to get a good sale out. I lay out a perfectly professional looking dress for you, and you come here dressed like that.—

I couldn’t help but scoff at this.—Mom, it’s a festival. It’s none of your business if I wanted to come looking completely “unprofessional”.—I punctuated the word with air quotes.

—Of course it is.—She debated.—I cannot introduce you to my clients if you’re looking like that.—

—Why do you even want to introduce me?—I asked, my voice rising.—I don’t even work with you.—I exclaimed, wondering why it was that I hadn’t brought up my plan to enter her business.

—Don’t raise your voice like that, Thalia.—She scolded me.—We’ll talk about this at home, then.—

—How convenient.—I answered, unable to keep resentment away from my voice. How very convenient for her to get to speak her mind to me and then not listen to what I had to say.

My mother looked at me frowning, intently, as if trying to discern what kind of person I was. It was hard to believe that, after 22 years, she wanted to act like she didn’t know already. I got off the table and smoothed out my new skirt, fighting back the tears and the urge to lift the skirt even higher.—Tell Sarah I’ll see her tomorrow.—I asked my mother, and left for home.

Sleep that night did not come easy. I tossed and turned for hours before finally settling and managing to doze off into an uneasy slumber filled with nightmares. In one of them, there had been a massive earthquake. I had run out of my house as fast as I could to escape the rubble falling down on me. In another one, a fire. The smoke suffocated me and made my eyes sting. I had to crawl my way out. I vaguely remembered floods, plagues, and people who had come into my house to hurt me. Most of all, I remembered running and anguish.

When I managed to wake up, with my heart pounding and feeling cold sweat all over my body, it was already past noon. I couldn’t remember ever having woken up that late. I rubbed my temples as I woke up and noticed I was also suffering from a pounding headache. It was good that I didn’t have to work today, because I was not feeling up for anything. On top of everything else, my mood was terrible. I felt like I would snap at any person who spoke to me, which was maybe the final straw that helped me decide to stay in my room all day, eating leftovers from the fridge and trying to get some better quality sleep. In spite of having slept for so long, I didn’t feel rested at all. 

On one of my trips to the kitchen, in the afternoon, I glanced at the front door and noticed that we had some mail. There were a couple of white envelopes that were probably bills, and a letter from Wes, which was a relief. I needed something to help me smile. I opened the envelope and sat down next to the only fair—sized window in the house: one in the living room, right next to a couch. I hadn’t gone outside all day, and the feeling of sunlight on my skin lifted my mood much more effectively than sitting in my dark room all day. Who would’ve thought?

Dear Liah:

I have some important news. Yesterday, the Priests in charge of ordination summoned me and asked me if I had any desire of joining the Monastery permanently. Today, I said yes. I’m really excited. They’re ready to conduct the ceremony any day, and they told me I’m free to invite whoever I consider important in my life. I’d be really glad if you and mom could make it. I’ll wait for the answer in your next letter. If you can come, I’ll ask to be ordained when you get here. If you can’t, I guess I’ll be ordained after I get your answer. 

There’s something else. I really want you to come in person because ordained monks are required to cut contact with the outside world for six months after they’re accepted in, and the only way for us to see each other is if you’re here in person. Guests that attend the ordinations are allowed to stay for a few days afterward, if they wish. 

I know this must be hard to accept, but over these three years I’ve come to realize that this life is what I truly want. I hope you can support it, and I hope mom can understand, too. I’d love to show you around, and I really don’t want to have to cut contact without having seen you in person before. I’ve missed you both so much during all the time I’ve been here. Please come visit. 

I’ll wait anxiously for your next letter.

Love, Wes.

I read and re—read the letter three times, however, it was still having trouble entering my thick skull. Wes was gonna become a Monk. It’s not like I didn’t know that was what he wanted. It’s not like he didn’t write home every week telling me how nice life at the Monastery was. And, unlike mom, I wasn’t trying to delude myself into thinking that someday, he would regret having run away and come back, begging for forgiveness. If I’m being honest, I admired Wes. He left all alone, with some money in his pockets and nothing but the clothes on his back. He probably knew that mom wasn’t gonna be happy about it, but he left behind everything he knew to pursue a dream, like he had known there was something out there in the world waiting for him. Something that was so invaluable that he ran up and left one day, just like that. On top of all that, now he was ready to give up even more of himself to achieve what he wanted. I was stunned. Stunned at his determination. Nothing would keep him from living the life he wanted to live. In other words, I was jealous, because he had two things I desperately wanted: A Dream and the Will to pursue it. 

I sighed and closed my eyes for a while. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. The sunlight tickling my skin soothed me. It felt warm and sweet against my arms and my back. I realized, in spite of everything the letter made me feel, I was happy for Wes, and felt proud of him. I remembered all we had gone through together. We were 16 when we learned that dad had died. We had all grieved differently. I had cried my eyes out: when I found out, at the funeral, the days that followed, the months that followed. Wes simply seemed stunned. My mother had cried as well for the first few days, but suddenly, one day, she woke up and told us that our future was uncertain without my dad. Even though he had left us a fair amount of money and the house we lived in, she took Wes out one day and left me in charge there. Everyday, she left a list of chores for me to get done while she went out with Wes all over town trying to sell every object that remained in my father’s workshop. We knew his Spells would stop working at some point, now that he was no longer alive, but my mother refused to contact another magician to re—apply them, and insisted on selling everything that remained in his workshop while the magic hadn’t begun to fade. She also said Wes needed to learn how to be a good salesman, which was a skill that, according to her, they didn’t teach you in school, not even in business school.

Some days, both of them went out at the crack of dawn and came back home late at night. After a while, they started going out of town for days at a time, and I was left to look after everything and teach myself how to clean and cook. I scrubbed floors and cried. I cleaned toilets and cried. I swept the floor and cried. After a while, though, I stopped crying for long enough to cook. Sometimes, I made enough breakfast to have enough leftovers for lunch, so I would eat the same thing twice in a row and save the money. When I had enough, I went out and bought cookbooks. On those days, my only joys were the new dishes I learned to make. The drudgery of keeping an empty house clean and cooking for people who weren’t there was lessened somewhat by the simple act of coming up with something nice to have for dinner. It didn’t make me feel less alone, but it helped me keep distracted. I slowly forgot to be sad. I slowly found out the things I could do to make myself happier. I didn’t know how Wes was managing. My mother got livid with us if she saw we had taken any of our father’s inventions or toys without permission, but she never gave us permission when we asked, not once. She said those things were our livelihood and we couldn’t afford to keep them. It was like she wanted to forget my dad had been there at all. Then, one day, they realized they had sold everything, and we made an effort to go back to our normal lives. My mother went back to working at her office and Wes and I went to finish highschool. But nothing went back to normal. I knew Wes felt resentful and angry about being made to sell everything that remained to him from his late father. I knew I felt abandoned and sad. I knew, or at least I wanted to think that my mother felt some regret about having acted so rashly.

When we were 19, just a few days after having finished highschool in fact, Wes left. My mother threw her tantrum for a few days, then packed everything but his stuff, and took me to a place I didn’t know and I had never visited, where I didn’t have any friends or knew any people, to live in a house I hated inside of a neighborhood I hated, and she wouldn’t hear a word about it. What was the difference between Wes and me, then? Was it my lack of a dream? Did Wes get fed up quicker than I did? We never talked much about all that time he spent with my mother learning how to be a salesman. I felt terrible thinking about it, I couldn’t even begin to think what it must have been living through it. 

I was sitting on the couch thinking all of this when I heard the door open. The sun was still up. My mom had never been home so early.

— Liah, honey. — She said, in a soothing kind of tone I knew well. It meant I was about to get a lecture, and I wondered if it had anything to do with our argument at the Harvest Festival.— I wanna tell you something.
— What is it? — I asked, feeling apprehensive.

— I talked to Caron this morning. She says you’ll definitely have your job back.
I ran my hands through my hair, exasperated. — Mom. I don’t even know if I want that job back. — I complained.

— What do you mean you don’t want it back?— She asked, looking puzzled. — I got that job for you myself.
— I know, mom, I know. I just. — I began, trying to talk slowly so I could get what I wanted to say exactly how I needed to say it, for it was the very first time I’d explained this idea to her.— I’ve just been thinking and I don’t think I wanna keep working on that.

— Then what do you want to work on? — My mother wondered, looking nonplussed.

— I’ve been thinking. You’re in the exporting business and all. I really like the exports here. Maybe I can begin learning about the flower liqueurs and make my own, and you could help me export them.—I told her, maybe hoping she remembered that she wanted to introduce me to her clients. That must’ve had a reason.

— Thalia, that business is flooded in this town. There is lots of competition. — She answered, speaking as if to a toddler. I gawked at her.—Now, the business in the Old Folks Home is safe. With enough time you can learn and gain positions in there—

— Mom, there is nothing safe about that job! — I interrupted her. — One old bat complained and they kicked me out like a dog!

— Don’t exaggerate, Thalia, you’re on paid leave, just for this week.—

— Well, I don’t want to work in a place where they can get rid of me that easy!

— Then — she began, putting her hands together as if she was presenting a new product. — you work there just long enough to learn and then you leave and set up your own home. It’s something you know and there’s only one of them in town, so it’s much safer.

— Mom, I don’t want to do that. Just yesterday you were trying to introduce me to your clients!— I snapped, feeling my temper rise.
—Yes, I was. I never said you’d never enter the business.—
—Oh, so I’ll just have to enter whenever you think I should.—
—I know what’s best in this market, Thalia.—She sighed, rubbing her temple. If you don’t want to go back to the home, you’re gonna have to be doing something.—She conceded, finally.
— I thought — I sighed, and started replying slowly — that we could visit Wes for a couple days and then come back and find out what I want to do. He’s gonna join the order, mom.

My mother was at a complete loss for words. She stood there, motionless, a dazed look on her face for a few seconds. I was going to repeat myself when she finally spoke. — Absolutely not. 

— What? Mom! Do you realize how important this is for Wes?
— Do you realize? — She replied, narrowing her eyes. — Your brother is about to throw away his life and you’re suggesting to go and watch? I’m not encouraging this! If he wants to turn his back on his family forever, he can do it alone!

— Mom! — I objected, my tone rising. — Just because you don’t like it, it doesn’t mean he’s throwing his life away.

— You can think whatever you want, but I. Said. No. — She said, emphasizing her every word. Then, she turned away and went into her room.

I stayed there, looking at the closed door, too stunned to cry. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. My mother was practically disowning Wes because she didn’t approve of what he was doing. He wasn’t committing a crime. He wasn’t hurting anybody. He wasn’t even entering one of those orders that made monks go away to Monasteries in the middle of nowhere and forbade them from talking to people in the outside world. But I guess he wasn’t doing what she wanted. What she had planned for him. I went back to the couch, grabbed his letter and sat down. The rays of the last of the day’s sunshine still felt warm and tingling on my skin, but that didn’t help me feel any less defeated. I had never gone a week without contact with my brother, ever. I couldn’t believe I was gonna be forced to go without hearing from him for six months because my mother refused to go see his ordination Ceremony. 

I felt it all at once. My sadness about not being able to support my brother in the pursuit of his dream, about being unable to show him how very proud of him I was, my frustration with this unsatisfying job where I was made to cook bland food for a bunch of people who could apparently get me suspended on a whim, my uneasiness about my standing with people I thought had liked me well, my mother’s lack of faith in the career I wanted to pursue. My anger at being dragged like a ragdoll through situations and places I couldn’t even get a say in.

I put my feet up on the couch and my head between my knees, and then wrapped my arms around me. Out of nowhere, I remembered the words that Professor Fischer had told me a few days before: “some of the time, you won’t know what you want. But most of the time, you know what you don’t, and that’s already a big step”. 

I took my brother’s letter and I read it once again. As I was reading it, I thought to myself: I don’t know what I want to do with my life. But I know I don’t want it to be like this a second longer.

I finished reading the letter, bathed by the flickering quality of the sunlight. I looked out the window and what I saw outside didn’t make any sense to me. The sun had gone down. All I saw was darkness and, reflected in the window, a dozen dots that looked like floating light bulbs, their shapes slowly moving up and down as if they were breathing. I turned around and gasped. The room was filled with spheres of sunlight that hovered all around me. They were all different sizes. Some were the size of my fist, others so small they looked like fireflies. I stood there, looking at them, my breath caught in my throat. Then, I dashed to my room and threw open the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I took the envelope out and tore it open. I scanned down through the results of my Magic Test: “Positive. Unawakened”.

I stopped thinking any further. I grabbed a backpack, packed three changes of clothes, all my savings, the results of the test and closed it. I was almost out my bedroom door when I realized something. I could probably fix it myself. I came back, grabbed the light window my dad made, and stuffed it in the pack. I passed the living room, stopped, and looked at the light spheres. I didn’t think I had it in me. If more time had passed, I would probably have thrown out the envelope, unopened. But here we were. I breathed in as hard as I could, my heart hammering in my chest, took one last look at this house I had hated so much, and my mother’s closed bedroom door and then stopped. I grabbed the envelope where Wes had sent his last letter and took a pen. I was about to write the single phrase “I’m sorry”, but I stopped myself. I was sorry about how my mom was going to react, but I wasn’t sorry I was leaving. So I wrote my message and left it on the kitchen table, where I hoped mom would see it eventually. “I love you. Take care.”

Untitled 1

Prologue

The water had come to meet me. I could feel myself sinking, all I saw was the light from the sky that reached me through the waves. Above me, my hands seemed to be trying to reach the surface, my own two feet paddled restlessly: maybe trying to still me, maybe trying to turn me around so the water would stop filling my lungs. After a little while, the movement stopped. I could only see the air bubbles going up towards the light, and my limbs quietly slipping into the cold, along with the rest of me.

 

Chapter 1

Sarah and I were participating in an experiment. We were getting our magic tested.

We were supposed to be at the mall at eleven o’clock, and the fact that I managed to get her up in time to get breakfast and have time to spare marveled even me. When I was with Sarah, we were almost always running late.

-What do you think you’ll get? – I asked her.

-I’m sure I’ll get negative. No one in my family has had magic for, like, generations. You?

-I don’t know. I mean. I don’t care, either way. I kinda only wanted the money, y’know? – I said, trying to sound carefree. I knew Sarah wasn’t buying it, but she did me the favor of pretending she believed me.

We passed the market in front of the Field of Lilies and went straight ahead. The Waterfall Mall was just about ten minutes away. It had another name, but everyone just called it “The Waterfall Mall” because of the giant waterfall at the very back.

While on our way, we passed a lot of houses of my favorite kind. Ample, with high ceilings and grass covering the roof and back walls of both house and garage. It made for a kind of little mountain range that kids loved to play on, and had a warm, healthy, homey feeling to it. The lawns on these houses were an almost shiny green and studded with random colorful flowers and a bunch of fuzzy dandelions.

-Ew! – Sarah scared me with her disgusted expression. She had stopped to scrape off some mud off her shoe. – I hate these houses!

– Really? – I asked, astonished.

-Yeah! They always have mud everywhere! – She responded as she rubbed her shoe back and forth on a cleaner part of the sidewalk.

-Oh, come on. The inside is very clean. I’m sure it was just a child playing.

Sarah just glared at me, like I was missing the point entirely. To be fair, I probably was.

-Have you always been like that? – I asked, trying to change the direction of the conversation.

-Pretty much. – She said. – I used to have a friend who lived in one of these. We would climb the hills and roll down, play capture the flag, hide and seek, you name it. It was always muddy. That’s why I preferred to play alone after a while, and I always went home fast.

I pondered on this. Sarah and I became friends when mom and I moved to the same neighborhood she and her mother lived in. The houses were weirdly flat and uniform, squarish in design, with low ceilings and a stuffy, musty, dusty feeling to them. Even the ones with two stories had low ceilings. The windows were small and scarce. It was as if the whole house was the attic. Even with the fancy wood floors and wooden ceilings and wooden walls and wooden everything that my mother loved so much, it felt cramped. I guess mom felt we didn’t need all the extra space we had in the old house, what with dad gone and my brother having already left for the order.

We passed tiny houses with ample gardens, big, three-story high ones with pretty guard rails on their grass ceilings, ample single-story ones with flags at the top. All around the place, children enjoyed the weekend as they ran on their own, played with their friends or walked their dogs. Mothers walked with their babies in strollers, old ladies had lemonade with their friends on their front porches, young couples walked hand in hand, the women sporting flower-patterned sundresses.

We arrived at the mall with a whole 20 minutes to spare. I looked around the Waterfall mall. Now, I’d heard about the malls in big cities: immense expanses full of floors on top of floors of fancy stores that sold expensive clothes and unaffordable magical items, top to bottom made from enchanted glass, stone and metals. Meanwhile, this town’s only mall was an ample place, not huge (even if it was the biggest building around), only one floor containing a row of stores on each side, a local here or there decorated with shrubbery planted on enchanted earth. The only notable characteristics were the fact that the ceiling was made out of glass, the light enchanted simply to keep the place warmly lit (I think that’s called a “skylight”), and, of course, the giant waterfall at the back. To my knowledge, that was this town’s one “big” magical project, this imitation of nature that doesn’t rely on a single hydraulic pump, water filter, or even lighting. The water cycles up on its own accord, gravity doing the rest of the work, the enchantments keeping it clean enough for colorful fish to inhabit it, and even the light having been altered so it wouldn’t be white but sparkled in a variety of pretty colors on close inspection. I always heard how the guy who designed it and put it together used its success as a stepping stone to go onto bigger and better things in bigger and better places. Or at least that’s how I was told the story. 

As much as I liked staring at the waterfall and wondering about all its spells, I was also excited to see the videogame store, so I took Sarah. Man, I liked that place, too. From the outside, it looked very unremarkable. It was a wide, rectangular, dull shape. The entrance was at the very right and the part with the desk, where the cashier ought to be, looked like a tiny, regular shop. But when you turned to the left, you saw a stairway going down to the rest of the shop, which sunk into the ground. The ceilings were beautiful wooden beams, the walls were stone, brick, and wood, interrupted only by a pair of huge windows that glowed bright, imitating the light of a warm, sunny day. I wondered what kind of spells those were. Whoever designed this shop must have had a library in mind. But it ended up being a videogame store. I sometimes asked myself how they felt about that.

The clerk wasn’t there, so we took a look around. Videogames take way less space than books, so this, which was a small or middle-sized library, was a huge videogame warehouse. I swear, if I could think of a game, they usually had it in stock here. I tried to help Sarah search for the games she wanted, but she only said she wanted “retro-games”, which was not helpful at all. I’ve been trying to get her into games ever since I met her, but she’d never been interested. But now that her new boyfriend was a bit of a retro-game lover, she cared, and here we were.

We looked around and tried calling the clerk for help, but they never appeared, so we went to the meeting place we were told for the experiment, just outside the food court. There were people already gathered there, sitting in some chairs that had been lined up. A woman with a clipboard came up to us and asked us if we had our sign-up sheet. I got my wallet and took out the folded paper they had given me three days ago when I came to ask for details. They had made me fill up a sheet with a lot of personal information (minus my name), and then gave me a sheet with a number on it and told me not to lose it. I didn’t, and neither had Sarah, but the time it took her to take the crumpled piece of paper out of her purse was making me a bit embarrassed. I turned to the woman and thought about telling her some clever comment to pass the time, but I came up empty-handed. Instead, I took a quick look at her and turned away to pretend I wasn’t staring at her face. She was very pretty, but unusual looking. She definitely wasn’t from around town. She had vibrant green eyes. Her white skin looked almost yellowish, and her dirty blond hair was so straight it seemed to be soaking wet, clipped just below her shoulders in, what I pictured, was a perfectly straight line. Her monolid eyes were a bit elongated, giving her a wise, patient look about her. I noticed her ears protruded a bit from her hair.

After we had both handed our sign-up sheets, the woman gestured us toward chairs that had a clipboard each. We took them and sat down. She then gave us a sheet with our sign-up numbers, and we were told to fill them. To our annoyance, this one had all the info we had already filled a couple days ago, plus much more. We sat there, writing down about our families, if our magic had awakened, if our family members had had their magic awakened, what we did for a living, what our family did for a living, what we did on our free time, and all sorts of stuff I couldn’t even imagine had anything to do with magic.

You see, not everyone in this world has magic. Furthermore, apparently just having it is not enough to wield it. First, you need to confirm that you do have magic. To do so, you have two options: Awakening it or having it tested. (Ironically, one of the ways to find out if you can wield magic is to actually wield magic). For a few people, the simple knowledge that a magic test brings you is enough to rouse the magic inside them. For the rest of the people who have magic, you have to find a way to awaken it. Not everyone can do that, since it’s different from person to person, and there are very few reliable methods. I’ve heard that over half of the world population has some magic in them, but very few people can use it. Some lucky souls awaken it when they’re children. Those people spend all their lives learning, and they’re normally the ones who build the houses that look like grassy hills. Or the underground videogame stores that look like sunlit libraries. Or the giant waterfalls inside of malls. It feels like the few people who wield magic well, always have to coexist or cooperate with everyday folk like the rest of us.

After filling in our life stories, they directed us each to a little booth where a nurse took a sample of our hair, a piece of a fingernail, a swab of the inside of our mouths and even a bit of blood (I’m glad I found about this last, or else I wouldn’t have had the courage to show up). Then we waited thirty minutes and got our results inside an envelope, plus a card each with 400 goldens on them. That was a pretty sweet deal since most magic testing was expensive and not widely available. As I thought about this, the noise of paper being ripped brought me back to the present. I watched Sarah tear her envelope open and take out the paper inside it. It made me feel a little anxious. I looked at mine and put it inside my purse along with my card. Sarah seemed too interested in her results to notice. She read them fast, which gave me the impression that she wanted to get it over with quickly.

-Not a slip of magic in me. – She said, with a knowing smile, which surprised me. – But it says here that maybe I could bring forth a child with magic.

-How does that work? – I asked, as that didn’t match well to what I knew of genetics (not that I knew all that much, mind you).

-Beats me. But it’s good to know.

I made a mental note to try and ask around.

We made our way back to the videogame store, hoping the clerk would have shown up by now. He had. He was sitting placidly behind the desk, just by the cash register.

-Good day! – I greeted him.

-Hello. – He said with a faint smile.

He was a young guy, but you wouldn’t have known it if you didn’t look at him up close. He was wearing something that looked like a combination between a toga and a robe, made from soft, brown linen. It looked comfy. His head had a circle shaven on the crown area, and the hair that remained around that looked thin, ginger, and cut short. He looked as if he was trying to look old, but his smooth face and the twinkle in his honey-colored eyes made it impossible, as did the wispy blond beard on his chin, the five or six random hairs in his cheeks. Very clearly a Monk or Monk apprentice.

We waited for him to say something else, a “What can I help you with?” or a “What are you looking for?” that a normal clerk would have uttered, but he just sat there, faintly smiling to himself, his eyes between awake and sleepy. The silence just hung in the air. I could see Sarah starting to get annoyed.

– I’m looking for retro games. – Sarah told him.

-We have them! – He said with just a hint of excitement.

Again, we waited for him to get up and lead us, perhaps to point us in their direction (vague as the request was) or maybe even gesture the way, but he just sat on, nothing to trouble him.

-Good day. – Sarah blurted out, rolling her eyes, very visibly annoyed; and walked out before I could react. I trotted before her.

-Ugh! I can’t stand people who can’t be bothered to do their jobs right! – She said, fuming.

-Have you never met a Monk before? – I asked, surprised.

-I’ve seen a couple, but never as a store clerk! What’s with him? – She asked, bewildered.

-That’s just how Monks are. My brother told me they have to give some things up to become Monks. Maybe this guy was a bit aloof way before that. – I tried to justify it. – It doesn’t seem to be a good combination.

-Yeah! – She agreed. – Why put a guy like that to work in a store?

-Maybe his superiors thought he needed to work a bit before he started learning. I’ve heard some of them do. To learn humility or something like that.

-Ugh, they should’ve put him to work with dogs, or babies, or books. – Sarah retorted, now trying to sound more annoyed than she still was. She had quite the fiery temper to rival her petite physique.

I wondered. To become a Monk, men had to undergo some sort of process to rob them of some desires (I called it “Libido-removing” to myself: My mother went berserk when I said it out loud). Not much was said about it. The only things I knew was that they lost the desire to impress people, as well as, yes, their sex drive, completely. This supposedly helped them awaken or improve their talents. It was one sure-fire way to awaken magic if the individual had it in him. A lot of people didn’t think the process did anything but transform men into asexual hermits, but the ones who knew more about the subject knew better. Monks were among the best painters, architects, sculptors, crystal-workers, metal-workers, magic-wielders, musicians, and all-around artists there were in the world. Not a lot of people knew that because no Monk ever worked for renown. When they did work publicly, it was to bring back resources to their guild (to “hire” a Monk you were required to make a donation to the guild that covered the cost of educating an apprentice for a year), and only the most experienced Monks were allowed to work for money. The apprentices, however, could choose to work to gain practice, experience, and feedback, or to help a friend or someone in need, but goldens never exchanged hands. The rest of the time, they were inside their guilds: Practicing, teaching, and keeping the place fit for living. In the case of our friend back at the store, some of them had to work a normal, mundane job before entering the guild formally, even if they had already had their libido removed. Perhaps they put these newly appointed monks to work at any place that would have them.

Sarah decided to spend her goldens at the mall, but I held on to mine. We treaded store after store, wading our way around clothes. Sometimes, when Sarah was trying on some random dress for the umpteenth time, I took a stroll through the surrounding stores. A visit to the bakery was always worth it. Normally, cute little cookie boxes were displayed at the front, looking like tiny sandwiches made from colored buns, filled with chocolate. Each half of them swirled with two or three bright tones. They must have had a bunch of food coloring in them. I still remembered when Wes and I tried to make them as kids. Not only was it a difficult recipe, but, as much coloring as we put in, they still came out pastel-colored.

-Do you have any cream puffs? – I asked the cashier as I entered the store.

-They’ll be out in just a minute if you want to wait, miss. – She said in an apologetic tone.

-I‘ll wait – I answered happily, as it gave me time to take a look at the cakes and pastries on display. 

I could spend a long while taking a look at the cakes, trying to guess what was in them and how they were made. A particular one caught my eye. It was not frosted on the sides, so you could see the clear way a tall cake had been cut in half and filled with a thick layer of a rich, yellow-colored cream that was, probably, lemon-flavored (or at least so I inferred from the lemon slice-shaped candies decorating the meringue top). To the right of that were five or six parfaits served on pretty glasses, similar to the ones used to serve milkshake on, but smaller, and decorated with pretty swirls in the middle. I had had that parfait a couple of times before. The layers of strawberry puree were intertwined with a sweet cream that tasted of vanilla and a bit of some spirit (was it rum? some liqueur?), and a crunchy something that must’ve been cookies or cake crumbs baked dry. They let you keep the glass when you bought the parfait. So far I had two of them. I figured I had the goldens from the experiment, so I could splurge a bit. I paid for my cream puff and got the parfait to share with Sarah on the way back.

At the next store we visited, Sarah chose to try on four different dresses, so I passed the time in a home decoration store. We didn’t have too many magical things in this town, but even here people were prepared to pay good money for them. I looked at desk lamps made from real sunlight, little packs of ice cubes that never melted, plasma glass balls that didn’t need to be plugged in, and never went out. All of them were basic-level spells of Material Magic, and even then, the articles were still five, six, even ten times the price of their non-magic counterparts. Magicians were rare. Normal, everyday folk in this town hardly owned any magic items at all, so when any of them showed up anywhere, the prices were outrageous. Still, you could always find somebody willing to pay them.

I spent the rest of the time waiting outside the stores for Sarah, thinking. After a while, we finally started our way home.

-So how come all of a sudden you want to buy “retro-games”? – I asked Sarah, as we neared the market in front of the field of Lilies.

-What do you mean “all of a sudden”? – She retorted, clearly feigning ignorance.

-I mean we’ve been friends for three years and every time I ask your help for some Co-op game you have plans that night. Or day. Or afternoon. – I said, unable to hide the sly smile I felt forming on my face.

-That’s not true! – she barely managed to get out, giggling. I could see that she managed to understand my point without me spelling it out. I wasn’t trying to guilt her or anything. I just wanted to let her know the contradiction had not gone over my head.

-Oh yeah? Prove it! – I said, getting a bit excited. – Promise me next time I ask you to come to my house and play, you will.

– I promise, she said, quickly.

I looked down at my feet. No luck. We were standing on pavement.

– Na-uh. – I said, shaking my head – Field of lilies or I won’t believe you.

-Oh, come on! We don’t have to- she started

-Won’t believe you!! – I retorted, laughing now.

– Fine. – She said, looking slightly annoyed, but still smiling.

We turned left and walked the alley next to the market, leading to the field of Lilies. It was a simple expanse of flat terrain, surrounded by a simple metallic fence and a plain gate at the entrance, which was almost always open.

I took it in. The field of lilies was one of my favorite places. All over the terrain were beautiful white flowers that seemed to glow a bit. Here and there you could spot a blue one, perhaps a red one, or a yellow one. But most of the ones that weren’t wilted or dead were white. When I wanted to cheer up, sometimes I came here to confirm the flowers were still alive and white. We stood on a spot that had yet to grow any flowers. I twisted my foot a bit so that it made a bit of an indent in the ground. Sarah didn’t seem to notice.

-I promise to play games with you next time you ask me. – Sarah said. I couldn’t help but laugh, and I hugged her. It meant a lot to me. As we walked away, I turned around and made sure to take another look at the spot I had marked.

And with that, we hopped out and headed home.

 

I was laying down on my bed, looking at the wooden beams on my ceiling. My room was an unremarkable place. Squarish as the rest of the house, a bit humid feeling, always getting dusty, try as I might to keep the dust at bay. It didn’t have a single window, and the cool light of my three lightbulbs didn’t do much on livening up the place. I had tried decorating it and redecorating it, but adding stuff to the walls gave the room a cluttered feel. I liked to think it was the low ceiling. My mom liked to think I was exaggerating.

I remembered a letter I had gotten in the morning but had been too busy (getting Sarah to hurry up) to read. I had put it under my pillow and promised myself that I would read it as soon as I got home. …Whoops. Oh, well, I was reading it now, so it didn’t matter. The envelope was made out of brown parchment, I recognized it as soon as I saw it: a letter from Wes.

Dear Liah:

Hello! How is everything going with you? Here it’s the same as normal. I’ve kept it up with the guitar lessons, and I feel like I’m making pretty good progress, but you should hear the way this new guy plays. He doesn’t even remember how old he was when he started practicing. I wish I had started that early.

I went to a calligraphy lesson yesterday, does it show? It was not as hard as I thought it would be, I think I’ll keep going to those. One of my roommates was inducted yesterday, so they moved him out into permanent residence. I guess that means I’ll get some extra space for a while! At least until someone new comes along. The Harvest Festival is happening soon, right? Remember to write me about the food.

To answer your questions: Yes, we did manage to get the stain off the wall. I thought I was gonna get into trouble, but the vinegar trick worked. Thanks!

Also, yes, we can sell you some of the paper we use here. I think it’s 20 goldens for 50 sheets, but you’d have to come get them yourself or send someone.

How have you been? Anything new at work? When are you telling mom about your liqueur idea? I think you’d be great at it. How is mom, by the way? I miss her. I miss you both. I hope you can come soon.

Werner

I thought about all this. Mom and I rarely talked about Wes. It was a tender topic. I sat down to write my reply. When I had finished, I folded the letter and put it in an envelope. I would’ve liked to have written it in the morning. The post office was just outside the mall, but I hadn’t had time at all, what with trying to get Sarah to hurry up. I’d walk over there again one of these days. Maybe I’d even get another parfait. Having written my reply, I went back to doing nothing.

As I lay there, pondering something or other, I threw my water-ball up and down. It was a sphere made from transparent rubber. The water inside it seemed to have a mind of its own. It spun and whirred, it made little swirls and slow whirlpools on its own accord, unconcerned about the movement of the rubber outside it. I stopped tossing the ball and looked at it. It was a beautiful thing. I had never seen any others like it, although the movement of the water within it used to have more vigor. Looking past it, I saw the envelope containing the results of my magic testing. It sat on my nightstand, unopened. I looked at it for a long while. Finally, I lifted it, gave it a last look, and opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand to shove it inside, but something stopped me. A wooden box had caught my attention. I sighed, feeling the nostalgia wash over me and hating me for it. What had it been, now, six years? I put the box on my lap and opened it. Inside was a picture of a family. A man and a woman, shoulder to shoulder, smiling very wide, each clutching a toddler in their arms. The woman was holding a smiling, brown-haired boy. The man hugged a girl, her hair seemed to be purposely brushed off her face, but some had strayed out. She hugged her father’s arm where he lifted her, and smiled.

I lifted the picture and blinked the extra light off. Below it was a tiny wooden frame, a circle top window shape, with a wooden cross in the middle. The glass inside it shone with warm, soft light, and as I took it out with my free hand, I felt a bit of heat on my fingers. I blinked back some more, hoping not to tear up. I put the picture back in the box, got up, looked for a nail and a hammer, and hung the little window in a bare space on the wall.

I knew that Sarah was out with her boyfriend tonight, and I didn’t have any plans of my own with any other friends, so I pondered how I was gonna spend my night. I thought about trying to treat my mom to dinner with the goldens I got from the experiment, but I gave up on the idea quickly. I had been trying to convince her to take a trip with me to visit Werner, but she flat out refused to talk about my brother’s new life. That, and she and I almost never had dinner at the same time. I had dinner at around seven. She had dinner whenever she arrived, which could be seven, eight, nine, ten… It wasn’t unusual for me to fall asleep with her not having arrived. Perhaps I’d try… tomorrow.

I tried distracting myself with some of my old videogames, but something kept nagging at me. In the end, I got up, put my coat on, and headed outside.

While making my way to the outside of the neighborhood, I looked at the houses, they were all uniformly painted in browns and greys . I marveled at their boring, somber-colored, sometimes windowless front porches. They didn’t have any lawn, and very few people had potted plants outside. I had a single pot with chives planted on it. I used them in my cooking. No children lived in this neighborhood.  Perhaps one of our neighbors owned a dog? Not many lights were on. I even felt that the street lighting was bluish and cold, but none of my neighbors seemed to think so. I had asked around. I tried sniffing the air for signs of anyone cooking dinner, but no luck. I quickened my pace, wanting more than ever to get out of there. As I turned the corner outside the gates, I saw something that put a whole spin on my mood. It was an old man pushing a little cart, slowly making his way down the same road I was on. I could see it well ahead, what was clearly a magic lantern hanging from the top, its warm light reaching much farther than a normal lightbulb or firelight would. As I walked closer, I took notice of the details I loved most. The little roof, full of tiny hanging signs with the flavors of the broths, the mouthwatering savory smells, the tinkling of the bell that signaled the arrival of the cart. I caught up with the old man, and the soup’s steam moistened my face and delighted my nose.

-Are you gonna be around for longer, Mister Ed? – I asked, without greeting him.

-I’m gonna pull an all-nighter, young lady! – He said, smiling wide, so I could see the dazzlingly white teeth he had left. – I laughed at this, and so did he.

-Then I’ll join you in a bit! – I said while I waved my hand goodbye and made my way ahead, a smile on my face.

I neared the market, turned left to enter the alley, and then wavered. What if the promise didn’t…- now way. It always worked. Still, I decided to take a look at the grass houses first. Just to give it some more time. The neighborhood’s gate was open, a young man entering, briefcase in hand, looking tired.

-Daddy! – said a little boy who had been playing in front of a house, as he got up and ran to his father’s arms. The man lifted his son and spun him around as a way of greeting. When he stopped, he turned to look at the front porch of one of the houses, a pregnant woman at the door, a toddler holding her hand. The man walked to his wife, they kissed and went inside. I could hear the little boy rapidly talking about something I couldn’t quite understand, his voice trailing off as the family entered their house. As I walked around, I saw vibrant flower beds in the front porches, spied fruit trees on some backyards, almost every house’s inside alit. Dogs barked from the backyards, a cat or two meowed at me as I passed. I smelled the buttery scent of freshly baked bread, along with some dish I could put my finger on. I passed a tiny house styled the same as the rest, this one with a big backyard, and spied a little old lady tending to a vegetable patch, perhaps using the last warm nights of the summer on something useful. Two teenagers carried baskets and followed her as she picked tomatoes, beans, squash, and peppers off her vines, reached for apples, pears, peaches, and cherries off fruit trees that were no taller than she was. I realized I must’ve been staring for a long time. No one seemed to be paying me any mind. Not that I could see, anyway. As I was leaving, something caught my eye. A spot on top of one of the grass rooftops was lit up, but there was no lamp anywhere near, I turned around to see if it was the work of a kid with a flashlight. Nope. The light was just… there. Completely unmoving, illuminating a patch of grass. I thought about it for a little. Huh. Well, I’ll be damned. Someone here’s looking at a bright future. I thought. I turned back and headed to the Field of Lilies once again.

As I hopped on top of the lower rocks that made up the fence of the field, it struck me how much more beautiful the lilies shone under the moonlight. They seemed to move as one with the wind, their petals shimmering, dancing. A petal fell right off the lily I had my eyes on, I shuddered, but tried to shake the image away. I looked for the spot Sarah made her promise on. I spotted the little hole I had made on the ground and approached it. Sure enough, next to it stood a stem, not as tall yet as the other flowers, topped with a little bud, its unopened petals as white as any of the others, shinier, to me, than any of the rest.

 

I walked back home feeling relieved. The promises here always took hold, no matter how insignificant. I shouldn’t have been worried, but I guess I was feeling apprehensive. I approached my neighborhood, but as soon as I stepped near the gate, I smelled something. He did say he planned to pull an all-nighter. I walked up to the cart. I saw him standing there, looking as if he was waiting for me. He had a physique that told me he had been fit for his entire life. When he was still, he slouched a little bit, but when he walked, worked, or pushed his cart, his back stood straight as an arrow. I think that was what compelled me to approach him the first time I saw him. He looked like he had some stories to tell. His name was Edward, but I called him Mister Ed. He stood, slouching slightly, very close to where I had last left him, so he must’ve not walked very much at all. For a fellow his age that wasn’t strange, but you should see this guy on weekends. He could walk all along the district of lights from 10 pm to 5 am, waiting for people to come out of the bars and nightclubs, hoping to help them sober up before heading home, perhaps to have an early breakfast before heading straight to work after a night of drinking.

-Good night! – I greeted him, smiling.

-Good night to you, young lady. – He said, cheerfully – What are you having tonight?

-I haven’t decided, yet. – I said, feeling a bit ashamed, for I could’ve decided this while I had been walking. – What would you recommend?

-My family likes the Soy Broth. – He said at once, not even annoyed. – Children get it all the time, too.

-I haven’t tried that one, it sounds nice! I’ll have a bowl. – I said, excited. No matter what I got here, it was always amazing.

He pulled a lever on the back of his cart so the wheels wouldn’t move, and started unfolding wooden flaps inside the little cart: four of them from the bottom up, four of them from the top out. The ones on the bottom stood forming a 90-degree angle, at the perfect height to sit down and place your bowl. Still, Ed pulled the side flaps, so the other ones would all connect, forming an oval shape, instead of being four separate rectangles. The top flaps were folded slightly downwards, making a little canopy roof over the top of my head. 

-You didn’t have to unfold the whole thing, Mister Ed. – I said smiling, but feeling my face get warmer at the same time.

-Well, you like to see it, don’t you, young lady? – He said, paying no mind to my embarrassment, as he opened drawers inside the cart and pulled the lid off one of his broth pots.

As a matter of fact, I did like it. It was always a delight watching this guy unfold his cart up. He pulled flaps open, pulled down levers, clicked things in place. In the end, you were left with a table that surrounded him so he could serve customers all around him, and they could sit with enough space between them. It amazed me to think this tiny cart could morph into that big of a food-stand. When it was cold, the man pulled some more flaps hiding inside the four beams connecting the bottom and the roof of the cart and made himself little walls. He once told me the cold wind cooled down his broth, but I imagined his joints also thanked him for this gesture. On the other hand, his joints must’ve been strong. I’m guessing the cart wasn’t precisely light.

Before pouring my broth on a plate, the man handed me a fold-up chair. I set it up and sat at the table. He didn’t ask what I wanted on my broth, I always had every topping, and I knew he would’ve been borderline insulted if I didn’t get every single one. He didn’t say anything to other customers, but I could tell he liked it best when people asked for every topping.

He put my plate before me. The broth was a beautiful brown color, but you could see right through it, too. The soup had thick, shiny noodles that were a pretty shade of pale yellow. There were slices of marinated beef, pickled bamboo-shoots, lots of chives sliced so thinly they looked like rings made out of green hair, and a vegetable stir-fry made out of spinach, onions, soybean sprouts, ginger root, and a touch of spicy red peppers. On top of everything, after it was served, he crushed a garlic clove whole and raw with a tiny metallic press, the little swirls of garlic puree crowning the dish.

I thanked him and began eating with a pair of chopsticks and a spoon. It had been very funny watching my mom trying to eat with chopsticks the first time, but she had learned. I tasted the broth, it was savory and filled with a bunch of flavors I could taste but not see anywhere floating on the thing. I imagined it took hours and hours of boiling it to get it to taste this intense. The noodles were chewy and buttery, and I tasted egg yolks as I worked the texture. I could feel myself getting warm from the inside out.

Edward talked away about his life. When he had other customers, he asked them questions, first about the food and then about their lives. Some of them he left alone. But tonight it was just me and him, and I had told him just about everything I knew about myself. So I had started asking him questions. He liked to repeat things he had already told me a bunch of times before, but I didn’t mind. I liked to listen about his wife, the rest of his family, his grandchildren, his house, how he spent his days. I had never asked about his youth or his past in any way, and he had never told me anything about it, either, like most old people tend to do.

-Mister Ed, is there anyone magical in your family? – I blurted out, out of nowhere.

He glanced up at me looking mildly surprised, then turned back to what he was doing-Why do you ask, miss? – He asked as he chopped chives with a very sharp knife.

-Well, Sarah and I went to that magic-testing thing down at the Waterfall Mall, and they told Sarah she didn’t have any magic, but they thought she could have a magical kid.

-My grandkids wanted to go to that – He said – I told them to register fast, but they didn’t, and they missed the spots… – He went on. I was used to him doing this. When he wanted to ponder his answer, he didn’t go quiet, instead, he talked as he was doing his thinking. At last, he said: – Yes, my uncle and great grandfather were magicians.

-Oh. – I managed to say. – I thought maybe a magician would have a magical child easier than someone non-magical.

-Funny, huh? – He said. – My neighbors are a couple as magical as that bowl you’re eating out of, but they have a child with magic. They’re not sure what to do now. Of course, he has sponsors lined up already. They could probably pay for him to go learn upstate, but they’re not sure.

I felt a bit uneasy thinking about this, I know what he meant. Magical children were said to be a blessing and a curse. When a person had the chance to learn magic since childhood, they usually grew up to be upstanding magicians later in life. Children could master three or four spells a day, they absorbed the knowledge like sponges, and their curiosity made it easier for them to come up with new spells. Of course, that curiosity was exactly the reason people wanted to get them trained as soon as possible. A child meddling with fire magic they know little about can cause a really bad accident, so parents want them to learn the basics fast. It was rarely a money issue. Magical children tended to be few and far between, rare among magic-wielders in general, but magical schools came up with a plan to educate kids who didn’t have the means: Sponsors. A rich person can lay claim to a magician’s labor for a time if they pay for the education. The school made the kids and their parents sign a contract promising to pay in labor when they’re finished studying. When I first head it, I was horrified, I thought it sounded sinister. I later learned that it’s not too difficult to pay the sponsors back once you’re finished learning. Magic is expensive. It’s also very easy to get kids on the right track. If they learn the basics of controlling their powers, they’re not dangerous, and they can learn the rest  well enough off books, without any instruction or supervision. Most of the time. I imagined the only issue for this family would be deciding if they wanted to move upstate with the child or opt for a boarding school.

I thought about all this while I ate. I must have been deep in thought because the extra spoonful of chopped chives that dropped onto my broth caught me completely by surprise. I composed myself as best as I could and thanked Mister Ed. I always asked for extra chives when I finished all of my toppings, so lately, he just waited for me to finish and dropped them on my plate without asking. I love the flavor extra chives gave the broth. Sometimes, if I’ve already eaten dinner and I find Mister Ed outside, I’ll ask only for a bowl of broth and chives. Those are the only times he’ll let me off the hook for not wanting to eat every topping.

I finished eating, paid for my meal, and thanked Mister Ed. As I was heading home, I replayed on my mind what he had told me about magicians in his family. We’d known each other for three years. I made a point to always eat something at his stand when I saw him out. He’d told me all sorts of things about him, his family, and his day-to-day life. I never doubted anything he said. But as I walked the darkened sidewalk that headed to my house, I wondered if what he had told me tonight had been true.

 

Chapter 2

Miss Nelson had asked for less salt in her lentils.

I worked at the old folks home making breakfast and lunch. It was a bit of a hassle, but the perks were alright. I arrived five days a week at 6 am and left at 2 pm. I washed dishes, organized the pantry, planned meals, learned about nutrition, talked to relatives about what food was forbidden to each person (try as they sometimes did to beg for more dessert), swept the kitchen, and even talked to some of the residents when I had the time. But mostly I cooked. I used less salt, not too much fat, little sugar, lean meats, and came up with pretty boring results most of the time.

On top of that, Miss Nelson, who was one of our newest residents, insisted on changes to all of her food. She was an old woman whose spotless skin and shiny cheekbones told me she had cared deeply for her beauty all her life. I wondered if her skincare had been impeccable since her youth or if she was talented with makeup. Every single day she wore lipstick, rouge, and Lord knows how much else. She complained about every meal, every other resident, and insisted to be called “Miss”, even though it had been her sons who had put her in the home. I had been told she also complained about her health and tried to avoid almost everything she considered hazardous to it (except, of course, makeup). Not even boiled turkey breast without salt was good enough for this lady. I had spoken to one of her sons not two days ago, and he had told me her physio tests showed she didn’t have any condition that prevented her from eating a bit of salt. Indeed, she didn’t have any condition that would preclude her from eating anything. A lot of the residents had special dietary needs. Miss Nelson didn’t, and yet, she adhered to the rules of all of them. I had given up on tasting her food for flavor before serving it, seeing as flavor clearly didn’t matter to her. 

All in all, even though working here did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm for food, it wasn’t an easy task to go through five days a week. Making bland food was a grueling task anywhere, but here, in this town, with all of the amazing options, it made me feel a bit inadequate. Still, there were things I liked about this job. It was not far away from home, I got to take some of the produce if they’ve had had it for a while, and the hours were good for me, making use of my time in the morning (the fact that my eyes were wide open at five am had always astonished my mom and brother, or they would have, had my dad not been the same way). And, from two pm on, I had the whole day for myself. I could get ice cream with Sarah when she had her days off, go to the mall, take all the walks I liked, play videogames, and still have time to make dinner, which timing didn’t normally matter, as I, more often than not, was left to eat by myself. 

Today I decided to plan a nice dinner. I never knew when my mom would show up early, so I liked to make something a bit more elaborate every once in a while. So far, we hadn’t coincided once. Still, I resolved to manage it someday, so I headed towards the market. 

There were a couple of ways to go from the Old Folks Home to the market. Today, the weather was nice and clear, but it wasn’t too hot, so I chose the long, scenic one. This particular route took me through the front of the church, the neighborhoods in front of the fields, and even the local university. All in all, it was a nice activity for an afternoon. 

In this town, there weren’t really many big buildings, but the people were, more often than not, rather religious, so it wasn’t weird that the church cracked the top five of the big structures here. The town’s inhabitants weren’t shy or particularly prudish, but they did atribute many of their land’s better qualities to Mother Earth, a woman wearing a dress that reached just below her knees, her hands over her heart, and a wreath of flowers atop her head. Her statue was the one crowning the top of the dome that composed the roof of the church, which was in the shape of a polygonal prism, with huge arches for entrances, built out of grey concrete, with colored glass in the windows and murals in the domed ceiling. Before I came here, my father took the family to church with a certain regularity, but now that it was just my mother and me, church had become a thing of the past. Even if back then my mother attended church willingly with my father at her side, she hadn’t suggested for us to go in years, so much so that I wondered if she just did it to humor my father.

I moved along and made my way through a couple of neighborhoods filled with nice farmhouses. Behind them, you could make out the starting of the fields. Some of them had vegetables planted, other vineyards, others, still, fruit trees. Although all of the houses had those distinctive triangular tops and ample porches, each house had a different flair to it. For starters, no two of them seemed to be painted the same color. The people who opted for white walls painted their doors, windows, pillars, ceilings and front steps on bright tones of red, blue, yellow, pink (someone had painted all the details of their white house a different color, making for a pretty sight), others seemed to have thrown simplicity out the window (the lime green window sill on the bright purple house, to be exact), there was a house that was painted yellow with black details (was it a beekeeper’s house?), another one was painted bubblegum pink with hot pink details (I could picture some sort of crazy cat lady living there). Even though these people seemed to want to make their houses stand separate from one another, their gardens weren’t separated by fences, or at all. The neighbors simply seemed to know where their garden ended and the next person’s began. You could tell by the fact that some people had vibrant flower beds, others collections of porcelain lawn gnomes, frogs, flamingoes, and other decor; others still, just impeccably kept lawns, all of this seeming to come to an abrupt end marked by an invisible (but clearly noticeable) straight line. Here and there, I could see random flowers scattered in everyone’s lawns: Mostly, there were bright red roses with big, velvety looking petals, little clumps of daisies, their white petals surrounding a fuzzy yellow center, and white lilies that seemed to glow. On a lawn or two, I could see a mauve carnation, a yellow rose, azaleas, some dandelions. Right at the edge of the neighborhood, there was a house whose yellowed walls and chipped paint told me it had been cared for last a long time ago. In its lawn, a large green willow stood, its trunk crooked, leaning to one side, its hanging clumps of leaves casting a dark shadow that made the air beneath it feel cold and the ground look barren. The rest of the lawn was covered by dozens of black dahlias, and in the center of all of them, looking out of place and ominous, a lonely yellow rose. I always evaded looking at this house for long. It gave me a sad feeling, as if I were being drained of hope. 

I took a right turn out of the neighborhood and walked by the university. The building wasn’t too big, as not too many of the people living in this town usually pursued higher education. Teenagers graduated highschool (sometimes), and proceeded to start work at their family’s farm. If they had a flair for business, they sold the produce at the market or even studied external commerce. If they were good with numbers, they kept the finances or studied to be accountants. There was even a little art division, which I knew was where people learned to make all kinds of agriculture-related art. The town’s square boasted a statue of Mother Earth, as a woman wearing a toga decorated with flowers, in her arms, she held a basket of fruit, and vegetables grew in the ground at her feet; The sidewalks were sometimes lined with berry bushes; The tables at weddings decorated with floral arrangements that were more fruit than flowers: boasting random oranges, apples, pears, peaches, strawberries, and grapes, or even cut in elaborate ways or forming shapes of swans, turtles, deer, and other animals. That was art here. I liked it, but it was definitely peculiar. Sometimes, a really bright farm boy would enroll at the university and learn about the properties of this land’s wealthy soil. I knew that some of my favorite produce stands at the market were so well stocked thanks to the work of a couple of earth magicians who had enriched their family’s land even further and then left for something grander elsewhere. Everyone knew the university had one or two professors whose knowledge of earth and water magic (or alchemy, as it was called in the advanced stages, along with sorcery) was responsible for teaching the young minds of the community to enhance the already “eager” soil. However, if said young minds were any good at some other thing, they sought a shop around town who’d have them as low-paid help while they learned the craft as Sarah had done with one of the local seamstresses. A lot of the time, though, people left for the city, or for a bigger town. This had been the case of some of the friends I had made here. 

I walked slowly in front of the university’s lawn. It was bright green with its share of random flowers, and a bunch of dandelions, divided by a brick path right in the middle. At the center of each half of lawn stood a little fountain crowned with a statue of a tree that grew every fruit imaginable, at the far end sides, a row of different fruit trees, I could see yellow lemons, red apples, green apples, cherries, pears, oranges, and tangerines. None of the trees were taller than waist-height. 

As I approached the end of the building, I spotted a sign. I saw it and my attention got immediately drawn in, because the biggest word in the sign was “Free”.

FREE LECTURE

Is your neighbor’s grass always greener?

Are you tired of not reaping what you sow?

Do you wish to bring your family’s farm some renown?

Why not consider attending a free lesson in Earth Alchemy?

Taught by the world-renowned Alchemist Bayard Fischer…

I stopped reading at this point and pondered this. I’d heard of Professor Fischer. He was born and raised in this town, except for the time he went up to the City to get his Alchemy degree. I’d seen him in the market a couple of times.  If he’s really world-renowned, then the world must be a pretty boring place. Still… Ever since I got here, my plan was to continue working at the old folk’s home and use the rest of my time to start learning about flower liqueur, which was this town’s second-biggest business. I figured after I started learning, all kinds of ideas for liqueurs would come to me, but I had never been particularly bookish. I was 22 years old, so not precisely fresh out of high school, which meant I was completely out of practice when it came to sitting in a classroom., School had always been a bit challenging, as I needed to be on my feet and doing something to focus. Even listening to somebody while sitting down was a challenge sometimes. When I talked to the residents of the home, I liked to help old ladies with their knitting and cross-stitches, played chess and other games with the old men. There was this one lady who always wanted to bet, I had never once managed to keep her from taking my goldens. Still, maybe a lecture of this kind could teach me something I didn’t know for my future plans. Maybe I could come up with a crazy flower-hybrid that made booze twice as potent or something. I didn’t know anything about soil. I didn’t even know what I didn’t know. Maybe I’d ask a friend to come with me. With something on my mind, I kept walking.

 

In this town, subtlety seemed to go right over people’s heads where names were concerned. For starters, the place was called “Everlasting Bounty”, which seemed pretty on-the-nose to me. Although, the farms here did produce things year-round. So maybe it wasn’t much of a stretch. Still. The market was like a maze: corridors and narrow halls, all packed with stands whose produce stood stacked tall right up to the ceiling. It was called the Market of Plenty, and here, my dreams came true. No matter what the vendors sold, they always sold a lot of it. The fruit stands were mounds and mounds of fat, juicy, bright green pears, plump peaches that were yellow like the sun, shiny apples that were crisp and sweet, blood oranges so rich that you could quench your thirst with the juice of only half of one, its bright color intense and almost pearly, its flavor tart and sugary at the same time, and that wasn’t even the best part.

Mom and I moved to this town after my brother left for the order, and I was so miserable some days I felt like throwing myself out the window (had I had one). There are tiny stores scattered around our neighborhood: little places that sell big but ordinary fruit (that is to say, the fruit I already knew before coming here). I liked that the fruit was nicer, bigger, juicier, and sweeter, but that alone had not livened me up at all. I had met Sarah outside one of the bars on The District of Lights. I had gone there for a look because I couldn’t get a wink of sleep, and thought maybe the ambiance would serve as the pick-me-up I needed. After we found out we were neighbors, she had come around my house a couple times to say hello and talk for a little while, but maybe I wasn’t in the best friend-making mood. After finding out our shared enthusiasm for food, Sarah decided I needed to meet the Market of Plenty in person. The difference between the tiny produce stands scattered here and there around town, and the literal piles of food displayed at the market was uncanny. You can laugh all you want about how cheesy the name sounds (I certainly did not miss the chance), but they hit the nail right on the head. There’s something about the abundance of the place that made me want to live forever. Perhaps it’s just the desire to eat everything in my line of sight. Besides, the food here was so unlike any other that I couldn’t help but cheer up more and more each time I visited the market. I know I would have found it eventually, but I never really felt like I repaid Sarah for the favor of bringing me here when I needed it. Besides, the place was where we truly bonded. After we got to the market, I took one look at the exotic fruits on display (a lot of which I had never seen before) and ran straight at them. We spent that day walking around the stands, buying single fruits so I could taste them for the first time and eat them as we walked, talking about the kind of fancy dishes we wanted to try someday, flirting with the young vendors so we could get free samples (it always worked) and trying to haggle with ladies for price reductions on the liqueurs (it never worked, nor did flirting). At the end of that day, I felt like Sarah was the closest friend I had ever had. 

I liked to walk around town when I felt I needed to think something over, and, as I happened to spend an extraordinary amount of time thinking, I knew a lot of places by now, and had some I liked better than others. In truth, despite all the walking and thinking, I never got to any ground-breaking conclusions of my own about anything, but when I had to make decisions, I found it easier to do on a clear head.

I arrived at the market. I had never asked, but I imagined the place had been instituted inside a good-looking, once fancy, but unoccupied house. The building was two stories high, the first one square, the second topped by a ceiling in a triangular shape, similar to the farmhouses in town. What would’ve been the front porch was completely open, it didn’t have doors, precisely, it simply had no walls at the front. The only things to obstruct the entrance being four concrete pillars that supported the wide balcony on the second floor. The inside was curious. The building, although looking like a house, didn’t have any rooms, but was just a flat expanse of space, the floors covered with white mosaic. What really made it maze-like were the stands and stores. Every single shop owner had done something to outline their space. The shops that were positioned next to a wall could stack their produce against it in crates until they reached the ceiling; I knew from some of the vendors that a furious bidding war broke out the few times the shop owners that occupied one of the two corners in the back of the house left. Everybody seemed to think it was more practical than agreeing with their neighbor to erect a makeshift wall they could both take advantage of. The people in the center varied even more. Some used four poles that stood straight joined by a square shape at the top to make a structure in which they hung drapes. Others made a square counter on which top they displayed as much produce as they could, restocking from the crates put away below the counter. Others seemed to utilize ingenious combinations of two or more tactics, like putting a counter at the front, a wall at the back and drapes at the sides. This variety gave the place a sort of chaotic uniformity, and the stark difference between each place made it easier to traverse and learn.

Before coming to Everlasting Bounty, I had lived in a bigger town. There were two or three tiny markets there and a supermarket that had been all the rage for a couple of years after its inauguration. The shopkeepers in the market would greet you sometimes if you knew them, and didn’t mingle much with each other. The supermarket would’ve been ghostly quiet had it not been for the soft music playing in the back. Here in the Market of Plenty, though, music would’ve made this place a haywire auditory nightmare. It had been a bit of a shock the first time I came. Vendors screamed at you as you passed, taking fruits in their hands and showing them to you, trying to get your attention as they screamed about the produce that was in season, the prices they offered, and the sales. Written competition was also pretty common. Handwritten signs were everywhere, displayed in the way best suited for the structure of each shop. Either hanged, mounted on floor sign stands, or made into a picket-sign and skewered in a mound of fruit, made to stand by the spaces and weight generously provided by a mound of, say, velvet cherries. They were pretty fun to read, too. “Cheaper and better than the guy next door” and “Best deal in town” being the mildest I had found, but a lot of them used their ripe choice of swear words and slander. If the vendors weren’t trying to catch your attention, they were normally yelling at their neighbor or their help. Honestly, the first time Sarah brought me, I thought there was a riot. It took a couple minutes to understand that people just talked that way to each other here. The competition seemed fierce, but apparently, it was good-natured.

As I entered the market, the first thing I spotted were the mounds of blushing peaches on display at one of the fruit stands next to the wall. Different from most peaches I had known before, these were bigger, a size that caused bit of a strain on my hand to hold just one, uniform in color all throughout: a pale pink color on the outside, the flesh inside a more vivid shade of pink that darkened as it neared the stone inside, which was tiny and smooth. It tasted just as a normal peach did, if that peach in question was preserved in syrup, like the ones on the Street of Silver were. Their texture was smooth but firm, the feeling in your teeth and jaw very satisfactory as you bit into one. Next thing I saw were the coral apples. These were about half the size of a regular apple, but their skin was a sort of pale orange color, they were almost completely white on the inside, had no seeds, and lacked a bit of the tartness of a regular apple. The first time I had one, I remember thinking that it must’ve been made out of cotton. As you chewed it, you could almost feel it melt in your mouth. This made me smile. Coral apple season appeared to have started a bit early, I seemed to remember that they came in on early fall, instead of late summer. I kept looking, while the boy who manned the stand wasn’t calling clients out, as he was busy with some crates at the back. The dwarf-watermelons were still in, which surprised me, I imagined the season would have been over by now. These watermelons could fit easily in the palm of your hand, and you could bite right through the skin, which was paper-thin and was marbled in two tones of green, instead of striped. The seeds differed as well: Tiny enough that you could chew them (they provided a very nice crunch as you did), and the flesh of the fruit was never sandy in texture like some regular watermelons tended to have. It was just as juicy and a bit more tart, which made it more edible to my taste, because it balanced out the sweetness.

These eccentric fruits were the only things the land around this town couldn’t produce year-round. I could have a regular yellow peach any old time, and it would be just as good in spring or winter, but if I wanted a blushing peach, I had to wait until summer. This town produced all kinds of fruit. The farmers boasted that they could reap any fruit in the world from their land, and in any weather, too, but these curious delicacies that almost seemed perversions of nature were picky about their times to shine. Sometimes the season started early or ended a little late, the trees fruiting at times that surprised the farmers a bit, but when they started, they didn’t stop, and when they finished, that was that, until next year. Most of the time, I didn’t mind it. In spring, I busied myself making salads and snacks with the peas of the enormous green beans called snail beans, which featured three peas the size of a strawberry on each pod, and the plum greens, which were lettuces, were ironically either purple, wine, or black, and had a faint taste of spirits and a silky mouthfeel; in fall, when the chill started, I liked to use the syrup pumpkins and syrup potatoes to make pies, as the flesh of these beauties got sort of treacly when cooked and mashed, and held together beautifully as it baked, no need for sugar, but went a bit smokey when roasted, great for the contents of a bread casserole, and the cocktails made from the purple juice of the royal cranberry were exquisite. In winter, the most eccentric fruit options were out (if you didn’t like citrus, that is), but I could make some heartwarming stews with pixie cabbages, which were small enough to fit in your hand, but had pudgy, almost fleshy-thick leaves that tasted mild and savory, and the arrow carrots which came in in a variety of colors matching that of a rainbow were a bit bigger than my middle finger, and had a uniform, ample thickness all throughout (I didn’t get the name either). They were tender to cut and slightly sweet in taste. I juiced the red and purple ones to make broths and soups, which got tinged to an almost burgundy color, the yellow and orange ones I chopped and put in casseroles, soup or stew, I grated the green and black ones raw to put in potato or pasta salads, and the white ones I just ate as they were when I was craving a snack. Still, most of these tasty treats were so good I couldn’t help but crave them all year long. I guess that’s why there were so many preserves for sale in the Street of Silver.

-Hey Alv! – I called in my loveliest tone to the boy at the back of the stand.

-Thalia! – he called as the empty crate he had been trying to pile came crashing down along with a couple of others. I pretended not to notice and smiled at him as he rushed over, looking a bit embarrassed.  Alvaro was a thin boy of around my age. I figured he must’ve been 22 or 23. He was a bit taller than I was, with the brown skin of someone who spent a lot of his time out on the fruit plantations.

-W-What brings you here today?

-Oh, you know, just hunting down a couple of things for a nice dinner. – I said without taking my eyes off him while I running my fingers through one of the peaches.

-Well – He said quickly – the coral apple season just started, the peaches have been in for a while, but maybe you want something different? – he finished, tripping over all of his words, as if his courage would fail him if he didn’t speak fast enough.

– I’m thinking a blood orange and a blushing peach – I said, as I placed a hand on my cheek and looked at him as if he were the coral apple of my eye. He blushed.

-Just the one orange and the one peach? – He asked, surprised.

-The one orange, yes – I began – and the one peach… or two. – I said to him with a little wink.

-Oh, Liah… – He uttered, while scratching at the back of his neck, abashed -You know ma won’t like that…

-She doesn’t have to know! – I mentioned at the same time I tapped his nose lightly with my index finger.

-She counts all the fruit! – He exclaimed, apologetically.

-Oh, well. – I said, feigning resignation – Just the one peach and the one orange, then.

-You want a bag? – he asked.

-Uh-huh – I exclaimed, nodding.

-Th-That’ll be ten goldens – He whispered as if he were afraid of charging me. I tossed him the coin, he caught it and handed me my bag. – So… would you wanna go out sometime?

-Sure, Alv. – I giggled – Some other time – I said with another wink, turned around, and left. I could hear him telling me to call him. I made a gesture with my hand so he knew I had heard. When I was out of his line of sight, I opened the bag he’d given me. Inside was a blood orange and two blushing peaches. I laughed a bit to myself. Like shooting fish in a still-water barrel. I thought.

I liked to take my time in the market, so I nibbled on my peach as I walked around the stands, slowly. The flavor was so good that I didn’t care the juice was making my hand all sticky.  

I made my way in between the yelling and the friendly calls of my name, some of my friends offering me chunks of fruits on toothpicks. When I made my way over to Aislinn’s shop, I was content and had a handful of toothpicks.

Aislinn sold a variety of drinks: Powdered flowers and fruits for punch, teas of a bunch of varieties, infusions made with dried chunks of fruits and herbs, a couple of flower liqueurs whose recipes her family guarded most jealously, and oils infused with flowers, herbs, alliums or spices. The variety of mixes so wide they were sought after for cooking, massaging, putting in bathtubs, skincare or to use as perfumes. Most of these things were packed in nice looking crystal bottles, one or two of the more expensive items in a bottle that sparkled in different colours, floral designs etched in the crystal.  Aislinn was a fetching woman of around thirty, her heart-shaped face and pale ivory skin put me in mind of the people in the wealthier part of town. I could totally picture her growing up in a house with a ceiling made out of grass, fussing about the mud just like Sarah did. Her straight hair was the color of chocolate and was cut a bit short for my liking, the line always perfect, not a hair out of place, the hair on the sides reaching her jaw but shortening at the back. I always thought a different haircut would give her a less stern look about her, and compliment the natural light rosy tinge on her cheeks, but that was probably not what she was going for. I rolled back my shoulders and put on my most winning smile, I slid my arm on top of her counter, right in front of a bunch of jars filled to the brim with tea mixes, and leaned my face on my fist. 

-Hello there, Aisly! – I called in a silky voice. – Is there any tea?

-Hello, Thalia. – She said, intertwining her hands in front of her, her face serious as she turned to look at her overflowing tea-jars, her expression clearly not entertained.

-I am in need of some tea today, do any of these have a discount for me? 

–Any of these – she started, raising her eyebrows to let me know she wasn’t amused – have their prices listed on the jars.

-Oh, I was maybe thinking about getting something different – I tried to joke.

-Something different? – She said, slightly amused now – Like paying full price upfront?

-Uhhh… No. – I said while pointing my index finger at her – Like, how abouuut, you giving me a discount and me taking you out somewhere for coffee. Huh? – I wiggled my eyebrows.

-Oh, like I’m falling for that. The fruit boy hasn’t stopped giving you free stuff since you took him “out for coffee”.

-That was a party! – I started, but stopped. Another day, perhaps. I’m not winning this one today.

-Give me a hundred grams of the clover black, please.

-That’ll be 50 goldens. – She said, while scooping the tea into a little cloth bag. I paid and grabbed it.

-Oh, uhm, let me know when the cherry blossom liqueur is in. – I said, feeling a bit defeated.

-I’ll let you know, along with the price. – She punctuated.

Shot down like a fish in a still-water barrel, I thought.

I was thinking about doing away with the rest of the turkey breast Miss Nelson was too good to eat when a sign at my favorite butcher shop caught my eye: “Steak on sale, hurry up or I might eat it”. I approached, took a look inside the display and looked at the steaks. They were a vivid red color, and the marbling was intricate: The fat generous but dispersed in thin layers in a pattern that reminded me of roots.

The butcher, Harvey, made his way to me. He was a big man who towered over almost anyone in this town. I never asked, but I thought him to be around 35 or 40. He was powerfully built, with strong arms and a broad back that made me think he carried the animals to the slaughterhouse himself, one by one on his own two shoulders. His hair was a bit long, tied in a ponytail behind his head, with a grey hair here or there. He seemed unable to tan, as he was always either tomato-red, faintly red or somewhere in between. He had himself a pudgy belly that protruded a bit from behind his grease-stained (and sometimes bloodstained) white apron.

-Liah, Liah, Liah – He said while shaking his head – Does old Harv have to have a sale on steaks so that you’ll visit his store? – He finished, I laughed.

-Sorry, Harvey – I started.

-Call me Harv! – He interrupted to tell me, for what was probably the millionth time. It made me chuckle again. He had a little-boy-in-a-big-body kind of charm, but I always forgot to use his preferred nickname.

-Sorry, Harv – I started again – The home asked me take a bunch of turkey breast, I’d be lying if I said it has taken us just a week to finish it all.

– Agh! – He exclaimed, feigning disgust – I hate what they do to the people in that place. No beef, no pork, no fat, no salt – he stopped and put a hand on his chest, pretending to be shocked – No bacon! – We both chuckled.

– So why are these steaks on sale? – I questioned.

– Well, most of my customers like it here because the pieces are big! – He started – But look at these! The calf was small, and he hurt his leg, on top of everything. We had to butcher him before his time. – He sighed. – If I don’t manage to sell them soon I’ll cut them and toss them with the rest of the cubed meat. 

I looked down at the steaks once more. It was true. Two of them could’ve fitted in the palm of my hand. My mom and I didn’t eat much beef anymore. Maybe it would make for a nice surprise to leave her one in the fridge.

-Whatdya say, huh? -Asked Harv – If you take two, I’ll throw the third one for free!

-I think you got yourself a deal! – I said, excited.

A wheel of soft yellow cheese, a little clay pot of cultured butter (my mom called it “The expensive butter”), and some freshly baked bread later, I waddled my way across yet more free samples (it would’ve taken less time had I not accepted every single one). I was walking down the front steps to leave when I thought that, what with the steaks and all, a salad could be in order. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to go back inside. So I decided to pay a visit to the Vegetable and nuts stand.

One of the coveted stands at the back belonged to a squat lady called Arabella, who had brown skin, a broad frame, a round face with puffy bags under her eyes, white, even teeth, and long, black hair she liked to tie up in all sorts of buns. Today’s hairdo seemed to be a cross between a braid and a bun. I always tried to make a mental note to budget before visiting her.

-Hello, Liah, honey – She greeted me sweetly when I approached – Have you tried the honey walnuts yet?

-N-Not today, Mrs. Bella – I said, feeling myself go rigid.

-Frank!! – She bellowed at her husband, who was at the back – Bring me the crate!!

Here we go… I thought, resigned, and smiled. The crate was a wooden box with samples of what I imagined was every nut that had ever existed, divided neatly in rows and columns. I thought the it would’ve made for a fantastic Tea-Box, but filling it with nuts made it this lady’s pride and joy.

-Here, honey, try the walnuts. And the cloud cashews. – She told me as she opened the crate and kept going after I sampled each.

– Urr – I tried to say it between a mouthful.

-No, no – She replied – Have some of everything before you decide. The habanero peanuts sell out in a flash, you wouldn’t wanna miss them!

I swallowed and laughed. This lady knew how to make you spend your goldens. – I’ll take two hundred grams of cashews, then.

– Two hundred grams of cashews and two hundred of walnuts? – She said, slyly.

I tried to glare at her, but I’m guessing the effect was muddled by the giggles.

I spent a good ten minutes trying to haggle my way out of buying every nut this woman had in her crate. I’m guessing that’s where she made the gold and silver, because no matter how much she insisted, it was kind of hard to make a person buy ten stalks of butter broccoli, especially if they didn’t need them. Nuts were easier. And pricier.

The way vegetables were displayed in this stand was incredible. Ms Arabelle had her produce arranged in a very peculiar way that made it look abundant and very attractive, but tidier than it did in other shops. She had made a slope out of wood and had nice-looking open-top boxes leaning against it. Inside, the vegetables were arranged like puzzles: the pieces looking up, down, right, left, diagonal, what have you. She always made sure to leave no blank spaces. That way, she didn’t limit herself to displaying only the biggest pieces. It was very convenient for occasions like this one, when I wanted to make a nice dinner for one, maybe two. 

When I had gotten everything I needed for my salad, plus a little extra I couldn’t worm my way out of, I paid and got ready to leave, but Mrs. Bella stopped me.

-Hey hon, why haven’t I seen you here with a boy before? – She asked.

Because I wouldn’t meet with one here. I thought. – I don’t know, I think I’ve got no time to be thinking about dating, y’know? – I answered.

-Oh, well, you know, my boy Jared seems to have a little crush on you, and we always welcome help at the shop…

I didn’t really know what to answer to this. Jared wasn’t really my type. We had talked at parties and at Harvest festivals, but he really hadn’t made much of an impression on me.

-I’ll keep it in mind – I told her, trying to sound cheery and grateful.

With that, I thought, I had finished my shopping for the day.

It wasn’t dinner time yet, but my iced tea was cooling down, my salad ingredients were all pre-cut awaiting the dressing, the bread was in the turned-off oven, ready for when I might be, and the steaks were in the fridge being steaks. I always liked to do those last, as they were the easiest. I looked at the time, realized it was early for dinner, and went up to my room.

I sat on my bed and was about to fire up a videogame to pass the time when a cold feeling crept up my spine. I had almost managed to forget about it. I turned around and looked at my bedside table. On top of it, was the envelope containing my Magic Test results. I stood there and stared at it, blankly. It stared back. I sighed and grabbed the top of my head with both hands, exasperated. I paced the room. It was alright. I was ready to know. The result didn’t really matter because I had a perfectly good plan for my life. I did. After having visited the market and the Street of Silver a couple of times, I had seen and tasted the flower liqueurs whose exportation my mother had been hired to oversee. I thought I liked them, and perhaps, in the future, we could export my own together. It was a good plan. My mother had found my job at the old folks home for me before I got around to telling her I wanted to search for a job at the liqueur shops. To this day, I still hadn’t told her, but the idea kept brewing in my head. Pun intended. So it didn’t really matter whether I had magic or not. I wouldn’t become a magician even if I did have magic. I would have to move or travel to learn, mom would probably not come, and she would be left all alone. What would she do then? Anyway, it was way too much work. This way was better. With that conclusion out of the way, I took the envelope, opened the drawer at the bottom of the bedside table, and shoved it in there. I sighed and laid down on my bed.

I tried to think about something else. About my dinner, or work, the market. I even thought I could call up Alv. But I just ended up laying there, looking at the little sunlit window I had hanged on the wall. The light inside it was very soft. It hardly illuminated stuff an arm’s length away. The thought made my eyes feel itchy and wet. I sat down, reached for the wooden box in the open drawer and took out the picture. I stared at the little family for a while. I thought about the times my father and I had spent together. When I was little, he taught me to always go to him when I woke up early in the mornings (which was almost every day), instead of going to my mother, who was normal and asleep at 6 am. He would take me out for walks or to ride my bike, or sometimes down into his workshop, and I would look at him as he worked. He made all kinds of things. Little toy soldiers with lanterns that never went out, glass frames filled with moving water and sand in the bottom and a tiny toy boat floating, sailing the currents, sculptures of hands made of earth that would later sprout grass and flowers, he’d call them the hands of mother earth. Sometimes, when he was finishing something pretty, he would sit me on his lap so I could see exactly how he made things. One morning he took some scraps of wood and nailed them together, in a circle top shape,  a cross in the middle. He sanded the edges and glued glass to the back. He cut another piece of glass in the same shape and framed that with a wooden structure too, no cross in the middle. He glued them both together, one on top of the other. I remember thinking it looked like a cross between a fish tank and a window. When he had finished all that, he went to the door, opened it and stood outside for a little while. It was sunny already by then. He came back inside and sat me on his lap so I could see. All these years later, I could hear him in my head as he touched the window with his handful of light and pushed that light inside the space he had created in the little window, exhaling as he told it: “Still”. He then held it up so I could see the finished thing. It was so bright it dazzled me, but laughed and clapped nonetheless with my tiny hands. 

It had been a couple of years since I had spilled tears by thinking about my dad. Most of the time I tried to live my life as best I could. And, the thing is, most of the time, I succeeded. I got up early, showered, made my bed, ate breakfast, went to work, bought groceries, did my chores, met with friends, went to parties, played games. I was fine. Perfectly fine. But that hole in my heart had never filled back up again. When I was still and took a look at what was inside, I felt it. I felt a lump on my throat that I couldn’t get rid of. I felt empty and powerless. I felt like I had lost him all over again, the wish of hugging him and talking to him and hearing his voice and his laughter was all I could think about for a brief second. Then, I would compose myself. I would do as I always did: wipe off the tears, take a deep breath, wash my face, and powder the redness down if necessary, because it was fine, just fine. This time, though, I couldn’t. I looked at that little window with difficulty, through very wet eyes, its light diminishing more and more with each passing year. It was about to go out for good. Just like he had. And the fact that I probably couldn’t do anything about it, was eating me alive. I didn’t need to hear those bad news.

Perhaps a good cry was exactly what I needed to pass the time, because, suddenly, I heard my mom walking inside the house.

-Thalia, honey! You home? – I heard my mom call.

– I-I’m here! – I stammered as I tried to wipe off the tears. I looked at the clock in my room. 7 pm. She was home early. I went to the kitchen to greet her.

– You’re early! – I said, trying to sound a bit better than I felt.

– Yeah! – She said, as she looked in the pantry for something. – I was thinking that maybe I could make something nice for dinner if you were home.

– You don’t say… – I said, as she approached with a can of tomatoes in her hand. She took a glance and my face and gave me a look.

-Did you cry, baby? – She asked, concerned.

-Yeah, a bit… – I said, without much enthusiasm. I had a lot of things I didn’t tell my mother anymore, but this was something we could both understand, as I had caught her doing some crying of her own lots of times. We rarely talked about why we cried. Lately, though, I felt like she cried about my brother, more than she did about my father. She hugged me. We had a bit of an unspoken agreement. If I didn’t tell her what I had cried about, it probably had been about my dad. Or at least that’s what I thought she thought.

-Oh, Liah, baby. – She said, in a sweet voice that told me she was doing her best to comfort me as she approached and hugged me. – What if we have something nice to eat tonight?

-I made something nice. – I said, feeling a bit more enthusiasm through me. – I have cheese bread and iced tea, salad, and there was a stake sale at the market…

-Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have! – My mom said, although, I could see she liked the menu. – I don’t like you spending your money like that, baby, there’s food at home!- She finished, sounding seriously concerned for my finances. I laughed.

-Mom, I’m doing fine! – I said, chuckling. My work was, after all, full-time. Early as I clocked out, I did work eight hours, I didn’t even get much of a lunch break. And my mother knew that, too. Still, she liked to cover the costs of the food, the cleaning supplies, the water, the gas, the phone… I was lucky if she ever let me take her out for ice-cream. I sometimes tried to buy things and put them in the pantry without her noticing, but she always did and would sneak money into my wallet when I slept. While this did leave me with a good chunk of pocket money and savings, it made me feel a bit odd. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

-Well, I’ll warm up some pasta. – She said, when she had felt me sufficiently comforted.

– Mom! Don’t! – I protested – I made enough food!

-I know, baby, but I wanna finish the pasta in the fridge before it goes bad! – She explained herself. I knew better than to argue. Try as we might, neither Wes, nor me, nor the two of us combined, could do enough before dinner time so that mom just arrived at the table and sat down. She always had to do something. Chop up fruit, make something to drink, reheat leftovers, whip up a quick dessert. She always found an excuse to keep herself occupied. When she was off work she would sweep, vacuum and mop the whole house. She dusted shelves, re-arranged the pantry, cleaned out the fridge, did laundry, straightened her closet… She was always fretting about something that apparently needed to get done. She also relentlessly complained about being tired and her shoulders aching but would act borderline grossed out at the idea of spending a whole day resting. I had tried to help around more than I thought necessary, but figured it was no use.

We sat looking at a very nice dinner table. There was warm bread baked with cheese butter and fresh chives, a salad made of chopped spinach with some nuts, raspberries, mango, goat cheese, and honey-mustard dressing; iced black tea sweetened with blood orange syrup and chunks of blushing peach, the tomato pasta we had had the night before, and the steaks, which I cooked in garlic butter and seasoned with a good sprinkle of pepper. I couldn’t help but think that my dad would’ve loved it. He was just like this town. He never did anything halfway. He laughed heartily at jokes he found funny, he worked like a mule when he did and rested comfortably when he didn’t, his workshop was full to burst with little experiments, his fridge was stocked as if for the apocalypse, his pantry full of things we might someday perhaps need, and, most notably of all, he liked a banquet each time we sat at the table. He would chop pounds of fruit for breakfast while my mother made eggs, he would butter bread until it was more butter than bread, he’d juice so many oranges we had orange juice for breakfast, orangeade for lunch and orange tea for dinner. On Sundays, when I would pace restlessly all over the house at six am, he’d take me with him to a diner he used as a breakfast place, where the employees already knew him as “The guy who has dinner for breakfast”. He would order a menu very similar to this one: steaks, boiled potatoes (or baked, or mashed), steamed vegetables with cream cheese dressing, garlic bread, lemonade with chopped strawberries… I’d always be shy about it, but he knew I always wanted dessert, so instead of asking “Do you want dessert, Liah?”, he would say “What dessert are we getting today, babygirl?”. Sometimes we would eat so much we’d skip Sunday’s lunch and dinner, instead opting for a light snack before I went to bed.

-You got mail. – My mother said, interrupting my train of thought. Without looking up from her food, she handed me an envelope made out of thick brown parchment studded here or there with little pressed flowers or leaves: Monastery paper. It was another letter for Wes.

Wes and I had corresponded ever since he arrived at the Monastery. He had spent more than three years there, and I guessed he was ready to accept being inducted. People were welcomed to spend time living there and learning the ways of the Monks. How long they were allowed to be there without being inducted varied. A lot of people without homes visited the places to have a warm bed and enough food for a while, but they eventually had to be asked to leave. However, the Monks had meetings every so often to talk about the people who hadn’t been inducted yet. If the majority felt a person had ulterior motives, they were asked to leave, but if it was widely believed that they didn’t, and were there for valid reasons, they were allowed to stay. I don’t know if there was a time limit for a person to choose to be inducted, but Wes told me one of the Monks he knew had lived there for ten years before he took the leap. Moreover, Wes’ three years didn’t really count as such. He had arrived at 19, but the youngest a person could be ordained was 21. Younger people were permitted to live there and learn about life in a Monastery, but they weren’t considered sensible enough to make the big decision until they were 21 or older.

-Mom – I said, suddenly while looking at the envelope – When are we gonna see Wes again?

Mom tensed up. -If your brother wants to see us, he knows where we are.

-But… mom. – I tried to sound soothing – There’s not even a room here for him to stay in.

-We can get him a room in town. – She said coldly – Or he can stay with one of the neighbors.

-That sounds harsh, mom. – I said, feeling my throat tighten. – I just wished we could make him feel supported.

-Well, I don’t support it. – She said, raising her voice – I don’t support your brother going to the mountains, abandoning his family when we needed him, to live like-like a brainwashed slave! 

Frankly, I hadn’t expected anything different. Mom and I had had this conversation before. She was, at the same time, convinced that my brother couldn’t have possibly left of his own free will, and furious with him for having done so. The trip wasn’t a long one either. The Monastery was about an hour’s detour from the nearest city, which was two hours away by high speed train. Yet, my mother had never agreed to go.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to get up and raise my voice just like she had, to tell her that just because she had birthed him, Werner didn’t owe her his life, but I didn’t. I was sure absolutely nothing good would come of it. So I sighed. – Okay, mom – I said, and took my plates to the sink.

Silhouette

I was in highschool when I met you. You had those brown eyes, that straight hair cut just above the shoulders on a perfect “V”, and a little spot just above your right eyebrow that shouldn’t have been attractive, but was. You were the kind of girl who was almost always smiling, or laughing. That kind of girly girl that always smells like a cupcake. Your wits were not your highest feature, but you were kind, and unselfish. And we were both cheerleaders. And you were one of my first friends in the squad.

The cool thing about the girl’s locker room was that my boyfriend couldn’t follow us in there. And, it felt weird at the time, how I just wanted to be near you. How i wanted to hug you and inhale deeply. At the time, I didn’t know.

But there we were.

I had seen you change a dozen times before, but that day something was different. That day we were completely alone and I had the chance to get a good look at… well, not much, actually. But it was.

If I try to recall it, it baffles me how I’m not still there, frozen in that moment when you took off your shirt and my breath left me as I saw your back. You were wearing a black bra. Nothing fancy, or sporty either. Just this nice, simple black bra, against your caramel skin, marking your tiny, curvy silhouette. I can still see it… It’s tattooed on my retinae for life. The way you took of your shirt, and time slowed down as you lowered your arms in front of your body, gently, and posed them on your lap.

And for the next few moths I saw it anytime. The picture that you painted: how I imagined myself tracing a finger through the left side of your body, starting on the “V” cut of your hair and the way it didn’t touch your shoulders, making an emphasis on that shape you had, passing through that simple black bra and your tiny waist and those big hips, remembering how that imaginary line just went up and down like the most hypnotic landscape.

I’d go to bed and I couldn’t sleep because I was busy reciting the picture in my head, like some wordless mantra: The “V” cut of your hair and the shape of your shoulders, and your black bra, and your tiny waist, and your big hips and the “V” cut of your hair, and the shape of your shoulders, and your black bra… And the first time I touched a girl, I traced my finger over the left side of her body. And I thought of you.

That won’t do.

I’m looking up at the ceiling, the smell of your hair is filling my nostrils as a sharp pain overtakes me. You know I hate it when you bite my chin, and still, you do so with all the strenght your jaw can muster.

As the usual cold tears start rapidly running down my face, you put your hand over my nose and mouth to muffle my screaming. The humidity of your palm invades my mouth and I start choking on my own tears. You don’t care. You go on, entering mercilessly, as if marked by the compass of my painful whining.

This goes on and on, and my thoughts start to drift away. They have  habit of doing that. The first few times you raped me, I couldn’t help but live in the horrible moment. All I could do was feel the cutting pain of you entering me against my will, again and again; all I saw was that sadistic, selfish expression on your face, marked by those dead eyes that told me you didn’t even flinch at the thought of hurting me. Now, my mind blocks the pain and retreats to a place where it can think different things: the first one is almost always “somebody help me. Take him away. Please”. But after a while of knowing quite well that won’t happen, I gleefully skip and twirl at the thought of standing over your fucking corpse.

How dare you? – I’ve stopped crying – How dare you lay your fucking body on top of mine? – My expression goes blank – How can you possibly think of saying “I love you” anymore? – I fall completely silent – How dare you even try to blame me for being a neanderthal, you narcissistic waste of space and oxygen? – And you stop. You sped up before you loose your erection, because I’m not suffering anymore. I’m not wishing for you to stop and treat me decently. What I want is for your body to rot unburied, with flies gnawing at your skin and worms eating their way through your unfeeling eyes. And you know it. So you stop.

I get up and lock myself in the bathroom, losing my mind over my own reflection. Trying to find out at what’s left of a person when their dignity is taken from them by force. An hour later, I come out and you have the nerve to still be there: hands locked over your lap, trying to look like a guilty dog. But I can see through those eyes. There’s not an ounce of guilt more than what you know you should be feeling. And that won’t do.

I should have known.

I guess you knew my exact type before you had ever met me, because, after we were over, girls like me have been the only thing on your plate. It angers me to know you got your wish: you left a mark on me that can’t be removed to this day, but at least I got in a good shot too, since you apparently regret what you did to me, and hard. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Before we were acquainted, I was an immensely shy and insecure girl. I could try and guess why that used to be, given the fact that both my parents raised me in a loving environment. We could say that, never fitting in with the tomboys or the “butterflies” at school, I’ve always felt out of place. That’s about it, really. There’s no point in elaborating.

My whole history after I met you is plagued with “I should’ve knowns”. The very first day I met you, you started demeriting me and my friends for stuff that wasn’t really a fault of our own. Then, after a long while of this, you suddenly shifted and started handing out praise. I should have known by then, but I didn’t.

Then, you slowly made your way into my every day life, critizing your way to my weak spots and flirting your way into my head. I had never had a boyfriend before, and had not even kissed anyone, either. In hindsight, that shoul have been pretty obvious for that trained out of yours. You were miles more experienced than I was. I should have known.

And then, one sunny afternoon, you simply went ahead and kissed me, after having made me feel like I would never get a kiss from you. You knew it was my first kiss and nonetheless you did not slow down. After a little while, your hands had already started venturing places, making me feel uncomfortable, but you brushed it off as if it was no big deal. “That’s what couples do”, you said. I should have known.

Even as early as a few weeks into our relatonship, the crack on your image started appearing. There was the sweet you: the one who’d walk me home from school while holding my hand. The one who’d kiss my forhead after a long goodbye kiss at my door. The one who’d listen and comfort me when I needed it. Then there was the condescending you, whose mocking smile I’d later grow to hate over every other awful thing you’d do. The one who’d point flaws and break appart what little self-confidence I could manage to gather. That infuriating you who’d hold everything I did under the light of your supposed superiority, while saying in a paternal tone: “you’ll get there someday. Don’t worry”. At last, the silent you. The cold shoulder you used to give me when, in any way, I strided from the person you thought I should be; the blank look on your face when my resistance showed cracks; I’ve never felt as alone as you made me feel when you showed me a little peak of the black hole that is your soul. I should have know.

Through kindness, sweetness, manipulation, lies, betrayal, praise, charm, excuses and a bit of violence, I quickly morphed into a girl that was nothing if away from you. Everyone knew, and I should have too.

I lived in a frenzy of nerves, keeping my eyes glued to my phone in case you texted and wanted me to call you right away, but I could also wait for days on end wanting to hear from you, wasting my time while you came out of your “cave”, and I’d better watch out for the storm of your temper if I wasn’t at your beck and call by the time you decided to pay attention to me. I became so terribly dependant on you. I lost so much weight and still you’d call me fat and laugh. My skin became yellow. My hair fell out. My eyes were fixed on a permanent state of redness and puffiness from the crying. I cried so much and I can’t even remember why. And this was only the beginning.

Ghost

You were never really near and never really away.
You never really left, but you never really stayed.
You neither came, nor went, but you drifted, like the air.
Just as invisible. Just as thin and and sof and sweet.
Just as cold.

You didn’t expect, or demand anything.
You stood there and took what was offered, no less,
but from time to time, a slight bit more.
A bit more than I could give you,
A bit more than you deserved.

Because the time made me realize,
just like that much else,
that you, who truly never came in,
you, who never truly stayed,
could have loved me, could have not,
could have used me or cared for me,
or yearned, or wanted, or longed.
It doesn’t truly matter,
in the end, it amounts for much the same.

Don’t let go

I feel her breathing against the back of my neck. The moist warmth wakes me up. Her arms are around my waist. She must be awake as well, I think she felt my breathing change when I woke, because she moves my wrist and secures it with the cuff in one of the bed posts. I roll until I’m face up and I look at her. She has that hunger in her eyes… I stretch my one limb that is still free: my left hand, and caress her face. I burry my fingers in her hair. I didn’t even notice when she bound my ankles. The rest of the room starts to come into my field of vision. There’s a black carpet, and the walls are a very light pink. From the bed I can see the tiny window that is obviously there to let in some fresh air. I’m sure that, if I screamed, someone would hear it. I never have.

-What am I on today, again? – I asked while rubbing the sleep out of my eyes with my free hand.
-Opium, dear.- She says calmly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
-Right. It’s nice. I feel so relaxed…
-Yeah, I noticed – She gives me a naughty grin while grabbing me from between my legs. -I didn’t even put viagra in your food last night, and look at that! – Only now am I coming to realize the magnitude of my erection.
-Perhaps I could get used to this – I smile while she starts to take off her clothes. -Could you untie my arm? I want to take off your blouse myself.
-How could I say no when you ask so nicely?

As I undo the laces on her pajama bottoms,  look at her hipbones, and run my thumb over one of them. She smiles. I sit up and embrace her. Her legs wrap around my waist. She sits on my lap. I kiss her. She pulls my pants down to just over my knees, i take hers off. I’m inside her in a heartbeat. he moves slowly. Rythmically. Something about it reminds me if the ocean, of the waves. Perhaps it’s just the opium. I think I noticed when she injected it this morning. 

This is us. We eat. We sleep. We talk. We make love. She goes out and makes money, God knows how. I swallow whatever she gives me and I stay here and hallucinate.

This is what we agreed on. We always talked about this. Always thought about leaving our old lives, as fine as they were. And then, one day, I woke here. I was tied to this bed, hands and feet. She was asleep beside me. At first I thought something had happened to her. To us. It only took a second to realize that she wasn’t bound at all. Something came over me. I woke her up. She told me she was tired. The whole move had taken everything she had. She unbounded me. I didn’t run. I stayed and made love to her, as hard as I could. And then we both slept. I don’t know how long it’s been. I can tell time by the light of my tint window. It’s not like I care much, though. Perhaps a couple months. Perhaps more.

Maybe someday I’ll go out with her. Maybe someday I’ll find out where my new life is taking place in.

In my heart I know you’re gone, but in my head…

Yesterday I was passing through your neighborhood. Many memories came back to me. Memories of the time we spent cuddling after making love. Memories of the ocasions when I needed a hug or encouraging words, and you were always there to give them to me. 

Suddenly, your face was all there was in the world. Suddenly your voice filled my ears like you were standing beside me. Your smell came back to me as if you were in the same car. Your face was in my mind over everyone else’s face. I could picture no one but you. 

All those times you told me I was special. All the time we spent together. All the arguments and late night phone calls and hours in the bedrooms and visiting your family… And I was left wondering how and why you never loved me.

The poems I never wrote

She was surprised to see his name pop up on her phone screen. He never called her, ever. The only talked over text messages. They had for a year, since the time they met, and all that shit happened between her, him and his best firend. He was a haunted guy, a bit tortured, but he was good.

For a year they texted for days on days, hours on hours, and then, on ocasion. Never missing a week, or apologizing when they did. She eventually came to admit her love. He never admitted more than attraction. Never opened himself, never dared risk it. He was a mistery.

So she stared for a couple of seconds at her cell phone, clearifying, making sure this was no trick of her eyes. When she was sure, she picked up without hesitation.

– Hello?

– Hey.

– What’s wrong? Why are you crying?

– I, I, I need you, I need someone, but I don’t want to talk about it.

– It’s ok, you don’t have to tell me.

So they met on the street they walked on their only night together, a long year before. He wasn’t crying anymore. He was not willing to talk about it, and she accepted it. And they walked and walked until the moon was well in the sky, and the stars had showed themselves. When she laughed about… nothing, really, he looked into her eyes. Those eyes that seemed just like everyone else’s, and seemed like nothing he had ever seen. Those eyes that could look straight into his soul and make him open himself up without even noticing. How could he forget that? He never saw those little brown eyes on the texts. They didn’t sparkle in the pictures.

– This can never happen.

– I know. You don’t have to repeat it. You’ve made it clear enough.

– As much as I would love it to, I can’t. I won’t… But I want to. I just don’t want to be with you for a second and then go back to pretending we’re just buddies. It’s unfair, it’s cruel.

– Look me in the eyes. No, look. Whatever happens tonight, it’s more than I had ever dared hope. If you want to share this night, it will be ours. Yours and mine, only. And tomorrow will come no matter what, but we’ll have tonight.

So they shared a bed. He was trying to be strong, but when they got there, he cried, and cried, and she held him in his arms while they lay on the bed. She caresed his hair and said nothing, and when his crying became little sobs, she sang for him, as she had a thousand times before, over those little audio notes.

♪♫ Oh, I’ve loved you from the start, in every single way. And more each passing day. You are brighter than the stars, believe me when I say it’s not about your scars, it’s all about your heart ♪♫

– There are thousands of things I’ve left unsaid, but tonight I want to say them. One by one. Word by word. Letter by letter. With my lips on your skin. I want you to hear the things I never said, they’re on the tip of my tongue, and I want you to feel them…