Eyewitness Report
Recap
If you’ve missed any of the previous chapters in the Christmas Market Mystery:
Stall #1- Mark Crutchfield
Stall #2- Moll Moonlight
Stall #3- Anna D.
Stall #4- Muirae D Kenney
Stall #5- AsukaHotaru
Stall # 8 Hawtorn V. Rabot
Christmas Market Stall #14
Soft music breathed from beneath Stall #14, iridescent and floating like a fragment of a forgotten lullaby on the frosty night air. The music could not be heard in the hustle and bustle of the Christmas market; not with ears clogged by smells, carols and chatter. It was heard with the heart. A haunting melody, luring the chosen from the opening gates to the closing gates.
They were pulled by the soul’s compass, navigating the crowd in search of the melody’s source, trying to fill a hollow space within themselves they hadn’t known was there.
Stall #14, was never truly anchored. Its formal location on the Market map was by the old fountain at the market’s heart, but it seemed to drift like mist around that fixed point. The fountain itself was a silent, stone war: cherubs with frozen smiles wrestled by grinning demons over a cascade of water that fell like a thousand silver needles.
Those not meant to find the stall heard only this water music, a gentle tinkling over the miniature celestial battlefield.
Once found stall 14, its true nature and that of its keeper; would materialize. The stall was a mirror of their heart’s deepest language, and no two seekers saw it quite the same.
To a soul seeking simple comfort, it appeared as a humble trestle table draped in velvet, scattered with orbs that gleamed like polished marbles. Its keeper was a kindly grandmother, impossibly tall and thin, swathed in layers of cable-knit wool, her smile as warm as a hearth and her blue eyes holding the patience of a long winter.
To a spirit burning with raw desire, the stall shimmered like a mirage. Its merchandise was not globes but jagged crystals, reflecting the light from nearby lanterns into dazzling, chaotic sparkling spears. The keeper was a youthful, effervescent creature in silks that rippled like a fairy’s wings old and bright like colors of the sun.
Then to a mind in pursuit of profound, formidable knowledge, the stall presented itself as a solid oak bench groaning under the weight of ancient, leather-bound tomes, their pages edged in tarnished gold. The keeper here was a woman with a powerful presence, round and grounded, her hands capable, her gaze a fierce, unblinking probe that seemed to read the need before it was even spoken.
Nights passed. Stall #14 remained invisible, a patient absence. It did not fret or force its call. It simply waited, as formless and watchful as a gathering mist, for a wish potent enough to give it shape—for a soul ripe with consequence. Guests walked the cluttered lanes of stalls, but the call was left silent, as no hearts in need filtered through the gates.
On the fifth night, a shift within the Market occurred. Not a sound, but a scent whispered across the frosty air, night-blooming jasmine with an ozone crackle of a spark. It was the fragrance of romantic fervor, sweet and dangerously naive. The air beside the battling fountain began to shimmer, not with light, but with a subtle haze, like the visible breath of a spell. From this haze, the first silver strings of the stall’s melody materialized, plucking at the one heart attuned to its frequency.
He was a young man with windswept auburn hair and eyes like luminous tiger’s-eye. Purposefully he strode through the front gates with a lover’s determination. In his mind he though only of his believed calling an image of her. In his heart, he held a blazing, uncomplicated need to prove his devotion. He was a perfect seeker. As he moved deeper into the lanes, the haze by the fountain thickened, swirling, preparing to manifest.
He walked the lanes unsatisfied with any trinket he saw. The earrings were too gaudy, the purse not colorful enough, the perfume too strong. Nothing fit his preference, nothing was the perfect gift. He moved along searching, seeking. He heard a soft music and wondered what stall that was. He gravitated slowly towards it, until he found himself somehow in the middle of the market.
His gaze caught the sight of a small table next to the celestial fountain. He had always thought it was out of place in the middle of the market, with its fat, tarnished cherubs and sinister little demons. The water was running but to him it sounded like a long lost lullaby.
The music drifted to him, a silken thread winding around his heart. Mesmerized, he followed it until he stood before a small, weathered table he was certain hadn’t been there moments before. An old woman watched him from behind it, her form wrapped in wool, her blue eyes holding a depth that unnerved him. On a cloth of scarlet velvet, a constellation of softly glowing orbs was displayed.
He looked down, entranced. Each sphere pulsed with its own colored light from within; a sapphire beat, an emerald shimmer, a ruby glow, a golden sparkle, each housing a tiny, breathing star. The reflections swam in the dark pools of his dilated pupils. Slowly, tentatively, he reached a hand toward a particularly vibrant, fiery orange orb.
“You may not want that one, young man,” her voice was like dry leaves, yet it stopped him cold. “It has a feisty aura.”
He blinked, disoriented, as if waking from a dream. “Pardon?”
“The one you touch is the one you keep. Best to choose with more than your fingers.”
He withdrew his hand, but his eyes remained locked on the lights. “What are these? They’re beautiful. I want to touch them all,” he breathed.
“That, my lad, is against the rules. The one you touch is the one you keep, and wishes, once granted, cannot be given back.”
“Wishes?” His gaze snapped to hers, golden eyes bright. “Whose wishes? What do they give?”
“They give what the heart most desires. But you should be careful which faery you choose to listen to. Each has its own rules.” She leaned forward slightly. “Do you have a wish? A true desire?”
“These… these little lights really grant wishes?”
“They do. But not all wishes come true in the way you imagine. Not all faeries play fair..”
“How does it work? I just… choose one?”
“So quickly you wish to proceed. Have you not listened to my words? A wish granted is a path irrevocably taken.”
“But the wish isn’t for me!” he insisted, earnestness making him boyish. “I want to give it as a gift.”
“Are you so sure the wish is not for you, even if you give it away?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I know exactly what she will wish for.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
“How can you be so certain? You know her mind as well as your own?”
“We love each other. She agreed to marry me today.” The words burst from him, glowing with pride.
“Did she?” The woman’s tone was unreadable.
“Yes! I want to find her the best gift, one that shows how much I treasure her. A wish would be perfect. She’ll get exactly what she’s always wanted.”
“And what is that?”
“A grand wedding. In the big ballroom downtown, with flowers everywhere, a gown like a princess, all her family and friends… the whole dream.”
“Can she not have that now? Are you not getting married?”
“We have to save for years. Our families aren’t wealthy. But with a wish, we could marry right away. I wouldn’t need a second job,I could rest more, spend more time with her, we could just… begin.” His eyes were lit from within by the vision.
“I see. So, is the wish for her… or for you?”
“For her, of course!” The answer came too quickly.
The old woman merely watched him, letting the silence stretch.
“How much?” he finally asked, urgency returning. “How much for a wish?”
“They are very expensive.”
“I have a few hundred. Is that enough?”
“I do not deal in coin.”
“What, then? I must have it.”
“I deal in exchanges. What are you willing to exchange for a wish?”
“Anything I have.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! What do you want?”
“A promise.”
“Anything. I promise.”
“You must promise to return and tell me what she wished for.”
“That’s all? That’s easy! I promise! I’ll even invite you!”
“Then say it. ‘I promise.’ Three times, to bind it.”
“I promise. I promise. I promise!” He turned his feverish gaze back to the orbs. “Do the colors mean different things? Different wishes?”
“No. You do not choose by color. You choose by song. Listen. One will sing for you alone.”
He hovered his hand over the velvet field. His fingers passed over violet, silver, deep blue… then paused. A soft, resonant hum, like distant wedding bells, seemed to come from a sphere of warm, golden light. It glimmered with the exact hue of candlelight in the ballroom hall.
“This one,” he whispered, certainty settling over him. “It sounds like the ballroom. This is the one.”
“So it is,” the woman said, her voice final. “So it does. So be it.” She gave a slight, dismissive wave. “Take it. Keep your promise. Return and tell me her wish.”
“I will! Thank you!” He cradled the warm orb, slipping it carefully into his coat pocket before hurrying away, never looking back.
The old woman watched him vanish into the merry crowd. In the depths of her knowing blue eyes, twin pinpricks of flame flickered to life and then faded. As the last echo of his footsteps faded Stall #14 began to dissolve, retreating into the ether of the market like a mist burned away by a sun that never touched this place.
——————-
Time passed before the song began to sing again. Time outside the market and time inside the market meld and falter from one reality to another. Not the alluring siren’s call of the first night, but a low, discordant melody of despair. Stall #14 felt its soul returning, heavy with payment. The old woman sat patiently, her table a dim galaxy of quiet, watchful lights. She pulled her scarf tight against the biting wind that seemed to swirl solely around her fountain, lit a small coal burner, and set a kettle on it.
As the water hissed to a boil, she heard the footsteps. They were not the eager stride of a hopeful young lover, but the slow, shuffling drag of a man hollowed out.
He stood before her, dismally transformed. His carefree auburn hair was a matted, wind-torn nest. His clothes hung on him, wrinkled and stained. She smelled him first. The sour tang of sleeplessness, the metallic reek of shock, and beneath it all, the cold, sickly sweet scent of a heart gone necrotic. She filled two chipped ceramic mugs and waited.
His eyes, when they finally met hers, were not the golden tiger’s-eye of before. They were wild, bloodshot marbles, empty of everything but a howling confusion.
“It’s cold, boy. You don’t have enough clothing on. You’ll catch your death.”
A sound escaped him, a laugh that was a rasp of brokenness. “I don’t care.”
“Why are you here? Should you not be planning a wedding?”
He choked, the sound raw. “I gave her the orb. I gave her the wish. I said, ‘You can wish for your grand wedding and we can be married immediately.’ She was so happy.” His voice cracked on the memory.
“You came to keep your promise.”
“I came to keep my promise.” The words were a toneless echo.
“Drink this. Warm yourself. Tell me slowly.”
He took the steaming mug, his bare hands gripping it so tightly his knuckles bleached white, numb to the heat. He took a sip, then another, the simple human ritual anchoring him for a moment. The vibrant, hopeful glow from two days prior was gone, leaving only dry, red-rimmed desolation.
“She asked me if she could wish for anything. I told her yes.” He stared into the tea. “I was so sure. So stupidly, arrogantly sure. The wedding of her dreams. I was a fool.”
“What did she wish for, lad?”
He didn’t look up. His voice became flat, a recitation of a death sentence. “She wished for a rich husband to take care of her for the rest of her life, so she never had to work hard again.”
The old woman did not react. She simply asked, softly, “And then?”
“And then… we went to dinner. To celebrate me becoming rich.” A bitter, horrible smile twisted his lips. “We went to the fancy place she’d always wanted to try. I ordered champagne. I was waiting for it, the money, the luck, the opportunity. I kept checking my phone. Nothing. She just… watched me. With this… strange little smile.”
He finally looked at the keeper, his eyes begging for an answer he already knew.
“And then, right as the dessert cart came by… a man approached our table. Well-dressed. Confident. He looked right at her and said, ‘Excuse me, but have we met?’ She smiled at him.”
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the trickle of the fountain’s eternal war.
“He was,” the young man whispered, the truth finally strangling him, “exactly what she asked for. She left with him a few days later. Said it was to make life easier for me.” A broken sound escaped him, more animal than human.
“Then she got her wish,” the old woman stated, a fact etched in ice.
“She got her wish,” he echoed, hollow.
“And you got yours.”
His head snapped up. “How can you say that? I lost everything!”
“You said you would not have to work extra hours, or get a second job. You said you could marry immediately.” Her voice was terrifyingly reasonable. “She is cared for. You are unburdened. Two wishes from one orb. A rare efficiency. And for the second wish… you owe a second price.”
“A price? You think I should repay you for this?”
“I did nothing but hold up a mirror. You saw the reflection you wanted to see. Now, you must settle the account.”
The old woman nodded slowly, her eyes holding not pity, but a dreadful, cosmic balance. “The first wish, her heart’s desire, is paid. Your promise fulfilled that debt. But the second wish, your freedom from toil, granted by her departure, that requires a new exchange.”
“I have nothing left!”
“Not nothing.” Her gaze fixed on him, and her lips moved in a silent, binding syllable.
The young man choked, a sudden, seizing cold spreading from his heart. He tried to stand, to run, but his limbs were leaden, locked in place by an invisible weight. He looked into his now-empty cup, then back at her, terror dawning.
The old woman held up an orb. It was the one from her table, now dark and vacant, its golden light extinguished.
“A wish for a wish. A life for a life. I believe you took my golden orb. Your eyes… they have just the color I need to fill it again.”
“What did you do to me?” His voice was a thin rasp.
“I am collecting a debt. Do not fret. I will take excellent care of you. Someday, when a soul needs the particular wish you can grant, a wish for a rich, devoted husband, you will be free to give it.”
The final, horrifying understanding crashed over him. “The man at the table… he was…”
“The faery from the orb,” she finished, her smile a crack in a glacier. “I did warn you they don’t play fair.”
She unclasped the orb. With a sound like a gasp and a sigh, a shimmering strand of gold, the very light from his terrified, tiger’s-eye irises, was pulled from him and into the sphere. He felt not pain, but a profound and utter diminishment, as his consciousness was compressed, folded, and sealed inside the glowing prison.
The orb reclaimed its warm, golden luminescence. The old woman placed it gently back upon the velvet. Inside, the light did not swirl peacefully. It dashed itself against the inner walls in a frantic, silent rhythm.
“You will wear yourself out,” she murmured, packing the orbs with tender care. “We never know when the next soul will need us. You may be in there quite a while. Best to rest.”
Stall #14 slowly dissipated, its essence folding back into the market’s ether. The last to fade were the tinkling laughter of water from the fountain of war, and the faint, desperate pulse of a golden light, beating like a trapped heart against the dark.
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