Rimwick

Echo's Song

The spot we stand on is the crown of a hill, completely bereft of trees. The snow, too, has disappeared- presumably trampled to death by the light that must beat down relentlessly on this foliage deprived area every day. Thin dust smothers the hill, creating a large, flat idea that would be ideal for kickball, building a small business, or holding a market.

I can still see the sun. It's fading, the orange light curving away from us, slicing brilliant trenches into the snowy hills. In a moment it will have slipped completely out of the grasp of the earth, but for now, I soak it up.

There is, however, no market in sight.

"Aren't there supposed to be people here?"

"They're coming. Watch." Echo's brown eyes reflect the descending sun. I follow her gaze and watch it slip below the cover of hills, fall in slow motion to another realm, away from the prying eyes of girls who speak glowing words. The last ray fades from view, leaving a seam of dying orange knitted to the coming night.

Then, from the woods, figures. Most human, or at least, humanoid. Others lumber with the wild grace of animals. A little girl, barefoot and with long red hair, glides past me in a gypsy skirt and white-feathered eagle wings. An old man with an extra eye glares at me warily. A woman nearby spreads a blanket on the ground and begins to organize metal bracelets on top of it- every time she touches one, blue electricity sparks.

"This... this is the market?" I like the shape of the word market. It's a soft, cozy red, written in the air in thick, sloping letters.

Echo nods, blue eyes glowing. "Home for all the nomads in these hills."

"Literal nomads?"

"Some literally. Others in spirit. We're all nomads until we can live in ourselves."

Well, that's deep.

Felix comes running up the hill, chasing Roman the Wolf. He's panting.

"You... jerk... you can't... throw snowballs... when I'm not... looking!"

The wolf cowers behind Echo, tongue hanging out in what I'm sure would be a mischievous grin if it manifested onto a human face.

"Behave," Echo admonishes. "Riley, do you want to go look around at the stalls?"

"Sure."

They're not actually stalls. Most are low stools, cloths spread on the ground, or squares drawn in the dirt that form a defined, though temporary grid pattern. I count two tents and a few crude tables. Merchants in various forms hawk their wares: food, tools, clothes, blankets. Other more exotic items include caged birds, potions, and weapons. I see leather gauntlets and rucksacks, semi precious stones and sheathed knives, roasted rabbit leg and charms made out of herbs. Dusk Children inspect goods and buy them, taking time to chat and barter. I catch snatches of conversation amid the amiable banter.

"-brought down a stag, do you believe it? With them so rare, and a little thing like that-"

"-the hill flooded but we didn't lose much, just some of the yarn Em was spinning. I think if we-"

"-that's ridiculous. I mean, it's not even well made-"

A girl with silver teeth whisks Echo into a conversation and I fiddle with a charm on the end of a leather cord, unsure of what to do.

"Protection against bed bugs," the withered seller cackles. "Useful, that 'un."

"I'm just looking," I say. The words, as usual, appear out of my mouth. It's happened enough times that I'm used to it.