A Wild Idea

Down, down you go, one worn stone step at a time, each cold beneath your bare feet. The clank and clatter and calls and chatter grow to not quite a cacophony. The great stone arch entrance reaches high, and your wings quiver against your back as you pass trepidously beneath.

The Wonderwood Market unfolds before you.

If your wild idea can be found anywhere, it’s here.

A yawning cavern stretches high and wide, filled from wall to wall with stalls, carts and buskers dotting the crevices between. Heady scents hang in the dank air; cinnacore and saffriss spices, sweet hay and beasts of burden, fresh split wet-wood, and fried dough of various varieties, all crowding your nose at once. Glowing crystals knotted in thick rope swoop above, bathing all manner of goods in periwinkle, violet, and ultramarine.

The last two steps down and you fill both lungs to the brim, wading into the cordial chaos. Bumps from passing strangers take on a steady rhythm against your shoulders. You find a slow moving stream of folk and follow it, your hand tightening around the top of your pocket. Dread takes a slow grip on your gut, your innards tensing and your outers prickling.

What were you thinking? Coming this deep, this far from the sun? Your sister was right, you’ve lost your mibs! An indignant, desperate chuckle climbs up and out of you. But your feet take you onward anyway, eyes continuing the hunt.

Glittering lost wishes hang tied to heavy chains. Neat rows of silver cutlery and cutleroys. Tiny handwoven boats. Fur capes that shimmer with shadows. A basket of struffberries hum with the sun’s warmth, making your mouth water. But your stomach would only bumble the snack.

“Penny for a thought!” a creaky voice calls. “Quarter for a question!”

 You slow, glancing over the silk draped stall.

“Welcome, Bright One,” the woman croons, adding a wink to the flattering title. Silver braids and lavendar scarves wrap her head, deep lines carved into an aged face. “Aye, what a dazzling one you be! Come! Come closer. See. These are fine, fair, mischievous little things, indeed.”

You step closer, weaving your fingers tight behind your back. Better careful than bitten.

“Looking for a particular thought?” A sparkle lights her dark eyes. “I’ve got musings from the south sea shoreline. Hard to come by, those.  A few rather brash limericks I picked up from a poet just last week. And here we have the saddest, sweetest, melancholy sigh.”

You hold up a hand to stop her. You take a deep breath, and ask, your voice coming out in a soft ring, like silver bells.

“Sorry, love,” she says with a sad smile, turning away. “I don’t speak Torrin.”

Your ears dip in embarrassment. You should have known. Sun dwellers don’t come this deep underground. But you are-sad to say-desperate.

You gesture quickly to the paper and charcoal beside her. She grins, handing them over.

It takes longer than it should have to write the six words, the shake of your hand giving the letters more wobble than is polite. But she seems unbothered by the rude handwriting as she takes it back.

Her silver-grey brows rise, and her eyes jump back up. “You sure about that, love?

You nod, forcing your wings to stop their quivering.

Her gaze narrows. “A wild idea. Those can be dangerous.”

You straighten your shoulders, tipping your chin up just enough, though you know there’s still fear in your eyes. You nod again, slower.

Dangerous didn’t even begin to describe it. But you don’t care. You’d risk your life a hundred times if that’s what it took.

You weren’t about to let your brother die without a fight.

Something dances in her eyes. Understanding? Though not a chime had passed your lips. She reaches beneath the table. Your mouth falls open at the wretchedly beautiful box she produces.

Glossy black wood with pearl inlays of deadly nightshade flowers adorn its lid. A silver lock on each side holds it firmly shut. An inaudible hum radiates from it, slipping back and forth between tantalizing and revolting.

You look up, brow furrowed in question.

“Aye, you don’t know quite what shape it will be until it’s opened up.” She lays a weathered hand over the tiny box. “Be mindful. Where and when you let it loose makes all the difference.”

You nodded quickly, digging into your pocket and laying out all its contents across the table.

She counts it twice before shaking her head with a small cringe. “A bit short. Got anything else?” 

You sigh. It’s nothing personal, you know. Everyone has to eat. But what else…

Maybe that would be enough?

You offer a smile, unsure if she’ll understand. You lean across the table, gently holding her silver head, and place a small kiss against her furrowed forehead.

Light trickles out of you, you can feel it. Not a lot, but enough that it takes a second for your eyes to come back into focus.

“I... I don’t know what exactly that was,” she says softly, handing you the box. “But I fear that you’ve quite overpaid, Bright One.”

You manage a weary smile, clutching the box to your chest.

A wild idea that could save your brother’s life?

That was more than worth the cost.

flash fiction, short story, fantasy story, second person present tense short story, flash fiction by S. M. Jake