...Noelani ...

stared at the booth teeming with fresh oysters, their dull, gray shells shining wetly in the tepid morning sun, the scent of salt and rust reaching her nostrils.

That was supposed to be her spot. That’d been her spot for her stall for as long as she had been selling jewelry at the busy market in Darya, around ten years. She clutched the slipping leather strap of her bag and held her fingers under it, the weight of her wares inside beginning to put a strain on her shoulder. The logs for her stall table wavered under her other arm, her grip weakening.

Maybe I should just go home. “What are you looking at, girl? Come to buy some fresh oysters?” The portly man scratched his protruding belly, stuck with coarse hair, underneath the too-short hem of his tunic. Noelani cleared her throat and took a small step forward, her eyes on the oysters. A sweat broke out over her scalp. It had been days since she had spoken to anyone, and it always took a little practice to remember how to do it. “I thought--if I wasn’t mistaken--this was my booth location. That’s--that’s my stool you’re sitting on--” She hazarded a glance up to the beady eyes of the man and wished she hadn’t. He gave her a blank stare as if she as dense.

Noelani sighed inwardly and scratched the top of her scalp in between her white hair. “Did you--did you hear what I said?--”

“I ain’t giving up my spot. You were late for the day’s trade. You lose.” The rough croak of his voice was broken up by a harsh laugh that sounded as if the man was hacking up a lung.

Heat prickled every inch of her skin, and she regretted wearing the thick, wool shawl that she did. It was Darya’s winter time, the sky perpetually gray, the air considerably cooler for three months out of the year, and yet she stood there sweating. She shifted on her feet and watched the man crack open an oyster unceremoniously, and dump the rubbery, pale contents inside of his large mouth, spilling oils on his ruddy lips and down his coarse goatee. Her stomach turned, and she made her decision as white-hot anger sparked along her spine and through her gut.

She turned from him and scanned the market street, walking the slick cobblestone spotted with mud puddles, careful not to get too close to the teeming crowds of people. Too many sounds and smells pierced the cool air--spices and florals and fish and paint and dye, and salt underneath it all. Too much. She thought again that maybe she should go home. Cut her losses.

There! A narrow opening in the market lay ahead, too close to two other booths of sea food, but she had no choice. She set down her logs and her bag, her arms thanking her for the relief, and set up the simple stall. Since her stool was stolen, she had to stand at her stall. Perhaps she’d only stay for an hour or so.

The squawk of albatrosses sounded in the distance--she was far too close to the shore on this end of the street. Her skin prickled with heat again as she set her necklaces on her table--beads made from amber, and turquoise, and seeds foraged from the forest, and crystals from fresh water caves. They were unique because most other jewelry merchants were selling sea glass and shells. She wasn’t, preferring to search for her jewels in the deep of the forest, farther away from the shore.