The Night Market

Tiny lizards the colour of carnelian, vermilion, and lapis lazuli dart across the mesh of a large cage set at the forefront of the stall. They flick their tongues at passersby. Behind then a slightly smaller cage holds only one reptile, but it is long and decidedly more frightening. Iridescent and green, flashing like the eye of a peacock’s feather, its scales so bright they appear like metal catching the light. The snake moves slowly around the bars, regarding you with a pitch black eye. It darts its head forward and you jump back involuntarily, though the snake remains within the confines of the cage.

This vendor houses her creatures not in cages, but atop what appears to be small overturned cauldrons. The creatures are little more than shadows and flames, dark hollows for eyes and bright dancing flames shaped into claws and tails and horns. They leap over wrought iron, often exchanging them with another, like frogs sharing lily pads. More than once a miscalculated jump sends one of them sliding down the sides, but there is a sound like the crack of ice and they pull themselves back up in a shower of sparks.

A merchant with one milky white eye and a star bright turban has long leather cases and tall frosted glass mason jars haphazardly piled onto numerous shelves. The glass mason jars flash and crackle and occasionally there is a loud crack and the smell of ozone radiates from the stall. The vendor alternates between opening a mason jar and a leather case, to exhibit his wares. Lightning flares in the glass jars, like a predator watching each visitor and potential customer. The leather cases glow like stars, but brighter and closer and ice cold.

The vendor alternates between English and another language. “Stars and lightening, a storm for your pocket, a cosmos for your boot! النجوم ليال مظلمة الخاص، لتخفيف آلهة السماء!”

Around you the crowds are boisterous and strange. Tall and short with painted faces and multiple piercings. There are gold rings in noses, bells in hair, people wearing so little you blush to see them. A woman with red streaks across her powdered white face glances at you as she passes. A man with a sprouting of feathers on his shoulder blades strides in front of you, disappearing down the road. A couple of women and a small child walk with a giant toad on a leash, that follows them slowly, glistening and dark and wet, despite the warmth of the summer night.

A young woman with a blindfold smiles and holds a length of lace across her white palms. Her lips are unnaturally dark, her fingernails sickly blue but she is beautiful. You approach and reach out a hand for the frosted white lace, but it shatters at the near-heat of your hand. You pull back, not wanting to damage anymore of the material, but the young woman only smiles and nods directly at you, as though the blindfold is not there.

Nestled in the giant roots of a fig tree is an old man with berry dark skin, eyes rimmed in striking red. He is startlingly exotic and his eyes a pale shade of green. He smiles with perfectly white teeth and sweeps a hand at the array of small horses tied to the tree. They whistle like kettles and are unlike anything you have seen, the size of a child’s rocking horse more than proper ponies. The man looks back at you and smiles with a wide open mouth. His tongue is forked like a dragon’s. You smile and decide to move on.

In the deeper shadows of the forest the circus is darker. Alive is the colour of fire and moonlight, the moss silver and gold. In a tangle of banyan trees a merchant sells Turkish lanterns that wink like eyes in the darkness.

A harem of beautiful women with barely-there dresses, swaths of mist-like cloth floating around their forms and taken in at every curve and tuck, beckon to you, pulling you forward toward them. They have dark eyes, pale skin, carnation pink lips. Their nails are long, dark red. The smile sweetly, hips swaying to some mysterious music you do not heard. They slip one by one into a tent; incense straying from the opening door. But it does not reach you and you step back before the smoke becomes a thin veil of white shaped like a claw, whisked away by the breeze.

Under a bower of cherry blossoms are two women seated on spangled cushions. They hold almost identical flutes and their melodies intertwine and weave. There are multiple woven baskets around them, lids removed and place beside them. Small snakes and hooded cobras rise out of them, followed by butterflies and miniature tiger cubs. They crawl on the ground quite close to your feet but never leave the safety of the bower.

Only a little ways away is an area almost completely surrounded by a black metal fence, with curling patterns in the metal and a spiked top. Within the confines are pots and pots of flowers and ferns are strange-cupped plants. They have sparkling petals, luminescent pollen, glowing red lips. Some are filled with water that glistens in the moonlight like pools of silver. They furl and unfurl in seconds, constantly swaying. The only person there is a dark haired woman wrapped in a shawl. Her arms are peppered with small dots of scar tissue. She keeps distance from the plants that lean toward her and when she comes perilously close to some they open their green mouths to reveal silver fangs. She douses them with water from a jug before they can spring. They drink thirstily and when they have sated their thirst they lunge, but she is already across the garden.

A puppeteer holds marionettes at the end of black strings, their hinged jaws thumping as they open and close their painted mouths. There are more hands coming from his robe than the two that hold a woodsman and a bride. More marionettes join them, a ballerina, a wizard, a pirate. “Pulls strings with the divine,” he calls out as you pass. His accent is strong but you do not recognize it. “Přimluvit se božské!”

There is a ring around the next stall. A tall man, clothes paper white and face painted with black and green swirls, calls to all those that pass by, despite the crowd already shouting just in front of him. There is a roar from inside, a cheer from half the crowd, a hiss from the other. “Place your bet,” the tall man shouts as another roar sounds. You catch glimpses over others’ heads. A massive paw here, a horn there. Giant eagle wings flex above the crowd for only a second before there is a screech and they close with a small gust of wind.

You almost step onto the wares at the next stall. They spread like a purple and blue blanket halfway across the wide avenue, crawling halfway up the massive tree behind it. An old woman clicks at a loom but offers a toothless smile and you realize the air smells not only of moss and wet soil but of lotus blossoms and sugar. Indeed the flowers are dusted as though with snow.

The next stall smells of hot chocolate and chili, spices and brown sugar, oranges and olives. There are delicacies like pastries and cookies, dotted with dried fruit and fresh fruit that stain the fingers of those eating them. There is Spanish hot chocolate, golden churros sprinkled with cinnamon. Flagons of strawberries and cherries and orange jellies. Tiered trays of toasted bread and slices of olive. Beneath the scent of honey and candy is something deeper. The shiver of cold on a moonless night, the sickly sweet scent of poison. But those eating do not drop dead, only continue eating, fingers stained with juices and sauces. Their eyes grow wider with each snack and treat. “Gose zaude?

Zatoz jan!” A woman with a ruffled red skirt and equally scarlet lips calls. You shake your head to politely decline, though your stomach is rumbling.

There is no stall next, or rather, that is what you initially perceive. Where there would be a stall and vendor and products there is instead a great hole in the forest floor. Disappearing down it are rickety wooden stairs that spiral around it, invaded by roots and tubers that snake their way up to the surface of the ground. Deep within are shrieks and screams and a woman’s laughter. It is chilling despite the warmth. Shadows dance on the wall, unidentifiable.

Where the market path curves there is a giant stall on the circular corner. It is rounded, lined with tall wooden posts strung with wire. Within are crawling beasts, horns and talons and large teeth, membranous wings. Dragons with fins and gills or spouting fire lash and crouch and hiss, paying little attention to more than the horded gold coins under their feet.

Down the market road are more tents, more crowds alive with humming and soporific and seductive pipes, the smell of peppers and earth and amber and resin. You gather your courage and reign in your excitement as you wander in deeper and deeper. 

Art by Sean Wong Jia Jun

Text by Lucie MacAulay