Member-only story
The White Witch — Market Tales
Marigold syrup, a melted ear, and a concrete bottomed barge.
For twelve years, I worked as a market trader, selling my wares at towns and shows. These Market Tales are snapshots of my experiences with the characters I met, the weather, and the physical and mental endurance it took to trade in the great outdoors.
It was one of those beautiful, warm, blue-sky summer days. The kind us market traders treasured, even though it didn’t guarantee a steady stream of customers, it was a pleasure to be out.
Early in the afternoon, a tall, thin man wearing a wide-brimmed hat accompanied a lady with shaggy blonde hair and a long dress as she swayed into my stall. She waved her arms around dramatically. “Oh, look at all this wonderful jewellery.”
The lady picked up pieces and tried them on. Her voice drawled a little, and I wondered if she might be inebriated.
“I am a white witch.” The lady declared it with a twinkle in her eye.
I immediately believed her. Everything about her seemed unusual, and if I had to imagine a white witch, it would be her.
“Look,” she said, “I burned part of my earlobe off when a spell went wrong.”
