𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔇𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔰

part ii | chapter iii

When the Silverheels decided to go to Salem for the weekend, it usually meant that they had enough to trade. Enough harvest from their kitchen gardens for the Salem farmers' market, enough arty-crafty things from the girls for the city fleamarket. This was one such weekend.

All the vegetables and fruits were loaded in one corner of the truck's carrier, another corner held the dried herbs, teas, and dehumidified mushrooms and berries. The remaining space had stacks of Winona's paintings, rows of Meda's woodcuts and small stone sculptures, and a carton of leather jewelry and accessories from Donovan.

The half-hour long drive from Andover to Salem was usually filled with Meda and Winona chatting. They talked about women like Lagertha and Khutulun and their mother, they talked about the easiest medium in art, or the ones with the best results, or how to best combine them for the perfect mixed media piece, and they also talked about the forests they had known all their lives, and about the other forests that they were strangers to. Today, however, the Chevrolet was silent. Meda could feel the weight of the silence on her shoulders.

She watched Winona from the corner of her eye, and as expressionless as her face was, Meda was still acutely aware of the discomfiture she exuded. It didn't matter how marbled and cold the walls Winona built around herself were, they could hide and hold back nothing from Meda. She needed to sort out whatever had soured between them and soon.

After they pulled up in front of the plot they'd been assigned, Donovan helped them unload. His fatherly rambling had begun.

"You have made these," he said, "and you get to decide how much your time and efforts are worth."

Meda sighed. "Yes, pa."

"And don't let anyone tell you that your work is less than what you deem it worth," Donovan continued, "light bargaining is alright but—"

"Papa," Winona cut him off, "we know. We've got this, okay? Don't worry about us."

"Okay." Donovan exhaled loudly. "Just making sure."

Meda reassured him, "we're sure. You should go set up your stall at the farmers' market."

After hugging both his daughters, Donovan was finally on his way. Deeming it the ideal moment to breach the subject of their last altercation, Meda turned to Winona but her sister had already shoved in her earphones and fortified herself within the angry music she so enjoyed. Deflated, Meda only huffed and got to work on displaying their goods.

The fleamarket was crowded within hours, attracting folks from all walks of life, and with a customer every other minute, Meda didn't find any moment for talking it out with Winona. By lunchtime, she had lost all motivation. So, she just checked her pockets for her cash and nonchalantly put out, "I'm gonna get some food. You want anything?"

"A sandwich would be nice," Winona said.

Meda nodded and took off, desperate for some time away from the tension between them. She found a little roach-coach soon enough and ordered a plate of pasta. She figured she could get Winona's sandwich on her way back. As she stood under a large, rainbow-colored patio umbrella eating her pasta, her mind wandered to the people – either scurrying or sauntering, going about their lives, searching for some happiness or the other. What they went searching for was of little to no interest to Meda. She was, in fact, more than just interested in the things they wore or carried, baubles noosing their necks, fettering their wrists, the wallets in their pockets, the phones in their hands. They awakened a sense of wonder in her – how long before somebody noticed a missing ring? And how long until their attachment to it faded?

However, the questions receded into her mind as a familiar desire took ahold of her. Meda flexed her fingers to quell the itching in her palms, yet it wasn't enough. The remainder of her lunch forgotten, she shook her arms to loosen the muscles, while her eyes scrutinized the people in search of a target. An uproarious engine drew her attention, as it did everyone else's. The Mercedes came to a screeching stop on the sideroad opposite to where Meda stood. While everyone else returned to what they were doing, she was fixated on the driver of the flashy ride. He crossed the road and strolled towards the fleamarket. She followed, inconspicuous as a shadow to everyone.