Darcy Veil skipped down the wet cobbled street, buoyed by the thought of which shops she should take a look at. Her short white-blonde hair tickled her cheeks, her russet cloth satchel slapped against her hip, and her bright mauve high-heeled boots tap-tap-tapped against the ancient paved stones in her path.
Realising she had no idea where she was going and that could get lost, she stopped and looked around, her finger to her chin. Which shop could she go into? She wasn't even sure what she wanted. A new book? A new cloak? A restock of herbs and potions? A basket of biscuits? All she knew was that she wanted to shop somewhere. But none of the little boutiques on her street appeared inviting. There was hardly any colour anywhere, just browns and greys.
She thought that this would not do; no place of purchase suited her here, and they were sure not to have what she would want more than anything on earth.
The wind whipped at her white and lilac coats; she oughtn't stand around for too long, indecisive, on an eerily empty street where grey clouds were forming and looming above her. It might rain again any second. Darcy enjoyed the rain and danced to it merrily as often as she could, but her tabby, Rosetta, who was hiding in her satchel, hated it, and hated being caught in it, and so Darcy knew she should make up her mind on where to go soon. It was no good standing still, out in the open, looking for all the world like a lone, life-sized porcelain doll, at the mercy of an incoming storm.
She was about to eeny-meeny-miny-mo her way towards picking a shop, when Rosetta popped her white, chocolate patch-coated head out of her owner's satchel and meowed at a sliver of a dark alleyway to her left.
It looked as brown, wet and inhospitable as everywhere else, and Darcy was about to stroke a finger on her kitten familiar's little head in sweet, reassuring affection - there's nothing there, there's nothing to be afraid of, tiny tabby! - when--
Twinkle.
She almost missed it, but Darcy saw it, and on closer inspection, she could make out a bright, glimmering light down the almost hidden alleyway. Then another. Then another. It was like stars shining and flickering out, right there on the street, just out of her reach.
Something exciting was there. Something colourful and magical was waiting for Darcy on the other side of that alley, waiting for her to track it down and discover it.
Quite unable to contain her glee, she thanked and petted her kitty and, without hesitation, set off in search of the magic stars.
Down the narrow, cramped alleyway whose walls still trickled with rain, Darcy suddenly emerged to find a shop unlike any she had ever seen before. Its colours shone and glittered and shimmered - it was a kaleidoscopic jewellery box, or so she glimpsed it as, dazzled as she was by the shining jewels inlaid in its windows, and made up its roof tiles. Was it an orange, autumn house? It was like a giant sandcastle topped off with the world's most expensive stones in the colours of the rainbow. Darcy shivered in anticipation at the sight of it, as she imagined what kinds of unfathomable and beautiful treasures must lie within.
Beyond excited now, she resumed her skipping right up to the front door made of polished wood and studded with amethysts and emeralds. Pushing it with her pale hand, she entered, and the first thing to meet her was a white spiral staircase, gleaming in darkness. She was at the foot of it, almost squashed in the limited space, and she craned her neck up to see high above her, where, in the seeming black hole where the staircase peaked, there were twinkling stars, the same as had beckoned her in the alleyway. Feeling more adventurous than ever, and that it was too late to turn back now, Darcy ran up the stairs, in her haste to shoot for the stars.
If Rosetta felt any discomfort at being bounced around in the satchel for a most unacceptable amount of time for a cat, she made no protest.
Several moments passed, and as Darcy was finally starting to run out of breath and feel uncertain vertigo as the weightless darkness surrounding her settled in, she reached another door, this one small and ordinary looking, and made from the same chalky white wood as the staircase. She turned the bronze doorknob, and pushed her way inside, the dainty bell just above the door tinkling like a bird.
An enchanting, dusty, seemingly priceless antique and book shop met her wide violet eyes.
There was so much to see! It made her dizzy, and her head and neck ached from turning around and glancing up and down so much and so quickly. Was that moondust on the white tiled floor? And was that cinnamon she smelled in the air? No doubt, she had been transported into another world, and one exactly to her liking.
For all the antique bronze objects, antique and ancient books, sparkling tea sets, Victorian porcelain dolls in and on top of shelves all around, rolled up astrology charts scattered on tables, and spherical, astronomical mobiles and wooden puppets hanging from the high ceiling - she could scarcely take the time to see and absorb anything! - the only thing that truly glinted at Darcy and caught her attention - the one possession she thought she could not possibly live without, what her life had been leading up to, what she would pay anything for - was a single big book, on one of the deeply brown wooden shelves a little ahead of her in this crystal cave of a shop.
The book was a rustic, colourfully bounded tome. It looked centuries older than Darcy, but it was like it had always existed just for her, and it had been waiting for her all this time.
Now destiny had come at last.
Darcy rushed to the book, and immediately picked it off the shelf and flicked through its pages, inhaling her favourite book smell. It was an old fashioned book, all right. Contained within the pages were what she had hoped: fairy tales, and accompanying recipes ad spells. Magic spells.
She closed it and looked at the cover: in a golden, fancy, celestial scrawl were the words Sun and Snow: Solar Flares and Luna Drops.
Her dream tome.
Joy radiated her body and burst through her smile, and she hugged the book close to her chest, hardly containing herself from jumping up and down, giddy as a gadfly, glowing like a firefly.
"What will you pay for that?"
This time, Darcy did jump, and spun around in shock, searching for the source of the voice. There, behind her, was a boxy, treasure chest-sized desk, and behind that was a very thin, wrinkled old man, with dark eyes that shone through his bushy eyebrows, and a beard like a spider's web that must reach his feet, from what Darcy could gather from where she was standing. She could imagine him wearing comfy satin slippers, too, to go with his dark blue satin nightgown, that was studded with hundreds of tiny gold stars.
"My dear, I asked what you would be willing to pay for that?"
Realising she was staring, open-mouthed, with the book still clutched to her chest, Darcy blinked, and quite perplexed, she uttered:
"Uh, I'm sorry--you said, what I would be willing to pay? Well, I doubt I have enough money for something as valuable as this--"
"Oh no, nothing in this shop can be bought with something as worthless and meaningless as money," the old man interrupted, giving a light chuckle, "It all depends on how much you want it, with all your heart, and the only way you can get it is to exchange something else of equal importance to you." He folded his hands together in front of his nightgown, behind his thin spider silk beard. He made the effort to never lose eye contact with Darcy. "Is the book you are holding what your heart desires? Do you consider it a missing piece of yourself? A jewel you were born to possess? Does it set you aflame from within, with pure white joy? Is it everything you have been looking for? If so, then what of equal value are you willing to give up for it?"
"My heart's desire?" Darcy looked away from the man and down at the book. Carefully, she leafed through the pages again, skimming here and there. There was Snow White, and the recipes for apple pie and poison apple bobbing, with extra cauldron bubbling. Then there was The Snow Queen, and the recipes for snow cones and black heart tart. Cinderella and its story ending on a spell on how to turn a pumpkin into a carriage, for either going to a ball, or for revenge duels, with precise, specific details for each use. Little Red Riding Hood ends with instructions on how to make wolf stew (raw). Rapunzel and then all the things you could do with paisley. The Little Mermaid with its "Sleeps with the Fishes" sea witch's brew. The Frog Prince with frog soup (princes may or may not apply, depending on what kingdom you're in) and toad-in-the-hole. The Tale of Princess Kaguya and its bamboo ramen and crescent moon dumplings. Chang’e the Moon Goddess and its mooncakes made to either heal or break hearts.
Yes, she wanted it, more than anything. It is her everything. She is the book, and the book is she. They were bonded by birthright.
But she found she couldn't help the doubts creeping into her mind. She thought about what else the old man said. She lifted her head from the book and, not wanting to throw caution to the windchimes for the first time in her life, she asked:
"What do you mean something else of equal value? You mean to me? What...what do you mean?"
"Something you already own," replied the man, "Something you already have, that you can live without, as long as you now have what you desire and cannot possibly live without." Darcy could have sworn she saw his black eyes twinkle. "Right? What about your cat?"
Darcy froze. Rosetta mewed and squeaked from her satchel. Instinctively, in a lightning-fast reflex, the girl put a protective arm over her bag. She was loosening her hold on the book. "I--what? No--how did you know about my cat--?"
"Or how about any jewellery you own? Or potions? Or other books? Though all of your library combined wouldn't be such a loss to you, when you have the single best book you will ever have, and will ever need. Those books are a trifle to you, aren't they? Trivial matters, and not equal to that one book." The old man leaned his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands out in front of him. He had maintained eye contact with Darcy, and while he had a small, easy smile - of earnestness and kindness - there was no escaping the twinkle in his eyes.
"I ask again, dear miss, what will you pay for it?"
Darcy felt hot and cold all at once, and had a sudden flash of intuition - of a vision, and a sensation of awe and fear that struck deep in her bones - that whatever this man was hiding in his mysterious shop, filled with mysterious but not uncommon items, could be luminous, astronomical, magnificent and existentially terrifying, should he choose to show it to her.
What part of you will you give me?, his eyes said. "Would you give me your world?", his friendly mouth said.
For a few seconds, Darcy couldn't breathe, and she would not dare choke or make any sound in front of the man. At the thought of choking, she happened to spot a few incense sticks on his desk, and on various tables, drawers, stands, and shelves around her. Cinnamon sticks. That was the shop's scent, and it was one of the things that had tempted her to come and stay in this place she knew absolutely nothing about.
She stood, clutching the book again. Crushing it, hugging it to death, for she was sure it had life in it. Her life. It was her treasure. What she wanted more than anything.
But was it worth her world?
Was it worth half of her, or all of her?
Which part of her? Her magic? Her soul? Her tears? Her blood? What would he want with any of those?
How will I be able to enjoy my book anymore without those parts of me?
She closed her eyes, attempting to gather her wits together. To get a grip, but not on the book.
She remembered she had been taught long ago to trust her instincts, above temptation and simple yearning, above material possessions.
She had also been taught never to trust wizards outright.
Darcy took a deep breath. In. Out. In. Out.
This is not what I want. Not like this.
This is not who I am. This is not who I want to be.
I am not my temptation.
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
Slowly, she loosened her grip on Sun and Snow.
She gently patted her satchel for reassurance, to her tabby and to herself.
No book is worth my kitty cat. I am stronger than this.
She stared directly into the old man's eyes. He hadn't moved an inch during her internal crisis.
As confidently as she could, and in a voice like velvet that had survived since Scheherazade's lifetime, she said, "I'm afraid I have nothing to give in exchange for this book. Certainly it is much too valuable for one such as I. For I am merely a novice, and too young and inexperienced, and do not deserve such a fine jewel as this--"
"Oh, my dear, don't sell yourself short. I can tell you are extremely gifted--"
"You flatter me, but it is in vain. I have done nothing to earn this particular gift. Nothing in my short life, and nothing on me, can afford it, at least for the moment. Maybe someday I will have done something marvellous enough to earn it, but it is not today, or indeed this year or the next." Darcy, with slight reluctance, put the book back on the shelf, in the exact same position as where she had found it. She could not let the wizard detect any hint of hesitation in her, in giving up her heart's current desire.
After the small yet heavy task was done, she turned and faced the old man for the last time. "My cat and I bid you farewell, sir. Goodnight."
Darcy walked towards the door from which she came in. She didn't turn back, not once. It was an ache and an effort to ignore her heart, as it yearned for the book. It seemed to want to pull her to it like gravity, and for it to orbit around her soul and existence like so many planets around the sun. But she knew she must keep her resolve, and show no weakness.
To assuage her dilemma and inner conflict, she tried to imagine the wizard in bunny slippers instead of satin ones. He does seem to be stuck behind that desk, doesn't he?, she thought, I swear he never moved his legs once. It's like he lives there, or he's been cursed to be trapped there, and the only way to lift it and set himself free is to trick people into giving up their everything for what they think is their heart's desire. Or maybe he's just embarrassed and doesn't want me to see him in his bunny slippers. It is getting cold, and maybe they're the only pair he owns, even in that fantastical shop of his. Or it's possible his whole shop is a trick, and there's nothing of value in there after all. That book could have turned to dust the moment I stepped out of the shop, for all I know. I think I made the right choice. And I would never give up my world, my self, or my cat for it.
She went down the spiral staircase, slowly and cautiously, and once she reached the bottom she pushed the front door open and walked outside, breathing in the cool night air, for the clouds and the evening had descended since she first entered the shop of her dreams, which turned into a wakeup call to reality.
It had been too good to be true. It had to be.
Snowflakes drifted in front of her, and Darcy looked up to see it was starting to snow. She smiled. She loved the snow as much as the rain. She opened her satchel and picked up Rosetta with one hand, and lifted her up to her cheek.
"Come on, my dear, sweet Rosetta. Let's go back to the dark side of the moon."
So witch and cat made their way to the small, barely perceptible alleyway, through the dark and the snow, on their way home, having shopped for nothing, but gained a valuable little.
Cassie Chimes stumbled out of the intolerably thin alleyway, her black Scottish Terrier Nightingale bounding ahead of her on her leash. The evening had come to pass, and overhead Victorian lamps had started to flicker seemingly on their own. Cassie had tanned skin with freckles like constellations, wavy red hair, and in general she had an air, aura, complexion and disposition of being sandy. In deliberate contrast, she wore a long black dress, and a black satchel with a Knuckling Pumpkins patch on it, and another stitched up patch that said, in red, Countess Báthory Presents: Witches on the Moon.
She was just about to call out to Nightingale when she stopped at what lay ahead of her. There a castle stood, something she would never dream of seeing in her world. She could only describe it as an ethereal midnight castle, with its tall pitch black turrets, and a myriad of small windows that shone either white or purple, or even both in each pane.
It could either be a dream, or a delicious, beautiful nightmare.
Whatever the case, Cassie was not going to let an opportunity to see something different pass her by. However indifferent she acted about it, what she wanted more than anything was to find her heart's secret desire and purpose, and she came this way to find something new, and by any goddess willing to help her, she will get to it.
Nightingale barked and ran around in circles in front of the castle. Cassie picked up the dog's leash from the snowy ground and goaded her to follow her owner towards the place that could be a palace.
Cassie pushed her way through the tall, heavy wooden front doors, and found a rickety staircase made of both wood and steel, in a dark room with stone walls and barely space to breathe. Nightingale rushed up in a flash, barking all the way. Cassie let herself chuckle before following her. Up and up they went - are those stars in a black hole above? - until finally, the sunny yet dour girl and her dog reached the top, and faced another door, which was smaller, and made of much older, darker and gnarlier wood. Cassie turned the doorknob, and entered the shop.
A shop of nightmares. Spooky decorations. Inflatable ghosts, vampires and werewolves, and floating tea sets and smoky orbs surrounded her. There was a sophisticated darkness to the place that both chilled and enthralled her. It was a haunted house, a mausoleum of the macabre, a tomb for the terrifying and ghoulish, a crypt for the creepy.
Cassie allowed herself a smile, her peridot eyes blazing. She could hardly contain her excitement; it was something she never felt fill up her entire body before in her life. She may have found her true home.
But through all the ghouls and gothic paraphernalia that made her heart soar, what made it reach a fever pitch was a giant pot sitting further ahead of her. She ran to it, and put her hands on its sides. It was a grey stone cauldron, with purple ribbons decorating its two handles. Many witch symbols, including the sign of Hecate and other Triple Moon Goddesses, were engraved on it. She swore she saw an eye winking at her as she had approached the cauldron.
A cauldron she could use to cast real spells. No party tricks, no weak parlour tricks and sleight of hand, no easy baby spells. Real magic, right here in her hands.
It's a cauldron she could use to see into the future; into the limitless depths of time and space.
Her potential. Her possession. Her gift.
Her dream.
Cassie's Cauldron
No one will ever doubt me again. I won't be misunderstood and underestimated anymore.
Nightingale kept yapping at her heels, spinning in circles around her and the cauldron, but she wasn't paying any attention. She was imagining the potions she could use to see the infinite possibilities in this dark, spooky but powerful container.
Finally Nightingale's barking became so insistent that she sighed and turned towards the fluffy little nuisance.
"Nightingale, I swear if you don't--"
She stopped when she saw, in the smoky darkness, an old man with a long, spider silk beard and dark eyes peering through bushy eyebrows - straight at her, never breaking eye contact. He was standing behind a desk that looked like a sleek, oil-black coffin, made big enough for a troll or a Viking.
The old man smiled, his pits for pupils impossibly twinkling.
"What will you pay for that?"
The 'Finish a Story Before Midnight' challenge is complete.
