He held the sack up to my face and I peered in. The smell that came from it made me sneeze. Then I gasped.
"Personal pepper seeds!? Dari!"
He laughed with glee and I frowned with disapproval. Not only had he gone to a place that every parent told his or her child not to go, but he'd also bought something there!
"Hey, I had to have something to prove that I went," he said, still grinning. "Plus I didn't go very far. I just bought the first thing I could afford."
"Well, you certainly don't need those," I said.
If you grew and ate your own personal pepper, you became socially spicy; people laughed more at your jokes, found you more attractive, wanted to be around you more. Basically, you cultivated more popularity. But you had to beware of eating someone else's personal pepper. That could be fatal! Thus the seeds were sold only in places like the Dark Market. Still, personal peppers were a favorite among politicians, pop stars, and car salesmen. Oddly enough, when Dari planted his personal pepper seeds, they never grew. I guess Dari already had enough personal spice. I suspected that the results would have been different if I tried to grow them.
After buying the cashew fruits for my mother, I stood thinking about what I should do. I'd never been in the Dark Market, so, like Dari said, how did I really know it was so awful? But Mama and Papa had forbidden me to go there. Still, I wanted that hair oil today. I couldn't bear another day of school with this itching. Why did the oil lady have to move around like this? And Dari had been there many times and come out just fine. In that moment, I concluded that the Dark Market couldn't be that bad. Or it couldn't be as bad as my desperately itchy scalp. I'll run in, get the oil, and be out so quickly that it will be as if I haven't been there at all, I thought.
The way to the Dark Market was known by word of mouth, but with parents guarding their children's ears, it wasn't likely that any child would even know the way, let alone go there. But Dari had overheard his uncle and father talking about it one day.
"My uncle Osundu lives in the southwest and owns an auto parts business," Dari told me. "But that morning I learned that he sold other, more exotic things too. He'd come to the north to buy some kind of potion ingredient at the Dark Market. I happened to be coming down the stairs when my father was telling him how to get there."
I knew I shouldn't have encouraged Dari to continue talking, but I couldn't help myself. I was curious.
"So ... how do you get there?" I asked.
He'd grinned, and I knew the damage was done. Dari now knew that some part of me envied him for going.
"Well," he said. "It's simple, really. It's at the center of the market."
I frowned.
"No," I said. "The meat section is."
Dari shook his head with a sly grin.
"That's what parents tell their kids," he said. "If you go to the meat section, you'll see that behind all the sellers is a thick green tarp. Well, it's not space that's behind that tarp."
He laughed as my eyebrows went up with understanding. All this time the Dark Market had been that easy to find. That available.
"Uh-huh," he said. "And there's only one entrance, on the side where they sell live fowl. A dark green veil covers it. When you lift it aside, you'll see that the veil is really soft, like expensive silk!"
So there I stood in the market with my itchy scalp. I looked around, hoping no one had noticed me standing there. I quickly reached into my pocket and touched the money. I looked around again. There were a lot of people, but no one was paying any attention to me. I started walking toward the center of the market.
Though I wasn't facing the sun, I wished I had sunglasses. It wasn't the worst time of the day to be in the section where mirrors were sold, but it wasn't the best either. The best time was dusk. The mirror section was the only area of the market that was allowed to stay open past five p.m. As I walked, I passed many baskets full of tiny style mirrors of all shapes and sizes. There were even more rows of mirrors with organic backs designed specifically to grow into house walls.
Soon, the air became heavy with flies as I came upon the part of the market where meat was sold. This was the first time I stopped there. Usually, I walked past it as fast as I could. My father usually bought the meat, so I had no reason to go there. My father didn't mind the flies, and he loved the variety he could choose from. My mother, who did most of the other shopping, didn't complain and neither did I.
All around me were chopping blocks. Slabs of red, pink, yellow, and purple meat were draped from vines, cracked clams and filleted fish were piled on ice, and there were bowls of meat spices like curry and bitter leaf sauce. The air smelled coppery from all the blood, and I felt nauseous. As I walked, I thought about where I was heading. What will the Dark Market be like? I wondered with a chill of excitement. Will it look like the rest of the market, except for the items sold? Or will there be a magical overcast of clouds hovering above it? And what will the people there be like? They can't be much different from the other people in the rest of the market.
Though I slowed my pace, I kept walking.
I finally approached the place where live fowl were sold. I stopped and looked around. One man sold bush fowl and chickens of all sizes, from tiny enough to fit in the palm of my hand to the size of a large dog. Next to him, a woman sold rare Gunson birds, disheveled-looking brown and black birds with long legs. But she had to keep them in a special pen because though they were tall, they were scrawny and weak and other birds liked to peck at their legs. A man was selling candy birds, large, red, chickenlike fowl fed only caramel squares and sugar toast. Behind all of them, I could see the mysterious green tarp that I'd never thought twice about.
I softly gasped. This was it. Between a woman selling smoked owl meat and the man selling candy birds, there was a break in the tarp. An entrance covered by a veil that fluttered in the soft breeze. I slowly walked toward the Dark Market entrance.
I gazed up at the ten-foot-high entrance and looked behind me and then at the woman selling owl meat. I wrinkled my nose. The meat she was selling didn't smell very tasty at all. She wasn't paying any attention to me. Good, I thought, no one's watching. I reached out and touched the veil. Dari was right. It did feel as if it were made of the finest silk. Hundreds of people must have pushed it aside every day, and there wasn't an oil stain or tear on any part of it. I went in.
The market that I had known all my life was open-air; everything was out and under the sun. But this part of the market, the Dark Market, was surrounded by a group of high trees. The large blackish green tarp hung from the trees, blocking out the sun. Circles had even been cut in it to let the trees grow through. I stopped for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the shade. Now I knew where the Dark Market got its name.
Did I want the hair oil this much? I thought and considered turning back. But ... I was curious. I thought about what Dari had said about seeing for yourself if it was so bad, and I had to agree with him.
I blinked and looked around, hearing my mother's voice in my head: "The Dark Market is where thieves, con artists, evil magicians, and shady people do business. There are things there that you can't explain; some are fascinating but most are dangerous. Keep your distance from that place, Zahrah." That was what my mother had told me years ago, when she first brought me to the market.
A lot of good her advice had done. I knew the Dark Market was not safe, but yet there I stood. I was scared and already felt guilty, but my legs began to move. Feathers of different shapes and sizes from the bird section blew around me as I took my first steps into the Dark Market.
Once I was under the tarp, the air grew stuffy. The Dark Market must have a lot to hide, I thought with a shiver of anticipation. The air seemed to grow clearer as I moved farther in. That was when I understood; the Dark Market was only for those who wished to enter. Not for cowardly outsiders.
I stopped and looked around, taking it all in. I crossed my arms around my chest as if to protect myself. I felt
shivers of rebellious excitement. Above me, the green tarp billowed with the gentle breeze. There was a small nest of green toucans in one of the trees' lower dead branches. They whistled and chattered loudly, but no one seemed to notice them ... except me.
Like the rest of the market, the red dirt path before me was narrow, with booths and tables set close to one another on both sides. To my left, a man with a patch over his left eye and tightly braided cornrows stood behind a table selling live vultures! Some of the vultures stood miserably on the table, their talons clacking whenever they took a step, and others were perched on thick black sticks.
What do people do with live vultures? I wondered, looking at the birds' oily black wings, vulnerably bald necks, and red heads. They can't possibly eat them! Ugh! I rubbed my arms, frowning with disgust. Vultures lived off the dead and decaying! The man grinned at me as I passed, and I saw that all his teeth were stained green. I bit my lip. In school, we'd learned about drugs and how terrible they were. But never had I met or even seen anyone who actually did drugs. Until then. This man was probably addicted to mystic moss. I politely smiled back, hoping I didn't look as scared as I felt.
Next to him, a root woman waited to tell fortunes. Now root workers, I had seen before. This one was dressed in a wide bright orange billowing dress with hundreds of tiny style mirrors embedded all over it. She clicked with every move. It was quite a lovely and civilized dress and probably very expensive. I was glad she was in the process of telling someone's fortune. Root workers have a reputation for harassing passersby by shouting out one's most embarrassing problems until one gave in to having his or her fortune told. Plus the preoccupation with her customer gave me a chance to get a good look at the dress.
I passed a man who illustrated ghosts. "Update that portrait of your beloved passed-on relative! You bring em, I see and draw 'em! Only one blue petri flower," he announced. Two women were selling different-colored dung-scented inks. Pew! A man claimed he could exorcise haunted computers. And of course I saw several people selling the worst kinds of poisons: poisons that caused a slow death, instant death, amnesia, comas, terrible pain, a loss of one's mind, a loss of physical control, and the most horrible hallucinations. I didn't pass too many booths selling antidotes to poisons though.
The heavy air must have changed scents with every ten steps I took. From camel dung to scented oil to incense to flowers to garbage. It was all very exotic. Though I was still afraid, I was beginning to understand why Dari would go there despite all the warnings. Imagine what you could buy with a few tiny petri flowers!
Still, I didn't see the oil lady anywhere. So I walked farther in.
The people shopping in the Dark Market were of every type: men, women, young, old, tall, short, happy and sad looking, nervous like me, and bold as if they went there every day. The only thing they all had in common was that no one made eye contact and everyone walked quickly with a strong look of purpose. It seemed that everyone wanted to be there but not for longer than he or she had to.
I crept along, trying to stay as far from each stand as possible. The merchants seemed to be selling stranger and stranger items the farther into the market I got, and I was quickly losing my courage. A man selling brown toads the size of dogs didn't even make a move when one of his toads flicked its tongue at a fly zooming by an inch from my face! Such toads were used for ridding homes of flies, ants, and spiders and were employed for only the worst infestations. Dari had heard terrible stories about these toads eating small children.
I sneezed as I walked past three men selling personal pepper seeds. I paused, contemplating buying some. It would be nice to have more friends, I thought. Or at least have people be nicer to me. Then I shook my head. What am I thinking? I shouldn't even be here! And how bad it would be to buy them with the gift money from Papa for becoming a woman!
Before I could ask someone where the oil lady was stationed, I was cursed at by a caged wood gripe, solicited by a computer with a large flowering monitor that claimed to channel another world through the network, and then hit by a spout of water from a singing fish swimming in a large green half pod filled with water. The seller next to the pod laughed loudly, and the pink fish lifted its mouth out of the water to sing a tune that, despite my shock, I had to admit was very pretty. My hands were shaking as I walked up to the first person that I got a good feeling about.
"E-e-excuse me, madam, can you tell me where the oil lady might be today?" I asked, stepping up to a tall, tall woman with dark brown skin. She leaned against a tree smoking a cigarette. Her head was shaved so close that she looked bald. She had a strange, elaborate symbol tattooed just below her neck. Behind her were several peaceful-looking large baboons, sitting cross-legged on the ground.
They were scratching complex symbols in the dirt and on pieces of paper. I stared at them, forgetting my question. I had never seen baboons in real life. I'd heard that baboons, gorillas, and all other types of monkeys were as intelligent as human beings or more so. These seemed like the latter. The symbols they drew were so pretty. Loops, swirls, lines; they were little artists!
The woman blew smoke in my face and I coughed.
"Where are your parents, dada girl?" the woman asked in a smooth voice that reminded me of thick orange mango juice.
"Um ... well..." I said, my eye still on the amazing baboons. "My mother works back in the fruit section—"
"If I tell you where the oil lady is, will you go to your mother right afterward?"
I vigorously nodded my head. I was more than ready to leave the Dark Market. I had already spent more time there than I planned and was starting to wonder if I was going to get in trouble. And I was sure that I had come farther than Dari had on his first visit.
The woman pointed to my left.
"Go that way," she said. "She's stationed next to De-loris, the woman selling the dried and live bush hoppers."
"Thankyou," I said.
"Oil for your hair?"
I nodded.
The woman smiled.
"You can always do what I did. Especially when it gets too long, " she said, rubbing her close-to-bald head. My jaw dropped.
"You ... cut your dada hair?"
"My mother and father are still angry," she said with a smirk.
"Why did you do it?" I asked. I couldn't believe it. Couldn't imagine it.
"Why not?"
"Was it because people ... gave you a bad time?" I asked.
She laughed.
"Do people give you a bad time?"
I nodded.
"People will always be difficult when it comes to being dada," she said. "We're more connected to the trees and plants." She smiled, looking up at the Dark Market's green tarp. "And the sky. We're born with memories of long ago."
I didn't really understand what she was saying. And she seemed to notice the confusion on my face.
"Hey, if you're lucky, your greatest problem will be people making fun of you," she said. "Most likely that's all you'll have to overcome, and that's no big deal, really."
"Yeah, I guess," I said with a weak smile.
We stood looking at each other for a moment. One of the baboons made a clicking sound behind the woman and handed her a piece of paper. She looked at what the baboon had scribbled.
"No, I don't think so," she said. All of the baboons waved their sticks and pens in the air. But the woman shook her head again and said, "Not likely."
Then she turned back to me.
"What's your name?"
"Zahrah."
"My name is Nsibidi," she said. "Come and see me sometime, if you're not too scared to return. The idiok seem to like you. Now, go find your oil."
Chapter 5
The Soft Parade
I pushed open my window and took a deep breath. It was one of those warm nights when the wind makes music in the treetops. I turned and looked at myself in my bedroom mirror and smiled at my long white dress. The nightgown was old, but it was my favorite. The material was silky like wate
r. Such clothes were never uncivilized.
I sat on the floor facing the window with my flora computer in my lap. My father had given me the CPU seed when I was seven years old, and I had planted and taken care of it all by myself. It was my first responsibility. My flora computer had grown nicely because of my care. Its light green pod body was slightly yielding, and the large traceboard leaf fit on my lap like a part of my own body. The screen was large and oval, a shape that I had always found soothing. The computer would pull energy from my body heat, and I'd link a vine around my ear so that it could read my brain waves. It would grow in size and complexity, as I grew.
"Music," I said as I looked out the window and touched the traceboard. "The Soft Parade."
I shut my eyes as my computer started to play "Reedy Bells," the Soft Parade's best song. It was an instrumental tune with gentle drumbeats and three birdlike flutes. I always liked to listen to this particular song on windy days. Not surprisingly, a rhythm beetle flew in to enjoy the music. I didn't bother trying to shoo it out. As long as it was only one beetle, I was fine.
I could hear my parents chatting away downstairs. There had been a town meeting about this year's yam festival, and once again Papa Grip gave a wonderful speech. Or so I heard my parents saying. I hadn't gone because it was a school night.
"Dari," I said to my computer. The screen turned a light purple, and a few moments later, Dari's face appeared in a small box on the upper right-hand corner of my screen.
"Good evening," he said, straightening his long blue nightshirt and pants. He glanced at himself in the mirror behind him to make sure he looked good. Then he said, "Just a minute. I'm cleaning my room. Almost done. Gimme two minutes."
"OK."
When I saw him turn around and walk to his closet to hang up his clothes, I set my computer on the floor and went to my dresser. I opened the pink slender bottle of rose oil, squirted some onto my palm, and massaged it into my hair.
Zahrah the Windseeker Page 3
