text: 1117 words Rated PG; violence, blood, unsettling imagery Prompt: Write a cautionary fable about someone who always lies. Gather ‘round, those old and young. Come closer, and ye will be met with worlds of mystery. Sit at the stream, drink the sweet nectar within, and be reborn as is the phoenix from the ashes of the fire of the night. Stay at my shoes, and ye will be compelled to go forward with nothing but the stick of virtues and the sly hand. Our story begins when the moon shone above the world, moving downwards, perhaps contemplating crashing into the earth. The village was old. So old that Elder Mcallen could become one with the cracks on the buildings built near the river. The water had begun to chew on the land and spit it out as punishment for the farmers who did not wear belts on their waists. The folks would stop on their way through a town, not unlike that of the river, and use their forearms to reach the stall that was worth the suffering. There were two who never had to do this because they were already tending to the stand. It was the merchant and her husband. Their product was one thing of intrigue: a plant. This plant had a top that was reaching for the sun. The bottom looked like a child’s toy that spun with magic. It was so good that the merchant and her husband would only sell to those who wanted legumes with this fantastical plant. The merchant and her husband would jingle as they walked because of it. Every 6th sunrise, the two of them would take a mare and a carriage, and go to harvest their mystical plant. They would be gone until the moon cast shadows in the water lilies for the second time. The merchant and her husband always returned with burlap sacks about to burst, ready for the coming days. The folks wanted to find the magical clouds where these plants fell from. They tried to follow the merchant and her husband into the trees that lapped at the North end of the village. They tried to be mice, to not be spotted. They tried to be snakes, wiggling among mud and root. They tried to be squirrels, pulling themselves up on branches and scurrying. Alas, to no avail. A fog covered the merchant. A mist covered the husband. Their tracks were taken with the wind. Not a soul could find the fabled spot. Those who searched would return with noses, ears, and eyes dripping red. Their hands would have disappeared. Their irises were soulless black husks that might have been portals to the underworld. Those who returned screamed in agony The nights were never peaceful. For whom the screaming was for was never clear. This was, at least, was rare. Most did not return at all, but were lost to the everlasting wood, which most likely only ended when the merchant saw fit. There were rumours that she who could not share a secret was a witch. She might need to be burned to leave the village to its tasks. The issue was that the harvest she and her husband provided was too important to the town, so she was left to do as she pleased. The merchant’s long hair was covered by a dirt coloured cloth that never moved. Her skirts were always stained by grass. Her face had not been washed in moons, yet she carried elegance. The villagers would cry out to her. How did she find the wonderful roots that could feed an angel? She would never let a word slip past her tongue. It was of no consequence the people who would plead, the length of their groveling, or how often they would fall to their knees and mumble into her filthy boots. The merchant had never opened her mouth to anyone who was not her husband. Even the husband was not one for canards. His small hands would be wiped quietly on an apron that was no longer white so he could touch his products. He would only speak of prices, which would always be wrong. Not one thing he said was ever the truth. The village was always frustrated by this pair. They had come here once upon a dawn and would leave twice the whisper of the night if the time ever arrived. Most would only interact for the food to give their family, and no more. A blessing from above must not be asked questions. Other whisperers did not agree. They would clench their teeth and breathe small rumors that had no base in any facts. When the sun left no shadow, a person in a ragged shawl and nothing more approached the stand. The husband and the merchant were speaking silently. The only indication of conversation was the small movement of broken lips. When the person came close, the pair turned toward them slowly. “What will you be needing?” The merchant’s husband demanded. The person, the stranger, did not offer a response. They instead focused on the husband. They traveled down his light yellow hair to his blue shirt. They lingered on a pendant, which might have been glowing with green sparks. The chain it was attached to swung off of the husband’s neck. “What will you be needing?” The voice was louder. The stranger smiled. “The plant you carry so close to your heart.” The husband reached out the skilled hand he always used and picked up the special roots which made lips smack and eyes open. He picked a half dozen and laid them down on the smooth counter. The stranger shook their head. The shawl spun wildly. Their irises sparkled with knowledge. For the merchant’s husband was always one to lie. “You have lied to me.” The stranger purred. “I am asking for the plant that you carry close to your heart.” The merchant’s lips dipped downwards. She glanced at her husband. He returned the special roots to their basket. He next wrapped his fingers around an ear of corn. He lifted it and offered it to this peculiar customer. The corn was beautiful. The bland day could not reach the smooth bumps on the vegetable. It shone like the butter in the stall to the right of the merchant and her husband. It was very clean, and you might see a reflection on the yellow surface. The stranger was still not satisfied. They waggled their fingers in disapproval, and a grin showed yellow teeth. The stranger had come prepared for this trick. “You have once again hidden the truth from me. What is closest to your heart, dear man?” The merchant rose from her seat. She cupped her tanned hand and leaned down to advise her husband. He listened quietly and nodded. They exchanged a glance like crystals. The merchant fell back on her stool once more. Puffs of dirt rose from her skirts. The husband knitted his eyebrows and was now ready. “I have not an idea what you speak of.” The stranger threw back their oval head and laughed into the sky. “You have lied three times, my dear. Once more, a-” The folks who were in the area gasped and stumbled backward. The stranger was now lying on the ground, with a forehead of violet. The merchant’s husband shook out the hand which had been in a fist. Blood fell from his knuckles and dripped on the corn he had placed on the wooden counter. He did not bother to wipe it. It was of no value from this point forward. It would be cooked in a stew once the day fell. The merchant stood once more and embraced her husband. The perfect start to a day of profits. Moral: never pretend you can defeat the merchant and her husband.