“The market! The market!” he cried. The guards at the gates let him through, calling derisively after him, but he paid them no mind. “The market!” he shouted, gathering too much speed so that he lost his balance and scraped the skin from his palms and knees. But he was up again in a flash, shouting all the louder. “The Twelve-Year Market is come from the Wood!”
The very oldest grandmama in all Sondhold could only just recall her old grandmama talking about her grandmama’s visit to the Twelve-Year Market. Many families in the city boasted prized heirlooms, strange oddities handed down from father to son, mother to daughter, for generations. A silver spoon that never tarnished; a kettle that sang familiar old tunes when the water boiled; a mug that never let the tea grow cold; a pair of boots that, if polished with the right stuff, would carry a man seven leagues in a step – too bad the polish ran out ages ago. The items once purchased at the Twelve-Year Market were rare and wonderful indeed, items of Faerie make and ever so expensive. But the Twelve-Year Market was the stuff of stories.
Until it showed up on the lawn below Goldstone Hill that day in early spring, soon after Princess Una came of age.
A washerwoman hanging up her second load of the day to dry paused in her work, her wrinkled white fingers momentarily still as the shepherd boy ran by. “The Twelve-Year Market!” he bellowed as he went, and she dropped the clean shirt – dropped it right in the dust – brushed off her apron, and hitched up her skirts to hasten from the city, out to the green lawn.
The boy ran on, shouting, “The market! The market is come!”
Merchants by the docks closed up booths and locked away their wares.
“The market!” the shepherd boy cried.
The cobbler’s wife and the baker’s sister ceased their gossip, blinked startled eyes, and joined the merchants.
The boy went on, shouting until he was too hoarse to make himself heard, but by then his work was complete. The folks of Sondhold streamed through the gates: the washerwoman, the merchants, the cobbler’s wife and her brood of children, even the guards who were supposed to stand at the gates. They all made their way down the dusty track from the city to the lawn below the hill. There they beheld the Faerie bazaar.
They stopped on the fringes, afraid to go forward.
The first to hail them was a man so incredibly ancient that his upper lip nearly reached his chin. His skin was like a walnut, and his eyes like acorn caps. A big black sow pulled his rickety cart, on which two enormous pots of alabaster hummed, as though some musical instrument played the same three notes again and again inside. Water sloshed as he lifted them down, and the city folk could hear the creak of every joint in his body, a crackling percussion accompanying the humming.
When he saw the gathering crowds his acorn-cap eyes winked twice, first with fear, then with a smile. “Come!” he cried, raising a gnarled hand, beckoning. “Come, folk of the Near World! Come inspect my wares! Unicorn fry, fresh from the sea, caught just this morning – or last century, depending on your view. Learning to sing; hear them for yourself! Come hear the sea unicorn young as they sing!”
The folk of Sondhold looked from him to each other, afraid to move closer, unwilling to leave.
Then the cobbler’s wife took hold of her youngest son and strode boldly to the lawn, her chin set in defiance though the baker’s sister called a warning to her. “I’d like a look,” she told the old man with the acorn-cap eyes.
He grinned and lifted the lid of one jar. The strange humming filled the air, only three notes dancing in the ears of all those near, but the sweetest three notes ever played together.
The cobbler’s wife stood on tiptoe to peer inside. “Coo!” she breathed. Then, “May I show the boy?”
The old man nodded, and she lifted her littlest one to peer into the alabaster jar. The child made a solemn inspection and finally declared, “Pretty.”
“Unicorn fry!” the old man cried. “Caught fresh this morning! I’ll sell them at a bargain, good dame, and you can raise one at home, hear sweet music every day!”
With that, the market truly opened. The crowd standing on the edges of the lawn could not bear to miss whatever wonders lay just before them, and they flooded in to inspect the hundred colorful stalls. The lawn below Goldstone Hill was suddenly as merry as a festival, as noisy as a circus, as frantic as a holiday. Music sang from all corners, outlandish music on outlandish instruments played by even more outlandish people. But although the songs were different, somehow they blended into each other in cheerful harmonies, often underscored by a low, melancholy tune that heightened the curiosity and the fun of those who browsed the many stalls.