Moon

I see them watching me as I saunter past. This is a small Seaside town in Lettish, and I’m a new face, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, and that draws attention. The miller’s wife purses her lips as her husband’s eyes leave the road for a moment to follow my bottom. No doubt she’s wondering which boat I came in on and how soon I’ll leave.
My nose guides me across the market green to the fish cart. I prefer fish, but usually a fisherman sends his wife to market and that makes meat often easier to get. Today it’s my lucky day, and a man is selling his own fish. I take my time, lingering at each stand as I approach, so he gets plenty of time to notice me. 
When there’s a lull in customers by his cart, I make my move. He sees me coming and breaks eye contact to shift a fish to another position. As soon as he removes his hand from it, it slides right back with a slight rasping of scales. When he looks back up, his eyes catch on the sight of my bosom peeking over the too-tight dress. I pretend to stumble, making them bounce, and he can’t pull his eyes up to meet my face until I’m at the cart. 
A few appreciative words, body language that subtly permits his ogling, and he’ll do anything I ask. Unfortunately for him, all I want today is a fish. He selects a nice monkfish with great glassy eyes, and begins to wrap it while casting about for ways of making me stay, of making himself worth more to me. He tries to tell me how to cook it, but falters when he sees my disinterest. Feeling a little sorry for him, I leave him with a woven bracelet and a kiss on the cheek.
Food for the day securely tucked under my arm, I begin to head for the city gates. I let myself pale and droop as I leave the market, I don’t need or want the attention any more. As my previously so sprightly steps grow more heavy, my hair gradually loses its lustre in the bright sun and the red apron fades to a worn pink. By the time I’m a block away, I look middle-aged.
I’m still a stranger, however, and merely looking worn isn’t enough to defend a lone woman from a certain class of men-folk. A bearded young man points and calls to his mates. Like a pack, they form up and call me names. They approach, leering and suggesting things to do with my fish. I try to ignore them as I hurry on, the sunlight and their attention fixing me. 
Suddenly, one of them grabs a hold of my elbow and drags me into the shadow of a covered walkway. Seeing the others glance around for potential interlopers, I’m free to act. The hoodlum who grabbed me screams from the shadows, blood seeping between the fingers covering his face. His mates take one look at us and stumble back into the street with cries of horror and dismay. The injured one falls to the ground, still clutching his ruined face. I take the opportunity to sneak a bite out of my fish before changing again and leaving the scene.
As the open sky turns the colour of the poppies along the road and evening approaches, I reach a small farmhouse, almost a hovel, and decide to stop there for a brief rest. A knock on the door brings the farmwife to the door. She sees my aged face and greets me as “mother”, bidding me to enter. As I do, she tells me that she’ll ask her husband to sleep with the farm hands so I can have his bed. Of course I can’t stay, but I’m touched by her sincere generosity and ask for some milk. A child with scruffy hair peeks bashfully out of the kitchen as her mother passes by, and I notice that one of her eyes is an inflamed red and encrusted with mustard-yellow pus. With a grandmother’s caring smile, I crouch down and reach for the child. A small gesture and the appropriate power flows forth. The job is quickly done, and I rise and return to where I was standing.
The milk is good and cow-warm. I feel invigorated by the nourishment and the kindness of simple people. I ask how long the eye had been like that and predict that it will clear up quickly if they rinse it a few times with poppy tea. Thankful for the advice, she insists I stay the night, but I put on my stern face and will not be stopped from taking my leave.
By nightfall, I am already many miles away, following the moonlit path.
Category:Story
Category:Grimoire Tale