The streets are quiet as Christie winds her way through the maze of part-dismantled stalls, towards Mik's pitch. The brisk walk and cold air have brought colour to her cheeks, though her face is concealed by the strands of long dark hair being whipped around her by the ruffling wind. She keeps her gaze to the floor through the twists and turns of the chaotic bazaar, wary of being recognised; afraid of getting caught.
Mik is a market-trader of the old school, a veteran sailor of the market's murky waters.His clothes and hair were the colour of dust, and his calloused, worn down fingers crept from the ragged edges of his double layered gloves: knife-torn leather over fraying wool. Five years past his prime, his skin has been worn a smooth mahogany by uneven oscillations of the seasons, and he has been feeling the tug in his shoulders more these last few months: Loading the van no longer feels as smooth nor as effortless as it looks. Nevertheless, Christie catches snatches of the tune he's humming to himself in satisfaction.
He'd had a blinder of a day. Lucrative deals had been made, large sums of credits had changed hands, and the lion's share of it was even legit. Anything you wanted, you talked to Mikky; fulfilling his contracts was almost as much a matter of honour as of lining his pockets. Sometimes it would take a few days for him to find the right string of the web to pull, but he had more contacts than there were fish in the sea. There was nothing he couldn't procure, given time.
He knew there was no risk without reward, but he kept a close eye on the line and refused to cross it without care. Below the counter, goods changed hands in time to the whorls and eddies of supply and demand. To Mik it felt like a purer form of trade, divorced from the metallic certainty of currency. Trade truly flowed through the barter system, and his hands kept it moving and directed the flow.
The medic had given him a tall order and no mistake, but on the black market, medicine was as valuable as it was rare - Mik couldn't afford to turn it down. He'd known from the start that the line would disappear over the horizon long before he'd secure the goods. It was a relief to get shot of the damned thing, it had lurked like a dangerous dog in the corner of his wagon since he'd taken possession.
For Christie's part, it was as if the glass vials of medicine had burned their way right through to her skin. She could feel an imprint of them above her left breast, even though they were now clutched tightly in her right hand, her knuckles clenched whitely around them. The trader tried to wipe his hands clean against his filthy apron before grasping hers, the tips of his gloveless fingers cold against her palm, as the contraband was passed invisibly between them.
Original version:
ReplyDeleteMik is a market-trader of the old school, a veteran sailor of the market's murky waters.His clothes and hair were the colour of dust, and his calloused, worn down fingers crept from the ragged edges of his double layered gloves: knife-torn leather over fraying wool. Five years past his prime, his skin has been worn a smooth mahogany by uneven oscillations of the seasons, and he has been feeling the tug in his shoulders more these last few months: Loading the van no longer feels as smooth nor as effortless as it looks. Nevertheless, he is humming tunelessly to himself in satisfaction.
He'd had a blinder of a day. Lucrative deals had been made, large sums of credits had changed hands, and the lion's share of it was even legit. Anything you wanted, you talked to Mikky; fulfilling his contracts was almost as much a matter of honour as of lining his pockets. Sometimes it would take a few days for him to find the right string of the web to pull, but he had more contacts than there were fish in the sea. There was nothing he couldn't procure, given time.
He knew there was no risk without reward, but he kept a close eye on the line and refused to cross it without care. Below the counter, goods changed hands in time to the whorls and eddies of supply and demand. To Mik it felt like a purer form of trade, divorced from the metallic certainty of currency. Trade truly flowed through the barter system, and his hands kept it moving and directed the flow.
The medic had given him a tall order and no mistake, but on the black market, medicine was as valuable as it was rare - Mik couldn't afford to turn it down. He'd known from the start that the line would disappear over the horizon long before he'd secure the goods. It was a relief to get shot of the damned thing, it had lurked like a dangerous dog in the corner of his wagon since he'd taken possession.
For Christie's part, it was as if the glass vials of medicine had burned their way right through to her skin. She could feel an imprint of them above her left breast, even though they were now clutched tightly in her right hand, her knuckles clenched whitely around them. The trader tried to wipe his hands clean against his filthy apron before grasping hers, the tips of his gloveless fingers cold against her palm, as the contraband was passed invisibly between them.