The Traveling Marketplace

Mid-afternoon sunlight wove between the beech trees surrounding the outer edge of the bustling marketplace. Overlapping voices tickled Reagan’s ear from the crowd of people flanking the first stall.

It looks like most of the village has gathered here today, he thought, feeling the heat of the packed village square crawling toward him. He grimaced inwardly, and his stomach tightened like it always did when he approached a large crowd. All it would take was one unwelcome face and…

He shook his head, pushing the thought away, and plastered a neutral expression on his face as braved the beginning of the crowd.

A few villagers greeted Reagan with a nod when he passed by. In the gaps between groups of people, a light breeze ruffled Reagan’s beige shirt, sneaking in between him and his coat and carrying the murmur of voices away from him.

The crowd thinned at the center of the market. Rows of tables lined either side of what used to be the main street, set up behind the row of small shops. Each table was different -- some were on loan from the nearby carpenter shop, some carried out from the merchants’ own homes. All were piled high with wares ranging from crockery to food to fabrics and dyes.

Reagan headed for the center table on the left side, where a middle-aged woman named Agatha was setting rolls of fabric out in neat, color-coordinated rows spanning the entirety of a worn beechwood table. She smiled as Reagan approached.

“You’re in luck, Liam,” said Agatha. “The caravans brought some new fabrics this morning, and I set these aside for your mother.” She withdrew two small rolls of fabric, one white and one a pale yellow.

“These look perfect,” Reagan replied, accepting the fabric rolls with a smile. He had grown accustomed to responding to a name that was not his own. The rough wool warmed his hands faster than the fall sun. “Mom will love them.” It had taken him years of practice to stop his voice from faltering when talking about his “mother.”

“Actually,” Liam said, leaning so close to the rolls that his nose was almost touching the white one, “I thought the color she wanted was a little deeper than that. To patch Dad’s winter coat.”

“On second thought,” Reagan said to Agatha, who was already logging the purchase total into a leather-bound ledger, “Would you happen to have this yellow one in a deeper shade? Perhaps a little more golden?”

She paused, hand hovering over the ledger, then looked at Reagan over her spectacles and said, “Let me see what else we have.” Her eyebrows scrunched together, and a hint of confusion played in her voice, but she turned to look through her wagon anyway.

Three more rolls were set out on the table before Reagan, and under Liam’s watchful eye, he chose the middle one. Agatha warned him it was a little more expensive, so he opted to get less fabric and hoped it would be the right decision.

“If this one doesn’t match, I’m blaming you,” Reagan said under his breath as they walked away. He barely moved his lips as he spoke, a skill he had mastered over the past decade.

Liam laughed, “I’m always your scapegoat, even back when we were kids and Mom and Dad doubted I was really there.” He walked close to Reagan, avoiding the crowd out of habit more than necessity.

“Sometimes even I doubted you were there,” Reagan said, looking toward the tether connecting them. It was a glowing silver thread, barely visible even on a pitch black night. In direct sunlight, it was impossible to see.

Liam floated up and hung upside down in front of Reagan, coming face to face with him. The ghost’s short dark hair hung around his face like a shadow. “And yet you still used me as an excuse.”

Reagan sidestepped him, looking down and pretending like he was avoiding a pebble at his feet in case any of the villagers were looking. “It’s not an excuse if you really did tell me to do something.”

With a shrug, Liam dropped back down to Reagan’s side. “She’ll like the fabric, trust me.” Although he looked older than the last time Reagan had seen him alive on that fateful day ten years ago, he still had the same grin, the same dimples, and the same glimmer in his pale blue eyes.

Reagan didn’t reply, heading instead to the outer edge of the marketplace, where farmers sold their crops and eggs. He purchased half a dozen small potatoes before heading home with Liam close behind.

Liam’s home was a small brick cottage on the outskirts of the rural village. It was a short walk from the ashen remains of Reagan’s childhood home, but the path between them had long since overgrown with weeds, and Reagan dared not venture to the ruins.

The wooden door creaked as Reagan pushed it open. The oak boards felt warm beneath his callused fingers. Behind him, he dragged a worn cloth piled high with firewood, and a pail of lakewater dangled from his arm. He had dropped off the day’s purchases a few hours ago.

The cozy home smelled of flowers, but there was a sour note beneath the scent of roses and lilies. Most of the flowers on the dining table and cupboards were partially wilted. They were the ones Liam’s mom had failed to sell in their prime but couldn’t bear to part with until they were truly dead. They added a dull layer of color to the otherwise plain surroundings.

No paintings adorned the walls, no rugs carpeted the floor. All the furniture was simple and worn. The wood had gouges. The fabric of the chairs and the two small cots in the corners had been reupholstered many times. A few coats hung on hooks beside the fireplace mantle, one for each member of the household. In the furthest corner hung the cloak that had fallen over Reagan that fateful day. Unbeknownst to him, his father’s invisibility cloak had made the closet look unoccupied, and it had kept him hidden until he arrived at Liam’s home, knocking weakly on the door and begging for help.

He hadn’t worn it since.

Only an oil lamp flickered dimly on the wall to the right of the door, and Reagan brought it with him as he approached the fireplace. Liam hovered over his shoulder, waiting, listening for him to recite the familiar spell.

A flame burst from Reagan’s palm, larger and brighter than ever before. It ignited not only the fireplace, but also a small spark of hope deep within his chest.

“It’s time,” he said to Liam. He couldn’t look at the boy floating beside him, so he gazed at the flickering flames instead, watching them eat the broken twigs and dried leaves he’d set out as kindling.

Liam watched him wide-eyed, his face only inches from Reagan’s. In barely more than a whisper, he asked, “Are you sure?”

Reagan nodded, still gazing into the fire. “My magic’s at its peak. We have to leave now.”