It was pretending it never bothered you.
CHAPTER TWO
MALIA
Halekai's farmer's market teemed with locals and visitors alike. Sunshine poured across the terraced town, where handwoven baskets of mangoes, guava, and papaya lined the coastal market like a rainbow.
Thatched umbrellas shaded woven mats and wooden tables stacked with sweet taro buns, glass jars of coconut syrup, and fresh tropical herbs tied with twine.
I moved through the bustle, my boots barely brushing the warm stone as I tried to draw as little attention to myself as possible.
Children darted between vendors, their fingers sticky as they laughed. Aunties called out, selling flower leis and sweet malasadas. Drums and ukuleles echoed from the town square, while the scent of sea and plumerias clung to the breeze.
“Koa bowls!” a man called, and I lowered my head even more, hoping he–with the loud voice–might not notice me. His handmade wooden bowls and other items sat next to abooth with stained glass art. The artists of Corallure were unmatched.
“Get your poke!” said a passing vendor, waving ti leaves to draw people's attention. He pointed them toward his booth and many curious tourists followed him.
I paused, lingering by an old woman’s herb stand. I knew I should keep moving, but it always fascinated me to find other people as interested in herbs and natural remedies as myself.
She had an impressive display of items: sprigs of uhaloa and olena lay bundled beside carved wooden salves. I wished I could get a closer look. My limited eyesight made it impossible to fully examine everything.
Would the old woman perhaps not mind talking to someone like me?
Turning my head, I saw her in my peripheral vision. Engaged with a noblewoman, this old woman seemed well-liked, well-received, and maybe even popular.
She wouldn’t want to be associated with me.
Keep moving,I told myself, and I did.
Everywhere, the market blossomed: bright, warm, familiar. A place I was hoping would feel more like home the longer I lived here.
Except it wasn’t.
I blinked and tried to focus on my steps and avoid bumping into anyone. It was impossible though, with children running around and buyers congregating around certain stands. I kept my head turned to try and capture the images at the edges of my vision, hoping that I could get to my friend before anyone noticed.
Of course that was wishful thinking in such a busy area.
I ran into an older man, who was obviously a whaler based on his cursing. Whaling was illegal in Corallure,but the whaling ships still stopped occasionally for supplies.
He hissed under his breath, “Get out of here, witch!” Fear spread through me like wild mint: quick, invasive, hard to pull out.
I instinctively touched my neck, hoping he didn’t see the burn scars, hoping my hair covered that and my hands.
Hurry, Malia!
I stuck out like a sore thumb with my black dress, and even whalers who weren’t from Corallure could identify me as a witch.
Most of the men wore loose white shirts and vests; most of them whalers, fishermen, and merchants. Their appearance was rough, their skin weathered from the salt and sea, their facial hair and hygiene seemingly unkempt, and their language fouler than the reek of dead fish.
They were a stark difference from the gentlemen-like visitors who came from Moanalei or other parts of Corallure Kingdom. The gentlemen wore suits and crisp white shirts under them. They would dab sweat on their foreheads with their handkerchiefs.
And beside the gentlemen were gentlewomen, parasols in hand. In the heat of the day, they wore long-sleeved blouses and wide-brimmed hats, their skirts covering their well-laced boots. Some wore elegant corsets and vibrant-colored skirts, matching the tropical world around us.
Many of them wore their hair in elegant updos and spiraled curls, while my hair hung long and straight down my back. I moved cautiously, keeping in the shadows of the covered booths, then standing behind people or the twisted branches of banyan trees to check my surroundings before going into any open areas.
A child ran straight into my legs, and I almost droppedmy basket of goods. When I looked down, I could not see the child’s face. As had been my vision since a young age, there seemed to be a dark, blurry mass in the center of my focus. I had to turn my head, looking out of the corners of my eyes in order to see him.
And even at that, it’d take me a moment to really look before getting the details of his face: the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose…
