I cruise along, glancing at all the items on the wooden tables. I sniff a few bars of handmade soaps, picking out a couple to create a gift basket for Zizi. Then I choose two for myself: orange ginger and lavender.
Ambling along the tables, another stall catches my eye, boasting arrays of colorful fabrics strung on a line. My gaze zeroes in on a jhola bag that seems to call out my name. The hand-embroidered flowers make it look bohemian and rustic, which I know Aunt Zizi will love. A smile tugs the corners of my mouth upwards as I picture Aunt Zizi’s eyes lighting up when I give it to her. Knowing her love for anything handmade and unique, this is just the kind of accessory that would add to her hodgepodge of mismatched socks and an adventurous spirit. My fingers close around the soft fabric, and I feel a thrill. I sigh softly, knowing how much Aunt Zizi would appreciate this gesture.
I’m down to the last tent in the row. Above the table is a banner that reads, ‘The Malachite Maid.’ My heart skips a beat, a sense of anticipation and thrill washing over me. Childhood memories of rock collecting with my father flood back suddenly,gripping my heartstrings with fond nostalgia. I reckon it’s maybe a sign from the universe.
The table is covered in rocks and gems of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Their irresistible shimmer catches the light and invites me closer. From purple amethyst to citrine, which matches Mango’s amber eyes, to the namesake green malachite, the table displays a rainbow of colors.
The booth is staffed by a woman in a wrap dress that is the same deep green as the malachite. It looks like it was pulled directly from the disco era. A calm serenity oozes from every pore of the woman’s being. Her raven-black hair is braided into two long tails that are woven through with thin copper wire and studded with a rainbow of small stones. Her bright eyes, a similar shade as her dress, glow with delight as she observes the festival.
“Hello there!” she greets me with a warm smile as I peruse her stock. “Let me know if you have any questions.” I smile and dip my chin in acknowledgment; I pause mid-nod when my attention is drawn toward a slight movement on her shoulder. A pet lizard suns itself on her shoulder. I do a double-take at the unexpected sight. I quickly scoop up Mango and cradle him, ensuring my inquisitive cat doesn’t mark the lizard as prey.
With a deep breath, I give the rocks on display my full attention.
“Mango, buddy, what do you think? Do you see anything that Aunt Zizi would like?” I find myself whispering to the feline. My fingers brush over a particularly radiant piece of jasper that is the same bright red as the flower that is my aunt’s namesake.
I pick up a leaflet resting near the malachite on the table. “The Malachite Maid – Mistress of Copper Mountain”, the title reads in bold, enticing letters.
Unfolding it, I skim over it. The Malachite Maid, it says, is from the very heart of Copper Mountain, a living embodimentof the mountain’s raw, awe-inspiring beauty. Her heart, they believe, is made of pure malachite, embodying the power to soothe broken hearts, encourage the spirit, and cultivate resilience.
She’s known to take the form of an enchanting woman or a lizard – I give the bearded dragon on the woman’s shoulder a sardonic look. Talk about playing the part. The Malachite Maid was the guardian of the Ural mountains in what is now Russia, protecting the precious treasures within its depths and only revealing them to those she deemed deserving.
I love historical anecdotes like this. What a fun bit of history! I can’t help but be entranced by the mythology.
I find myself drawn towards a delicate necklace showcasing a glossy pendant made of obsidian, its shining surface so dark it seems almost to absorb the sunlight. The obsidian piece, shaped like a small, smooth teardrop, fits perfectly in my palm.
I pick up the attached card detailing the supposed healing qualities of obsidian, reading with a skeptical hum. Apparently, it has protective qualities and the ability to ward off negative thoughts. While I don’t find myself entirely convinced that a rock could hold such powers, I can’t help but feel its allure. I find myself reasoning that it couldn’t hurt, lifting the necklace by its silver chain and admiring how the pendant catches the light. Aunt Zizi will love it.
I grab the small tag attached to the necklace and decide the price is reasonable for such a lovely piece. “I’ll take it,” I tell the shopkeeper.
The woman gives me a pleased smile. “Good choice.” She takes the necklace from me and carefully drops it into a nice little velvet bag. I pay for my purchase as she bags my item.
“You’ll be my last customer today. I’m closing down for the day. I want you to have this.” I look back at the woman cradling a piece of silver rock about the size of a golf ball in the palm of herhand, its surface glimmering in the sun. “A gift,” she explains, her voice echoing the warmth in her eyes.
I find myself charmed by the woman’s kindness, accepting the freebie with a grateful smile. As she bags the rock, curiosity paints her face as she asks for my opinion on the town. I can’t hide the sigh of longing as my answer leaves my lips, “It’s lovely… but I should get back on the road.”
“Oh, make sure you visit the wishing bell before you leave. It’s tradition.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that today.”
“I bet,” the woman says with a grin.
“Where is this bell? Is it far away?” If it is, I’m not sticking around to ring some bell, tradition or not.
“Oh no, it’s right over there.” I follow the woman’s pointing finger. She points over to the edge of the wooded area not far from where I’d entered the woods earlier. A bell the size of my head hangs from an ancient-looking, stone-built arch. “It’s said that the bell is as old as the town itself,” the woman informs me. “All you need to do is make a wish and ring the bell. Then your wish will come true!”
What a cute little tradition – I love it. Given my current situation, what exactly do I have to lose? It’ll only delay me a few extra minutes, so why not? My pragmatic heart yearns for something positive. Perhaps a touch of magic is just the thing. With a shrug, I decide to play along. After all, it seems like harmless, quaint fun. Besides, when I tell Aunt Zizi about this place, she’ll skin my hide if she finds out I was here and didn’t ring the bell.
Thanking the woman, I head toward the bell. I have Mango tucked in one arm and my bags in the other.
Heading over to the area where the bell is located, I notice that most of the festival celebrants are near the bandstand enjoying the music. I’m pleased to have the bell to myself – whowants to come up with a worthy wish while people are watching? That’s too much pressure.
A winding path leads up to the arch, the earthy scent of the dirt trail beneath my feet merging with the intoxicating aroma of wildflowers. The flowers border the path in a riot of colors, their velvety petals dancing happily in the slight breeze. Soft sunlight filters down from the emerald canopy overhead, giving the area a dreamlike quality.
I find myself standing before the wishing bell. The large bronze bell hangs from a sturdy stone arch, not unlike the mouth of a lonesome cave. The stones are mossy and ancient. They radiate an aura of timeless endurance, standing steadfast against countless eons of history. This half-circular space is nestled into the edge of the woods, giving me a sense of solitude. Dappled light spots the old path I’m standing on in a shift of shadows and radiant beams. Silence envelops me as the band finishes playing their last song. I feel a sense of solemn reverence, which I wasn’t expecting. I thought this would be a kitschy, silly thing, but now that I’m staring at the bell, I feel a palpable reverent gravity to the moment. I can easily picture the hundreds of people who have come before me, voicing their deepest wishes and desires. The bell holds the weight of generations of wishes. There’s something profound and beautiful to that thought. It penetrates my soul, rekindling hope and soothing heartache. I’m enchanted by this simple yet profound sanctuary of whispered wishes and dreams.
Feeling a rush of hope tingle through my veins, I place Mango and my shopping bags on the ground by my feet. Instead of pulling at the leash to explore, Mango sits patiently at my feet.
“Alright, let’s do this,” I mutter, reaching out and tentatively brushing my fingers over the bell’s worn surface. The cold metal sends a chill running up my arm, but it feels oddly comforting, like a sacred connection to a power unknown.
