The ceremonial robes of the musicians were bright and patched with colors and patterns of silk. The five of them stood in a line, goat skin drums, gourds and flutes tucked firmly under their arms. Their faces were covered; only dark eyes stared out from the rich colored cloths. No one seemed to notice them through the din of the crowd and the excitement of the market place fair. Horses paraded by with small carriages in tow, little children swarming around, trying to catch a ride; merchants from the sea side hollered and haggled, selling bright fabrics and tangy salts to anyone who might get caught near their stand. A little girl with pink, wind burned cheeks and short black hair sat on a huge mound of watermelons. In her left hand she held a long knife, and her right balanced one of her green melons atop her knee. As she pierced its thick skin with her knife, juice pooled at the sides of the cut, running down the watermelon’s plump side, leaving a tear-trail through the fine dust on the girl’s leg. The musician holding the goat skin drum began a lonely, rich beat. Slowly, people began to turn from their busy chatter to watch and listen with quiet eyes as another musician uncovered his face and brought his flute to his lips. The next person to join in the chorus had no physical instrument; she spread her arms wide and began to sing. No language came from her hidden lips, just a methodic, stirring noise. Whispers wove their way through the crowd as everyone listened. The robes of the musicians lay in stiff folds along their unmoving bodies, distorting their shadows into tall, mounds of shapes. The little girl selling watermelons looked up from her work, though she didn’t pause the gentle rocking of her knife through the melon. When her knife worked its way far enough, she put it down and with a crisp crack, broke the melon in two. Three minutes passed with some entranced by the music, and others still making their way around the market place. Inside the watermelon, juicy red flesh clashed with the green stripes across the rind. The song ended, leaving a silence that was quickly refilled with the excited chatter of the fair goers.
“How much for a melon?” the singer stood in front of the heap of melons upon which the girl sat “Free for those who play so beautifully as to stop the talking,” said the girl quietly. The woman shook her blue-clothed head and extended her arm. Just hidden beneath the folds of her thick silk sleeve, a small shell lay nestled in the woman’s hand “Take this and let me trade with you for your fruit,” she said in an even tone. Without a word, the little girl heaved a melon up from her pile and handed it to the singer. Then she reached up and wrapped her hand around the shell. It was cool to the touch, and small enough to be completely concealed by the girl’s fist. Looking up into the eyes of the hidden woman, the girl found her words lost in a faraway place, but she knew that no words had to be said. “Thank you,” came the voice from behind the blue fabric, then the speaker was gone.
Climbing the crates of melons until she stood at the very top, Ikke pushed aside her bangs and looked over the marketplace. She couldn’t see any bright patterned silks or goat skin drums. She squeezed the shell within her hand; its cool surface was warmed by her heat. Opening her hand slowly, she looked down into her palm and her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t see the shell at all, but its presence still pressed gently against her hand.
Carefully, she transferred the shell to her left hand and felt for its shape. She grasped it tightly and placed it inside her pant pocket. Flattening her palm over it, she felt the hard, spiraled lump pressing into her leg. Patting her leg twice, she took one last look over the crowd and turned around.