The Greeting

Artwork: unknown

She’s a simple merchant, not one of those vile women known to be witches. She sells all sorts of fruit, ripe, full, round, so mature in their sweetness that they burst in your mouth with overpowering, honey-like juice and untamable flavor. She has two tight braids, large breasts, and sunny bronze skin.

Whenever she meets someone for the first time, she greets them all the same way, “When my darkest hour comes, you will show me no compassion.” 

The woman’s voice has a glass-like quality to it, ringing sharp like sacred chimes in the deepest of silence, set off against the clamor of the market.

Hers is the face that doesn’t reveal any hidden truths.

Some get very angry and loud, as they hear her words, spoken in a soft, casual voice. In their agitation, they wave their arms, stomp their feet, and accuse her of some idiotic things.

Some forget their fresh pears, apples, and melons and stagger away empty-handed, with an unsettling hollow inside.

Some others just stare at her for a long while, their eyes suddenly bright and alive with uneasy knowing.

This calm, darkly confident greeting, with a harrowing love burning deep within it, shows her the world and the faces.

These plain words have the power to eclipse the unimaginable squalor of this ancient city on the brink of oblivion. The dark-robed priests, throats slit from ear to ear, mingle among the commoners and the moon bleeds heavy and red almost every night, changing the color of the river to rotting clay. Yet the woman’s words have a different terror to them.

“When my darkest hour comes, you will show me no compassion,” spoken gently, purely, with dark confidence, in the space between hurt, forgiveness, and grief.

Once, as the day is drawing to a close, the evening sun pouring its thick, vivid gold over the nearly empty market, a traveller is passing through it. A tall handsome man, his eyes sparkling with laughter, his pale hair shining in the sunlight like a mirror. He greets the woman politely and with a tangy foreign accent, his manner of speaking immediately giving away his aristocratic origins, and she utters her usual words, “When my darkest hour comes, you will show me no compassion.”

The laughter disappears from the man’s eyes, a shadow falls over him, and he slaps across the face, knocking a few of her teeth out. A second swift, heavy blow makes her fall to the ground and when he begins kicking her limp body, everything goes dark.

The next morning the woman appears with her cart of fruit and vegetable, as is her custom, with the other merchants looking away from her swollen face and her bruises. 

At bedtime, she lets her hair down, she blows the candle out, and whispers a short prayer in a strange language. 

There was a time when she used a more popular greeting and people talked to her more often. A few even laughed with her when she made jokes, which was her favorite. She misses laughing in the company of others the most.

She doesn’t like to talk about what’s changed.

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