Chapter 2 Malia
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 a booth 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 dropped my 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…
Faces and expressions were difficult to make out, but I heard him before I could read his face.
He screamed. “It’s the witch!”
Heart racing, sweat sticking in the palms of my hand, I hurried past the child and the crowd, hoping I would find Noni soon. This was my first time doing this.
And maybe my last. Perhaps this was a bad idea…
I hated that my eyes looked normal. Maybe it would be better if they had a grayish film or something that could help people see I had an eyesight disability.
But no. That I had normal-looking eyes only stoked the rumor about being a witch. “She looks fine,” people would say, “So she must be hiding something.”
I passed a stand with women who looked more like myself.
I must be getting closer to Noni. She usually hung out with the locals.
The native women of the island–with dark hair and light brown skin like myself–wore plain dresses, but not black. They grew quiet as I passed.
I pretended it didn’t bother me.
People here didn’t trust me, as if I were a toxic side effect of a potion. They didn’t like that I was different, and most days I wished I could hide away forever.
But perhaps there was something deep inside of me that hoped maybe… just maybe… I could drop off some goods at the farmer’s market and the people who bought them might start welcoming me as their own…
Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking, I told myself. I’m a witch.
I was the witch with long hair and black dresses, who lived in a black cottage in the woods a safe distance from the quaint town of Halekai.
What other colors was I expected to wear and use?
Besides, when I had gone to a seamstress a few months ago, having saved up enough money for a new dress, she told me the only thing I’d be able to get from her was a black dress.
“Suits a witch like you,” she said. Out of spite, I took her up on the offer.
Out of spite… I rolled my eyes as I pushed on through the busy market.
More like I had no other choice. She was the best–priced seamstress in town and the only one who would do business with me.
It was ridiculous that I’d come from a life of wealth and luxury to this life of poverty and ostracization.
“Watch where you’re going,” a well-dressed woman snapped at me as I accidentally brushed her shoulder.
It was late afternoon, and already some vendors were closing up for the day. I worried I had arrived too late, but the area was so packed, I told myself I still might sell the baked goods I’d brought.
I caught sight of Noni, a friend who offered to sell my goods at her booth.
She was a kind woman, and someone I’d met when, in desperation, her husband came to me asking for help.
Noni had just given birth and had a raging fever.
Her husband went to every doctor and medicine man in town, but each told him Noni wouldn’t make it.
With my knowledge of herbs and medicines, I could help her.
We’d been friends ever since.
“Aloha, Aunty Malia!” One girl ran up to me, clutching my dress and jumping up and down. I crouched to hug her, warmth filling my empty soul. It was warmer than any cup of herbal tea. What a joy to be called an aunty!
And as the little girl hugged me, a bittersweetness came over me of the fact I’d never have children of my own. I’d never have a family of my own. Because nobody would ever see past the monster I was…
I was like a weed in a garden of beautiful flowers: very unwanted.
Malia… I warned myself, not wanting to drown in those thoughts.
Not now.
“There you are! I was worried you weren’t coming,” said Noni, and we kissed one another’s cheeks. She looked me up and down, and I saw the silent skepticism in her eyes. Though we were friends and quite amiable with one another, we were not close.
She still had her questions and doubts about me, especially my being a witch. Noni had been bold enough to ask me questions about my past–something nobody else had ever done–but I was too afraid to tell her.
I skimmed over the truth and then gave up. “It’s better that you don’t know,” I said.
“But people can find out that you’re not a wicked witch!” Noni had fought back. “You’re just good with herbs–”
“I am a herb witch,” I had corrected her, and that was the end of that conversation.
Like the other women, Noni wore a long-sleeved white blouse tucked into a dark brown skirt, and her koa colored hair was down today, like mine.
On her table sat jars of fresh honey. She and her family ran a beekeeping business, and locals and visitors alike would buy her goods like the swarming bees Noni cared for.
I always had to ask her to save a jar for me because she ran out so quickly.
The addition of my banana bread and ginger snaps was a great idea, and I finally caved, hoping that selling my goods might make me a few extra coins, something I could always use.
I did odd jobs here and there, making medicine for people, but I hoped to one day have a more sustainable job…
if only my reputation as a witch didn’t precede me…
“Aue, don’t grab your sister’s hair!” Noni snapped at one of her children then let out a breath before returning her attention to me. “Did you bring the goods?”
“Yes.” I barely opened my basket, the aroma of banana bread and gingersnap cookies filling the air, when someone spoke from behind.
“That smells incredible. What is that?”