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 embodiment of 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 her hand, 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 – who wants 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.
I draw a deep breath, close my eyes, and lose myself in the recesses of my mind. I don’t want to waste a wish, so it needs to be a good one.
For a moment, I come up completely blank. What should I wish for?
The vivid memory of the couple I had witnessed in the woods flit across my memory. The man’s strong but gentle hand, their bodies meshed together in passion and desire, the look of utter adoration, reverence, and desire in their gazes. The hot, passionate sex.
“That,” I whisper to myself. “I want some of that.”
With that, I gather all the hope within me, channeling it into a single wish, my deepest desire. “I want what they have,” I say aloud, the words echoing into the silence like a profound secret shared.
I hold onto the bell’s clapper, pausing for a moment to savor the anticipation. Then, with a swift movement, I ring it, the melodic chime reverberating through the crisp air, casting my wish into the ether.
A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s not out of fear; it’s anticipation, excitement, and hope. I wait a moment, feeling like something is about to happen.
“Mrow.”
Mango’s complaint startles me because I was so intently waiting for something to happen. I laugh at my goofiness. “Okay, I hear ya, Mango. Let’s get on the road.”
CHAPTER 7
Lily
Settling Mango more firmly in my arms, I shush his grumbles and scratch him under his chin. As I give the wishing bell a final fond look, I realize I can hear the rhythmic thump of drums approaching. Turning around, my eyes widen as I see the throng of color and activity filling the street.
“Oh no,” I gasp as a parade marches up the main street. I grab my bags hastily and make a dash for it, my heart pounding in sync with the escalating tempo of the marching music. If I’m fast enough, I should be able to get to my car before the parade blocks me in.
The crowd that had been at the concert earlier is now lining the street, making it difficult to get through and make my escape. Not wanting to be rude but still hurrying, I bump and weave through the crowd, muttering apologies as I go. The street has transformed into a vibrant spectacle of confetti, extravagant floats, and joyous townsfolk, their laughter and excitement filling the air. I dart and weave through the flood of prancing children, chattering adults, and enthusiastic vendors, clutching my bags and trying not to knock anything over and protecting Mango in the cradle of my body.
I arrive at the edge of the street opposite my car when the high school marching band comes into view. I momentarily consider dashing across the street in front of them but realize that there is no way I can get my car started and reverse out of my parking spot without mowing down a bunch of innocent teenagers.
“Shit!” I mutter, getting a reproving look from the elderly couple standing next to me. “Sorry,” I whisper/yell to them with an apologetic grimace.
Blowing out a defeated breath, I resign myself to watching the parade instead of leaving as planned.
