There was an open air market every third Tuesday in the fall.
Farmers came from all around.
The market was loud with the shouts of the vendors.
“Kettle Corn! Blueberries! Macrame! Crafts of all kinds!”
A young man with dirty feet played the guitar.
Twice in the summer there was the night market.
Once at Midsummer.
Once before the first full moon of autumn.
Twice in the winter there was the night market.
Once at Epiphany.
Once at Lammas.
The fat priest would go to each market.
His dark clothes made him a raven among robins.
He lectured in sign language to the vendors.
They, the small, the misshapen, the queer, solemn and owl-eyed, nodded.
He was a good man and wise.
“The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom,” his crabbed fingers spelt under the moon.
The vendors laughed silently.
“The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom,” he wrote in the frosty air.
The vendors stamped their feet and flashed their knives.
“The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom,” in gloves and furs.
The vendors nodded, cried, smoked, and offered him a small box of candy.
“What price this bauble?”
“Salvation,” signed the vendors.