Read by Paul Clarke (first story in podcast, here)
The night they banned it, I became the richest man in the city. Instantly, sugar was worth its weight in gold. I travelled around and sold pieces in back alleys and black markets. I exchanged it for silk, for jewels, for dowries and lifesavings. Nothing is worth more than that which we cannot have.
Soon I was decked like a festive tree, adorned with ruby rings and gold chains, and still I carried a sugarloaf in every pocket. I never partook myself of course, never let the white stuff pass my lips. I’d seen what one taste could lead to, seen the need in their eyes and decay in their mouths. I didn’t want my perfect teeth to rot. Who could sell anything then?
Yet, I got greedy all the same. That time was coming, Yuletide, when every merchant rubs his hands with glee or cries in desperation. You sell in the rush and make your fortune, or live like a pauper for the rest of the year. Not me, not this year, not now everyone wanted what I was selling.
They came in a pack, all stomping boots and glinting helmets, and I fled. I ran through dark alleys and curving, forgotten passages, with my gold chains clanking and my stash of sugar weighing me down. I lost the men somewhere, ended up propped against a wall, my feet numb inside my snow-soaked boots, my breathing ragged. I couldn’t understand why my good fortune had deserted me. And why now, so close to those winter feasts?
Then I saw her, a woman dressed all in red with a fur muffler at her throat and her long coat trailing in the snow. I knew what she kept inside, even before she opened it to attract customers. I could smell it from across the street: pocket upon pocket of exotic fruits and spices; ginger and cloves and lemon rind, mustard and nutmeg and peppery mace.
She didn’t even have to move; they came to her, small children with pennies, rich men with gold, women too poor to offer more than their own teeth, or length of braided hair. They left with their new treasures hidden in baskets of shopping, buried in deep pockets, or closed in tiny fists.
The white winter sky turned grey, and I felt the night coming like an ache in my bones. When there was a pause, nothing but the red-clad woman standing alone like a raw wound in the grey street, I raised my head and stalked towards her.
Her eyes flashed when she saw me, and I knew those eyes assessed my worth, taking in everything from the jewels on my fingers to my stained coat, my worn boots and my fresh white smile. She saw me for what I was, a merchant like her, whose fortunes came and went.
‘It’ll cost you, love,’ she said, with a voice like treacle. ‘They’ve banned the lot this year. Left people hungry for every flavour, for any taste at all.’
They’d banned it all? I could scarce believe it. If it was true, then no wonder my sales had dwindled. The shine was off my sugar now. My hands felt sticky with it, my pockets heavy. I was bored with the sweet, sickly smell of it. I had nothing but sugar, while she had an array of tastes and sensations to tantalise the palate.
Besides, she looked like a Yuletide goddess, while I was a scraggly old merchant with nothing but my smile to recommend me. She would draw my customers to her like bees to a fragrant flower, and I would have a lean year ahead.
‘Don’t take it too hard,’ she said, leaning towards me and surprising me with a honeyed kiss, leaving my lips sticky with it.
I don’t know whether it was the taste of those lips, or the promise of warm spices in the bitter cold, but I forgot who I was in that moment. I fancied I could leave the sugar behind, sell something else, be someone else. Maybe I could trade in spices like her, maybe I wasn’t ruined yet?
‘We could make a bargain,’ I said, but she shook her head and closed her coat.
Still, there was a tang to the air. I lifted a gold chain over my head, and held it towards her with both hands, begging her to take it.
She hesitated, turned away, and glanced back over her shoulder.
‘A gift,’ I said. ‘If you will trade with me.’
She took the chain, wore it under that enveloping coat. She agreed to trade at last, but she drove a hard bargain, and soon she was wearing my gold and jewels and all I had to show for it was a few dried peppers and a bag of their fiery seeds. She promised they were worth more than gold. I sniffed at them, and I believed her. It was like breathing in some divine fire. My eyes watered in the cold, and the wind froze the tears to my cheeks.
‘We can still trade,’ she insisted, and her smile was so sweet that I agreed.
I turned out my pockets and let her examine my wares, while I eyed hers. She weighed every lump on her palm and waved it under her nose before stowing it away. In exchange, she pressed gingerroot and cinnamon sticks into my hands, tickled my skin with strands of saffron. My mouth watered but I resisted, until she dipped a finger and offered a speck of sunshine yellow for me to lick from her skin.
After that, I tasted every powder and breathed in every scent, until colours flashed behind my eyes and I forgot the monochrome world of snow. Each spice more vibrant than the last, and still she found more, untying another bag from her belt or, flashing smooth thighs, pulling vials from frilled stockings. I gave her everything I had, and gladly, just to try it all.
When she turned to go I fell to my knees and asked for more, but I had nothing to offer, nothing left to give. My tongue stung, my throat burned, and still I ached for another taste.
‘You’ve no sugar left,’ she said, with a sour frown. ‘I smell nothing but spices on your breath.’
She was right, I’d tried everything, and now I hadn’t anything to trade. I didn’t know what had come over me, but an intoxication of sensation. I spread my empty hands, offered her anything she wanted. My arms, my legs, my liver, anything she desired she could have for one more taste, for something new, anything I had not tried before.
She turned her head away.
‘Wait!’ I said. ‘What about these?’
I pulled back my lips, gritted my flawless teeth. The lady smiled and we shook on it, my hands trembling. She put the necessary implement into my grip, but I did the deed myself.
She was not without compassion, and gave me poppy seeds to dull the pain. Then, for each red-tipped tooth I dropped into her palm, she placed something new on my tongue; fennel, caraway, peppercorn, every time a different flavour, strong enough to hide the metallic taste that flooded my mouth and dribbled down my chin.
Afterwards, she ignored my grasping hands, my inarticulate moans, and walked away with her nose in the air. I lay on the snow, breathing in a cloud of lingering scents, mouth numb but tongue tingling, and watched her scarlet coat disappear into the dark.
When the watchmen found me, I hadn’t the strength to run. I simply pointed the way she’d gone. I hoped they’d catch her and drag her back past me, lending some fresh flavour to the air.
(c) Lisa Farrell (MVP Newcomer, 2019), 2019
Lisa Farrell is a creative writing graduate and ex-bookseller. Now a full-time mum and part-time freelance writer, she intends to rely on snowballs and yule logs to get her through this festive season. Read her very occasional tweets @lisamrc8
Paul Clarke trained at the Central School and always got cast as a baddie or a monster. Or, for variety, a bad monster. Now a photographer and occasional performer, he finds the League's stories islands of relative sanity in his life.
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