It's Never An Ill Wind, Evelyn J. Steward [fiction book recommendations .txt] 📗

It’s Never an Ill Wind

Dawn had just broken. Above, a purple sky began to glow pink in the distance as the smaller sun broke the horizon over the far cliffs several miles north east of where Gandra stood. Today the larger sun would also rise in the same quadrant, though a little later. An overly bright day would begin; temperatures would soar, fast.
He set up his metal stall. Locked the stanchions in place. The sun rose higher.
A hot dry wind began to blow from the direction of the cliffs. Brought with it grit and dust that settled in every nook and crevice. These cracks were already stuffed to bursting with the detritus of every other wind that had blown before.
It had to come on Selling Day! Gandra squinted his eyes against the bright light. Why wouldn‘t it come the day before or the day after? It could cause so much more havoc on this one day when all the inhabitants from far and near gathered here to buy, sell or barter anything they had worth a price.
Early vendors had moved outside of the main settlement to establish themselves into the few cave-mouths that faced north east but both the suns would soon be at their backs, allowing the rock to soak up the heat. It still meant they had the full force of the wind in their faces but with judicious positioning of swathes of cloth, they could deflect most of the dust to the side of their stalls and have cool rock at their backs.
Gandra had arrived early. He always did.
"Damn wind!" he grumbled as he fought the flapping side cloth that was eager to rise over the top of the cave-mouth, only to be blown back down the front of his stall to hide it, and his wares, from view. More grumbling. He found a length of twine to finally secure the errant flap. Then the wind blew in an irritant. Rubbing his eye, he tried to extricate a large chunk of mica. "Always the same. I should know better by now!" He offered this statement to no one in particular.
A rustling behind him let Gandra know his offspring had arrived. It was her duty to bring the wagon of heavier sale goods once he was set up.
"It doesn't always come," Soulla offered in answer. She was often generous.
"At least ten times in my memory! There, got it." Gandra flicked the offending chip onto the ground where a chink left a bright spot. The chip glittered.
Gandra stared at the glints as the wind found its way under the stall and ruffled the mica, causing the chip to rock.
"I'll be . . . . !" Bending swiftly to retrieve the chip, Gandra snatched it up, buffed it with his sleeve and shouted to the swiftly gathering throng, "Who'll make me an offer?"
Soulla stared blankly, then settled into mode as Gandra's back-up. "Corundum, people!"
Once the first sale was made, Gandra panned the sand at his feet and in the rear of the cave. Many more chips came to light. He had several sizes and a variety of colours. He hoped the buyers had plenty of currency. They would need it.
The bidding was swift. No more did Gandra complain about the wind on Selling Day. It had, after all, made him a small fortune.
© Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. February, 2002.

Words 559

Publication Date: 07-21-2011

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