The Village Night Market

His bag was heavy.

Unusually heavy for a backpacker.

The rush of the crowd outside the train quickly filled the void of the almost empty carriage.

The sounds of locals hurrying to their next destination were what made him feel welcome. The urgency. The determination to do the next thing – whatever that may be.

He dragged his bag across the road from the station. The trees gave a generous amount of shade from the sun high above. A perfect spot to stop and work out his next steps.

A local began walking towards him. He looked up from his folded out pamphlet and tried to determine if this person was coming towards him or going to go past him. It wasn’t the latter.

The local briefly stopped and handed him a small piece of paper. He looked down as he grabbed it, then looked back up at the stranger.

There was no one there.

He stood there, holding this piece of paper. No one else was around - apart from him.

The piece of paper was no bigger than a page from a book. It felt worn, yet new at the same time. The front was all black – as if a printer had made a mistake. The back, completely white. Nonetheless, he looked around trying to find this person that had handed him this. Still, no one was there.

Confused and struggling to make sense of what had happened, he decided to continue on to find his hostel for the night. He folded the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket.

Dusk was beginning to make itself known and the birds began to quiet. He walked down the main street of the village.

The streets were empty. No one was out. Night had barely just begun.

Then he felt the burning in his pocket. He quickly put his hand in and pulled out the piece of paper. It was hot. Very hot. He threw it into the air as it began burning his hand and watched as it fell to the ground.

He stood on the footpath, looking down at this glowing piece of paper. The side that was all black now had a written message.

‘The Night Market. Where you desire the things you never knew you needed’

Intrigued, he wanted to find this Night Market. He knelt down and tried to quickly turn the piece of paper over. On the back, words now read the location of the market. He stood up, pulled out his map of the village and tried to find the street where the market was going to be held. His eyes scurried across the map – up and down, side to side – until he found the street. It was only a few streets from where he was, on the outside of the village. He tried to pick up the piece of paper, which was now cold – and blank. No message. No location. Just black and white. He placed it in his pocket and picked up his luggage.

Night was in full swing. The bitterness of the night breeze made it feel colder than what it was.

He walked closer and closer to the market.

He turned the corner and saw a dimly lit street night market. To his surprise it was unusually quiet, quieter than he expected a night market to be. There were dozens of locals slowly walking up and down, passing by many tables and stalls selling what appeared to be an array of different items.

As he walked closer, he noticed on the first table were empty glass jars. They were all different sizes. Big and small, wide and skinny. Each had a label on the top, which was hard to see from where he was. He walked closer and had finally begun to walk past the other locals. He noticed some were picking up jars from the first table. They were looking at them with a level of concentration that he’d never seen before. It was almost as if the jars were of such significance that even looking at them the wrong way could be unfortunate.

He was more intrigued. He finally shuffled his way through the crowd and to the table with the jars. The crowds around him had shifted away, leaving him alone at the stall with the stallholder. The stallholder looked at him, knowing that he wasn’t from around here.

He looked down at the jars and noticed the small labels on top of each one.

‘Extra good luck’

He laughed. Surely this was a joke, he thought to himself.

He looked up and noticed the stallholder didn’t seem impressed. He looked at him and presented him with a jar. Some of the locals around him had stood still, eagerly watching the potential transaction take place.

He looked around and noticed the many eyes staring.

He picked up the jar the stallholder had suggested and then placed it back on the table.

The crowds began to quiet even more, which he thought wasn’t even possible. The atmosphere around him felt different. He pulled his wallet out and gave the stallholder the money. He took the jar and turned around. The locals that had gathered around to watch had suddenly gone back to their own business, simply forgetting that he was even there. He looked at the jar in his hands, and unscrewed the cap. He looked into the jar. It was empty, which wasn’t a surprise.

He suddenly felt tired, and thought he’d head to the hostel and come back another night to look around the rest of the market. He grabbed his backpack, placed the jar inside and made the walk back to the hostel.

The next morning, he woke up feeling dazed. He stretched as he sat up in the single-sized, uncomfortable bed. He felt like something was missing. Yet, couldn’t put a finger on it.

He stood up and looked around the room for his backpack. He couldn’t see it. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw an envelope sitting up against the bottom of the closed hostel room door.

He walked over and picked it up. It was heavy for such a small envelope.

$20,000. The envelope was full of money. An unbelievable amount of money.

He counted it twice.

Then a third time.

A smile crossed his face.

The jar. It worked.

Extra luck – he was now twenty-thousand dollars richer.

His phone buzzed.

It was a message from his sister.

How's the trip? Mum says you still haven't sent the photo.

What photo? He couldn’t remember what photo he needed to send.

He opened his photo album on his phone and scrolled through each one, trying to remember which photo he was supposed to send.

Beaches

Cities

Landmarks

A photo of him with a dog. He recognised himself and the house in the background, but couldn’t remember whose dog it was. Was it his? He’d never seen it before.

What photo?

He replied back, awaiting an answer that he could not remember.

The photo of you and Benny

Benny? Who was Benny?

Who’s Benny?

His phone buzzed.

Your dog… Benny?

Then a familiar burning feeling in his pocket. He pulled it out – the same piece of paper, with words appearing before his eyes.

‘The Night Market. Where you desire the things you only ever wished for’

He dropped it. He looked at the glass jar. He was going to return, and purchase another jar.

Night fell on the Village. The streets again were empty. He had stayed at the hostel during the day, trying to understand what had happened with the mysterious money appearing and the inability to remember his own dog, which in part, he still didn’t remember even owning a dog.

He approached the market. He walked through the crowds of people hovering around each stall. He wanted to find the same stall again, and ask questions about what had actually happened.

Yet, as he walked through the crowds, the crowds began watching him. Several people moved out of his way at the same time, which gave him an unsettling feeling knowing that he was the centre of attention by default. He was simply walking through.

He noticed a stall with a number of jars scattered across the table. People were surrounding it, picking up jars but not exchanging money. He noticed that they were simply picking them up and walking away. As each person picked up a jar, the stallholder nodded.

Curious, he walked toward the table as the locals moved out of his way.

The stallholder looked at him. He looked down at the table and noticed only two jars left.

‘Belonging’ and ‘Answers’

The stallholder looked at him dead in the eyes.

“Which will it be?”

He stood there. This was the first time he’d heard a local speak. He could understand him too.

“Why can’t I remember my own dog?”

“You must pick”

He looked at the two jars. He wanted answers. He wanted to know why he couldn’t remember.

“Answers”.

The stallholder gave the jar over, without asking for payment.

“I haven’t paid” he said, placing the jar back on the table.

The crowd stopped in a silent collective hush. Every eye was fixated on him and the jar.

“You’ve already accepted. There aren’t any returns”

“But I haven’t paid?”

“Yes, you have. You traded”

“What do you mean?”

“Enjoy”.

The stallholder turned around as he picked up the jar. The crowd around him continued to watch him as he began to walk away, holding a jar that he hoped would give him answers.

He returned to the hostel and sat on his bed. The envelope still sitting full of cash, and now, another jar held in his lap. He twisted the cap off.

Nothing happened.

He frowned as he looked inside.

Empty again. He felt stupid, why did he expect to see anything in an empty glass jar?

He placed the jar on the floor and sat back on his bed.

The headache came out of nowhere.

A violent, thumping headache.

Pain as sharp as knives.

He closed his eyes.

Suddenly, dozens of images flashed through his mind.

Jars. Faces. Memories.

The Night Market.

Dozens of people exchanging things they could not hold.

A mother trading away grief.

An old man trading away fear.

A young woman trading away the memory of her first love.

Then he saw himself - standing at the Night Market on that first night.

He saw himself pick up the jar with ‘Extra Good Luck’.

Then he saw the price tag hanging underneath - something he failed to see the night before.

One Cherished Memory

His stomach dropped.

Benny. He lost his memories of Benny – his childhood dog.

The memories of running through sprinklers as a kid.

Sleeping beside his bed during thunderstorms.

Fetching tennis balls as the sun went down.

He began to weep as the memories flickered away like old movie film.

His memories were fading quickly.

He couldn’t remember. He didn’t even know what he was unable to remember.

The room suddenly felt cold.

Then the realisation hit him.

The market wasn’t selling anything.

It was trading. Trading memories for desires.

How far would he go? How far would he be willing to trade for the things he really wanted?

His phone buzzed. He sat up and opened the message.

Mums worried about you. Can you call her?

He stared at the message.

He knew who mum was, right?

He opened his contacts and pressed her name.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then a voice answered.

"Hello?"

His chest tightened.

He knew that voice.

It should have filled him with warmth.

Comfort.

Home.

Instead, it sounded familiar but also unfamiliar at the same time.

Recognisable.

Yet distant.

"Hello?" the voice repeated.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Who was she?

The panic arrived suddenly.

He ended the call.

The piece of paper in his pocket began to burn again.

He didn't even hesitate this time.

He pulled it out.

Words slowly appeared.

‘The Night Market. One Final Evening. Everything available’

His heart raced.

The market had answers.

Surely there was a way to reverse the trades.

Surely he could get Benny back.

His memories.

His mother.

Everything.

The crowd was already waiting when he arrived.

Not shopping.

Waiting.

For him.

The locals parted as he approached.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody smiled.

At the centre of the market stood the stallholder.

Only one jar remained on the table.

A single glass jar.

Larger than all the others.

The label read:

‘Everything Lost’

His breath caught.

"Can I get it back?"

The stallholder nodded.

"Everything?"

"Everything."

Hope surged through him.

Then he saw the price tag.

His hands began to shake.

The tag simply read:

Everything Left

The market fell silent.

He looked around.

Every local was watching.

Not eagerly.

Sadly.

As though they had seen this many times before.

"You knew this would happen."

The stallholder nodded.

"You were warned."

"No one told me."

"You never asked the right questions."

He looked down at the jar.

Everything Lost.

He thought about Benny.

His mother.

His childhood.

The memories already gone.

Then he thought about what remained.

His sister.

His travels.

His dreams.

His future.

The person he still was.

Or perhaps the person he used to be.

The decision should have been difficult.

Instead, it felt obvious.

He picked up the jar.

The stallholder closed his eyes.

The crowd looked away.

He unscrewed the lid.

The world disappeared.

Morning arrived.

The train station was busy.

Crowds hurried toward platforms.

A young backpacker stepped off the train carrying a heavy bag, full of empty jars.

The village felt welcoming.

Full of possibility.

He paused beneath a tree to unfold a map.

A local approached him.

Without saying a word, they handed him a small piece of paper.

The backpacker frowned.

"What's this?"

The stranger simply smiled.

Then walked away.

The backpacker looked down at the paper.

One side black.

One side white.

Strangely, it felt familiar.

As though he had held it before.

Though he couldn't remember when.

Or why.