The future had been harsh to this place. After five years, much had changed, and it felt as though he'd stepped into a different world.
As he entered the market, he met shades of greys and browns. From the smoke billowing above a wood fire to the dark earth beneath his feet. There were the indistinct sounds of chatter and of wood being chopped nearby.
The marketers shuffled about, their sooty garments matching their ashen, bitter expressions.
The air was cold and dry and smelled of stale bodies and mould. He scanned the rows of stalls where traders had set up to sell or exchange small goods. He eventually found the one he'd been looking for.
“What can I get for this?” the outsider asked the young woman selling clay pots.
His voice was low and gruff, his eyes glancing over her face.
“Bring it here,” she said with a smile, her rough, grey-stained hands outstretched towards him.
He placed the item with care in her palm, and she wrapped her fingers around it. She turned the sphere over in her hands, inspecting the texture of the surface with her fingertips. She then brought it to her face and sniffed.
He watched her for several seconds before realising he too was being watched.
The hood of his cloak was up, shadowing his face and concealing his eyes. He looked to his right to a stall dressed with soil-covered carrots, and meagre potatoes.
The man, who he presumed to be the farmer, stood behind it looking back at him. His mouth was set in a sharp, rigid line. His dark, unblinking eyes watched him, looking away only briefly to spit on the ground by his feet.
Without moving his head, the outsider glanced towards the stall on his left. An assortment of empty glass jars sat haphazardly across the wooden table.
The vendor was an elderly woman, her face creased with age and worry. Wisps of curly grey hair framed her eyes. Standing beside her was a younger, middle-aged woman, her dark brown hair piled high on her head like a bird’s nest.
Both sets of eyes were on him, watching with suspicion. The younger woman whispered something to the older woman, who nodded in agreement. The cold hard stares gave him a chill, and he rubbed at his cloaked arms.
“Is this real?” the young woman asked when she’d completed her inspection.
“I have a knife,” he said, pulling the blade from his cloak and flashing it before him. “I can show you.”
“No, it’s fine,” she said hurriedly. “Do you have more?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“No, but I can get more,” he told her, returning the knife to his coat pocket.
“Good, good,” she said with a hint of excitement in her voice. “Here. You can cook a good vegetable stew over a fire,” she told him as she picked up one of the small grey pots.
“Sure,” he said, with no further negotiation.
He watched as she wrapped the handmade pot in brown paper and offer it to him with a smile.
“Thank you,” he croaked, tucking the purchase under his arm.
With his head down, he turned to leave the market, when his shoulder collided with someone.
“Pardon me,” he said, looking up to see he had bumped into a man walking with his partner. He tried to move past them.
“Hold it right there!” came a loud voice from behind, followed by a firm grasp of his left arm. He tried to pull free, but the grip tightened. Soon, there was another hand on his right arm.
“Let go of me,” he growled, pulling one arm free. He forced his free elbow backwards, landing solidly on a face behind him. The man cried out. The clay pot that had been tucked under his arm fell to the ground and shattered loudly.
Within seconds he was to the ground, his arms pinned behind him, a knee on his back. His face was pressed into the dirt where sharp pieces of the pot threatened to slice his skin. He struggled to break free.
“Get him up,” came the voice again.
The hands pulled him up to a standing position, and someone pushed his hood back from his face. The man speaking was the farmer. His stern face had somehow grown harder.
“We don’t allow violence here,” he said. “Look what you’ve done to John’s face.”
The outsider looked up to see the man’s bleeding nose and saw that it was the man he’d bumped into earlier.
“I was only defending myself,” he said. “Now let me go, and I’ll be on my way.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” the farmer said, placing his hands on his hips as he eyed the outsider up and down. He spat on the ground again.
The commotion soon drew a small crowd of market traders and customers.
“He’s one of them,” came a woman’s voice. “His people caused the Collapse.”
The outsider looked up and saw it was the middle-aged woman with the bird’s nest hair. “Is that so?” the farmer asked. “Your people are responsible for the economic collapse. You poisoned the soil with your GMOs, and then hoarded all the good seeds. You all destroyed the planet.”
“That’s nothing to do with me,” he said, looking around. “I haven't done anything.”
“Why are you here?” the farmer asked. “Have you come to poison our community as well? We are the survivors; we built this place from scratch and we will not let you or anyone else destroy us.”
“I just came to trade.”
“Trade what?”
“That’s no business of yours.”
“Empty his pockets,” the farmer ordered.
“Be careful, he’s got a knife,” someone said. “I saw him flash it at Ella.”
The outsider looked up at this. It was the old woman, selling jam jars. The farmer turned to look at him, more suspicion in his eyes.
The outsider groaned and tried again to break free.
“It’s just like you rich bastards to steal and kill and leave. You take no responsibility, while the rest of us have to work for everything we have.”
There were nods of agreement.
“Ella!” the farmer called out, searching the crowd for the young woman. “Come forward.”
The sea of onlookers parted to let her through.
“What’s going on?” she asked, shuffling towards the commotion.
“Leave her out of this,” the outsider said through gritted teeth.
“What did this man trade with you?” the farmer asked. “What did he want?”
“What man?” the young woman asked, her brows furrowed in confusion.
“The man who took the clay pot,” the jar lady whispered beside her.
There was a moment’s pause before she responded.
“Oh, yes,” she said at last. “I gave him one of my small pots.”
“Did he threaten you?” the farmer asked. “What did he say to you?”
“I saw the knife he pulled on you,” added the jar lady.
She gave a small laugh.
“Oh no, nothing like that,” she told them. “He was offering to peel the orange he gave me.”
There was a loud, unanimous gasp.
“Orange?” the farmer asked. “Impossible. Show me.”
Ella frowned but reached into her satchel. She produced the bright, round fruit that looked so out of place amidst the gloom of the market setting.
Excited murmurs rumbled through the market.
“Give it here,” the farmer hissed.
The young woman reluctantly extended her hand. He took the orange and turned it over in his own hands. He sniffed, then scowled.
“It’s fake,” he said, dropping the fruit to the ground. It made a soft thud as it hit the hard earth.
“No,” Ella protested. “It smells exactly like I remember.”
She fell to her knees, her hands searching for the discarded orange.
“Leave it,” the farmer said, flattening the orange with his boot. The explosion of orange flesh and pulp spread over the soil where he ground his heel deeper into the earth. The sharp citrus smell filled the air
“No!” she exclaimed again, her eyes welling up. She searched the ground until her hands found his boot and the debris of destroyed fruit nearby.
The elderly woman helped her to her feet as she sobbed. Her hand dripped with an unappetising mixture of orange juice and dirt.
“It’s poison,” the farmer declared loudly, addressing the crowd. “Do not allow this outsider to trick you with this fake food. We know they destroyed all the fruit trees in the Collapse.”
The outsider watched as the jar lady escorted Ella away, and hung his head in defeat.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble here. As the young woman explained, I wasn’t trying to harm her with my knife. If you’ll allow me to leave, I can be out of your way.”
“After what you did to John?” the farmer asked. “No, you will pay for your crime.”
“My people are expecting me back shortly,” he said, thinking quickly. “If you want no more trouble or visits from more strangers like me, you’re better off letting me go.”
Several moments of silence passed as the farmer mentally weighed his options. The outsider's instincts had been correct in assuming he wanted no other visitors.
“John,” he said finally. "Since he attacked you, I'll let you decide what we should do."
The man with the bleeding face looked up. He looked to the farmer, then to the outsider and back again.
“Well,” he spluttered. “I suppose we don't want any trouble.”
#
“What took you so long?” the driver asked. “Thought we’d lost you.”
“I almost didn’t make it out,” the outsider said, as he took a seat in the van and pulled his hood back. “I’ll tell you everything later, but let’s get out of here.”
“Did you find her?”
He nodded.
“She’s in there, but it won’t be easy getting her out,” he said. “It’s worse than we thought.”
He shook his head.
“Did you at least get the message to her?” the driver asked. “Did she know it was you?”
“I don't think she could tell it was me, but I left her a message. She’ll find it.”
#
Back at her stall, Ella wiped the juice from her hands with a cloth as she listened to the gossip surrounding their latest visitor. She brought her palms to her face and inhaled deeply the sweet, citrus scent. It brought back memories of her childhood in her family’s orchard, of a different time and place.
She reached towards the table until she found the flask of water, which she used to rinse the sticky residue from her fingers. Her hands clean, she reached into the metal box containing her lunch of roasted carrots and potatoes. As she did, her hand brushed against the unmistakable, bumpy texture of an orange. She gasped and snapped the box shut.
“Carol,” she called to the elderly woman, the jar lady at the neighbouring stall.
“Yes, dear?”
“Would you watch my stall for a few minutes, please?”
“Of course, love,” she said. “Do you need any help?”
“No, I’ll manage,” Ella replied hastily. “I just need to step away for a minute.”
Hugging the metal box to her chest, she shuffled along the row of stalls until she came to the end where the butcher was. She took ten steps to the left. She then continued on the straight, well-worn path towards the outbuilding. Using the trees to guide her, she followed a smaller path to the left of the outbuilding, to a quiet place in the woods
“Is anyone there?” she called out. Silence.
With her back against the trunk of a tree, she sank to the ground and opened the box with care. Ella reached in again and ran her fingers over the spherical object without removing it. She brought the box close to her face and inhaled the very real scent of a freshly picked orange.
Satisfied, she lowered the box and placed her hand inside. This time her knuckles brushed what felt like a folded sheet of paper. She removed the paper, unfolding and flattening it with her hands.
She inhaled sharply when she felt the tiny bumps beneath her fingertips. Ella had not been able to read anything since she’d joined the group. The sensation of raised dots beneath her touch gave her goosebumps.
As she read, she closed her eyes and moved her finger across the page.
“Hi, El. It’s been five years since you left to be with those people, and the world still hasn’t ended.
We miss you so much, and we’re going to do everything we can to bring you home.
I remember how much you loved oranges, so I hope you enjoy this gift. From your big brother, Wahla.”
Tears in her eyes, Ella sniffed the orange again and travelled once more to her childhood home. A place where the sun glistened bright and yellow in blue cloudless skies. Where plump, ripe oranges decorated hundreds of leafy, green trees. It was a place where she’d been warm and happy. It was another world; one she’d never seen but would give anything to return to.
THE END
Enjoyed this story? Join me on Substack to be notified when I publish new stories, to discuss my latest pieces, and to get exclusive insights into my writing process.