Price of lost innocence

We’d all heard the rumors. From children’s rhyming games to adult whispers behind cupped hands. No one I knew had personally used her services. We’d seen her stall in the Brewersday Market, under the rowan tree, on the south-westerly corner of Market square. She supposedly could return anything to you: stolen property; lost purse; straying spouse, lost opportunity. No one knew where she kept her home, only where she could be found on Brewersdays.

I wandered the market starting in the north-westerly corner, proceeding sunward through the colors and sounds. Hawkers of wares, gossips, children, and dogs, which even together could not block the Troupe’s booth with whistles, gongs and drums. While I wandered, I let the sounds and smells guide my steps so my mind could wander.

I’d heard there were unexpected prices for her services. I’d heard that you had to be careful what you asked for. I wanted my life back. I wanted to not look over my shoulder. I wanted not to still taste the stench of his breath, I wanted to not flinch when Joby’s hand touched my shoulder in empathy and love.

She sat alone. Her booth walls, thin enough in some places to let in a little light, doubled as her bedroll at night. Her hair was tucked under a scarf, scattered grey curls escaping. The booth held only the stool upon which she sat and a small table with a book.

“Go on child, look at the prices.”

First were the prices for items –
lost purse….one coin of each size from the purse
Lost goat…jar of milk every Brewersday for a moon cycle

Then the pricier items:
Lost husband… If I read this right, you got the man back, but not his ability to earn a living; he’d not stray out of the house again.
Lost youth …. All the wisdom you’d gained. With a notation that the cost of gained wisdom was loss of youth.

I hesitated to turn to the last page. What would I agree to pay for loss of innocence?

— Lkai