[Supposedly] Spooky Stories: The Man of Angmaan

Angmaan: a bustling market set at the edge of the world. It was fed by the flourishing ocean, with air fairies pulling at the sea to nourish the dry soil.

It was a day like any other day. The sun was high overhead, but hidden behind deep clouds summoned forth to cool the air and settle the dust that had stirred from the morning of setting up and early shoppers.

On the edge of the market, tucked against the sandstone walls of the city, two men stood with their tent. Muddy water streamed off the canvas. Two well-placed rolls of fabric diverted the water to create a clean entry to their tent.

From the mist, a younger man in a brown duster entered. He bore a scar across the top of his right brow, that trailed down his cheek.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted.

“Good afternoon,” the two men replied.

He reached for one of the display journals, with a deep green leather and a golden thread sewn into the seem, to mark your place.

“Is the leather fresh?” the man asked as he turned the journal from side to side and flipped through the pages.

“Ah…” the vendor with white hair looked to the other. “Yes. Reasonably fresh.”

“How fresh?” the man set the journal down and picked up another, this one brown and speckled.

“They were made this year,” the second vendor stated.

“Hm.” The man continued to look from journal to journal. After eying the green one for a third time, he looked up again. “Is this dye or natural?”

“Natural.” The finest of their collection were never stained or dyed.

“And the age of the animal?”

“I’m not sure,” the second vendor replied. He looked to the one with white hair, curious if he knew.

“We have a large selection of journals,” the vendor with white hair explained. “It’s difficult to keep track of where each strip of leather comes from.”

“Yes,” the man mumbled. He ran his hand across the thick seam of the leather book. “Will you carve a lizard, a salamander even, into the cover?”

“I… yes. We can. For a fee.”

The man passed the green journal across the table. Burn scars mottled his hand. “Thank you.”

The vendor with white hair took the book and set it on the cherry fabric that lined their table. While he did, the other man found a small bowl and filled it with water from the rainy air. He set a sponge into it, and the first man prepared the cover by moistening the leather.

While they worked, they sorted out price and the man paid for the journal and carving. Then, one of the vendors lifted a strip of wax paper with a salamander drawn onto it. “Like this?” the vendor asked.

“Yes,” the man said. “Exactly like that.” The leaned closer. “Except the eyes. She had blue eyes. Can you stain the leather green?”

The white haired vendor looked up from the leather he was preparing. “You want it stained now?” he asked.

“Just the eyes.”

The white haired vendor set the leather down and kneeled beneath their table. He pulled out their dying inks, and found several shades of blue. While he did, the other vendor traced the salamander onto the leather.

“Cerulean,” the man said. “Like your eyes.”

The white haired vendor rolled his shoulders and set the ink up. He pulled out his swivel knife and began carving the traced image into the fabric.

His hand slipped, blood spilling onto the leather and tablecloth. It merged with the cherry table cover, deepening the color. He found another piece of fabric to wrap his hand while the other vendor blotted the leather.

“Don’t mind the book,” the man said. “It’s nothing the leather hasn’t seen before, I’m sure.”

While the white haired vendor cleaned himself, the other vendor finished the carving. He removed as much of the blood as possible, but the stain had soaked into it. Like watercolors, the red splattered across the tail and midsection of the salamander’s body. The vendor completed the work by dotting the eyes with blue.

By the time they had finished, the sun was shining again and the rain had cleared. “Thank you,” the man said as he left. He tucked the journal into his wool coat and departed their stall, weaving his way through the markets until he was out of sight.

The men continued on their day, with no other issues arising. By early evening, just before the second rain came through, the white haired vendor’s hand had healed – a representation of his Salamander genes. His line was known for their ability to heal, and he had not even a scar to remember the cut by.

The sky turned dark grey, water began pouring down their tent, the familiar door frame parting the water to create an entrance, a man walked through.

He wore a thick brown wool coat, his hair grey and flowing. He had a scar on long scar across his left eye, that bore down his cheek. The wool had piled and tightened with age, more fitting for the cooler climates of the south and heavy with water.

“How may we help you,” the other vendor asked.

“I’m in need of a new journal, and I’ve heard rumor yours are the best in the realm.” He began looking through the premium journals, just as the other man had.

It was rare to have to customers pay for the higher priced pieces, yet they were set to sell their second fine leather journal of the day.

“Are these fresh?” the man asked.

The white haired vendor startled. “Fresh?”

“Yes. Are they fresh, today?”

“They’re…” The other vendor wanted to say only hours older than this morning, but refrained. “Yes, they’ve been made within the past year.”

The man nodded. “It’s a shame you don’t keep dates. I suppose you don’t know the age either?”’

“We don’t,” the white haired vendor replied.

“Hmm.”

The white haired vendor couldn’t resist. He glanced down at the disheveled tablecloth that hid the tools, including the blue inks they had used earlier. “Would you like it carved.”

The man glanced at the cover of the journal he held, the second of the three they had been able to make that year. “No, I wouldn’t want you to cut yourself again.” He set coins on the table, and tucked the journal into his wool coat.

The two men watched as the man left through, his coat cloaking him in the misty air.