The Moonberry Market

At the stroke of midnight every Sunday, the Moonberry Market would appear, allowing the townsfolk of Moonvale to stock up for the week ahead.

One moment, Moonvale’s market square would be empty, with nothing but moonlight resting upon the cobbles. The next, there would be stalls upon stalls of enchanted wares, their colourful awnings swaying beneath strings of floating lanterns.

Gertrude, the owner of the market, could always be found among the first row of stalls, surrounded by baskets of delicious fruit. Her moonberries were the colour of the night sky and were said to sweeten even the sourest of moods. One bite could soften a bitter thought, while an entire handful was said to make the world shine extra brightly for the next day or so.

Nearby stood Boris and his famous home-grown potatoes. There was nothing particularly magical about them, but Boris prided himself on his potatoes and refused to believe that enchanted produce was necessarily better. He would happily spend the entire night explaining the merits of each variety to anyone unfortunate—or fortunate—enough to pause beside his stall. He often found himself in arguments over which form of potato was best. In his opinion, if you said anything other than mash, you were incorrect.

Clarissa sold flowers whose perfumes could make their receivers fall hopelessly in love. Visitors were encouraged to tread carefully around her stall and never smell a bouquet without first asking what it did. More than one unsuspecting customer had left the market hopelessly devoted to the person standing nearest to them. On the odd occasion, wedding bells would soon be on the horizon, much to the joy of Mayor Tilsbury.

Beyond the enchanted fruits, ordinary potatoes and dangerously romantic flowers, right at the very end of the market, sat Ethel and Asteria. They were as happy as Larry beneath the warm glow of their lanterns, handing out freshly baked cinnamon buns and cups of hot coffee. Asteria remained curled upon her favourite chair, occasionally opening one golden eye to inspect those who passed.

Ethel claimed that midnight was no excuse for anyone to be cold or uncomfortable. She made certain that every merchant and visitor had something warm in their hands before they wandered home. Even Boris received a cinnamon bun, although he always suggested that it might be improved by the addition of a potato.

As the Town Hall clock prepared to strike two, the lanterns would begin to fade. The awnings would fold themselves away, the merchants would gather their remaining wares and the Moonberry Market would disappear until the following Sunday.

By morning, nothing would remain in the square but a few rogue moonberries, the lingering scent of cinnamon and, every so often, a single muddy potato that Boris had forgotten to take home.