Kemia
First Week of February
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The weight of my duffel bag piled with clothes and toiletries stretches my arm to the floor, and I wrap the other below Ria’s shoulders for a hug and back rub. “See you next week,” I say as her soft, silver hair brushes my cheek.
“As long as I endure my training.”
I push our chests off each other and furrow my brow. “Endure? Why not enjoy your training—is it not fun?”
“Maybe a bad choice of words; there’s not much progress being made.”
“Then do it in a way you enjoy,” I say, looking into her green eyes.
“Kemia, let’s go!” Doctor Amy’s muffled shout reaches my ear past the grassy field, standing a few paces away by her silver car.
With the weight of my bag doing its best to anchor me at our entrance, I walk out the door held by Ria to meet the brisk winds. I turn to wave at her, and she waves back. I hasten my steps towards the car, my unzipped jacket fluttering back, intensifying the strapped weight on my shoulders. As I approach, Doctor Amy leans expectantly on the driver’s door, her long white coat and ponytail swaying in unison.
“We’re picking up Julie again, then we’ll go to your new location,” Doctor Amy says, holding the back door open for me.
“Ooo, what is it this time?” I step inside the car, swing the bag over to my right, and relieve the strap off my shoulders.
She steps into her front seat and leans back, whacking the headrest with her silver-yellow ponytail. “You’ll hear about it when she debriefs you.” She shuts her door, and as I look at the rearview mirror, I see sunglasses perched on her cheeks, accentuating the sharpness of her nose and chin, and priming her to pierce past the sunbeams lighting a clear sky.
As the car tilts up, Doctor Amy’s ponytail seeps through the crack below the head cushion, inviting me to yank at the neatly lined bristles in front of my face, and we take off on a ride into a field of blue.
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The car slows to a stop in midair and I scoot over to the opposite window, asking Doctor Amy to lower it. She warns me about its dangers and I nod many times, my hair tickling my neck and raising an itch. The window lowers and I poke my head out to see Julie waving an expecting hand at our descending car beside the entrance of a tall, office building.
I shoot out my own hand and wave my arm down at her. “Hi Julie! Doctor Amy said I had to wait and ask you about where I will be going this time. Tell me, tell me!”
Julie stops waving and squints up at me with her hand covering her eyes for some shade, but that didn’t help because she takes out her own pair of sunglasses. By the time we landed, she was already walking towards us with her bangs parted evenly from the middle to frame around her prominent cheeks. A soft breeze easily sways those small clumps of black hair, while the rest are tied into a bun. She looks at me in her white winter coat while I rest my head on my arms along the door’s window frame.
“First, it was teaching children, which made them love you so much that they didn’t want you to leave. Then we thought challenging you with something completely out of your expertise would slow you down, but you did so well that engineers felt like they lost a teammate,” Julie says with a sigh, taking the front seat next to Doctor Amy. The car ascends once again, and she continues. “So now your training will be simple. You’ll be going to a small town, but not just any town.”
I lean forward, placing my head between the two front seats to look at Julie. “No way! We’re going off planet already?”
“Oh Kemia, if only the world would be that simple,” Julie says. “You will be going to a town that uses the two forms of economy. Some of its residents asked for assistance and you will get more details from them when we arrive.”
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Upon arrival, we descend on one of the roads leading into the town, where every building doesn’t appear taller than two floors. Wooden fence posts blur across my window on a constant beat against a grassy background, and my eyes follow them until buildings take their place. “We’re here,” Doctor Amy says.
The blend of buildings and people moving across my window slow to a stop and we walk out of our separate doors to see a two-story wooden building with a sloped and tiled roof. “This is where you’ll stay for the week,” Julie says, walking around the front of the car. I follow her footsteps and she spins in place to look back at me. “We’ll leave you to it, have fun!”
“Wait! You’re leaving? No explaining?”
“The only thing you need to remember is to go to the market at noon. You’ll know when you get there.”
I pull the strap of my duffel bag into a more secure and comfortable position as both of them return back to the car and levitate out of town, leaving me on a smoothly paved sidewalk in front of the inn. The weight on my shoulder lifts away as I breathe in the atmosphere of a culture and environment foreign to me, filled with an eager curiosity for the week’s training. After checking in with the reception, I visit my room to drop off and organize my belongings for the week’s stay.
At noon, I walk out to ask the receptionist for the market’s location. They lead me outdoors to point towards a set of buildings forking the large road the car was on. I thank her and make my way across the street—past the row of buildings placed in the center of the road.
After a brief walk past brick, stone, and mostly wooden buildings, an area of stalls and shops crowded with a colored mass of people greets my eyes—their combined voices ringing with a warmth of party, community, and high-spirited celebration.
A group of three walks up to me from across the road. “The blonde ponytail girl—Kemia?” asks the man leading them. I turn to the voice and nod in response. “Follow us to the opposite side of the marketplace.”
I twist my shoulders to avoid clashing with many who are taller than me, especially a packed place like this where a single push can topple a number of people. With the stuffiness out of the way on the opposite side, the man points to a group of about a dozen people standing and sitting on and around a stone fence. Past that was a large lake with surrounding hills and bare trees in the background.
They all turn to me and I raise a hand next to my face for a wave. “Hi, I’m Kemia! I’ll be helping you, but I don’t know what I’m helping you with, so fill me in.” The unknown faces of young and old look at me in complete silence; the only reminder of time being the noisy crowd behind me.
“Young Julie sent a young girl without any knowledge of the market? This’ll be interesting,” a short, bearded old man says with a smile.
“I wonder what she can teach us?” a boy says, looking at his group of four.
“Will she be able to bring attention to this pot I made?” a large man asks another.
“I wish you were my daughter!” one woman says. “We would be able to give the townspeople beautifully embroidered clothing. The possibilities!”
The man leading his group of three asks everyone to calm down, allowing me to speak as I rub my neck. “Uhh—what will I be doing? Market? Teach? Pots?”
“You will be helping us with getting our things sold in the market. Each of us have our own professions, stores, and stalls—all with different forms of exchange in the economy. Some of us don’t know what to sell, while some have trouble knowing what service to accept and the number of Credits to exchange,” says the man leading the three.
“But the people who see it and need it will buy it. Am I missing something?” I ask.
For about an hour, we engage in a discussion about their various professions—glass artisans, metalworkers, potters, farmers selling their fresh produce, fabric vendors, clothing makers, and merchants of tools and food. While some rely on the Credit system, others barter—exchanging their own products with another product or service such as volunteering in the farm or teaching a skill. In contrast to visitors of the town, who engage in Credit transactions and bartering, town residents freely shared necessities among themselves due to their familiarity. As I glance back at the colored stalls in the bustling market, it takes just a few minutes before bread, ceramics, and tools are given away to some interested customers, confirming what I was told.
Out of the dozen merchants surrounding me, a few are newcomers to the market, while the rest desire to have some of their old wares gifted or traded away. Their challenge is finding the right person to give their things to. To the side, a group of young boys and a lone girl, who introduces herself as an artist offering paintings, express their uncertainty about how to get started. Despite a kind attempt at guidance from the seasoned merchants, their knowledge didn’t ignite any inspiration into action.
“Then let’s have everyone return to your stores for a normal day and do the best you can; then, we can discuss tomorrow about whether the day was fruitful or not,” I say.
“Why not help us right now when what we’ve done hasn’t worked?” a man asks.
“I can’t talk about what didn’t work in the past, but I can talk about what you are doing because that can change. Go about your usual day and give it a different approach and let’s see,” I say.
With that, everyone disperses—some following the road back to their own store and some going back to the crowded marketplace behind me. Now that the view of the lake is unobstructed, I walk over to lean on the stone fence. From the corner of my eye, an unmoving figure catches my attention—the same young girl who offers paintings in her store.
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“Hey!” I shout and walk closer in her direction, and she flinches and grasps her wrist tightly. “Are you nervous about giving your art to people? What’s your name?”
She nods. “I-I’m Pali… and I don’t know where to begin… There’s a lot to pay attention to and it’s s-scary.”
I smile at her. “Then let’s do this together! Lead me to your store and let’s see what we can do.”
With her head tilted down, she looks up with a smile resembling more of a frown, then nods twice. She turns away from the marketplace to face the road and I follow her past the many buildings along a curve to arrive at a storefront. Above the door was a white banner containing calligraphy with a watercolor painting of leaves capturing the flow of a looping wind. It was a mixture of white, yellow, and pink leaves dancing away from an outstretched branch, which pointed to the words ‘Pali’s Landscapes’.
“You even have your name on it!”
Pali gives a half smile and scratches her jaw with a finger; her eyes looking to the side as she responds. “Dad gave me this shop to display my paintings since I was little.”
“Where’s your dad?”
Pali beckons me to follow her past a door behind the front desk covered with door beads, then down a short hall into a living room and points. There, I see a man sleeping all over the couch with one arm over the backrest, another falling over the cushion of an armrest, one heel resting on a nearby table, and the other leg bent.
I lean over to her ear with one hand to direct my whisper. “Let’s, uh, go back to the front of your store.” She giggles quietly and we gently walk back out; past the clacking of prismatic door beads. I’m greeted by a display of various landscape paintings adorning the walls and shelves that I hadn’t noticed coming in.
Trees on hilltops, mountains and rivers, a rugged landscape with snow-covered rocks—they all showcase an understanding of an environment’s structure while portraying a movement that appeals to the eye. It’s unmistakably clear that Pali possesses a deep grasp of her tools and can execute her intentions without any filter—something any artist desires to attain.
“How are people not seeing any of your work?” I ask, seeing the silhouette of her quivering body from my peripheral.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t know why people won’t buy a-any of my things,” she says as tears and snot form and drips down beside her shoes.
“Do you love what you do, Pali?”
“Yes! It means a lot to me.” She looks at me with wide, open eyes, filled with a bounce of life and radiance from the sunlight, while tears delicately cling to her eyelashes. Her fist centers on her chest and her short black hair clumps together, unifying from her passion. I place my hand on one of her raised shoulders, her bubbling energy evoking a wide smile from me.
“Then all you need to do is stand here and wait. You have done your job,” I say. “Don’t worry about whether people buy your things or not—you are offering something that means a lot to you, otherwise you wouldn’t be doing this in the first place. This means someone is out there looking for you and your work! Isn’t that great?”
“How do you know?”
“Trust! Especially in yourself—it doesn’t matter if no one sees value in your work. As long as you see value in your craft, others with the sense will see your passion in it.” Pali wipes the remaining tears from her eyes and I lean in to wrap my arms around her and squeeze.
“But how will people without knowledge of the craft understand what I’m doing?”
“They don’t need to understand if they’re not an artist. Some pieces will engage with them; most will be ignored by them. You do you, and those who see will see. Can’t do much about that, can you?”
She sniffs with her chin resting on my shoulder. “Y-Yes… Yes!”
With my head over her shoulder, I shut my eyes from the world to feel the release of stiffness from her body, allowing me to embrace her as she embraces me—completely. After her sobs and whimpers subside, I open my eyes again and continue rubbing her back for a few more moments before gently pulling away from our embrace, giving her a smile which she returns wholeheartedly. I tell her the same thing I told the others—to do her best at the store for the rest of the day.
For the remainder of my day, I engaged in conversations with the townspeople—asking about their daily activities, destinations, and lifestyles. They explain that they purchase and barter for food, prompting me to ask about their dietary choices, reasons behind their preferences, ingredients involved, and frequency of their purchases. These discussions further expand to topics on seasons, their family traditions, cultural influences, work routines, solar positioning, weather conditions, and levels of physical activity.
I also asked about what system they preferred—bartering or Credits. Like the merchants mentioned, most of the town residents gave their things away without cost, while visitors from out of town used Credits and occasionally offered their own products or services. These visitors were mostly from a nearby city, and some were from a nearby town that only used Credits. Only later did I realize that Doctor Amy and Julie dropped me into one of the largest towns known for its market, as it remains active even in the evening with crystal power illuminating the ground and lampposts.
The following day, I make my way to the same spot by the stone fence overlooking the lake, only to find everyone already there waiting and waving. The seasoned merchants inform me of their realization that they don’t know what is valuable to them, and I tell them the necessity of expressing the value of their work in front of their customer, to which they agree with.
“Years ago I blew this glass vial,” the old man with the beard says, gripping the clear and thin glass with his small, stout hands. “There’s more decades-old glasswork back in the shop, but compared to most craftsmen, it is not the attachment to the final product that motivates me, but the process of developing a skill that I enjoy most. This makes it a challenge to prescribe value to my work—when giving away the final product doesn’t affect me.”
A few nod in agreement to his comment and I crouch down to the floor and place my arms on top of my knees. No attachment to the final product, no value? Then there’s a simple answer: “Why not give it away?”
The old man clicks his tongue and scratches his nearly bald head with a tuft of white hair wiggling with life of its own in the wind. “Not that I don’t mind; the young lady is too nice for her own sake to take the glasswork without offering something in return.”
“Credits or trade?”
“Trade. Thing is—the rest of the shop provides enough. If my old work has such value to a prospective customer, I fail to come with something valuable in mind to give to me when the necessity is not there. Having something I don’t need wastes space, especially with a lack of storage—tripping and falling is not the way I want to get out!” He slaps his knee and elbows a muscular young man next to him, laughing with the spare teeth left in his mouth.
“Why not opt for Credits? Is the young woman the only one looking for the glasswork?”
“Yes—a valued customer who comes once a while to get a new set of glass. Whether she has Credits or not, I am unsure of, but from my few interactions with her, it’s unlikely.”
I point to Pali. “Then have that young woman help her with getting her art known to people in the town. You can tell her that she’s a friend or fellow merchant who needs help getting started in the market.”
The bearded old man chuckles. “Not bad! Do you have anything in particular you need help in?” he asks Pali.
I exchange glances with her and she looks to the floor. “Y-Yes. Advertisement of my store would be nice. And showing a painting or two to people around town and the marketplace is another.”
“Now you’re thinking like a merchant! Welcome to the crew.” The short old man reaches up and slaps her shoulder, while the rest of the group gathers to form a smooshed circle around her. “You can ask for more, too, young girl. Come on, you can spit it out—decades of experience doesn’t come without a reputation in this town—dream big!” he says with an almost toothless smile and wrinkled cheeks.
Pali shares more of her big wishes with them through tears of her appreciation for the surrounding company, even prompting the others who had no need for an exchange to help her. In the end, she convinced five merchants to offer their customers' acts of service to her. With a straight back and arms on her lap, she bows down in front of everyone and sobs louder. “Thank you. Thank you so much!”
For the rest of the merchants, they had trouble valuing their work with Credits. Some were producing new tools and garments that no one else in the market provided, so price comparison was impossible. Another wanted to provide a brief period of entertainment for visitors at their stall and wanted to know how people would see value in an act or play. One had a repair shop and figured that they should expand their pool of people by allowing them to do acts of service. In many ways, they decided to take risks yesterday and are now exploring different methods to allow themselves to be known.
Seeing that they all have something in common, I respond. “Even with different goals. you’re all offering what you see as valuable. How you portray yourself doesn’t matter as much because people who see value in your work will come regardless, so place your trust in them. Pali can also make a banner for your store or stall to show what you offer with calligraphy and painting.” I nod in her direction and she looks down in shyness; at least her shoulders didn’t slump and close off this time. “Since you’ve done your best in finding your way of expanding your work to more people, remember to expand to include other merchants who can help you, too!”
With that, the veterans and beginners begin exchanging questions about their respective crafts and discuss about what they can offer each other. In cases where the pairings don’t align, they redirect the other person to another merchant in the group, resulting in a lot of shuffling on the stone floor during the initial exchanges. This switching and moving gradually settles down after several more adjustments, bringing me the gratification of witnessing a new community blossom from their initial unfamiliarity.
At the heart of the gathering, Pali engages in more lively and animated conversations with the old man and four other merchants. On occasion, individuals outside her circle approach her with requests to draw a banner, asking if she is willing to take on the task. She agrees to all of them and they hand her a piece of paper with all the necessary details.
Taking a break myself, I sit on the remaining space of the stone fence to watch everyone discuss their ideas and plans until the last person, Pali, thanks me and strolls back home for the day.
After waiting for two days, I walk to Pali’s Landscapes early in the morning to see how things are progressing. To my surprise, I see the five volunteers helping her prepare for a small campaign across town. I walk through the large opening of the storefront into her shop and see one woman standing on a stool to look for a painting on a shelf, another crouching down at a selection of canvases on the floor, two men helping with the coloring of a banner in another room, and the last woman discussing and drawing a plan with Pali behind the front desk.
Facing forward to take steps closer to her, she recognizes and greets me. “Hey Kemia, thanks for everything you’ve done! Over there, they are deciding on what painting will be good to show the town’s residents and visitors, and over here, we have planned a schedule on how long everyone will go around town.”
The woman standing on the stool gets down and walks up to us with two rectangular canvases in hand, and Pali’s face scrunches in reflection of her mood. “Please don’t drop it.”
The woman chuckles and places the paintings on top of the desk. “That’s how I know you love your work and see value in it. Don’t worry, I’m taking care of how I hold them—no scratches, nothing.” She walks past me towards Pali and hooks her arm around her neck. “You can trust me to scare anyone away if they dare touch it without some sort of offer.”
After a short while, the woman on the floor and the two men in the other room surround the front desk with their finished preparations. I take a step out from the crowded shop and my head starts spinning as I see the road in front of me deform into a steeper incline and buildings blend and contort. With nothing around me to hold onto, I drop to my knees, quickly saving my face from scraping the rugged floor with my palms. I lift my chin up to see everyone kneeling next to me and holding my arms, which I don’t feel. Their faces sway and duplicate as I try to make sense of their moving mouths.
“Are you okay?”
With strength in both legs, I push myself up with help from a few lifting my arms, and I slowly arrive at a stool next to the front desk, my vision stabilizing. Again, they repeat the question and I nod. “What was that? I felt nauseous out of nowhere. Did no one else experience that just now?”
Everyone shakes their head.
“Maybe it’s something you ate?” Pali says.
“I don’t eat in the mornings,” I reply, seating myself on the tall stool.
“Then that’s the reason.”
I shake my head. “Low energy from lack of food and what I felt are two different experiences. I would know when I am hungry, too.”