Enochlophobia

I stop dead in my tracks.

I’ve heard that the place is huge, but the rumors couldn’t prepare me for what I see. Neat, yellow stalls fill the space as far as I can see, their counters cluttered with goods from all around the universe, walls decorated with banners, garlands, and illusions. Between them hangs a silken cloth, shielding merchants and customers from the scorching light of two triangular suns.

But the worst thing is, most of the people here are not even humans. It's hard to say which species is the most abundant since there are so many! Furry kas’shams with big eyes and expressionless faces strolling leisurely, browsing silk clothes and carved combs. Stumpy chavikii with eight spidery eyes, trumpeting for attention. Tiny, reptilian miyangua slithering about, twitching their fleshy whiskers, their vocal sacks working like bellows. There, a ssothian is barging through the crowd, a mountain of orange fur with horns curling down and dropping almost to the ground.

I’ve never seen a nonhuman before. I am Tarvissi; our people are considered speciesists and shunned by other species. Now I am surrounded by others and I don’t know what to do. For a moment I’m taken by a sense of alienation so strong, I feel as if I am the only Tarvissi in the world.

Then something soft and wet touches my shoulder and I whirl around to what looks like a giant snail, its front half raised above my head. It’s bright yellow, with red and dark blue ends to its flaps and two additional, smaller flaps in front.

I step aside and the u’xui-shi slithers past me with surprising speed.

I glance back at the market. The nearest stall has a silken banner, red with golden margin, and covered in writing I cannot read. The counter is filled with jewelry of gold and sapphires.

Despair wells inside me. What right do I have to be here? I’m just a simple farmer. Where I come from, the jewelry was made of leather straps and carnelian.

But then I collect myself. I’m not a simple farmer anymore. Yesterday I got my first Mespanian pay and I could probably afford the gold if I wanted to. But I don’t; Varxi, a Xzsim who trained with me, told me it was the place to go to buy food and I am sick and tired of Dahlsian rations.

I clutch my bag closer and enter the market.

The ground is covered by a soft, spongy pavement, the same material used to line training grounds. I thought the cloth above our heads would offer respite from the tropical heat, but the proximity of a thousand bodies makes the market feel like a steam bath. I spy another ssothian, crouching, with three miyangua dancing around them with scissors, trimming their orange fur. I feel sorry for the big guy. Or gal. Or whoever they are.

The scent I detected a mile away is stronger here: human and inhuman sweat, fresh wood—the market was only finished a few tendays ago—fur, spices, perfumes. The air resonates with the voices of merchants trying to outshout one another, customers, and caged animals. Above them carries a song and as I follow it, I see a besheq singing, tentacles whipping above their heads, weaving a basket of silvery willow.

The goods on display are as varied as the people who sell them. Jewelry and weapons; silks and linens; utensils of wood, ivory, and plastic; books and parchments; obsidian mirrors. The u’xui-shi that passed me before is now standing at one of the stalls, flapping their frilly fins over a selection of colorful powders.

The first food I see is sold by chavikii and comprises dozens of plants—fruits, vegetables, or other parts—I don’t recognize. They’re bright and shiny, but I give them a pass; chavikii are naturally resistant to plant toxins and their foods could prove deadly to me.

A bit further, a kas’sham offers a selection of sausages, and a familiar scent of naya spice reaches my nose, but the predatory look of the merchant’s face scares me away.

I keep walking. The place is like a maze, the stalls identical, the crowds oppressing. My head starts spinning and the images blend together. So many goods I’ve never seen before, many I wouldn’t even know what to do. Fabrics that shimmer like beetle-shells; tools I didn’t know how to use; clothes made for inhuman shapes. Instruments emanating unheard of sounds and flowers that danced to their rhythm. Half-birds and half-fish with fantastic plumes, locked in cages of gold and glass. Tableware carved from single pieces of jade.

What am I even doing here?

A procession of chavikii pushes past me, each carrying a basket full of fruits that look like human eyes leering at me. A vhariar tries to sell me a potion to increase magical potency.

My heart is racing. I struggle for breath.

Are there no humans on the market? A few times I catch a glimpse of human skin, hairless Chaarites, or brown Varpulians, but they vanish before I can even see if they're merchants or customers.

And none of them is Tarvissi.

Am I the only one of my race here?

I lean onto one of the pillars supporting the silken roof and try to calm my breathing. Despite my light clothing, I’m drenched in sweat and my insides churn, I’m not sure from hunger or anxiety.

“Are you lotht?”

I jerk and look around to see the kas’sham manning the nearest stall eyeing me. Their face is almost animalistic, but their big eyes shine with intelligence. Their body is lean and supple, covered in short slate fur, large hands hide claws long and sharp as daggers. I feel a cold shiver running down my spine as I realized they could jump over the counter and rip my throat open with their bare teeth before I knew they were coming.

Mechanically, my hand rests on my wand.

“I’m fine,” I murmur, not letting my gaze off the merchant.

They look at me for a moment longer, but their face is unreadable. Finally, they flick their tail.

“Tarvithian merchanth gather around the dome-thide gate,” they say and I can glimpse their canines, each as long as my hand. They must be the reason the kas’sham struggles to pronounce s.

Then the meaning of their words finally worms its way through my apprehension. Embarrassment washes over me. I let go of my wand and drop my gaze.

“Thank you,” I say.

I pick up the trek, but suddenly the place doesn’t seem so scary anymore. It’s different. Probably bigger—and busier!—than our entire colony. But it’s just a market. And no matter how the people look or how they speak, they’re just that: people.

I spot a small clearing and walk towards it, hoping to locate the dome and find the Tarvissian quarter, but the smell of flowers gives way to smoke and roasted meats. The square is surrounded by food stalls, manned by Chaarite humans. There’s a large grill with a wide assortment of roasted meats and a big pot of some kind of soup. To my left, a woman in loose robe sells steamed buns. Behind her, a chavikii fries some vegetables, the banner at the side of their stalls portrays a human with thumb and index finger raised in a Dahlsian gesture meaning everything is all right.

My mouth fills with saliva. I realize I may not need Tarvissian merchants anymore.