Free The Witch's Market by Mingmei Yip

trying to take back what I had grabbed, he surprised me by stuffing two more statutes into my hands—the snake-headed goddess and the peeing toddler.
    â€œYou’re selling these too? How much more do you want?”
    He shook his hand vehemently, and said, “Ah! You take!”
    I pulled out more bills and showed them to him. “You want me to pay you more for all these? Just tell me how much. But I’ll have to go back to my place to get more money.”
    He gave me a vigorous, dismissive wave of his hand, then laughed heartily, displaying a toothless mouth that reminded me of the capacious vagina he’d just created. Suddenly I realized that, just as I thought he was a crazy old mute, he must think me a deluded woman. Only a crazy person would pay such an astronomical amount for a few pieces of stones shaped by a toothless old man living alone among ruins on a remote island.
    But to be sure, I waved the bills. “How much more should I pay you?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œSo you want to give me these two statutes as gifts?” I asked.
    This time he emphatically nodded. I almost burst out laughing at my good luck.
    Letting out a long, relieved exhalation, I smiled. “Thank you so much, great master.”
    I put my hands together and bowed. After that, I dashed away, fearing he might change his mind and ask for his treasures back.
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    It turned out that I was less lost after my horseback ride than I’d feared. To get my bearings, I climbed a small hill and was able to spot the castle off in the distance. Tired after the long walk back, I sunk down on my bed and spread out the four stone sculptures to examine them more closely. First I appreciated them from above, then picked up each in turn and examined it closely. This had been an extremely lucky trip, one that allowed me to acquire these wonderful objects.
    I glided my hands over the statues one by one, outlining their subtle contours, grainy textures, and oddly artistic shapes, sensing their creator’s unfathomable soul within. Did he foresee the final shape of each work even before his chisel made the first incision? Did his hands have an unspoken philosophy as they made their arduous journey?
    Though all the sculptures were exquisite, I liked the mother and half-born infant the best. It reminded me of a relief sculpture I’d once seen in a museum. It told the story of a young mother who had just died of an incurable disease and was sent to hell along with her newborn. Unwilling to renounce her life, she defiantly clung to the Life Gate while trying to reenter. But her efforts would soon be gone like a trace of smoke, for pushing against her on the other side were two giant armored guards.
    The baby, though tiny like a thermos, seemed to have sensed the awaiting catastrophe from his mother’s agonized cries and the dark, tremendous force pulling her onto the other side. The baby clung tightly to her chest, his tiny face distorted from his hysterical crying. I could almost hear his bawling. The baby’s desire to live was so powerfully depicted that I could feel the waves of desperate energy crashing over me, tightening my throat and triggering my tears.
    My attention went back to the old man’s creation as my finger caressed the baby’s tiny head as it seemed to emerge from his mother. Like the one in the museum, would he succeed in pushing through the gate back to life? Or would his head be forever stuck in between? What was the old man trying to express?
    â€œShhh . . . little one,” I said, kissing the to-be-born’s bald head, “everything will be all right, just be patient. Your mommy loves you and will protect you from all evils.”
    I sighed, then picked up the next figurine, that of the fish within fish within fish. Life within life, or if you looked at it from the opposite side, death within death. For each fish was being devoured by a larger one.
    I gently put down the fish and