Bruja's Chandlery
Bruja’s Chandlery shares a back alley with a florist, and at the same time sits in the shade of a large willow in the heart of the wood a short meadow’s walk from the edge of town. One door leads to a street not far from the river dividing the mortals from the fae. The other leads out into the countryside. There is no door to the alley, which is perhaps lucky, given that a youngling dragon has taken up residence between the bins. One sneeze would light half her stock.
In the chandlery there are candles of every kind. Lavender to help one sleep. Peppermint to boost one’s energy. Those are kept near the front of the shop, and under the eaves of those shelves hang bunches of natural fairy bells. The subtle perfume of those flowers encourages mortal customers to purchase from the regular section, while the quiet tinkling dissuades them from venturing further into the shop. For beyond that first display lies the chandlery’s true wares.
Just as the bakery on the dark side of town fills its delicacies with dreams, so the chandlery infuses its candles with memories. Memories attached to and owned by certain people – custom orders – and those evoked by a certain scent, far more common. A candle that fills the air with the smell of pine wood, cut grass, and fresh daisies might create a strong image of one’s childhood. So might a candle scented with citrus, humid air, and terracotta dust. Other aromas bring to mind long afternoons spent canoeing up the river, cold nights before a wood burner in the midst of a snowstorm, or a flight at dawn over the hills.
Custom orders are requested by finding a fallen feather – fallen, never plucked – to drop in a pool of water. Any pool will do – the river, the sea, a puddle of rain, a filled sink, or a cup. No one, not even Bruja herself, knows how this process of ordering works. Somehow, she knows just what to make, and then the matching candle is ready to collect within two to three business days. Payment is taken in the form of acorns. If a witch should enchant a handful of berries to look like the natural coin, she will find her candle impossible to light, no matter how hard she tries.
No one swindles Bruja.
The witch makes every candle herself. She tends her beehives in the wood, cuts the wicks, melts the beeswax in an old copper cauldron, and labels each of her hexagonal jars by hand. The bees have never been friendly to any hired help and have frightened many an assistant away with their relentless stings, in favour of Bruja’s tender care.
She harvests the wax and sells the honey to the bakery, leaving enough as food for the bees. She has dabbled in hiring pixies to assist her in the making of the candles, but they were forever knocking itching powders into the melted wax and dropping her jars on the floor. All an accident, of course. She then moved the pixies to help in the shop, only to find them unavoidably attracted to the fairy bells hanging in the eaves.
Nowadays she works alone. Her warm brown hair frames her face in tight curls that refuse to remain behind her marigold headscarf. Amber eyes coupled with nimble fingers pick out the perfect ingredients to create the desired scent or memory. Her hands are covered in little drops of wax that she spends all evening peeling off. Not a single patch of revealed skin is burned. The chandlery is her home and her family all in one.
If a customer should ask for a recommendation, or inquire after her favourite fragrance, the answer will change every time, and not once will it be true. Only the bees know which candle she keeps burning in the workshop all through the daylight hours. With that flame flickering in the corner, her father is alive again, working away at the wax, by her side once more.