The fortune teller sits alone, shoulders bunched, back hunched, forlorn, watching passersby, eyes pleading, begging someone to ask her a question. Any question. The question that matters.
She’s invisible. She doesn’t belong in this world anymore. A world so fast, it’s spinning right off its axis. A world of too many answers. Answers easily obtained, predictable, with shallow meaning and no mystery. Nowadays, people figure it out on their own. There is no Fate guiding their footsteps, only Reason scientifically dissecting what’s next. She is becoming obsolete. And so, she wonders, maybe it’s her. Maybe she needs to spew out the type of insights people wish to hear. The ego-soothing kind. The feel-good predictions. The prediction that sells and keeps people coming back for more.
There is a boy maybe ten summers old, his mother holding his hand and dragging him through the crowd, that stops in his tracks, right before the fortune teller’s stall. Eyes wide, he is captivated by the multitude of trinkets on display. The crow feathers and softly clinking wind chimes, the many precious stones the color of the rainbow, the swirling crystal ball, the centerpiece of her table. The assortment of knickknacks is arranged with intent, giving her little corner of the universe the kind of aura that hints at something else bubbling underneath. He looks like a customer with no coin, but with boundless imagination to trade. So, the fortune teller digs into her old bag of tricks and leans forward, armlets a-jingle.
“A very good morning, lad. You have something you want to ask me.”
“You see things before they happen… don’t you?” he asks, his voice thin and more melodic than you’d expect for such a small, fragile collection of twigs. Not unlike her.
This one carries many possible futures. A stage performer perhaps, or a singer in a traveling troupe. So many possible predictions, so which one to go for? The realistic? The amusing? The scary? Or the soul-opening?
The fortune teller decides to eschew the coin grab. There is something shimmering at the edge of her vision with the power to alter the flow of the boy’s life. This is what she was destined to do.
“What would you like to hear, boy?”
The boy sucks his cheek inward, pondering the answer. The fortune teller can see the cogs spinning. He’s escaped the mother’s grasp, for now. They’re on their little island of significance amid the ebb and flow of people until the mother realizes her child is missing and comes rushing to the rescue.
“Can I be a knight when I grow up?” he then blurts out sheepishly, asking fast, as if embarrassed to even voice it out loud. She senses the dozen follow-up questions he’s holding back and can guess the contours of most. The color of the horse he’d be riding. The dragon he will inevitably battle and vanquish.
The old fortune teller smiles softly, the laughing lines around her eyes and corners of the mouth reactivating. She registers the urge to rub the crystal ball and keeps it at bay. Some messages don’t need to be delivered with a flourish.
“Sometimes, the first step is to say yes, you can. There’s no stopping a knight, once he sets his mind to something.”
The fortune teller watches the boy. His child mind is processing what he just heard, and there’s beauty watching that moment where it connects and a smile spreads on his face. In that space, lasting but a heartbeat, anything is possible, all possible futures unfolding.
He jumps giddily and is off, rushing to tell his mom all about the good news. A few yards away, just before he’s about to vanish in the sea of legs he turns around, waving back at the fortune teller. She thinks she sees him mouthing a “Thank you,” but her eyes are not what they used to be. And then he’s gone.
She retreats into her stall, but the smile the boy conjured lingers. Already, she’s pondering the next question. The one that matters.
….
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