by John Boyd
A woman, grown too old for the oldest profession in which she once held a premier position, who fancies herself a seer of sorts and who works as a swabber at the village tavern, occasionally sleeps on the floor of the building. She insists the sounds have meaning, that they are messages she can understand, and her sincerity lends piquancy to her story. For a shot of bar whiskey, she can be persuaded to provide translations of the messages.
For the most part, the communiqués, apparently from heaven since they are being sent by the Angel Gabriel, are unintelligible even in translation. “Vulvula off limits” is one of the messages; “Withdraw all forces from Mirfak” another. The one intelligible message which draws the widest grins is “Quarantine Earth.”
No one takes the old demimondaine seriously. Ina Black Cloud is three-quarters Shoshone, and she’s drunk most of the time.
