by Laura Rich
“So you came to see her yesterday, and today?” I said. “You know, there is another fortune teller, a really good one, just up there.” I pointed in the general direction of my mom’s tent. “She’ll be back in probably an hour.”
He shook his head. “I only see Madame Miri.”
I wrinkled my nose. “How many times have you been to see her?”
“Between yesterday and today?” he said. “Maybe five times.”
My eyes grew wide. “Okay, wow. That’s a lot.” I moved ahead in the line. “Why so many times?”
Mr. Spitty shuffled after me and scratched his head. “The readings make me feel so good. Like getting drunk, but better. I don’t care about anything!” He danced a little jig.
“Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you?” I said.
He looked down at his feet. “What, my dancing?”
I snorted. “No, that you can’t stop coming here.”
“It’s the weekend.” He shrugged. “But I may just call in sick on Monday and come back again.”
“Uh, sure.” I said. “Maybe you want to stop at home first and get some sleep and a shower.” I almost gagged when a breeze blew a whiff of hot, sweaty goat at me.
Mr. Spitty was unfazed. “What are you going to ask her?” There was spit gathered in the corners of his mouth.
I wrinkled my nose. “Uh, I don’t know. I thought I would just wing it.”
“Don’t do that!” he jumped close to me again.
I took a step back and bumped into the person in front of me, a woman in a nice pantsuit. She whipped her head around and glared at me, and I stepped back, surprised at the mismatch between her face and her business clothing. Her makeup was streaky and misapplied, like it was done a day ago and in a rush and…I wrinkled my nose…she smelled like yesterday’s failed deodorant covered up by generous sprays of heavy perfume. She must have been here since yesterday, too.
I mumbled, “Sorry” and volleyed back to Mr. Spitty.
His eyes tried to lock onto mine.
I looked at his chin, my go-to spot for eye-contact avoidance, and tried to keep it together. Eye contact with someone you don’t know can invite all kinds of bad, from mind-reading to soul control. Needless to say, it is risky and should only be established between consenting individuals and I didn’t know Mr. Spitty.
My heart raced despite my efforts to slow it through practiced breath. Everything moved into a focused clarity: the sounds of the fair, the color of the sky, the scent on the wind. I was now one person away from the door. The line moved much too fast and the purple acetate fabric flapped at me, as if to warn me away. I considered bolting, then gave myself a shake. I told myself not to be stupid. This guy wasn’t scary.
He inched up to my ear as the crowd grew eerily still.
I braced myself for the spit. It didn’t come.
His voice dulled to a whisper, “She likes it when you tell her greatest ability.”
I frowned at this information.
The line moved and suddenly I stood in front of the tent doorway with a chill on my spine. I paused and let it sink in and wondered if there was something to this fortune teller after all. But no, Mom could sense another witch and said she hadn’t. So I was getting myself all worked up for nothing over a weird dude with dirty clothes who spit when he talked. Nice.
I looked to Mr. Spitty to tell him good luck, but he was gone. I turned round and round to look for him, but the crowd swallowed him up. With one last glance across to Indira’s tent, where she was busy with a new customer, I turned back to the doorway and ducked to enter.
7
The inside of Madame Miri’s tent was cool and dark and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Slowly, the interior revealed itself as a cheap imitation of my mother’s more lavishly authentic tent. Too many plastic beads sagged from the ceiling, and the cheap threadbare rugs couldn’t hold up to the foot traffic like my mom’s ancient rugs. There was even an upholstered lounge chair, like the kind old men sit in, shoved in the corner. The tent smelled like damp canvas and cooked broccoli. Not that any of these things alone were indicative of a subpar fortune teller, but all of them together deepened the mystery of her ability to draw patrons away from my mother. I expected more…production value.
“Please, sit,” a scratchy voice at my right floated up through the dim light.
I jumped and turned to find the speaker. Seated at a small, round table covered with a tattered scarf, was a short, fat, middle-aged woman.
My face screwed up in unmistakable disappointment.
The woman shrugged, as if she got that a lot. “I am Madame Miri.”
“Oh,” I said. I am, for the record, an abysmal poker player. Emotions just telegraph themselves right off my face.
Her heavy-lidded eyes blinked once, twice. “Would you like to sit for your reading, or stand?”
“Um, stand.” I looked around for somewhere to lean, realized leaning against a tent pole would come to a bad end. “Um, sit.” I folded onto the small, empty chair in front of the table.
The seat was hard and tilted slightly forward so I could either lean into the table towards Madame Miri or fight to stay upright. My abs chose the former after a brief struggle. I put my fingertips on the edge of the table and looked at Madame Miri. I couldn’t decide if the chair tilt was intentional or if cheap was her decorating style.
“Let us begin,” she intoned with a deep, practiced voice.
I rolled my eyes and smirked. Now I remember why I was here: to debunk this lady with her weird followers…who used to be our less-weird followers. My smirk faded. “Sure.”
“Place your hands on the table, face up,” she said.
I complied and searched her face for signs of subterfuge, artifice, and deception. Bring it on, lady.
Madame Miri burped.
“Excuse me.” She blew out a cloud of foul-smelling breath.
My left eye twitched as the stench of halitosis and fried food floated past me. “Sure, no problem.” I coughed.
“As I was saying, let us begin.” She cleared her throat and traced the lines on my palm with her pudgy forefinger, then looked up at me. “You will live a very long time.”
Did she really just say that? “A really, really long time?” My smirk threatened a return but I squashed it.
“Really, really long,” she turned my hands over and back, then dropped my hands and put hers under the table. She reached around as if looking for something.
“Like super long?” I mocked.
She glared at me. “Yes, a really, really, super long time.” She withdrew her hands and pressed something round and cold and heavy onto each of my palms. I froze.
The pieces in my hands were silver, about the size and shape of dollar coins, but with signs and symbols all over them. I leaned closer and squinted. Were those magical sigils?
“What is your deepest desire? Your greatest skill?” Madame Miri said.
A flash of power surged through my hands right to my brain.
“Another one!” She sucked in a breath and her eyes grew wide. “Potent Donum!” she gasped.
My vision got a little fuzzy just as I connected Lily and Ella’s potent donuts and my current situation.
“Well, shit.” I said.
8
Time moved quickly in Madame Miri’s tent.
“Are you from the same family as those two blond girls who came earlier?” she said.
“No, I’m not Bindan!” My movements felt thick, like I moved through water. I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk about the secret society of witches-who-didn’t-want-their-magic, but I couldn’t stop myself. My lips felt rubbery and my brain ticklish.
“Hmm, I’ve heard of them.” she said. “You’re the same, but different. Have you ever done magic?” she leaned forward and tried to make eye contact.
I was still aware enough to avoid looking her in the eyes. I frowned. This was the second time today somebody tried to do that to me, counting Mr. Spitty. “Smal
l stuff,” I almost tipped onto the table. Why did I feel so floppy?
Madame Miri reached forward and gave me a nudge back. “Like what?”
I flopped backward in the chair. “Love charms,” I said, “to sell here.” My head lolled to one side and I thought it might just roll off and fall onto the floor.
“So I’m guessing it wasn’t you who did the bindings.” She mumbled.
My head shot up. “What?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just wondering who is binding you guys,” she said, her fingers steepled together in front of her bulbous nose. “What a shame. But never mind. More for me!”
The questions continued. I felt drained in pulses like something more than energy was drawn away with each answer I gave. She didn’t use any incantations I could remember, and I felt okay with telling her anything she wanted to know, even though I can’t quite remember what that was. There were a lot of questions. What about the coins? I tried to focus on the exchange - to lock onto the events so I wouldn’t forget, but it was like trying to grab water.
Then it was over.
I stumbled out into the light and the tent flaps snapped shut behind me. The scene felt surreal, like coming out of one of those dreams where the person playing your mom wasn’t your mom.
“Closed?” an angry voice shouted behind me.
The sound startled me. I shook my head and tried to get my bearings. The sun was lower in the sky and the wind had picked up and smelled of fall. I shivered.
“No!” moaned another. “I waited here for over an hour!”
“How come she got so long?” said a third.
I moved away from the agitated crowd and pitched into a slow gait homeward. The normal evening sounds of the festival had kicked in and they became clearer to me the farther I walked.
The cinnamon scent of the roasted almond cart stopped me and I dug in my pocket for the twenty I remembered was in there and handed it over. The vendor handed me back some change and a paper cone of warm almonds, covered in cinnamon and sugar. I breathed in the smell and slipped one in my mouth, and hoped the flavor would clear my head. My stomach rumbled in gratitude and I stuffed handfuls in my mouth. The act of eating brought me back, chew by chew.
I threw back the rest of the almonds and my eyes rested on a black and white flyer attached to the side of his cart. A series of four thumbnail photos, with the bold black text across the top: “MISSING”.
I leaned closer to read, “Last seen at the Great Lakes Renaissance Festival, Mackinaw City, Michigan” printed across the bottom, along with the names, birthdates and ages of each person pictured. A whole family. A chill shot down my spine.
Michigan. The northern circuit.
Where had I just read that?
Ohcrap. That was the festival Miri had been to, before coming here.
Coincidence?
I sucked in a breath and choked on bits of almond, sugar and cinnamon.
“Whoa, there!” said the almond vendor. “Don’t ye choke on them!”
Still choking, I looked around and headed straight for a lemonade vendor and gave her five dollars. She handed me a plastic glass of lemonade, which I promptly drained. “Ah!” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Thanks!”
The lemonade lady’s eyes grew wide. “Another?”
“No, thank you.” I said. “That did the trick.”
I cleared my throat and headed back to the almond cart vendor. I waited until he finished a transaction with two girls dressed as fairies and someone dressed like the headless horseman, but with a jack-o-lantern head. Finally, the vendor saw me.
“You made it!” he said, and dropped his renfest accent. His perfectly round belly shook as he laughed and his smile was genuine.
“Yes. Haha.” I pointed to the flyer. “Um, where did you get that?”
“Ah, that is a sad business,” he said, and shook his head. “I meant to take it down this morning but things got so busy.” He pulled the paper from where it was pinned to the panelling on the cart, folded it up, and put it in his pocket. “They found the bodies yesterday.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Bodies?”
“Yeah, my cousin works the northern circuit sent it to me,” he said. “This whole family went missing up there last week on the last day of the festival. Finally washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan yesterday.” He shook his head. “That’s foul play for sure.”
“Yeah,” I said, and gulped. “Do they have any suspects?”
“Sort of,” he said. “There’s one that skipped town before they had time to question her - people say they didn’t see the family after they went into her fortune-teller tent.” He wrinkled his forehead. “They kept the rennies good and occupied with their questioning anyway, though. Just finished up yesterday. My cousin was gonna meet me here and help with my other cart yesterday. Roasted corn. Now he won’t get here until day after tomorrow.”
“That’s too bad.” I said. I know most most rennies live off of what they make on the circuit, plus odd jobs. Being down one cart on opening day could be the difference between making a profit and having to work as a superstore greeter in the off-season.
“So, you know Madame Miri over there?” I said, and pointed towards the fortune teller’s tent. “She was at the Michigan festival and she got here yesterday.”
“Huh. You don’t say.” He squinted at the tent. “The tent where all those folks look like they’re riddled with bedbugs?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
He pursed his lips, then shook his head as he withdrew his cell phone. “Folks ain’t right, I tell you.” He dialed a number and listened, holding his finger up for me to wait.
I did.
“Kent? S’Mike,” he said. What’s the name o’ that fortune teller they’re looking for in Michigan?”
His eyes swung over to Miri’s tent. “Madame Miri?” he said.
I gulped.
“Yeah, let ‘em know to look here,” he listened, and nodded. “Yep, she’s here.” Pause. “Yep. Okay, see you soon. Thanks,” he ended the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket.
I didn’t need him to tell me. In my heart of hearts, I knew it to be true, but I still broke out in a cold sweat as I waited for him to confirm that I just went to see a killer.
“I guess I’m calling the police here now,” he said, and took off his apron. “That family - they all died of heart failure after going to see Madame Miri almost twenty times over the course of three days. They didn’t eat, or sleep. Just kept going to see her.” He ran his hand over his head.
“D-do they think drugs?” I said. I knew it wasn’t drugs. It was magic. What the heck was she doing to everybody?
“Something,” he said. “Coroner don’t know yet, but they’re mighty interested in talking to Madame Miri.”
“I-I bet.” I stammered. My mind raced. She did something to me. Was I going to start feeling queasy like Lily and Ella or obsessively try to see Miri again, like all those humans? More to the point: why? What was her goal?
“You’re Madame Clea’s girl, ain’t you?” he said. “You sell those little love charm things everyone likes?”
“Yes,” I said, dully.
“Kate, right?” he said, and handed me a fresh bag of warm sugared almonds.
I nodded. I’d have been thrilled with the recognition if I hadn’t just learned I might die.
“On the house.” He closed up the cart and patted me on the shoulder. “Good work today.”
“Thanks!” I said, for the almonds, and for remembering my name. Must just be the Bindan who can’t be bothered to learn it.
Then I ran back to the trailer to tell Mom about our really big, super bad problem.
9
The trailer was lit up like Christmas in the dim light of early evening and I sped up my increasingly clumsy steps. My sudden lack of coordination concerned me. Was this a symptom or was I just tired?
I pounded up the trailer steps and burst through the door. Something
delicious and chicken-smelling bubbled in the crock pot, but otherwise the trailer was silent.
“Mom!” I yelled.
No answer.
Crap. Was she back in her tent, telling fortunes? I should have checked there first.
The trap door in the small living room was closed and covered by the colorful braided rag rug, which is how we leave it when no one is in the trailer. My eyes rested on a note in an empty bowl next to the crock pot, so I grabbed it.
Kate,
Sorry about the ‘childish’ comment earlier. You can pick at the table all you want. The Bindan have me on edge, but that’s no excuse to snap at you.
Elder Wright called. Ella and Lily have a fever. I took Gringo with me. Be back later or I’ll call. Chicken and dumplings in the crock pot. You’re my life, Kate. Don’t forget that. Everything I do is for you.
Love, Mom
For the second time today, I felt the blood drain from my face.
The note fell to the floor.
But Bindan don’t get sick. They aged and died like normal humans, but they just didn’t get fevers. That confirmed this was definitely not your garden-variety virus.
Mom probably took Gringo because she suspects foul play and Gringo is great at sniffing out things that have latent magic. Things like the Madame Miri’s talismans. The ones that are here, not miles away at the Bindan compound. Mom was onto the cause, just not in the right place.
I grabbed my phone out of my back pocket, flipped to my favorites and tapped the number for the Bindan colony and left a voicemail message. Mom doesn’t carry a cell phone, so this was the only way I could get a message to her. The Bindan Elder rarely answered, but always returned our calls. My heart raced.
A minute later, my phone brayed like a donkey. It was the ringtone I had set specifically for Elder Wright’s number. I was not his favorite person and he barely tolerated me because I ‘set a bad example’ to the other young women, what with my jeans and T-shirts and opinions.
