The Fortune Teller

by Gwendolyn Womack

  * * *

  When the last day of her assignment finally arrived, anticipation tightened inside her like a coil ready to snap. She awoke early that morning, unable to sleep, and arrived at the château two hours before her usual start time, to finish preparing all the shipments and review the letters of export.

  A deep sense of melancholy hit her as she sealed the crates. Marcel had devoted his whole life to preserving these antiquities, and now they would never reside under his roof again. Disbanding a collection sometimes felt like lowering the curtain on closing night; it had to be the hardest part of her job. She only hoped that Marcel would approve of her decisions if he were still alive.

  For a moment she gave in to the sadness and sat down, staring at all the crates. The longer she sat there, the more uneasy she began to feel that she’d missed something.

  She got up and double-checked the official collection registry against her shipping schedules. Then she looked in all the display cases to make sure nothing had been left behind. Every item was accounted for and ready for transport. Still, anxiety consumed her.

  Somehow she knew she had made a mistake.

  She told herself the feeling was normal, nothing more than the stress of having to ship priceless manuscripts halfway around the world. But as hard as she tried to calm her nerves, she wouldn’t rest easy until she had checked all the rosters again. Luckily, it was still morning; she had plenty of time. She would review the shipments after she had a quick coffee in the kitchen. Perhaps the chef had even made some of his fresh-baked bürli and marmalade. She hadn’t eaten anything yet today.

  When she went to set the security alarm in the gallery, her eyes landed on the wooden cabinet underneath the examination table.

  Her hand stilled on the keypad.

  She had never looked inside, assuming the cabinet held supplies, but it had been catching her eye all week.

  She knelt down and opened the door to find an industrial safe bolted to the ground. The cabinet was just a decorative cover. It was steel-gauge with two electronic keypad locks. She tried using the gallery security codes, not sure if they would work.

  To her surprise, they did, and her excitement skyrocketed. She opened the door to find only one object inside, a thick leather-bound book wrapped in linen. Goose bumps ran down her arms.

  She brought the heavy book to the examining table and unwrapped the fabric to unveil a glorious codex.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. The hairs on her arms rose and the silence in the room magnified. Even the air turned electric. The years this artifact had weathered seemed to radiate from it, hovering like a band of energy.

  In her years of appraising she had come to understand that, sometimes, collectors kept secrets. She had just found Marcel’s.

  She hurried to the bathroom to wash her hands so she could touch the parchment without damaging the pages. She returned, now completely in the zone, and opened the cover with hands like a surgeon’s.

  When she saw the writing, her body had a visceral reaction. The penmanship was exquisite, a treasure in and of itself. The carbon-black ink remained rich and unfaded, and the script stood out from the parchment with a strength untarnished by the years.

  Engraved on the first parchment leaf were four words in flowing ancient Greek script. She began to translate:

  My Chronicles Through Time

  The symbols resembled works of art. What was this exquisite work, and why wasn’t it in the collection’s registry?

  Semele turned over the first leaf and gasped.

  A piece of stationery was wedged between the leaves. Slowly, she removed the paper, wondering who on earth could have been so careless.

  Her heart stopped when she read the note:

  Semele,

  Tell no one what you find written in these pages.

  Translate the words and you will understand.

  You can trust no one now.

  Marcel

  Semele felt as if she’d been touched by a ghost. She reread the note over and over in disbelief. Marcel Bossard had written to her—which was impossible. The man had died before his estate ever contacted her firm.

  How had he known her name?

  To my reader: I can see what time you live in, and I feel your eyes upon me. We are from different eras, you and I, and by the time you are reading these words, my ancient world will have long been buried. I am one you call a seer—someone who can divine the future and divine it well.

  The power of intuition will have ebbed in your time, so you may not believe this story, or worse, think it a fable. But I assure you, my tale is true. I will begin by telling you about my life before, when I was a girl in Alexandria, Egypt.

  In my youth, I did not know I had the sight. Only at certain times did the faintest glimpses of what was to come strike me like glimmers of light. Suddenly, I could see when the rains would fall, whether my brother would marry, if my father would buy me the wesekh collar from the market. This kind of simple knowledge would present itself, but for the most part, I thought nothing of these inklings.

  Only once did a dark premonition creep into my mind. My mother was eight months with child when one night she asked me to comb her hair after her bath. I was smoothing her long tresses when the feeling gripped me. I knew I would never touch her hair again.

  The next morning I heard her moans, and my brothers ran to get the old women we called the birth goddesses to help bring our new sibling into the world. For hours we huddled outside the room, listening to our mother fight for both their lives. The long silence that came afterward told me she and the baby had not won.

  Perhaps if my mother had survived, she could have taught me about my gift and eased me into understanding, for I often wondered if she too had possessed the sight. Instead, she left me orphaned with searching thoughts and a precocious nature that my father encouraged. For I was a librarian’s daughter—his daughter—and not from just any library, but the Library of Alexandria, the largest in the known world.

  The great library and connecting Musaeum were Alexandria’s pride, and had been since the city’s birth hundreds of years ago. Just as our lighthouse, the tallest lighthouse ever built, could signal any ship at sea, so too was the library a beacon of light, offering its wisdom to every seeking mind.

  My family’s position at the library extended back to Alexandria’s first days. Alexander the Great founded the city but died shortly afterward, and his trusted general, Ptolemy Lagides, had claimed Egypt as his own. It was his advisor, Demetrius Phalereus, who hatched the plan to build the library and make Alexandria the Navel of the World.

  When word reached Athens that a magnificent temple to the Muses—the Musaeum—was being constructed and would serve as a prominent university, Aristotle’s students began the pilgrimage from the Lyceum. One of those scholars was my ancestor. Since then, every male in my family has taken his place at the library with high honor. Even I, a young girl, enjoyed the privilege of my father’s station. Librarians were close to royalty in stature, so no one dared to question me when I roamed the grounds.

  Imagine that the most majestic palace from Mount Olympus had been handed down to earth. This is how splendid the Musaeum was. Marble walls gleamed like hammered pearls in the sun, and a domed ceiling arched its graceful back against the sky. Inside, meeting halls, theaters, and an observatory composed the complex, along with a dining hall for scholars to break bread. A grand colonnade led from the Musaeum to the library’s main doors, and linked pathways to the zoo and botanical gardens—each another vainglory of Egypt’s new ruling family, the Ptolemies.

  In the library’s interior, murals depicted the creation of the world and man’s quest for knowledge. Ten halls, each devoted to a specific subject, connected alcoves and circular reading rooms. These halls were massive, the size of any other city’s library.

  I used to pretend to go on official errands and then hide in the empty alcoves to read what the great minds had to say. I would find a cushioned seat in a q
uiet corner, lay out my chosen scroll, and watch dust scatter and catch the sunlight as I unrolled the parchment.

  The library’s works spanned thousands of years, exploring medicine, religion, astronomy, geography, mathematics, philosophy, physics, and the arts. Most scrolls and codices were either written in Greek or translated to Greek by the library’s army of translators.

  My brothers were appointed as both translators and transcribers—a great honor—though their excitement quickly turned to horror once they saw the never-ending pile of work. The Ptolemies confiscated the books from every ship entering our ports so they could be copied. Usually the library kept the originals, only giving back the copies. Entire warehouses at the harbor stored countless texts that had yet to be sorted and translated.

  The transcribers worked at a mad pace, sequestered in small, candlelit chambers in the back of the library. The translations and annotated editions they created were exquisite, but still there was never enough time.

  I tried to offer my services to my brothers, to deliver messages or food to them—anything to give me a reason to be inside those walls. How could I be anywhere else? I was a librarian’s daughter, spoiled, imaginative, and a voracious reader.

  But my simple life changed the day I found the key.

  * * *

  On my eighteenth birthday, my father surprised me with the wesekh collar I had seen at the market. I went to put the necklace in my mother’s jewelry box, where I kept all my jewels and ornaments. A Trove of Isis, the lacquered inlay chest had been in our family for centuries. The wooden jewelry box had hidden panels and dainty drawers to hold pendants and gems.

  I lifted one tray to place the collar in the bottommost compartment and discovered a panel I hadn’t known existed. When I found the secret latch and opened it, my breath caught. An ornate gold key was nestled inside the nook. I would have recognized that key anywhere. Why my mother had a key to one of the library’s chambers was a mystery.

  When I read the inscription, a chill traveled over me. This was a key to the subterranean galleries, where the oldest works were kept away from the light. I had never visited the lower galleries—no one could except for the pharaoh and his most trusted associates.

  I should have told my father I had discovered the key, but I did not. My curiosity burned. I obsessed about the key for days, wanting desperately to use it. When I could no longer withstand the temptation, I selected a day when an important lecture would be under way at the Musaeum and I knew the library would be empty.

  To the average eye, the dull wooden door to the lower gallery appeared to conceal nothing more than a storage room. I only knew its location because my father had told me. He loved to share stories about the treasures in the lower gallery, and I had begged him once to show me the door. My knowledge became our secret.

  I was betraying his trust by using the key. I had no right to wander down there alone, but on that particular day I could not stop myself. A sense of inevitability gripped me as I waited breathlessly in a nearby alcove for the perfect moment. When I could see no person in sight, I dashed to the door.

  The key slid in easily and released the lock. My heart was beating so fast I could barely breathe. I grabbed a lantern off the wall and entered, leaving the door slightly cracked so I wouldn’t be locked inside. Then I hurried down the stairwell.

  I held my lantern up to the shadows and gasped in awe. Thousands of papyrus scrolls filled the gallery and extended as far as my eyes could see. The authors’ names had been written on wooden plaques that hung from cords tied around ceramic canisters. Carved stones, wood, animal skins, and clay tablets lined the shelves as well. It was like tracing the history of thought back through time. Every material humans had used to cast their words had been preserved.

  The number of works kept in those galleries must have been greater than the stars in our sky. As I moved through each room I could feel its hallowed ground, and when I stepped inside the last gallery, it was as though I could smell the years. Scents of faded musk and frankincense greeted me along with the reek of mold. I knew I had found the library’s oldest works.

  My father often recounted how Alexandria was founded by the divine lunacy of Alexander the Great, how he had a dream telling him to come to the island of Pharos. So he did, bringing with him the ancient manuscripts from Siwa, manuscripts said to have belonged to the first rulers of Egypt, the gods. The great Oracle of Ammon and the Siwan priests had protected those manuscripts for thousands of years. But when Alexander became pharaoh and declared himself son of Zeus, he took many of the works with him to the new city, to be housed like jewels in his royal library. And here they were, these priceless treasures.

  I knew I should not have been disturbing such a place, but I was struck by the sight before me. I could not move. Then I saw a small stone box decorated with strange symbols sitting at eye level on one of the shelves. My hands reached out, moving of their own volition, and before I could question my actions, I opened it.

  Inside lay a dainty stack of papyrus squares with pictorial-like designs. Every square had its own image with hieroglyphs inscribed at the bottom. The paintings were rich in detail, portraying a myriad of symbols: the sun, the moon, two lovers, a hermit holding a lantern, the scales of justice, a chariot racing, and an ancient mandala of the world. I counted twenty-two in all. A papyrus scroll rested beside them.

  More than anything in my life, I wanted to understand what I had found. I knelt on the floor, not caring about dust or dirt, and spread the pictures out to see them together in unity. Even though I was unschooled in the art of divination, I knew I was staring at the cycle of life, from birth to death, in all its aspects.

  “What are you doing?” came a hushed whisper.

  I turned around with a start, frozen in terror.

  A man, slightly older than me, stood in the doorway holding up a lantern. From his modest robes, I could tell he was a student. A mane of curling black hair framed his striking brown eyes. He looked like a lion ready to pounce on his prey.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered again, seeming both fascinated and astounded by my behavior.

  “What are you doing?” I retorted, keeping my voice quiet. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment and I sat up straighter. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

  “And you should?”

  “I’m investigating articles for my father.”

  “On the floor?” he asked, his voice rising in disbelief.

  “I am Ionna Callas, daughter of Phileas,” I said, as if that was answer enough.

  He looked startled and satisfaction filled me. My father was one of the head librarians and his name carried weight. He held the second-highest-ranking position at the library, next to the director who was chosen by the pharaoh. He was also a scholar in his own right and widely respected for both his literary studies and scientific investigations.

  I held up the key with confidence. “And you are?” I resisted the urge to sweep the papyrus back into the box.

  “Ariston Betesh, from Antioch.” He nodded as his gaze took in every detail about me.

  I smoothed my robe, glad I had worn the sage today. The color matched my eyes, making the most of my black hair and olive skin. The faint smile hovering on his lips told me he agreed, and heat rose to my face.

  “Did your father really give you that key or did you steal it?”

  “This key is mine,” I told him, trying to sound insulted. Technically it was not a lie. I had inherited my mother’s jewelry box and its contents. “Why are you down here?”

  “The door was open. Curiosity is the scholar’s bread.” He stepped forward to study the papyrus squares. “What are those?” he asked, peering over my shoulder.

  “Ariston?” a hushed voice called from above the stairwell. Someone was looking for him.

  Ariston turned in haste. “I’m afraid my questions will have to wait, daughter of Phileas.” His words sounded like a promise, and with a wink, he left.

  Not wanting t
o risk discovery again, I returned the papyrus and scroll to the shelf and hurried up the stairwell.

  When I stepped outside to lock the door, Ariston was nowhere in sight.

  * * *

  That night I couldn’t sleep. I could think only of the stone box, the symbols … and Ariston. I was certain we would meet again.

  When I awoke the next morning I was gripped by the urge to re-create the first image from the box, a young man carrying a walking stick in the wilderness. My abilities would be stretched, but still I wanted to try.

  I borrowed a sheet of parchment from my father’s basket and used my brother’s carving knife to cut a square the same size as the papyrus. Then I prepared the paint. Years ago my father had given me a special box of ground-mineral pigments: gypsum, carbon, iron oxides of red and yellow, azurite, and malachite. I mixed the pigments with water and wood resin to the right consistency and made a palette.

  I closed my eyes and, with my reed brush in hand, tried to conjure the first image, but instead I saw Ariston looming over me. I dearly hoped he would not share our secret. The chastening my father would give me would be worse than any punishment from Zeus. My father might even ban me from the library forever. I shuddered at the thought.

  For days I stayed away from the library and struggled to recreate the first image. I was convinced my father would barge into my room at any moment, demanding to know what I had been doing in the lower galleries. But he never came, and I knew Ariston had not said a word.

  Since my misconduct had not been discovered, I decided surely this was a sign I could return again. This time I took special care in my appearance. I chose my most alluring gown, a deep crimson, and adorned the ends of my plated hair with gold beads. I lined my eyes with kohl and gave my cheeks and lips a subtle stain of red ochre. I chose one of my mother’s most enticing perfumes, letting its scents of lily, myrrh, and cinnamon envelop me like a cloak.