The Fortune Teller

by Gwendolyn Womack

  I looked behind to see Ariston running toward us.

  I stood up. “Stop the carriage or I will jump!”

  The servant stopped and Ariston was beside us within moments. “You’re in Antioch,” he said, drawing in deep breaths from running. His face was full of wonderment.

  “Yes … I am.” My voice was barely a whisper.

  “You just left my house?” he asked, confused.

  I nodded, now completely mute.

  He shook his head, not understanding. “Then why were you running away?”

  I stared at my hands, unable to look at him. “I was afraid.… So much time.”

  “Ionna.” He took my hand. “How I have longed for this day.”

  In his eyes, I could see the same love shining that had been there before, on the day he asked me to marry him. This was Ariston, my Ariston. Time had not separated us. I still had his heart.

  * * *

  On that day in Antioch my new life began. Just as I can see you searching for your way, unsure if you should trust the future pulling at you inside, know you will walk the road ahead of you whether you are ready or not.

  You have been translating these words, trying to deny that they have been written for you—but they have, Semele. Your life and mine are entangled.

  The Chariot

  Semele stopped reading. There was no way she had gotten that right. Her eyes returned to the Greek symbols and she translated the line again.

  Her name. Ionna had written her name.

  She tried to ignore the goose bumps rising on her arms and reminded herself that the name Semele had ancient origins. Her father had picked it.

  In Greek mythology, Semele was Zeus’ lover and the mother of Dionysus. She was also the only mortal ever to be the mother of a god. But Semele was killed by Zeus shortly before giving birth, her death brought about by her own foolishness. Zeus had granted her one wish, her heart’s desire, and given his oath he would grant it no matter the consequence. Her wish was to see Zeus in all his glory; however, no mortal could look upon him without bursting into flames. Zeus was forced to keep his promise and show himself, and Semele died by fire. In the end, Zeus rescued the unborn Dionysus and sewed him into his thigh until the baby was ready to be born.

  Semele still had no idea how on earth her father had sold her mother on the name. The fact that it also appeared in Ionna’s manuscript had to be a coincidence. She sighed and continued translating.

  Your father did not choose your name. Your grandmother did—the one who severed your family tree at the time of your birth to protect you. But you must understand, Semele, that those roots remain.

  Semele jumped off the couch as if her laptop were on fire. “Holy shit!” she yelled to the empty room.

  A rush of adrenaline coursed through her as she stared at the glowing computer screen, now completely petrified.

  Did that just happen? Did a two-thousand-year-old manuscript actually talk back to her?

  She ran to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She had slept only a few hours. Maybe her exhaustion and jet lag were making her delusional. The possibility that Ionna was communicating directly with her violated every law of the universe.

  She turned off her computer without even closing the file. She had to get out of her apartment. Now. She grabbed her cell phone and called Bren. He answered on the second ring, and she could hear the happiness in his voice.

  “Hey, you.” Then he hesitated. “You’re not calling to cancel tomorrow, are you?”

  Semele laughed. Even to her ears it sounded shrill. “No, silly.” She never said “silly.” “I was calling to see if you’re busy tonight.”

  “Just waiting for my girlfriend to move in with me,” he reminded her. “Was it my message this morning?”

  Semele thought fast. Had he left Emily Dickinson on her voice mail today? She really needed to start listening to those poems.

  He began reciting it: “Wild nights—wild nights! Were I with thee—”

  She cut him off. “Definitely in the mood for one of those.”

  “Seriously?”

  He had no idea. She was teetering on the edge and would rather jump off than stay there.

  * * *

  They met at a small hole-in-the-wall in Williamsburg. The place hosted spoken-word nights, poetry slams, house parties, DJ battles, and even stand-up comedy. Bren had done a poetry reading there for his first book of poems, Duende. It had technically been their second date. He had gotten up onstage and spun words with a vulnerability that had made her dizzy. Afterward they cuddled on busted leather couches drinking tequila and beer and danced until three in the morning. The whole night had been her best date in years and cemented the start of their relationship.

  Semele never confessed to Bren that she’d had to look up “duende.” The word had many meanings: magic, spirit, and the passion that roused creativity. The next day she bought the book and spent the rest of the weekend reading each poem several times. Bren was publishing a new collection this year called Soaked in Bourbon and Lit on Fire—in honor of her, he teased. She had to admit that sounded more up her alley.

  Tonight, the club seemed like the perfect place to go.

  Bren was tongue-tied when she walked through the door. She was wearing her sexiest dress, a little black number with burnished red piping that made her feel like the star of her own burlesque show. The dress molded to her body, exaggerated every curve, and showed more leg than anything else she owned. Her hair gleamed like obsidian and curved into a wink right at her jawline. The total effect of the red lipstick, thick mascara, and eyeliner made her look exactly like she felt—dangerous.

  She surprised Bren with a long kiss and led him to the bar, where she ordered them both martinis. She planned to have several.

  Bren leaned closer to her. “Hi, I’m supposed to be meeting my girlfriend here tonight. You look a lot like her,” he said, raising his voice over the music.

  “I get that a lot.” She clinked his glass.

  “Hard day at work?”

  “You have no idea.” She pulled him onto the dance floor.

  The music pulsed, compelling her body to move. She lost herself in the rhythm, dancing to song after song. She kept flitting to the bar for drinks, hoping to catch a buzz, to turn off her thoughts—anything not to think—but she couldn’t get drunk tonight no matter how hard she tried.

  Her mind was sharp, on edge, and her thoughts amplified. Seeing her name in the manuscript had completely derailed her. And for a split second, she’d really felt Ionna reaching out to her.

  Did that make her crazy?

  She went to order another martini and couldn’t help thinking that she resembled her mother tonight. Helen could outdrink anyone at a party.

  “Sure you want another?” Bren asked.

  Semele laughed and shook her head. She grabbed his hand and they abandoned the bar. They took a cab back to her place, kissing in the backseat like teenagers, their arms like pretzels around each other.

  Bren whispered, “Sem, you’re driving me crazy.”

  “Good.” When they arrived at her apartment, she led him inside and up the stairs. They were already pulling at each other’s clothes before they had even closed the door.

  They made love for the first time since she’d been back. Semele moved like liquid as she straddled him, kissing him deeper, possessively. Her body took over, forcing her mind to shut off.

  The desire inside her spiraled, bringing forth thoughts—an inner knowledge—she had secretly suppressed. She stared into Bren’s eyes, unable to look away.

  Like a window opening, she saw glimpses of his future, a string of moments, his life in montage. Never had she experienced anything like this before.

  She saw two boys that looked like miniature versions of him running across the park and squealing as he chased them.

  Other images flashed by her in a flurry of time.

  She saw Bren’s future was filled with love—those beautiful boy
s—and a wife who wasn’t her.

  My abilities blossomed after Ariston and I married. No one but he knew I was a seer.

  I did not need to claim fame or glory. I continued to cast the Oracle’s symbols in the privacy of my rooms, where life settled in around me. I began to see how a day’s events would play out. I could tell Ariston what patients he would see that day and what ailed them. But still I could not see how to protect Wadjet’s symbols through time. I feared I would fail her.

  After a year of daily training I could stretch my mind’s eye as far as a week, and after two years I could see one month into the future.

  That is when I saw what I needed to do.

  I will admit I was nervous, but it was finally time to delve into the world of dreaming. I wasn’t sure how to tell Ariston of my intent, so I waited until after we had made love the next night. I shared my plan while we lay in each other’s arms.

  “You want to go on a dream quest at Mount Starius?” He looked at me as if I had transformed into Medusa with snakes for my hair. “Now?”

  I nodded and waited for his full displeasure. The idea was mad, I knew. Last month I had discovered I was with child; after nearly two years of marriage we had finally conceived. Going on a journey was the last thing I should be doing.

  “It’s not far.” I tried to assure him. “You can come with me.”

  “Of course I’ll come with you!” he all but shouted. “I’m not about to let my pregnant wife go traipsing around the mountainside alone like some Gilgamesh!”

  I laughed. “I wouldn’t be traipsing.”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “Mount Starius lies right outside the city. It’s not far!” My voice rose to meet his and I tried to calm down. We were both sitting up, glaring at each other.

  “Why Mount Starius? Why not go to the temple of Apollo, where we can pay for a tent?”

  “I don’t want a tent. I want a cave.”

  “What in heaven’s name is wrong with a tent?”

  “Because I need to be alone and not have all of Daphne outside.”

  I had read about Mount Starius in my research. In antiquity it was considered a sacred place, its hidden caves used for dream questing for over a thousand years. And I had already seen us there. Twice I had dreamed about the cave, first in the book depository and again just the night before. Finally the dream made sense.

  “Ariston, I must go. I’ve foreseen it.”

  “So everything you foresee you must blindly trust and follow?” he asked, exasperated.

  I took his hands and tried to help him understand. “I have not yet solved the Oracle’s riddle. She said that when I am with child, I will understand what I need to do to accomplish what she has asked of me. My fear of failing her casts a gloom over my happiness. Even with you. But I have seen a clear path to that cave. I know I will find answers there. Now is the time.”

  Ariston grew still and stared at me. I could see I was reaching him.

  “I must go this month. You, of all people, know I did not ask for this gift. It is my burden and I need you to help me. At Mount Starius I will understand what to do.”

  “But why now?” he beseeched. “You have your whole life to discover the answer.”

  “I cannot control what I see any more than I can control time. Please help me.” I kissed his hand. A shadow passed over his face and he looked as if he was going to object again, but I reminded him, “You were tasked to help me.” Wadjet had not called him out by name but she had called upon my husband to aid me.

  His expression softened and he kissed the tip of my nose. “I’m the one who translated it, remember?” he teased. But I could tell I had won.

  * * *

  We departed a week later, explaining to his family that we were going on a pilgrimage to pray for the baby’s birth.

  When I told Aella and Illias of our trip, of course they wanted to come with us. Aella said she would bring the servants and her cosmetae. I dissuaded her and promised we would be back soon. But my heart was touched by the gesture. Even after my marriage to Ariston, Aella and Illias continued to watch over me and dote on me like a daughter.

  At Mount Starius I found the isolated cave I had dreamed of, and we made camp outside its opening. It felt strange arriving at the present from a future I had already foreseen.

  Ariston wrapped a blanket around me, enveloping me in its warmth. “May the answers find you,” he said. “Dream well.”

  Then he kissed me with such tenderness, as if I were leaving for a faraway journey. I knew it wasn’t possible to love him more.

  “Thank you,” I said. He saw the lines of concern etched upon my face.

  “Do not worry,” he said softly. “Whatever you see, we will face together.”

  I looked up into his eyes in surprise. He too understood the gravity of my mission and had the same fear I did—that I would be forever altered by what I saw. I kissed him again, and steeled my courage.

  * * *

  When I entered the cave, the darkness greeted me with heavy silence.

  I took off my sandals and walked forward, feeling answers waiting for me beneath the sleeping stones. I spread out my pallet, lit a candle, and settled in to dream.

  As I lay there, never had I been more aware of time and all its trappings. Every small working of my body—thirst, hunger, physical discomfort—railed against me. Dreaming with purpose meant leaving the briars of daily life and entering the fallow lands of the mind. Dream questing is a Herculean task.

  My time in the cave was the most difficult of my life.

  For the first day I thought only of water, swallowing the dry air until my throat ached. By the second day my stomach clenched and clawed for food, and by the third my skin itched everywhere as my limbs twitched from their desire to move. I was hot and cold all at once; my body had become a stranger. I wanted nothing more than to end my suffering as I drifted in and out of consciousness. But I could not.

  To divine is to imagine the world rightly, to see past the illusion that we are separate from the entire fabric of reality. Here I was attempting to have a waking dream of the future—all because an ancient oracle had seen me do so. The only problem was I had no idea how to accomplish such a feat. In all my research, I had read how to quiet the mind, to still the body, and to banish all doubt so the dream would come. But beyond that was a mystery. Waking dreams are not the usual dreams of sleep, but something far more potent.

  I floated in a temporal realm for days, until the silence, the waiting, no longer existed. Then, without warning, the string of my thoughts snapped like a severed thread and my mind opened.

  With incredible clarity, I saw the Oracle’s symbols pass from hand to hand as they traveled through the future, and I saw those hands as one unbroken chain: those hands became my own, those stories became my story, and it is this tale that I will share with you now.

  As you read my account of the future, you will ask how I came to know it. The best explanation I can offer is that time and memory go hand in hand. Without our memories, time would not exist. What we perceive as the world is really memory in motion. The visions I had in the cave were memories yet to happen. And any memory that has yet to happen is a prophecy.

  But prophecies can be dangerous. The greatest prophecies have been hunted by kings and coveted for their power to bestow knowledge that does not yet exist. I won’t deny I feared what would happen if I were to commit my vision to paper, and I did not do so after we returned home. Instead, I waited.

  When I emerged from the cave after seven days, Ariston rose to his feet, visibly relieved. He could tell I was altered, but he did not ask what I had seen. There was so much I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t yet. The knowledge I now possessed was too great. In that moment I didn’t know if I could ever share what I had seen. So we simply embraced and he took me home.

  For several days I lived in a daze; everyone thought I was fatigued from our travels. Aella came to our home to care for me and ordered m
e to rest, barely letting me out of bed.

  One day, after I’d begun to recover, I took out my father’s parchment and reed pen from Alexandria. I now understood why I had brought them with me. The time had come to use them.

  I began to write with the greatest speed, committing my words to paper as though my pen were flying on the wings of Nike, for I have foreseen that I will not survive my child’s birth.

  King of Cups

  Semele clicked back to the previous page and double-checked the time line. On one page Ionna made a shocking revelation, that she would die in childbirth, and on the next she wrote of a couple journeying through the Zagros Mountains to Gundeshapur, a city founded several hundred years after Ionna’s lifetime.

  Semele frowned. She must have made a mistake when she was photographing the manuscript—or worse, several pages were missing.

  “Hey, you’re up early,” Bren said from the doorway.

  Ignoring the crisis on her computer screen, she turned to him and tried not to look as frustrated as she felt. She didn’t want to deal with reality right now.

  He leaned over and gave her a lingering kiss. “Working?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” She gently pulled away. “I’ve got to have this finished before…” She trailed off.

  Before what? As of yesterday she wasn’t even handling the Bossard Collection. So why did this matter? Technically it shouldn’t, but she wanted to know the rest of Ionna’s story—she needed to know why her name was in the manuscript. Deep down she knew this wasn’t a coincidence. And that was what bothered her the most.

  Bren sat next to her on the couch wearing only his jeans. “Sem, last night was wicked.” He took her hand.

  Semele avoided his eyes. Last night had been wicked. She had been the one at the cauldron and she had conjured up an image she wished she hadn’t seen.

  She woke early that morning to find Bren asleep beside her, his leg and arm across her body like a barricade—as if even in sleep he knew the realization she had come to. The clarity of her vision last night had stunned her by showing her what was already in her heart. It felt like turning around and looking into a mirror, already knowing what she would see.