witch2

8/13/2019 Witch2

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Witch

I always worried that a part of me would die in a place where no one could hear me. I had often seen that

place in the movies; a desolate street ringing with silent white noise that churns in your guts and turns

your shallow breaths into cold steam. The darkness clutches at you from all sides and muted street sentry

lamps hover overhead, waiting with quiet expectation. Suddenly I’m caught by unseen hands and dragged

into a back alley, my mutinous jacket collaborating with the attacker, pinning my flailing arms and sapping

my resolve to resist.

“Everything’s gonna be okay”.

That was it. That was the ticket out. The end of everything foretold in the movies was always okay

because you got to stand and stretch and walk out of the theatre. You got to choose which character to

live through, which inspiring memory to hold on to, which savagery to forget.

But wait, that wasn’t my desperate hope. That didn’t come from me. That was what he whispered just

before I heard the gurgling noise in my throat, just before I felt his crushing fingers and steel resolve

melding neck bones and cartilage to his vile design. Expert thumbs drove into my Adam’s apple forcingmy head to follow spine in a victory arch as the gathering darkness pressed closer, clouding my vision.

Spasms of nasal whimpers for mercy floated about my head like a fog as the shadows swept over me and

I tumbled thankfully away from that cold struggle into a warm safe place to rest and sleep.

Now I work at a carnival; a carnie with a tiny bit more status than a barker or freak. They call me “Miss

Durray” on account of the mysterious service I provide paying customers through readings of cards, palms

and crystal balls. It pays the bills and my reputation hasn’t yet flagged among the securely curious, the

pathetic hypochondriacs and the desperate sad sacks. Perhaps this is a refuge for healing or just an

obsession with wanting to know what the future holds for me. Whatever the reason, I had searched high

and low for mentors in my travels among the squalid tent cities, the circuses and the drifting panhandlers.

I had learned the art of whole body reading that starts with the quick visual assessment followed by deft

verbal cues and carefully choreographed eye contact. The trick is to maintain a gentle patter of personal

questions while engaging the guest’s eyes with earnest scrutiny, playful sorties, mocking glances and

challenging glares all designed to judge their reactions, to reveal their hidden vulnerabilities and secret

expectations. The art of a reading was to find these hopes and dreams in the cryptic card symbols, palm

creases and smoky spherical visions.

I drummed a lazy tattoo with leaden fingers, watching their jewelled collars sparkle in the soft light from

the chandelier whose pearl shaped crystals twinkled like a droopy dew laden spider’s web sprawled out

above me. It is comfortable here in my cavern; a sanctuary where I am most at ease, at least in the

evening when I can hear the festive hustle and bustle seeping through the muffling blankets strung along

my walls like the dark sails on a ghost ship. I, the mysterious and grand nocturnal gypsy cannot bear the

brilliant scrutiny of daylight; will scurry among the fleeting shadows trying not to look too closely at theappalling clarity of the world outside. Suddenly, as if to test my love of that soft earthly twilight, a shrill

cue from the barker’s megaphone startled my hand and knocked the crystal ball to the floor where it

shattered in all directions. I froze, listening to the crashing echoes of lost visions, and then the door

opened.

“Are you M’miss Durray?” asked the stranger with a sort of audible skip that I imagined a clown might

perform in bare feet over the broken glass scattered around me.

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“Yes, do come closer” I said inclining my head, which caused tufts of hair to escape my tilted cap and

sweep across his dark image above me. I leant forward to pick-up the shards when his warm hand moved

quite unexpectedly touching my bare arm ever so lightly.

“Are you in pain?” he inquired in a caring tone, rich with texture that deepened as it cascaded down and

mingled with the sparkling crystals adrift among the threads of the red velvet rug.

“Do I look like I’m in pain?” I snapped now quite off balance and embarrassed in manner and tone.

“With all due respect Miss, you are kneeling on broken glass. I meant no offence.” He replied with

concern still tinging his tone.

A chill descended from the hollow in my cheeks, swam through my gut and clambered over my legs. I

was losing the inquisitor’s advantage with every unrequested sentiment he professed yet I felt no

aggression in it; he seemed to be protecting my role in this encounter. Why else did he not laugh or say

nought if his visit was lacking genuine need? Time and motion thankfully slowed with this understanding

allowing me to calmly step back and assess the situation. I scanned my sleeves and dress for clingingshards then motioned toward our respective chairs with a whimsical wave, hoping to defuse the tension.

With a purposeful grace and economy of motion he sidled into his, simultaneously laying both hands flat

on the table like a sphinx. I stared as his head systematically pivoted about the room like an efficient

dusting machine taking care to examine every surface without prejudice. I leaned into the table’s edge

with my sternum, listening for an answer to slow my heart’s hurried rhythm as I waited for his surveillance

to end. I don’t know why I was struck dumb – mired with indecision; I had done this a thousand times

before. I didn’t know why then, but when I asked him to hold out his hand, he gave me both.

“Is there a problem?” he inquired. Lines began to form like little ripples along his forehead as curious

eyebrows slowly arched in unison. I quickly relaxed my stiffened shoulders and lifted my startled gaze

from his expectant hands to confront the questioning eyes.

“Yes.” My hands resting still in my lap began to sweat. I wasn’t sure if what I said was true, could barely

recognize my own voice over the silent white noise hissing from all corners of the room.

“Can you tell me what it is, exactly?”

“For what purpose do you want to know your fortune?” I countered with indignant desperation.

As though closing a book, he lowered his hands, laced his fingers and with a faint smirk, asked “How

much do you want?”

With relief I pointed vaguely toward the door behind him and he followed with his eyes, eventually

pivoting to read the sign out loud, “Miss Durray’s Readings: Tarot: three coupons, Palm: five coupons and

Crystal Ball: seven coupons.”

Having recovered my composure with this pedestrian line of questioning I explained, “You’ll have to

inquire at the ticket booth outside, the coupon price varies sometimes, depending on how we’re doing.”

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“I was hoping for answers; I don’t need to know the price; that won’t be an issue. May I have a tarot card

reading please?” His lips pursed slightly as he tucked his chin down on his collar.

“May I ask why you are wearing a suit at a carnival?” The question was entirely innocent and intended to

put him off balance. I extracted the deck from a drawer under the table began to shuffle the tarot cards

quietly behind my back.

“Are you serious? How is that relevant? Do you need that sort of information for the cards?” His last

objection intoned faintly with submissive acceptance.

witch2

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