Could it be the truth or is it something to ignore? A revelation given by oracle, whose palm was crossed with silver, is worth only that silver and not a human life, she is certain. It must be a fiendish plot against her but for what reason if what was said is not the absolute truth? His eyes do cry real tears and wisdom lines can be seen plainly creasing the cheek from eye to mouth, a mouth that has mimed only apologies and disbeliefs. A human mouth no doubt, hiding not fang or forked tongue but stained teeth and bleeding gums.
“Damn it”, cries Anne, “and damn you.” She lingers for a breath and another, taking time to cross the chamber to a water jar with no more than the threat of drinking.
“How, did you say, would it happen? Answer me quickly.”
“On your way home from here” begins he with a grand sigh, “in your car as you fidget with a dial.”
“Dare he be correct?” thought Anne. “Dare he know my frequently restless ways behind the wheel?” Her boyfriend even has commented on this, usually as she drives, aggravating her twitchy style to a state that precludes a reason to exist and yet continues to.
“When on the mobile”, he noted, “you serve. When applying moisturiser or lipstick, you ignore the road for the rear-view mirror. You rarely signal and you tailgate. Honestly speaking, if you’d have it, I’m afraid to be in the car with you.”
The mystic stands and is shorter than Anne due to extended age and prominent hump. He indulges in the water with small sips at first followed by large gulps only to finish every trickle with a smack of his broken lips. She becomes dry-tongued as their eyes meet under rains rattle.
“I have seen it and it will be so. Nothing will change except perhaps with the intervention of a devil or a god. But deal not with such uncertainties.”
Anne considers the moment through the fluidic ether of final reminiscences with gentle hand waves and a gesture signifying an inherent earthliness or oneness with all. She spins on her heel, her knees becoming entangled with the hem of her skirt and she relaxes into herself the recognition of a life without mistakes and regrets but with instead ephemeral moments only captured in their fullness by the human heart and memories, not by words or pictures.
“If”, motions the soothsayer, “you would like to call someone, a phone rests over there.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
No more cries or sighs or starving little boys.
After a click and a fumbled euro coin, the tired voice of a human male vibrates the ear of life-sick Anne. All she can say is: “We are just pedestrians always wishing to be in the driving seat. It becomes a monotone passion until the sidewalk runs out and you finally have to cross the road.”
Even as she hangs up it does not appear that what she said was nonsense. To her it is all truth and everything without exception or lacking even minor significance. So when she is placed into her hatchback, under the drooping eye of the soothsayer, she feels accomplished in having another human hear what it is which endears atoms together and DNA strands to form solid and human lips to lock.
“I will take my time. To rush death would be a mistake.”
Through roundabouts and town centres, around blind corners and over bridges cascading one into the other like the fractured spine of the clairvoyant, Anne shuttles home in a sustained trance. How could life have worried her so much when in deaths eye there is only bliss?
The fur of a distant mongrel, making moves against rushing vehicles, seems to enliven the fingertips with tingling mixtures of clotted hair and dirt and scabbed flesh. A tree throwing its branches over the road, its leaves cutting the air on way to tarmac, smells heady and alive. The clouds taste of yesterday and tomorrow, sweeping across the sky like the creators expert brushstroke. One only has to exist in order to understand totally the ways of objects seemingly exclusive but in fact alive with the same basic materials. But one rarely exists in such a state, choosing instead to speed through time fixating on haves and have-nots until the footpath ends and the road has to be crossed.
It is this way Anne exists in her final moments. A life lived just in the remaining pulls and pushes. But she shows no remorse for it. Not even to God.