The Oracle – Marriage Guidance

Somewhere high in some mountains near you lives the Oracle…

“What do they call you, boy?”
“Watson,” he whispered.
The oracle stared at him for a couple of seconds before breaking into the wheezing laugh that all but robbed her of breath. When she recovered somewhat she waved a grimy hand.
“Elementary my dear Watson.”
Then she was off again, laughing out loud at his evident discomfort. Even her fat orange cat seemed to find him amusing enough to stare at him from its mismatched eyes. She wiped her streaming eyes on a sleeve.
“What were we talking about? Oh. Yeah. How come I’m still here?”
He nodded and waited patiently whilst she adjusted her time frame and thought back.
“Originally it was a three-month gig while the proper oracle had a bit of a rest. But she never came back. And I wasn’t doing too badly, particularly once I got the knack of rolling my eyes back in my head. The folks who own the mountain came to see me, mouthing some crap about doing me the favour of letting me stay on. I pretended innocent stupidity. When they were gone I talked to the owners of a mountain in the next state, who would have loved to get themselves an established oracle.”
She sniggered as if at a particularly diverting memory, and scratched at something in her armpit.
Before she could continue, the bell that announced a visitor pinged. Watson made himself scarce, sitting just inside the cave from whose darkness he could observe whilst remaining unobserved.
The man who scrambled up the last few feet of the path was overweight and sweating profusely. He knelt in the dust and gravel in front of the oracle’s grimy slippers and bowed his head.
“Who comes to beg the guidance of the mountain?”
He lifted his face and it was evident from his scowl that he didn’t much care for the idea of begging. At first, he said nothing and the oracle waited in a silence that grew heavier by the second.
In the end it was the supplicant whose nerve broke.
“It’s a simple thing, really, but the uneducated fool who I would honour insists that he will only abide by the word of the mountain…”
“Say on, little man.”
He puffed out his chest in an effort to look large and important, then his face paled.
Watson would have been willing to bet rather a lot of money that the old bag had rolled her eyes back in her head. Then she began to speak.
“Return from whence you came. The woman is not for you. You have a wife and three fine sons. That is enough for any man.”
He reddened and for a nanosecond it seemed as if he might attack the oracle. Watson now understood the sawn-off shotgun that reposed among her tattered skirts.
The man pulled himself back from rage and spoke whiningly. “The angel of God tells us that a man may have as many wives as he can support.”
The oracle cackled. “That’s as maybe but the legal law says no.” Then her voice changed again, moving into the singsong reaches of prophecy. “A young wife would be thy death warrant, thou hast not the health for such. Return home to the woman whose care for thee is both tender and kindly. Stray not from her love lest such cost thee thy life.”
The fat man lost all his colour, being pale as milk now.
“Are you sure?” he quavered.
The oracle dropped her prophetic tones and spoke quite normally.
“I’m sure that whatever the spirit of the mountain told you is no less than the whole truth.”
“Whatever? Don’t you know what you just said?”
She leaned forward and a small river of dust ran out of her clothing.
“I have no idea what I said. I’m just a vessel for the prophecy.”
The fat man bowed three times and scrambled backwards out of the presence.
The oracle turned to face the cave and smiled a raptor’s smile.
“Thank goodness for Facebook”, she said mildly before falling abruptly into sleep.

The Oracle foresees she will return next week…

Jane Jago