Hexed
“I’m hexed,” John remarked as he stood and stared and the several fish floating at the top of the tank.
“For love of God, shut up! You are not hexed!” his roommate replied.
“I am too. How else would you explain this?”
“Um, you’re an idiot?”
John glared at Patrick with contempt. He was hexed. He knew it. Knew it in his bones. Patrick simply rolled his eyes, walked over to the wall outlet, and plugged in the fish tank filter than John had unplugged when he used the outlet to run the vacuum cleaner the night before. The tank bubbled to life. Patrick raised his eyebrows as if to say “see? You’re an idiot,” and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. John examined the dead floaters in the fish tank, let out a disdainful sigh, and scooped Rose, Dorothy and Blanche from the murky water and sent them off to fish heaven, otherwise known as the hallway toilet. Sofia
“I am too hexed,” John mumbled under his breath as he joined Patrick in the kitchen. He sat at the counter and took a sip from the coffe mug Patrick had filled for him. Patrick ignored him. They were sitting there silently, sipping their coffee and reading the newspaper, when something caught John’s eye. Checking the calendar, he confirmed that today’s date was indeed the same that he had just read. Suddenly, he grinned. Without saying a word, he leaped from his kitchen stool and went down the hall to take a quick shower and dress. Before Patrick had taken the last spoonful of his Frosted Mini-Wheats, John was out the door and gone. Curious as to what had sent him on his way, Patrick reached across the counter and grabbed the section of the paper that John had been reading. He immediately understood what John was doing, and smacked his forehead with his palm. The advertisement ready, in bold and all caps, “PSYCHIC FAIR TODAY! 9-4, CONVENTION CENTER.”
John was giddy. “I’ll prove it. I’ll prove I’m hexed,” he stammered to himself. Admittedly, John had hit a run of bad luck: He had been rear-ended by an uninsured driver, two days after he had forgotten to pay his on insurance and caused it to lapse; his office had recently both downsized and dropped him to part-time status, nearly halving his salary; some punk stole his iPhone right off of the table at the mall food court; and to top it off; his best friend of nearly twenty years cut John out of his life because, as he explained, he had secretly been harboring feelings for John and it was too painful to remain his friend if they couldn’t be together.
John had something to prove. Something, some hidden, unseen force was driving his life in the wrong direction, and come hell or high water he was going to figure it out. It had only taken him fifteen minutes to walk from his downtown apartment to the convention center, though the journey was expedited by the January cold. He quickly paid his ten dollar admission, strolled through gate, and gasped.
The entire floor of the convention center was filled with booths and cubicles and displays. Immediately catching his eye was a Wiccan display, with symbols, trinkets, and icons for sale. The woman behind the table was stereotypically “Goth,” wearing all black clothing, dark eyeliner, and showing tattoos of Wiccan symbols across her neck. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, but she was not who he had come to see. No, he was there to see Lady Abigail.
Lady Abigail took pride in describing herself as an old gypsy woman with “the power to foresee, foretell, forebode.” At least that’s what the advertisement had said. John paid no heed to the fact that each of those words meant the same exact thing. It was that part about her “inner eye” that could “see into one’s soul” that drove his curiosity. For forty bucks, he was willing to take a shot.
Lady Abigail’s booth was little more that a 10’x10’ pop-up canopy covered with lavish, red drapes. The curtain that concealed the interior was drawn back and John could just get a peak inside. It was every bit as clichéd as he thought it would be, right down to the small, well worn table adorned with what he assumed was a crystal ball covered in a silken cloth. Lady Abigail herself was no less of a cliché, with her flowing robe, bandanna about her head, and large, hoop earrings. John didn’t care. He was desperate for answers, and it certainly couldn’t hurt.
John stood in line waiting his turn. There were four people ahead of him, and each “session” lasted anywhere from ten to twenty minutes. He didn’t mind the wait. It was Saturday and he had nothing to do, anyway. Looking down to respond to the text message that Patrick had just sent, which read, simply, “idiot,” John didn’t notice Lady Abigail emerge. Her gaze immediately fell upon him.
“You,” she said, pointing a craggy looking finger in his direction. “You, you come. You come and sit.”
John looked around with confusion, pointed to himself and answered “Who? Me?”
“Yes, yes! Come! You come!” The old woman replied excitedly. Ashamedly, John tried to ignore the angry stares as he walked by those waiting before him and entered the gypsy woman’s lair. She closed the curtains tightly behind them, casting the small area in momentary darkness. When John’s eyes adjusted, he could see that the room was illuminated by a string of red Christmas lights affixed to the frame of the canopy.
“Come! Sit!” she bade him, pointing to the small chair opposite hers. “I knew you’d come.”
“How?” John asked nervously. Suddenly overcome with apprehension, he began to wonder if this was a good idea after all.
“I have seen you, John of the Swords,” she answered cryptically before placing a Tarot card on the table. It was the Three of Swords, the symbol of strife.
“How do you know my name?” John asked incredulously. Lady Abigail grinned, then cackled. John leaned in and listened intently. He was hooked.
“You are full of turmoil, John of the Swords. You have come seeking answers, and resolution.”
“Yes, I have,” John answered, almost involuntarily.
“Answers, I have for you. Look here,” she instructed as she pulled the silk scarf from the crystal ball. “Look closely.”
John stared at the ball, and saw nothing. Sensing his anxiety, Lady Abigail directed him to look closer, and reached across the table and took John’s hands. They leaned in together and gazed into the crystal ball. Suddenly, a dark cloud began to swirl in the crystal, and John could feel his hands grow warmer, and then unbearably hot, in Lady Abigail’s grasp. Her eyes grew wide and she jumped back in horror.
“You! You are the one!” She exclaimed as she turned her back and set about rummaging through a small chest that had sat behind her. All the while she kept muttering “the minion. He is the minion.”
“What are to talking about?” John asked, full of fear now. As quickly as she had left the table, she returned. In her hand she had a small, worn leather pouch, a little smaller than the size of a man’s wallet. She thrust it into John’s grasp and closed his hands tightly around it.
“Minion, you must take this. Take this to him and fulfill your destiny!”
John was thoroughly confused now. “Take what? To who? What are you talking about?” he asked frantically. Lady Abigail ignored his pleas, hurriedly rose, grabbed his arm and escorted him from the tent.
“You must go, go now! Take it to him! He is waiting!” She was literally shoving him out through the curtains and he nearly tripped and fell as she did so.
“Wait! What are you talking about?” he called. Lady Abigail simply touched her gnarled right index finger to her nose, nodded, and pulled the curtain closed.
John glanced down at the small leather satchel in his hands, confused. Almost without thinking, he left the convention center, found the nearest bench and sat down. It was really too cold to be stopping, but he didn’t notice. He undid the tie that held the package closed and unfolded the leather. Inside was a large, gold coin. On one side were three crossed swords with words, which he could not decipher, inscribed around the circumference of the coin. Had he looked a little closer, he would have quickly determined that the words were simply printed backwards. On its flip side, the coin displayed a human skull. Encrusted in the skull’s eye sockets were what appeared to be two tiny, sparkiling rubies.
“Wow,” he exclaimed as he turned the coin over and over and pondered the old woman’s words. “Take this to him and fulfill your destiny,” she had told him. The only problem was that he had no idea who “him” was. With a sigh, he closed his right hand around the coin and looked to the sky, as if it would have any answers for him. Suddenly, a bursting pain erupted in the palm of his hand and dissipated as quickly as it had come. “Ouch!” John exclaimed as he opened his hand. What he saw when hid did made him woozy.
Lifting the coin with the fingers of his left hand allowed him to examine the palm of his right. Almost as if he had been branded, his palm bore the exact, mirror image of the coin burned into his flesh. There was no blistering, no linger pain, but the raised image remained just the same. Now able to read the words that encircled the coin, John felt more confused than ever. The middle sword pointed perfectly in line with his middle finger, and the words read “Follow the Swords. Destiny lies in the Tier.”
“What have I gotten myself into?” John asked aloud, his voice full of both intrigue, and regret.
© J.J. Goodman 2013. All rights reserved.