The Equestrian

I’d always known there was something wrong with Mr. Webber. It was his manner, the way he carried himself, a bit bow-legged, you know, from years of riding… but more so in his eyes, a subtle gleam that only someone with skills like mine would notice. It was in those eyes that I sensed rebellion, a strong-willed determination to break away from the constraints of mere racing and jumping. Mr. Webber, we all knew, wanted more. And it was only a matter of time until he got his way. The summer of 1986 was sleepy in the town of Northridge, the streets a sponge soaked with the same apathy as the United States. In our classrooms and offices could be felt the resonance of mutual resignation to whatever fate might befall us, a widespread belief that those in power must know what is best. I was a child then, and my parents, whom you know, had already left for their annual trek across Europe. I suppose fourteen was old enough to stay home alone, but I tell you now even then I was terribly frightened of the house at night. You have heard the stories, and they are all true. And on the evening of June 23, 1986, I first saw the face of Lucky.

You know what took place next, you were there, and since your interest lies in what has happened since, at this point I’d like to take you forward nine years to the moment I met Madam Futura. I had for days been ravenously craving something chocolate, and had, by means unnecessary to relate, found myself in a small bakery on East Pinewood St. There, as I hungrily eyed the éclairs, a woman entered and spoke to the man behind the counter: "Are you the only one working here today? Is the manager here?"

"No," replied the man. "I’m the only one here."

"Oh. I’ve done this before… I’m a psychic reader, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in having a psychic reading in exchange for a muffin."

The man seemed to pause a moment before responding, "Um… probably, but I can’t just hand you the muffin. I’d need to ring it up."

"So you can’t do it?" she asked.

"No."

"Okay. Thanks." And she began to walk away.

Now, I’m not quite sure what prompted me to act so quickly and so without forethought, but I immediately stood from my crouch beside the dessert case and said "Wait," to which the woman turned, looked at me, and I continued, "If you give me a reading I’ll buy you a muffin."

She smiled at me and without hesitation said, "Okay."

At a small table by the window we sat, and on its surface I placed my upturned hand, to which she said, "Oh, no, I’m not a palm reader," and I retracted my fist, somewhat embarrassed. "Look at me," she ordered. So I did. It seemed for several minutes that we sat there, eyes locked, before she spoke, "What do you want to know?"

"Well, wait," I said. "How does this work? I just ask you ‘Am I going to marry Kathryn,’ and you tell me yes or no?"

"Sort of."

"Is it really that precise? How far ahead can you see?"

"Pretty far. I can tell you how you’ll die."

I found I had begun to rethink my decision. "I don’t know about this… doesn’t part of the fun of life come from not knowing what will happen next?"