The Mystic

We push on through spongy fields of sodden logs and lichenous rocks. A thick, low-hanging fog clings to us; even the afternoon sun struggles to light our way. Just as we decide to quicken our pace, the fog quickens its own, growing thick and cloying. Soon we see little but our hands in front of us.

A blanched light glimmers somewhere overhead — the sun, perhaps? Except, through the pale curtain of mist, it seems more the work of the moon. As if in answer to our thoughts, a hoarse voice calls out ahead of us. "There we are! Much more agreeable.”

We see, before us, a woman sat before a fortune-teller's table. From the bone rings on her fingers and the jingling beads of her veil, she seems to be some sort of clairvoyant. In her hands, she clasps a deck of cards, two of which she now lays before us. One card depicts a moon — a blood moon, sanguine on a field of black. The other depicts a sun, blazing blue and bright.

The clairvoyant gestures to the cards. “Make your choice.”