Inside the sibyl’s tent,

dozens of candles are aglow,

their flickering light

trembling

in the vast darkness of the small tent

like wind

trapped in the branches of a tree.

Danide shivers in fear

as he looks up into

the eyes of the old seeress —

one is a faded,

exhausted blue,

and the other

a greenish, pupil-less gray.

“Give me your hand,

young slave,”

the sibyl says.

Her own hands are decrepit,

more bone than flesh,

and her skin

is impossibly cold.

“Ah,” the sibyl says,

as she traces the lines on his palms,

“You have a long life

ahead of you, child.

You should thank

the Great Father.”

She is quiet for a moment,

contemplating something

she sees.

She sighs,

and then lets go of his hands.

Her cold touch

lingers in his skin.

The old sibyl lifts a cloth

from the center of the table.

Underneath

is a grapefruit-sized crystal ball,

murky with purple color.

“Are you going to tell my future?”

Danide asks.

“The crystal does not reveal

the future,”

the seeress answers.

“It reveals your soul.”

She snickers to herself.

“Which,

I suppose,

is the same thing.”

Danide clutches his hands together

underneath

the table.

His shoulders shiver,

and his legs are nervous.

“Look deep into the ball,”

the sibyl says,

her eyes commanding him.

Danide looks into the ball.

Its color swirls,

dispensing inky clouds

that struggle at the boundaries

of the crystal.

The violet color deepens,

and darkens,

until it melts

into a warm brown hue.

Danide is swallowed by

the earthy color;

the darkness of the tent around him,

the creepy sibyl,

disappear.

The brown color

is deeper

than the deepest sea,

more vast

than a thousand night skies.

The color becomes

more nuanced and rich,

and he realizes

it is staring back at him,

as curious as he is,

there is something,

someone,

inside.

Danide’s legs

stand upon vertiginous wind.

He recognizes this color now,

it is unique in the Omniverse,

yes, he knows,

a black circle comes into focus

more familiar

than his own skin.

The truth becomes clear —

he is staring into a pair of eyes.

His own eyes.

“Who are you?”

Danide asks his eyes.

They do not answer.

They just continue

to stare into him,

searching.

The eyes pull back,

he sees a face,

it is his face,

but old,

so old,

painted in makeup,

sad lines

around the lips,

deep crevasses

around the eyes.

The face smiles

in compassion,

and Danide smiles back,

but he sees something else,

a sadness,

a broken spirit.

A tear

falls out of Danide’s eye

as a tear

falls out of the eye

of his older self.

The face in front of him —

so familiar,

yet so alien —

begins to open its lips,

the mouth begins to speak,

but Danide

finds himself falling,

and what his old self says

is lost in the wind.

Danide finds himself

back in the darkness of the tent,

the ghoulish countenance

of the seeress

staring down at him

with disinterest.

His breath catches,

and his heart trembles

as reality

places its mask

back on.

“Ah,” the sibyl says,

“So you see.”

He says nothing.

Goosebumps race up his arms

and a drop of sweat

drips down his spine.

“You don’t have to speak,” she says,

feigning kindness.

“I report everything to Shovid.”

Danide takes a deep breath.

The oxygen calms him,

and he looks into the sibyl’s eyes.

“Was that true?”

he asks her.

“As true as anything can be,”

she answers, ponderously.

She studies him for a moment,

and then speaks —

“You are very meek, slave.

That will serve you well.”

Torik, a boy Danide’s own age

and the one friend Danide has made

in his week at the slave facility,

is waiting for him

outside the sibyl’s tent.

“How did it go?” Torik asks.

Danide can still feel sorrow

in his face.

He looks into his friend’s eyes —

they are brown, like his own,

but Torik’s are flecked

with a subtle gold color.

“You are speechless?” Torik asks.

“Was it that bad?”

Danide nods at his friend,

and tears fall from his eyes

as a great emptiness

fills his chest.

Torik embraces him,

and Danide presses his

tear-covered face

into the soft shoulder

of Torik’s tunic.

His body convulses in emotion.

“Oh Great Father!” Tanide murmurs.

“I have to go tomorrow night.”

Danide clutches his friend to him.

He misses his mother.

How could she let him go?

How could she let them

take him away?

Above the two boys,

the new moon

shines through the clouds

like a phantom knife.

Winter is in the air —

the season is changing,

and the west wind

promises frigid days ahead.

Dogs start barking

on the other side of the facility,

followed by shouts,

and the clang

of search lanterns being lit.

Danide releases his grip

on his friend.

His emotions have receded somewhat,

pulling back

into the sea within him.

He takes Torik’s hand.

“Thank you,” he tells his friend.

“You’ll do the same for me, right?”

Torik asks, fearful.

“Of course I will,”

Danide says,

his voice cracking with weight.

“Do you think they’ll separate us?”

Torik asks.

“I hope not,”

Danide says,

but he knows they will.

to be continued...