It’s Time [FICTOID]

The old witch stood on my doorstep.

When I say old witch, don’t envision a cackling crone in a raggedy black dress with a crooked conical hat.  No, this witch wore a dull orange quilted parka, baggy olive drab trousers, and neon green walking shoes.  She bore a normal 65-70 year old Latvian woman’s face, but with a frightening intensity behind her eyes.

“I am here with a prophecy,” she said

“You have a prophecy for me?”

She shrugged.  “Not from me personally, no, but a prophecy nonetheless.”

So I invited her in.

I offered her tea because that seems to be the sort of thing one should do under such circumstances.

She chose earl grey and while it steeped I asked, “So where does this prophecy come from?”

“It’s from the 17th century,” she said.  It’s found in Grāmata Par Patiešām Svarīgām Lietām, a grimoire passed down through the centuries among the sorcerous sisterhood of Latvia.”

“And what has this prophecy to do with me?”

“Damned if I know.  All I know is it’s the year and the day of the prophecy and as near as I can figure, this is the place.”

My turn to shrug.  “Okay, so lay it on me.”

Standing up, she made a mystical sign, clicked her heels together twice, then placing her hand on her heart recited:  “’Deviņsimt deviņdesmit devītajā svētās Zigitas svētkos jums jāiet uz tūkstoš divi simti pieci sārtām un jāpaziņo, ka viņu īpašumā būs gaišs krājuma zīmējums’.”

“And what does this prophecy mean in English?”

“I thought you would ask that,” she said.  Putting on a pair of reading glasses, she took a folded sheet of paper from her pocket, opened it, cleared her throat, and read:  “’On the nine-hundred-and-ninety-nineth feast of Saint Zigita -- ‘ that’s one of the minor saints in Latvian culture, not well known but a sweet girl ‘ -- you shall go to the place of one-thousand-two-hundred-and-five orioles and announce they shall come into possession of a light drawing of a stock’.”

“Well, this is 1205 Oriole Lane,” I said, “but what about the rest of the prophecy?  What kind of stock?  Mutual fund?  An IPO?”

“I don’t think they meant that kind of stock,” the witch said, sipping her tea.  “Maybe it refers to soup broth.”

“Wouldn’t that be a recipe, not a prophesy?”

“Probably.  Some of the sisters think it refers to the kind of punishment where they lock your head and hands in place.”

I looked at her translation.  “Exactly what does it mean by ‘light drawing’?”

“We wondered about that, too.  At first we thought it meant a very faint sketch, or perhaps on flimsy paper, but then we came to realize it referred to photography, which is Latin for ‘light drawing’.”

“Makes sense,” I said.  “So by stock, you have no firm idea?”

“No.”

“Let me show you something.”  I went upstairs and brought down a picture frame.  “I bought this yesterday to put one of my photos in.”

“That’s a nice looking child.”

“It is, isn’t it?  Only that’s not my photo, that’s the photo that came in the frame when I bought it.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Do what?”

“Put a picture in a frame to sell it.  Why else would anybody buy a frame?”

“Excellent question, I have no answer.  My point is this photo of a child is what is called a stock photo, a photo sold by an agency for use in commercial enterprises.”

“Well, there you go,” said the old witch, draining her cup.  “Prophecy fulfilled, mission accomplished.  Thanks for the tea.”

© Buzz Dixon