Neal Barrett Jr. - The Prophecy Machine

“Sir, I have no idea what that means.”

“Of course you do, don't play the fool. Now, what do you know about that filthy old man? The one they keep hidden up there, the one who's goofy as a loon?”

“What do you know about him? You tell me.”

Nicoretti shook his head, his patience at an end.

“There's nothing else I have to say to you. If you come to your senses, we might talk again.”

Dr. Nicoretti stood, a clear invitation for Finn to leave.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Finn said, coming to his feet, making his way to the door. “But I don't know what for.”

“Of course you don't, you're quite an ignorant boy. I'm surprised you've managed to survive.”

Finn didn't have to hide his anger. He truly felt nothing at all.

“I did mean to ask, but you're so full of questions, Doctor, I didn't have the time. You're Sabatino's uncle, so you're kin to the family some way. Might I ask why you loathe the Nuccis, and why they feel the same? What happened to cause such a rift, one I assume goes back many years?”

Nicoretti's eyes went wide. His mouth began to move, but no words came out, only strangled noises in his throat.

“I'm sorry if I caused you alarm,” Finn said, “but you, sir, have done your very best to humiliate me, so perhaps we're even now. And Calabus' wife, I meant to ask- Sabatino's mother. Is she deceased now? I wondered, as no one's spoken of her at all-”

“Get-get-out-of-my- sight !”

Nicoretti's gaunt, aged frame began to tremble, his face turned black with rage. Finn stepped back. If the man fell rigid with a stroke, Finn was in the way.

“I surely will, sir. I fear I've overstayed my welcome, I do regret that. One thing more. I'd like to get a cool mug of ale somewhere, yours isn't good at all. Do you know someone who might let me in?”

Nicoretti looked appalled, as if Finn had hinted at some immoral act. Again, he tried to mutter, tried to mumble, tried to speak, but Finn didn't wait to see the end of that …

Nicoretti was right. To Finn's great alarm, he saw that the day was fading into late afternoon. The shadows were long, and the bleak and gloomy streets even darker than before. Still, he hadn't been out as long as he'd thought. There was still time to get back to market and fill up his basket again.

Not time enough, he decided, to seek out one Rubinella, who was clearly known by all. Letitia wouldn't like it, but she'd surely understand once she learned what sort of day he'd had.

“And what,” he said aloud, still annoyed by the fuss, “just what is that all about? Why the great interest in a single Mycer seer?”

Like much he'd encountered in this land, it made no sense at all. Seers, magicians, spellers and such were common as potters, scribers and blinks. Yet one Rubinella stood out from the rest, at least in this dreary town.

The door where the Bowsers had held him led down a twisting alleyway back to Market Square. Finn was certain he could never find his way back again. And, if he did, he was certain Nicoretti would no longer be there. A sly and cunning fellow, for sure. Whatever his shadowy designs, they plainly boded no good for Finn.

“Giggle to his coffin, chuckle to his grave, indeed. The man's as daft as everyone else around here …”

He kept his eyes out for Foxers, but luckily none appeared. Finn didn't fancy another encounter. He was certain he'd done in one of the brutes, and maimed several more. They wouldn't be friendly if they found him again. And, though he didn't like to admit it, Nicoretti was right, his fight with the Foxers had left him feeling the worse for wear.

Many of the stalls were closing, and some had disappeared. Finn hastily purchased what he could. Wilted leeks and the last of the bread. Oatcakes hard as river rocks. A potato with a serious condition of the skin.

Now why did I go and get that? Dips and Flips, we'll have to eat the thing raw …

The Dobbin bumped against him, nearly spilling Finn to the ground.

“Sorry,” the fellow said, in a gruff and throaty burr, “my fault entire, I truss yur na' hort, good sir?”

“No, not at all,” Finn said, “I'll be fine.”

“Yur pardon, then,” and he was past Finn and gone.

Finn got only the slightest glimpse before the Newlie was lost in the crowd. Tall, as Dobbins tended to be. Rheumy brown eyes and a great prodigious nose; a nose that seemed to have a twitch. Just beneath the nose, a tiny pink mouth. Plainly dressed, in a smock and floppy hat.

Clumsy fellow, but decent enough. Not like some others I could name around here …

He thought about onions, a vision that was simply unaccountably there, a vision he could taste, a vision he could see. Big onions, small onions, yellow ones and reds. Had he seen any onions when he'd passed through early in the day? So why was the image so strong, so overpowering now? Why, he could almost-nearly-just about-

The essence, the aroma, the reek of an onion was there, not just in his mind, but simply there-

— and when he glanced in his basket, he knew what he'd find, fat and round as an onion ought to be.

Not for the first time that perilous day, tingly little hairs climbed the back of Finn's neck. There was something else, besides an onion there. He stopped, looked to the left, and to the right. Finally, he snatched up the onion and held it close to his vest, quickly, so no one would see.

The note was written on a small scrap of paper tacked to the onion with a pearl-headed pin. In very tiny script, in lines as fine as a spider's silken web, shaky little lines that could scarcely be seen, he could make out the words:

9 past the marrow,

2 past the bell ,

keep to the narrow ,

fall in the well …

“Trickery, deceit,” Finn said aloud, “and I've had enough of that to last awhile.”

Even if the thing made sense, damned if he'd put himself in harm's way again. Who was behind this-Dr. Nicoretti or the Foxer crowd? Surely neither thought he was simple as that.

The Dobbin-it couldn't be anyone else. The fellow had jostled him and dropped the note there. It didn't matter who, now, it didn't matter why. The night was closing in, the day was waning fast. He didn't want to be in the open when the Hooters came out.

“Why can't people keep their religions to themselves instead of annoying everybody else?”

He'd keep the onion, then, no use throwing it away. You couldn't cook the thing, you'd have to eat it raw. Save the tiny pin, pins could be handy sometimes. Throw the foolish note aside …

Finn drew a breath. The instant he plucked out the pin, the tiny words vanished, faded away.

Magic! Sure as water's wet, sure as dirt's red. Not great, astonishing magic, but magic all the same!

“Great Pies and Skies,” he said aloud, “it has to be the seer, Rubinella herself. It can't be anyone else …”

Finn was quite pleased with himself. He wasn't good at puzzles, didn't care for tricks. Letitia was always doing riddles, and he never got them right.

Still, he saw that MARROWwas a sweet shop that led off Market Square. NINEstreets farther was a bell shop, oddly named BELL. Two lanes more, and he came to an alley so narrow his shoulders scraped the sides. And there-imagine that-was a WELL.

A dry well, and somewhat rank, but a well for all of that. Finn had no intention of falling in as the note said to do. There was no need, he saw, for chalked on the rim was the number 17.

He watched, waited for a moment, but the number failed to disappear. Three doors down was a door with that very same number, small as a flyspeck, but clearly 17.