Chapter 9 Prognostication 101
In classical mythology, a hero never escapes his destiny once it’s foretold by a proper oracle. It’s not the oracle who seals his fate, rendering it inevitable. She’s merely telling tales. His fate is sealed because the hero believes her. He can’t get her cryptic prediction out of his mind. His every thought becomes one of escaping fate, of tricking kismet, of proving the prophetess wrong. His relentless resistance to the foretold future, his very obsession with that particular outcome, triggers it.
Forecasting is child’s play when you know that every prophecy is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If, for instance, you let slip to a certain young man that he’ll murder his father and marry his mother, the odds are in your favor that he’ll rush headlong into the violent, incestuous chain of events like a pre-programmed automaton, securing your sibylline stature for centuries.
For future reference should you need it, the logical course of action upon receiving such a nauseating augury would be to sit down and have a heart-to-heart with your parents. Share the disturbing divination with them and agree, up front, that mother-fucking is absolutely off the table. To really shore up your defenses, you might take some anger management classes and find a good Freudian therapist. Problem sorted.
That being said, I need to have a talk with you.
Oh, holy Sekhmet, no! I haven’t heard anything about your relationship with your mother, though now you’ve piqued my curiosity.
I only brought up prognostication and all that because I may have mentioned earlier that I always know where to be and when. Perhaps you can imagine my embarrassment when I discovered I may have spoken too soon.
Upon leaving the weird sisters and Bruce, I pictured Baba Yaga’s Tavern at the Crossroads and pounced. Based on my unassailable transdimensional insight, I knew, as I said, that’s where I was meant to be next. I imagined myself at the precise moment that I normally exist, right there at the exact point where I normally exist. However, when I landed, I was somewhere else. Here. And possibly some-when else. I haven’t determined that yet.
I can assure you I didn’t miscalculate. My sense of transdimensional direction is unerring. Anyway, I have the coordinates memorized.
As such, this can only mean one thing, dear reader. Someone has picked at the pantyline of space-time. Someone has slipped past all the sibyls and made mincemeat of my predictive capabilities. Somewhere, someone has embraced her destiny, and that means all bets are off.
If changes are brewing in Euterpe, the transdimensional reverberations could ripple through any number of realities, including yours. I hope you’ll heed my unsolicited advice and brace yourself for the impact. Muster all of the orgasmic energy available to you. You may need it.
For now, I leave you to see what I can learn from Sheridan, who’s been unnervingly mum on the subject. I leave you, I hope, spent and purring, as satisfied as my Persian in her pool of sunlight in Cairo.