The Practiced Charlatan

The group of drunken Americans stumbled out of the crowded pub in a flurry of laughter and playful shoves. The five of them were all in their early to mid-twenties and traveling abroad. Of the five, Sharon and Phil were the most levelheaded, which really only meant they were the least inebriated.

“Excuse you,” Sharon exclaimed in mock indignation, “I’m gonna need you all to keep your filthy little paws off me while you boys are roughhousing, thank you.” With her hands on her hips, she looked down her nose at the boys as they trundled across the street. An uber honked as they cut across in front of it. No one seemed to notice.

“Oooohhh, you’re sooo dignip…dignified now.” hiccupped Michael as he fluttered his hands in the air towards his girlfriend with a grin. The group shambled onto the sidewalk.

“Well, we are college graduates now, with high hopes and gallant goals. Maybe we should all act a bit more…oh shit! Look, it’s a bunch of food trucks. I’m freaking starving!” exclaimed Phil. Breaking into a sideways skip towards the smell of fatty foods, he looked back and clapped for his friends to follow. “Come on, come on.” There, nestled around the perimeter of a middling size parking lot, sat several food trucks of eclectic styles and flavors. String-lighting crisscrossed above a few empty picnic tables in the center, illuminating the light fog hanging in the crisp night air.

Farhan decided that was the moment to hop on Carson’s back. He pointed towards the trailer that read gyros and kabobs, “Giddy up, my gigantic ginger stead, we go forth in search of treasure for my uhh… for my mouth.”

“Who are you calling a giant ginger, ya little Keebler elf?” chuckled Carson.

“Shut up, man, stay in character!” scolded Farhan as he pretended to spur his best friend. Carson shook his head but whinnied anyway. Then he proceeded to gallop ahead of the group, all the way up to the counter, for Farhan to place their orders on horseback.

“I’ll take 5 lamb gyros for my compadres and my loyal steed.” said Farhan with a puffed chest, one hand holding the imaginary reigns.

“Neeeeeigh!” said Carson as he shook his head and gave Farhan a little elbow.

“Make that 6 lamb gyros, good sir, and I shall be forever in your debt…or umm, ya know, until I pay you,” said Farhan.

“Forty-two euros,” said the owner with a tired smile.

After the whole group squeezed into one table to eat, the only noise to be heard was the crinkle of foil and wax paper and the smacking of lips. Sharon was the first to come up for air between bites. That’s when she noticed it, parked on the curb just outside the food truck court. A worn-down RV with a slightly fading paint job showing tarot cards and cryptic symbols floating over a rising sun with an open eye in its center. Above the door, in filigreed lettering, it read “divination, talismans, and tinctures.” Sharon’s eyes widened as a big smile stretched across her face.

She raised a greasy hand to point at the clairvoyant’s caravan between besotted buddies. “I have a great idea…my treat.” The only response she got was a blank stare from Micheal, and a few tzatziki-splattered smiles. “There’s that enthusiasm I love! Hurry up and finish, boys, this’ll be fun.”

It didn’t take long to finish the gyros and attempt to clean up with far too many napkins. Then the troop was on the move. Just as Sharon was reaching out to wrap upon the aluminum door, it swung open, narrowly missing her knuckles. Sharon stepped back in surprise. Before them stood a tiny, gnarled woman in a brightly colored shawl.

“It’s almost like she knew we were coming,” said Carson, unsuccessfully trying to hold back his laughter. Sharon nudged him with an elbow and shot him a fierce look. Farhan giggled.

“Come in, come in. Enter with an open mind and you will leave with a greater sense of wonder,” claimed the mystic. She stepped back into her dimly lit caravan and waved them in.

The group filed in to see a mostly gutted interior, save for the long narrow table in the center. It was lined on either side with long benches bolted to the floor. A narrow aisle behind one bench was the only way around the table. Candles dripped and sputtered in several sconces mounted around the room. A golden stitched red curtain kept the cab out of sight. A partition wall, covered in wooden cabinets and a small door, was at the rear of the caravan. Micheal immediately plopped down with a grunt onto the bench along the wall. The old woman nodded in affirmation and the rest of the group joined him at the table. The old crone pulled a stool from under the head of the table to sit down.

“So, you’ve all come for a spectacle, have you? Wanting to see the mad old gypsy waft sage at you and wag her tongue about your future? Hmm, well, I could do a bit of palmistry for each of you, or read the leaves…or a potion to regain your virility?” she said, pointing to Micheal who scoffed while snickers ringed the table. “Or a tincture to crystalize your confidence in your upcoming interview?” she raised an eyebrow towards Phil. “It’d all be genuine mind you, but NO!” she said, slamming her palms down on the thick worn wood, making them all jump. “No, I think you lovely youths want something a bit more theatrical. More dramatic and memorable. I believe a bit of communion with the other side is in order.” Her withered old face creased into a smile as her dark eyes glimmered in the candlelight.

“A séance…I could have predicted that,” whispered Farhan to Carson with a smile. Carson had to cover his mouth like a child to hold in laughter. They both stopped as the old psychic abruptly stood up from the table. She turned and shuffled over to unlock a cabinet door and fetch an arm full of items. When she came back, she carefully placed a crystal ball on a wooden stand. She adjusted its position a few times before laying out a stone bowl, a feather, and a roughly carved rod of wood.

“Anyone in particular we should contact?” she asked looking around the table.

“What about your baba?” asked Carson.

“No, no. Even not believing, I don’t want to get all…you know, emotional,” said Farhan.

“What about channeling whoever is closest? You know, make it a surprise?” asked Sharon.

“Hmm…now that is an exhilarating and sometimes dangerous proposition, young lady. I agree, yes, that feels right. Remember, even though this is a foreign land for you, to the spirits the miles between mean nothing. You could just as easily reach your grandmother here as you could mine, but restless souls are not all that wander the void.” She made lingering eye contact with each of them in succession. “Angels, demons, and forces that defy description inhabit the realms beyond as well.” She rubbed her palms together and leaned forward. “To begin the ritual, I’ll need you each to give a bit o’ spittle to this bowl. Then pass me a hair freshly plucked from your youthful heads.”

The group shrugged off the questioning glances and complied, sliding the heavy stone bowl around the table. Each donated a little saliva with varying degrees of grace and quantity. Then, with a few squeaks of pain, they handed over a hair each, except Micheal, who accidentally handed over several. The crone deftly received the hairs and added them to the bowl. From under her shawl, she recovered a silver flask and a small leather satchel. She untied the satchel and pinched out a bit of flaky green herbs to sprinkle over the spit and hair. After uncorking the flask, she took a swig before emptying its contents into the bowl.

The group looked on in complete drunken rapture. The old woman smiled up at them as she stirred the contents with the large feather. She then used it to paint the mixture on the carved wooden stick.

“This is elder wood from a shrub on the edge of a desert. Blood works best but spit and hair will suffice.” As she said this, she lit the mixture on fire before they saw how she did it. The gut rot in the flask must have been very potent indeed with how fiercely the formula flamed. The five friends leaned back from the fire and shielded their eyes. It was a blinding blaze that only lasted seconds and left nothing but ash in the bowl. This, too, the old crone painted onto the carved wood with the feather.

“Now, we are ready,” said the crone as she set down the carved wood. “Please take each other’s hands and form the circle of communion around the crystal ball.” They did as directed, all six of them holding hands like a prayer circle. She stretched and rolled her shoulders before leaning her head back and beginning to chant in some indecipherable language. The guttural sounds boomed out of her tiny, wrinkled frame as she slowly started to sway side to side. The group exchanged skeptical glances.

Her chanting got louder as a fog started to fill the room around them. Flashes of blue light began to flicker in the crystal ball. As her voice reached a painful volume, she suddenly went silent and plunged her body forward to stare wide eyed into the crystal.

“I feel your presence here amongst us. Please tell us your name, spirit, and why you long to communicate with the living world,” the crone called out to the crystal. Farhan and Carson were trying to hide their smiling faces. Sharon kicked each of them under the table.

“I am no mere spirit for you to conjure, witch. I have many names, but why share them in the company of disbelief,” came a crackling, raspy whisper from all around them. Micheal looked side long at his friends, with an odd expression.

“They mean no offense, great one. They need only have their eyes and minds opened by a glimmer of truth from your realm,” said the old woman.

“We shall see,” the voice hissed. The sound of thunder cracked across the room as a blinding light emanated from the crystal ball. The table began to vibrate, and the benches pitched back and forth, barely letting them stay seated in the sudden chaos. The group let go of each other to reach for anything solid. “Let them cower before me in their newfound belief. Open your eyes in awe and take heed, as there are wonders beyond your reality. Tremble before a power greater than yourselves!” The whisper was now a deep gravely baritone rumbling every corner of the caravan. The thunder still crashed and rolled. The blinding light streaming out from the crystal ball was changing colors in fluidly oscillating patterns that could almost be followed.

That’s when the crone raised the carved wooden stick over the crystal ball. She held it aloft with both hands, mumbling something unintelligible for a moment. Then she succinctly snapped it in half with a twist of her wrists and a stomp of her feet. In that moment, all the noise went silent, the crystal ball went dim, and the candles puffed out. Sharon squealed helplessly, and two of the boys began clapping. Phil saw a few small points of dim light begin to glow around the table as the old woman started lighting candles and illuminated the smiling faces of his friends.

With the candles relit, they all started excitedly talking at once. The old crone seated herself once more and let them prattle on a bit as she smiled at them.

“Oh wait, guys. Guys! Calm down, we’ll talk afterwards. Let’s let the lady finish,” said Sharon.

“Thank you, dear child, but I think that will probably be all this battered body can take for tonight. As for all your questions, let me head a few off. I know not who that being was, but there was much power at its command. That is why I severed the connection before things got out of hand. I do believe it was not just a spirit as it stated, but that narrows it little in the scheme of the vast outer realms.”

“Well, I for one was impressed,” stated Sharon emphatically. “What do we owe you before we kick rocks? Will 200 euros cover it?”

“With the joy you lot have given me tonight, that will more than suffice,” replied the old woman. Sharon laid down the bills and they all gave their thanks before piling out of the caravan. As the door shut behind them, Farhan turned around to address the group.

“Can you believe that…” he started before Sharon snapped her fingers and pointed at him.

“Wait until we are out of ear shot, don’t be rude.” Sharon scolded. After a short walk away from the caravan toward the street corner, he could wait no longer.

“What absolute bullshit!” He erupted with laughter. The group all started chuckling. “Did you smell the sweetness of the fog? It was like the old Halloween parties in middle school.”

“Or how about the crappy speakers and the recorded thunder…ugh,” said Carson.

“And…and the disco ball she had to move into like just the, ummm, like just the right place,” said Michael.

“I know, I know. At least it was entertaining,” said Sharon in defense.

“I swear I could hear the motors shaking the tables and benches,” laughed Farhan.

“I know. I think the stomping at the end was to hit the kill switches under the table. But at least she sold it well, outside of the effects. I don’t care; I still had a blast,” said Sharon.

“You know, the only thing I can’t figure out is how she marked all the numbers on our foreheads,” said Phil. The laughter subsided a bit.

“What? What numbers?” asked Carson.

“The little glow in the dark numbers on…” Phil reached out and tried to rub the number off Carson, “…your foreheads. Wait, do I not have one? I just assumed I did.” He frowned at his fingers when the number didn’t even smudge.

“You’re seeing shit. He doesn’t have anything on his pale forehead but freckles,” laughed Farhan.

“Shut it,” said Carson.

“It’s a three, right there. Oh, very funny…we can’t see it. Blah blah blah…Phil, you’re just crazy. Nice one, guys, really, but I do wonder how she did it to all of us without us noticing,” said Phil. The group exchanged weird looks, except for Micheal, who just looked confused.

“You’re trying to convince us that there’s a three on Carson’s forehead that none of us can see? Am I following correctly? Because I wish you had let me in on this, we could have sold it way better together,” Sharon laughed.

“Fuck. For real. I’m not joking, and it’s not just him. You each have one. A small blue glowing number. You guys are freaking me out, okay? You win; you got me. Perfect timing. But for real, the more I think about it…how’d she do it all at once?”

“Okay, I’ll play along. What’s the three supposed to mean then?” asked Sharon.

“Ya, what’s the three mean? What three?” asked Michael. Everyone ignored him.

“Its not just a three. Yours is a four. Carson’s is a three, Michael’s is a two, and …” said Phil, before Farhan finished for him.

“Oh, I guess that makes you the numero uno, huh buddy? That figures,” said Farhan with a shake of his head.

“Nah man, you’re the number one, I think I must be five. I just can’t see my own head,” said Phil as they kept walking towards their hotel.

Farhan turned around to walk backwards as he feigned terror. “Does that mean I’m first to go? Ohhh, nooo! Someone save me.” Just then a cyclist darted out from the cross street just missing him, making Farhan stumble backwards. The cyclist continued on, shouting something about being an utter knob. Farhan caught his footing and looked up to his friends in comical bewilderment just as an uber struck him full steam and unawares. His body contorted on impact, smashing the windshield with his head before sending him sailing ten feet into the intersection, as the uber braked much too late. His skull hit with a dull wet thud on the blacktop.

Phil thought he heard a maniacal crack of laughter somewhere in the distance behind them, as the whole group ran to see their friend. As they got there, Carson kept them back.

“Don’t touch him, stay back!” Carson cried. “He’s probably got cervical damage, ahh fuck. No, no, no, no. Come on, buddy!” He looked up at Phil, and then to Sharon, pleading silently for help he knew they couldn’t give. “Somebody, call the ambulance!”

“I am right now, lads. Oh Jesus! I didn’t even see him. He was just there in front of me,” said the heavy-set British man getting out of the uber.

“Wait, wait. No, wait a minute. That was just a horrible coincidence, right? Does that mean…like, am I…? I’m next, aren’t I?” stammered Michael.

“Fuck Michael, can this not be about you for once?” yelled Sharon.

Phil was kneeling next to Carson with the big man blubbering in his arms. “The, the, the ambulance will never make it in time will it, Phil?” asked Carson, burying his face in his friend’s shoulder and gripping him painfully. Phil looked down in time to see the glowing number one fade from his friend’s bloody forehead.

“I’m not sure anything can help us now.” said Phil quietly.