Centaur Fortunes (FFM Day 2)

In the midnight-dark of the tent, the heavy beat-boxing from the lawn gnomes' quarter of the circus square takes on a haunting, thready quality--a funeral march interrupted by drum solos and snares.  Small strips of daylight creep in where the ground is uneven, a Morse code S.O.S created by people walking outside.  It's a form of deprivation.  The dark, the babble of noise, and the strong smell of Kettle corn boiling in the demons' slice of fairgrounds have Deetrix reeling, confused.  In a lull, Deetrix hears it.  Someone is breathing, a heavy rasping between lips.

"Hello?  I was told this was the fortune booth? Is anyone..."

A shuffling scrape to her left draws her short.  Chewing on the star of her just-manicured nails, Deetrix wonders if the centaurs have stepped out for lunch.  Around the circus, this tent was legend--she'd been hearing people talk about it all morning.  Earlier, while standing in line to see the mermaids' concert, Deetrix had listened to a lady with a large purple bird on her hat exclaim over the centaurs' and their mysterious fortunes.  Her voice had been hushed, like the tent was a secret she'd discovered.  "Oh, it was, it was-- Well, I'm bound to wake up tomorrow with a new look on life, I am!"  Every time she spoke, the bird bobbed its head and lost a few more feathers.  She had her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes scanning the crowd.  Deetrix had wondered what she was hiding.  An affair, probably, she remembers thinking.  Her husband was a short-armed, gnarled fellow; his bright yellow tee, about three sizes too small, clashed with the teal shorts hanging half off his waist.  Holding a large chocolate-dipped butterfly in one hand and gesticulating with the other, he had asked what the man-horse-beasts told her this year.  The woman laughed, a funny sort of hiccup that Deetrix hadn't understood.  "Oh, nothing new of course.  Just the same ol' heehaw about life paths and wrong turns."

Thinking about it now, Deetrix wonders if the centaurs were mocking her choices in clothing and husbands.  It was obvious the woman hadn't been honest with the man.  She'd heard centaurs had a sense of humor; perhaps picking on tourists was the highlight of their days in this madhouse.  She didn't doubt it.

Small glimmers of color flash just out of her sight and she turns, opening her mouth to speak again.  She catches glimpses of muscled arms and toned shoulders, of tangled manes and swishing tails.  She whimpers, unnerved.  "Uhm.  Hi.  I'm sorry if I've interrupted your lunch, it's just I wasn't aware that you--"

"Count for us, girl."

The voice is deep, a rumbling growl just off to her right.  Deetrix jumps, startled.  "I'm-- I'm sorry, what?"

Air moves around her face and she squints; the centaur gestures again, a slow circling with his hands.  "Count. Doesn't matter what.  Helps us read you."

The shuffling scrape comes again, and Deetrix catches sight of sharp hooves and thick lengths of steel.  She frowns, nervous.  No one had mentioned the centaurs being chained, no wonder the place was so dark.  "Okay.  Uhm.  For how long?"

The centaur shifts, a subtle shrug of his shoulders.  "You'll know when to stop."

"Okay."  Scratching at her face, Deetrix pulls a hand from her jeans pocket and taps a finger against her thigh, a nervous habit.  She doesn't want to count, though she's not sure why.  "Let's see.  5.  10.  17.  24.  39.  50.  78.  92.  113."

Someone--Deetrix isn't sure who--gasps and rears backward, hooves kicking up dirt clods and dust.  Covering her eyes, Deetrix turns.  Hands claw at her clothes in the darkness, shoving and ripping.  She falls, a rock tearing a hole into the knee of her favorite bell bottom jeans.  Around her, the centaurs laugh.  Low, menacing chuckles.  High-pitched, frantic guffaws.  Insulted and bruised, Deetrix crawls across the ground, trying to follow the laughter to its source.  Her palms, scraped and dirty from her fall, clip over one hoof, three hooves, fifteen.  She realizes she's surrounded by prisoner centaurs who could, if they wanted, crush her.  "What the hell--"  She hiccups.  Tries again.  "What are you laughing about, huh?"

"You count funny."  More huffs and laughter, a chorus of manic giggling, a symphony created at her expense.  A blush creeps across Deetrix's face and she hangs her head, covering her eyes with a sob.  "I just wanted to know my future!  I was told you were the best!  Please--"  She stands, knees shaking.  "Please tell me.  What is my fortune?"  Anger has turned to fear.  What could they have seen in her that was so funny?  A lost career?  A broken family?  Death?

A hand wraps around her wrist.  Choking on tears and a yelp, she tries to pull away, but the grip is strong.  In a surge of glimmers, Deetrix sees a long braid slung over one shoulder and painted toes peeking from open sandals.  Another human.  "Take.  This," the female hisses, slipping something into her palm.  "Don't let them ruin you like they did me.  Like they do everyone.  Now, get out of here!"

Strong, sturdy hands shove her out of the circle, out of the darkness, out of the tent.  Sunlight glares from above the circus tents and Deetrix blinks, rubbing her eyes.  The paper in her palm is crumpled.  She smooths out the strip, struggling to read it through the creases and crinkles.

"Beware the centaurs," it reads.  "They tell you nothing but laughter."