When the Village Seer Is Wrong

Bishop Shelly led me deep into the primeval woods. These were not the bleeding barks of the Jungle, mind; rather, the bleached bone wood of the Homeworld. It was sacred, indeed, but lacked the same visceral terror that Meezed’s impossibly dense jungles commanded. Walking carefully and in step with Bishop was not difficult. I’d been doing it since I was a child.

We reached a thicket within the larger stand of trees, and it was clear to me that was where I was to go.

Bishop stopped and that made it plain I was to go in alone.

I went to disrobe, but she stopped me, saying, “That’s not necessary. Go as you are.”

I nodded, then carried on in forest steps until I reached the thicket.

The trees were small and skinny and had grown in such a way as to weave a sort of wicker-like wall.

With a gentle touch, I felt along them until it was easy to see how to part them harmlessly. I did, and then stepped inside.

There, by a smokeless fire, sat the seer. She had a name that I have been told, but I vowed not to tell it.

“Come child,” she said, and I did, come closer.

“Sit by the firelight,” she said, and I did sit down.

Her eyes were clear enough. Her face, wrinkled and drooping.

“Take off your mask, secretist,” she said, and I did, remove my mask with the wipe of one hand.

The seer’s old lips wriggled, and she said, “You’re quite handsome under there. Even my old eyes can see that.”

That made me smile, rather, my vanity did.

“But I was told to expect a woman,” she said. “Named Teresa.”

“Yes, seer,” I said. “I am she. I’m Teresa, Anderson.”

“But you are a man,” she said. “A pretty man, yes. Very pretty, pretty man. But a man.”

I had spoken with enough mystics even by that point to know not to argue with them. Yet I spoke anyway, saying, “I’m not that pretty.”

“You are a man.”

This time it stung me, her statement, right in the chest, like a wasp.

“I’m Tracy,” I said. “People call me Tracy more often than Teresa.”

“Tracy,” she said. “You are a man.”

I drew in a breath, tasting the not smokiness of the enclosure, an odd experience being so close to a fire. Then I said, “I have no wish to be contrary, seer.”

“You have a penis,” she said. “And testes,” which she pronounced ‘test-tiss.’

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

“You grow a beard and do not grow breasts,” she said.

My pause hung heavy, heavy for me, in the air like a weight suspended only by my held breath. When I spoke, it fell but did not land, not exactly. “That is true, seer.”

“Then it is as I said. You are a man.”

“Very well,” I said.

“You agree, then?” she asked.

“Very well, I shall not argue or try to convince you, is what I mean, seer.”

“You must become a man,” the seer said, “if you are to rule.”

“Rule what, exactly?” I asked.

“Your life.”

My breathing was evening out, though my chest was still quite tense. “I see.”

“You must leave the feminine world and become a man. You are a man, born a man, destined to masculinity, and to being a man.”

“I understand what you are saying,” I replied.

“You must set aside the toys of vanity and become a proper adult,” which she pronounced as ‘aa-dult.’ “Only then will you be able to rule your life.”

There was a growing concern within my observing mind that my face might be betraying my feelings. So I said, “Thank you, seer. Is there more you would have me know?” in the hope that I might soon depart.

“Your wife and child,” she said. “They need a man. They need you to become a proper man. Your money problems will end then. Your love life problems will be cured.”

“I see,” I said.

“You will become a powerful ruler of your life and a sentinel of justice in this world.”

“Thank you, seer,” I said.

Her eye, then, slid softly to a small wooden bucket with a lid. In the to of it was cut a slit.

I nodded then, and put the hardbit coins into the bucket—three of them, as Bishop had instructed prior to our coming.

The seer closed her eyes, smiled, and brought her hands together in a very slight bow that I mimicked; then, I back away and left out the way I’d come in.

The air outside the thicket was immediately refreshing, even if quite cold and feeling colder still since I’d been next to a fire. But I did not mind. I was glad to be out of there, out of that pit and back in the free air of the world.

Bishop Shelly stood where she had, looking as though she had not moved an inch since I’d go in. She may well have not, or perhaps she studied some of the flora while she waited. She was rather astute about timing and could do things like that without giving away she had done anything at all.

“Did you get the answers you seek, child?” Bishop asked.

I reached inside my trench coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, retrieved a smoke, lit it up. After that first drag, the exhaust of which made more more dramatic by the cold night air, I said, “She’s full of shit, Shelly.”

It was plain that this was disheartening to the Bishop. But Shelly quickly regained her composure and said, “Wisdom can take many forms, including what appears to be wrong advice.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” I said. “But she’s a sexist old bat and it was a waste of time. I’m done with all this mystic bullshit.”

And with that, I left the forest.

Shelly and I kept in touch, but it was never the same after that.

Play procedures

• You can add Bishop Shelly, the seer, or both to your list of contacts. And the seer’s thicket is considered a safe place for healing and recovery.
• Think on a time when you were taken to (or told to talk with) an elder who told you something that was clearly not true, like you knew in your bones that they were mistaken. Consider what such an experience might yield, and write about it in your journal.
• If you wish to become a proper secretist, you may count this chapter toward unlocking that class option.