Fast-Tracked And Other Stories

Misfortune Favours the Fortunate

'Discreet of you to let the boy finish his appointment.' Rafferty veiled the dimming crystal ball, collected cards off the round lace-covered table, slipped tinctures up his sleeves. 'Spotted his lass in the courtship of another fellow, wouldn't you know it? His heart's torn asunder!'

The newly arrived gentleman demonstrated disinterest.

Insousciant, the soothsayer went on: 'Horrible. There's no justice on this big old round rock, so I sent him along with a little elixir to balance things out. I foresee coconuts and melons in his future, whereas the lass and chap she made off with will become rather quite rotund. All in a day's work. Now, what can I do you for on this fine evening, Lawman Weston?'

'Enough of your nonsense. Step outside, witch doctor.' Weston eyed the thin figure narrowly. 'Your tent reeks.'

Outside, a peaceful, laughter-filled day at the annual fête cordially unwound towards dinnertime. Weston inhaled the smell of barbecuing meat. Looking forward to a bite and a cold pint once this charlatan's in the clink, he thought.

Rafferty, top hat in hand, clad in a black robe with star and moon stitching around the collar and cuffs, joined Weston on the green.

'There'll be no need for you to pull a rabbit out of that—food's cooking.'

Rafferty donned the black hat. 'Indeed.' He replied.

'Unless that's what you're partial to.' Weston had wondered if a man like Rafferty shared the same eating habits as the rest of the village. He suspected not.

'Have you come to take me for dinner, Weston?' Rafferty asked jovially.

This enigma of a man would run circles around him if he didn't keep his wits about him.

Weston cut to the chase: 'I'm bringing you in,' he said sternly. 'The higher-ups have the heebie-jeebies. Reckon you've put a hoodoo on them, so they've issued a warrant for your arrest.'

Rafferty recoiled. 'I am but an impoverished wanderer who cycles misfortune to the fortunate and fortune to the unfortunate.'

'You admit it, then?'

'I recall sorting some recent misfortune of yours.' said Rafferty roguishly.

Flustered, Weston cleared his throat. 'Aye, well. Appreciate if you could keep that under your hat.'

'Precisely. You're complicit, Weston! Their fortune went to you, your misfortune to them. Round and round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows!' Rafferty cackled. 'Except me! I like to keep it local to watch the rise and fall.'

'That's it, you're nicked.' Weston put a strong hand around Rafferty's bony elbow.

'Alas, the game's up.' Rafferty said coyly. His lips knit a silent incantation. 'They'll say it was the druids, but we know differently, Weston—it's just some of the village's misfortune I was keeping up my sleeve for a rainy day.'

'What're you—?'

Someone shrieked across the green. 'Bat!' The earth quivered and coughed up a cloud of big, bulbous bats. The squealing creatures circled then tore into the milling villagers. Only Weston was unscathed, left grasping nothing but the round brim of Rafferty's black top hat.