Seven Deadly Sons

Present Day. (3)

The solitary bleached wall – of which my disgusting haphazard tent was constructed against – housed an ornate hearth, within which a small, fake fire crackled.

I desperately wanted to finish my work for the day, weaving story after story for all the different sorts that would come inside; children, women and even the odd royal would deign to join to me. I didn't actually know what I was doing, but I'd come to realise that if I believed the lies — they would too. Life in its entirety could be a lie. I came across some tarot cards while travelling in Boston and figured I could make just as much as the real deal.

When I first began back in London, all was well until ruffians started to clock onto that I did not, in fact, know the future. They left my a neat little branding on the back of my neck, the shape of a six like cattle, though it was now thankfully quite faded from all the oils I douse it in weekly.

Which leads me to where I am now — travelling. Sometimes touring, depending on who I'm talking to. I'd stopped in the quaint little town of Fowey, the people here turned over so often that I'd decided to stay another and another and... suddenly, a fortnight had gone by and I still had no intention of moving on.

The tent was against The British Legion and the Harbour Master had made a point of expressing his disapproval. The opposite side of the tent blocked the ladder down to the estuary, forcing a supposedly well-used entry/exit point into disuse for the water taxi. Absentmindedly rubbing my scar, I listened to how happy the children were outside. Suddenly, as if conjured by her thoughts, a young boy — entirely naked — ran in giggling. He was followed closely behind by both parents, sparking huge jealousy in me.

"Try watching your child!" I grumbled after the wholesome group.

The love that had held my small family together had unravelled well over a decades ago now, the scars scattered across my hands and wrists more evidence of the hard times I'd since come upon. The wounds weren't self-inflicted, though I had toyed with the idea – they were presents given from the desperate, who chose to stand on the ground with the divine yet only received ill fortunes.

Blessings because I was still alive, after so many years of suffering.

It's not my fault I'm a con-artist.

At that moment, the black fabric of my mediocre stall got pulled aside, the fabrics frayed edges catching on the buckled leather of my next esteemed guest.

The fabric also catches on some of the visible – and very impolite – weapons; a longer one brazenly sheathed at the hip and twin hilts which stuck out from behind both shoulders.

Blessings can still hurt, I think sourly.

A head swathed unnecessarily in black — it was hot out this summer — also appears. A gust of sea air also follows inside the tent. Now that the customer was standing to their full height, he was distinctly masculine. Though with only eyes and a slither of white skin available, I discern nothing else. Oh well. Thankfully I deal in futures and not mercenary, as I couldn't tell the first nondescript buyer from the next.

I stare wistfully out at the estuary as the flap closes once more.

     The man sits with grace, balances a booted foot upon his knee and looks expectantly at me.

As if I could simply pluck the future out of the very air and whimsically delivery a magical future, all fairies dancing on daisy petals and pots of gold thoughtfully left under rainbows.

Nonetheless, I give my very best give-me-all-your-money-without-skewering-me smile.

Then I tilt my head routinely to make the fake coins tinkle softly at my brow and lower my gaze all demure doe-like.