Dreams of Giants -- Chapter 4, Part 1

Panatar knew better than to question Father's judgment, but Father seemed to be going slightly insane. Why they stood in line at the gypsy stall was beyond his comprehension. Hadn't Father always preached that the few who could tell the future were too disturbed by what secrets it held to even pretend to examine it? Hadn't he always scorned card readers, palm readers and crystal-ball gazers? He'd labeled them con-artists and denounced their trade as thievery. Yet he stood hypocritically at the door of the palm-reading stall.

The polished cherry-wood door swung open, and a woman walked out with her baby in her arms. She sobbed miserably. Panatar's eyes followed the woman as she scurried down the steps hurriedly. He felt a shiver run down his spine. What had gone on inside there?

“Well, well. Look who we have here!” The voice that spoke was filled with glee. It was high pitched and edged with a thin layer of sarcasm. “If it isn't Cimrial. And you brought your son Panatar with you.”

“Indeed,” said Father. “It's lovely to see you again, Balirin.”

“Oh, shut up Cimiral,” Balarin said. “If you so enjoyed seeing me you might think to pop in more than once every five or so years. But, step inside anyway. If you have brought the coin you are entitled to the reading.” She sounded mad. How did Father know her?

Panatar stepped backwards, “I'll just wait-”

“No. You too boy,” said Balarin. She shoved him through the door and stepped back into the building slamming the door behind her.

“So.” Balarin paused for dramatic effect. “You want Panatar's palm read.”

Father covered up the stunned expression that had briefly crossed his face, but despite its brevity Balarin seemed to have caught it.

“I didn't need to read your palm to tell you that one,” she said. “I'd be naïve to think that you would bring your son with you to get your own palm read.” She smirked. “Now, while I respect your desire to keep your own future hidden from your son, I would expect you to do him the same courtesy and allow him to keep his future to himself.”

“Balarin, I expected nothing less.” Father promptly turned and left the room. Panatar looked towards Balarin coldly. She met his gaze, but while his eyes were cold, her's held a manic gleam.

“Oh, a young skeptic!” she seemed excited. “Good. Your father's raised you well despite his numerous short-comings.”

A pang of aggravation shot through Panatar. He knew that the mad woman was trying to draw this exact emotion from him, but he couldn't fight it. He knew she would ridicule him further for his response, but he didn't care.

“I don't know who you are, Woman. I don't know why my father would waste his money on such an obvious fraud, but you have clearly deluded him. You might be getting paid for the cod that you claim to see in my palm, but you are not getting paid to ridicule me. Now do your job and let me begone.”

Balarin opened her mouth to retort, but no words came out. She looked... shocked. Panatar watched her face. She beckoned him forward uneasily. Her manic smile melted slightly. Good. She couldn't respond. Panatar followed her to the desk at the edge of the room, trying to keep his grim satisfaction off his face. Balarin sat down at the opposite side of the desk.

Panatar's gaze shifted to her unsettled face. Her eyes that had seemed so confident before were red and puffy. She turned on the lamp on the desk. The light reflected a tear rolling down her cheek. She was crying? His words had been harsh, but her former demeanor had been remarkably confident. Was she hypersensitive as well as mad?

But then, just as quickly as she had become unsettled, a confidence returned to her. The maddening gleam that had dwelt in her eyes seemed to have abated, despite this apparent return of confidence, though.

“Kindly place your palm on the white circle,” Balarin said. Her voice had lost it's lunatic edge. In fact, Panatar thought, without the raucous laughter and demonic eccentricity that had filled it before, her voice was fairly normal.

Panatar moved his hand uncomfortably onto the white circle that had been perfectly painted on the ebony desk. Balarin placed her hand over her eyes before returning it to the desk. He felt her gaze penetrating his flesh. The tingling feeling of her eyes caressing each fold in his palm made him shiver. She seemed to peer past the flesh, almost through the hand itself. The usual dark hue of her irises glowed a bright purple.

He watched the expression of Balarin's face. Once or twice it contorted in seeming fright. After what seemed like an eternity, Balarin lifted up her own palm and placed it once again over her eyes. Just as quickly as it had begun, the reading was over.