Rosema Fusto!
Lister tried not to laugh, but sweet butter meats, the way the soothsayer said her name was a theatrical orgy. If he had known his life would be forfeit, Lister was pretty sure he could have restrained himself. Pretty sure. But holy love knuckles, you had to be there. You still could be there actually. She still does readings and sees the future for the right price. Just, whatever you do, don’t laugh. Don’t. Fucking. Laugh.
The traveling sideshow made the circuit through the southern arch of towns on a semi-regular schedule. The tents would erect and the banners flap every other year near the old mill, usually, if the weather suited wagon travel through the lowlands. A handful of ill-timed rainy seasons had put the gypsies off course for over six years. Long enough for a lot of the memories to blur, for a lot of the newer folk to the area to be ignorant of the fortuneteller named Rosema Fusto.
Lister was ignorant to begin with. That was one of the reasons he had no idea about this unique caravan. Folks avoided Lister’s ignorance whenever possible and bore the brunt of his leery gaze never longer than necessary. Add to this base ignorance a healthy disregard for his fellow man and ample consumption of corn shuck spirits, and the imagination can paint a pretty clear picture of Lister McFarrigen.
When the rainbow spray of traveling wonder set up shop during the overly warm spring, Lister thought their arrival was providence. His winter had been exceptionally difficult, and he had felt himself adrift since the turning of the moons. So he thought having his future read would do just the trick. Ground him. Give him some direction. No one thought to warn the besotted lout, or those that did had a myriad of more important tasks ahead of Lister’s well being.
So in he walked, tent flap slapping out of his way with an arrogant shove. Lister’s gaze locked with the rickety soothsayer, and she introduced herself, as was her way.
“Welcome to the tellings, of Rosema Fusto!” she announced, one gnarled hand spinning skyward in emphasis.
Perhaps it was the hearty trilling of the first letter. Perhaps it was the emphasis on the flowery first portion of her given name. Perhaps it was the zeal and lingering circular mouth of the last syllable. Perhaps it was all of these elements tied to the animated, emaciated frame. Whatever the cause, and to be sure no one will ever know, the greeting set Lister guffawing the likes of which he couldn’t remember. Spittle and rotted teeth glared down on the old woman, and Lister McFarrigen’s days upon the earth came to an abrupt end.
Or so the story goes. Lister was never seen again. Not since setting foot in the old soothsayer’s tent, but there weren’t that many people who gave a good gods damn, truth be told, and so he vanished from existence with the simplest of ease.
There are a great many tales of what may have happened to old Lister McFarrigen, even more after the spirits have been flowing freely at the local tap houses. The favorite seems to be the one passed along by a young lad who swears, on the grave of his mother, who’s whereabouts have never actually been known mind you, that he saw Lister’s face on one of the reading cards old Rosema Fusto uses in her tellings.
A fun story, sure. A true story? Well the only way to be really sure, is to go and check out Rosema Fusto’s tent for yourself. You’ll just have to wait for those colored wagons to come rolling in next spring.
Or was it the spring after?